. . . and how was your war, Dad?

Ever heard the one about the old digger who never talked about the war? So have I—I grew up with one. As a child it never occurred to me to ask, ‘And how was your war, Dad?’ I took my father’s war for granted. His years as a front-line soldier didn’t seem to have left any obvious scars. Curiosity came only after I vacated the nest. On my irregular sorties to the suburbs I’d sit in the backyard with the old man, an Onkaparinga blanket covering the Hills Hoist to keep the sun off. To keep the sun off the beer, that is. We talked, one on one; I was eager for anecdotes. I was twenty-nine and in my first year of what some might laughingly describe as a ‘career’ in stand-up comedy. War is no laughing matter. But then again, you had to be there. Stanley J. Livingston had been there.

I only managed to glean the barest hints of my father’s experiences in World War II (I’ve always found the habit of numbering wars unnerving: it implies a certain inevitability, and there are still a lot of numbers out there to get through). Stanley didn’t live to tell the full tale. By wandering through my own memories, as well as those of people who knew him and many more who didn’t, I wondered if I might catch a glimpse of the man I never knew.