The Value of a Medal

Andrew Sharp, my late father-in-law, was an ordinary sort of bloke. He immigrated to New Zealand from Scotland with his family when he was about knee high to a grass hopper. His father, a veteran of both the Boer War and World War 1, worked in pubs around Auckland.

When WW2 broke out Andrew, like many young Kiwis and Aussies, reported for duty. He was shipped out to Egypt leaving his family and fiancée behind. While training in Egypt he was stabbed by a Nazi sympathiser when swimming during a recreation period. The perpetrator was never caught.

Andrew's service medals

 Andrew took part in the Italian campaign as a transport driver. One night this landed him and his mate in the shit. Their camp came under attack and the ammunition dump blew up. They dived into the first trench they came to and, you guessed it, it was the latrine.

After the war he returned to Auckland, married his fiancée Myrla, and fathered two daughters. He worked as a carpenter to provide for his family. Myrla died young while the younger of the two girls was still at school. He later remarried a widow and became father to her son.

Like most of us, he achieved neither fame nor fortune. He was an ordinary bloke who lived an ordinary life. An honest, hardworking bloke who provided for his family and contributed to the community he lived in. A real handy man, in retirement he did what he could to help those around him.

Today we see the end of the 2014 Winter Olympics. While Australia has won a few medals it has missed the valued gold for the first time in a while. Those medals cost the Australian public $10 million, which is considerably less than we paid for the medals won at the Summer Olympics. An Olympic medal, especially gold, or success at the elite level in any sport, can open the door to fame and fortune. Long after they retire successful Olympians and other elite level athletes continue to be feted, looked up to. They have, after all done their nation proud. They did it for Australia - didn't they?

I disagree. An athlete, in whatever sport, Olympic or otherwise, does it for the challenge, the enjoyment, for self. At best, they do it for the team. It may be the pursuit of excellence, but it is not service to the greater community. What do they contribute to other than to the coffers of advertisers and sponsors. Now I admit there are some, such as former Australian cricket captain Steve Waugh, who use their status as champion sports persons to support worthwhile causes. But,  I suspect, they are in the minority.

 

Andrew's 'old army mug', the beret of the
Scottish Regiment, and a reminder of his
Scottish heritage

Until it got too much for him Andrew marched  on ANZAC day with other ordinary blokes, all wearing their service medals. And when he got too old to march he continued to attend ANZAC services in the local RSA - the Kiwi equivalent to our RSL. There was nothing 'special' about his medals - no VC, MC or other award for bravery. Sleeping on top of a truck load of four gallon (20 litre) drums of petrol in a war zone and driving that truck to the front line was nothing outstanding. It was just the sort of thing that ordinary soldiers did.

Andrew saw action at the Battle of Monte Cassino. The last time he visited us in Sydney coincided with an ANZAC Day. A night or two before the day the ABC screened a documentary on the battle. Andrew asked if he could watch it, a request I was happy to agree to. In fact, I looked forward to watching it with him. Sometime into the program Andrew made another request, 'Would you mind turning it off?' Obviously it had triggered painful memories. I didn't pry.

Old athletes bask in the glory of their past achievements. Too many old soldiers live with the wounds, physical and psychological, of their past. It is not only the soldiers, for families often share the cost of their loved one's service.

There are many Andrews - ordinary men and women who have answered their nation's call, who have simply done their duty. There always have been and always will be.

Today's young warriors have seen service in Iraq, Afghanistan, as Peace Keepers, in disaster response and on Border Security, to name a few. And, like those who have come before, too many of them carry the scars of service - visible and invisible. Too many struggle to find the support they should receive because Governments have to manage budgets, and one way they do this is make cuts in the area of veterans’ affairs. Veterans frequently have to jump through hoops to get the benefits and entitlements they were promised. There aren't too many votes in the veteran community, and what  politician wants to be seen to cut funding to elite level sport. Such is the value of a medal.

A Palmers Channel Childhood

Palmers Channel in the 1950s and 60s was probably typical of numerous small rural communities around Australia at the time. Life for me as a child was probably not all that different to that known by my parents with the exception of some advances in technology, communication and travel. I doubt if many communities like it still exist in Australia.

Ready for school

Palmers Channel opened to white settlement in the early 1860s. My great-great grandparents, John and Mary Anne Marsh (nee Parkinson), took up a selection of land on Palmers Channel in 1869. Many of the other families in the district also traced back to this time. The Marsh family was the largest on the Channel and in the 30 or so student one-teacher primary school I attended most kids had a connection to the Marsh's.

My father and grandfather (Pa) were neighbours, separated by Amos's Lane. Jacky Marsh, one of Pa's cousin lived next door to him and Kevy Davis, Nana Marsh's cousin, lived on the other side. Dad's cousin Alvin Marsh owned the property behind ours and Lamby Parkinson, a distant relative, the property next to his. Other Channel farms and also on Palmers Island were owned by Marsh's or relatives of either the Marsh or Davis families.

People stopped and talked to each other. Neighbours usually had time for a chat or, if not there was a friendly wave and a cheery hello. Dad's cousin Alvin Marsh once related this story to me about his grandfather Albert (Bertie) Marsh. Bertie lived at the end of what is now South Bank Road where my grandfather's brother Harold and his wife May lived when I was a kid. Bertie would leave in the morning to go into Maclean. A few of his brothers lived along the way and Bertie liked a chat. So he would drop in to see the first brother, then the next, and the next … The next morning he would head off for Maclean.

There were regular community events that bought us all together. Three that stand out were the annual swimming carnival, Sunday school anniversary and school Christmas tree concert. Almost everyone in the district attended these, whether or not they had children involved.

I remember the district coming together to build the school tennis courts which were used more by the community than the school. Our swimming pool was in a fenced off area of the Channel across the road from the Union Hall and a few hundred metres from the school. The frame was in place all year round. At the beginning of the swimming season the men of the district would hang the fencing from the frame to keep us in the pool and remove it at the end of the season. They built a bus shelter shed on the Yamba - Maclean road from where we would catch the bus to Maclean for high school. And when the bus route changed to come through Middle Road Palmers Island and along South Bank Road Palmers Channel they built another shed next to the swimming pool. If something needed to be done and it was within the resources of the community to do it, it was done.

This was a rural community. Those farmers knew they needed one another to survive. Especially at cane harvest time neighbours would help one another burn cane and transport it to the derrick on the banks of the Channel where it would be loaded onto barges to take it to the sugar mill on Harwood Island. All this contributed to a great sense of community.

In front of the family home with my grandfather Joe Marsh
and brother David

As I have grown older I have realised how fortunate I was as a child. My brother and I did not experience abuse. Sure, there was a some corporal punishment, especially from Mum who was quite skilled at wielding a switch from the peach tree. We usually deserved it and other than leaving a few marks I do not believe it hurt us in any way.

My most treasured memories are of family. We spent time with each other. Not constructed 'quality' time, for time together came naturally. When school didn't get in the way I would accompany my father and grandfather when the milked the cows. After the morning session I would often have breakfast with my grandparents. During the harvesting and planting seasons I helped out. Cane planting in particular could be a whole family affair, with Mum  working with Dad, Pa, my brother David and me.

We grew a lot of our own fruit - peaches, pears, plums, locuts, mulberries and more. There were evenings Mum, Dad, David and I lined up on  the veranda peeling fruit and helping prepare it for bottling. Mum had a set - maybe a number of sets - of Vacola preserving bottles.  A large cupboard was set aside for storing the finished product. At the end of the fruit growing season it would be full and there would be enough to last till next season. How we enjoyed the fruits of our labour.

Dad grew corn. When it was ripe it would be stored in the barn. Then we would spend the evenings with light from a kerosene lamp removing the husks, a task that normally left me itchy. The grain would then be removed from the cob by a hand operated machine and stored in a tank until it was fed to the  chooks.

It was in this community and this family that I grew. I was nurtured, disciplined and protected. Values were taught more by example than words. I fear that the way society has developed over the last 50 or so years the type of community I knew as a child no longer exists for many Australians.  And, in my view, that is a significant loss, one that we need to find ways to recapture for the sake of future generations.