Back in the 70s, the shedule was this: get up, have a shot or a hair of the dog, and head into town around noon. Meet up with the boys at the Criterion or the Windsor Tavern and have a few quiet ones. Shout the odd old boy a pony, stick with the boys, and stay well clear of any officers you recognised. For that matter, stay well clear of the parade. Head up to the Burdekin on Oxford Street. Bunker down in the two-up pit. Win a few, lose a few,  and get blotto.

By four, you’d get a little toey. By then the bar had filled up with all the blue blazers and medals and blokes would start getting elbowed at the bar. For every elbow, you’d push back and you’d put your weight behind it. Hard. If anyone wanted to make something of it, it was on. I took on an MP staff sergeant once -  built like a brick sh!thouse. I didn’t give a flying bugger.

The boys brought me round with a schooner of iced water to the face. The MP bought me a beer.

There was never one blue over the game. The two blokes who ran the Burdekin two-up school had it well under control. If anyone had any biffo over a toss, I never saw it. And if they did, they took it outside.

Some years, you’d see blood and teeth on the footpath outside. Sometimes you’d see broken sets of dentures. One year, someone left an artificial leg with a shiny black shoe and an elastic suspender holding up the sock. Oxford Street didn’t have poofs back then, it had lonely old blokes in cardigans who lived in pubs and boarding houses. Any poofs would have known to stay well.away from the city on Anzac Day. Back then, we ran the joint.

By sundown, the city was packed full of bodies. A corrupt ex-copper once told me they’d run the paddy wagons through around six. They’d haul up the drunks and throw them in the Central cells for the night. There must have been hundreds of those poor bastards down there. Some would even front up to court to face the D and D charge. They always got off. If you didn’t turn up to court, you’d get a dollar fine in the mail - if you were stupid enough to give an address.

It never happened to me. I’d park the Valiant on Forbes or Burton. If I was too pissed to walk, the boys would drag me up to the car, find the carkeys in my pocket and start her up. It was up to me to aim the car at Broadway and make it home. Somehow, I always did. buggered if I know how.

I should have stayed up the Cross. The next day, without fail, I’d head back in and buy a $50 hangover cure from this old tart I knew, Alice. I drank with the boys, but the gear was my poison. I’d copped a habit in Hoi An and always went back. Needles were impossible to buy back then. The chemists were kunts. Alice shot me up with hers if I gave her some gear. I didn’t want to bugger her, but I happily used the worn out fit she sharpened on a matchbox. Hundreds of junkies must have used that fit, including Alice.

We eventually gave up on Anzac Day. The boys drifted off, got wives, got kids, and lost touch with each other. I still see a couple of the boys, but it’s not like the old days anymore. None of us bother with Anzac Day now.

Anzac Day’s become a family thing. You see the little nippers on Grandad’s shoulders waving flags. They even bring grandma along. When I went, Anzac Day was just for the boys. What happened on Anzac Day stayed on Anzac Day - you know what I mean. When I went, the WWII blokes were still elbowing each other at the bar and out the front, punching on. Now, the ones still kicking on aren’t allowed out of their nursing homes. Matron’s taken over completely now.

On Anzac Day, us Nam blokes got respect that we never got on any other day of the year. My crowd never wore a uniform or a medal on Anzac Day, but everyone in the pubs knew who we were. We always got a wink or a nod from the old blokes.

On the street, the rest of the world looked straight through you. On Anzac Day, we knew who we were and where we’d been. It was a shared recognition of what we’d all seen and done. How much we’d lost. We’d all gone off to war as boys. Many had come out as ghosts. Many of us hadn’t come out at all. But on Anzac Day, we were the boys again.

Times have changed. We’ll never have those days back again. You young blokes should enjoy your days while you can - you never get them back. You wake up one day and they’re gone. If any knucklehead tells you to go off and fight for the Empire or Uncle or the Australian flag, tell him where to go. If any chump elbows you at the bar, push back.

And if an old whore called Alice offers you her fit in return for a taste, bugger her instead. I’d rather get the clap than Hep C. The doc says one drink could pack my liver in for good, but every time Anzac Day comes round, I can’t help thinking of those days when we were still young and had it all.

I won’t be going this year, but if you do, have a quiet one for me and the boys.

It’s not our world anymore, it’s yours.

Yesterday in the gentle autumn sun in the village of Springwood in the Blue Mountains, we gathered at the cenotaph after the march for the service. Everyone was  there school kids, local groups, every facet of the Community.

The service was not overlong and was touching in every aspect. At 11.15am as promised a R.A.A.F. Hercules buzzed us.

I looked around at the outpouring of goodwill from everyone present...and I thought yes, this is what it is all about, this is the spirit of Anzac, this is what our forefathers fought for..for this..this freedom ...this wonderful Country of ours.

If only that goodwill could be multiplied by 365 each year.

God bless Australia and all of its sons and daugnters.

Yes it was a good read if that's your story Karnal.

The Vietnam vets have never had the accolades they deserve probably because of the rapidly changing era at that time and the whole total confusion of an illegal war based on fabrication.

The conservatives weren't happy that a LW government brought our boys home.

You really want to know, old son?