My Uncle: The Writer Who Died in the War

My uncle died in the war. His name was Woolf Stillman. He was my father's younger brother. He went in as a handsome volunteer. He was a desert rat, but I got that only from his letters. I have got copies of them all. He came from a large Jewish family. But he didn't want anyone to know he was Jewish. When he was killed, his mother only spoke Yiddish, and my father wrote to find out where he was buried. The family weren't told until nearly a year later, and because he didn't give a religion, he was buried in an unmarked grave.

My father told those who oversaw his death that he was Jewish, and my family wanted a Jewish burial grave for him. And so eventually he was buried in Catalonia with the Jewish star of David on his grave, and he is looked after by the war commission. When I read his letters, I felt I knew him, because I love to write, and I often wondered where my writing gift came from. My uncle died on 21st July 1943 aged 30.

On 23rd September 1943, the Director General of Graves wrote:
"Dear Madam
Your enquiry with regard to the burial of your son 6216733 Private W. Stillman of the Middlesex Regiment has been referred to this Directorate. I regret that we have not yet received any report of the place where he is buried, but as soon as information is received, you will be notified.

If it was known at the time that he was of the Jewish faith and a Jewish chaplain was available, I am sure he would have buried him according to that religion but if, as you say, he had C of E marked on his identify disc, I fear this would not have been the case. A note, has however, been made that he belonged to the Jewish faith so that his grave can be marked in the proper manner."

On 22nd November 1943:
"Dear Madam
I write to tell you your son 6216733 Pvt W. Stillman 1/7th Bn Middlesex regiment is buried nr Gerbini in Sicily.”

Letter 17th February 1943:
"Dear mum dad and all at home
(transcript from the letter)
Well I have some tales to tell, this is living with a vengeance, just the ideal life of a tramp. Ive been scratching myself to death up to recently, I was bitten to hell by a swarm of mosquitoes while sleeping out one night they had one grand feed of me."

MY UNCLE WHO DIED IN THE WAR
I DID NOT KNOW YOU AS I WAS TOO YOUNG
TO UNDERSTAND THAT YOU WERE PART OF A WAR WE FINALLY WON
THAT I WAS NOT ABLE TO SAY GOODBYE
TO MY UNCLE THE WRITER TO GRIEVE AND CRY

I DID NOT KNOW YOU AS I TWAS TOO YOUNG
TO FEEL FOR YOUR MOTHER LOSING HER SON
THAT YOU WENT AWAY TOTALLY ALONE
AND LEFT BEHIND A TORN JEWISH HOME.

I DID NOT KNOW YOU AS I WAS TOO YOUNG
THAT YOU DIDNT LIVE LONG ENOUGH TO HAVE FUN
THAT YOU ATE FROM THE FLOOR
AND LIVED AS A TRAMP
BITTEN BY MOSQUITOS EVERYDAY IN THE CAMP

I DID NOT KNOW YOU AS I WAS TOO YOUNG
THAT YOU NEVER WANTED TO SHOOT WITH A GUN
YOU WENT OUT IN ALL WEATHERS SOAKED TO THE SKIN
A TENT FULL OF EARWIS, STALE FOOD IN A TIN.

I DID NOT KNOW YOU AS I WAS TOO YOUNG
THAT YOU FOUGHT IN THE DESERT IN THE HEAT OF THE SUN
YOUR EYES WERE COVERED IN DUST AND SAND
THAT YOU DIED BEFORE SEEING YOUR NEW PROMISED LAND

I DID NOT KNOW YOU AS I WAS TOO YOUNG
TO FEEL YOUR DREAMS, YOUR NEED TO RUN
TO GO TO PLACES FAR AND WIDE
WITH A PEN AND PAPER BY YOUR SIDE

I DID NOT KNOW YOU
AS I WAS TOO YOUNG
TO UNDERSTAND THAT YOU WERE PART OF A WAR WE FINALLY WON
THAT THOUGH MY HEART IS GRIEVING AND SORE
I NOW UNDERSTAND MY UNCLE THE WRITER, WHO DIED IN THE WAR.