A moment in time at a central Wellington bar some years ago as the city's civil servants trotted in and out for a quick one before hitting the train for home somehow speaks volumes for many of those who served our country at war.
One, propping the evening paper under
one arm, shaking the drops from his brolly, stretching to fetch the whisky from the barman, stands almost to attention.
A similarly-aged and supplied patron says something to the order of a name, rank and number, and 1100 hours on a date in Cairo, circa 1942, and a question something like three ranks back, one to the right.
The bar's latest arrival correctly identifies the voice, downs his whisky, they briefly shake hands, and part company.
My father later told me it was the first time he and his former fellow soldier had seen each other in 40 years. It was as much as he ever told me about the war. Families weren't places where dads liked to tell their war stories, the atrocities they'd faced might have sounded a bit like cowboys and Indians to the kids, but they weren't proud of some of the things they faced or did while they were split from their families for years.
