Greg Seymour did not come back the same man.
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The five months he spent in the war-ravaged African country of Somalia has stayed with the veteran, now 49, for 27 years.
Although his memories of his deployment are etched in his mind, it was only when he accepted that others were willing to listen without judgement that he could let go and become a new version of himself.
It was January, 1993. Mr Seymour was deployed as an infantryman to Baidoa in what started out as a combat mission - Operation Solace.
"I wanted to be a grunt," he said. "The foot soldier is the backbone of the army that all other units support. It was the best chance to get to do the job I was training for and be deployed on a combat operation.
"No one wants war but, if it comes to it, you want to be in control of the fighting on the ground."
The first month-and-a-half saw "regular gunfights break out" between the Australian soldiers and local bandits, who wanted control over water points and food drop-off areas.
But, Mr Seymour said the locals learned very quickly it wasn't going to end well so they "played the game" while the soldiers were there.
The shooting stopped and the bandits either hid their weapons or fled in search for easier pickings.
Mr Seymour's main job however was "night ambush busting".
Two hours after dusk they would leave the compound, pick a route and drive until 3am in search of ambush points on the roadside.
The job was about protecting vehicle routes for the locals who travelled at night because it was safer than daylight.
"We did that for four months, so we were putting ourselves out there as a target for the bad guys," he said.
Mr Seymour recalled one night when they came across a vehicle that had come under fire while driving through the night.
"We asked them what was going on and what was with all the blood," he said. "They were ambushed, but they didn't stop - they kept driving only to pull over because the driver had been mortally wounded.
"They had thrown him in the back and kept driving. We were the first people they came across."
At an early point during these patrols, which Mr Seymour liked to call "crossing over," he had to come to terms with the real possibility of never coming home.
"I realised that I might not come back tonight - it was that bad," he said.
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It became normal for him to come up with contingency plans while driving for hours on end.
"When you stand at the front of a vehicle on the forward gun, if they had hit the driver's capsule with what's called a rocket propelled grenade - there goes my legs," he said.
"I had to wonder, if I lose my legs and I'm still alive ... how do I fire this weapon effectively with no legs.
"How do I put rounds down ... if I had been shot in the right shoulder and can't work my weapon correctly. It became normal."
When Mr Seymour returned to Australia, he said "he never came home" and "never saw life the same again".
Even his behaviours and personality drastically changed and he often found himself reacting to situations in a way he usually would never dare.
"I was buying boot polish and shaving cream at Woolies. I had been held up by a lady in front of me telling off a young girl at the checkout about a 30 cent discrepancy in the price on the shelf and the price at the till.
"She was whinging about 30 cents when people are out in the world getting murdered for their food. I told her, you disgust me and threw my stuff on the counter and stormed off ... [before my deployment] I would never have talked to a lady the way I did."
For years Mr Seymour could not move on. He struggled to sleep, resorted to drinking and when it was time to wake up he went to work drunk.
It took seven years for Mr Seymour to reach out to a psychiatrist who diagnosed him with post-traumatic stress disorder. But it was not news that helped him move forward.
"I asked what it means and my psychiatrist's exact words were you are a f***ed up veteran," he said.
"It gave me permission to become that. I did drugs, I drank alcohol and did bad things. I was a rotten person, a menace to society, my friends and family."
It wasn't until six years later that a new psychiatrist helped him on the path to rebuilding himself into the person he wanted to be.
"I will never be the same person as the man that went away, but I need to become the new me," Mr Seymour said. "In my life today, there's a bit of the old me and a lot of the new me."
It took a lot of hard work, he said, but only he could make the change. Mr Seymour said his experience was what most veterans are forced to face "once the dust settles" and they "cannot do the job they love anymore".
"They see themselves as the lowest of the low and with that comes self-destructive behaviour," he said.
"We don't speak up because we think nobody wants to listen ... it is important to realise people want to listen without judgement.
"They have to give themselves first permission to acknowledge they are broken and permission to speak up, reach out, engage and overcome."
He said groups like Wagga's Defence Shed, RSL Sub-Branch, Open Arms and Soldier On were all there waiting to listen to veterans who reach out.
Anzac Day is a perfect time, he said, to start talking and listening. For many years, he "did not feel worthy enough" to attend the dawn service or veterans march.
"It is about reflecting on our service. Every role has been necessary and integral for keeping people on the ground," he said.
Although this year is without the traditions, Mr Seymour reminded the community that Anzac Day is in everyone's heart. He said it was an opportunity to get creative, commemorate the day at home so that Anzac Day will be back "bigger and better than ever" next year.
- If you or someone you know is struggling with mental health, contact Open Arms veterans and families counselling on 1800 011 046, Lifeline on 13 11 14, or beyondblue on 1300 224 636.