Editorial: War stories not all bad memories

I'd get lost in the reverie of my neighbours World War II stories, says Mark Story. Photo / NZME.

Decades ago my octogenarian neighbour Bill would quaff a few drams then start crooning, badly, on his front porch.

Then, as an accompaniment, he'd play the accordion, badly.

Under strict instructions from his wife I'd mow their lawns for $2. As a bonus, when she wasn't looking, Bill would rush me out a half glass of alcoholic ginger beer.

When I say rush, he couldn't move very fast and delicately timed his run from the fridge to the back lawn. On arrival at my side with two glasses he'd chuckle uncontrollably at the excitement and victory of not being seen by the wife.

With the mower still running so as not to rouse her suspicion, we'd move behind the lemon tree to enjoy the beer under the cloak of citrus.

The best times were when she wasn't home. Then we could talk with the mower off, where I'd get lost in the reverie of his World War II stories.

During one particular ginger-beer session he told me he would send two very distinct letters home - one, to his father, where no detail was spared, the other penned to his wife and child (born a few months after his departure), full of niceties, sugarcoated to prevent her worrying.

When his unit was tenting somewhere, he couldn't understand why he woke bloodied with his temporary bunk in pieces. His campsite had been shelled, with most of his new friends killed.

I'm not surprised he survived. He was the stuff of teak. Such was the pressure, I'd wince at each handshake.

For the brave who served, today's Poppy Day has the effect of conjuring less happy reflections. For those of us who didn't, our veterans were kind enough to leave us fonder memories, like ginger beer, or a badly played accordion.