Order of the White Feather
Whenever we had family celebrations, my dad would tell us about men like his father, who received the “Order of the White Feather” as he had not gone to war.
These white feathers were an “emblem of cowardice” for “chickens”. I was never sure whether dad was joking or telling the truth – as an eight year old I did not understand. My grandfather enlisted for WWII, but was knocked back due to his bad knees. For men of this era, it was a mixed blessing not going to war. They were indeed alive but besieged by confusion, guilt and societal expectation. As being a solider dead, wounded or living, meant you were accepted by society. It was part of the male psyche. My grandfather was quiet about this topic – I suspect there was much shame.
Reminiscing about the old days, dad would tell stories about his father, whom we called Booma. They were nothing of great notoriety, but rather of everyday events, which he believed “told of the character of a man”. Dad tells us, “Boomas life had spanned the First World War, the Great Depression and the Second World War.” During these times the world was an unsafe place on the whole. Although people lived in fear with anxiety, most made the best of their circumstances.
Born at Beechworth in 1911, and raised by his older sister and aunts, Booma had lived on the farm in Myrtleford in country Victoria where he began working life on the tobacco farms.
He met my grandmother Phyllis, who had previously lived in Carlton. Due to the Depression Phyllis and two of her sisters went and worked on the tobacco farms, where she met Booma. Once married, my grandparents moved to Nana Courtney’s terrace house in Carlton. Carlton, like its neighboring suburbs, was considered uncultured and uninhabitable. Their house was spotless but crowded with many brothers, sisters and eccentric aunts who were irritating to live with.
In 1946, Booma moved his family to Royal Park’s Camp Pell, which had been home to thousands of soldiers during WWII. In December 1945, it was transformed into emergency public housing. In those days the houses were tiny hot boxes made of corrugated iron. There was little shade, as most of the gum trees were chopped down to make way to build them.
No tale was told just once. I often wondered whether they were mythical, like this one: Before sun up, Booma and his “big black Nash” departed the Queen Victoria Market. It was “chock-a-block with fruit and veggies” and by seven o’clock Booma would arrive at Camp Pell to sell the produce to residents along with his jockey Jack.
“Jack, remember that one of us always stays with the Nash, some people would lift anything not bolted down.”
Driving around, they heard a shrill scream and the smashing of glass. Turning to see where the noise had come from, they saw an axe buried in the back seat. Dad then relays to us Booma’s exact words, “We were approached by an agitated individual wondering whether we’d seen his axe… we told him it was buried in the back seat of the Nash, if he knew what was good for him he would disappear before we buried it somewhere else.”
“Hold on, was someone trying to attack Boom?” I asked.
“No,” dad said. “The man was an angry man, like many in his day, broken by the war. In a fit of rage he threw it at the wall, but it missed and went through the window instead.”