William Trewin: 'Rhoda Mountjoy is my niece. She has been staying with me on a visit for about three weeks

'We met up in late October, not long before the Melbourne Cup. My father was ill - he'd had a heart attack, about 12 months ago. He was still at home. But mother came to the Repat Hospital, where all I had was a series of quick medical tests. I was reasonably fit by this time. At my last camp at Ubon there hadn't been any really hard work, and the food there was better than on the line.

There was nothing emotional when we met. I said: "Hallo, mum." It was like I'd just been away on holiday. Basically, that's all it was. But then I've always thought there's no point in getting yourself upset to any big degree about anything. I was home -1 was reasonably fit - it was all over and done with.

'I've never really had any bad dreams or anything about the war. I've dreamt of parts of it. But nothing really bad. It was never a terrible trauma, although I suppose I aged 10 years in that period. I never regretted it. I learned a lot, and I made some tremendous friendships. Those blokes who were with me then and are now at home are no different from what they were 40 years ago. Their attitude to life is the same. Very few of them worry about anything. They still laugh and tell jokes. I might see one every 12 months now, and it's just as if you've been talking to him all year. You've got that affinity. It's different with civilians, with those who weren't there.

'I still have an uneasy feeling about the Japanese. A terrible feeling really about the way they're buying this country up. So do a lot of the blokes. But there's not much we can say or do. We're too old now. Those slant-eyed

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'I went back to Beauchamp Brothers as a furniture salesman in April 1946. Thelma was working there then, in the office, on the switchboard and typing. But I didn't take much notice of her at that time.

All I wanted to do was enjoy myself, mainly with the blokes who had been with me in the war. We met whenever we could, in a pub, and we'd get boozed, go to the races, the footie, the cricket. We took a long time to settle down. You see, we were so used to being together. You wanted to be with them whenever you could. You talked the same language. You'd been together for four and a half years in all and were very close. It was a way of life, and you didn't want to let it go.1

Bill Clemence was discharged from the AIF, the Australian Imperial Force, on 18 December 1945.

He started going out with Thelma Honeycombe early in 1947; she was still in her teens. At work he would try to make her laugh with various pranks; after work they would go to the theatre or cinema and became involved in church concert parties at the Methodist Church in Ballarat Road, Footscray. Thelma played the piano, and Bill produced some of the shows. She liked dancing, and to please her he took some dancing lessons. They became engaged in December 1947, soon after Bill's father died.

Thelma was Dick and Addie Honeycombe's only daughter. Their only son, Arthur, who was two years younger than Bill, had married Laurel Winwood in Sydney in September 1946.

Arthur said later: 'Laurel and I were living with my parents after our marriage and were present when Thelma first brought Bill home for tea. We took to each other right from the start. Bill had served in the army, and I in the airforce, and we both liked service life. At this time, the armed forces started up the Citizen's Military Forces and we decided to join together in the 58/32 Battalion at the Footscray drill hall. Bill was a man's man, with a good sense of humour and very firm ideas on most subjects. Everyone knew where they stood with Bill. We enjoyed some years together in the Forces, with week-night parades, and an occasional weekend away, and a two-week stint once a year. We also entered a Three Division basketball competition together. When Thelma and Bill married, I not only had a good friend, but a brother that I never had before.'

Arthur and Laurel lived with his parents in Footscray (and with Auntie Louie) for three years, moving out of the family home at 28 Coral Avenue just before Thelma and Bill were wed. Their wedding took place at the Ballarat Road Methodist Church on 26 November 1949, the rain holding off until the photos had been taken.

After a honeymoon in the Blue Mountains, Bill and Thelma went to live with Bill's widowed mother in Ivanhoe, in the house at 14 The Ridgeway that Bill

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In 1956 Bill left Beauchamps and joined Jacka Wortley Upholsterers' Suppliers, for whom he worked as a sales rep for the next 28 years, travelling as far as Queensland in his company car. He played golf and bowls and supported Carlton FC. He whistled his way through odd jobs and while gardening. He sang Bing Crosby songs. Although he did not attend church himself, he assisted Thelma with her church work and with concerts presented at the church.

It was in 1982 that Bill, who suffered from heart trouble, like his father, had his first heart attack. Open-heart surgery followed and the first of six bypass operations - the last of which, in 1994, he failed to survive.

He died in hospital on 30 September 1994, three weeks after his birthday. He was 73.

The eulogy at his funeral, which was very well attended, was read by Eric Cooper, who had been a POWwith Bill.

He said: 'Bill was a great mate, and always there to lend a hand to those who needed help. Bill has always been a member of our Association and has been a past president and committee man. He was also a member of the Ivanhoe RSL and each year did a great job rattling the collection tins for Anzac Day badges, Legacy badges, and poppies for Armistice Day... Our Bill was a happy and loveable character, and one of his proudest moments was this year, when his grandson, Joel, marched with him on Anzac Day... Bill loved a good yarn, and what's more he could always tell one. And I'll bet my bottom dollar that when we catch up with him, the first thing he'll say will be - "Have you heard this one?"... So long, Babe."

Chris Honeycombs

Chris was the second son of Alan and Beth and was born in Melbourne on 8 April 1976. He died there in 1992, aged 16.

Of all the Honeycombes in Australia, and indeed the world, he achieved the most in his chosen sport and showed the greatest promise. He might have been a world champion if he had lived.

He was a descendant of Richard the stonemason, who lived to be 95.

Chris was brought up in Healesville, a rural community east of Melbourne and near the Yarra River, where his father taught maths and environmental studies; Alan was also a student welfare coordinator. Chris's mother, whose parents were Dutch, was a hospital nurse, also dealing with midwifery. The family were faithful supporters of the local Uniting Church. Ross, the eldest boy was five and a half years older than Chris; then came Sharyn. Danielle was the youngest: she was nine when her brother died.

As a boy, Chris was very energetic, inquisitive and determined. He was also very competitive, and thrived on the challenges invovled in keeping up with his older brother and sister. By 1988, having developed a strong interest in swimming, he decided he needed to join Victoria's leading swimming club, Nunawading, to obtain the best coaching and training. He refused to consider any other club, and suceeded in this ambition. The 100 km round trip to Nunawading, by public transport, failed to diminish his enthusiasm, and in 1990 he joined Leigh Nugent's national squad. The following year, just before his 15th birthday he won two gold medals at the Victorian High School Championships in Melbourne, in the 50 metres backstroke and breaststroke. His goal was to swim for Australia in the 1994 Commonwealth Games.

By now, Chris held 15 swimming records at his school, also excelling in freestyle swimming and butterfly. He was 6 feet tall, grey-eyed, fair-haired, nice-looking and superbly fit.

Eight weeks after winning gold at the Victorian championships he was diagnosed as having cancer. That was in June 1991. Chris was just 15.

In February 1993, Chris's father, Alan, sent me at my request an account of his son's death, three months after it happened. In the accompanying letter he wrote: 'I'm sorry it took so long to put together. It was something I really wanted to do, but found it very difficult. It's amazing how a few tears make it impossible to read a computer screen.'

Alan entitled his account of Chris's illness and death Life is Short.

'When a young person dies a seemingly unnecessary death, we find it almost impossible to come to terms with the logic of this situation. We can understand old people dying. They've had a full life and should not expect to

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'Young adults have come, with some justification, to regard themselves as immortal. Death applies only to the elderly, and, by the age of 21, most young people have never attended a funeral service. So, when a young person dies, for whatever reason, we are forced to confront our own mortality.

'When I was told that my extremely fit 15-year-old son had a lump in his groin that required surgery and a biopsy, I experienced a powerful wrenching feeling in my gut. I knew that this could be the beginning of the end. And yet, many people recover from all kinds of cancers. If anybody had a chance of fighting this off, I thought, it would be Christopher. He had never smoked, maintained a balance diet (or at least as balanced as parents of teenagers can ensure), lived away from the deleterious environmental effects experienced by city-dwellers, and pursued a rigorous training programme that had enabled him to swim at the highest level of competition that this country offers its juniors - the National Age Championships - at Easter, 1991.

'Rhabdomyosarcoma is a particularly aggressive form of cancer. But with early detection, surgery, and a follow-up course of chemotherapy, recent cure rates have given patients a much better than even chance of survival. Christopher had the lump removed in June 1991, at the Healesville Hospital, less than three kilometres from his home. A further operation was carried out at the Royal Children's Hospital in Melbourne a month later, to find out if the cancer had spread to the lymph nodes along the spine. The good news was that it had not. Chris now had two large abdominal incisions, at right angles to each other, and was quite sore for some time.

'Eight months of weekly chemotherapy sessions followed, with the inevitable effects of nausea, vomiting, tiredness and loss of hair. But Chris never complained. Eventually, his doctors felt confident in concluding that Chris was in remission. It was thought that all that would be necessary from then on would be six-monthly check-ups.

'As a result of the therapy, Chris had lost most of his hair, leaving his friends at school to ponder over the debilitating effects of this dreaded disease. For them, it would have been greatly reassuring for him to recover completely; thereby adding further credence to their belief in the immortality of youth. He himself coped stoically, always with the expectation that he would throw off this affliction. When he first alerted his best friend, Aaron, to the problem, he said: "I've got cancer. But don't worry, it's no big deal."

'He was resentful at having to endure those months of chemotherapy, as it stopped him from living the life he had planned for his sixteenth year. Chris believed that the cancer had seen surgically removed, and there was no need for this prolonged trauma. This often made life difficult for Beth, his mother, as

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'In February 1992 the chemotherapy ceased, and we began to rebuild our lives as a regular family. Chris had an older brother, Ross, who was finding it difficult to concentrate fully on his physics and computer studies at the Victorian University of Technology, and two sisters: Sharyn, three years older than Chris, and Danielle seven years his junior. The children were always very close, and Danielle and Christopher were often said to 'live in each others' pockets'. It was a parent's delight to watch them frolic and do things together.

'The chemotherapy forced Chris to delay his preparations for the school and inter-school swimming competitions in 1992, as a Year 11 student. However, this did not prevent him from winning every event he competed in, at both the school inter-club and the inter-school swimming sports. He went on to represent the local group of seven schools at the Eastern Zone meet, with some 60 schools competing. In 1991, he won both the Under 16 breaststroke and backstroke events at this competition, and went on to win those two events at the All State Schools meet a month later. In 1992, as an Under 17 swimmer, the events were over 100 metres, rather than the 50 metres for younger competitors. The lack of preparation took its toll and he came second in both events, losing one by less than two-tenths of a second. He was bitterly disappointed, but was philosophical enough to know that with further training over the following 12 months, he could achieve first placings in his final year of High School, in the Open age group.

'Unfortunately, this was never to be. Midway through 1992, his grades began to slip. For a very capable and well-organized student, this was a matter of real concern to his parents and teachers. After the June parent-teacher interviews, Chris explained to us that a new lump had developed in his groin, and had been there for some time.

'We had thought that his declining performance at school could have been caused by relationship problems. But the cause was far more serious. He had put off telling us because he wanted our family holiday to Queensland in April to go ahead as planned, and because he wanted to participate in the District 5 versus Southern Tasmania swimming competitions in Hobart, Tasmania. He had also wanted his parents to feel free to go on a two-week trip to the USA, in June, and to be able himself to attend the local Debutante Ball.

The wrench we felt in the gut was even worse than before, especially when we found that this time the cancer had spread to his lymph glands, and to his lungs. This was in July 1992. A specialist said that Chris would never swim again, as his lungs were now infected. But Chris was defiant. "I don't need to breathe to swim 50 metres," he said.

'More intense chemotherapy was prescribed, involving massive doses of cell-destroying chemicals. The mental and physical traumas incurred during Chris's numerous hospital admissions were at times explosive. But the nursing care was personal and loving, and we will never forget the nurses who took it in

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'After several weeks, the growths were clearly shrinking, but his body soon became toxic and the treatment had to stop. This enabled the tumours to begin growing again, resulting in chronic breathlessness, weight loss and lethargy.

'On 28 November, 1992, Chris died peacefully in the Royal Children's Hospital, as much in control of his death as he had been in control of all aspects of his life.

'Some of the things he said to me in the last month of his life will remain with me forever. On one occasion, I explained to him that it was OK to express your feelings, and to cry sometimes. He said: "I'll never cry because I'm in pain. I've learnt with swimming to push through the pain barrier." I asked: "What if you feel emotionally upset about something?" He replied: "I might cry then."

'When he was confined to bed, I asked if he felt angry, bitter or frustrated. His response was that he felt "just numb... and frustrated," adding - "I feel useless. This isn't living!"

'And indeed, it was nothing like life as he knew it. He never expressed to us that he might be dying. Probably to insulate us from the pain of such a thought, or maybe as a denial that death had anything to do with 16-year-olds. The expectation was always of improvement - perhaps the best way of coping.

'Although he was never demonstrably affectionate as a teen-ager, just before he died he held his emaciated arms up to his mother and grandmother from his hospital bed and said: "I want to give you two a cuddle. I love you two. I wish I could cuddle you tighter, but I haven't got any strength in my arms."

He remarked how comfortable he felt that morning, and his mother saw that his breathing, though shallow, seemed more easy, and that he was at ease with himself. When the nurses came to evacuate the fluid from his lungs, with the enevitable ensuing trauma and torment for Chris, his mother told them to go away.

'I arrived a little later, 20 minutes before he lasped into unconsciousness for the last time. He was in a coma for the last one and a half hours. He just softly fell asleep and never woke up again.

'To persist in asking ourselves why he had to die so young, with so much to offer, is to get ourselves into a maze from which there is no escape. Better to celebrate the good times and get on with our lives the way he would have us live them - to the full. But it's not always possible to live your life to the full when part of it will always be empty.

'We will never know what might have been for this great kid. But we can learn from his adopted Reebok motto and succinctly appropriate epithet - Life is short. Play hard.'

Six weeks before he died, in October 1992, Chris was presented at a Lions Club dinner in Healesville with their Citizen of the Year award. In

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turns to awaken Chris so that he could watch the Olympic swimming finals on TV.

'On 28 November, 1992, Chris died peacefully in the Royal Children's Hospital, as much in control of his death as he had been in control of all aspects of his life.

'Some of the things he said to me in the last month of his life will remain with me forever. On one occasion, I explained to him that it was OK to express your feelings, and to cry sometimes. He said: "I'll never cry because I'm in pain. I've learnt with swimming to push through the pain barrier." I asked: "What if you feel emotionally upset about something?" He replied: "I might cry then."

'When he was confined to bed, I asked if he felt angry, bitter or frustrated. His response was that he felt "just numb... and frustrated," adding - "I feel useless. This isn't living!"

'And indeed, it was nothing like life as he knew it. He never expressed to us that he might be dying. Probably to insulate us from the pain of such a thought, or maybe as a denial that death had anything to do with 16-year-olds. The expectation was always of improvement - perhaps the best way of coping.

'Although he was never demonstrably affectionate as a teen-ager, just before he died he held his emaciated arms up to his mother and grandmother from his hospital bed and said: "I want to give you two a cuddle. I love you two. I wish I could cuddle you tighter, but I haven't got any strength in my arms."

He remarked how comfortable he felt that morning, and his mother saw that his breathing, though shallow, seemed more easy, and that he was at ease with himself. When the nurses came to evacuate the fluid from his lungs, with the enevitable ensuing trauma and torment for Chris, his mother told them to go away.

'I arrived a little later, 20 minutes before he lasped into unconsciousness for the last time. He was in a coma for the last one and a half hours. He just softly fell asieep and never woke up again.

'To persist in asking ourselves why he had to die so young, with so much to offer, is to get ourselves into a maze from which there is no escape. Better to celebrate the good times and get on with our lives the way he would have us live them - to the full. But it's not always possible to live your life to the full when part of it will always be empty.

'We will never know what might have been for this great kid. But we can learn from his adopted Reebok motto and succinctly appropriate epithet - Life is short. Play hard.'

Six weeks before he died, in October 1992, Chris was presented at a Lions Club dinner in Healesville with their Citizen of the Year award. In

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Less than a week before he died on Saturday, 28 November, he joined in the Thanksgiving lunch in the family home. A video was taken of the occasion: Chris looks thin and pale and wears a cap. He seems like a ghost amid the noise and jokes and apparent jollity all around him. He says little, but he smiles.

Many were the tributes and messages of sympathy that appeared in the newspapers after his death. His family contributed this verse:

'With tears we saw you suffer,

And watched you fade away;

Our hearts were really breaking

As you fought so hard to stay.

We knew you had to leave us,

But you never left alone;

For part of us went with you

When God came and called you home.'

His best friend, Aaron Leonard, wrote in his tribute: 'To my best ever friend Chris. You will always be remembered by all your friends, and especially by me. You always made me laugh, and made everybody happy. I hope my attitude towards everyone is as good as yours, and I hope my spirit is as powerful as yours. You were the best mate I've ever had and you always will be.'

Elissa Richardson, another close friend, wrote: 'For 13 full years we have grown together, but now you're not here. You fought so hard to stay. You were suffering so much, and yet you didn't want to cause us any pain. I have treasured memories of you in my heart forever. You are my inspiration to live life to the fullest. I love you, mate."

The funeral service was held at 11.0 am on Wednesday, 2 December in the Uniting Church in Healesville, where the Honeycombes were very well known and liked. Alan was a lay-preacher and elder there and sometimes played the organ for the hymns. Over 500 people filled the church and the adjacent hall, where the service was broadcast on close-circuit TV. Healesville High School closed for the morning so that students and teachers could attend. The address was given by the minister, the Rev Tim Angus. Many wept.

He said: 'We have gathered here because of the death of Christopher Alan Honeycombe. Chris is dead. What we hoped and longed for nor to happen, has happened, and that is a bitter truth... Cancer is so limited - it cannot cripple love; it cannot shatter hope; it cannot corrode faith; it cannot eat away peace; it cannot destroy confidence; it cannot kill friendship; it cannot shut out memories; it cannot silence courage; it cannot invade the soul; it cannot quench the spirit; it cannot lessen the power of the resurrection. Our greatest enemy is not disease, but despair. And Alan and Beth, Ross and