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kissed the wharf. The funniest part of it was that before we came off the boat at Port Melbourne
there was an official party ushered up the gangway onto the boat, the old top-hat brigade, come
to give us a great welcome. And I couldn't believe my eyes! The bloke at the end was my
father's brother, my revered Uncle Bob, who was a reprobate at any time. He'd attached
himself to the official party, and there he was, lifting his hat to everybody. And Bob wasn't
anybody. I went to meet him and took him away, and when we were all ready to disembark he
and I walked down the gangway together. How he did it, I don't know. He'd been in the war
and was discharged from the army. He was injured at Tobruk.
'My parents heard about me first from a bloke in WA. He picked up a wireless message with a
long list of names sent out from Singapore. In 1944. Up to then they didn't know if I was dead
or alive. I was reported missing, believed to be a POW. This bloke rang my father and told him
I was on the list. My parents were later advised by the War Officer, via Bangkok, that I was on
my way home.
'We met up in late October, not long before the Melbourne Cup. My father was ill - he'd had a
heart attack, about 12 months ago. He was still at home. But mother came to the Repat
Hospital, where all I had was a series of quick medical tests. I was reasonably fit by this time.
At my last camp at Ubon there hadn't been any really hard work, and the food there was better
than on the line.
'There was nothing emotional when we met. I said: "Hallo, mum." It was like I'd just been away
on holiday. Basically, that's all it was. But then I've always thought there's no point in getting
yourself upset to any big degree about anything. I was home -1 was reasonably fit - it was all
over and done with.
'I've never really had any bad dreams or anything about the war. I've dreamt of parts of it. But
nothing really bad. It was never a terrible trauma, although I suppose I aged 10 years in that
period. I never regretted it. I learned a lot, and I made some tremendous friendships. Those
blokes who were with me then and are now at home are no different from what they were 40
years ago. Their attitude to life is the same. Very few of them worry about anything. They still
laugh and tell jokes. I might see one every 12 months now, and it's just as if you've been talking
to him all year. You've got that affinity. It's different with civilians, with those who weren't there.
'I still have an uneasy feeling about the Japanese. A terrible feeling really about the way they're
buying this country up. So do a lot of the blokes. But there's not much we can say or do. We're
too old now. Those slant-eyed
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bastards want to take over the country and this is their way of doing it. Buying it up. It's so
cheap to them. They've got money, but no land.
'I went back to Beauchamp Brothers as a furniture salesman in April 1946. Thelma was
working there then, in the office, on the switchboard and typing. But I didn't take much notice of
her at that time.
All I wanted to do was enjoy myself, mainly with the blokes who had been with me in the war.
We met whenever we could, in a pub, and we'd get boozed, go to the races, the footie, the
cricket. We took a long time to settle down. You see, we were so used to being together. You
wanted to be with them whenever you could. You talked the same language. You'd been
together for four and a half years in all and were very close. It was a way of life, and you didn't
want to let it go.'
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