Our humble hero Roy

I WATCHED him march, more so a long stride. I didn’t quite know what he was marching for. I was only little and I never understood the stories, the very few he ever told.

Mum would smile and tell me he was a hero, she told me he fought in the most decorated battalion of World War II.

She told me he was a good man who cared and loved them when her father died so very young.

Roy Barrett was a Rat Of Tobruk, he was my step-grandfather, and I loved him to bits. As the years passed, and I ended up living with Nana and Roy for a time, he would tell me stories on one day and one day only, and that day, is this Sunday. He loved Anzac Day – it was his and his lost mates’ day.

Roy was at the siege of Tobruk in the 9th Division, he was at El Alamein, and he was a forward scout in Borneo against the Japanese.

Yet sadly I know very little. I wish I’d had my little recorder and could hear it from him, though I guess, he would have looked at me, given me that happy laugh, and would say “No Steven, I don’t think so, not today” and laugh again.

He always laughed, yet he’d seen terror I could never imagine. I can hear his laugh now, and it brings a smile to my face.

Roy loved my Nana and cared for her three children. I cannot remember them ever fighting, he would just laugh, in fact they both would laugh, even though they had so very little.

When Roy returned from the war, the many medals were hidden, and words of war were hardly uttered.

A hero who fought for this country, yet he worked as a cleaner in a shopping centre and gave his few pounds to dear Nana. She would give a few back for a few bob on the horses and one tallee, yes those legendary beers.

He told me once how in the jungle of Borneo, all he had was a tin of Tom Piper plum pudding.

He sat and enjoyed that cold pudding alone. It was Christmas Day.

All Nana wanted was a home, one they owned, and Roy worked and worked to get it, but when Nana said that they could get a cheap government loan because of his service, Roy wouldn’t have it. He said that he fought for his country with pride, and didn’t need or want a handout – unbelievable.

After Nana passed away, I went to visit Roy one day, of course with a tall bottle of Fosters, and we sat and talked, and for the first time he opened up to me, I guess because I was older. I was meant to be there that day, I’m sure. I was down from Townsville, and just had to see him, he was a long way from Mum’s, I took a cab.

And there in afternoon sunshine, in the little front room I used to live in, he smiled once more and told of living in the desert dugouts, of Tobruk, of El Alamein, of the respect they had for Field Marshal Rommel, the terrible jungles of Borneo, how he trained not far from Townsville, and so much more, I wish I could remember it all!

But I was there with this amazing man, an honour I can never forget.

As I left that day, the cab was waiting, there at the old wrought-iron front gate, Roy stretched out his arms and with that wide smile said “Happy Days Steven, Happy Days”, and I’ve been saying that at the end of my day, ever since.

Happy days.

See you Anzac Day, for Roy.