Remember the first time we battled those bastards? We were lying on the cold, dark jungle floor in front of the fire. The trees looked like charcoaled versions of their daytime selves as our faces were aglow with flickering orange. We heard movement in the dry leaves. It was hard to be stealthy over the crunchy woodland floor. We scatter into the blackness for cover. The moon is new, the stars be-speckle the sky but cast nothing to lift the impenetrable inky blanket concealing us. I took a deep breath. My hands sweating like crazy and my heart beating at the speed of a cheetah chasing its prey I still remember the shout “CONTACT!” Then the M.16’s started barking as bullets whistled past our ears. The enemy was upon us. We began spraying bullets aimlessly during the black of the night, our gun fire providing the only dim bit of light. That flashback is one of the many dreadful, reoccurring nightmares I visualise each night. Billy is a good mate of mine. The moment I watched Billy dance with bullets, as his chest bloomed with red flowers, then fell to the dusty, broken ground was so hard to watch. He now spends his time with plenty of other diggers in a special place that I frequently visit. He is always there, waiting for me to pay him a visit. He has a headstone above where he lays, with his name, Billy Green, the period of his life and a touching sentence declaring our fond remembrance and love for him. Many headstones have dark lichen and mould, but some bright white, recently painted and adorned with flowers smelling vaguely of lavender. All headstones have a cross with the words ‘Australian Soldier’ inscribed. My eyes skip from headstone to headstone, catching the inscribed names of fellow warriors who stop me feeling lonely. It takes away the sights, sounds and smells of war. You know you’re lucky billy; you don’t have to deal with feelings of helplessness and loneliness. The night air was cold and stiff, maybe