TheHand that Shook the hand of Mongomery

Growing up in Worcester during the late nineteen fifties, daily life had a deeply familiar and pleasantly rhythmic quality to it. December in the Cape always brought the intense, unforgiving heat of summer, and as a young boy in 1959, my days were entirely absorbed by the simple, immediate realities of childhood. The broader world, with its grand historical events, shifting politics, and sweeping conflicts, felt impossibly distant from our peaceful streets. However, that comforting sense of distance vanished entirely on one specific afternoon, leaving a profound impression that would endure for the rest of my life.

I vividly remember my father returning home from town that day. Like so many brave men of his generation, he had served in the Western Desert during the Second World War. Normally a grounded and composed man, he walked through the front door that afternoon with an unusual, palpable excitement radiating from him. Before I could fully register the sudden change in his usual demeanor, he reached out his right hand toward me and, with a voice full of raw emotion, excitedly said, "Shake the hand that shook the hand of Montgomery."

At that exact moment in time, I am not completely sure if I fully grasped the immense significance of what he had just done. Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery was touring through South Africa in late 1959. Having recently retired from his long and distinguished military career, he was traveling extensively, deliberately seeking out the loyal veterans who had served under his command. Montgomery was a magnetic personality who truly thrived on personal connection with his former troops. His regional visits often involved the rail network, and a brief stop at the Worcester train station was all it took to draw out the local ex-servicemen.

For men like my father, who had faced the blistering sands and relentless combat of the harsh North African campaign, Montgomery remained a towering figure of immense personal consequence. The rare opportunity to see the legendary "Hero of Alamein" in person provided a profound moment of closure and recognition for those who had "been in the desert." The memorable phrase my father used—asking me to shake the hand that shook the hand of Montgomery—was a common piece of post-war vernacular, reflecting a deeply tactile connection to the brilliant commander who led the Allied forces to victory.

Looking back now with the clarity of hindsight, I realize that the brief encounter on the bustling station platform was much more than a passing celebrity sighting for my father. It was a powerful validation of his youth, his deep sacrifices, and the intense hardships he had survived alongside his fallen comrades. When he rushed home to share that fleeting moment with me, he was earnestly attempting to bridge the immense gap between my peaceful, sheltered childhood reality and the epic, violent scale of the global war that had definitively shaped his entire generation.

By insisting I shake his hand that day, my father was establishing a lasting lineage of experience. He was tethering me to the monumental events of the twentieth century, ensuring that the legacy of his generation’s struggle was passed down, quite literally, through touch. It is a deeply poignant piece of family history that I continue to treasure today. That single afternoon captures a remarkable moment when a world-historical figure briefly intersected with our quiet life in the South African interior, leaving a powerful memory that still resonates with me all these decades later.