Harry's Hair: A War Without End

A For Battle! Exclusive.

99% pun free.

When I was born the resemblance to my father, Sir Winston Churchill was uncanny.
As you can see from my salute, I was born ready.

My parentage was further confirmed by my eagerness to get to grips with the Hun.

Even at that tender age I could see that Europe was headed for trouble.
I started training as a fighter pilot immediately.

Due to my foresight I was one of the first sent to France.
I was resolved to do my bit for Old Blighty. However, as the photo shows, the consternation I experienced on the subdued train journey from Calais was clear:
Would England survive?
Would I survive?
Would I ever grow hair?

Yes, I would.
Here I am on leave in late 1941 after I received my KA and the bar for my DFC from King George himself.

KingGeorgeV: Well done!
h: Thank you, your majesty.
[h salutes]
h: Whizzo!
[KGV salutes]
KGV: Whizzo!


The war dragged on for several more years and we experienced all sorts of shortages.
In this case: barbers.

With my fighter pilot's dash and my golden locks I was a hit with the ladies.
It was good to be alive.
But, after six years the strains of war were beginning to show themselves.

Come 1945 and Peace!
And Europe began to rebuild itself, but for me there was a different path.
Tragedy struck.

I became a mutant.

Some hitherto dormant agent of crapness stirred within me.
Worse, I couldn't let the war go. I fully expected the Russians to storm across the border at any minute and, on my own initiative, developed a bullet repelling hairstyle in anticipation.

To avoid my wartime demons and the Russians I emigrated to Australia and brought my hair with me.
Farming came easily to me.

But I still felt like an outsider; as many other returned soldiers did.
And I lived on the fringe of society.
I went bush for many years for which there is no photographic evidence and returned a new man. I realised that in order to leave the war behind I would have to leave my hair behind, but I was unsure of how the world would react to the 'new me' and I went to great lengths to hide the truth.

Each...

...more desperate...

...than the...

...last.

But then, one sunny afternoon somewhere, I befriended the man who was to become my spiritual adviser.

And he told me what God's plan was for my hair.

Baldness.

Now, finally, I could reconcile the war and my hair - and the horror of both.

Donations can be made to the Ex-servicesman's Follicularly Disabled Benevolent Fund via your local RSL.
Thank you.