大象传媒

As a child in the early 1960s, I was taken to the local war memorial in Natal, South Africa, by my grandfather. We stood there, rubbing a family member's name on the shiny plaque at the base of the memorial. My grandfather had a distant look in his eyes and I asked him where he served in the war. He didn't answer and I wondered why. He was a proud man and I knew that something still bothered him nearly 20 years after the war's end.

Not yet at school, I would often potter around his workshop. I asked many questions over the years and learned of the early mornings and long lines of people waiting with their ration cards. South Africa's farms and factories had supported the war effort and the locals had shared one common bond with Britain - ration cards. There were also the photos and treasured London Illustrated magazines that still held memories for the older generation.

My grandfather retired and I started school, and still my time was spent together with him in the workshop. Then the time came for painful memories to be disclosed. One afternoon my grandfather called me to a safe in the spare room. His face was stern yet sincere. I could see that the memory about to be revealed was a painful one. Slowly he turned the large old key in the door of the safe. It squeaked and grated as it swung open. There on the shelf was an old hand grenade, and the excitement rose within me. I knew that he was about to reveal his role in the war. Was there a story of bravery attached to the grenade? Were his military medals and papers in the small wooden box he slowly withdrew from a metal drawer?

He handed me the box and asked me to open it. I opened it carefully and looked inside expecting to see something exciting. As I stared into the box there lay a single white feather and nothing else. 'What is it?' I asked? He looked at me with a sad expression and said, 'A white feather.' I had no idea what it meant. Then he told me what he did in the war.

He had been a post office engineer working in the telecommunications department and was too valuable to be allowed to go to war in North Africa. His brothers left without him. Although he had requested permission many times, it was always denied. So he carried on his work day after day with a heart that was far away with his brothers up north. I asked what this had to do with the white feather.

One day, he had arrived home to find a parcel in the mailbox. Inside was the box with the white feather and an unsigned note with one word on it: COWARD! People had been talking and wondering why an able-bodied man was not away fighting. One unkind ignorant person had sent him the box. This was his memory of the war. Where others had medals, he had a feather. His contribution no less valuable but his memory just as painful.

There were other stories but this one has remained with me. Many brave men went away but many stayed behind, not by choice and no less brave.

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