My father, my D-Day hero

Daniel Francis (Frank) Draper 1924 - 1998

This picture shows my dad, who would have been 19 when he took part in the Normandy landings of 6 June 1944. Dad had always been my hero. It was only after he died, on 6 June 1998 that I started to receive letters from strangers in this country and abroad that revealed he was a hero to other people, too.

My dad was a shy, decent, countryside-loving man. He was a fanatical admirer of Morris Minor cars and gloriously scruffy.  

For much of my life we formed a tightly-knit band of two. Mutually proud, moderately eccentric. In his youth a champion sportsman, my dad's cups and trophies gathered dust in the cabinet. By no means a natural athlete, I made a succession of ill-fated attempts to follow in his footsteps. Once, this saw me entering a triathlon. The full Olympic distance, it took me many hours to complete. With the end finally in sight, I could see two figures, the last members of an earlier crowd. One was my father. Solid, immovable, he was holding on to the finish line. The other, cheering equally loudly, was the event organiser. He had been about to pack-up and go home when he encountered my dad anchored to the finish post, insisting they wait for me. 

This summer I will take part in the Ride London 100. As I pedal I will picture my dad, a lone supporter in The Mall, roaring me home.

Dad never spoke about the war to me. He didn't go to military reunions or parades although each November he would wear a poppy on his cardigan, hidden beneath his overcoat so that it didn’t frighten the birds when he went out with his binoculars. 

I thought my dad would go on forever. When he died, I lost my father, my best friend, my moral compass.

In the days and weeks afterwards, the letters began arriving. I have no idea how they found me. Perhaps one elderly detective and the remnants of a wartime intelligence service. The letters told of a man I’d never known.

To my astonishment I learned that somewhere outside a small town in France there is a memorial depicting my dad’s tank, erected in gratitude by residents of the town he helped liberate. I heard of the courage he showed when that tank came under fire. Thrown clear by an explosion and himself badly injured, my dad fought his way back into the stricken vehicle to rescue his friends. For that bravery he was presented with the Military Medal - an award I found hidden, after his death. I was told about other acts of bravery, friendship and kindness never forgotten. 

I was asked if I would like military honours at my father's funeral. Remembering the man who never attended reunions, I refused. That day was for a country lover, a conservationist, a quiet man.

It is to my lasting shame that in my distress, I could not reply to any of those letters from strangers. The senders would never have known that their memories and photographs arrived. Nor what they meant to me. This week, on the seventieth anniversary of D-Day, I remember the father I loved and the man I never knew. Daniel Francis Draper. My Dad. My hero.