Snapshot: My father and Wojtek the soldier bear
After working at the BBC for 33 years, I retired and my partner and I decided to have a bit of an adventure – we drove from our home in west London to southern Italy. We had a loose plan to visit some of the battlefields from the first and second world wars. At the age of 18, my Polish-born father had fought in Monte Cassino in Italy so we made a beeline for the town.
We booked into a hotel owned by a man called Pino, who had an in-depth knowledge of the battle of Monte Cassino, which saw some of the fiercest fighting in the second world war.
When we arrived, Pino asked me which army unit my father belonged to. When I told him unit 22, the artillery unit, to my surprise, his cursory interest turned into real excitement for in this unit, there was a bear called Wojtek (pronounced Voytek, or “smiling warrior”) and he’d dreamed of meeting someone with a link to the bear.
The 22nd artillery supply division was given the orphaned baby Syrian bear, which was bought in Iran in 1942 for a few cans of meat. He became the unit’s mascot. As the picture shows, Wojtek grew to be a 6ft-tall, 500lb brown bear but as he’d never seen another bear, he thought he was just another human being, another Polish soldier.
His fellow soldiers put Wojtek to good use and got him to carry crates of artillery, often in risky situations. The soldiers treated Wojtek like one of their own and along with them Wojtek enjoyed a couple of beers but instead of smoking, he would eat cigarettes. He loved driving in Jeeps – as a passenger, of course. Wojtek would stand to attention during inspections but once, when he had one beer too many and his rucksack was a bit slipshod on his back, the sergeant roared at him to behave like a real soldier. The Poles, many of whom had been imprisoned in Siberia and hadn’t seen their homeland for years, loved this adorable animal.
When the war ended and some of the Poles were coming to Britain to start a new life, they tried to take Wojtek. They were told animals wouldn’t be admitted so they gave him the rank of private – later corporal – so he’d be allowed into the UK.
Wojtek lived out his days at Edinburgh zoo where it was said that he would put his snout through the bars more closely whenever he heard a visitor speaking in Polish. A bronze statue in his memory was recently unveiled in the city’s Princes Street Gardens.
I remember my father talking about Wojtek at the dinner table when I was 13. Sadly, I dismissed his claims about the bear, thinking he’d had one glass too many … how I wish I could ask him now about dear old Wojtek, the soldier bear and war hero.
Yo Haniewicz
We love to eat: Snails in herb and sherry gravy
Ingredients
Snails
400ml of chicken stock
Half a handful of thyme, marjoram and rosemary, plus one bay leaf
Clove of garlic (crushed) and one bay leaf
1 tsp dijon mustard
A measure and a half of sherry
Add all the ingredients, except the snails, to the chicken stock and bring to the boil. Leave resulting stock to cool and place in fridge for two days. After two days of purging the snails, re-heat the bouillon in a pan over a high heat until it comes to the boil. Add the snails and simmer for 20 minutes. Lift spoonfuls of snails into two bowls and then pour over the bouillon. Sprinkle with fresh parsley, serve with warm crusty bread and a glass of still cider.
My grandparents lived all their lives on a smallholding in the northern Spanish principality of Asturias. For them, self-sufficiency was the order of the day. Much of what they ate came from the modest patch of land they owned and lived on.
While my grandfather’s herb garden was his pride and joy, whenever he found that it had been raided by snails overnight, more often than not he was delighted. Having found the creatures had taken to pillaging his patch of aromatic plants, he would enthusiastically seize the opportunity to harvest snails and herbs.
At night, by the light of the moon, he would take me by the hand as we tip-toed through rosemary, thyme and marjoram and put each juicy snail in my blue beach bucket.
Once transferred to a sink of cold water, the snails were left to purge themselves of impurities for 48 hours. Then my grandfather would show me how to make the bouillon. We always made this gravy together on the same night as we harvested the snails; that way it had a couple of days to let the flavours of the herbs slowly migrate into the stock and sherry.
Usually, one large handful of snails cooked in gravy and served with warm crusty bread was enough to feed my grandparents and me. We would use a tooth pick to pull each snail from its shell before swallowing them. For me, the real pleasure was always to listen to the gentle clacking of the empty shells as I soaked up the remaining gravy with crusty bread.
I now have two homes – one in northern Spain and one in England. With the European common or garden snail a regular visitor to both gardens, I very much enjoy venturing out at night to collect snails with my own children.
Gabriel Hernandez Ramón
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