Walking with Ghosts

For those of you that have read my prior blogs you’ll remember that I’m a bit of a history buff and over the years have read more than my fair share of Australian military history.  The reason was pretty simple really; my grandfather (my mum’s father) served in both world wars.  He volunteered for the first Australian Imperial Force (AIF) in late 1915 and after six short weeks of training found himself on a troopship cooped up with thousands of other young “diggers” bound for England and eventually the Western Front in France where he fought with the 49th Battalion, 13th Brigade of the 4th Australian Division.   Surprisingly he survived two years of “hell on earth” although it was apparently a very close run thing after being severely wounded and gassed in those two final years of the war and spending a significant amount of time in a variety of hospitals in England both during and after the war recuperating.   Somehow he survived that epic conflict and returned home to his wife and four young children, where he set about having an additional two children – mum being one of them.

Now you’d think that someone with his intimate knowledge and background of war would likely “sit out” the next one - right?   Well, not so much!    Not only does he attempt to volunteer again in 1940 for the 2^nd AIF at the ripe old age of 51 but was denied based on his age.  Although that didn’t seem to stop him as he then got wind that his old unit – the 49^th Battalion was being re-formed in Queensland as part of the newly created militia so he literally marched down to the local barracks and signed up on the spot.   The militia was made up of 18, 19 and 20 year old that were too young to sign up for the AIF without their parents’ permission (needed to be 21) or men older than 35 which put a large majority of those that had fought in the first war back in uniform.  Some might say a "mixed bag" of the too young and the too old.

We'll never really know how they chose which militia battalion was going to New Guinea in 1942.  The reality is that grandfathers battalion was based in North Queensland and therefore much closer to New Guinea and should have been the obvious choice to go first, but in retrospect I guess it was the luck of the draw that dictated who went and who stayed.  Who lived and who died......

I can see you all now scratching your heads going – okay cool story but how does this fit into the story of Kokoda?  

As a kid growing up, Mum really didn’t speak a lot about my grandfather except that she always said that he was a bit of a “lad"……as a kid I really wasn’t sure what that meant, but as I reflect back on those long forgotten conversations I think it was his way of living life.   He was an adventurer of sorts, someone who wasn’t afraid of a little hard work, the occasional fight or “having a go”.

Deniki at dawn - rain ahead!

So as I sat listening to the pitter patter of rain on my tent that very first night at Deniki I felt the presence of both my dad (who had passed away earlier in the year) and my grandfather……right there with me.   Clearly I was going a little crazy I thought, was it my malaria tablets affecting me or was it the tropical heat?   Strangely though as I looked around to my cohorts and as I observed them I sensed that I wasn’t alone in this frame of mind – there were many others just like me who were walking with the weight of their fathers, uncles, grandfathers or families on their shoulders.  Trying to come to terms with the feelings of being “good enough” or measuring up to those that had gone before us.

A perfect example was one of the guys in our group John Bartlett.   John was a pretty quiet and shy fellow who at the start of the walk didn’t know a soul.  I remember asking John early on in our adventure about his motivation for doing the Kokoda track and he related the somewhat fragmented story of his father that he had pieced together after his passing.  His father (Corporal John Alexander Bartlett) had fought in Papua New Guinea as a commando often behind enemy lines as part of the coast-watchers, winning a Military Medal for bravery, but his father like most of the veterans had never shared a single story of what they had been through, no linkage to those years of their life – nothing but a void.   It seemed as though John was trying to connect with his dad and feel what his dad must have experienced even for just a short time.  It was clear to me that this was a very meaningful journey for John and I'm so glad that I got a chance to share it with him.

Another of our group was Grant Cushion from Melbourne, whose grandfather had fought along the very same track as we were hiking during those dark and desperate days and was one of the lucky few to survive and return home.  Cush had done quite a bit of research and had even been able to get his grandfathers war records from the Australian War Memorial research library.  They are photocopies of the original journals that were kept on the front lines, so you can imagine they are written in long hand and surprisingly detailed.   These clearly helped Cush on his journey as he could look for specific landmarks and locations where his grandfather had walked some seven decades earlier.  Very powerful stuff indeed!



Isurava Memorial and the four pillars



Day two of our expedition saw us hike from Deniki to Alola, transversing the ridgeline high above Erora creek.  We stopped for lunch at Isurava.   After having the pleasure of visiting Isurava two words spring to mind – peace and harmony which is quite strange considering its violent past - but there you have it.  I was in awe of my surroundings as I sat there listening to the wind in the tops of the trees and the noises of the jungle echoing around me.

Perhaps the most moving part of the day was when we stood shoulder to shoulder in a circle at the memorial.  Ron Verlin, the elder statesmen of our group read the last stanza of the poem “Ode to Remembrance” before we played the Last Post.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

We will remember them.

Lest we forget

As we stood there in silence, with the sounds of the Last Post reverberating around us - I can tell you there wasn’t a dry eye in the place.   We ended the service with the four simple words that are etched into the black granite pillars.  Today I know them by heart as I spoke these words softly to my dad and grandfather each day before I started to hike, as I'm sure many of my group did as well.   These four words will forever bond me to my brothers whom I shared my Kokoda adventure with.

Courage - Endurance - Mateship – Sacrifice