Lest we forget ...

His name was Captain Fraunfelder but I used to call him Captain Prawn-Feelers because I was a little kid and that’s what it sounded like to me. Even to this day I still think of him as a dignified old military man, with two enormous antennae poking out the top of his head. He was a World War I veteran who was invited to our primary school every year on Speech Day as the guest of honour. He’d fought in Gallipoli, he’d won countless medals of valour, he’d given everything for his country - and as a reward for his courageous service, he got to give out awards to little schoolkids, shaking each of their sweaty, sticky Twistie-stained boogery-fingered hands.

Captain Fraunfelder once shook my sweaty, sticky Twistie-stained boogery-fingered hand. I won a grade 3 English award for my long-form journalistic essay, “Our Trip To The Waste Treatment Plant” (not wanting to brag but it was an exceptionally fluid piece of writing, each sentence perfectly filtered to remove all floating solids). So I got called onstage, shook his hand, took my prize - it was a dictionary I think. Or maybe it was a history book. Maybe I didn’t even win it. Maybe it was Gregory Warren. It was a long time ago. Somebody won something.

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Anyway, Captain Fraunfelder has stayed in my mind to this day: I’ll always remember his bushy moustache, his blazer covered in medals, his dangly crustacean antennae. And I’ve often pondered those torturous Speech Days he had to sit through year after year; how he’d spent the First World War crawling through muddy trenches, dodging enemy bullets, experiencing the very worst of humanity - and yet none of that could possibly be more brutal than being stuck in a steamy assembly hall for two and a half hours, listening to a 40-minute speech from the assistant principal, followed by a 50-minute speech from the principal, because the two of them got a little competitive. Captain Fraunfelder was a true hero, a brave Anzac, and I will never forget his annual sacrifice.

Third grade, fourth grade, fifth grade, Captain Fraunfelder was there for all of those Speech Days, and then in sixth grade he didn’t show up. A few of the kids said he’d probably died but I’d like to think he finally managed to escape. That he was holed up in his suburban home, hiding behind a bedroom dresser, teeth clenched, antennas quivering, hoping nobody would find him there. That this great war hero couldn’t take another one of those ceremonies. That never again would he endure the horror ... the horror ...

For ages I’ve wanted to pay tribute to The Captain, honour him in some way, and I’ve finally found a way of doing it. I’ve written a new children’s book series called The Poppa Platoon about an old war hero and his grandkids, battling their way through normal day-to-day situations - on a mission to cross the showbag pavilion at the Royal Show, or surviving an all-you-can-eat buffet at a family restaurant, or negotiating five levels of shopping mall to get to a Build-A-Bear birthday party. And there’s a nice full-circle vibe about all of this: Captain Fraunfelder gave me a book all those years ago, and now I’m giving him a book back. Except I won’t be able to shake his hand, which is a shame because my fingers are a lot less boogery now. And the warts have all cleared up, which I think he would have really appreciated.

Danny Katz is an Age columnist.