IT is with no joy we bring you the story of ‘Brian’, the veteran who has spent the past few days in the foul weather most of us managed to avoid except from brief encounters when we had no choice but to go outside.
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His story emerged in the same week the nation readies itself to commemorate the centenary of the Gallipoli landings that took so many young lives and ruined forever many more in ways that weren’t necessarily visible.
Back in 1915, the deep psychological and spiritual injuries were often dismissed as shell shock – or, worse, labelled as cowardice – and veterans more often than not chose to remain silent about the horrors they had seen and the mates they had lost.
Brian, whose embarrassment at the grim situation into which he has fallen makes him want anonymity, should be cared for by the country he served. Instead, he lives in most appalling conditions, getting by on a measly allowance, which sees his foraging in the bush for food or sustaining himself on noodles.
His homelessness, alcoholism and descent into desperation echoes the stories of many who served before him – young people asked by their country to sacrifice so much then cut adrift on their return when they could not cope.
When, on Saturday, we pause to reflect on the spirit of Anzac, on the horrendous cost of war, we should also remember our more recent veterans, those who have returned from Afghanistan, Iraq and East Timor, and the injuries many of them carry – not just to their bodies but to their minds.
While our political leaders give solemn speeches about the Anzac tradition, it is incumbent on us, the voters, to drive home the message that we want them to actually honour that tradition themselves by doing their utmost to prevent veterans like Brian from being cut adrift from the country they served.
