Great War Veteran: Will John

I was brought up with this account of my family’s introduction to Uncle Will, St. Dunstan's Home for blind veterans and to Mumbles.

It is a poignant tale of heartbreak, bravery and enduring friendship, which began before I was born, during the Great War.

My parents, Arthur Henry & 'Dolly' Ethel C. Marshall, had been married in London in 1905 and lived in Westcliffe and Hove in East Sussex, when the war came and my father went away on active service.

At home, many women worked in munitions factories making bullets and shells for the battles, but fate decreed that my mother, Dolly was asked to work with the soldiers at St. Dunstan's Home for the war blinded, in Brighton.

The work was very stressful, as many of the young men were not only blind, but had been wounded in many other ways, having lost arms or legs, had poison gas in their lungs, and suffered from shell-shock, after months in the trenches in terrible conditions.

One morning, when Dolly arrived at the Home, she was asked to go to the office of the Director, Sir Arthur Pearson. She was quite nervous when she knocked on his door —in fact she was wondering what she had done wrong! However, he must have been told that she had the right temperament and common sense to deal with a sad case that had worried him for some time.

The young man in question had been blown up by a shell which had taken his left arm off just below the elbow; he had lost his left eye, and was blind in the other. He had been peppered with small pieces of shrapnel, and had poison gas in his lungs—and all this at the age of twenty-one! His state of mind was suicidal, my mother was horrified, and wondered if she could deal with a situation like this, but one of the nurses was already leading the poor young man in. She could have wept, but instead, put her hand in his, and introduced herself.

They were taken to her home, Burton House by car, and she gave him lunch, which she had to cut up and feed him with. They had a long chat about his home in Wales, a place called Mumbles!

When my father was on leave, he got on very well with the young Welshman, and the three of them, my mother, father and Will, would go out together even cycling, which must have been very difficult, but they did it!

The young soldier, was eventually operated on at a military hospital, and some sight restored to his remaining eye. He had to wear spectacles, with thick lenses, which had to be balanced with a piece of heavy glass and he was also fitted with a very realistic artificial eye. The artificial arm, which he was also supplied with, was very heavy and awkward and he seldom used it, but became very adept at doing things with one hand.

Our friend, Will John (I always called him Uncle Will) who had introduced my parents to Mumbles, eventually came to live with us at ‘The Nook’ and through him we met many Mumbles people who became our friends too. A common rapport obviously existed between my father and Uncle Will, who were great friends, possibly due to their common wartime experiences, which only those who undergo them could comprehend.

Uncle Will died in 1937 of bronchial pneumonia before the days of anti­biotics or even penicillin, the pneumonia being further aggravated by the residue of poison gas, which was still in his lungs.

I still look back with affection on the time I spent with this remarkable man. His spirit and determination changed and enriched my life and that of my parents, who without that long-ago meeting, would never have discovered and moved to Mumbles, where I still live today.

Editor’s note:

In themselves, the photographs do not give any concept of the suffering endured during The Great War, except to chronicle an eager volunteer in 1914 and his subsequent physical injuries.

We can only guess at his inner feelings and expectations during the time of his greatest despair. The indications are that he must have felt that he stood no chance of leading anything like a normal life or of gaining useful employment after suffering such injuries. Suffice it to say, he was proved wrong and lived to enjoy life with vital help from St. Dunstan’s and his new-found friends. He eventually felt able to open a shop in Mumbles and gain the satisfaction of making a useful contribution to the local community.

The above account describes one such experience where fate takes a hand but there must have been many wounded soldiers who did not enjoy the opportunity that this fortuitous meeting provided— a new beginning.