A bit over a year ago, actually the first round of the local footy 2017, I travelled to Healesville with Gord. He was team manager of the Gembrook reserves and had to be at the ground at the crazy hour of 10.30am before the reserves game commencing at about midday. There were few people there when we arrived, the under 18's were playing on the field as Gord headed off to do his thing.
After a while a ute pulled up next to Gord's car and a bloke about my age let his dog out. It came over to Gord's car and where I was with Pip, and the dogs got friendly and tail wagged and sniffed and walked about together. The bloke and I talked about footy, dogs and the weather and I said to him, as we were in Healesville, "You don't know a bloke named Charlie Tweedie do you?"
He looked at me curiously and said, "Why do you want to know?"
I explained I was called up for National Service in 1972 and a bloke in my hut at recruit training, Charlie, came from Healesville.
"He's my brother."
He gave me another fellow's phone number saying he'd tell me Charlie's number so I could contact him. I went home that day and put the number in a little box on my desk fully intending to follow up soon. It didn't happen quickly but as the number was on my desk I often thought I must chase up Charlie.
Last week I learned Gembrook was playing Yarra Glen at YG this Saturday. Gord is not team manager of the reserves this year, he found it too stressful, but he retains affiliation with the footy club and goes to the home games but not the away as he's not confident driving to away games to venues by himself. So I said to Gord, knowing from his brother that Charlie lived in Yarra Glen that if I could contact my old mate Charlie and arrange a meeting, I'd drive him to the footy at YG.
The number Charlie's bro gave me was disconnected but I rang information and got Charlie's phone number. Rang on Tuesday, left a message on the answer phone. By Thursday there was no reply so I rang again and left another message. About 10pm Thursday night Charlie rang back. We had a quick chat and he said he was pleased I called and would be happy to meet me Saturday morning, at a venue he suggested, a coffee shop in a new complex overlooking a a little lake.
So yesterday I arranged all my chores to be done early and Gord and I left at about 9.40am and pulled into YG a few minutes after my 10.30 appointment with Charlie.
There he was ordering a cappacino, unmistakeable with his red brushback hair and chisel face. I said "You've shrunk, you were taller." He said, "You have." A warm handshake. We sat outside. I ordered a cappacino and a curry pie and we sat exchanging small talk summing each other up.
He talked cautiously at first, but with many "f" words, spoken quite loudly, to my embarrassment, with other people in earshot. I sensed he was asserting himself as the Charlie I knew from 46 years ago, a knockabout bloke with rough edges. Charlie's father was a Scottish immigrant, a boxer and a bricklayer. He taught his boys to box and if I remember from conversations of 46 years ago, was not averse to locking his boys in an outside laundry in the wintertime in their underwear so they could experience cold like he did in Scotland. Charlie hadn't changed much in 46 years, stockier, flint hard eyes, wizened neck, surprisingly fit and strong, forthright, and confident moreso than than in his youth. The thing that got me was his smile, his humour, yes this was my mate Charlie, the same man, he talked unrestrained about his life over the decades once he warmed up. The bad language dissipated the longer he went. He softened when he talked of his wife of 42 years, Margaret, his pride in her so obvious. He has three children, the oldest a boy about Gord's age, over six foot and strong as a bull. and two daughters approaching 30 years, one a criminal lawyer.
We lived together in the same hut for a few months in 1972. Ate together, marched together, endured together. An unusual situation, we both agreed was not a bad thing, in fact quite a fun thing, with so many humourous incidents and situations, despite the the seriousness of military training.
I laughed so hard at his telling of the time we were drilled to throw a live hand grenade. We were in groups of three or four Charlie told me, I couldn't remember any details. Charlie was in a group with a bloke named Safarawitz, "a big stocky bloke who was a bit of a dill." The drill was according to Charlie, you looked over the top of the bunker at the target, a big log you couldn't miss, then pulled the pin on the grenade and without sticking your head over again you threw it with a round arm action to the target. Safarawitz in his turn, pulled the pin on the grenade, then for some reason instead of throwing it, dropped it at his feet and froze. The others went into panic except the instructing Corporal Darryl, who picked it up and threw it over avoiding a catastrophe that probably would have killed multiple people. Charlie said Safarawitz was subsequently removed from the platoon, which I could not remember, it was near the end of our training, and he was amazed when he went to Singleton for the Infantry Corp training that Safarawitz was there too.
Charlie told me things I had forgotten. A corporal we had was named Jones. I had not recalled him in all these years but when Charlie talked it came back. He was the best of the corporals, a little less harsh shall I say. We agreed our platoon Sargeant Bob George was an inspiration who set an example we tried to emulate. In Charlie's words if we were to have gone overseas it would be so comforting to have Bob George beside you. He was about 5 feet 6 or7 inches tall but was always immaculate with his uniform, and his rifle in all the drills seemed to be part of his body. He had a big voice, and was the proverbial lean mean fighting machine. In his frustration one day when our performance was below par, he challenged any person in the platoon to come forward and fight him if they did not want to do what he wanted. He said he was a golden gloves boxing champion in WA previously and he did not care who it was or how big you were he'd give you a hiding, One of our platoon was third ranked Australian professional boxer but nobody stepped forward. The training NCO's were regular soldiers who had done terms in Vietnam and they were somewhat damaged I think, varying from moody to downright nasty and unhinged. They hit the grog hard off duty, and I think turned up suffering in the morning. But turn up early they did, and they were fit and hard edged.
I was so pleased to find Charlie in such good nick. He had to go about 11.30am. He plays team tennis in veteran group and had to get to Templestowe for a 1pm start. Said his team is doing well. I never would have picked Charlie as a tennis player. His wife Margaret is a serious runner in Senior competions following a lifetime of athletics and won gold medals in Perth a while ago in National senior competition. Charlie worked for three councils most of his working life, finishing as a foreman of a road gang for Greater Dandenong Council a couple of years ago. He's retired now and does odd jobs like fencing around Yarra Glen. A hell of a good bloke. We parted with a strong handshake and a hug. Mates, 46 years no see, still mates. There's a bond born in being thrust into the same hut and depending on each other all those years ago in what was really quite a hostile environment that no amount of years can diminish, even if it was for only a few months.
Charlie's older brother was killed in Vietnam. When Charlie was called up he didn't have to go in, he didn't explain why, but I think it was because of his bro. He didn't go at first, but two years later decided he wanted to, so he was more like a volunteer. It was a serious thing for him.
So glad I made the contact and we met up. Hopefully now we'll meet regularly or at least not wait years.
