In Loving Memory

of

Lieutenant-Colonel Henry Clifton Morgan

1897 - 1967

How can I begin to tell you about my Dad, my Hero, for make no mistake about it, the man whose picture you are looking at was a hero in every sense of the word. He died in 1967 when I was still but a lad of sixteen, but how well he taught me what he did. Such that I came to treasure his memory later in life, that I would not have swapped him as my earthly father for any man living (or dead) not even the King of England! :-)

Dad was born in 1897 to Henry George, and Lilian Esther Morgan, in a little place in Surrey (England) called Coldharbour. Dad was indeed a most gracious man, I remember the really hard times we had when I was a kid, yet Dad used to say, that no matter what happened, a man born and bred in Coldharbour could have no complaints in this world. But then that's the sort of bloke he was really, it wasn't that he never complained, but he never complained about his own lot in life. He often used to say that there is always someone in the world who is worse off than you are!

Henry Morgan was educated at Shoreham Grammar, and privately, and in 1911, was enrolled at midshipman's college. He did stints in both the Merchant, and Royal Navys during world war 1, leaving in 1919 as a first Lieutenant. In the years that followed he travelled to many countries, fifty-three different countries if I remember right... Including Australia where he worked for a short time in Adelaide. He settled in Bermuda by the late twenties as a policeman but soon was enlisted into the Prison Service, where he became Governor of Hamilton Prison. When war looked once again on the cards in '38/'39 he was quick to volunteer his services to the armed forces, and left Bermuda for England in '39 to take up a post in the army in military policing. He started off as a Captain I think, but was promoted to Lt-Col by war's end. He should have gone on to being a full Colonel easily, but he clearly clashed with authorities during his service after the war, as Camp Commandant at Hameln Zeuchthaus prisoner of war camp.

Before the war my father had pioneered humanitarian ideas in prisons long before such ideas became popular, and during the war he had been sent to take charge of Fort Darland in Kent, which had attained a reputation at the time, of being the "English Belson". Dad's work there of bringing some rehabilitation into the lives of the prisoners, and teaching his subordinates that men were sent to prison "as a punishment" and not "for punishment" was appreciated by inmates and authorities alike. However when he wished to apply the same philosophies to the German prisoners in his care after the war, it seems the authorities were less than impressed... Here is a picture of Dad out shooting pigs in the Rhineland in '46.. On the back in his hand, are the words.. " Me, out looking for wild pigs, other than the kind at CCG "  He was of course referring to the Control Commission of Germany!

Personally I don't think the accident involving his staff car, that ended his army career was an accident at all, but I have no way of proving that of course... Fortunately God does though, so I needn't worry about it. But as I said Dad should have been made a full Colonel at least, even before the 'accident'... And the way he spent the latter part of his life ought to be the subject of a book in itself.. It would tell a tale of a man who gave his whole life to the service of his country, and who was then thrown unceremoniously onto the scrapheap of life, by those who should have known better. Probably one of the most surprising things about Dad was that he never gave up believing in his country. He used to tell me that the British Justice System was the finest and fairest in the world, and that was his chief motivation in wanting to help defend his country. If he were to look down on the state of affairs today, he would be angry.. very angry. My father was not a man who suffered fools gladly, and if there were more men like him in the world today we would not be in the mess we are currently in. And Britain really would be the "Land of Hope and Glory" and the "Mother of The Free" but I fear my father that you may have gone to war on the wrong side, in the objective sense, and with hindsight.. Though you went to your grave believing in Winston Churchill, I think you must be all the more angry now you undoubtedly know the whole truth about "him".

But then my father did know a thing or two, even if he believed in Winnie the Warmonger.. He knew all was not entirely well with the land he fought for that's for sure....

Here he is strolling along the banks of the river Medway in Maidstone, Kent, around 1959. He was at that time still doing a bit of specialist police work, and is seen here following a suspected spy at a discreet distance. I think he cuts a stunning "Dick Tracy" figure, don't you? :-)

Mostly though he was reduced to doing security work at a local factory, and other similar menial jobs. He wasn't proud though, not in the sense that he would turn his nose up at a job of work. He had a family to keep and he took that responsibility very seriously, and managed it very well too, as best a man could in such circumstances. We never had anything much in the way of luxurys when we were kids, but we never went short of life's necessities. We were never cold, and we were never hungry. We'd get half a crown pocket money every week. but we'd be expected to complete a number of chores satisfactorily, or we would not be paid!

What else can I tell you about this man who I, after all, only knew for sixteen years, yet in that time he made an impression on me that has endured and grown with the years. He wasn't a perfect man of course, he wasn't even the perfect father, yet looking back, and looking at every other kid's father I ever knew, I could not imagine wanting to swap dads with anybody... However cool some kids' dads may have seemed by comparison at the time. Dad was certainly a 'square' in the parlance of the day, yet I could not hold that against him either, and especially not in retrospect. No, quite the contrary in fact, Dad's squareness was based on a number of fundamental qualities, such as Christian values for example.. Though he was certainly no more a Church-goer than I am, he definately carried the Spirit of Christ's Gospel in his heart. He had a number of apt and pithy sayings that reflected such values and said a lot about him. If he were standing over my shoulder now he'd probably be saying something like, ... "O for the love of Mike boy, you are suffering from verbal diarrhoea, for goodness sake get to the point" Which now strikes me as obvious. I love you Dad, and now you are long gone you are even more my hero than you ever were in life, when I was still after all just a rebellious young lad who thought he knew it all. I now acknowledge the wisdom of your words which unfortunately because of our age difference, were with me for all too short a time.

What would your Epitath look like if you had one I wonder? ....

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He believed in Christ the King.

He believed in Magna Carta, The Bill of Rights, King and Country, The British Justice System....

And...

He believed in his family....

In the end only Christ was really worthy of him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 Yes, I'm afraid even those of us closest to him, were scarcely worthy of him a lot of the time. His country certainly wasn't worthy of him. The King I cannot judge, but clearly the Magna Carta and our Common Law rights are now under threat for want of a few more good men like my father...

The price of Liberty is Eternal Vigilance!

Alright, that's a bit of background on my Dad for you, but what of the years I knew him (1951 - 1967) ? Well I can tell you that to me he seemed like a gentle giant when I was a boy, though you always knew you had limits with him.. that like a grizzly bear, if you tried to taunt or tease it, it would most likely bite you. Dad was slow to anger, but that bamboo baton you see him carrying in the main photo, was never very far from him, and my brother and I both knew we were in trouble if we saw him pick that up! I've had a few thwacks across the back of the thigh from that I can tell you... being as I was, such a frivolously provocative little rebel some of the time, often rebelling just for the sake of it. Apparently I was stubborn as a mule even at the age of two, though my father certainly never hit me when I was that young.. I think the first time I ever really felt the sting of his anger was when, at age nine, I was escorted home by the local police sergeant, who happened to be a friend of my father's, for the crime of organising a gang of younger kids, and attacking a rival gang on their home territory, culminating in a broken window, and the parents of the other kids calling the cops! Naughty me! I was of course accorded full blame as the oldest in the group, and when Sergeant George said excuse me Colonel I'd like a word with you about your oldest lad, I thought .. O my God what have I done now!? I was hoping the police would punish me, so that my mother would be able to argue against my father's further punishing of me, but then the cop says to me.. "Son, you've been a very bad boy, and by rights I ought to take you down the station and have you charged, but then you would have a criminal record, which isn't going to do any boy your age any good, and your father has assured me he is going to punish you anyway! Yes sir, I said sheepishly, knowing full well the old officer's baton was coming out of the cupboard for an airing! And it did. And yes, I deserved it, every boy needs a little correction now and then, and I certainly did. Girls do too of course, but they require different handling, I never had to hit any of my girls for example, and I have three. The boy, well he's copped one or two backhanders at most, and it turned out to be all he needed. I can tell you that my father never hit me the way he did that day on any other occasion either.. He didn't need to, I got the message.

We had a lot of good times when I was a child, despite the fact we were poorer than Church-mice. Dad taught me so many things and childhood with him was mostly a fun experience. We lived in a caravan in those days, but we were on three acres with free roaming over many more. Dad was keen on cricket, and taught my brother and I to play a decent game of cricket from a very early age. Another of his keen interests was playing chess, and he had one or two chess buddies and they would visit each other to play. It was never enough for Dad though who would gladly give you a game any old time of the day or night! Consequently he taught me to play that game from a very early age also. Later as I improved he would offer me sixpence or a shilling if I could beat him best of three. Usually I would go for it, but when I became reluctant he would throw the game subtly, so I could beat him, and I, thus encouraged, would continue. Much later I could beat him genuinely, perhaps an average of two out of five games. He was always the better player though, on his good days one had little chance against him.

Some years during the long summer holidays Dad would hire a car and take us places. How simple the world seemed then, looking back now, yet at the time, it seemed so complex to a small boy. I wanted to learn about everything. Dad was the first to let me drive a car.. sitting on his knee when I was but four or five. Later I learned to drive a tractor and land rover on the farm when I was still only seven. At the age of nine, Dad began teaching me to shoot. Gun handling and safety he taught me with a Webley Junior air pistol. I used to have great fun shooting targets pinned to the shed door with it, under his supervision. Later he bought me my first air rifle when I was eleven, also a Webley. Further down the track I would get experience with shotguns and rifles on my aunt's farm. And when my grandfather died and willed me his Walther .22 I was still too young to possess a firearm license, so Dad licensed it and had permission to use it in a number of areas including the factory where he was what today would be called a Chief Security Officer, but in those days he was simply known as "Head Watchman" and one of the places he naturally had permission to carry a firearm was on factory grounds. So when he had to do his Sunday rounds, when no-one else was working he would sometimes take the rifle and me with him. He would show me all the fascinating machinery in the factories as we went on his rounds, and when he had finished checking everything we would go out into the foam factory's back yard where there was a chalk cliff about 40ft high, an ideal backdrop for our targets. He would set them up and fire a round or two to sight in, and give me handling tips, then he would hand me the rifle and let me fill and fire at least two ten shot clip's worth. We were poor as I say, and my father had to balance his desire to be generous with the realities of his budget. Bullets are not cheap for a poor man.

He always did his best though, in everything he did. He was a perfectionist in fact. Often he would say to us, in chiding us for sloppiness for example.. "son, if a jobs worth doing, it's worth doing well, otherwise why bother?" He was like that in everything he did, even the way he used to mow our little home cricket pitch was like a work of art, he would go over it again and again, back and forth, until it was like a billiard table.. And that, with a hand mower and despite the fact he wasn't in the best of health. But as I say that's the sort of bloke he was, if he started a job, he would finish it, and finish it well to boot.

My father taught me many things, with his sharp wit and a number of apt and pithy sayings, he would keep us amused as children, but looking back from the vantage point of hindsight, and knowing the man as I do, I know now that he basically taught me his whole life's philosophy, and left me with his own personal example to remember and contemplate years later in my maturity. He was a Christian in his heart for sure, although he wasn't overtly obvious about it and never went to Church on a regular basis, he didn't disapprove of Church, I just don't think he felt the need to go, except on rare occasions. I believe he modeled his philosophical thought on the lessons in the Gospels, and respected and indeed actually lived his life by the ten commandments! Now there are not very many today calling themselves Christians who you can actually say, live and breathe the ten commandments... by comparison with many of them my father was a Saint! "Honour Thy Father and Thy Mother" lad he used to say, "as the Lord has commanded you to do", when we were young he would often quote that one at us when we were getting cheeky and out of hand... We'd know then that we'd better not try and get too many "last words" in on Dad, before the stick would come out. Usually it's coming out was enough to stop us dead in our tracks! The threat of it was enough :-) Later he would teach us about all the commandments in his own special way.

I think my father had a near perfect balance in himself in many ways, both in his Prison Management career and as a father he was a master of the art of what folk often refer to today as "tough love" though in those days it was mostly just regarded as common sense!  Ah what a wit, how I miss him... this world would be a different place today if men like him were still around in any quantity.

I remember once he came home pretty well blind drunk, which was a rarity in itself with him, because as I have said we were poor, and although my Dad had a definate liking for a good whiskey, he very seldom drank, because as he would have put it.. "just can't afford it old boy" it was common sense to him, and family came first. Occasionally of course he would get the odd windfall from a bit of extra-curricular work or a minor win on the football pools, and sometimes even my Mum would manage to save up a fiver out of her housekeeping money, or from a bit of gardening money she'd earn sometimes, and give it to him, saying, go on Sandy (family handle) take this and go out and have a nice drink. It wouldn't happen more than once or twice a year at most, and he was seldom if ever as roaring drunk as he was that night! And as I said we lived in a caravan so despite my brother and I being asleep in bed we were aroused by the commotion surrounding his entry, and the amazing thing was that despite staggering in the door covered in blood the first thing my father did was to play a joke on my mother!

It appeared he had mistaken the next door neighbour's field gate as the entrance to our driveway, which was locked and covered in barbed wire.. being very drunk he obviously didn't feel the barbs to his hands and face, and having staggered over the gate, he then seems to have followed the lights of the caravan in the distance, and despite the massive hedge with barb wire fencing in the middle of it, that separated this field from our garden he managed to stagger through that too. When he stumbled up the caravan steps and into the door, blood all over his face and hands, he obviously couldn't feel a thing, because the first thing he says to my Mum is, "Do you know there's a horse out there in the garden?" But you're all covered in blood dear, she says, so my Dad goes.. "Never mind that, some bloody idiot locked the gate, and I had to climb over it, look out there by the rasberry garden, there's a horse.. Well, my mum thinks, he can't be too badly hurt then, I'd better check this horse out, so she goes out into the garden and sees no horse, and tells Dad so. So he goes out and points at the clothes horse that's standing there with washing on it (it was summer).. There he says, a clothes horse, and cracks up laughing! We got the full story the next day, because when Mum brought Dad inside to bathe and salve his wounds, we were already out and asking what was going on. Go back to bed boys, your father's alright, Dad says, " I had a little accident with the gate", tell you about it in the morning... I swear I heard Mum laughing later that night too!

Hmm.. I was going to put a photo in here of Dad in Bermuda in the thirties, but my scanner is on the blink again at the moment, and I don't have any of the Bermuda pictures on file. I had a particular reason for wanting to post this particular picture too. You see Dad was I think a bit of a dark horse in many ways, and recent rummagings through boxes of his old stuff has led me to the conclusion that he may have had sons and / or daughters long before he met my mum, before the war when he was in Bermuda. I have a picture of him, well a number of pictures actually, of him with a woman whose name I believe was Pat (could be wrong about that?) and who may or may not have been his wife, and up to three children in some of the photographs. The pictures are very much your classic sort of family photographs, and for some time I have wondered if I might have long lost brothers / sisters, somewhere. If the kids in these photos were alive today they'd be between seventy and eighty, so if any of you senior citizens reading this should by a miracle recognise your own father in the above photos and in this story, then you have a younger brother! :-)    

Well I think I'll round this up now so I can post it tonight. Later I may add to it, when I have more pictures to add and things to say, as applies to any page on this website of course, as and when I may deem it desirable.

Meanwhile if you think you recognise the man in the story and might know who his possible earlier children are, I would be delighted to hear from you..   Uncle David. 

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