Philip Denis Gorman April 25 1903 – June 8 1980
//My father holding me, north London, 1960//
Incredible to contemplate that today would have been my Dad’s 110th birthday.
//Me, my old man with Charlie on holiday in Norfolk,1966//
He was a good bloke, very dapper and understated, one of those fellows who didn’t go on, if you know what I mean. Take a look at his service record as a Staff Sergeant, mainly with the Middlesex Regiment and as a Desert Rat (a member of the 8th Army).
//My father's army service record//
He gave us snippets, a recurrent Swahili phrase, the claim that he could ask the question “Would you like to come out dancing?” in a dozen languages, memories of the “shitehawks” swooping to grab food from soldier’s plates in the desert, the lush beauty of Bangalore, being bitten by a rabid dog in the shadow of the pyramids.
But we didn’t have enough time together in my maturity for me to glean what living in India for six years in the 20s was really like, or the experience of China and Singapore in the 30s or the detail of his part in the Africa Campaign.
The Old Man would far rather laugh over one of his favourite books Spike Milligan’s Adolf Hitler: My Part In His Downfall.
I have his copy, so shall make a cup of tea and laugh with him, wherever he is (PD Gorman that is, not Milligan).
Here’s to you Staff.