MAKING A DIFFERENCE

I am proud to say I come from a long line of people who made a difference, giving selflessly, to bring about change in society as a whole.

My great-great-grandfather Johann Kromann left his home, a small fishing village in Dragos, Denmark, to sail ships bound for countries around the world, initially learning trades, working his passage, ultimately becoming a Linguist, speaking several languages both to converse with passengers and to translate for them.

His daughter-in-law Mary, wife of Joseph his son, created a welcome space in her home for what she called 'motherless children' ... waifs and strays from the slums of Wallasey, giving them clothing, food and shelter, providing an education and teaching them lessons and choruses which were to remain with them long into adult life.

Mary's daughter Emily Florence was named after Emily Florence Nightingale, who herself made personal sacrifices in the face of adversity, and in doing so made a difference to the lives of others through nursing. While Emily Croman (anglosised version of Kromann), helped her mother work with children from the slums, becoming an advocate of The Temperance Society, successfully weaning her father off drink as she gave her life to God. She went on to work alongside Emmeline and daughter Christabel Pankhurst, travelling from her home in Cheshire to attend rallies in London, actively campaigning for better rights for women in the Suffragette Movement. In later life, she became a Speaker, and together with her husband Will Chessall, spent a lifetime trying to emanate the love of God through her words and actions, becoming a lighthouse of hope, steering people away from the dangers in life, flooding them with the light of love. Words she wrote clearly demonstrate:

'Don’t let the world around you squeeze you into its own mould, 

but let God remould your minds from within, 

so that you may prove in practice that the plan of God for you is good, 

meets all his demands and moves towards the goal of true maturity.' 

(Romans 12:2)

I am proud of my heritage, my roots, defining who I am today.

You don't have to be someone with money, influence or power to make a difference. You simply need a fundamental belief based usually on breaking the chains of a personal experience or showing support for experiences shared by others, with a passion which drives you on. My mother, Nina Harrington, nee Chessall, would also add the words: 'to thine own self be true'. She too made a difference in so many people's lives, as did my father Rev John Harrington through his ministry and service to God. Always the doors of our home were open to anyone in trouble or need.

I was moved to tears the other evening by the film 'Suffragette'  broadcast on Sky Premiere. It was this which prompted these writings. Contrary to common belief, Suffragettes weren't just about campaigning for the rights of women to vote. The film clearly illustrated how people of the time were living in a male-dominated society, both in and out of the home. Women were considered cheap labour, to be treated as slaves, there to do men's bidding, to be abused, without having any rights to opinions or freedom of their own. The film demonstrated that changes brought about by Emmeline and her daughter Christabel were based on what they saw happening around them, prompting them to act, to challenge, to stand up for what they believed was right, in order to change the hearts of minds and people. To live then meant you were either very rich, or very poor. Only by working together, rising up as one body, could change happen enough to make a difference. To know that my maternal grandmother and great grandmother were a part of that body makes me so proud!

Imagine what a wonderful world it might be if each of us could be inspired by ways in which ordinary people in the past brought about positive changes for the future! Whatever faith, race, creed, colour, or position we have in society, how much better we could make the lives of others around us if we took on the Olympian torch of hope to bring about change, and peacefully yet positively challenge the unjust, unfair treatment of others. What an extraordinary journey that would be, and what a story we would have to tell after! Mum always used to say:

'It's not the winning that matters,

it's the taking part;

the journey you embrace along the way.'

There are campaigns for change happening right now based on a variety of injustices, cutting the chains that bind link by link, urging us to become a part of something greater than ourselves. I am always signing petitions with the hope that the required number of signatures will be reached enough for them to be heard in Parliament. It's the way it has to happen, not just today, but even during the time of the Suffragettes ... remembering there were no women at all in power or with the right to make decisions in those days.

The Suffragette motto was:

'Deeds not words.'

Protesters followed the slogan:

'I don't count ... so I won't be counted!'

Times may have changed, but what we face today is a world in crisis. So many different issues to address and no clear path to see them through, or to effect change. But change has to start with the individual. Every one of us has a responsibility. Our Guide surely has to be The One who created us, The One who remains with us, The One who ultimately gives us the perfect example to live by:

'If I rise on the wings of the dawn, 

if I settle on the far side of the sea, 

even there your hand will guide me, 

your right hand will hold me fast.' 

Copyright: painting by Janine Harrington

A BEACON OF LIGHT

 

The Lighthouse Cafe

Filey, North Yorkshire

Tuesday 2nd August 2016

3.30pm

Proprietor Paul with author Janine, photo courtesy of Bijou Enterprises

As Glen Miller and his band swung into action, bunting fluttering in the gentle breeze outside, the scene was set for a stylish 1940s event to celebrate the birth of RAF 100 Group - Kindred Spirits. An exhibition of memorabilia, including a framed letter from the Queen taking pride of place; attracted the many customers who crowded into the cafe, seeking shade from the heat of the afternoon sun. The air was muggy and close. But here, in this village of Filey, time had rewound, reaching back to a very different era, and now stood still. 

This was a spot which was used to the passage of time, the cafe having had at least two previous owners:

It was a wonderful setting, hosted by Paul Winters, and his staff. They certainly did us proud with their home-made cakes and scones. And it goes without saying that it has become one of my favourite haunts!

The display stand inside illustrated the story of RAF 100 Group and its Squadrons, while the book enticed one particular reader well-versed in the history of the Second World War to buy one of the few remaining 'Collectables', including veteran signatures and further information about them.

Janine handing over the prized 'Special Edition Collectable' to customer Ted

It was good just to chat and answer questions. Not one person who came to the cafe had heard of RAF 100 Group, and it's sad as veterans grow older, that they are still not recognised or rewarded for their actions which brought the war to an early conclusion as they used special secret and experimental equipment on board their aircraft to identify and jam enemy Radar ... just one of the many roles they played. I remain as passionate as ever about preserving their history and stories rather than allow them to sink into oblivion, and will continue to campaign on their behalf until my last breath for justice on their behalf. Otherwise their wartime experiences will be lost forever.

I admire and respect this Group so much. These people who have become my worldwide Family over the twenty-five years I have known and been involved with them are truly kindred spirits and remain always in my heart. I am proud to serve them in whatever way I can, and to honour their name.

Proprietor Paul Winters with author Janine, courtesy Bijou Enterprises

 May we ALWAYS remember 

those who gave their tomorrows

that we might live today!

BY ROYAL APPOINTMENT!!

It can prove to be an extraordinary journey, to follow history down the path of Time, and bring together a Family Tree. Tracing our ancestors can become addictive! But it is a necessary path, because our past defines who we are today, and the experiences which shaped us. It is only by understanding our past and experiences, that we can know ourselves that much better. On my mother's side, at least, I come from a long line of women of incredible personal faith, strength and endurance who weren't afraid to make a difference. I find that, not just remarkable, but also an enormous help, support and comfort to me now.

My latest publication brought out by Austin Macauley in December 2015 has drawn a huge amount of worldwide interest. Finally, it is bringing to people's attention another 'Family' who made a difference - that of RAF 100 Group, serving under Bomber Command during World War Two, based on Norfolk airfields in the UK.

They have remained in the shadows too long. 

For over twenty years it has been my passion to preserve both their history and stories, to bring them forward into the light, so that people today can know their secrets, their tremendous acts of courage flying day and night deep into the heart of Germany. Their main operations were centred on identifying and jamming enemy Radar, using experimental and very secret equipment installed in their aircraft, used by a Special Operator. But they also intercepted communications between German Controllers and their airmen, flew 'spoof' missions designed to draw the enemy away from the real targets, working with the Resistance, SOD (Special Operation Duties), SOE (Special Operations Executives) and Bletchley Park, ultimately helping bring the war to an early conclusion. Yet when war was done, unlike Fighter Command, they received no recognition nor reward, neither were they included in Churchill's post-war speech. In the veterans' own words: 'we are the forgotten heroes'. Too many have already taken their secrets with them to the grave.

This is the reason why this book is so important, so vital. It is the first and only time for many to have shared their wartime experiences within its pages and represents my promise to them fulfilled.

Just as copies of my book 'Nina & Vic: A World War Two Love Story' was sent to the Queen and Prime Minister, being the first time I wrote about this Group; a copy of my latest publication was also sent, and a reply followed:

The book is a weighty volume, and includes not only the history and stories of RAF 100 Group, but also those of U.S 36th Bomb Squadron who flew alongside them. My sincere thanks to Stephen Hutton for including his writings in this publication (Stephen's father served with the U.S 36th Bomb Squadron, and he is author of 'Squadron of Deception', offering further information and history).

I was asked by 100 Group veterans to include a question with a copy of the book to the Prime Minister. A response followed:

I will be including these letters in our Autumn edition of the RAF 100 Group Association magazine. However, those I have shared them with already are delighted.

Stephen Hutton (Author of: 'Squadron of Deception') writes from America:

'Just a note to say how excited I was to receive your email message and letter from Buckingham Palace. How very special that is to be so recognized. Thank you most sincerely. I immediately notified the Commanding Officer of the 36th Electronic Squadron of this good news. Once again, hearing from you makes me so very proud of your extreme efforts to recognize and honor the Gremlins of RAF 100 Group and its Association. My hat's off to you!'

Veteran John Beeching, who served in 169 Squadron at RAF Great Massingham, Norfolk, writes from New Zealand:

'Well, what does one say to news like that? Congrats, to start with ...

Great news indeed, Janine, and it will be interesting to see what follows. I can't imagine that there could possibly be anything left involving the erstwhile 100 Group which could have anything secret about it at all. The gear we had would now be relegated to the Stone Age bracket. Nevertheless, it is all a step in a constructive direction, so we will watch this space. 

Canadian Mosquito pilot George Stewart DFC, who appears sitting astride the front of the aircraft on the front cover of the book, shares his thoughts:

'Well, you've really done it this time, Janine, immortalizing all of us, including yourself !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! What a wonderful, well-deserved response from Her Majesty.

CONGRATULATIONS FROM ALL OF US WHO WERE THERE!!!!!!!

God bless you for all the hard work you did and do in bringing back those precious memories often otherwise lost.

Fondest wishes and thank you so much!!!

I remain inspired by all these wonderful people as well as those departed, including my mother Nina's wartime fiance, Vic Vinnell, who flew in Mosquito DK292 with his good friend Canadian Pilot Jack Fisher, serving in 192 Squadron, RAF 100 Group. Their story, as with so many, ended tragically, with the mystery of exactly what happened to them on the night of 26/27 November still remaining today.

We WILL remember them!!

LIVING HISTORY

Today marks the 20th Anniversary of the death of a remarkable and much loved lady ... my Mum. 

I miss her today so much as a valued part of my life. To me, she was more than a mother. I knew her as a Playmate, my Best Friend, a Woman, a Visionary, my Soulmate. As a child, she widened the boundaries of my world, injecting a powerful concoction of dreams and imagination whereby ordinary objects became something very wonderful and magical, leading me to write stories from an early age. In later years, we talked and shared about anything and everything. We'd swap clothes, go on holidays together or have weekends away. They are times I treasure today as I remember. It is from her I drew my inspiration and my strength, as well as a firm faith in God. We spent her final ten years writing a book about her wartime fiance, made up of her diaries as a young girl, and letters shared between herself and Special Operator Flt/Lt Henry Victor Vinnell, known as Vic, before his untimely death on 27 November 1944 alongside the man who was to have been Best Man at their wedding a short while on, Canadian Pilot Flt/Lt Jack Fisher. They were flying their usual aircraft Mosquito DK292, affectionately known as 'N for Nina'. There is still a mystery surrounding their death and the operation they were on at the time. Both in their early twenties, they served at RAF Foulsham in 192 Squadron, RAF 100 (Bomber Support) Group, Bomber Command - a secret Group of Squadrons based on airfields in Norfolk, UK. Their prime task was to identify and jam enemy Radar; but they also worked with the Resistance, Bletchley Park, SOE and SOD, picking up and dropping agents into enemy-occupied territory. It is Mum's wartime story which led us to become founding members of the RAF 100 Group Association of which today I am proud and privileged to be worldwide Secretary, for the past twenty-five years working with veterans and their families.

 

Anyone wishing to read my mother's wartime experiences and learn more about the special love shared between Nina and Vic can obtain a signed copy on receipt of £12.00 + pp. I now only have a certain number of copies left of the original publication as I am in the process of having their story re-published under a different publisher for the future, with additional information.

Both Nina and Vic will continue to be remembered as their names are spoken during our annual RAF 100 Group Reunions in Norfolk alongside that of Canadian Pilot Jack Fisher, Vic's friend and Pilot who was to be Best Man at their wedding a few days on. They remain part of a worldwide Association of kindred spirits which continues to grow as younger generations join, with members in daily contact. Mum would have loved the very real connection we enjoy with one another.

What actually gave rise to this writing today, written in memory of Mum, is that completely out of the blue, when at a particularly low ebb on 19 July, the day on which, last year, I read my now ex-husband Tony's email telling me he had another life in London and would never be coming home; a miracle occurred. Someone was reading my blog, in particular the piece I wrote about my two great uncles, Will and Arthur, brothers killed in WWI. She felt compelled to write to me, and in doing so, opened an unexpected door into the past. She is the daughter of my maternal grandmother's youngest sister. For the next few hours it was an absolute delight to follow in the footsteps of those who had gone before, sharing stories of a past age. She completely turned my day around, chasing the shadows away, and we continue to correspond several times a day.

Thank you, dearest Celia, my now sister-cousin! xxx

WEB OF DECEIT

 Copyright: Janine Harrington

Mr B. lives with his wife in a sleepy little village in the north of the country. He travels south to work, staying away from home, arriving back at the end of the working week. At first, it is a three day week, and the time he spends with his wife therefore like a long weekend. However, work commitments change. Soon, he is away all week, returning late Friday evening, his mind distracted by mobile and laptop which dominate his life; before travelling back early Sunday morning, leaving just one precious day to spend together. She is alone most of the time. But he doesn't seem to mind. He says it's the way his life has always been, she has to get used to it. At first, he would take her out to dinner to celebrate their 'Togetherness'. But this changes over time, until the one day she has to look forward to is spent catching up on chores, her disabilities making it difficult for her to do some things in his absence. His wife loves him with all her heart. She believes in him, trusts him implicitly, hiding nothing from him, open and honest about her feelings, willing to put up with absence and hardship because this is her Soulmate, someone she will be with for the rest of her days. This is a very different world to relationships she has experienced previously which have always ended in pain. She cherishes the time spent together all the more because of the past.

Mr B. also has a young lady in the south who he is infatuated with, and who dominates his thoughts. He also has a house from which he commutes to work. More and more he is able to spend time with her ... but still he craves more. Somehow it isn't enough. He buys new furniture for a house which will become their home, spending less and less on his wife in the north. Work is like a pastime, a hobby, he enjoys it so much. He is a quick learner, a team leader, and he has time to think and plan, moving people around like pieces on a chess board. He pledges allegiance to both women, unable to give either one up. One is his wife, the other his Mistress. He knows inevitably one will undoubtedly usurp the other. In the meantime, he has to be careful. There are appointments to keep in the north as well as the south. He is careful to keep finances secret, paperwork hidden, any trace of either life hidden from the other.

Mr B. is living a lie. Someone is going to get hurt. And it's unlikely to be him ... because he is The Controller.

Can a man live two parallel lives?

The answer has to be a resounding 'Yes'!

But then again, isn't true love about giving all of your Self to one person? Doesn't loving someone also include trust, loyalty, honesty, respect, care, understanding, support, concern ... and so much more? There is definitely no room for deception and lies.

Shame on the man who makes this his way of life!

I say again: Someone is going to get seriously hurt. More than that ... their heart will be broken. The long-term effects devastating. The consequences of such action damaging beyond repair. It can even lead to death. Since the birth of the website Ashley Maddison, there have been suicides of wives whose husbands have secretly been having elicit affairs. I understand as I write this, that because of the devastation caused, the website has been banned in Australia. It is a subject which really is serious.

So how does it work?

It's a question which has been plaguing me for the past year.

So ... you meet Mr. B. and share a meal together. At first, you want to take everything he appears to be at face value. He's putting on the charm, the kind of image that draws you in, and which, let's face it, is attractive. You talk, share, ask questions, respond in kind, and if you are older, exchange past baggage, or at least as much as you feel is appropriate at the time. If you've been hurt in the past then you're going to tread careful. You'll want evidence of what he says, if you're prudent and don't want to risk being hurt again. You need to know he's kosher. That everything he tells you is true and checks out. If he's older, maybe he's been married before ... once, twice, maybe even three times. It happens.

If this is the case, it's vital to know how those past lives panned out.

Remember, there is HIS truth. There is HER truth. Then there is THE truth!!

No, it doesn't have to happen all on that first meet. But it's important to bear in mind that often we hear what we want to hear, what we need to hear, because already we're smitten. Love can creep up on us unawares. Before we know it, we're sucked in, and it's all the harder to dig ourselves out without getting hurt if the time comes. But there's that old adage which keeps creeping into our subconscious: 'once bitten, twice shy'. Somehow, we have to be sure. But how? It's not like we get to look in a crystal ball and see the past the way it was. All we have is his word, first impressions, day-to-day experiences shared. Okay, so he talks the talk, walks the walk. Past marriage(s) failed because of  'affairs'. On his wife's part, that is ... she went off with the accountant ... the neighbour ... the boss. Or else something went wrong with living arrangements ... she bought a dog he didn't like and without his permission. Ah! She almost caused him to have a car accident because he couldn't sleep at night with the TV blaring. There's a familiar theme already emerging in the telling if we dare but stop a moment to look and recognise the sign of someone unwilling to accept blame or responsibility, or admit to any kind of failure, much less trying to put things right, talking and sharing differences and situations ... isn't there? So, what did he do in response? He walked away leaving her the house. Sounds fair enough ... unless you consider how she might pay the mortgage, whether she worked, and if he paid a settlement figure enough for her to get her life back on track. Then again, who divorced who? How can we be sure? Children? Strange if they're not in contact. Yes, of course he paid maintenance. What kind of man would we think he is otherwise! And yes, his life has been nomadic, with no real permanency. How could it be any other way when he has to be where the work is ... don't you know contractors live in B&B anywhere in the UK, sometimes abroad!!

In our case, first meetings happened while he was between contracts. He moved in, bringing belongings out of storage.

Life moved on.

Nine months out of work living off my savings, and finally a contract when we're travelling together, staying at a B&B. He leaves for work early morning, arriving back at night to share a meal. It's a different lifestyle, but quickly becomes a way of life, one I could assume would continue for the future. No worries with having the ability to work anywhere using a laptop. Besides, Home is time shared ... being together. It isn't really a place.

Trust builds. It feels like solid ground. Secrets are shared. Where would they hide anyway? The fact that he always uses 'techie stuff' is because he's that way inclined. Isn't it? Mobile phone is always on, always taking calls, texts, emails. Communication on the run. 'Crap text ...' becomes a common phrase used as texts pile in one on top of another in an evening. Just because you want to share quality time together is your need, not necessarily his. At least, that's what he says. 'Wouldn't it be boring if we were all the same?' becomes a favourite saying. And you take it to heart.

So when did that other life begin?

I still don't know.

I can't accept his explanation that he met her passing in the street ... their eyes met and ...

No! It doesn't sound true. Try walking down a street and catching someone's eye enough to say you've fallen for a stranger. You only have to try it to know just how impossible that actually is on the move, never mind seeing enough to form a relationship. Besides, how does the exchange of details happen?

Much more plausible is the fact they met online. Otherwise, why keep shutting down the computer late at night when I repeatedly ask when he's coming to bed? And later, why name the website in a text to me, telling me to take no notice of it being hacked on the news? His details got on there by mistake? I don't think so!! And then there's the name which unwittingly drops from his lips in talking to me ... both in sleep and awake. It isn't my name, nor a name I know. So it begs the question, how many women came before her? How many others were there who he might have met while saying he was attending an interview, or meeting someone from the car club? Easy done!

But let's step back, rewind time to when he's between contracts. Plenty of time to get bored being a workaholic, caught in the tedium of everyday life. 'Same old ... same old ...' Is that how it's always panned out for him in the past? Once life settles into a routine, that old familiar taste for pastures new leads his fingers to tap the keys onto dating websites, window shopping to begin with ... where's the harm? Then finding someone to meet, talk to, get to know, sending texts or emails in an evening while begrudgingly watching telly with the wife.

An engagement happened during a coffee break, if I remember correctly. 'Shall I put the ring on my finger?' 'Yes', he replied, somewhat distracted by what he was viewing on the computer. And that was it. No romantic proposal, down on one knee, no special moment in time. Then some way down the line came marriage. I managed all the arrangements. But then, was marriage enough to stop window shopping online, viewing other female faces? Why would it? It can so easily become habit-forming. Especially when it's already a part of someone's psyche! I signed all the papers to make the wedding happen. Now I ask myself the question: did he really want to get married, or was it something he went along with merely to keep the peace? There wasn't family attending on his side ... that's explained away. Yet, still one wonders. Questions are asked. Questions stick, like flies caught in a web. The wedding is a small affair. No onrush of emotion. He is almost emotionally detached. A short ceremony at Gretna, then he rips off the regalia my nephews have carefully decorated the car with to show off the newly-weds, and it's a mad dash down motorways to catch the ferry to France for a honeymoon at La Rochelle. I'm seasick during the crossing, so no fun there. And we've bunks to sleep in!! One week on, I'm wondering where the holiday went ... the romance ... the sense of magic, specialness, wonder ... love, when aimlessly we've walked down streets he's easily bored of, unable to understand it seems what they're doing there, how to enjoy a holiday, what it takes to make it special.

Home again, and life returns to become much the same as before. Nothing has changed ... or has it? Again, the question: 'When did his parallel life begin?' 'How long was it going on?'

Finally, the contract in London ... the one contract I didn't join him on. He didn't want me to.

A house in London suddenly comes into the equation. Or ... was it already there? Somehow, the impression was that he was staying in B&B. London rates? Prohibitive! But then, he's on a good wage. Where then does the money go? And more and more, why can't he come home?

Something is wrong.

It starts as a feeling. But then, because of past hurts, instinct kicks in, screaming at me from the inside out that something else is going on ... something I don't know. It's a warning! 'There's nothing wrong. It's all in your head. You're delusional. Paranoid. For God's sake, woman!' Oh, how much I want to believe that's true! To hang on to the dream. This is the Forever Man, right? For the rest of our days we'll be together, right?

Wrong!!

Because one fine day it's my birthday. He spends the day. But somehow it's become important to get everything done, in its place, like there's no tomorrow. Why can't the day be special? Why can't we go out for a meal? Celebrate?? And where's the usual 'Art Deco' card I love so much? Why is everything such a struggle, a stress? The following morning, early, he's gone ...

... out of my life ... stepping into someone else's dream ... someone who has been there awhile.

Simple really, when you know how.

It's the spaces that are filled with the other woman, not you. You feel because you're married he'll be faithful and true. You judge him by your own standards, especially when you've not been married long. You've looked for the obvious signs of something being wrong, but none are forthcoming. So you feel bad for even looking, guilty and upset you can ever imagine he might be cheating on you.

The email arrives two weeks on ... filling the spaces suddenly with images and colours you don't like, colours you remember too well from the past, images which remind you of lies, deceit, betrayal. The email tries to blame you. 'You pushed me into this ...' Was that in reference to the fact that, despite loving the place where I live which has been home before he ever came into my life; in a desperate bid to make things come right again between us, still sensing something was very wrong; I offered to move closer to his work? To save him driving long distances. To spend more quality time together. To have him home at night. To be there, able to do things for one another, with one another, especially over weekends, when couples come together.

Now reading that email one year on, that changed my life forever, it makes sense. 'You pushed me into this ...' In other words, he wasn't ready. His house in London was still being altered, furnished, fitted to his requirements. The needs of the other lady in his life were still being nurtured. She has a family? Yes, that would fit. So okay then, there were still things to be sorted. But my unexpected suggestion about moving, or at the very least, sharing B&B as we used to in the early days; made him suddenly panic. It shifted his focus onto his wife ... when it was now all about The Mistress. He wasn't ready to switch them around. That's why the sudden pressure from him to divorce, offering to pay all divorce costs, just to get it done.

Out with the old ... bring in the new!

But then, is this the way he's always lived his life?

I wonder.

Oh, and this doesn't only have to be a male-only psyche. Females do it too! They fall in love with the 'Honeymoon Period' ... the first flurry of feeling for another, when the world seems sweet and beautiful and everything's going their way. But when you're the one who ends up trashed, with a past you can't look back on without having everything smeared with lies, not knowing what to believe any more; a future where dreams are shattered, and a present you can't live with except on a moment-by-moment existence ... with days you can't see the point in living any more ...

... then look in the mirror, and you will see me, because that's where I am right now ...

One Year On!

Memories

Copyright: Janine Harrington

ONE MOMENT IN TIME

One moment in time was to define the lives of two young men and how they would be remembered forever. They were my great uncles. I never knew them. My maternal grandmother (Nanny) with whom I shared a close relationship, never spoke of them. Yet their photographs bear witness that they lived ... dying young before their time, soldiers serving their country during World War One.

William James Croman in Army uniform

WILLIAM JAMES CROMAN was Mary Ann (Carter) and Joseph Croman's eldest surviving son - their firstborn, James J. born on 22 January 1880, died (cause unknown) at the age of one year and ten months, on 19 November 1881. William was born on 9 May 1881, in the year his elder brother died.

Typical of the day, he was one of a large family, ten children together with 'six motherless children' who Mary and Joseph his parents 'adopted'. On 3 October 1908, at the age of 27, he married Eliza Healey and they had three children, one of whom died.

Will was a Railway Signalman living in Limehouse and working in the Bow district of London where, for extra income, he joined the Poplar & Stepney Rifles. Lance Corporal William James Croman was therefore already a soldier when war broke out in 1914. At 33 years old, he joined the 2/17th Battalion London Regiment in 1914/15 by his regimental number: 571685

After training, his Unit proceeded to France with the 60th (London) Division in June 1916 where he served in the trenches on Vimy Ridge until November that year when he moved with his battalion to Salonika. 

Here they remained until June 1917 when they were posted to Egypt and took part in the campaign in Palestine throughout the rest of that year, including the capture of Jerusalem.

Will is sitting in the wheelchair

However, in July 1917, Will was badly wounded and sent home to convalesce ... before being sent back into the fray to re-join his regiment in Egypt in 1918.

In May 1918, Will with his Unit returned to France where they joined the 30th Division to take part in the fourth Battle of Ypes in August - September, advancing across the Messines Ridge.

He was killed in action on 28 September 1918 when, on this day, the 2/17th Battalion London Regiment advanced from Wulverghem and captured Ontario Farm and the Kruistraat area, pushing on to the crest of the Messines Ridge near Wytschaete. Given his place of burial and its proximity to Wulverghem, it seems likely he was killed in the early phase or actual advance. 

He is buried in Dramoutre Military Cemetery in Heuvelland, West-Vlaanderen, Belgium.

Arthur Birkett Croman pre-war

ARTHUR BIRKETT CROMAN was the sixth son of Mary and Joseph Croman, my maternal grandmother Emily's younger brother. Born in Birkenhead on the Wirral where his family moved from London; he was named 'Birkett' after the head of a river, and educated at St John's, Birkenhead.

On leaving school, he became an apprentice printer by trade, and was 23 years old when war was declared, whereupon he enlisted in Liverpool and lived in Poulton. He was a wartime enlistee, becoming a Private in D Company, 21st Reserve Battalion, King's Liverpool Regiment; sometime in 1916, known by his regimental number: 52295.

On 4 January 1916, he married Florence Louise Liggett at St Michael's Church, Liverpool, and lived at Sherlock Lane, Wallasey, 58 Limekiln Lane Poulton, and Beresford Rd, Dingle, Liverpool.

Arthur & Flo's Wedding, 1916

On 22 July 1916 Arthur was wounded. Nothing further is known either about his injuries, or whether he was deemed unfit enough to return home to convalesce.

What we do know is that he went on to be posted overseas in 1917 where he joined the 9th Battalion Royal Welsh Fusiliers, part of 19th (Western) Division. He served with them in the Ypres Salient and took part in the Battle of Messines in June 1917. By July, his battalion were holding the trenches on the eastern side of the Messines Ridge, opposite the village of Hollebeke.

It was here that he was killed in action on 19 July 1917, on the day his battalion were in the process of being relieved after several days in the line. It is said that an Officer had been speaking with him just moments before a shell burst into his trench.

He is buried in Oosttaverne Wood Cemetery.

Extract from local paper announcing his death

Both Will and Arthur were ordinary people living in extraordinary times!

Their full story was shared initially in my book: 'Brothers'.

However, with the last copy in this format now sold - although a few secondhand copies may still be available through Amazon - their story is now featured in: 'High Wood' published by FeedARead.com available either direct from their website, or from Amazon.

We WILL remember them!

LANGUAGE OF LOVE

Copyright: Janine Harrington

A small pebble is thrown into a still small pool. Ripples emanate from where the pebble entered, before it falls to the bottom and is lost to sight. For a while, the waters carry that sense of disturbance, remaining restless, uneasy, slow to return to the tranquil scene of which it was once a part. Finally, a seeming peace returns. The picture of light playing among the shadows makes it surreal as sunlight touches the waters making it glint and sparkle and shine. While the pebble lies on the bottom creating uneven ground, a lasting reminder of a disturbance in an otherwise unblemished, tranquil scene.

It can be like that in Life.

Every action has a consequence.

Something happens, and like the stone, it can lie heavy on our soul.

I was sexually abused as a young child. I know I survived because my body protected itself, withdrawing, pulling the event in deep ... hiding it so deep not even I could find it, or was even aware it was there. Like the stone, it sat on the seabed of my soul, weighing heavier through the years as abuse continued on. I was four years old when it began. A small disabled child. An innocent. Naive and vulnerable, I trusted the specialist I needed to see three times a week at hospital. He was the first man to betray my trust. Aged fourteen years old, I went on strike, vowing never to return to the hospital after five unsuccessful operations which I believed were punishment for trying to make my secret known. All I could say aged six was: 'The doctor hurts me ...' As a child, I didn't have the words to describe what was happening to me, especially the devious way it was done. All I carried were the feelings of which I could make no sense at all. Yet my fingers had to be prised from the dark green railings outside by orderlies instructed to bring me in. I was obviously afraid, haunted by nightmares which made me scream at night.

The ripple effect!

However, despite putting a stop to the specialist, the abuse continued through my teens courtesy of a music teacher both at home and at school. In much the same way as the specialist, he never spoke of his crime. I was left only with implied threats, and the belief that I was somehow bad, that this was happening to me because there was something about me which was different, distasteful, pliable, and despite all attempts to be a good girl, brought up in a quiet tranquil suburb of society with loving parents; there was nevertheless something very wrong with me.

I was a good girl. Yet I must be bad otherwise why did bad things happen to me?

I couldn't work it out. It was the riddle that haunted my life.

Again, my body kicked in, protecting me from the effects of pedophile action. I had a twenty-year amnesic block. I couldn't remember childhood. Everyone told me I'd had a happy childhood. I believed them. Why would I suspect anything was wrong? Except that deep within me, I felt the weight of something which caused me to be physically sick at the colour of darkest green, panic attacks, bulimia, phobias. I had nightmares as well as daymares, seeing shadows, faceless people who came out of thin air, transposing themselves onto others. I self-harmed. I wanted to end my life. But why? I had no memory then of anything being wrong, or of what had happened to me. 

I became a battered wife. By then, it was all I was worth. I believed I needed to be punished, I deserved to be punished for the feelings I carried with me. A second marriage failed ... yet, in the very act of giving birth to my miracle child, the child I was told I could never have ... came distorted pieces of a puzzle I couldn't put together or make sense of. I was having flashbacks. In years that followed, like a rabbit caught in the glare of a car's headlamps, I would suddenly be brought up short, stopped in my tracks by pictures entering my mind. They were triggered by everyday events, leaving me ill, deeply depressed, with feelings of dread, as if I had to do something I didn't want to do but must, something very confusing and bad, and which left me absolutely frazzled. Slowly, through the years, with the help of a clinical psychologist and years of therapy, I took back the life that was lost, tracking back through time, using a time-line to dredge the bed of memories, reclaiming what was mine, restoring sanity and reason, bringing balance back into my world. The gift of love ultimately came, I believed, in my marriage to Tony on 20 September 2013. I thought he accepted me just as I am. No more secrets. No more pretending or barriers or demons I had yet to face. I could talk and share about anything, and for the first time in my life I felt free of the past ... of pain. It therefore came as a greater shock when, in July last year, he sent me an email to say he was never coming home. He had been leading a double life, had a home in London with someone else. The years peeled back, like layers of sticking plasters coming away from a still raw open wound, and again I felt ... bad. My trust betrayed. I collapsed and had a breakdown. I couldn't look back because every memory I had of our time together was tainted with deceit and lies. I had no future because I dare not dream. I lived a moment-to-moment existence.

Now Tony is getting married again. He has moved on. My past year has been a nightmare, but never mind the consequences of his actions, or the trauma of what he left behind. He is not the man I thought I knew. I was merely a pawn in someone else's game of Life.

The effect of a childhood trauma never goes away. It remains a lifetime sentence. Yes, we can learn strategies to manage our lives. We can put on different faces, make it seem as if we are fitting in with everyone else, adapting to the world around us as they would have us be. But like a pebble entering a pool, the effects can be more far reaching than we can ever know. While on the surface it appears the waters are once more clear and clean, refreshed, tranquil, sublime, beneath them lurks a deep dark secret which, as more and more pebbles enter the pool, they form a small mountain on the ground below, more weighty, more liable to cause problems for the future.

I shared with my parents my past childhood abuse when I was forty years old. My mother did everything she could to understand, to know, to realise what it meant in terms of living everyday life. We became soulmates, and she went on to become a Counsellor working alongside me, taking calls from pedophiles after we discovered that, once they share their secret addiction, they can no longer carry it through. Their fantasy is spoiled in the act of that sharing, and through sharing, they can for the long term seek the help they need before another child is hurt. Prevention is the key on both sides of the coin ... protecting by listening to abusers, protecting by teaching our children that saying 'No' is okay when we're asked to do something which makes us uncomfortable or we believe is wrong. Fathers however, can find it difficult to accept their child's abuse experience when they feel safe enough to share. In discovering they did not protect their daughter, they can become angry ... more than anything at themselves, but then even at their child for somehow 'allowing it to happen', lacking knowledge and understanding ... rather than with the abuser.

In adulthood, mindful of the ripple effect, I felt I had dealt with past experiences to the best of my ability. I know my triggers. I understand my pain and what was done to me. There are no more secrets hidden from me. I can manage them ... or so I thought. But then, suddenly something happened unexpectedly, completely dragging away the careful wrapping I have put in place. No time to put barriers in place to preventing myself sliding back into the still disquieted waters of the deep. Without warning, I am back in that point of childhood when my life turned upside down, and abuse and pain entered my innocent world. The ripple effect kicked in BIG TIME! I slid back into the womb on automatic reflex, the only place left of safety in a once more fragile world.

I don't know how else to describe what happened to me recently.

It has meant reminding myself that I am A1 normal for my experience ... but still I feel judged!!

There are thousands upon thousands of child sexual abuse survivors who will identify with these words, and understand exactly what I am saying. It doesn't need words. You are already right there with me on my journey. But then there are others who can never understand, and yet at the same time, I believed would be right there for me in my moments of pain ... reaching out ... hugging, holding, loving me, letting me know that I am safe and they are there for me no matter what, and more than anything else, that they accept me JUST THE WAY I AM.

I have sat with teenagers in places of their choosing, where they felt safe to disclose what happened to them, there for them as they reached out to be enfolded in a hug. I have held adults affected by the searing pain of past abuse still scarring their souls. I have held the hands of and listened to an aging great grandmother in her late eighties as she shared for the first time what was done to her as a child. The greatest gift of all is to love and to be loved whoever and however we are. So why is that so hard? How can someone simply turn their back and walk away, shutting the door behind them, unable or unwilling to deal with the pain of another, judging their behaviour over which they have no control? Why leave someone hurting when all they need is a hug, comfort, compassion? It doesn't matter that you don't understand or know the experience. All that really matters is comforting them through the experience, just being there, listening, learning from them ... beside them as a friend.

It is the language of love.

When we've had a bad experience in life, it is the response we fear from other people, especially those we love, those within our family. It is the reason children don't tell. What will happen? What will people think of us? What words can we use for the tsunami of emotion we feel inside? How can they ever understand what it feels like to be us? Questions keep coming, while we hold the dreadful, awful burning secret inside us, frantically putting up barriers so that no-one will know, fencing it in, somehow believing people will see the 'bad' that we feel must be leaking from us, making us feel ashamed, guilty, confused, upset, disillusioned, disgraced ... even though we are the victims of what someone else did to us.

If only the language of love was universal, one which everyone could use and understand from the inside out.

It isn't hard. The language of love, more than anything else, isn't about words. It uses body language ... a smile, a helping hand, a hug, being held and comforted, being listened to and simply allowing us to share knowing that compassion is right there between us.

I remain grateful to all those people who accept me today just the way I am.

I value both your friendship and your love.

Copyright: Janine Harrington