A Small Slice of old

Rhodesian Pie.

George Hogg.
b. 15th. Sept 1891.....d. 22nd. October 1918.

#3.... Uncle Georges Medal, or.....

A Strange Coincidence!

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Uncle George's Medal....... or, A Strange Coincidence

When my grandfather William, along with his family arrived in
Rhodesia by train in September, 1913, they thought they had made the
move to "paradise," for the country side was already green and lush.
My father, Tom, then a young man of twenty four told me that it had
rained heavily already and that the streets of Gwelo were churned into
mud by the wagons and carts going about their business. Anyone
reasonably well acquainted with the Midlands will remember that "hot
and dry" generally takes precedent over "wet and green" at that time
of the year!
A few days later they took the train which in those days ran once a
week to Fort Victoria and reached Iron Mine Hill, a nondescript
railway siding about halfway between Gwelo and Umvuma and all
their worldly possessions were unloaded from the train and onto the
ox-wagon that had also made the rail journey from the Eastern Cape
with them. Included too, was a two roomed "kit" form, wood and iron
"house which my grandfather had purchased in East London. The
family was met at the siding by a local farmer, a Mr Webb, who lent
them, by previous arrangement, a span of oxen to pull the wagon.

Gwelo Railway Station as the Hoggs found it, in 1913.

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It apparently took more than a week to find the farm which my
grandfather had "bought" from the BSA Company, mainly because
there was no road to follow, in the ordinary sense of the word. A road
had been surveyed, but only by "markers" of some sort, and the little
convoy kept getting lost, until someone could locate the next marker.
Eventually they completed the twenty five miles from Iron Mine Hill
to the farm, arriving on my grandmother's birthday, early in October,
and set up camp under a large "mChakata" tree, which of course was
known forever after, as the "Birthday" tree.
After a short period spent camping there, they moved about two miles
further onto the property where good, deep pools of water were found,
to assure the supply of water, and in a relatively short space of time
the wood and iron "house" was erected and "home", for the next sixty
five years began to take shape. Here too, my father said it had rained
"early" and the "native" cattle were "as fat as butter" and there was
grass everywhere. If you will forgive me for going on about the early
rains and good grass, it is only because in reality the "rainy season"
started on, or after the second week of November in the Tokwe Valley
in the vast majority of years, and was more often late than early.
Normally, therefore, October was the worst time of the year, since it
would not have rained for about six months and the grass would have
been finished both in volume and quality. I remember October and
November being the most trying time of the year, when water had all
but dried up and cattle were at their worst, with deaths from "poverty"
happening at a depressing rate in some years.
Anyway, it was into this "paradise" that farming began in earnest, and
now the scene is set for this little tale......"Uncle George's Medal",
which takes off a year or two later, when the First World War was
already underway.

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Survival depended on you being able to grow your own food. Maize
in summer and about an acre of wheat in winter, planted in a damp
"vlei" to provide the wheat to make into bread, for the rest of the year.

By now the picture of paradise of two years ago had vanished, reality
had set in and their first drought had taken over. Nevertheless, the
ploughing had to be done to avoid starvation and conditions were
poor to say the least. My father "managed" one single furrow plough
and his younger brother, George, the other. Dad said the oxen were so
thin and exhausted that at the end of each "furrow" they had to stop
and let them rest. My old Dad remembered this occasion well, for two
reasons. The first, because it was to all intents and purposes, the last
time he saw his brother and the second was that he was now left alone
to do the ploughing!

My father, Tom, on the left and the only photo of my Uncle George,
on the right, with their parents, Will and Maggie.

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Uncle George must have lost all patience with the hopelessness of the
situation because at this point he made a decision which was to alter
his future forever.
In the middle of the furrow, his oxen had "stalled" and could not go
on. He threw down the plough and shouted to my father,
"Tom, this is a k-----r's job! I am going to join up!"
And with that he walked off to the homestead, packed his bag and
walked the twenty five miles to the rail siding, caught the train to
Gwelo and in a short space of time was fighting with the South
African army in German South West Africa against, of course, the
Germans.
Sadly I know nothing of any adventures Uncle George may have had
during his stint in South West Africa, but he returned safely,
obviously with no desire to try farming again, because he went
straight to a job on the Falcon Mine in Umvuma.
From Umvuma he was quite happy to send 5 a month from his
wages back to his parents on the farm, to help them keep their "heads
above water" though. And then disaster struck the whole world in the
form of the terrible Influenza outbreak of 1918/19 which is said to
have killed more people than the Great War itself, and Uncle George
took ill and died along with all the rest. It was two weeks before news
reached the family on the farm that their son and brother had died,
and was already buried. Dad told me that it was rather grim making
the journey to Umvuma. The tragic loss to the family was one thing to
be dealt with, but a plague can never take place in a tidy and
convenient fashion. Dotted along the road were decomposing victims
of the disaster, as well.

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The Falcon Mine employed hundreds of "native" workers and as the
'flu took hold amongst them, they would set off for home, presumably
either to escape its ravages or in the hope of finding time to get over
the illness at home. It must have really been something else for if you
got it you were probably dead in a couple of days. Corpses lay along
the way! Truly, a plague of "Biblical" proportions!
With his second oldest son now dead, my grandfather wrote to the
South African War Office, enquiring as to whether George was
eligible for a "Campaign Medal" as a result of having served in the
army at that time. I still have the reply from the Defence Headquarters
in Pretoria which states that Pvt. G. Hogg had been awarded the
"1914---1915 Star for Service Rendered in the German South West
Africa Campaign" It also tells that the medal would be forwarded in
due course, but that the "riband could be purchased from any Military
tailor and can be worn immediately".

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Well, the medal never arrived, and there was little to be done about it
at that time, so the matter "rested", if you like.
Now one must "ratchet" forward in time, from 1920, to 1995, the
small matter of seventy five years!
Prior to going into exile in South Africa, I had worked for National
Foods in Zimbabwe for some years, and in about 1995 I attended a
"braai" on the South Coast of South Africa to meet up with my old
boss, from National Foods, John Bannister. During the course of

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conversation, we discussed John's love of collecting military
memorabilia and quite casually he said, "By the way, I have a
campaign medal with the name of G. Hogg on it! Is he a relative of
yours?"
And so this incredible coincidence completed the cycle of the story
which began so long ago! I was quite "flabbergasted" (now there is a
word that you don't see too often!) and too short of ready cash to ask
him if he would be willing to sell the medal back to its rightful
owner, so, as far as I know John still has it in his possession.
.
If youre out there somewhere, John, and you get to read this, please
give me a call and we can perhaps talk numbers!
Tom Hogg,
Sunnyhill Farm,
England.
The Spring of 2008.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
P.S....As mentioned earlier, Uncle George had already been buried in
the cemetery in Umvuma, for two weeks before word of his death got
to Rio. My grandparents had a stone erected on his grave in due
course, but for some reason my grandmother was convinced, to her
dying day, that the stone had been put on the grave next to the one in
which she was convinced her son was buried. I would guess that when
a plague like the 1918 flu strikes, that the living, tasked with the
job of getting bodies buried as quickly as possible could be excused
for errors in the details of who ended up where!
In another peculiar twist to the end of this tale, I have become
acquainted, through the internet with John Mathieson, an exRhodesian who now lives in South Africa. John has family roots in

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old Umvuma and by pure chance, at some point in the past he went
around Umvuma taking photos of anything that took his fancy. He
wrote to me a while back and asked if the photo of a tombstone in
Umvuma was that of the grave of a relative of mine.

And this was the photo......................thanks again, John!

Jorgen!... You might well ask! My great-grandmothers second

husband was a Dane by the name of Jorgen Fischer and my
grandmother spent ten years of her young life living with her stepfamily in Denmark. It must have been a happy experience for her
because she named her second son after her step-father..... Jorgen,
being the Danish version of George!
Dad missed his brother. They had grown up together and were close
both in age and friendship.

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P.P.S.........29th. January 2013.

And now there is a postscript to the story which appears above which
I wrote five years ago. About three years ago, the story was published
in Arizona by Chris Whitehead in Vol. 25 No. 3 of his magazine,
Rhodesians Worldwide...... Slowly but surely, wheels began to turn,
with a common friend of John Bannisters and myself reading the
article at some point in time.
A couple of weeks back, John, now living in England as well,
contacted me, out of the blue, asking if I would like to buy the medal
from him for what he had paid in the first place. This time I was in a
better position to do business and today, the medal and its ribbon
came back home through the post about ninety- seven years after
being awarded to my uncle in 1915. Thanks again, John.

Job done! .......as the saying goes!