On Facebook we have posted a part of the story of Frank Drage as told by his son Michael. There is too much for a Facebook post, but this marvellous narrative deserves a full airing. Please enjoy!
After leaving Irthlingborough Board School my father was employed in the shoe trade as a boot laster, I believe at John White’s Rushden factory. My mother at that time worked at the Co-operative Boot Factory and lived in Rushden, but how they met I really have no idea.
Being born in 1918 I presume father entered the Army probably at the outbreak of war. He enlisted into the Northamptonshire Regiment as Private 5885634 Frank G.Drage.
I have no memory of his early army career, but I do recall mother telling me that he trained in Callander in Scotland and also in Cheshire. He was certainly on leave on 28th January, 1941 when he married Marjorie Emma Scroxton of 14 Birchall Road, Rushden. My arrival into the world was on the 28th July, 1941 at the Woodfield Nursing Home in Finedon. I was christened Michael William after both grandfathers.
Where father actually served remains a mystery although an early reference from a letter to Haydn suggested Enniskillen in Northern Ireland. From another article it appears I was only 5 months old when my father last saw me. I was told that he travelled a great deal with his regiment and was away for the rest of the war in Africa and possibly Madagascar, and farther east I think. Finally in the latter part of the war he journeyed back towards Italy, progressing up the country to the area around Milan.
It was on the 20th May, 1945 that he was tragically to lose his life. He was travelling in a jeep which was involved in a road traffic accident in a village called Navara. He was buried in the village cemetery but was later moved by the Army authorities to the Milan War Cemetery.
In an early letter to Haydn from Enniskillen after my birth, he wrote;
“So I hear you have to go down the mines. Well it is better than going in the Army, keep out of it as long as possible. It ain’t no good.! Secondly have you been to see the baby yet? It is a bit of a b….. having something that belongs to you and everybody else can see him bar yourself.”
In a second letter to Haydn dated 22nd February, 1945 he wrote to say how much he still missed seeing his wife and young child. He said that life in the Army at the time was not at all bad, but he was totally fed up with being away from home and his loved ones. He made reference to one pint of beer per week and said how much he would love a pint of ‘Phipps’. He was also finding the Italian language, wine and spaghetti a little bit much and looked forward to the time when he could return home for good.
When it became obvious that the war was coming to an end Marjorie Drage excitedly wrote a couple of letters to her husband telling him how the family were planning to celebrate his homecoming. She emphasised just how happy everyone would be to see him and to welcome him home. She even suggested that there would be dancing around Irthlingborough Cross. Both letters were returned unopened. On each was stamped the words – ‘UNABLE TO DELIVER DUE TO DECEASE OF RECIPIENT’.
Four years later both Frank Drage’s widow and his mother were able to visit his grave in Italy. The Evening Telegraph reported on 7th July, 1949 that both women had made their first trips by air. Readers were informed that the plane had taken off from Bovingdon and had arrived in Milan well in time for lunch. Visits were made to both the cemetery and the village where the fatal accident had occurred. Sight-seeing tours of Milan were then made and the women were astonished to see none of the poverty they had expected, the people of Italy were obviously not suffering the austere post-War conditions then being experienced in England. Needless to say, both women availed themselves of the nylons, which were in plentiful supply!
On her return to Rushden a few days later Mrs Drage was soon occupied answering the questions posed by 7 year old Michael, who was only five months old when seen by his father for the last time. Little did either mother or son imagine that a few years later an opportunity would arrive for Michael to visit the grave himself – this is his story;
“My first school trip abroad at the age of 15 was to Florence and Venice with Wellingborough Grammar School. Milan, however was not on the itinerary but that didn’t deter my mother from liaising with Headmaster Harold Wrenn, Mr Cheale the trip leader, and Mr Ward to see if arrangements could be made for me to visit my father’s grave. After a great deal of planning all arrangements were finally in place and the great day dawned.
I was escorted to Florence Railway Station armed with passport, papers, tickets, lira, recognition labels, hostel address label, packed lunch, water bottle, my Brownie camera and sweets. The train was packed with people of all shapes and sizes, many talking excitedly to each other, but not one word of English was to be heard. It was only when I began to open my supply of sweets that language no longer seemed to be a barrier and my meagre knowledge of Italian presented no problems.
On my arrival in Milan my labels were soon recognised and my escorts introduced themselves. After a short sight-seeing tour of the city I was driven to Milan War Cemetery where row upon row of white headstones stood surrounded by well-tended lawns. I was taken straight to my father’s grave and left alone with my thoughts. I stood and thought, and looked and then I photographed his grave. I wonder now just what, as a fifteen year old, were my thoughts on that day for a father I never knew, and for his mother who was now deceased. We had all been waiting for his return home and our future happiness together.
I rejoined my escorts and we drove back into the city. A visit to the shops and museum suddenly seemed meaningless. My visit to Milan was drawing to a close, it was time to return to the station for the long journey back to Florence. I was a little perturbed to see that no engine was attached to the carriages but was assured by my departing escorts that there was no need to worry. Slowly the carriages began to fill up but the return journey was not going to be as exciting or as rowdy as the outward one. I sat quietly with my thoughts of the day, but worry set in as the time slowly ticked by with no sign of any engine being attached to the train. Finally we departed somewhat later than expected, what would be the reaction at the other end?
I arrived back in Florence somewhat surprised to find no one waiting to meet me at the station. By exhibiting my address label I managed to use local transport to return to the hostel where I was greeted by two very irate, frantic, excitable but highly relieved masters. Where had I been? Did I get on the wrong train? Had I misread the timetable? Thankfully the masters’ wives were far more concerned about my need for a meal, for a drink and my need to go to bed! Yes, my own thoughts after such a long and tiring day were for my dormitory bed, sleep and all the memories this very special day had brought me.
The next edition of the school magazine carried the story of my very special day in Milan under the heading – ‘Drage travels 400 miles on his own!’ There is certainly no doubt at all in my mind that Wellingborough Grammar School certainly encouraged its boys to be self-reliant!”