He lives humbly in a small, cluttered house in the Geelong suburb of Belmont, with the layers of his life piled around him.
When he sold his country block outside Geelong last year, he donated most of the proceeds — $300,000 — to St Vincent's Hospital for a new heart machine. "Money doesn't count much when you get old." he said. "I'm doing all right without the $300,000. I get a disability pension. I'm OK."
Brough came from Drouin, and his mother was a cousin of Albert Jacka, Australia's most famous World War I soldier. In World War II, Brough fought and was wounded at Tobruk, which he called "another Gallipoli", and at El Alamein.
He lived with fleas, flies, dysentery, malnutrition and the blood of other men spattered on his unwashed face. He wondered how he would get through the nights, but the whistle of bullets around his ears always galvanised him. "Fear and adrenaline took over," he said. In stifling heat, he survived on one bottle of water a day and did not take off his boots for a month.
Once Brough was sent on a suicide patrol by a commanding officer whose motive he was sure was vindictive. "That'll be the last you see of me," he said as he went. Yesterday he recalled: "Four machine-guns came out of one dugout. I got shot in the arm and backside."
But neither he nor his humanity died. When he came across a badly wounded German soldier, he gave him a cigarette, then piggy-backed him back to his own lines. He and his "passenger" were knocked to the ground by the draught from a shell that passed within centimetres.
Returning to his lines, with his back to the Germans, he wondered if he should run. "I thought, bugger it, I'll walk back," he said. "There wasn't another shot fired. But three hours later, the tanks came."
Brough was captured and sent by boat to Italy. On the Mediterranean, he and his fellow prisoners sang Australian ditties loudly to alert Allied submarines to hold fire.
He ended up at a POW camp called Spittal in Austria, otherwise called Stalag 18A. He still has the tag. One day, the Australians staged a mock meeting of the Spittal Turf Club; he still has the printed program.
On Good Friday, 1944, Brough and two others — a West Australian and a New Zealander — escaped and embarked on an extraordinary 12-day flight through Slovenia and Croatia to Bosnia, travelling by night, using the moon, a stolen map and a tiny compass he still owns to guide themselves. They swam icy rivers, traversed snowy mountain passes, hid in lofts, copses and ditches and were nearly caught a dozen times, escaping once by pretending to be Germans. They were always hungry.