My father was a Galway man, a middle child amongst twelve children. The eldest son got the farm, the girls married local farmers and the boys scattered to England, Australia, Canada and US.

My father wanting to be close enough to Galway ( it was always 'home' until the day he died) came to London. He was treated like something the cat dragged in. It was the time of NO BLACKS NO IRISH. Renting a room in a 'should have been condemned' house in Brixton was the best on offer.

Walking up Clapham High Street he saw the recruiting office and went in without thinking much about it. It was the promise of a steady wage that he could send 'home' that was the lure. That was 1939. He wasn't fighting for the British, he was fighting for his family.

Six years later he had seen six years of active service. He was a bazookah carrier, as were many of his Irish and other foreign comrades. He remembers the running joke was they sent the non Brits to the front as they were the cannon fodder. Disposable paddies.

He sent money home from every pay packet. The farm was running on empty and every penny counted. His elderly parents and eldest brother tried to hold things together, all the time thinking their boys had made it good in far flung corners of the world because the cash kept coming home.

The truth was those in the far flung corners were facing hardships and bigotry that they daren't mention in the letters home. They all had their own personal battles to fight. My fathers was in a uniform that didn't puff his chest out with pride.

He came back to UK in '45 and never mentioned it again. It was a job.