Papa's colourful languages...

When I young, Papa often reeled the few German words he knew to coax into eating our meals: "Come on, Kartoffeln are good for you!"

During the Second World War, after the Allied landings in North Africa, our quiet town was swamped with foreign soldiers. Being close to the Tunisian border, our local French military hospital housed injured soldiers and among them a few Germans and Italians. One of these, Papa recalled, was a Wehrmacht soldier who had been wounded around Bizerte and brought back as prisoner of war.
Fritz spent months convalescing in Papa's ward and a cautious friendship developed between them. Papa found a stray kitten to keep Fritz company. He sometimes gave him fruit and vegetables from our farm.
Papa also tried to teach him a little French and in turn tried to learn a few German words. They sadly lost touch with each other after Fritz was moved to a secure prison camp.

Then the American GI's came through our town on their way to Tunisia and Sicily. The locals often reminisce about these giant soldiers who doled out chewing gum and chocolate bars to the cheering swarms of children who followed the jeeps bare feet across town.

A few years ago Papa came over to visit me in the UK after my mother passed away. He spent most of his time alone in the garden, probably thinking of my mother.
But one day, after lunch, as we sat at the dining table while my wife prepared the coffee, Papa scratched his head and tried to remember the few English words he had picked up during the war.

"Ha mucha dates?"
"Ha mucha oranges?” He mumbled in a funny Texan accent.
He explained that the GI's had often stopped to buy fresh produce from his fruiterer friend.

He sat there scratching his head, screwing his face, trying to dredge up buried memories. All of a sudden his eyes lit up "I know how to say "Go away" in American, you know!"

Before I could stop him he shouted: "Fuck off!" just as Karen walked into the dining room.