the coffin’s brass nameplate dazzled my eyes. I tilted my head slightly to minimise the glare. As I did this, letters became visible; out of sequence, a few at a time. “son … Wil”, “vyn … Merv”. Mentally, I did a double take. Up to that moment, the repatriation


ceremony was a professional first for me, and a step into the unknown. I was still relatively new to the funeral industry. I’d driven a hearse but could hardly call myself seasoned. I knew nothing of military process and I’d never set foot on an RAAF airbase. Also, my experience of cortèges involved only a single hearse leading a procession of mourning cars. I knew about the Vietnam War,


of course. But I was too young to be conscripted way back then, and my understanding of it since had evolved more from motion picture portrayals like Apocalypse Now and The Deer Hunter, than reading history books. I’d never been a soldier, and I’d never spoken at length to anyone who had. For me, war was something other people did, an abstract thing, but the engraved letters “Pte Mervyn Wilson”, shining into my eyes that morning from the rear end of his coffin, changed that forever.


There was no time to process what I was feeling, however, before it was my turn to peel off and join a single file of hearses stretching for at least a kilometre.


“Do it for your country”, launched on repeat reel in my head, as VIPs, family members and guests lined the exit out of the base. Outside, on the open road, the cortège came under the escort of police on high-powered motorcycles, for the trek from Richmond to Lidcombe. The next hour and a half was one of


those experiences you might get once a lifetime, if you’re lucky. Through a pandemonium of colour, noise and emotion, the motorcade processed along 40-odd kilometres of Sydney’s northwest, past thousands of people along the route – some cheering, some with eyes closed or waving the Aussie flag, many saluting, wearing military medals, and hundreds standing at attention, hands over heart. Through Mulgrave, Box Hill, Rouse Hill,


Bella Vista, Winston Hills, Westmead – then slowly negotiating Parramatta CBD, I willed myself into a fierce, trance-like concentration on keeping an even distance between myself and the next hearse. This meant – ignore the noise, the faces, smiles and tears, the cameras and mobile phones, the waving and cheering, placards and flags, the backed-up traffic and helicopter overhead. Block out the beeping horns of the police motorcyclists controlling the traffic ahead, speeding past and beside us on both sides of the cortège; but be wary in case their traffic hand signals were directed at us. There was really just one thing I and


my driver colleagues had to do en route – and do well; well enough to avoid an on-road skirmish in front of spectators


in their thousands, and millions watching live on national television – that was, simply move my right foot between brake and accelerator. Everything else could wait. Returning these 33 war vets,


civilians and children who’d lost their lives in the Vietnam War was a massive undertaking by the Australian Government. Overseas operations, the aircraft, airbase and funeral industry all played roles in their repatriation. But this was also a coming home on different levels – it involved national pride and identity, and closure, not just for family and friends of the deceased, but for all Australians. At the end of this event of national


significance, my colleagues and I felt we had contributed something – small as that may be in the grand scheme of it all. We got our soldiers, civilians and dependants that much closer to their final resting places. In the week to come, they would be transported to these different locations around Australia. But for me, it wasn’t until a few days later when I searched for more information about Private Mervyn Wilson – who grew up on the NSW Central Coast – that something else revealed itself. The ultimate sacrifice, as a wartime


representative of your country, must be recognised and honoured – regardless of which particular war, or its political and military agenda and outcomes; despite even the futility of war itself. I could not, and cannot possibly imagine that sacrifice, or what it’s like to be confronted with that situation.


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