Only the dead have seen the end of war.

~ Plato

FI-YIV WUN

Sweat trickles down the back of Daniel’s neck as he stands on the footpath beneath the colonial style balcony on Lydiard Street opposite The George Hotel. He narrows his eyes against the bright morning light as he scans the rooftops as far as the eye can see. All clear. He glances down at his watch. He needs to hurry if wants to make it in time for his appointment but still he hesitates. Asking for help… What kind of man can’t provide for his family? What kind of man can’t put food on his table? Can’t keep the lights on or pay the mortgage? What kind of man comes cap in hand begging for charity? A man who would rather die in the Afghan desert, again, than endure this humiliation, that’s what kind. But there’s no way around it. He needs money, more money than Kelly earns as a nurse. He’s got to do something to tide them over, and this is his only option. He’d much prefer to ask his family, after all, charity begins at home, doesn’t it? But his father hasn’t got any money, and his brother Russell is still paying back the money he owes for his failed solo plumbing business. Russell is honest, down to earth, and would give you his last drop of water if you were both stuck out on the Nullarbor. But he was a lousy businessman who managed to flush the bank’s fifty-thousand-dollar business loan down the proverbial. If it weren’t for his old employer being willing to take him back, he’d still be unemployed.

His stomach churns. Thinking about this shit makes him sick but he can’t stand here grumbling. He’s got to get to that appointment. As soon as the traffic slows down, he steps off the curb and crosses the road. He’s almost across when he catches sight of his reflection in the hotel window nearest the front door. Tall and broad shouldered, he realises the shadows beneath his Federation blue eyes make him look older than his mere thirty-three years. His cheeks are sinking and his hair, once fiercely red and cut high and tight into a short back and sides, is now scruffy and fading into the pale red hue of a Sydney Blue Gum.

He steps up and crosses the threshold into the building and instinctively rubs the scar beneath the stubble on the side of his chin as his mind explodes with memory. He got it here, in this hotel. He can’t remember why they were here, but it was twenty-five, or maybe twenty-six, years ago. He and Russell were kids, still in primary school. He was chasing Russell up and down the old wooden staircase before he tripped and fell and banged his chin on the bottom stair. He can still remember holding back tears as he attempted to hide the blood seeping from his split skin while his father gruffly warned them to stop running around like a bloody pair of galahs. His father was an old-fashioned, is an old-fashioned, hardworking bloke who believes that children should be seen and not heard – at all times.

Now, as he crosses the earthy red floor tiles, his heart begins beating faster and harder, inside his chest. He hates sharing stuff about himself at the best of times and in a few minutes, he’s going to have to share more than what’s comfortable with a complete and utter stranger. When he gets to the reception desk, the young blonde woman greets him with a beaming smile. ‘Hello, can I help you?’

His tongue is thick and limp in his mouth. His feet are frozen too. He should go back home and forget the whole thing. All he has to do is turn and walk away.

The receptionist maintains her smile, only now it’s clearly forced as she asks again, ‘Are you right? Can I help you?’

‘I ahhh…’ Daniel replies, swallowing hard. ‘I’ve got an appointment to see Shirley. Shirley Price.’

‘Oh, yeah. And your name?’

‘Shaw. Daniel Shaw.’

‘No worries’, she says as she picks up the phone. ‘Take a seat and I’ll let her know you’re here.’

Daniel nods and steps away from the desk but he doesn’t take a seat. Instead, he shoves his hands inside his pockets and looks around the room. Despite umpteen renovations, every brick reverberates with the building’s illustrious one hundred and fifty-year old history. It’s not the original building, of course. That was The George Inn where miners, furious about the exceedingly expensive mining licences and unjust laws and regulations they were forced to endure, planned their stand against the colonial government at the Eureka Stockade. Resplendent as the building is now, with its off-white walls and antique-looking floor tiles, he can’t help but wonder whose idea it was to make this place a sub-branch of the Returned and Services League. It seems a little weird. But, nevertheless, here they are providing assistance to serving and ex-serving members of the Australian Defence Force.

He looks back at the receptionist. Why the bloody hell is this taking so long? He should just turn around and forget it. Then he notices there’s a portable flatscreen TV on behind her.

Patrick Walmsley, the debonaire host of the panel show called Roundup sits at the iconic U-shaped desk with five invited guests. Vision cuts to a close up of a middle-aged man in a dark blue suit. A graphic overlay at the bottom of the screen identifies him as Dr Joseph Moore, a professor at the University of Adelaide. ‘Well,’ Moore says, ‘I think it’s important to understand that not all military-related trauma is connected to deployment.’

Daniel can’t tell if the sound is on. If it is, he can’t hear it, not with the cheap shitty hearing aids he was forced to buy. But the closed captions are on so he can read what they’re saying.

‘Participating in training exercises,’ Moore says, ‘can be just as traumatic as serving in a combat zone. But in answer to your question, PTSD is a mental health condition that is triggered by experiencing or witnessing a traumatic event such as seeing a dead body or seeing someone badly injured or killed. Increased exposure to combat, discharging a weapon, being kidnapped, held captive, or simply the fear of those things are all significant risk factors. Not to mention being injured or seriously hurting someone else as a requirement of your job.’

Daniel’s brow furrows as his eyes narrow.

‘Tell us some of the symptoms of PTSD?’ Walmsley says. ‘How does it affect a person’s day-to-day life?’

‘There’s a raft of symptoms, of course, but I think the most apparent ones are intrusive memories, flashbacks, nightmares, heightened arousal, changes in thinking and mood… All things that can affect a person’s daily life and wellbeing.’

Walmsley turns to the Minister of Defence. ‘Jonathan Davidson, this is emerging as a growing problem for the ADF, isn’t it?’

‘I have been informed,’ Davidson replies, ‘that PTSD is going to be the number one challenge facing the military in the future. But I can assure you that I am personally committed to the long-term welfare of ADF members and their families—’

The receptionist hangs up the phone. ‘Shirley will meet you —sta— in the —oom.’

Daniel’s eyes remain glued to the TV.

The woman bends sideways, blocking Daniel’s view. ‘Excuse me.’

Daniel tears his eyes away from the show and looks at her.

‘Shirley will meet you —sta— in the —oom.’

Daniel taps his malfunctioning hearing aid. ‘I’m sorry, where?’

She points her index finger upwards as she mouths her words slowly and carefully. ‘—n the boardroom. Upstairs.’

Daniel gives her a nod and then crosses the hallway to the staircase, the same staircase that had maimed him as a boy. It seems small now, so small he takes two stairs at a time until he gets to the first-floor landing.

The door to the boardroom is open. He walks in expecting to see Shirley waiting for him, but there’s no sign of her. He takes a seat at the head of the long dark wood table and looks around. The room is long and narrow, but the pressed ceiling, painted white, works well with the cream and brown colour scheme to make the space seem larger than it is.

‘Mr Shaw!’

A woman’s voice bellows as a short rotund woman carrying a very large notebook bustles through the room’s only door.

‘I am sor— to have kept you wait—,’ she puffs as she thrusts her chubby hand towards him.

‘Call me Daniel,’ he says rising from the black leather chair to give her hand a quick but polite shake.

Shirley’s cheeks balloon as she smiles. ‘I’d prefer Mr Shaw if you don’t mind. It’s more professional, don’t you think?’ She closes the door. ‘So, Shaw? Any relation to Leonard Shaw?’

‘He’s my father,’ Daniel replies taking his seat.

‘I thought I recognised the name,’ she says, as she squeezes her backside into a chair on the opposite side of the table. ‘We got talking over the Enchanted Sunrise at the festival. A charming man. Very gracious. And knowledg—le.’

Daniel stares at her blankly.

‘The Begonia Festival,’ she explains. ‘A coup— of years back.’

Daniel nods as he makes the connection. His father is a keen gardener and attends the Begonia Festival every year.

‘And your mother? I understand she was unwell. She’s made a full recovery, I hope.’

‘She passed away last year. Look, Mrs—’

‘Oh, I am sorry to hear that,’ Shirley says cutting him off mid-sentence. ‘I’ve no doubt she was a lovely woman.’

Daniel nods. Despite passing almost two years ago, the pain of his mother’s death is still raw. The cancer that got her was relentless. It wore out her spirit and wasted her body down to the bone. He was on deployment…

Tap. He taps his fingers on the arm of his chair as Shirley flips open her notebook. There’s no trace of the smile that was stuck to her face a minute ago. Now the look in her eyes is as cold and inhospitable as the Afghan mountains in wintertime. ‘So, what can I do for you, Mr Shaw?’

‘Veterans’ Affairs is working on my claim, but it’s turning out to be a bit of a long wait and things are getting a bit tight, you know, financially. I was hoping you could help tide us over for a bit.’

‘I see. And do you —ork?’

‘Do I work? Not at the moment,’ he replies.

The woman stares at him blankly.

‘I see. Are you mar—, Mr Shaw?’

‘Married? Yes.’

‘A— your wife, does she work?’

He stops tapping on the chair and starts tapping his hearing aid instead. ‘She’s a nurse. Up here at the hospital.’

Shirley scratches her expensive ball point pen across a pure white page. What the fuck is she writing? Is he on trial here? Being judged? Spilling his guts to a stranger, hoping she can help him to pay his bills is degrading. Humiliating. But if he doesn’t go through with it, they’re going to be up shit creek.

‘Any children?’

‘A girl and a boy. Look—’

‘Are you working with a Support Officer?’

‘A VSO? Yeah, I am.’

‘And where is he located?’

‘He’s in Melbourne.’

‘His name?’

‘Frieberg. Adam Frieberg.’

‘Good,’ she says, writing more notes. ‘And h— long has it been since your discharge?

‘Almost six months.’

‘And your role and rank?’

‘Corporal.’ he replies. ‘Special Forces, 2nd Commando Regiment.’

Shirly lowers her pen and looks at him. ‘Special Forces operatives earn a very good salary, Mr Shaw. Especially when —’re on deployment. That makes your request for financial assistance… Unusual.’

Daniel resumes tapping as his heart sinks into his stomach. He did earn a good salary. Good enough to help support his mother and father when his father lost his job, and they got into strife with their house payments. And good enough to help support his brother when he went through trade school. Then again when Russell wanted to work for himself and start his own business. Moving all over the country meant that Kelly wasn’t always able to work thought she always did her best to find something that paid. So, yeah, he probably could have done better with his money, but when he was training or on deployment, financial matters took a back seat to doing his job and not getting killed. ‘The Board determined my injury is permanent so, I submitted a compensation claim. I’m just waiting for it to be processed, but it’s taking quite a while.’

‘I see. And when did you submit this claim?’

Tap, tap. ‘Months ago. I’ve received a few interim payments since then… I understand the R.S.L. can help tide us over in the meantime.’

‘We help a lot of veterans who are in real need.’

Who are in real need? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

‘Does your wife work full time?’

Tap, tap, tap, tap. ‘Yes, and overtime when she can get it.’ He watches Shirley scribbling in her notebook and gets a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. She’s not going to help him. Or if she does help him, he’s going to have to bare his soul or hand over a newborn child in exchange.

‘I’m going to need to see evidence of your bank account,’ she says. ‘Are you able to provide your last two statements?’

‘Okay, look,’ he says, getting up from his chair. ‘I think I’ve made a mistake.’

The woman looks up, slack jawed and confused. ‘I don’t understand…’

Daniel heads for the door. ‘Sorry for wasting your time.’

‘Mr Shaw?’

Without a word or a hint of hesitation, Daniel walks out leaving Mrs Price to do whatever the fuck it is she does here.

Rage burns like fire in his veins, vaporising logic and reason as he heads down the stairs to the ground floor. He scans the place looking for a men’s room. There. He hurries over, pushes the door open, and ducks inside. The room is spacious. White porcelain fixtures with brass taps, cream-coloured tiles on the walls, black and white tiles on the floor; thankfully, there’s no one else in here. The veins in his neck pulsate as he paces back and forth. Fucking bitch. Back and forth, back and forth. Who the fuck does she think she is? Back and forth, back and forth. Smack! Smack smack smack smack! He pounds the wall until his knuckles bleed and the wall tiles crumble and fall to the floor. Fuck. Back and forth. Finally, his mind stops racing and the throbbing in his neck ebbs. He really should get out of here. He looks at the wall and the traces of blood glistening on the broken edges of the tile. He quickly rinses his hands in the sink and hurries for the door. He’s got to get out before anyone cottons on to him being the cause of this mess.

Ready to see Daniel's next steps?

You’re about to read the opening of

DEAFENING SILENCE