The Token

It’s almost ANZAC Day, and as I do each year I think of members of my family (most of whom I have never met) who served in the armed forces, some seeing active duty, others not.  This morning as I created wreaths at work at the florist shop one particular family member came to mind.

My Dad’s uncle served in WWII and was captured and imprisoned by the Japanese.  He contributed to the construction of the Burma Railway.  When I was in high school I researched it to write an assignment.  We had to write a script, and I had chosen an historical documentary.  It was this assignment that got me interested in screen production and helped me decide to enrol in B. Arts in Communications after I left school. (I didn’t finish that degree, changing my mind and transferring universities and degrees after the first year, but that’s another story.)

That great uncle and the research that I had done was the inspiration for this short story I wrote a few years ago.

The Token

When I knew him he wasn’t quite the happy-go-lucky larrikin that everyone from home remembered.  They remembered that it was he who bestowed the nickname Split upon his brother.  He said that his brother’s smile resembled a split watermelon, when in reality it was no more wide and jovial than his own, and it beamed from the face of its owner with no less frequency.

When I knew him the fighting was finished.  The endless days in the humidity seated behind a Vickers gun and praying that you wouldn’t be fired upon yourself were over.  General Percival had seen to that when he surrendered and Singapore fell to the Japanese Imperial Army.

When I knew him he was a Prisoner of War.  He was a captive soldier living in appalling conditions, building a railway line for an enemy nation.  He was a captive soldier, but still an Aussie soldier.  The fighting spirit was not completely extinguished and that was how I came to be in his possession.

It was an anxious wait the night they decided to go.  The guards had a rigid routine, so they knew how long they would have to get clear once they made a start.  Having to wait to make that start was excruciating.  It seemed that the more the more time that went by before the plan could be enacted the more chance that something would go wrong.

Something did go wrong.  They were captured in the early hours of the next morning.  Machine gun fire rang out through the damp jungle, and he went back to help his fallen mate, despite being told to go on without him.  The wound his mate sustained never healed, and he died not long after being returned to camp, but not before I was passed on in secret as a token of the mateship they shared.

I remained with him for many more months of hard physical labour, very few rations and unsanitary conditions.  When the sickness got really bad he pressed me into the palm of another mate’s hand in much the same way that I came to him.  It was almost the end of the war, and I travelled back to Australia and was presented in a drawstring calico bag to his mother.

“I promised Mervyn I’d bring these to you.  He thought you’d want the beads and the dog tags, and he had these as well.  I don’t know where they came from, but he was pretty fond of ‘em.”

She untied the string and poured the contents into her hand.  Among the chain and beads was a small bamboo box with a sliding lid that housed four tiny ivory dice.  I am a symbol of human spirit, the need to make something out of a bad situation.  I am a piece of contraband that remained undetected and brought a little enjoyment to some whose will was in danger of being broken.  I represent tenacity and mateship and I have many tales to tell.

I had grown up knowing about Dad’s uncle, and had seen photographs, a bag of rosary beads and miniature dice in a tiny box with a sliding lid made of a short section of bamboo, and marvelled at the story they might tell.  I imagine that there were many items secreted away in the camps as acts of defiance, as personal comfort, and as currency.  When they cross my mind it gives me pause with the same reverence that ANZAC Day itself does.

This week’s 52 Frames topic is “Lamp”, and I can’t seem to get past the idea of incorporating it into the observance of ANZAC Day.  Hopefully I can do it justice.

Last week I got the bellows out again for the topic “Extreme Closeup”.  Here’s a couple of photos of the set up that I used; fully extended, and the way I shot the image that I entered, which was completely collapsed.  

When extended it gets the lens closer to the subject.  I found that I needed to pull back a bit so that more of the object could be seen and the image would make sense to the viewer.  The depth of field is very shallow, which means that it can be difficult to get a sharp image if you’re shooting handheld (because it’s hard to hold still).  

In the coming weeks Purple Fairy might be a bit of a frazzled fairy with a lot going on.  I’m really looking forward to next weekend when I have my first photography event for the year (Blackwater Rodeo).  Mother’s Day is the following weekend (which is generally very floral, and I’m conducting a workshop that weekend as well).  I have workshops coming up for play therapy training for my other job, and Comet Agricultural Show is the weekend after that, which is one of my favourites.  They say that variety is the spice of life.  Things are a bit spicy in May!

It's been quite a party, ain’t it

Purple Fairy