WORDS Sharon Jose

As a child of six or seven I would fossick through the garage, finding bits and pieces that would enthral me. The smell of the dust and dirt made the search far more interesting. One day I came across upon my dad's army chest.

After my tugging at the worn straps and pulling at the rusty buckle, it opened. In the dimness I saw a green hat, clothing and boots. I didn't dare touch them, let alone take anything out. From that day on I always knew it was there, a secret: unhidden, but never mentioned.

Dad returned from Vietnam nine months after he left. I was born two years later.

There were many times when I wondered why I wasn't brought up like my friends from school. They could play outside on the street, eat junk food, watch TV or any film and go to their friend's houses, no questions asked. The rules in our house were strict and unrelenting.

When every Anzac Day was approaching, the atmosphere of our house grew more sombre and tense. For years he didn't attend, wanting to forget what had happened. He never spoke about it, but inside him an internal battle was being waged.

His life was preoccupied with waking early, working hard, preparing the dinner and working outside. He made sure we were clothed, fed, healthy and safe. But there was little time for fun and idle chatter. On the weekends he would busy himself in the garden or take himself into the garage. I wondered if he reminisced with the items in the trunk. I wondered what he thought. He didn't say much and his smile was even more rare.

Then in the mid-1980s there were days that I would find him tapping at the keyboard of the computer, writing the words he couldn't say. I didn't interrupt, nor did I ask. Sometimes, a few weeks or even months later, he would hand me a manuscript with a smile.

As I read, little pieces of himself, little pieces of his war experience, started to fall into place. It had taken him over twenty long years to get these words on paper.

Not long after that, all dressed up, he went to collect his trophies, for his stories were published in Repat Magazine. The trophies lining the mantlepiece were all the incentive he needed to write more, express more and live more. There was a newfound focus in his life, and with that a sense of pride. I was proud for him.

Then in 1994, I found him in the garden. He looked very tired and drawn. He showed me his beloved rose garden, naming them and pointing out the new buds. He told me that he had been to the dawn service and the Anzac Day march. He told me that it was hard to see his mates, some unable to cope, but at the same time it was also great to catch up with them, to reminisce what they had shared and were still sharing.

Not long after that I saw that his Anzac medals were now on display on a velvet bed behind glass in the lounge cabinet. I didn't say anything, but he did. He was proud of them and told me what each one represented.

A few years ago, he seemed to take another turn for the worse. He'd grown old before my eyes, and a foreboding silence had fallen over him again. The fear, anxiety and pressure had been building. Time had caught up with him.

It has been four years since that turning point. Since then, he's received help from trained specialists, who've helped slowly but surely unwind the struggle of mind and soul. He is more of my dad now than I have ever known in my lifetime.

He is now retired. He still writes, but not as much. He has contact with his war mates often, with e-mail for mates further afield and many visits in the 4WD to stay with them. They have reunions and there are many great times. Mum is involved with the wives and that makes her feel understood.

I am pleased for him. Through the years of pain and despair when hard work was the only answer, that now there is a life worth living for. I thank God for that.

He is very healthy and very content with life. There are times when it's best to stay home when stress cripples him. Generally, he enjoys the day for what it brings and seeks pleasure in the simple things, like being safe, healthy and happy with many friends and family around him.

I know the chest in the garage isn't there any more. But he has his experience and his memories and no one can take them away from him.

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