2000 School Magazine
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THE REUNION
Gordon Be ale stands awkwardly in a strange Sydney street with his beautiful bird-like wife, Marie. Even in the sepia photographs, even through his shyness, his tanned skin and the golden shine to his curls are perceptible. Truly an Australian golden boy, serious in his uniform. Perhaps already missing the grass-plains. So I see him in my imaginings, as he boards troop ships with thousands of mates, heading for an exotic hellhole of blood and disease. So I see him as he sneaks bandages and food into the Prisoner of War camps, the bandages stained with Condies Crystals to make them look used and old. I see his thousands of glorious mates, dispersed, hung, dead of tubeKulosis. He dresses in the native dress, uses dirt to tan his face, in solitude plans his next subterfuge. I see the meagre supplies. I see how he talks to no-one. The Japs surround the camps. The Prisoners of War are stick-thin and diseased. He fears being found, of being betrayed by the natives like the four other soldiers that he found hanged as a warning. Sometimes thereis a success:a bridgeis blown apart, a supply train is stopped. Finally, contact with the U. S. troops, a plan to take the Jap Headquarters. A bus full of Us soldiers in Jap uniform. Gordon, in native gear, drives. They penetrate the headquarters and the Japs are held in an assembly hall. I can hear the shouts, "Guns down! Guns down!" The Japanese general screams at his troops, berating them to fight, fight, destroy the enemies. Halfi!vay through the action of putting guns at their feet, they stop and begin to rise, straightening their backs again. I see him now, forgotten in his native dress, come up behind the general and pull out his knife. He grabs and threatens, blade touching skin. The Jap soldiers are powerless. I see him threaten them. "Put down your guns and co-operate, or you will be killed. Like this. " Blood pours. So I seen him in my dreams. So I see the golden boy with the blood of many on his hands. The blood his nation asks for. I visit my grandfather. He sits in his sunny kitchen, the Moreton Bay breeze coming straight off the water and swirling gently around him. He has two tubes in his nostrils, connecting to a humming machine which he pulls around on a trolley. I am petrified of standing on the tube. His hair is beautifully curly and snow white. His jaw is the same. His long limbs are the same. Who is this man that offers me Neenish tarts with hands that have known knife and gun? Who is this funny stranger who keeps his beautiful bird-like wife's ashes in a plastic lunchbox on top of the microwave? His flowers are blooming pink and yellow, the fountain in his garden splashes in the sunshine. I hearlittle of what he says but am fascinated by the ornamentsin the dim dining room, the electric scooter in the backyard. Now my memories are scarred with dreams of his war. This white-haired man, with watery eyes and the golden boy, with knock knees and a smile, who went to war and came back with blood on his hands, can never be reconciled. The witty old man has a veil of pain. I can no longer see him through it.
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