The Last Man of the 21st

Amidst the crowd the medals shone in the crisp Melbourne sun. The air was bright and thin. The sky seemed so far away. We felt small, but safe.

I saw the banner, handmade, supported by strong young men in suits standing like flagpoles. There I found the last man of the 21st battalion. He didn't look like a man who'd been sent to kill other men.

Back in Bandaneira, another old-timer told me he remembered the Australians. He laughed, remembering how the Japanese had run for cover when the planes flew over. He gripped my hands, his leathery fingers surprisingly strong, and thanked me. Makasih ya... Our eyes watered.

So standing on Flinders Street, I told the last man of the 21st about his Indonesian comrade, and about the manicured lawns of the cemetery in Ambon where his other comrades lay. When the band started up, his banner started moving and he went to join the parade.

I weaved my way through the crowds to the shrine, and then on home past footy fans in red white and black drinking beer on the lawns of the MCG.