And ‘Dad’ – Lance Bombardier John Douglas [known as Doug] Kennedy who lies in a World War II military cemetery in Egypt, killed July 1942.
Sadly, Joan’s message will never be read by the man it’s intended for. It doesn’t matter – the spirit is there, and the sentiment is good for the soul.
“I often have a strong feeling of Dad’s presence around me. I felt it and was compelled to write the note.”
Perhaps then, it might be read.
Joan Allan with a photo of the father she never met.
Joan never knew her Dad because she was just 2 months old when he volunteered to fight against Hitler in North Africa.
“He probably got to hold me, cuddle me, love me before he went to war. But of course, I didn’t know about it. I was a baby.”
Lance Bombardier Doug Kennedy died in the savage and cruel Battle of Ruweisat Ridge, where Allies stalled Rommel’s advancing Afrika Korps in their drive towards Suez.
It was the precursor and deciding factor in the climactic battle of El Alamein.
“Doug Kennedy, service number 20914,” Joan says off the top of her head.
She has no memories of the man, but a service number is etched.
“I cried myself to sleep so many times,” Joan says.
“I had no Dad to steer me down life’s path, no Dad to see me marry and give me away, no grandad for my children to know and love. It had a huge impact.”
The “To my Dad” note was an afterthought, a moment of inspiration, as Joan jotted some notes to assist this story. It encapsulates a lifelong story of heartache and hurt in just two lines.
“It is not so much those who are killed in war that are the victims – they’re dead and gone – but those that are left behind. They have to go through life with all the baggage, the loss, the grief, the hurt… the ‘what might have been’.”
Most who lost fathers, husbands, brothers and sons in the deserts and trenches of WWII had memories to serve their sense of identity and purpose and happiness. Joan had no memories.
“No Dad to love me, take me to school, hold my hand, listen to me read without being hit on the head for making a mistake.”
She suspects many young people today will relate to her story. But at the time Joan was growing up, she knew she was different. She felt different.
“The funny thing is, all through my school life I told people my Dad was killed during WWII – but no one ever came back and said to me ‘my Dad was too’.”
Some things were just not talked about. And, she says, it wasn’t helped by an abusive stepfather.
“I wasn’t allowed to ask about my real father. And the stepfather unfortunately destroyed a lot of the letters Dad wrote to my mother.”
But Joan would sneak into her mother’s wardrobe and “read stuff” – nice things “Dad” would write about Joan and her sister in letters home.
“Like ‘how is Joan doing? Get Joan to write to me’. I was only two-and-a-half at the time. But it was nice.”
But what of the man? Has Joan formulated some thoughts about the 30-year-old defender of King and country staring out at us from a photo of 84 years ago.
“I do a lot of needlework, my youngest daughter does woodwork as did my father, my late son was a sign writer and my older son is a graphic artist. So the art thing has flowed through the family.”
Joan Allan's consolation letter from King George VI.
What wasn’t so artful was the manner in which Joan’s Mum learned of her husband’s death on Ruweisat Ridge 82 years ago.
She had been on holiday and came home to a letter.
From Buckingham Palace. From King George VI.
“The Queen and I offer our heartfelt sympathy in your great sorrow. We pray your country’s gratitude for a life so nobly given in its service may bring you some measure of consolation. George RI.”
Nothing else. Just that. Bald, official, off-hand.
