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Hello and welcome to our series of Family Stories, the podcast written by you, the listeners.

This week's family stories feature a bolting Bronco in Burma, a promise to a friend, Hogan's Heroes, an old Jerry can, Chindit Adventures, and a married couple who may or may not have been a family of spies.

This week we're starting with the story from Norman Bell.

My dad Les spent his 19th and 20th birthdays in Burma.

He never spoke about his experiences with one exception and I never thought to ask before it was too late.

The exception was a story about he and two others were detailed to exercise three horses.

My dad's pals obviously knew which horse to avoid, as when the horses turned for home, my dad's horse bolted with my dad clinging on for dear life.

The horse galloped back to camp, through the gates without stopping, leapt over the horse trough, and into his stall in the stable.

Miraculously, my dad was still on board.

Were you in charge of that horse?

bellowed the sergeant.

No, I effing wasn't, dad answered.

When my dad returned to the UK, he brought with him a phobia about snakes and a hatred for the Japanese, both of which which stayed with him until the end.

And that story was from Norman.

Our next story is from Peter Finch.

David Roberts was a capstan lathe operator living in Blacken in Kent with his parents Nora and Stanley, his brothers John and Thomas, and his sister Joe, with whom he was very close.

The family were originally from Camberwell, South London.

Stanley loved to flutter and won a fair few quid with a Derby forecast.

Combined with a decent Pools win, Stanley was able to move the family in the early 30s to a brand new semi-detached house in Kent.

At work, David became good friends with Des Finch, a lad from Bethnal Green.

David would bring Des home from time to time to enjoy his mum's cooking or some of Stanley's cakes.

He was a baker.

David and Des would go out of an evening.

Des was a little shy, unlike David who was outgoing, but they had fun and became the best of friends.

David was 18 when war broke out in 1939 and carried on working until February 1942 when he was called up.

He joined the Royal Artillery and trained as a gunner in the heavy anti-aircraft regiment.

Whenever he could, David would come home to see his family, especially his sister Joan, and meet up with Des.

He was based in and around the UK for the first year of service, but in May 1943, he was sent to the Middle East.

On his last leave visit, he gave Des instructions to look after his sister Joan before setting off for the Middle East.

He had a a fairly quiet and uneventful time in the Middle East.

In February 1944, Gunnar Roberts left his regiment and was sent for training and on the 9th of May Gunnar Roberts became Private Roberts when he joined 46th Division by then in Italy.

In July 1944 he joined the 1st Battalion and then on the 13th of August he was sent to join the 1st 4th Hampshire Regiment who were training for Operation Olive, the battle for the Gothic Line in Italy.

The 1st 4th completed their training and moved up to Archiva on the 23rd of August preparing their kit for the impending action.

Two days later, they left and advanced 10 kilometers to San Ippolito, where they paused for 24 hours, filling up their water carriers and being issued ammo and food rations.

In the early hours of the 27th of August, they first trekked up Dela Bochia and then down into the valley before making their way up to San Bartolo, passing through at nine o'clock in the morning.

They made their way to Abulo, then travelled the final leg of the journey overnight through woodlands and fields.

Pushing through the final thicket, on the morning of the 28th of August, the attack was on Monte Gaudio, their final destination.

However, less than a mile away, on top of a steep hill, came David's first real action of the war.

As the first fourth pushed up, David was hit and went down.

Pinned down, David's colleagues could not get to him until the battle was won in the early afternoon.

David died on the battlefield from his injuries and rests at Montechio War Cemetery.

What happened to Des?

Well, he joined the RAF, but insisted on keeping his promise to David that he would look after his sister.

So much so he married her when he came home.

Des and Joan are my mum and dad, and my uncle David is my family hero, whom I will visit in 2026.

That story was from Peter Finch.

Our next story is from Will Hogan.

At 28, Samuel Hogan was the youngest tank battalion commander in the U.S.

Army during during World War II.

Flying the Lone Star flag from his Sherman, he led his soldiers with courage and compassion through some of the toughest battles in the ETO, including Mortain, Valaise, Seafried Line and the Mons Pocket.

His tanks helped the big Red One capture Aachen, the first German city to fall to the Allies.

They were also sent forward with fuel tanks half empty into the bulge, where they were surrounded about twenty kilometers from Bastogne and had to break out on foot to rejoin friendly lines.

From there they rearmed and pushed back into the bulge, capturing Cologne with new Pershing tanks.

The 3rd Armoured Division was one of the first few units to get them.

They then conducted the longest single-day advance against an opposing force in history, 90 miles, to capture the German SS tank training centre near Padderborn.

It wasn't all war, blood and guts though.

Just one example of an amusing episode was when they freed a POW camp, where a British major from a blue-blooded family, Eton, Oxford educated, named Baronet Carol Ramsden, asked to tag along with the task force riding with the tanks to the banks of the Elbe, since they were so far forward in Germany that it wasn't safe to leave them behind.

This resulted in some hilarity, which could be compared to the sixties show Hogan's Heroes.

And that story was from Will Hogan.

The next story is from Malcolm Allen.

I was very nearly eight when VJ Day occurred, but I can't remember any celebrations.

All the talk was about the bomb, which had brought about victory, and it was rumoured that it was the size of a golf ball.

In our circles, we lived in a rough part of Aldershot, we knew about bombs, but nothing about golf.

The main thing was that my dad was a prisoner of war of the Japanese, and mum said he would be home soon.

I didn't remember him at all though, as he had been away throughout the war, and she only received three postcards with pre-printed messages, such as, I am well slash ill, in the last couple of years of his captivity.

Born in Dublin, he enlisted at the Cara Depot in June 1914 at the age of 14 years and six days.

He was four foot eight and three-quarter inches tall and weighed five stone.

He was pronounced fit for active duty and working with animals.

Rising through the ranks, he was promoted lieutenant in 1939 and immediately went with the BEF to France, only to return through Dunkirk on the 5th of June, one of the last out.

On the 28th of September 1941, he he embarked for the Far East, Singapore, and on the 15th of February, some eight weeks after he arrived, he was captured by the Japanese and with thousands of others was imprisoned at Chang'i.

In October 1942 he was railed up to Bampong in Thailand to be one of the slave workers on the Thai-Burma Railroad of Death.

The Japanese had made little provision for their arrival, so the men learned to make ATAP huts with a raised bamboo shelf either side where they slept.

The latrines were a pit with poles over the top for the communal squat.

No paper, no disinfectant, and they were crawling with flies and maggots which turned into blue bottles which infested the kitchens.

Cooking was done over open fires in large cauldrons, and water was carried by hand from a single well half a mile away.

Breakfast was rice, sweepings of the floor, as Dad said.

Lunch was rice and a bit of dried fish, and in the evening more rice, with perhaps a dried egg.

After the war, Dad could never eat rice, But things got worse as they were marched further north to other camps as the railway expanded.

Officers didn't have to work, but Dad, an ex-ranker, empathised with the troops and went to work with them.

After Rollkall, Tempo as it was called, it was off to work on the railway, cutting bamboo, breaking rocks, carrying baskets of soil until 6.30 at night, when you were marched back to camp and its luxurious conditions.

All of this was accompanied by brutal discipline.

My father was hit in the mouth by a rifle butt, wielded by a guard, and his false teeth were broken.

A disaster, but the camp dentist, a Royal Army Dental Corps prisoner, repaired them with copper wire.

On his release, they were examined in wonder during his medical and retained for historical reasons.

I viewed the repaired plate years later in the RADC Museum in Frimley.

I knew nothing of this, of course, and had a very happy childhood playing cowboys and Indians, with a homemade pistol and hat, running up and down the grass air raid shelters on the green, and sliding down the hill when it snowed on makeshift sledges.

We watched the contrails in the sky as the Spitfires fought the Battle of Britain, occasionally saw a flaming aircraft low overhead, and watched the black and white winged aircraft supporting the D-Day invasion fly over in their hundreds.

We slept under the stairs in the pantry and the siren went.

If a doodlebug flew overhead, we knew to lie down and stay down if the engine stopped.

Rationing was just a fact of life, and my mother made many sacrifices for my sister and me.

We never went hungry, and our clothes were neatly repaired.

I well recall a day trip to the Thames at Reading, and my mum had to buy me an emergency pair of shorts and a shirt to come home in.

The clothing coupons were taken from a reserve mum had been keeping for a new outfit for my older sister.

Sheila was very upset with me, and I think she would have preferred that I drowned.

In 1946, Sheila was given a banana by a friend.

I had never seen one, and was disappointed that it was soft.

and not crispy as I'd expected.

All this, and a bath every Saturday night, and no central heating, telephone or TV.

One of my jobs was to take the battery of the bush radio to a cycle shop for recharging and bring a charged one back.

Another job was to collect the manure from the dray horses, which they deposited outside our house when restocking the pub next door.

An irregular treat was when we walked up the town in the blackout to the Ritz or Empire cinemas, with mum holding her shaded torch downwards in case the blackout wardens shouted at her.

The cinema was a contrast of light and wonderment from the dark and drabbled-shot streets, and we sang along lustily to the popular songs as the organ rose from the pit.

It was not until October that Dad returned to Britain with his ship docking in Liverpool.

We three went to Liverpool Street Station, I think, to meet the train.

I remember the platform was thronged with mums and children, and the Salvation Army performed miracles with tea and biscuits for us, a wonderful organisation I have supported ever since.

Then the train drew in with the ex-prisoners waving at the windows and even climbing out of them before the train came to a halt.

We looked around for Dad and finally mum saw him striding down the platform sporting a handlebar moustache.

You can shave that thing off, was my mother's first greeting after four years away.

Not a good start.

Dad was a total stranger to me.

He suffered regular bouts of malaria, never ate rice, found difficulty in sleeping in a bed, and was ultra-hygienic washing his hands before and after going to the loo.

During his captivity, he carried with him a bottle of Vic ointment, a bone-handled knife that he sharpened to shave with, and half a flimsy, the predecessor of the jerry can, in which he boiled water each night to clean any scratches and sores.

Dad, like nearly all the prisoners of war, said the atomic bomb saved his life because the machine guns on the camp perimeter were turned inwards, ready to execute them.

I have been to Hiroshima, and the museum is a sad experience.

Dad's last posting was to an operational unit living in tents in Egypt.

After the privations of his life as a POW, he felt this was too much and wanted time time to sort out his life with a final posting nearer home.

That story was from Malcolm Allen.

And thank you, Malcolm.

This episode is brought to you by Progressive Commercial Insurance.

Trucking is a big job, so Progressive is proud to offer truckers the coverage they need and discounts to help them save.

Quote Truck Insurance in as little as eight minutes at progressivecommercial.com.

Progressive Casualty Insurance Company and affiliates.

Discounts not available in all states or situations.

And this story is from Joe Poole.

Love, love, love the podcast, gentlemen.

Your enthusiasm is palpable and you have brought World War II to life for many of us in ways we couldn't have imagined.

Well, thank you, Joe.

That's very, very sweet of you to say so.

Joe continues.

I feel I may be a rare breed around these parts as a 54-year-old female listener.

My partner is way ahead of me on the podcast, but I have reached number 95, Summer Madness.

So you can imagine my surprise when you mentioned Flight Lieutenant Arthur Hughes DFC and holder of the Legion Donneur Croix de Guerre avec palme France.

To say I was stunned and overjoyed would be an understatement.

Daphne, his late widow, was a great friend of mine and she spoke of him so fondly, so often, I almost felt like I knew him myself.

He published a book about some of his exploits, although no longer in print it seems, and I feel extremely privileged to own a copy.

It's a very personal account and rather vivid in the telling.

Daphne told me, when I was reading Arthur's book, to put a little more flesh on the bones of Arthur's war, he was once shot down in the Western Desert Campaign.

His Brenham came down between British and Axis forces, and the Panzers were gunning to shoot up the aircraft.

Fortunately, the Hussars got to the crew first and rescued them.

Arthur worked for the diplomatic service as an air attaché in Eastern Europe post-1945 during the Cold War.

Her tales of this time were very limited.

When she passed away a few years ago, aged 94, a lady's handgun was found in her bedside drawer.

Make of that what you will.

Her war stories were always of Arthur, never of her own, and I always wondered about her war.

but she never chose to share it.

Another unsung hero, perhaps.

They're buried together at Sandhurst Military Academy.

That story was from Joe Paul.

And Joe, I can tell you that I knew Daphne too, and she was a lovely lady.

And she shared with me Arthur's log book.

And his book is still in print.

And it's called something like Blenheim Summer.

It's all about 1940 and the Battle for France.

Obviously, you've got a copy, but one can still buy it because it was republished maybe somewhere between sort of five and eight years ago, something like that.

Anyway, she was lovely, as you say, and it's lovely to make that connection.

And our final story this time is from Chris Bryan.

I'm a huge fan of your podcast, he says, and your episodes on Burma recently inspired me to research my grandfather, Lance Corporal Ernest Bryan, a Chindit.

We knew he fought with the Chindits, specifically in the King's Liverpool Regiment's 82nd column.

Family stories mentioned he was ambushed by a Japanese machine gunner, rescued by a Gurkha, and then evacuated by light aircraft from a jungle strip to India with a gunshot wound to his leg, ending his war.

Through a Second World War forum, I accessed the 77th Indian Brigade War Diary.

It confirmed that on the 4th of June 1944, my grandfather was wounded near Mogong.

The diary vividly describes the hellish monsoon conditions that halted evacuations, highlighting how fortunate he was to survive when many others alongside him were killed.

His regiment was so depleted they were fighting alongside the Lancashire Fusiliers by this point.

Even more incredibly, the Indian National Archives recently released new records online.

There, on a glider and C-47 loading manifest for Operation Thursday, D-plus-2,

I found my grandfather listed, heading into Broadway with a dozen men and a pony towing a Waco glider.

Among the men was Sean Paddy Dermody, Wingate's groom.

whose fascinating story can be found online.

After the war, he returned to Newland, Worcestershire.

He married my grandmother, Margaret, and they went on to have three children, Valerie, Colin, my dad, and John.

Ernest sadly took his own life in 1971, so I never met him.

But learning about his experiences, the people he served with, and the places he saw brings me closer to him.

As a side note, Margaret remarried after my grandfather died.

to a German ex-prisoner of war who served as a gunsmith in the Wehrmacht.

He served in Stalingrad and then Cherbourg, where he was subsequently captured by the US Army.

Really interesting story, but that's for another day.

Thanks for everything you do.

And that story was from Chris Brian.

Well, that's all for this episode.

If you've got a family story you'd like to be considered for the show, please do email it to wehaveways

at goalhanger.com.

And please label the email family stories so we don't miss it.

We absolutely love getting these, so please do send them in.

Cheerio.

Cheerio.