My mother’s father, Jonah Griffiths, known to friends and family as Mick (or Birdy Grandad to his grandchildren as he kept an aviary), was born in Wednesbury, West Midlands. Like Dai Davies, he did not talk about the war much, and when he did, he tended to focus on some of the funnier tales and these were what he told to his grandchildren, including myself. There were occasions however, when he did mention the more serious side of his military career, and both will be mentioned here.
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| Jonah Griffiths ('Mick') on joining the RAF |
His father had a horrific time in the muddy trenches of WWI, so Mick, wishing to avoid this enlisted in the RAF. However, WWII was a different beast, and his experiences could be considered equally horrendous if not worse. His duties are best described in the words of my Uncle Mike, (his eldest son) who as a child in the early 1950’s enjoyed making model aircraft:
“One day, I had made an Airfix model of a Wellington bomber, I saw my father holding it with tears running down his face. Upon asking him what was wrong, he said it was the fumes from the glue making his eyes water. Then he said I'm going to tell you something, only because I know you are too young to remember what I tell you. He told me how he had to rescue and remove injured crew members from burning Wellington bombers and how horrendous it was”.
He was stationed in India and Burma, which were overrun by the Japanese. and got left behind when the RAF departed. He was then seconded into the Army, becoming a corporal in the Forgotten 14th and taking part in the battles of Imphal and Kohima, where he was almost killed. Again, the words of my uncle describe this well:
“He had a scar on the inside of his thigh that I could see when he used to take me swimming; he always flippantly said when asked about it ‘I got that on a tennis court.’ What he didn’t tell me, was that one of the bloodiest hand to hand battles of World War Two took place at the tennis court at Kohima, resulting in the retreat of the Japanese army, by the remaining handful of British and Indian soldiers. He was knocked to the ground and was bayoneted in the thigh by a Japanese soldier and as he was about to be finished off, the Japanese soldier was “dealt with” by a comrade and friend of my father.”
The fellow soldier who saved my grandfather’s life was a Welshman called Taffy Slocombe. When my mother met my father Tom and they planned to get married, Mick was very happy that his eldest daughter had chosen a man from Wales as a husband.
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| Mick and his comrades in the Far East |
My grandfather’s exploits do not end there though. One of his duties was as a dispatch rider, and while riding along the Burma Road, a Japanese plane shot him off his motorcycle. He was rescued by Naga tribesmen and was unconscious for three days, waking up in one of their huts. He had many injuries including concussion and a broken collar bone, but the tribesmen ensured he returned to his station in one piece. Another time he had to pay a visit to the medical facilities was when he woke up one morning with his face all swollen and sore. Other than that, he felt fine, but he was still hoping to have an easier day, but no such luck. The doctor took one look at him and said ‘a spider’s peed on you Griffiths. Put some of this cream on and back to it.’ There was no mollycoddling in the jungle! My uncle also told me about the time Mick became an official truck driver due to a mistimed joke!
“He told me about when he was in a truck convoy that was approaching a bridge across a very deep ravine. They were attacked by enemy aircraft that bombed the bridge and convoy, destroying a lot of trucks and very badly damaging the bridge. After they cleared the wrecks from the road the commanding officer shouted can anyone drive that truck, and Granddad jokingly said to the soldier next to him ‘I can drive anything,’ but the officer heard this and said, ‘right Griffiths drive that truck over the bridge to see if it’s safe’( Granddad had only ever driven motor bikes and not even a car!). So, with a lot of gear crunching, he slowly crossed the swaying bridge in this huge truck and the others followed, and they actually officially made him a truck driver and dispatch rider!”
One of the funnier stories he told me personally, was when they were driving a convoy through the jungle but had to stop as they were hit by a tropical cyclone. They took advantage to have a quick snooze and when my grandfather woke up, his partner in the truck told him not to get out of the vehicle, as the winds had blown them on top of another truck! He never did tell me how they got down! There was also the tale of a colleague who fell into the latrines. In the jungle they dug huge pits to use as toilets with a plank of wood to balance on, to do what was necessary. Unfortunately for one poor man, it was in the dark when he needed the facility, and he became unbalanced, falling in. Luckily it was not very full, or he could have drowned, but nobody would go near the man for days, as he couldn’t wash properly and was rather smelly!
As it can well be imagined, my grandfather’s experiences left their mark for the rest of his life, quite literally with the scars from his wounds. My grandmother told my Uncle Mike that “she took my father to the cinema when he was on leave, he fell asleep and awoke as the Pathe News began. Upon seeing a tank coming towards him firing he shouted and jumped several rows of seats to escape! No one uttered a word, as they all seemed to understand what had just happened.” For some years after the war my grandfather suffered terribly from nightmares. My mother remembers as a little girl, hearing him in the night and my grandmother trying to reassure him, that he was home and safe. There can be no doubt that he, like many others, suffered from undiagnosed PTSD, and had no help to cope with it.
Understandably he had a dislike of anything Japanese, although he had great admiration for the Naga tribesmen that saved him, and also for the Gurkhas who he fought with. I remember him telling me that he was so glad they were on the allies’ side, as he would not have wanted to have fought against them. They were brilliant warriors. After his experiences in India, he always had a penchant for a good curry, although he would never eat naan bread, after he had seen how they were prepared, (by someone who went to the lavatory and didn’t wash their hands afterwards, before going back to making the bread). Even though he knew modern naans are factory made, he refused point blank to eat them!
My mother, Kath, (Katharine May Griffiths) is Mick’s eldest child, having been born on the 15th July 1942. Similarly to my father Tom’s reaction to Dai, she also was scared of her father when he first returned from Burma, who incidentally, also brought home a giant teddy bear for her too. But again, relationships soon formed and in the later years of his life, Mick, after he had been widowed for some time, came to live with my parents in Glannant, Capel Bangor, initially, before they moved a few doors away. This was the home I grew up in as my grandparents still lived there when I was a child. He lived with my parents for the last 8 years of his life. In the picture on the left he is pictured wearing his war medals and his Burma Star Beret outside our house.
Both of my grandfathers have long since passed, Dai when I was only 9 years old, while Mick lived to meet my children (two of his many great-grandchildren). In their own differing ways, they certainly did ‘their bit,’ but at a cost, with their experiences marking them for life, and there were many like them. Today’s society is too ready to blame older and previous generations for modern problems, which has caused the generational gaps to grow, with terms like ‘boomer,’ and ‘traditionalists’ often being used as derogatory terms. It is too easy to blame others and we are too quick to ignore our own failings. Without that generation of people, whose brave actions and self-sacrifice have given us the freedoms we enjoy today, the world would be a far worse place now. I for one, will always be proud of my grandparents’ contribution to the cause of freedom, and I will always be very grateful to that whole generation, for our ability to live our lives as we see fit. We will remember them.
Blog by Theresa Ryley
Photographs (c.) Theresa Ryley
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