Thanks. Now bugger off...

So, John Leake’s medals are up for sale and are expected to raise lots of money.


For those who don’t know, John was a former squaddie who, while serving aboard HMS Ardent during the Falklands War as a NAAFI canteen manager manned a machine gun and took out at least one Argie Skyhawk. The ship had the crap bombed out of her and later sank.

He got a Distinguished Service Medal for that. He already had a General Service Medal for Northern Ireland and of course was awarded the South Atlantic Medal when he came home.

I never had the privilege of meeting him and sadly, he died a few years ago, but I understand from those who knew him that he was an unassuming man who couldn’t really understand what all the fuss was about. In his opinion he had just done what anyone would have done in the circumstances. So typical of people who are hailed as heroes. Ordinary people who do extraordinary things in extreme conditions.

Some may say that it is a shame that John’s medals are being sold off. But medals are a very personal thing, they mean very different things to different people and it is not for anyone to judge the motives of those who sell either their own medals or those of loved ones. I hope that the seller achieves whatever they hope for.

Many feel obliged to sell their medals through hardship, hoping to raise a bob or two in order to pay a bill here and there, and in some cases just to survive to the end of the week.

I’m glad to say that I have never reached those extremes but there is no doubt that I have come uncomfortably close once or twice. It doesn’t do anything for your self-esteem to realise that all you have between you and destitution is a miserable bit of metal – the only thing that represents any sort of acknowledgement of the time when you stood in harm’s way so that others wouldn’t have to.

I count myself lucky. In my day, redundancy was something that only happened to civilians. When I left the Navy, it was my own choice. I can’t imagine how some of those who received their notices to quit today will feel in a few months’ time, when the severance money has run out and suddenly, they don’t matter to those around them. When nobody will give them a job because all they know is discipline and service.

I at least can believe - or kid myself if you like - that my service was in some small way valued, if only for the briefest time.

These poor bastards will have to come to terms with the fact that after all they did, after all the sacrifices, the blood sweat toil and tears, their employer regarded them as nothing more than mere commodities, to be discarded for the sake of scraping a few quid together.

I wonder what they will be thinking when they are staring in desperation at their bit of metal.

What price freedom, eh?