I first met Barrie Daniel in the barracks at Karrakatta, Western Australia, in December 1981. I had just been promoted to sergeant and posted to 11 Independent Rifle Company, Royal Western Australian Regiment.
The memory is sharp: the smell of polish, the shuffle of boots, the low murmur of men settling into their roles. I was keen as mustard, full of the sort of enthusiasm that can wear thin if it isn’t tempered by experience.
I had been briefed — the adjutant John Baker, soon to leave for the SASR, gave me the formal outline; Ray Purdon, the ARA cadre company sergeant major, a warrant officer with service in Korea, Vietnam and Malaya, delivered the hard lessons of leadership; and the Officer Commanding, Nick Norris, had made his expectations clear. I felt ready to be the sergeant the Army expected.
On that first parade night I marched into the hall and, as a new NCO does, asked a corporal ahead of me for Barrie Daniel. He turned, looked me in the eye, and said in that calm, economical voice, “It’s me, sergeant.” That was Corporal Barrie Daniel. I launched into who I was, why I was there and what I expected. He listened, answered “Yes, sergeant,” and left me to learn a truth I would come to value: there are people whose steadiness steadies you simply by being themselves. I did not then appreciate how fortunate I had been to have him in my unit.
The environment in which our relationship formed was a testing ground. For a year I worked to win the respect of Army Reserve personnel. The Regular Army cadre and the Reservists are often like two halves of a machine that don’t always fit smoothly. I pushed systems, trained the staff, and tried to lift standards to those I’d been taught. But reservists live in the civilian world; they bring different rhythms, careers, families and pressures. They test a young sergeant’s patience in ways no textbook anticipates. For months it felt like I was perched on a branch alone. It was slow, humbling and sometimes lonely.
Barrie changed that, not with speeches or grand gestures but with quiet companionship. I would drive him home — he had a civilian address — and on those drives conversation loosened. He told me about his civilian role and I gradually realised that this corporal, steady in uniform, was in civilian life the equivalent of a CEO in a leading electronics firm.
He carried the poise of someone used to responsibility and the patience of a man who had balanced competing pressures for years. The advice and example he gave me about people, management and getting the best from others were worth their weight in gold.
Barrie taught management in the way that matters: by lived example rather than in lectures. He talked plainly about man‑management and human nature and reminded me repeatedly that people are not machines. You can push them and demand standards, but you must understand what makes them tick — their private pressures, their jobs, their families. From him I learned how to motivate volunteers juggling work and family, how to delegate with trust, how to pick the right man for the right job and then give him space to excel. Those lessons became the backbone of the leadership I practised later.
By the end of that first year, things grew easier. The unit’s systems improved and the men came to see my aim was to build rather than browbeat. A change in the mood of a unit like that rarely has a single cause. Often it is the quiet endorsement of people like Barrie — men who can say a few words at the right time and make a difference. He would quietly mention the best of the staff to others, counsel a hesitant reservist and steer without spectacle. He did not crave the spotlight; he simply did the work, and his work had consequences.
When I was reposted to the east, I left with genuine regret. I had forged friendships that endure. Barrie and Noel Greaves — Noel gone now but dear in memory — were two who became very good friends. They were comrades in uniform and companions in life who stood by me through upheaval: a marriage breakdown in the mid‑1980s, the challenge of raising four sons as a single father, and the constant pull between civilian work and military duty. Barrie was there in the background, a steadying presence.
There is a particular virtue in quiet mentorship. Men like Barrie coach without fanfare, correct with a wink and praise with a nod. Across the years I learned that Barrie’s influence extended well beyond our local unit. In my later work building community initiatives and the HANZAC Memorial in Pellana, I came to appreciate his reach. He was described at one point as the chairman of an organisation covering three quarters of Australia — a role that requires a different mastery: stakeholder politics, balancing competing interests and the diplomacy to hold diverse groups together.
That Barrie inhabited such roles meant his counsel to me was not merely practical but strategic. I am fond of saying leadership is learned in kitchens more than classrooms. Barrie taught me in the drive home, over a cup of tea, and in off‑hours conversation. He could translate large organisational principles into choices a single man could act upon.
When I moved into roles that required managing administrative systems and organising staff training, I heard his voice: keep it simple, know your people, delegate with trust, and never sacrifice principle for popularity. Those refrains guided me when I founded a not‑for‑profit consultancy and confronted projects that demanded both humility and determination. Barrie was part of a small circle of mates and mentors who steadied me: Maurice Barwick, Don Norman, Noel Greaves and himself among them. These were men who offered unvarnished wisdom and loyalty without calculation, who answered phones at odd hours, turned up at difficult meetings, and attended memorials.
Their reputations lent credibility to initiatives and sometimes opened doors simply by their presence. The HANZAC Memorial would not have been possible without such a network. Barrie, as a founding supporter, made a material commitment: he donated, he helped, he lent his name and trusted the project to people who valued memory and service.
There is special symbolism in how the memorial commemorates contributors. Near the top of the steps stand four Australian eucalyptus trees, each dedicated to different groups and mates. One bears Barrie’s name, representing Reserve personnel. The first time I stood beneath that tree I felt the strands of our lives converge: military bond, civic responsibility and personal friendship all held in one living symbol. A tree is a patient thing; it grows slowly and outlives us all. To have a tree named for you is to be given a place in future commemorations, part of the annual memory that ANZAC Day embodies. Barrie’s eucalyptus will shade those who come, reminding younger visitors each spring that the memorial was a labour of many hands.
Barrie’s support appeared in lists and rolls — donor lists, in‑kind supporters, the Guardians Wall where his name is inscribed. He wrote a short letter of support for me — “Peter Adamis is a one in a generation person,” he wrote — praising honesty, passion and work ethic. Those words mattered because they came from a man with credibility in the community. People often ask who stands behind a vision; a trusted endorsement makes the difference. Barrie’s endorsement was never flashy; it was the hallmark of someone who had judged and then chose to vouch.
Above all, our friendship mattered. I once christened my circle of mentors as “Adopted Aussie Uncles” for my sons; it was my way of handing on a cultural lens and moral inheritance. I gave Barrie the playful name “Barrie Danielopoulos.” The uncles were not merely role models; they were living proofs that loyalty and steadiness endure. Barrie’s presence in that list was natural: he had been steady at crucial moments and spoken truth when it was needed.
Mateship, I would tell anyone, is in the accumulation of small acts: the drives home where you tell each other things you tell no one else; the quiet phone call saying “I’m here”; the hand that steadies during funerals or planning meetings. Barrie embodied that civic friendship. He did not seek recognition.
He did what needed to be done because it was right. It is tempting to speak of character abstractly, but Barrie’s character was concrete. He taught me how to delegate, build systems, read people — and he taught dignity. He showed that true influence is exercised without ostentation.
He had a rare knack for asking the questions that make you think twice. When I brought him problems wanting action lists and deadlines, he would sit back, look across the table with that quiet, level gaze and ask, “What are you trying to achieve?” The question forced me out of treating people and tasks as interchangeable and made me start with outcomes and work backwards. In the heat of organisational pressure it is easy to do everything at once; Barrie taught the virtue of selectivity: do the right thing, in the right order, with the right people.
He could read a room. Where egos threatened to scuttle progress, he would defuse tension not with grand pronouncements but with small courtesies — inviting a quieter voice, reminding people of a shared purpose, or telling a short anecdote that put a dispute into perspective. Those lessons I repeated when chairing committees and in community briefings: it is one thing to hold rank, another to hold attention. Barrie taught me how to hold attention without turning meetings into theatre.
On a personal level, Barrie turned up for the small but crucial tasks that keep life functional. As a single father raising my boys, there were nights when another man simply needed someone to listen without judgment. Barrie did that. He dropped by, offered practical help, attended school events, and sat in my lounge swapping the sort of banter that removes weight from your shoulders for an hour. He had a dry humour that could turn the darkest moods lighter with the smallest observation. We laughed together about the absurdities of bureaucracy, the foibles of people we’d worked with and the strange detours life took.
Barrie taught me, by example, how to steward reputation. In the world of community not‑for‑profits, veterans’ organisations and political circles, reputation is fragile. One misstep can erode trust. Barrie guarded his reputation not by hiding but by being reliably present: if he said he would do something, he did it; if he promised support it arrived on time and without fuss. Credibility, he showed me, is the most precious currency in civic life. I learned to emulate that — to write the letter, to show up, and to ensure the promises I took on were promises I intended to keep.
When the HANZAC Memorial moved from idea to reality, those qualities mattered. Projects like that are built of thousands of small commitments. Barrie’s signature on donor lists and his inclusion on the Guardians Wall were more than formalities; they told others this was a worthy endeavour.
His involvement opened doors, secured goodwill, and helped us garner not only funds but the attention of people who could amplify the project’s reach. There is humility in that service which should not be overlooked. Barrie could have relished the social capital his involvement produced; instead he let the work speak. He had seen enough public theatre to know appearances sometimes distract from substance. The memorial benefited because he did not want to be the story; he wanted the story to be about those who served and the communities that keep memory alive.
There is one other strand of Barrie’s life I must record because it explains so much of the steadiness I have described: his civilian life and work. It would be wrong to think of Barrie only in uniform. He lived very fully in the civilian world and his professional achievements informed the man he was in the mess, at committee meetings and at my kitchen table. He was born in Adelaide in July 1946 into a family that taught him the value of duty and quiet practicality.
His father served in the Second World War — he even increased his age by two years so he could enlist — and saw service in Malaya and New Guinea. That example of service at home and abroad left a mark on Barrie. He attended Croydon Technical High School and left after Year 10, following advice to find work rather than return to study. He sometimes described that choice ruefully, as one that set him on a very different apprenticeship than the classroom might have offered.
His working life began in modest fashion — two weeks at Dunlite Electrical — before he joined T.R. Services, a communications company that became, in effect, his professional home for thirty‑three years until it was closed down by Cable & Wireless. It was in that long tenure that Barrie learned the disciplines of technology, logistics and business leadership.
He rose through roles with practical responsibility: State Engineering Manager for Western Australia; Sales Engineer handling major projects and government sales; State Manager with responsibilities across Western Australia, South Australia and Victoria; and Regional Engineering Manager for WA, SA, VIC and TAS. He also managed Bitek Data, an associated company manufacturing time and attendance equipment, and while in Western Australia became a director of HENCO ELECTRIC WA Electrical Contractors.
Those titles tell only part of the story. What mattered more than the job description was how he treated the work: with attention to detail, an eye for systems and an unshowy determination to solve problems. When T.R. Services closed, Barrie did not stop. He and a group of consultants formed DANCOM Management & Communications, taking their expertise into management consulting until a shift in government policy changed the landscape. He adapted again, joining
A Noble & Son Pty Ltd as National Electronics Marketing Manager, where he worked with load cells, scales and safety devices for large and small machines. That adaptability — moving from shop floor problems to national marketing — is characteristic of a man who could translate technical knowledge into strategic leadership.
In later years Barrie became the owner of LIFTCELLS, a division of ONETEC Pty Ltd, operating for more than a decade. Under his guidance the company produced strength and conditioning equipment for elite sportspeople — AFL footballers, rugby teams and Olympians — and supplied the Australian and English cricket teams.
He told me with a quiet pride about major technical achievements: collaborating with Edith Cowan University and Professor Robert Newton; being among the first to put measuring equipment on a non‑motorized treadmill; producing force platforms in carbon fibre and aluminium; designing and manufacturing bespoke electronics in Australia. These were not small feats. The English cycling team used their systems in training that contributed to gold medals at the Beijing Olympics. We do not keep trophies for technical ingenuity, but Barrie’s work in this field was a kind of craftsmanship — rigorous, inventive and nationally significant.
Barrie’s technical life was matched by civic commitment. For more than four decades he was an active Lion. He served as President of the Wanneroo Lions Club twice, President of the Golden Grove Lions Club, and President of the Port Cygnet Lions Club. He held many roles: club secretary, vice president, treasurer, zone chairman, regional chairman, district convention chairman and District Youth of the Year chairman.
He was Bulletin Editor for many years and chaired numerous projects. For this service he was recognised with awards, including the Neil Williams Members Award and the Melvin Jones Fellowship. Freemasonry was another long service: twenty‑eight years of involvement and two years as Master of Largs Bay Lodge, along with roles as Grand Steward and SA Membership Chairman.
He served eight years in the Army Reserve and was active in the PMC OR’s Mess for four years. He lectured widely — on management, technical subjects and business — and was invited by Telstra to address their Perth North management staff before telecommunications deregulation. He sat on the board of Pedare Christian College in Adelaide and worked with institutions as diverse as DSTO, CSIRO, AIMS and universities. These roles are not just a list of positions. They show a mind at work across many domains and, crucially, a man prepared to invest his time where it mattered: in schools, in sports, in community groups, in technical advancement and in the mentoring of younger men.
When I think of why so many of us turned to Barrie in moments of need, these commitments explain it. He was known, respected and trusted across networks that mattered. That trust is not granted lightly. It is earned by consistent action: showing up, doing the work, keeping one’s word.
It is worth pausing on something Barrie said to me once — almost in passing — about reputation. He told me that reputation is like a ledger: every action is an entry and over time it balances into trust or suspicion. He guarded his ledger carefully. In practical terms this meant that if he told you he would do something, it was done; if he signed his name to a project, he followed through.
In the world of community projects and memorials, that kind of reliability is the glue that holds ambition to reality. I suspect this sense of duty came in part from the example of his father, but it also came from decades of work in industries where failure had real consequences — when engineering systems failed or when equipment mattered to athletes in the race for gold. So the man who taught me to keep promises did so because he had practised it across many contexts.
I have described Barrie as a mentor, a practical manager and a mate. But there was another side to him — the domestic, the quotidian — that is as important as any committee role. His marriage to Maralyn, solemnised on 31 December 1967 before their move to Perth a week later, provided a foundation. They spent twenty years in Perth and later relocated to places that let them keep contributing to community life.
I remember how he would speak of family with warmth and affection. Meeting Marilyn on occasions and seeing the steadiness of their partnership reinforced a truth I had already seen in Barrie’s life: public service is sustained by private constancy. When families show up for community projects not to claim credit but to support, they stitch a different kind of social fabric — one that lasts.
There were moments when the cumulative weight of service, grief and age made all of us aware of the fragility of human plans. We have lost many mates — Noel Greaves, Don Norman, and others who left gaps that cannot be filled. The memorial lists and the eucalyptus trees are, in part, our way of resisting the amnesia of time. Barrie’s name on the Guardians Wall and beneath the eucalyptus sends a clear message: someone noticed, someone kept faith. For those of us who remain, that is consolation and reminder both. Legacy is a word many use lightly. Barrie and I did not talk of legacies as a kind of monument to self. For him, legacy was accrual: a steady accumulation of acts that altered the course of other people’s lives.
He taught me — by weak and strong example, by direct counsel and by the way he lived — that legacy is practical: it is the men you mentor, the systems you leave in place, the projects that survive your involvement and the people you have steadied. The HANZAC Memorial, the eucalyptus trees, the Guardians Wall — these are visible tokens. The less visible tokens are the young men who, because someone like Barrie spent time with them, learned how to lead without ego, to manage with humility and to serve without seeking applause.
I have tried in this chapter to capture both the man and the particulars: the barrack nights at Karrakatta when we first met; the drives home when we talked about management and life; the long professional apprenticeship that gave Barrie both skill and credibility; the years of civic service that built reputation into community capital; and the quiet, faithful friendship that steadied me during breakdowns, hospital stays and the everyday grind of raising boys on my own. None of these things alone explains Barrie, but together they tell a larger truth: that a life of service, lived without ostentation, multiplies.
There are small memories I cannot resist recording. I remember his dry humour in the tense moments of committee meetings: a single, unexpected observation that cut tension and allowed people to laugh and then get back to work. I remember the care with which he read minutes and the way he would underline the practical steps among the rhetoric. I remember his meticulousness with technical details and his irritation with jargon that obscured meaning. I remember, most of all, how he could be both firm and kind — an equilibrium very few achieve.
As I finish this tribute, I do so with gratitude that is both personal and civic. Personal, because Barrie taught me how to be steadier than I might otherwise have been. Civic, because his life stands as an example of how private competence and public service can combine to build institutions and memories that outlast us. I do not pretend that one chapter can contain a life. I write instead as a witness and as a friend: to put on record the debt that I owe and to give readers a sense of a man who showed us how to manage, how to lead and how to be a mate.
When future visitors walk under the eucalyptus and read the names on the Guardians Wall, I hope some will pause and ask about the men behind the names. I hope they will find this account useful: a portrait of a man who moved between workshop and boardroom, between clubhouse and church hall, between barrack and memorial site. I hope they will see in Barrie an example worth emulating: practical, generous, strategic and, above all, loyal.
Thank you, Barrie — mate, mentor, guardian and friend. You steadied me. You taught me. You kept your promises. The memorial will stand; the tree will grow; the names will be read each ANZAC morning. But the truest memorial to you is the ripple of steadiness that runs through the lives of people you touched. That ripple continues. For my part, I will keep telling the story — over cups of tea, on long drives and in the quiet places where leadership is learned and friendship is kept.
Peter Adamis