Epilogue

My grandfather retired in 1959, and went with my grandmother Marie to live in a little town called Friars Cliff on the south coast of England, where he remained until his death at the age of eighty-seven. They spent many happy years there, in spite of him suffering from failing eyesight, which in the end left him almost totally blind. The United Press gave him a television as a retirement present with a plaque that read, “A window on the world for one of its most famous and finest foreign correspondents.” My grandfather would always keep in touch with world affairs, and by drawing on his own experiences, was often able to add some insight to the stories he would hear. Even as his eyesight worsened, he would sit close up to the television, side on, using the remaining peripheral vision he had, or listen to the radio to make sure that he was not missing out on the latest news.

My own memories of him are mainly from when I was a small boy and teenager, and of course, the stories that he had to tell. Even though these tales of being in the jungle or taking part in bombing missions were very entertaining to me, I did not really understand their significance until later on in life. Since I began preparing this book, I’ve discovered additional stories from his tapes and papers that I did not know about or had forgot ten, all of which has been quite a revelation for me. He would often show me some of the artefacts and photos he had collected from his naval and newspaper career, which were consigned to a black metal trunk in his garage (as my grandmother seemed to not want them in their bungalow), and these things, along with his cassette tapes, have never left my mind. I sometimes wonder if he showed them to me in the hope that I would someday write his book, as he knew that the time for him to do it himself had long since passed.

Why he never wrote the book himself, I do not know, but the task of bringing together all the various parts of his legacy has been a lengthy one, and one which he may not have felt up to, having spent many years of reporting, at times from dangerous and terrifying places. In amongst his belongings there were also many letters that had been written to him from the relatives of people fighting in the Far East, thanking him for providing them with up-to-date and detailed information about the conflicts in which their loved ones were involved. It must have been extremely touching for him to receive these. They were kept in amongst other formal accolades, such as the Asiatic-Pacific Service ribbon that was awarded to him by General MacArthur, and the letter of good wishes from Lord Mountbatten after my grandfather had his heart trouble.

This demonstrates, I believe, his values—the most important part of his stories were the people that he met, whether they were Gibson, the Papuan native boy, the Sharif of Beihan or General MacArthur himself. All of them seem to have equal standing and importance, and it may be that my grandfather’s sense of humility and character are what enabled him to ingratiate himself to others and allow him, at times, to get the scoop or exclusive interview. I remember that he also had a tremendous sense of humour and the ability to make people laugh, a quality I hope has been demonstrated in his observations within this story. Harold Guard was admired and well thought of by many people. His tales are a legacy that my family has enjoyed for many years, and I hope that you have too.

—John Tring