Never Forget

North Wagga- Farewell

CLIVE CAMPBELL 2/1 Pioneers

The crack of the ball resounds through the evening air. It was only a few days ago that we, Pioneers had word of our deployment overseas. After a briefing of sketchy details and promise of secrecy, I am at home on leave, enjoying one last swing of the wood with Max. I still find the similarities between Max and Shadow uncanny. Despite the two-year difference in their ages, they possess the same physique and mannerisms. No wonder, I had felt an instant brotherly connection with Shadow. Max is growing up quickly and he is a formidable opponent at both cricket and football. He possesses a speed that is not typical of the Campbell gene and often taunts us brothers- 'I don't need to tread on his opponent's toes to get a head start' is one of his favourites. The word around town is that the Richmond footy club is one of the teams looking at Max as a prospective rover. I hope for his sake he gets the chance but somehow I don't think he will, too many men have already traded their footy gurneys for khaki uniforms.

"How's that?" Max cries, "Campbell out, bowled Campbell and caught Campbell". I can do nothing but shakes my head at his competitiveness. My little brother will give the shirt off his back to help someone but on the sporting field, he makes you pay for any lapse of concentration. "Not playing for sheep stations here mate," I laugh.

The Arnott's biscuit tin with its brightly coloured red and blue rosella that contains my boyhood treasures is tucked under my jumper. I know Max is probably too old for the booklets but I want him to have them anyway. Reaching down to my jumper, I retrieve the box. It is a tin, Max knows well. Over the years, he has felt the pain of the well-aimed clip over the ear when I caught him removing the lid to sneak a look. More out of habit than fear Max looks cautiously at me. He is ready to dodge at the slightest flick of a wrist. "Maxy boy, I want you to have these."

Max takes the tin, carefully opens the lid and picks up one of the miniature orange booklets. I started collecting them as a teenager and these little books had attracted Max's attention since. I remember one night chasing him across the four beds in the sleep-out until in desperation he fled through the louvre window landing on the old girl's geraniums. Mum had taken one look at her newly pressed flowers and taken pursuit with the rolling pin. She ran after Max into the back paddock until her laboured breath, howling for him to come back, could be heard all over town. It was well into the afternoon before Max ventured back into the house. His face beamed with a mischievous victory that should of infuriated us but all mum and I could do was stare guiltily at the large, red watermelon wedge on his thigh still trickling with blood. Max milked that injury for all it was worth, and even today retells the story of the crazy flower woman who hunted her wounded son with a rolling pin.

The books with their ink lined sketches and caption words tell tales of sporting heroes form across the world. Max runs his fingers thoughtfully under the words, 'Champion Portfolio of Sports', and sucks his lips between his teeth to stop the tears welling in his eyes. He has grown up watching me manipulate our brothers to establish my collection. In those days, the only way I could afford the cards was to pool my money from odd jobs with Keith and George. Desperate to complete my set I would then challenge them to an arm wrestle to gain sole ownership. Despite being the youngest of us, I came away victorious and on the rare occasions that I happened to lose I would craftily 'borrow' the books, never to be seen again.

Looking at his feet Max kicks his toes into a clump of dirt that is reminiscent of the lump in his throat. I can tell that he doesn't like the finality of my words and as I say them I even scare myself. The thought of what might happen overseas is something I am trying not to think about but every now and then I do. Max doesn't lift his eyes and with his voice choking in the back of his throat says, "Nah, I will just look after them until you get back." A tidal wave of relief cleanses my thoughts, if Max believes I am safe from the strangle hands of the Keizer then maybe, just maybe I'm going to be OK.