My Dad was a very hard and complex man. His nickname was Tug, not because of any private activity he may have indulged in, but because he looked like a tugboat.

Five foot five in dress shoes, he was almost as wide as he was tall. He was also very strong having been a physical training instructor in the British Commandos, specialising in boxing, soccer and cricket.

Dad was born in 1915, so by the time he fathered my younger brother and I, he looked and sounded like a grandfather. We both struggled to communicate with him and it would often end up in a confrontation which we couldn’t win as kids.

Most of the breakdown came from Dad’s mental capacity to deal with the real world after years of fighting in WW2 and then watching his first wife die of cancer in Liverpool, leaving him with three kids to manage.

Like so many returned combat veterans, I’m positive Dad had PTSD. Right up to just recent decades, serviceman were simply left to their own devices upon their return to civilian life, and so many ended their lives prematurely as a result.

Dad chose to drink occasionally and when he had a couple of scotches, his eyes would turn green and it would be time to clear the decks.

He somehow held down a job as a security guard at our local BP Refinery in Kwinana WA. He took the job very seriously, turning out in a meticulously ironed uniform and spit-polished shoes. It was shift work, often working nights, and he always showed the discipline to count every copper coin he earned to ensure we were fed and housed properly.

He was stubborn and opinionated but had a deep love of music. If we visited my half brother Bruce’s house, Bruce would prop Dad up on a Jason recliner rocker and soothe him with some classical music or Johnny Cash.

He sang in a choir as a tenor and adored The Goons and Harry Secombe. He loved The Two Ronnies and Fawlty Towers as well as Dave Allen but rarely displayed those qualities at home.

I joined the army at seventeen and when the basic training was finished I flew my folks over for the march out parade and a trip further on to Melbourne to see my sister.

It was the only time he said that he was proud of me. He would live another twenty years finally succumbing to heart disease and dementia.

I worked back home in Perth from 1995 to 1999 shortly before Dad passed.

I was determined to seek out some truths about his life before I headed back to Melbourne and I eventually got to see some photos of his time in WW2.

He spent almost a year on Malta under constant bombing from the Italians and Germans then travelled through the Middle East, North Africa and Europe.

He witnessed unspeakable horrors, so changing the subject, I asked him while he was lucid, “if you had the opportunity, what would be the one place you’d like to revisit?”

Without hesitation, “Cape Town”.