George Tomlinson by Chris Tomlinson (George's Son)
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My Dad? Well, his name was George Randle Tomlinson. He was born on 31st December 1899. Just failed to make a 1900 date. He was born in the East End Docklands of London where his father, my Grandfather (Also George Tomlinson,) owned a couple of pubs.
My
dad had what may be called an interesting life. At the age of
twelve, in 1912 (The year the Titanic went down) to avoid a beating
he knew he was going to get from his father, he went down to the
Royal Albert Dock and stowed away on a ship. Little did he knoiw
thart that ship was Australia Bound. When he revealed himself they
signed him on as a cabin boy and fortunately, it was one of the
first few ships to be fitted with wireless telegraphy, so they
were able to notify the authorities back home that he was at least
safe from his old man's belt buckle.
He
remained in the Merchant Marine for the next few years on the
Australian Mail Ships right up to mid 1915 when the War had been
on for a year. He then, lied about his age and joined the Royal
Navy Volunteer Reserve as a Boy Signalman. He trained for Morse,
Semaphore,(Wireless and Aldis) Bunting Flags as well as
decoding and encyphering. In Late 1915, he was assigned to HMS
Mars, a converted, obsolete battle cruiser that went to Galipoli
to assist in the embarcation of the Anzacs from the ill fated
Dardanelles Campaign. He continued in the Navy until he weas
discharged in 1919.
From
1919 until 1938, he served on the Orient Line passenger ships
rising from third class cabin steward to become first class wine
waiter.
In
the mean time, in the early 1930s, he met my mother and they
married in 1936 and I turned up in 1937. He did one more trip and
then quit the sea for a sedentary job at the Royal Mail sorting
office at Southwark in London.
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However,
that was very short lived and because he was still under 40 years old
and a veteran of the first war, he was on the Reserve List and was one
of the first to be called up in the 1938/9 draft at the time Mr. Hitler
was doing his noisy sabre rattling.
When
war broke out again in September 1939, he was already in unifom...but
the wrong colour..! After 26 years at sea, he was placed
into the Army. The Royal Artillery. He never left the
country for the whole duration. I always think he had some restrictive
ailment that had made him only acceptable for the sort of task he was
asked to perform but we never found out what it might have been.
From
1940 until 1943 he was stationed at a small village in Norfolk called
Brisley where the Anti-Aircraft guns and searchlights were positioned
there to protect RAF and later on, USAAF air bases.
In
1943, they were transfered to Withernwick which made the connection for
me to go there when the V weapons began to fall where I lived in the
East End.
They
were again moved to Kent in about June/July 1944 to protect London from
the BuzzBombs and Rockets till the end of Hostilities.
His
age was always the year of the century, so when it weas all over and he
was demobbed in 1945, he was still only 45 years old.
He
went back to his old job at the Post Office in London but unfortunately,
like many thousands of others, the war had seperated my Father and
Mother for so long that they found it impossible to return to how they
thought things should have been. They eventually divorced in 1949 and
unfortunately, my Father died in 1951 from Hodgkins Desease.
I was 14 years old and if I added up all the days that I could ever
remember being with him I doubt it would add upto three months.
The Irony is that I saw more of him whilst I was living in Withernwick
than the rest of my life.whilst he was alive.
There
were far more casualties of war than the statisticians could ever
account for.
He
was a very ordinary type of bloke who was born in an unfortunate
time but managed to survive it all and did what he could as best he
could with what he had.
Attached
is a photo of him as a 15 year old RNVR Sailor after finishing his
training at HMS Ganges and HMS Victory in 1915.
He
was 51 when he died and I am now coming up 73. A bit weird to feel I'm
older than my Dad.