Why Bob Smith Buried Beef in the Desert

My father once buried a tin of corned beef in the desert. When he opened the can of army rations, the meat had melted in the heat. He couldn't bring himself to eat it, so he dug a hole and hid it in the sand. Of the few memories he shared from his army days, the one that made the biggest impression on him was from his time in India, when he once caught a glimpse of a distant tiger prowling at sunset.

Some years after he died, I inherited a sturdy metal box containing family heirlooms: a collection of black and white photos, certificates of birth, marriage, and death, and other documents. Among them is a faded booklet with the title Army Book 64, a service record and pay book issued to British Army soldiers containing personal information, details of postings, and an inventory of kit and equipment.

Robert George Smith, known to friends and family as Bob, was enlisted in 1941 and stationed in Bangalore in 1944. Medical records list vaccinations against Tetanus, Typhoid and The Plague. Training included "Passing through gas chamber" and "respirator tests".

The back page of the booklet was left blank, a space which could be used to write a will. Bob hadn't filled this in: he didn't plan for his own demise, even though he lost many friends on the front line. He never spoke of their deaths. Most men of his generation of men were brought up to believe that it was unmanly to shed a tear or admit to feeling fear. Even in those difficult times, people showed courage and determination and felt a sense of community spirit which was reflected in wartime slogans: "We're all in this together", and "Keep calm and carry on!". If my father had any uncomfortable emotions arising from his wartime memories, he was good at burying them - in the same way that he buried his beef in the sand.