Post with no apologies.
I wrote this on a memories board. This is no way pictures the actual horrors that he went through, and relived every night of his life. The horrors that caused him to have a nervous breakdown at the wheel of his car, hearing only the screaming of men around him as they went down in flames.
And if you don't like it, scroll on because if I have to repost it every year then I damned well will.
It's thanks to men like my grandfather that we have the freedoms we have today and I can never fully express my gratitude.
It's because of them I donate to the Legion.
I don't actually give a toss what colour poppy you wear, just so long as we remember what it is actually for.
You can condemn war, and still support the men and women who give their lives.
If this annoys you, tough.
Dear Sirs,
I came across your list of POWs in Stalag Luft III and as soon as I saw Peter Butterworth's name I knew I had the right camp that my Grandfather was in.
He was Navigator John Walter Crowe and he remembered being in camp with Peter. I think he flew in a Lancaster.
My maternal Grandfather was a musician for many many years. He was a guitarist in a Latin band called The Four Monarchs and they were very popular here - all nice looking young men with that Errol Flynn moustache thing going on. The band was parted when they all went off to war and Grandad (John Crowe) ended up in prison camp for years. I believe he was in the same camp as Peter Butterworth at one point.
He'd been shot down over what he thought was Holland as the farmers were wearing Dutch clothing but it was a trick that the Germans used to fool airmen in just this situation. He was captured and taken to a camp where the Commandant interrogated him about something for hours. He had a pick, or a plectrum for his guitar in his pocket you see. It was made out of an old ruler with degree marks on it and they thought it was a fiendish new British guidance gadget. Once he told them what it was though, the commandant said "Tell me Mr Crowe, you do know of Burt Weedon? I play ze guitar too you see." They spent the next few hours talking music and guitars and then the commandant had to send him to the camp, albeit with a very heavy heart.
He made a toothbrush out of wood and string (this was even reported in our local paper when he came home!) so that he could stay clean and lived in hope of being rescued. They forced the prisoners, at Christmas, to walk to Poland from Germany. The men were chained in threes and if one died, they had no choice but to drag him with them. The route was lined with guards with rottweilers trained to kill and so they marched and they marched.
One night they all took shelter in a barn and were woken by a massive rumbling and an almighty roaring. Suddenly the wall of the barn caved in and through it came an American ( I think) tank. The lid (John called it that) popped open and a face looked out and said "Bloody hell Johnny Crowe - what the hell are you doing here?"
It was Grandad's next door neighbour from back home in East London. He was helping the Americans on a rescue mission. He threw Grandad a can of bully beef and a can of Christmas Pudding and then set about helping everyone else.
They were all medically and honourably discharged and he came home to marry Gran. She'd thought he was dead and then one day there he was on her doorstep. All 70lb (5 stone) of him.
He never ate Christmas pudding again...
And if you don't like it, scroll on because if I have to repost it every year then I damned well will.
It's thanks to men like my grandfather that we have the freedoms we have today and I can never fully express my gratitude.
It's because of them I donate to the Legion.
I don't actually give a toss what colour poppy you wear, just so long as we remember what it is actually for.
You can condemn war, and still support the men and women who give their lives.
If this annoys you, tough.
Dear Sirs,
I came across your list of POWs in Stalag Luft III and as soon as I saw Peter Butterworth's name I knew I had the right camp that my Grandfather was in.
He was Navigator John Walter Crowe and he remembered being in camp with Peter. I think he flew in a Lancaster.
My maternal Grandfather was a musician for many many years. He was a guitarist in a Latin band called The Four Monarchs and they were very popular here - all nice looking young men with that Errol Flynn moustache thing going on. The band was parted when they all went off to war and Grandad (John Crowe) ended up in prison camp for years. I believe he was in the same camp as Peter Butterworth at one point.
He'd been shot down over what he thought was Holland as the farmers were wearing Dutch clothing but it was a trick that the Germans used to fool airmen in just this situation. He was captured and taken to a camp where the Commandant interrogated him about something for hours. He had a pick, or a plectrum for his guitar in his pocket you see. It was made out of an old ruler with degree marks on it and they thought it was a fiendish new British guidance gadget. Once he told them what it was though, the commandant said "Tell me Mr Crowe, you do know of Burt Weedon? I play ze guitar too you see." They spent the next few hours talking music and guitars and then the commandant had to send him to the camp, albeit with a very heavy heart.
He made a toothbrush out of wood and string (this was even reported in our local paper when he came home!) so that he could stay clean and lived in hope of being rescued. They forced the prisoners, at Christmas, to walk to Poland from Germany. The men were chained in threes and if one died, they had no choice but to drag him with them. The route was lined with guards with rottweilers trained to kill and so they marched and they marched.
One night they all took shelter in a barn and were woken by a massive rumbling and an almighty roaring. Suddenly the wall of the barn caved in and through it came an American ( I think) tank. The lid (John called it that) popped open and a face looked out and said "Bloody hell Johnny Crowe - what the hell are you doing here?"
It was Grandad's next door neighbour from back home in East London. He was helping the Americans on a rescue mission. He threw Grandad a can of bully beef and a can of Christmas Pudding and then set about helping everyone else.
They were all medically and honourably discharged and he came home to marry Gran. She'd thought he was dead and then one day there he was on her doorstep. All 70lb (5 stone) of him.
He never ate Christmas pudding again...