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Big Donger
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Most of the war you want to forget. It comes back every now and then when you least expect it. A memory, a dream, a sense of déjà vu. It was almost 50 f@cking years ago for Christ's sake. You'd think you'd forget. I forget what happened yesterday, but not Nam.
But the blokes you left behind are hard to forget. Mick Wherett stepped on a mine up near Que. Mick Boyland - Danny Boy - got shot through the eye. Al Green got electrocuted on base and somehow came out alive, but died soon after. Me? I got out, but only just.
Medical discharge - one up from a dishonourable. They should have given me that in the beginning. Can't take orders, can't listen to bullsht, can't polish their stupid f@cking belt buckles and brass buttons. Fck the army, fck Nam. They want cnts like Big Hole - pricks who obsess over process. They bore me stupid, those cnts, krapping on about directions and the right way to fix machines and what time the bins have to go out.
I got a legitimate psychiatric illness out of Nam, signed and stamped by some bigwig in Canberra - never to join army again. I'm a f@cking ha ha.
But I'd king-hit that NCO again, no worries. I'd plough through another 6 MPs and cop more than a hiding. I'd scream blue murder as the chopper took me out again, restrained for my own safety. They had me on Largactil for 6 months after that, and I'd do it today if I had to.
Yeah, I'd like to have a beer with Al and the Micks one more time, but it's too late for that. I've got plenty of regrets, but getting out of Nam's not one.
I'm alive, so fck the NCOs, fck the bin-straighteners, fck the MPs, but most of all, boys, fck Anzac Day.
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