Peter Goddard is a Senior Lecturer in Media and Communications at the University of Liverpool. Blesma are currently working with the University on their 'Life and Limb' exhibition which looks at the impact of traumatic limb loss on soldiers of the American Civil War and the advances of prosthetics since then through the mediums of art, poetry, literature and photography along with original research.

As a young child, one of the most distinctive features about my grandfather, Bert Goddard, was that he only had one leg.  So the prospect of the ‘Life and Limb’ exhibition called to mind my own family’s connection with its themes and made me want to understand more about him.  Although he died when I was 10 years old, I can remember my grandfather clearly.  Despite his disability, he looked quite normal to me, and seemed to walk normally too.  But when I sat on his knee, I could feel the metal frame which surrounded his knee joint.  At that age, I can distinctly remember thinking of this (and the injury that it concealed) as something quite frightening.

I also recall being told that his treatment had been thought remarkable at the time: Surgeons had saved his knee joint and fitted a prosthetic lower leg, which meant that he was still able to bend his knee and, with the help of a specially designed frame around it, appeared to walk normally. My father knew more, of course, but few of the details of Grandad’s war service, injury and treatment were known even to him.  My brother-in-law did attempt to investigate further some years ago through a contact in armed service records, but was told that all such records had been destroyed in 1940 during the Blitz. 

I knew other things about Grandad: He’d lost his leg in World War 1, he was always trying to help people and he’d been rewarded by the Queen. In fact, for as long as I can remember, I have known what Blesma stands for and this must be because Grandad used to talk about his work with them.

Nowadays, the internet, together with the digitisation of a multitude of records, has made it much easier to substantiate what I thought I knew about my grandfather and to enquire further.  Sadly, the National Archives website also confirms that a substantial proportion of World War 1 service records were indeed destroyed when the War Office in Arnside Street suffered a direct hit in 1940. But we can piece together some aspects of Grandad’s story nonetheless, helped by a few surviving documents which are still in the family.  This is what we know at present;

Growing up in Hinckley, Leicestershire, 21644 Pte. Bert Goddard joined the Nottinghamshire Yeomanry on 11 September 1916, aged 17 years and 8 months.  Given his age, it is likely that he volunteered for service, as the lower age limit for conscription was 18 under the Military Service Act 1916.  Subsequently (as yet we have found no evidence to confirm the dates or circumstances), he was transferred to the Army Cyclist Corps and promoted to Lance-Corporal.  As the war progressed, army cyclists seem to have been assigned in small groups to divisions fighting overseas.  Although sometimes deployed in combat, they were more often used for reconnaissance, so Grandad could have been sent almost anywhere.

The next evidence we have is a slip of paper ‘to be detached and handed to the man on his discharge from hospital’.  Evidently copied from other records, it says: Was an operation performed?  Yes If so, what?   Amp’n left leg lower ⅓     14/4/18

From this, it is clear that Grandad was wounded on or shortly before this date.  This was the time of the German ‘Spring Offensive’ on the Western Front near Ypres, which might be a clue as to his location.  He was discharged from the army on 13 February 1919, after 10 months of treatment and convalescence.  His initial treatment is most likely to have been at Queen Mary’s Hospital, Roehampton, established in 1915 ‘to provide a place for people who had lost a limb to come and be rehabilitated and be fitted with the most scientifically advanced limbs possible’, as its website nowadays explains.  My father remembers him returning to Roehampton regularly for check-ups and replacements as prosthetic technology advanced.  His convalescence may have been at the Friendly Societies Convalescent Home at Herne Bay in Kent, which the War Office had requisitioned for servicemen.  A collection of photographs survives of him here in 1927, perhaps at some sort of reunion.

Outwardly, he was an unassuming man, but his wartime experiences seem to have fostered a devotion to helping others less fortunate than himself – just as he had been helped to rebuild his life after his injury.

On leaving the army, my grandfather evidently returned to Hinckley, where he married in 1925.  Relocating to North London, he spent the reminder of his working life at Klinger Manufacturing Co., a large hosiery factory in Edmonton.  Outwardly, he was an unassuming man, but his wartime experiences seem to have fostered a devotion to helping others less fortunate than himself – just as he had been helped to rebuild his life after his injury.  We will probably never know the full extent of his voluntary activities, but they certainly included Blesma.  He remained an active member of its Haringey branch until 1971, when Blesmag, its journal, recorded the death of this ‘tremendous worker for Blesma’.  A cutting from the Edmonton Weekly Herald in 1965 refers to him as ‘[w]ell known locally for his work for Edmonton Citizens Advice Bureau, Edmonton Welfare Association and the disablement rehabilitation committee ... ‘, as well as Blesma, and a publicity photograph marking the CAB Silver Jubilee in 1964 shows him offering advice to an elderly lady from behind a grand-looking desk.  

In 1961, he had been appointed to serve on the Tottenham Disablement Advisory Committee (reporting to the Ministry of Labour) – a role he performed until his death – and from 1969-70 he also served on the Haringey and Enfield War Pensions Committee (reporting to the Ministry of Social Security).  A letter following the latter’s reorganisation talks of the ‘great need for the personal contact with war pensioners which is undertaken by voluntary workers’, adding ‘we would appreciate your continued association with the war pensioners welfare service in this capacity’

Grandad’s greatest distinction, however, was to be awarded an MBE in 1951.  The citation has disappeared, but a cutting from the Hinckley Times says: ‘The award ... is in recognition of his service during the last war as chairman of the [Klingers] works’ Comforts Fund and of the National Savings Group and, since then, of his part in the export drive’.  

There is more research to be done and, despite the Ministry of War fire, a visit to the National Archives at Kew may still reveal something of his service record.  Nowadays, digitisation has made World War 1 records much easier to locate and there is some excellent online advice about how to search for them.  Even with what we have uncovered already, I feel that I understand much more about this rather humble man who, during my childhood, seemed to be distinguished by two things: the frame on his knee and the knowledge that the Queen had chosen him to receive an MBE.  No matter how scary the frame seemed, the MBE made me feel immensely proud.  From what I now know about his life, I have no doubt that he earned it.

Peter Goddard, with thanks to Pat and Bruce Goddard and to Chris Williams for additional research.

This blog post is featured on the 'Life and Limb Exhibition' website. This post along with others can be seen at https://lifeandlimb2015.wordpress.com/