Remembering Dad
Those who knew David Muffett will have no illusions about the title of this post. Dad was impossible to forget. A huge, lumbering, bear of a man with a razor-sharp wit and a childlike sense of fun, Dad bestrode the world like a colossus, joyfully embracing life, making his mark, and cheerfully mowing down the opposition, no matter what form it took.
He achieved a brief posthumous celebrity on the blogosphere for having jailed the tribal chieftain who ate the local tax collector, and he was beloved by his students, his family, and his constituents (who re-elected him with thumping great majorities after he abandoned the Conservative party in disgust and began running as an Independent somewhere in the early 90’s).
Those who did not love Dad (and there were many) were exactly the sort of people you should want as enemies. May I always be so fortunate in my friends, and not my friends.
Dad was the fifth of six rambunctious children, born in Birmingham, England on March 6, 1919. His father was a managing director of S. Wards, Butcher and Purveyor of Fine Meats. His mother was tiny, less than five feet tall, a pillar of the Birmingham Horticultural Society, and a tireless organizer of good works. She was reputed to have introduced the fashion of bicycling to Birmingham, and was perhaps the first person in the area to order, and actually wear in public, a pair of bloomers. All six of her children were highly individual—affable, bright, successful, loud, boisterous and opinionated.
Dad was no exception and as soon as he finished his schooling at Seabright School in Wolverhampton, he joined up with his chosen regiment, the 1st Battalion, Loyals (North Lancashire), where he was rapidly promoted, becoming a Major at the young age of twenty-two.
A couple of years ago, my family received an email out of the blue from the daughter of one of Dad’s Army buddies. She was sorting out her father’s effects, and found the following description of Dad in his diary: “I’ve never heard anyone so noisy from the time he gets up to the time he goes to sleep . . . and after!”
Good to know that Dad never changed.
Dad’s Army career spanned the Middle East, North Africa and Italy (including Anzio and Monte Cassino). But it was on June 5, 1944, the day after Dad marched into Rome with Mark Clark’s army, that one of the most extraordinary episodes of Dad’s war took place.
You see, Dad was fascinated with history. And he loved pomp, circumstance, and costumes (a favorite story of Dad’s teenage years was of his role as the Pirate King in the school operetta, during which he swung his cloak with great abandon and knocked all the footlights into the orchestra pit, this being a prime example of my oft-held contention that things didn't happen to David Muffett--David Muffett happened to things).
Anyway, Dad decided that he wasn’t leaving Rome without seeing the Swiss Guard in their funny costumes and finery, and being Dad, he led an expedition of himself and a couple of his buddies to storm St. Peter's and live his dream.
We’ve known the story that follows, apocryphally, for decades. But, some time after Dad’s death, my brother, sister and I were sorting out his ‘stuff’ and we came across a heavy envelope containing a couple of letters and a rosary. The letters were to my grandmother (Dad’s mother, she of the bicycles and bloomers). The rosary was blessed by Pius XII).
So I’ll let Dad himself tell the story of the day he gatecrashed the Pope. (h/t to my brother for this, for interpreting Dad’s execrable handwriting, and for posting it, along with images of the letters, and some other Dad stories, here)
Capt. D J Muffett
1Bn Loyal Rgt
CMF
8 June
My Dear Mother,
Well well things have moved haven’t they? I suppose you hear quite a lot these days from the air force. However we will hold off from the Second Front a bit and see how it goes and I’ll tell you instead of a remarkable experience that I have had.
On Monday I went into Rome to see the sights and have a look round. Unlike most Italian towns it is quite remarkable and reasonably clean (which is surprising) and doesn’t even smell (which is more surprising). Well I and another chap had a look at the Coliseum and the Temple of Vesta and the Forum and then wandered into the Palazza Venetzia where some Jocks (Scots) were playing themselves in as the massed pipes and drums. We were standing around watching when a lady (about 38-40) came up and said “Excuse me but are you English” we said “yes” and she said “oh I am so pleased, ten years ago I married an Italian and have been here ever since. I used to live in Barons Court.” She took us round the place and showed us the Tiber Bridge, etc.
Well we left her and chuntered into St Peters. Now comes the joke. We wandered around a bit and looked at the ceilings (Michael Angelo) and the statue of St Peter. Then I said I want to see a Swiss Guard. So we wandered outside and had a look at one (in his utility Blue uniform and got a [smashing] Present of a pike!! Well he said “straight up those stairs sir” and shot us inside where there were a couple more. (This time in full dress) who passed us up another flight of stairs, and a third lot shot us into a room where there were some very comfortable chairs so we sat down. Then a very charming Irish Priest came in and said “His Holiness will receive you in a few moments” – I could have dropped dead!! There were three of us in there (one was the doc) so we went into a huddle and worked out the drill.
About ten minutes later there was a crashing all along the corridor and in he came surrounded by the noble guard (magnificent uniforms). He came to each of us in turn (the correct thing is to drop on one knee and and kiss St Peter’s ring on the 4th finger R hand.) It is an enormous stone fully 1/2 inch sq. and Blood red. (I was quite adept at this.
The narrative will now be continued in another letter which I will send off at the same time as this.
* * *
Captain D J Muffett
1st Bn Loyal Rgt
CMF
Well to continue. He spoke to each of us in perfect english and asked how we were, and had we heard from our families and were they well, were we married and had we been particularly uncomfortable and then we fell out after he had given the Papal blessing. Incidentally he gave each of us a rosary which I will send you as a memento by sea. It really was a memorable experience. What with the Coronation and that, I do [clock] for State occasions don’t I.
Well I am sure that you will be glad to know that I am unscathed and sound in wind and limb. A certain inevitable impression will indelibly remain but on the whole I have been very lucky.
The weather has been very good to us and is still boiling hot. I am working up a nice tan and am unfalteringly healthy. Will you please send me some Dettol. A tin if you can get it rather than a bottle. My love to Barney I suppose he looks grand. Encourage him to bring you things and perhaps about Sept Pa could arrange for him to go to a keeper for a month or so to finish off his training. Perhaps Mr Morton will know someone.
My love to Arthur and Joan and Maurice. Is he in the second front yet and haven’t they landed yet. Whatever happens you must keep your chin up and keep smiling. I am quite sure we will both be OK and anyway why worry.
I hope that the weather soon tunes you up and that you get fit and able to go out.
My only worry so far is that I have smashed my watch up which is a pity. However I will soon get another out here.
Well I have exceeded my quota this week by quite a lot this week and the well is beginning to run dry. So TTFN
All my love
David
It’s Memorial Day, Dad. We'll always remember.
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Sep '11
Re: Remembering Dad
Thank You for this post; what a wonderful tribute to your father.
Jun '10
Re: Remembering Dad
Thanks for sharing the beautiful memories. I'd like to have met your father.
This is my dad sitting on his Sherman tank somewhere in France in the summer of 1944. On October 6, 1944, his tank was hit by German cannon fire. Dad's upper right are was wrecked by shrapnel, and he spent the rest of his life with a severely disabled arm. He never once complained about it--not even once.
I'm honored to be his son. He died three years ago, proud to have served and still in love with America (and most definitely not a fan of our current president).
Edited on May 28, 2012 at 12:37amDec '10
Re: Remembering Dad
tabula rasa: Thanks for sharing the beautiful memories. I'd like to have met your father.
This is my dad sitting on his Sherman tank somewhere in France in the summer of 1944. On October 6, 1944, his tank was hit by German cannon fire. Dad's upper right are was wrecked by shrapnel, and he spent the rest of his life with a severely disabled arm. He never once complained about it--not even once.
I'm honored to be his son. He died three years ago, proud to have served and still in love with America (and most definitely not a fan of our current president). · 58 minutes ago
Edited 57 minutes ago
Thanks, I think Dad would have liked to have met you too. And I'm sure he'd have liked your father!
Sep '10
Re: Remembering Dad
Wonderful story. My Dad--still living, thank the Lord--is also from Birmingham and he served in RAF Bomber Command during WWII. I treasure all the stories he's told me about his part in the war.
I wonder how far apart our fathers were, geographically, when they were growing up? My grandfather had a small factory in Birmingham which he lost during the Depression; later he and my grandmother lived in Ribchester, a small village near Preston in Lancashire.
Nov '11
Re: Remembering Dad
Thanks, all!
Apr '11
Re: Remembering Dad
Tremendous story. Thank you.
Nov '10
Re: Remembering Dad
Thanks to all, for all. You gave me a proper start on Memorial Day.
May '12
Re: Remembering Dad
What a treat! Thanks for sharing that.
And, consequently inspiring me to honor my own father, that un-cool work-a-day Dad with his pocket protectors and slide rule who wouldn't let me grow my hair long in the 60's and made me cut the lawn... He who hated military life with every fiber of his being, yet served, of course!, because his country called and that's what you do when your country calls. A man whom I didn't honor enough in life...
This is my favorite picture of my father (bottom row, left) because it reminds me that my "un-cool Dad" flew B-17's... and how cool is that?!
Dec '10
Re: Remembering Dad
dash: What a treat! Thanks for sharing that.
. . .it reminds me that my "un-cool Dad" flew B-17's... and how cool is that?! · 24 minutes ago
That is WAY cool. Thanks to your Dad, and all who served.
Dec '10
Re: Remembering Dad
dogsbody:
I wonder how far apart our fathers were, geographically, when they were growing up? My grandfather had a small factory in Birmingham which he lost during the Depression; later he and my grandmother lived in Ribchester, a small village near Preston in Lancashire. · 12 hours ago
Dad's family moved to Edgbaston (just outside B'ham) when he was quite small. The 'shop' was on Broad Street, last time I drove by (about 3 years ago), it was a hole in the ground surrounded by scaffolding. Not sure what it is now. My aunt (who's 89 and the last surviving sibling) still lives in Birmingham. She's a pistol, just like all her brothers and sisters, and were she to appear in a movie, her character would undoubtedly be portrayed by the Dowager Countess Grantham, I mean, Dame Maggie Smith.
I doubt that the extraordinary range of temperament, intelligence, creativity, wit and ambition displayed by Dad, and my Aunts and Uncles, would be tolerated in today's enlightened and tolerant times. They'd probably all be on medication.
And my family would be the lesser for missing out on it.
Jun '10
Re: Remembering Dad
dash:
This is my favorite picture of my father (bottom row, left) because it reminds me that my "un-cool Dad" flew B-17's... and how cool is that?! · 2 hours ago
Likewise my dad. Just a small farmer. Made no waves. Worked hard for his family. When I went off to college, his last words: "Now don't become one of those damned hippies [they offended him profoundly]." That was a promise I was glad to keep.
He too was "un-cool" in every way (indeed, the very idea "cool" never entered his world). Except that, he too, put it all on the line when called.
Edited on May 28, 2012 at 7:36pmSep '10
Re: Remembering Dad
She
Dad's family moved to Edgbaston (just outside B'ham) when he was quite small. The 'shop' was on Broad Street....
My Dad was born in Kings Norton, which is very close to Edgbaston (according to Google Maps, about 4 miles away). But he grew up in Preston. His brother joined the Navy and he joined the RAF and both survived the war.
Ironically, one of Dad's closest brushes with death was on a weekend pass in London. The Luftwaffe bombed the city that night, and my father was so accustomed to being bombed by the Germans that he couldn't bother getting out of his nice hotel room and going down to the shelter. So he lay in bed and heard the bombs come closer and closer... then farther away, and he went back to sleep. The next morning when he left the hotel, the office building across the road was a smoking crater!
Dec '10
Re: Remembering Dad
dogsbody
Ironically, one of Dad's closest brushes with death was on a weekend pass in London. . . . he lay in bed and heard the bombs come closer and closer... then farther away, and he went back to sleep. The next morning when he left the hotel, the office building across the road was a smoking crater! · 2 hours ago
My mother grew up in Handsworth, and was 11 when the War started. Granny and Grandpa had their living room floor excavated, and a reinforced concrete bunker installed underneath, where the family would sleep at night, as the Birmingham steel industry was a prime target for the Luftwaffe.
The children would lie in the bunk and listen to the bombs falling all around them. In a similar experience to your dad's they climbed out of the bunker one morning to find that the house across the road had been flattened, and all its occupants killed.
I think about things like this sometime when I have to listen to how young people today have it harder than any other young people in the whole of human history, ever, have had it.
Sep '10
Re: Remembering Dad
She
In a similar experience to your dad's they climbed out of the bunker one morning to find that the house across the road had been flattened, and all its occupants killed.
I think about things like this sometime when I have to listen to how young people today have it harder than any other young people in the whole of human history, ever, have had it. · 3 hours ago
A few years ago my Dad's heart was imaged with X-rays, and they found a small scar, indicating he'd had a heart attack in the past. Dad was puzzled by this, as he couldn't remember any heart trouble. The medical staff said that this could have happened under acute stress. Was there ever a time, they asked, when he had been under a lot of stress?
Dad thought a moment, then replied with characteristic understatement: "Well, yes. World War II was rather stressful, you know."
Edited on May 28, 2012 at 11:09pmRe: Remembering Dad
She, what an amazing story, and so wonderfully told. I love your Dad's wit and perspective, and what appears to be a real talent for mischief. Thank you so much for posting this!
May '11
Re: Remembering Dad
What a wonderful story, thanks for sharing it!
My maternal grandfather was in Italy during the war and the liberation of Rome, he told the story for years after that the Canadians were the first into Rome, but then the word came down that they were to get out, so the American general could be filmed liberating Rome. He used to hate the fact that the american GIs had CocaCola chocolate and cigarets all the time to bribe the young ladies with, the Canadians had none of that stuff! He never told stories about the fighting or the dying, but he told lots of stories about the daily life in the military. I think I got my first dislike of government from him. He was a trained qualified electrician, the army had the wisdom to make him a cobbler first, then a truck driver, and finally an infantryman. He said when he was a truck driver in England, the trucks would not turn a wheel for a month, but they still had to change the oil, even though it was in limited supply, so they put the oil from one truck into another. Only government does such things.
Domo!
Oct '11
Re: Remembering Dad
Great stories. Thank you all. My dad was famous for being the only guy "up the close" who could sleep through a siren. Claimed he got out of his bed for the first night but slept through every one for the rest of the war. Figured his bed was as good a place as any if it was his time.
Dec '10
Re: Remembering Dad
Stu In Tokyo: What a wonderful story, thanks for sharing it!
My maternal grandfather was in Italy during the war and the liberation of Rome, he told the story for years after that the Canadians were the first into Rome, but then the word came down that they were to get out, so the American general could be filmed liberating Rome . . .
Thank you everyone for the wonderful comments and for sharing YOUR stories. Stu, I'm not entirely sure how the Loyal Regiment got attached to the 5th Army and ended up in Rome with Mark Clark (maybe one of Ricochet's military historians could put me straight), but Dad was most definitely not a fan of the General!
Jun '10
Re: Remembering Dad
Great remembrances, She. Thank you for sharing them with us.
Dec '10
Re: Remembering Dad
Thank you very much, I really appreciate the kind words from the great storyteller himself! I hope you're feeling better.