Many a day I would spend in my Grandad's Living Room, listening to stories he would tell me about his life during the Second World War and his time within the Prisoner of War camp Stalag XXA. With a cup of his great tea in hand, I would sit like a transfixed young boy watching a gripping action movie.
At the time I did not realise, how privileged I was, being the only family member to be told his stories of the 5 years in captivity. Like many other Prisoners of War, the trauma, experience and memories of those years would silence him for many years after release.
In the decade I grew up as a child the 1980's. I always remember a small tin that he kept hidden in his wardrobe. He always protected this tin and would not like anyone going inspecting its contents. Mischievous as you would expect a young boy to be. I remember taking a look to find many photographs of Soldiers, theatre plays and boxing matches. Many of the these photographs were of graves, funeral processions and close ups of wooden crossed markers.
The mystery only lead to my questions and so their stories began to unfold...
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