Andy Winter's Brighton And Beyond column

At the time, St Dunstan’s had two centres locally including the training and holiday centre in Ovingdean which is due to close in 2024 after more than 80 years, the building being regarded as no longer suitable for the needs of current and future blind veterans.

I worked at the centre in Abbey Road, now part of the University Hospitals Sussex NHS Foundation Trust. Pearson House, as it was then known, provided permanent care and support to veterans, including a hospital wing for those very infirm or nearing death.

The majority of residents at Pearson House at the time were blind veterans from the 1914-18 war, and most of my work was supporting these old men who had lost their sight in the so-called “war to end all wars”.

My job included waiting on tables, reading correspondence, newspapers and books, accompanying them to the shops, bookies and pub, and taking them on walks.

There was one man, I will call him Bert, who refused to have anything to do with me. He had heard that I was a conscientious objector, that I had refused to be conscripted into South Africa’s apartheid army. Bert, consequently, wanted nothing to do with me. I was not allowed to serve on his table at breakfast, lunch or dinner, and if I was on duty at the desk, the point for co-ordinating arrangements for the residents, he would say that he would come back later.

Bert was always at the front of the parade on Remembrance Sunday, a proud former soldier wearing the medals that he had certainly earned and for which he had made a huge sacrifice, the loss of his sight. He preferred to be supported by the ex-service personnel on the staff rather than by this young conscientious objector.

One day, quite out of the blue, he went to the desk and told Melody, my manager, that he would like me to take him out for a walk. This surprised everyone because he had made no secret of his wish that I should have nothing to do with him.

At 10.30am I met him as arranged and asked him where he would like to go. He asked me to take him to the seafront and to find a seat in the sun. We went down in the Madeira Lift and walked a short way along the middle promenade above the arches. We sat in silence for a few minutes.

I waited for him to take a lead. He said that I must have been surprised that he had asked me to take him out. I said that I had been. He then said he wanted to tell me something but asked me to give him my word that I would not tell anyone what he was about to tell me until after he was dead. This made me feel uncomfortable but, not knowing any better, I agreed.

Bert then told me that he felt that his life had been wasted, that an entire generation of his contemporaries had been sacrificed in the First World War for no good purpose. He said that, while he always appeared at the front row on Church Parade on Remembrance Sunday, he was trying to convince himself that his sacrifice and those of his comrades had been worthwhile, and that it was worthy of recognition and praise. Yet, he said, his life had been ruined. He said that he knew that I had strong views about war and he thought that I would understand what he was saying.

I said that I didn’t know how to respond. He told me no response was necessary but asked me to take him back to Pearson House.

When we got back colleagues wanted to know what he had said but I was true to my word saying that he just wanted to go for a walk, joking that he must have been going a bit soft in his old age (he was in his nineties), that we had not really spoken.

The next day, when I arrived at work, I was told that Bert had died in the night. I never did tell anyone at St Dunstan’s what he had said.

I loved my work at St Dunstan’s. Most of the men were in their eighties and nineties, a few were over 100. Over the three years I worked there several shared with me their war-time experiences. What an amazing privilege it was and it remains one of the most precious experiences of my life.