A few weeks later and Mike is sitting in an upgraded first class seat of a Pan Am flight to Sydney out of Los Angeles.

As the 707 began to climb over the Eastern Pacific towards the setting sun, Mike finally relaxed, closed his eyes and let his mind rewind across the previous couple of weeks. He recalled the blur of paperwork, forms and consular visits culminating in the rather unimpressive looking "Commonwealth of Australia" residency work visa stamped into his fresh US passport.

During those weeks, his Dad had become withdrawn and seemed to sink below a rising tide that would carry his only son across an ocean to a distant and removed land he could barely imagine or comprehend.

This led to the moment just after dawn earlier that day, when father and son began the drive towards JFK through Brooklyn. The drive started in silence before his Dad’s fear and frustration surfaced one final time and he began to softly cry admitting that Mike’s war years had been so hard, convinced that Mike would never make it back alive. Seeing him again just 8 months ago was like an act of grace - delivery from unbearable loneliness.

Mike had tried to reassure him - this was not forever, just another tour with no one actually trying to shoot him this time. He’d be home again and it would all work out. Ray saw it simply as fate’s cruel trick - Mike would never really be home.

A few hours later, Ray watched as the 707 pull back on the apron and then turned away, walking numb and broken into the unfeeling airport crowds.

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