One less Anzac story told

This was a sad Anzac Day for me, and for anyone who knew my brother, Andrew. He missed parade on February 23.
He was a real "white man" who lived a life of adventure and sometimes high drama, at least until he met his wife-to-be, Kathy, a local girl with whom he fell head over hells in love. He became a model citizen then, (well, to some extent) but the willingness to have a go at almost anything, just for the sheer hell of it, never left him. Let me share a little of him with you.
Andrew was born in Warragul on July 5, 1949, a solid little red-head, which should have been warning enough for all of us. He was the third of the Wells boys. The eldest brother was Malcolm, a Dawson by birth, the next four were Wells' and then my widowed mother married a widower with four sons, so there were then nine of us.
There are six of us still standing, though we creak a little when we do that. Six of us wore the uniform of our country.
They were all men I'd have been happy to drink with, brothers or not, and I know how lucky I am to be able to say that. In a recent television interview about the family that had three brothers on the ground in the Vietnam War he was asked about following his brothers into war and he said two things that will stay with me forever, two things that summed him up.
He said "We're brothers, and that's that."
He said "I had a mate who went up there and got killed, and I said I'll go up there and do something about that." And that is exactly what he did do.
On February 15, 1971 he arrived in Vietnam at the "sharp end of the army", as an infantry rifleman in Delta Company, in the 3rd Battalion of the Royal Australian Regiment. Two days later he had his first 'contact', where the Delta Devils took casualties. It became a funny story (in the blackest of ways).
His war had its moments. He was standing waiting for a Chinook helicopter to land when a gust of wind sent it sideways into the rubber trees. Suddenly the air was full of bits of rubber trees, bits of helicopter and a huge range of overwhelming noises. Andrew, Ginge, had his weapon pit near to hand and dived into it, followed by three other blokes, which made it a little crowded. One rotor blade landed across the pit, and it took a little while to free the four. It became a funny story.
On another occasion he was scouting ahead of his platoon when he saw two thin legs with feet in rubber sandals, a little distance ahead, showing under the bushes. He ran toward the Viet Cong soldier, who bolted before Andrew got to him. Ginge chased him about 200 yards, well ahead of the other blokes, when he had the sudden thought that 'Charlie' was running toward – an ambush? A company? A battalion? He skidded to a stop. It became a funny story.
There were quite a few other encounters but Andrew turned them into funny stories, one of the great Anzac traditions.
After he came home he took a while to settle down, which meant it took him a while to meet Kathy. In the meantime he was driving up to Warragul in his Dodge van, a massive thing with an engine hoist in the rear and ability to power a welder, but steering that was really quite exciting. He picked up a hitchhiker also going to Warragul, but when they got there the hitchhiker realised his error. He had been meaning to go to Wangaratta.
"No problems", said Ginge, "I've got a mate in Deniliquin. I'll take you to Wangaratta on the way". He did that, and he went on to Deniliquin. Incidentally, I swear this is a true yarn, a really good one for about every third Anzac Day.
From Deniliquin he meandered his way to Darwin - "just to have a look." It took him a year to get there and back, doing a little welding here, a little mechanic work there, a little drinking, a lot of talking, many new friends. When he left Darwin he entered a world few really know, where he 'passed down the line' by Aboriginals who world say things like "When you get to Tennant Creek ask around for Bobby. Tell him Jack sent you. You'll be looked after." And he was.
I suppose he was in some says one of the last true Australian larrikins. He was no respecter of rules that made no sense but didn't cause (much) trouble as long as he was left alone to do his own thing.
There are, literally, dozens of stories I could tell about Andrew, Ginge, Redgum. I could talk about him falling off a balcony in Hobart (with a little help), breaking his arm and then wrapping it up as tightly as he could so he could get to work and claim he'd slipped on the frost steps of his grader. He got away with it, too, though one doctor said "This looks like it was broken hours ago." He did say that four hours after the break it was hurting too much for him to sleep.
I could talk about him coming home to Woodside, SA, on the Vung Tau ferry, HMAS Sydney, where he did come across an unguarded white ensign that went into the souvenir collection. He and three mates bought a 1956 Chev convertible to drive home to Melbourne but when they got there, one of them was a Tasmanian. "We couldn't let him go home on his own. We were mates." It took three weeks for him to finally turn up in Drouin for a welcome home party that had been postponed three times.
During that three weeks a kidnapped sheep was somehow shot and thrown into the back seat of the Chev because tucker was running low. The 'dead' sheep came to life a few miles later and tried to get out of the car, which was uncomfortable for the two blokes in the back seat with the sheep. Andrew lent back over the front sheep and shot it a few times more, without once hitting any of the blokes in the back seat.
Ginge, I am smiling as I recall these stories. God bless you, brother.
You were a larrikin in the finest Australian traditions, but you did no-one any harm. You were a fair-dinkum sort of a bloke and the Anzac traditions fitted you "like a bought one." You were a brave soldier, and a brave man throughout your life.
As a brother I mourn you. As a comrade in arms I salute you. Anzac Day will never be the same again, but in some ways you'll always be there.