Memories of a Desert Rat This short, fascinating, and very personal account of one man's war experiences, tells the story of what it was like to live on the front line during WW2. As the author explains, for the soldier on the ground, it was often impossible to understand the 'big picture' as to what was happening. Adrian Jucker was wounded many times, in an experience that included El Alamein and Tobruk - and his changing role from Desert Rat to Paratrooper - right up to and including the Normandy landings. The narrative demonstrates the ability of the British soldier during WW2 to adapt to the demands of the moment - and the bravery of those who did, and especially those who did not, survive. It is simply and sparingly told, with little embellishment - and reflects a stoicism that was typical of the wartime generation. The humour of the author shines through every page.
About the Author: Adrian Jucker (pronounced Yooker, the 'oo' rhymes with book) was born in Manchester. He was the youngest child of Enrico Jucker, the Italian Consul in Manchester, a wealthy paper-mill owner. The ancestry of the family is Swiss/Italian. Whilst Adrian was a child, the family moved to Grayshott Hall, in Surrey, which has since become a health spa. Then, following the untimely deaths of both Philip, Adrian's adored older brother, and, a few years later, his father, the remaining family moved locally, to an elegant 1930s house called Anthony Place. Adrian was educated at Shrewsbury, then Cambridge. I first met my father when I was three. I had heard about him from my mother, and seen his letters, many of which were illustrated, for my benefit. For our first meeting, I hid behind a chair, so as to have the advantage of seeing him, before he saw me. He had bandages everywhere, and his right arm was in both a sling and a plaster cast that was covered in signatures and drawings (some of them rather rude). So I had a 'broken Daddy'! It took a day or so of adjustment, on my part, to get used to him, after which he seemed good fun and well worth keeping around. After the war, my father abandoned all hope of spending his life building bridges, and instead took over the family firm. Amongst his many skills, he could draw, paint and sculpt moderately well. He could make himself understood in several languages, including French, Italian, Arabic and Greek. He also became a superb cook. In his 30s he took up the guitar, and was lucky enough to be taught by Julian Bream. He had always loved sailing, and in 1963, he bought a sailing ketch, which became the focus of smany family holidays in the Med. Our houses in Bramhall, and, later, Cookham, were always filled with interesting people, including, Julian Bream, Eric Shipton, the Everest explorer, Josh White, the musician, and Stanley Spencer, the artist. It came as a terrible shock to my father when my mother predeceased him. Shortly after this, he moved to Devon, where he bought the house next to my sister, Angie. In August 2001, he died peacefully in his sleep, having enjoyed a weekend in the company of his three daughters. He had cooked a delicious meal for us on the Saturday night, and then we all went to a local pub for Sunday lunch. It was typical of our Dad that he could not possibly have arranged for a more comfortable way to go. He is greatly missed. Franky Cookson (eldest daughter)