Before the horror.

WARNING

 

Adult content, that may trigger.

 

Today my colour is green.

 

A diary entry.

 

My dog likes classical music.

 

I bought him, my miniature fox terrier, to occupy my dad’s time, and mind, as he died from cancer. I thought a tiny pugnacious boy dog, would frustrate my dad to life, and not death, as he came to terms with his terminal disease. It worked. I had to bring him home after I bought him from kind people, next to a swamp on the Murray River. I put him in a cardboard box with holes in it. I did it to calm him, and to keep him from getting under the cars peddles as I drove, a potentially fatal experience for us both. My dog is an utter boy, so much so, if he was in the modern education system, they would have him on Ritalin. He would not settle down in the car at the start of the 160klm or 100-mile trip home. The answer I found was music. I ran through the channels on the radio, seeing what would be best, and we settled on ABC classical. I always remember how it alleviated his distress, that stemmed from being separated for the first time from his canine and human families. He cried in the car for them, upsetting not just him, but me. So, when I found out he liked classical music, it was a joy.

 

I was sitting at home today watching the D Day commemoration. Later by chance I was listening to the Hauser Adagio for Strings (Barber). Here is a link the YouTube video www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hc8gYoXkLZ4. It is from the soundtrack for the movie Platoon. If you don’t know it is a movie about the Vietnam war, and it stars Charlie Sheen. My dog’s ears swivelled and tilted, his head looked left and right, following the stereo music from speaker to speaker. His face pointed at the music with curious intent, going from one speaker to the next. It grabbed his attention, after minutes of being a boy with no purpose, he stopped, and we both listened intently.

 

Later, I would think about war, and my role in it.

 

The D Day commemoration in France commemorates the landing that was so pivotal in the swing of the fate of France and Europe. On that day 80 years ago, 4414 troops lost their lives, so my copilot tells me. It makes me a little emotional. Thinking of the loss of life.

I once went along to the RSl or the Returned Services League on ANZAC day. ANZAC day is if you don’t know a commemoration of the wars, those that served, and those that died. We do it here in Australia. It stands for Australian New Zealand Army Corps. I had run out of grog, and was after a drink, so I went along. In general, I have nothing to do with Anzac Day on a public level, as it is too distressing, and the potential of me weeping openly raises to many questions. I think it could cause some distress for others, as I lose my composure. The other reason is my great grandfather was in World War one. He was highly traumatised by the experience, so much so he never talked about it, and refused to go to Anzac Day parades. It is not about me, as to why I do not attend. I am not confused about my intent of what I did.

 

The colour green. My 365-word processor icon is green today, a sign of renewal, or so it says. I am informed after doing a search for the colour’s meaning, or its representative connotation on the net. It was the colour for our school jumpers at high school, and I remember that it was part of the sporting group Chisolm, my group or team when it came to school sports. It was a team that celebrated the Australian woman, Caroline Chisholm. Here is a link to her wiki page, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caroline_Chisholm, quite a remarkable woman, on all accounts. She was a friend to immigrants in Australia. Despite my family being here in Australia for approximately one hundred years, and, even though I was born here, I am still treated like an immigrant. Oddly it seemed strange that an aboriginal woman who dislikes welcome to countries, would make me feel at home, with the teachings of her traditional uncle. She said her uncle had taught her that if you were born here, you are from here. I am highly confident that it is a simplification of a very lengthy consideration. This consideration, when I reflected on that day at the RSl was gutting, it touches part of me, like no one had, since childhood. Her words affected me today, as I recalled that day at the RSL years ago. A day where I went to remember and have a beer. To be honest it was upsetting for all the wrong reasons. On that day, I drank quietly, and watched the veterans play lawn bowls, at least one of the veterans was a very good bowler, and I said “good bowl” on several occasions. A gentleman approached me and said very politely that it was a time of quiet reflection, and to come inside and have a beer while the gentleman bowlers remembered the fallen in silence, and why they went to war.

 

I went inside after apologizing and sat at the bar. While inside, another man approached me. He started with a line of questioning or what would become an interrogation of sorts. I had been taken inside for an education, an education as to who the locals were, and to be questioned as to where I come from. It may have been well intended but was unnecessary. I know where I come from, and I know who the locals are. I grew up here at a time when the phone book was only ½ and inch thick, to use the old standard, and half of that was business adds with pictures. I didn’t take offence, when the man questioned me about my heritage, as I grew up in an era where being of Italian origin was not ok in the least for many here. It didn’t matter to this man that my family had been in the town for nearly a hundred years, and at no time had we been implicated in the second world war, other than to help feed the war effort. In fact, one day as Dad was being dinked or pinioned on my grandfather’s bicycle, they road past Italian POWs or prisoners of war, here in Shepparton Australia. My grandfather noticed, and new one of them, he yelled out, Gessepi, (if that was his name), hello! He smiled and kept riding. Quite happy I am sure, that it was not him in prison. My grandfather was a 1920s immigrant, or around there. He left Italy not long after the first world war. He never served in either world war, as the train he was on taking him to war, was turned around. The war had ended, and he went home as a 17-year-old. The man that approached me that day, went through the list of rifles, mounted on the wall telling me where they were used and stopped at the World War 1 rifle. It was a threat. Going on to tell me how it was potentially used on Italians. We kept on talking and I discussed the other side of my family, my great grandfather on my mother’s side, who had served for Australia in the first world war, and I discussed with the man about his trauma, and asked coldly but not bluntly, if I was allowed to sit and have a beer. Years later I would sit at another local just up the road, on the wall was other relative’s names, on a memorial board, commemorating the first world war. The same type of thing would happen, so I pointed to the board and informed the young gentleman trying to be confrontational, that my relatives are on that list. I had my beer then left, feeling not welcome at all in my own country.

 

Despite this it was ironically years later, that an aboriginal woman who does not like welcome to countries, made me feel more at home than anyone had in a long time, or at least in comparison to that day at the RSL anyway. That day at the RSL where friends must have heard I was there. The day they came to get me. They probably came to get me because they knew what type of reception I would get. They took me to their friend’s home, the house of a returned Vietnam veteran, who had served as a medic during the Vietnam war. A veteran who never fired a round from his revolver. A veteran who had to deal no doubt with his own hands, things that would make most people vomit, things that would never leave you. We where not friends, but we sat one way or another and we had a beer. I genuinely appreciated it.

 

Every ANZAC day I consider the different defence activities that are conducted by Australia, not just the military ones. Activities that should allow you to turn up at ANZAC Day and not be questioned to the point of interrogation as to who you stand with. It has raised many discussions among friends and peers. It, war, causes me every time I look at it, to consider something new in it. I don’t take it lightly, as it introduces me to new questions as to what war is about, and what are the motives for war. And more importantly how far should war go? I looked at the example of Nancy Wake, here is her wiki page if you don’t know her, here is a link to it en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nancy_Wake. I liked her on TV because she was delightful, she enjoyed her role in war. She did it with informed and considered intent and came out smiling. She killed in a war against evil. To paraphrase a wiki quote, probably in the wrong context, "...her irrepressible, infectious, high spirits were a joy to everyone who worked with her…"! I would have liked to have met her, shook her hand and said hazzah, despite neither of us having served in the English navy. It would have been a segway I hope, to a good conversation. And if you have never heard hazzah used, here is a link to the Movie Master and Commander, www.youtube.com/watch?v=sowv7fPZI8U a movie with Russell Crow as the star. A depiction of another war, or battle, that helped end another evil, slavery.

 

This line of personal inquiry presented openly in the public domain might seem flippant to the value of life, but it is not. It is an outright respect, a respect that exists in me, despite going to ANZAC day and being disrespected. I don’t regret what I have done, or what I have been involved in, or my work being involved again, if in fact my work has never stopped being used, despite retiring from that line of inquiry over 20 years ago. I never will regret it. Despite this I can understand why Australian soldiers kill themselves, something that I do not condone under any circumstance. Despite the concerns of so many, they have done it in such large numbers when they get back from active service, that it is being pushed for a royal commission. Raising in me the question, why?

 

What is the purpose of a Royal commission in investigating the obvious. Returned soldiers are greeted by people no longer allowed to spit on them after the Vietnam war. They are greeted by people who publicly deface their work, after they fought for the rights of women and children, not to be raped and murdered, and for our countries not to be attacked from afar. Hell, they even fought at one time for the rights of homosexuals. They fought, only to be received by the groups that get voted into public office by said groups, and to be treated with open public disdain. They use political propaganda designed by the social science department at the university in your city, to maim the soul of the men, that had put everything on the line. So many would die, but so few would stand up publicly and ask, are you ok? As the intellectual bullies of the ultra-left wing political, and media classes, became so left wing, they went full circle, into ultra-right wing, with a hatred of everything decent.

 

What happens when my friends talk on social media? Far too often they talk about their brothers and sisters in arms lost after the battle. A battle that would unfortunately never end. After coming home to their country to face a media, and a propaganda onslaught, their reward for serving the people that now defiled them. They confronted, and confront, the knowledge, that there would be no end, to their battle. There was no cheering in the streets. All it was, was endless sombre. Unlike Nancy who cheered at the death of monsters, and was cheered for ever since, by some of us. Monsters would cheer for the death of her comrades some 60 years later. Who where they, it would be the leftist citizens that they protected, that murdered their soldiers, one way or another, with the cuts of a thousand words.

 

So where does that leave me, when it comes to my call of good bowl? Where does it leave me with Nancy Wake, and a hazzar? It leaves me in good stead, sleeping well and dreaming of Nancy. So, I thought I would get up at 2am and write about her. It is not that the fickleness of war does not escape me. It is not that I don’t like Germans or their Australian descendants. Like any group I like some, but not all. The point is, when it comes to war, you should not lose a second of sleep about the people you help kill. If you do, most likely they, whoever they are, who sent you, got it wrong. In no way am I saying war should not be avoided, but that avoidance should not come at all costs. Part of my family story is that with a few butterfly effects, or sliding doors, my grandfather could have been shot by my great grandfather in the first world war, and I would never have been born. Despite the oddity of my existence, I still cheer for Nancy, as she seemed like the type of warrior that might on the occasion raise a glass to a dead Nazi. So, here’s cheers, to a good-looking woman we should all miss, and for her, I fall silent. And for those that have fallen silent, I say, “good bowl”. Because currently in modern warfare there is no end to it, even when you get home.

 

Done