LUCKY #3

My Dad was a soldier in the New Zealand Divisional Cavalry.  He left New Zealand in January 1940 bound for Egypt and, apart from a brief furlough back in New Zealand served overseas until July 1945. He was a sergeant and fought in most of the New Zealand campaigns in the Second World War - Greece, Crete, Bardia, Egypt, Alamein, Tripoli, Tunisia, Sangro, Cassino, Florence, Rubicon and Trieste.

Staghound used by Div. Cav.

He hardly ever spoke of his experiences and it was only in his later years that we learned of the things he had seen and done, the campaigns he fought in and the friends who were killed in action alongside him.
As small children we knew that he had been a soldier in the war because of the photographs he had, the war memorabilia (German and Italian badges, medals etc) and various bits of equipment - bayonets, radio gear, helmet, paybook etc. We used to sneak into these and play war games with them thereby wrecking and ruining possibly valuable artefacts - photographs, posters, propaganda leaflets, books - all sorts of things. Dad didn't mind as he didn't want to dwell on the war and was scornful of the 'armchair heroes' who  frequented the RSA. He called then blowhards.
For some reason though my brother and I were convinced that Dad had brought back and hidden some dead 'Jerries'.

Ridiculous I know but I was six and my brother eight and our heads were full of war and cowboy stories and at the time it seemed really possible. The basis for this belief was that Dad had a shed up the back of the property that was always locked and we were forbidden to enter or to even go near. There were other sheds - garage, toolshed, chicken house, greenhouse etc that were perfectly OK to ransack but the locked shed apart from the others was a no go area. Well, talk about a honeypot for the bees, we just had to get into that shed and the fact that we weren't allowed suggested to us that Dad had something to hide. Our febrile imaginations created the scenario of dead Germans, guns, gold and all sorts of interesting stuff much better than chickens and garden tools.
One afternoon after school, Terry my brother said that he knew how to get into the shed. Being older he accumulated useful information quicker than I did and he said that he could pick the lock. He showed me a bent piece of wire that he was holding and off we went. We tried and tried to open the padlock - at least my brother did while I watched but had no success. A yell or more like a roar came from behind us and I saw Dad storming up the path, his face red and angry, yelling at us to get away from that bloody shed.

He grabbed a flax shoot on the way and whacked my brother on the arse. We both started crying and he marched us back to the house. Sitting us down he explained that the shed contained dangerous explosives. My brother and I sneaked triumphant glances to each other - proof that we were right. The detail was disappointing though. Our house was built on rock and to excavate the terrace the house was on and the terraces at the back of the section where sheds and gardens were Dad had used dynamite.

Dynamite

The dynamite had now deteriorated and was sweating.

Sweat

Sweating dynamite is very unstable and Dad had contacted explosives experts to come and remove it. He was waiting for them to turn up and had promised them that he would keep the dynamite secure.

I don't know if we would have blown ourselves up if we had got into the shed but I do know that we did some risky things so no doubt my brother would have suggested we take a stick and 'light it' to see what would happen so who knows.
I do know though that I was lucky that my brother, being the oldest, got the whack on the arse and not me.