He bounds out of the elevator with his usual exuberance and youthful vitality. In his current life, he walks great distances every day, his physical prowess veiling his 90 years. A few weeks back, he'd had his leg in a full brace. It had not stopped him from showing people how high he can swing his legs up, like a 19 year old nubile show girl.
I comment on how fit and active he is, in fact it's actually hard not to. He revels in the acknowledgement, standing a little taller. As he approaches the counter, he rubs his face with his hands, informing me that he's just had a shave. I smile at his unusual disclosure, wondering what's coming next.
With the same exuberance, he begins a story of a 16 year old boy who once upon a time didn't know how to shave. He had never been taught to. When I ask how this was so, he further shares that at 18 months of age, he was left on the steps of an orphanage. For a moment some old wounds appear, as a few choice words are expressed over the type of parents he imagines he must have had. He resided at the orphanage until the age of 16 years, when the orphanage was no longer legally required to feed and house him, and so released him out into the world. Not knowing where to go, and perhaps he says, seeking familiarity and a regimented routine to hold him safely in the world, he headed straight for the army.
Upon joining, another harsh set of rules began to guide his daily life. He was quickly singled out for his unshaven ways, with his Sargent reprimanding and making an example of him in front of the other soldiers. He was threatened with severe punishment, at which point he broke down and confessed that he had lied about his age to join the forces, and that he was unshaven because he simply didn't know how to.
Somewhere, someone took mercy on the young man and promptly sent him back to a training camp in Dubbo for two years, until he reached the required legal serving age. I try to fathom the shame and embarrassment of the 16 year old, and try to comprehend these intersections in his life. What kept him going? Survival instincts? A desire to fit in? A need for a family/tribe? To serve his country? There is no time to ponder these questions as he enthusiastically continues.
When he finally got to war, his role was that of a 'runner' - cycling or running with important and life saving messages between battalions. Battalions of men relied on his legs to help them implement the strategy of war. I'm listening, trying to comprehend the gravity of his words. I tell him that I'm trying to imagine how, at 18 years of age, he could deliver this service, and still be here today in front of me - more alive and vibrant than many people half his age. He shrugs and smiles, and tells me this is where his lifelong fitness comes from. The old soldier is proud of his legs, and what they delivered. Lives literally depended on those legs, and those legs delivered.
I reach out and touch his hand, and thank the surviving old soldier for sharing this part of his life with me. He waves me off. Have you ever tried to thank or compliment an older gentleman? It's too much fuss for men of this era, and it seems even more deeply entrenched in old soldiers - trained and disciplined to survive the trauma of war, they do not allow too many feelings to infiltrate their protective armour. Perhaps it's also a luxury that an orphan could not afford. Again, there is no time to explore these wonderings. He gives me a grin and then heads out the door for his morning walk into town.
Two days later he wanders into the building, returning from another morning walk. He drops two beautiful soaps on my desk. He was shopping and thought I might like them, he says. A most appropriate gift from a gentleman from this era to a female. Chivalry is certainly not dead. We exchange a hug, and then he is off again.
Tomorrow I'll stand next to him at the Anzac Parade in our regional town. The orphan, who became a soldier, and who survived to tell the tale to now be known as the fittest 90 year old on the block. One story of survival out of hundreds of thousands. For the first time in my life, I have a small but personal connection to war. There are many old soldiers, men and women, under the roof where I work. This connection brings home some of the realities of war, and of all who survived it. I always feel grateful for the country I live in, and what many people contributed to make it the way that it is with all it's privileges and freedoms, but today I feel a different sense of gratitude.
The human spirit, and what we survive with and without war, is an amazing thing to behold.