I’m sitting in Sydney on the couch in my brother’s new apartment. Tucked up next to me is my nephew Hugo, affectionately known as Hugo Bear or H-Bear as the mood takes the family. He is excitedly – and in minute detail – explaining the various machinations of the AFL finals to me including the likely paths that his beloved Sydney Swans could take to reach the Grand Final. AFL is not a sport large in our family’s sphere. Ironically Hugo’s Dad, my brother, is one of the senior executives at Rugby Australia. This love of AFL is all a bit new but because it’s H-Bear and he is my little mate, I am paying extraordinary attention and interest with appropriate sounds of affirmation at regular intervals.

As Hugo walks me through his hand crafted finals draw – the kid writes more neatly than I do – he absentmindedly taps the black metal band I wear on my right wrist. Like my hair, the original colours have been streaked with silver scratches by the passage of time. Unlike my hair, it is still strong and unbreakable. For some reason or another he becomes conscious of the tapping, perhaps because of the fact that most other people don’t wear such a thing.

“Day-day” he says – Day-day being his nickname for me “Day-day what is this for? Why do you wear it?”

It’s a simple, reasonable and innocent question. One that carries more meaning that all bar a few thousand people in Australia know about. Or understand. Or have lived through.

It is a brilliant and great question that I wish more adults would ask.

“This is a memorial band. It is to remember one of my soldiers who was killed in the war.” I reply. Across the couch I can see my brother, Anthony, take a slight breath inwards. Perhaps for the question, perhaps for the answer. I’ve found though, over many years, that children can approach these discussions with a perfect, innocent curiousness that can remove any self-focused feelings of sadness or guilt. Where adults fear to tread, a child can wander and wonder more easily.

Hugo contemplates my answer, still tapping the band as he does so. He knows I was in the Army for a long time. He knows I was away for long periods of time even though my deployments all happened before he was born. He has seen my medals and we’ve talked in passing about my service before. He knows these things but death is largely abstract to him even though he lost his beloved Poppa Rob a year ago. He looks away from his notepad and into my eyes “How did he die? Were you sad?. . . . . . . .What was his name?”

Brilliant questions again.

“My soldier’s name was Richard Atkinson – we called him Akka. He was a very brave soldier. His job was to find bombs in the ground that were meant to hurt us or hurt the people who lived there. He died because he found a bomb, but this time, it exploded before he could make it safe.” That’s a fair bit to unload on a six year old. But it is a simple, sad, heroic truth. And I’ve found in similar discussions with my own sons that this resonates more than any flowery aphorisms or ducking of the questions. Kids are innocent, not unintelligent.

“But were you sad?” Hugo probes.

“I was sad. But we had to keep doing our jobs for a long time. So I couldn’t be sad for long”

“Are you sad now?”

“No little man. I’m not sad now. I’m happy to have known Rich and all my soldiers. And proud that we all did a good job looking after each other and the local people.”

“What do all the words say?” he asks. I look down at the band; perhaps it isn’t as clear as I thought – Hugo is a good reader for his age. But the simple, powerful words and phrases there are not, thankfully, familiar to many six year olds in Australia.

“It says: Corporal Richard Atkinson. Killed in Action, 2^nd of February 2011. 22 years young. Lest We Forget.” I read out. My fingers following along the bottom of each word as you do when you’re teaching a young one to read. Hugo’s finger traces back to the number 22. “He was not old?” he asks. More checking his understanding of numbers than any comment on age in war.

“No. He wasn’t old. He was too young but old enough.” I reply.

“Day-day, did you know other soldiers who died in the war? What are their names?”

That’s a harder question. Who do you mourn? Remember? Commemorate on the Black Band? For ‘Akka’ certainly. For Scott Palmer who I served with in Timor and rode together with in Armored Personnel Carriers as we hunted militia? Did we know each other well enough? For Luke Worsley, a brilliant soldier I met as he trained to become an Infantrymen in Singleton? For DJ Smith, the larrakin soldier killed in an accident at Puckapunyal?  For T.J, my Academy friend and economics class buddy who succumbed to the Black Dog? For Lindsey – Soj – one of the best Navy officer’s I’ve ever known whose heart just stopped one day as he rode to work? For Matty Carr, a larger than life warrior who beat cancer to a draw; who in his last days still found the time to reply to a text from old classmate he hadn’t seen in years. For my American brothers who died on a cold dark night in June 2011in Deh Rawood? For Jonesy, an average cook but an outstanding bloke murdered by an ANA solder? For the Afghan Askars who died far from their tribal homes fighting for an ideal and nation that wasn’t clear and is temporarily lost?

Too many names.

ButI shouldn’t appropriate the grief of the families and colleagues of those others I have mentioned who knew them better and fought with them in lands and seas, near and far. But a certainty of my time in service is that the names on the Roll of Honour at the War Memorial grows longer, not shorter. The fact is, that my simple Black Band with one name, could be many names, that there are those among us here in Australia or our allied nations, who do wear the names of many on the Black Band. And the imprint of those memories elsewhere.

Those of us who have the Black Bands somewhere in a drawer, on display, or who wear them everyday like I do, do so for a variety of reasons each of which can be as different as the individual. Convention says that you wear the Black Band to honour the memory of a brother or sister in arms who was killed in action or died in service. I wear mine not to dwell on Richard’s death, but remind myself to live life well. To take advantage of the opportunities and events that he never got to experience. In failing to bring him home safely, I try to honour his service and sacrifice by making the most of everything, work, family, sport – to be thankful I get another day.

On the return from a recent business trip I was seated next to a younger bloke. His appearance said he was a veteran – polo shirt tucked into neat jeans, black RMs, belt, hair that would be long enough to get him in trouble with a Sergeant Major, a beard that said he was no longer in service. What confirmed it was the small black band he wore on his right wrist. I reached out and placed my own next to his and was greeted with a smile and then an immediate look of sadness. “Who’s yours brother?” he asked.

I explained who Rich was, how he served and where he died. My seat mate, Jacob, told me the story of his Black Band. His best mate and fellow soldier who looked after him through training and service in an Infantry Battalion. Who after a bad break-up with the mother of his child, took his own life. “He could have called me.” he says. “ I would have listened and helped.” He looks out the window into the ink black sky.

Survivors guilt. Maybe another reason we wear the Black Band.

Jacob looks back. “Thanks for talking. Most people don’t know or won’t ask.” We talk some more. Laugh a lot and get in trouble from the Steward for not listening to the safety brief (Sorry!) Even though we served at different times in different Battalions we know some of the same people, the same stories. We will never see each other again but now the stories of our Black Bands are known just that bit more widely, and not forgotten.

Maybe another reason we wear the black band. To not forget the pain of loss either, a promise to try and be better and luckier next time.

Back in Sydney it’s time for Hugo and his sister Sophie (Sophie Cub – you need consistency in nicknames) to go to bed. Hugo wraps his arms around my neck. “Good night Day-day.”, gives the band another tap and accelerates off to bed. Sophie dive bombs me from the other side of the couch. “Good night silly Day-day.” and chases her brother down the hall.

How lucky am I to have that opportunity, no matter how small, that those whose names are on the Black Bands do not.

I’ll make sure they are not forgotten. And to ask about them all when I see the Black Bands around.

#NAFT.