Bill Fagan was my father. He returned from the war with a bride (my mother) Mamie Fagan and two step daughters Eileen & Freda. My brother was born in 1947 and I followed in 1948. My dad was a kind and gentle soul, and would give the shirt of his back to anyone who needed it. My nephew Stephen is correct in that he didn't like to talk of his experience in the war or POW camp, but occasionally he would share the odd little bit, like some German words and telling us about peeling potatoes for the guards who got to eat the potatoes and the prisoners getting the peelings. When I was about 5 Dad was in a shearing gang and I so remember being with him in the shed when he made me my own pair of sack moccasins using the big curved bag needle to sew them up with. In his day he was a very good cyclist and rugby player, and could play any instrument you handed him. On the piano he played mainly the

William 'Bill' Fagan was my grandad, thanks to him bringing a wife and two step-daughters back from Edinburgh, Scotland at the end of the war. He was a wonderful man, caring, kind and generous, and politely spoken. He was not much for marching on ANZAC Day that I can recall, but maintained membership of the ex-POW organisation until he died. The only time I remember him mentioning his war experience, was at a family wedding in Dunedin, with another old soldier in the family. He worked outside, on farms, shearing, with the MOW and later in the public gardens in Ashburton. I remember he hated to see any food wasted, and would eat it rather than see it thrown out. That legacy of years in a POW camp I believe, caught up with him in the end, and he died at the relatively young age of 66.