Small mementos of when hell came down to earth
They really are dirty, they look as though they’ve been dragged out of the Somme River mud, where they were earned. Grandad would probably say ‘Leave ‘em in the mud son’, he was like that. When I’d come around as a little fella, and want to see them, he could never quite remember where they were.
These gongs, these shirt stretchers, these medals that I wear with pride, these medals I wear for him. I wear my dear dad’s for the same reason, but wearing both lots I need Townsville cranes to put them on. If I fell, I’d never get up.
Then comes pinning them on! Its an art. My girl pins them on as if she’s wearing oven mittens while she’s talking on the phone, loudly. She misses the shirt, causes near fatal haemorrhaging, and then blames me. Another battle begins, but this time, absolute defeat, for me of course. When you say pinning them on your chest, its not pinning them through your chest. I simply get the Greek wave and a ‘Do it yourself’. Bugger, that’s worse. But I did it. My fingers now look as though I lost a battle with fifty fish hooks. But what an absolute honour to actually have them. Get them out of the cupboard, clean them and wear them, these emblems of honour to a past, never to be forgotten endeavour for freedom. I love them. They’re truly an eternal reminder of mate ship and memories, and sadly at times, madness. All medals, all conflicts.
I look at these tiny, not so shiny pieces of metal, a couple of swords on one, King George on another, shields and horses, names along the edge.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful, to polish it like a genie bottle found at Rowes
Bay, and your magically thrust back to the moments when the medal was earned!!!
No! Grandad and dad would be furious, for they were there at these places of legend so I didn’t have to know what the terror of war was like.
I remember one day, I was in my teens, dad received a package, upon opening he cried uncontrollably. I’d not seen this brave and strong man cry. He gave me the package, went for a walk. I didnt know what they were. I guess you could say they were
beautiful to a young bloke, they were so very shiny, magnificent actually. There was even a glorious painted plate, but why would this upset Dad?
It was from the President of France, a sensational parchment letter to George Price, dad’s father, who had passed away not long before. It was a thankyou for being in the hell of the Western Front. With the letter of gratitude, were these brand new medals, and these are the medals I have today.
That was the first time I’d heard of a place of dread, a place by the name, The Somme. Grandad had been at
Gallipoli, then after recovering from a shrapnel wound, he was sent to the Somme Valley and the village of Pozieres, known as hell on earth. 23,000 Australia casualties. None of this I realised, as I looked at this tiny button of incredible art, with the words ‘BATAILLES DELA SOMME. JVILLET – NOVEMBRE. MCMXVI.
So as I put away these little masterpieces of memory, I don’t look at them and remember, for I was not there like Grandad.
Now I think of it, maybe, just maybe, that’s why he always had them hidden at the bottom of the draw.