Everyone
has a story to tell. A lifetime is such a complex thing that you cannot
possibly go through it without having a tale to tell at the end. Some stories
are told, some are never told, and some are not told until years after the
lifetime that they concern has come to an end. This is the story of my great uncle
Eric Sweetnam - or uncle Chub as I always knew him. To anyone else, Chub would
seem to be any ordinary bloke. He lived and worked on his dairy farm in Uki,
just outside of the town of Murwillumbah, with his wife Margaret. To those who
were lucky enough to know him, though, he was far more than ordinary.
I
lived on the Gold Coast during my childhood so visiting the Sweetnam farm was a
rare treat. The land was endowed with deep rockpools that I have never swam to
the bottom of, and rolling hills dotted with cows that stared mindlessly at you
as you walked past. Like his land, Chub seemed timeless. He was a
third-generation farmer, and was as much married to his farm as he was to
Margaret.
He
once told me of the time he was bitten by a king brown snake; he sucked the
venom out himself, killed the snake, put it in a lunch-box so the doctors could
identify the venom and made it to the hospital with moments to spare. It is
stories like this, combined with his kind nature, that made me respect him so
much as a child. To me as a boy, he was like the intersection between Chuck
Norris and Santa Claus. He passed away in November last year, but I only came
to know the most interesting side to Chub’s life very recently. When I
contacted Margret to talk over information for this story, she gave me a recount
of Chub’s time at war - something that I never heard him talk about.
Understanding what he went through gave a whole new context to his attitude
toward life.
Chub
was too young to be a soldier. He lied about his age so that he could travel
the world with the military, fighting the enemy and having a jolly good time in
the process. This was appealing to a country boy who had never even set foot on
a train before. However, even on his first day of basic training in Tamworth he
realised that the idea of the war portrayed by the propaganda was far from
reality. I can only begin to imagine the torturous process of turning a
teenager into a soldier; it was enough for Chub to vow never to step foot in
Tamworth again, and he was a man of his word.
From
Tamworth he went to Perth, and from there he travelled by sea to the Middle
East on an old Cruise ship that had been stripped bare to fit thousands of
soldiers. In the mayhem of boarding the colossal Queen Mary he was separated
from some of his friends from Murwoolambah. These friends missed the boat by
just minutes and would be sent to a different battle on a different boat,
ultimately to their death. I suspect it is tragedies like this that made Chub
so reluctant to speak of his time overseas. He fought in the battle of El
Alamein, in which more than thirteen-thousand men died. The supplies given to
Chub’s battalion by local Egyptians ensured their survival throughout the
gruesome fight.
This
would not be the end of Chub’s experience in the war, though. From the hot
sands of the battle for Europe in the Middle-East, he was sent to the tropics
to defend Australia. As the Japanese advanced upon southern Asia, Chub’s
battalion touched down in Papua New Guinea. Once again his life was saved by
the kindness of strangers. The ‘Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels’ (a group of local Papua New
Guineans) risked their lives to bring food and medical supplies to the
Australian soldiers trapped on a hillside, subject to heavy shelling from the
Japanese. Margaret emphasised Chub’s respect for these brave men.
It
was in this battle that Chub was shot in the chest. The bullet travelled
through his arm in the direction of his heart, only to be stopped by the
metallic shaving mirror that he kept in his left pocket. Yet again, by chance
or fate, he was saved; shortly after he was taken from Papua New Guinea to a
medical station in Borneo, the remainder of his platoon were captured and made
prisoners of war until the Japanese surrendered years later. Chub recovered
despite the disease-ridden tropical conditions, and went on to earn seven
medals in combat. After many long years, he returned home to the comfort of the
Sweetnam Farm, and to Margret.
Despite
his admirable bravery, he was never proud of being part of the war. His medals
were hidden away, only to see be worn on ANZAC day each year. Even then they
meant little to him. His one prize was a short letter that his Commander had
sent to Chub’s mother at some point: “Eric is doing a fine job and you should
be proud of him.” He carried this note in his pocket whenever he left the farm.
Literally
up until the day he died -at the remarkable age of ninety-one - he got up early
each morning to ride the tractor and heard the cattle in. After almost a
century he was still active and witty as ever. He now lies in the Murwillumbah cemetery
with the three generations of Sweetnams above him. He witnessed the brunt of
mankind’s greed take the lives of his friends, but still held faith in humanity
after witnessing the kindness of the locals who risked their lives to save him.
The remarkable thing about Chub was that he had the strength of character to go
through the depths of hell and ultimately come out with an optimistic view of
the world.
* * *