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My Dad had a scar running from his hairline, down the middle of his brow and petering out along the side of his nose. Back in those days it was a jagged white line, turning red when the sun hit it. I used to run my finger down its jags, small little fingers.
When I was old enough to put a question together, I asked him, 'What happened to your head?'
'Och,' he said, 'That happened during the war. I was at the bottom of a valley, alone. Three hundred germans surrounded me, then they charged. I had to fight them all off with my bayonet.'
'Then, when they were all dead, Hitler came running down with his bayonet pointed at me, but I got him first.'
You know, I could just picture Dad, young, lean and dark haired, lithely dispatching the enemy right and left. I'd seen his khaki uniform, his medal, his colours. It was a grand sight for a six year old. I still know his enlistment number in the Royal Engineers off by heart: 22994071.
A year or two later, I had learned basic arithmetic, shortly afterwards I had a passing understanding of the chronology of the War. 'You didn't really kill Hitler Dad, did you?'
'You were born in 1932 so you were too young to be in the war. Your demob papers say 18 months National Service ending in 1952. So, you CAN'T have killed Hitler.'
He smiled, admitted the medal was for playing basketball in the occupation force, the scar was from falling asleep behind the wheel of a jeep, and told me how smart I was to have worked that out for myself.
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