My Dad. WWII soldier. Harold William Capon

--> -->

Can I tell you a story? I was thinking about discrimination, and how horrid it is. I’m sure all of us have been subjected to us all at one time or another. For some it is a constant happening and common place, to some, it’s rarely thought about. But it does unbelievable damage to so many.

Even age discrimination can have a lasting effect. Yet is is barely considered at times, but this was the first type that came to mind. I can always remember my dismay at seeing signs ‘Children under 12 years of age not admitted to wards’ on doors of the Daws Road Repatriation (service members - VA) hospital (‘repat’) in the 50s.

My Dad contracted TB in Middle East during WWII and very much of my life was spent being told ‘Your Dad’s gone to hospital, and might never come home’. Sometimes it was short times, sometimes a long time. Visiting hospital was a farce for me, as I was banned. Goodness only knows why. But also I saw the effects of war, even though a decade or more gone, by peeking through windows (as a child will do, of course). And while I tried to peek through to see my Dad, I never found him, no matter how many windows I peeked through.  Dad came home each of these times, despite me not being able to visit with him, and see him. I loved him very much.

I was left unsupervised, as kids often were. I found other kids to play with at times, and grew intimate with the old buildings with remnants all around from WWII. I loved the beautiful gardens. They even gave me comfort in 2001 as my Mother lay dying – looking at wonderful lavender outside her window.

But over an above that it bought a unique view to a child. The soldiers that were well enough would often sit outside. Many smoked hand-rolled cigarettes, held in boney, shaky hands, stained yellow/brown. They usually sat with elbows on knees, looking down. Lost in thoughts. I talked to many of them. While they didn’t talk of war, they did talk of coming home to lives lost, how ‘mateship’ was what got them through. Many had nicknames, bestowed in the trenches, and they would quote them with glee. My Dad was ‘Al’ (Capone), as his last name was Capon (no e). Some of them even taught me how to roll cigarettes, or how to fill pipes. But I don’t remember them smiling very much, unless it was to speak of their fellow servicemen.

So while I was anxiously waiting for the age of 12 to arrive and annoyed at the ‘discrimination’, I certainly learnt a lot. I don’t like war. I don’t think it fixes anything much at all. I do have the greatest of respect for those that serve in their country’s military. So many don’t, or can’t, or wouldn’t think of it. I learnt that mateship can help one survive almost anything (practice love, don’t hate!).

My father died when I was 18. He was given a military funeral, and even today I can’t bear to hear ‘taps’ played on the bugle, without crying my heart out.

For a while I thought I might join the Air Force. I can’t remember why I didn’t. Whether height restriction, or the fact that I would have been too much of a rebel against such rigid rules. So perhaps it is even stranger that at 24 I left London to go work for the USAF in Germany. It was still the ‘Vietnam era’. Cold war, and all that kind of stuff. Sure, a lot of crap goes on (heck, I belonged to a motorcycle gang at the time so saw a lot of ‘off base’ stuff going on), but also, even as a ‘third national’ I knew that I might even have to possible fight for my life should the air base be attacked. I again gave respect for all the servicemen that served as a service to their country. I worked to make things better, and re-wrote USAF manuals, and helped sort out computer stuff – some relating to first intercontinental links (early internet days). And married the man who walked up to me on my first day of work and introduced himself, then got off work early just so he could offer me a lift home. He surprised me, coming up to my bus stop with such a wide grin on his face … under his motorcycle helmet … how could I say no? (Turned out not the best idea to say yes, as my mini skirt was not the best to try to mount the back of a 750 Honda, with ‘sissy bar’ – lol.)

So while this may not sound like it is about discrimination, it still is. And even though so many good things came from it.  I still don’t understand why I couldn’t go in to the wards to see my Dad. 12 years. That seemed like forever in a child's eyes. And any one of the many times he went in to the Repat, being allowed in, might have been my only opportunity to see my Dad before he died.

Thank you for reading/listening.

~Jillian 
Photo: Mum & Dad, date unknown. Harold William Capon, born 26th December, 1908, Camberwell, London. Joyce Constance Capon (nee Lill) born 27th Ocober, 1912 South Australia.