Kokoda

Over the last few days, I have been reading Kokoda, Peter Fitzsimons’ epic narrative of the battle to hold Australian territory in Papua New Guinea in 1942.  I am ashamed to say that my knowledge of the battle those young men faced was rather limited a few days ago. I knew they had been incredibly courageous in the face of great adversity, but I had no idea the extent of their courage and no idea of the degree of their adversity.

The book made me so proud, and also made me laugh, and cry, and, most importantly, explained to me, in great detail, what those men did for Australia. Heroic barely begins to describe the type of diggers that fought, and are still fighting, for our country. And our soldiers haven’t changed; they just have better management (anyone but Macarthur is better), and access to resources, food and ammunition these days.

This afternoon I went for a walk around the mean streets of my locale and reflected on the book so far. Without any exaggeration, our country is what it is today in no small part due to the actions of those men, and all the other soldiers who have fought and died for this country.

During my walk, right on cue, a carload of teenage hoodlums catcalled me while hooning through the neighbourhood, like a bunch of wannabe Michael Schumacher’s without the car, talent or Monaco oceanview apartment.  In that moment, I thought that perhaps it would be best if they drove straight to the closest Defence recruitment centre they could find, so these young idiots could learn a bit of discipline and respect and how not to be an annoying Gen Y waste of space.  If anyone can learn them those skills, the Army can.

The problem for these misdirected youth is that the courageous choose to fight for their country. I know that’s probably a little unfair to the brain dead morons in their stupid suped up cars, and I know that times were different back then, but it doesn’t change the way I feel about it.

A family member recently told me that a distant relative died on the shores of Gallipoli. He was just 22-years old. I like to think that I would do anything to defend my country and my values, but could I voluntarily take up arms and go fight in a war for her?  In my eyes, this decision, this choice, makes soldiers all the more heroic.