Warrior Brothers (33 page)

The images that flashed around the Western world of the tsunami in Thailand were a far cry from the reality of Banda Aceh. Banda was too graphic for general viewing. After watching the water flow through the Thai resorts, I pictured myself there. I'm a reasonably strong swimmer and I assumed I would probably have survived. However, after watching the images of the tsunami ripping its way through the streets of Banda, I realised I was wrong. Not even an Olympic swimmer would have had a chance. Living to see another day post-tsunami had nothing to do with fitness, strength or intelligence. If you were caught in its path, then you were going to die.

Viewing this footage has made me reflect deeply. I, too, live near the ocean. What would I have done to improve my chances of survival in such a situation? What if I'd been with my wife and children? Perhaps this is a part of soldiering. When you're out on patrol such thoughts arise constantly. Survival can be enhanced by planning. As you move you look for areas of cover. Areas that might provide protection should you suddenly be contacted by the enemy. All good soldiers hold at the back of their mind an awareness of physical safety and ways out:
If I was shot at right now from that direction, I would go there …

I've walked along the beach and wondered which houses
would have escaped the rage of a tsunami and which would have drowned. I've thought about trying to throw my children onto a balcony or the branch of a large pine tree. Would they have had the strength to hold on without me being there to encourage them? I've dreamt that I threw my youngest son onto a balcony; I am preparing to throw my youngest daughter when the wall of water arrives. I have my wife held in between my thighs while I cling to the railing with two arms. She is holding our six-year-old daughter. I manage to release one arm, grab my daughter by her arm and fling her onto the balcony.

The dream, or rather nightmare, never ends in the same way. Sometimes I drop my wife, sometimes we both fall. Once I didn't throw my youngest daughter high enough and she fell into the torrent below, and I jumped in after her. Another time I saw my son balancing on a roof – he looks over the side and topples into the mess.

I guess that's the definition of trauma, the inevitable byproduct of witnessing such things. What I have seen and experienced has touched me. I have been with my family in the park and thought to myself,
If a wall of water came right now, what would I do?
How do you choose which of your children to save first? The wall of water that hammered the coast of Indonesia was as high as a fully grown coconut tree.

It is not only the wave. The ocean behind is at the same height and provides an endless supply of power. There would be no escape. I have wondered if my son at pre-school would survive. Would the wall of water envelop the school? I know my daughters would be okay, as their school is perched on the side of a hill. My wife tells me how, where she works, they like to watch the enormous freighters that glide into the harbour. Her office is on the first floor. Would a wall of water wash the building away? These are thoughts that now enter my mind.

As we drove the vehicles closer to the Acehnese coastline,
we were confronted by even more poignant sights. The closer we got to the sea, the more enormous the levels of destruction and loss. The area within 500 to 800 metres of the ocean was reminiscent of the devastation in France during the First World War. This area of Banda took me swiftly back to two photos I'd seen of the village of Pozières. The first, a black-and-white image, was taken in 1914. There is a wide Roman road that dissects the village and on either side are quaint-looking terrace homes, all connected. I read about a beautiful orchard and tranquil fields of red poppies. This gorgeous village was destroyed by war.

Pozières was pounded into a ghastly quagmire of rubble, muddy holes, trenches and sickly bodies. A ghostly photo taken in 1916 doesn't remotely resemble the picture taken two years before. There are no human-made structures standing, and only the ghosts of shattered tree stumps prevent the landscape from being completely flat and lifeless.

In Pozières, proportionally more officers were killed than enlisted men. Banda Aceh was similar. The most affluent suburbs were closest to the coast. The most highly educated, wealthy and prominent figures within the community were the first to go. Another sombre parallel must have been the stench of death – it was everywhere. Tens of thousands of rotting corpses below the surface, meshed with rubble and painted with mud.

Western Banda and Pozières had one common characteristic – there was nothing left.

Our clients were left with one remaining image before being taken back to the accommodation. A middle-aged woman walked towards us along a track that had been partially cleared of debris. Her son was slightly ahead of her, rolling slowly upon a black scooter with blue handlebars and an orange and yellow seat. They greeted us and shook our hands. The woman was wearing fawn pants, a white long-sleeved shirt with embroidered sleeves, and a white
head scarf. She had been searching the rubble with her son. I asked about her family and she simply pointed towards where her house had once stood.

‘My family are under the rubble,' she said with a heavy sigh and broken voice.

I asked if I could take a picture of her next to her son and she smiled. She has a loving face that has been changed by grief and loss. Her son's eyes look pained. They have lost much but they still have each other.

Wearing a set of dark sunglasses to hide my misty eyes, I related her tragic story to the clients, who looked upon this woman with admiration and sorrow. They had seen enough, so we moved to our vehicles and returned to the villa. Again we remained silent. Deep in thought, each man reflected upon what he had witnessed.

How trivial are some of the little things that we worry about in life, and in contrast, how very strong and resilient were many of the people we had crossed paths with that day. One of the engineers began to cry. He called his family at home, sobbing. He needed to speak with someone he loved. We all did. The entire team of engineers was humbled, and never again did we hear a single complaint from them. They worked themselves into the ground, believing in the strength of a beautiful people. Life was moving on, and we had work to do.

I am sitting at home working on this book when an email comes through: the offer of a deployment to Afghanistan. Three months' work. Leaving almost immediately. I sit and look at the screen for a while. It sounds like a decent gig. I know a couple of the guys who will be there at the same time. My heart picks up a bit of speed just at the thought of getting out there amongst it. I'm never going to lose that feeling in the pit of my gut – that hunger to be on patrol again, pushing myself to my limits. The recollections I've been working on, the stories I've been writing and rewriting, living and reliving, are what make me who I am.

I have taken many things from my time as a soldier. I've learnt a lot about myself. And each different deployment, each individual patrol I was involved with, each operation I oversaw, galvanised in me a strong sense of wonder at my fellow human beings. Banda, despite its human and geographical trauma, offered a space that nurtured a fractured humanity. From my work there, I know that it is a land that will eventually find peace through the compassion and belief of its people. And even in the less peaceful places I have visited, the extraordinary men I've fought alongside have demonstrated the capacity for strength, for healing and growth in the dark corners of the world.

Kane and Mick have left the Regiment too, and although we live in separate parts of Australia they often send an email or text, particularly when they know I'm struggling to deal with my new home-dad, bathroom-scrubbing, vacuum-pushing,
dishes-stacking, clothes-washing, essay-writing lifestyle. A recent email from Kane was typical of the friendship that survives our changing lives:

And from Mick:

I now rise early most mornings and grab a few waves before the day begins. It provides a strange mixture of calmness and adrenaline, and is a nice reminder of the rewards of home. I previously never had the time to pursue outside interests. This has been good for me.

Of course, there are still times when I lie awake at night wrestling with some of my past experiences. I just accept that these are a part of the way human minds process complex and dangerous situations. Now the question I must face is how to put my knowledge, my training and my energy into use here at home.

But the offer of work in Afghanistan is a good opportunity. It's a chance to not only get back into the fray, but visit some of my Afghani friends – Baktiar, Maroof, Noor, Gulgan, Sonny, the guards and the ladies, whom I haven't seen for almost two years. But I'm not sure. My life is now much more than just the sum of different rushes of adrenaline. I need to talk to Colleen about it. Weigh up my study and work commitments. Go over logistics with my publisher. Take my kids to the beach. It's a decision I'll need to make quickly, but it can wait a few hours longer. This won't be the last offer. It can wait until I've worked out what is best for me and my family.

I turn off my computer and walk outside to see what life has in store for me today.

To my lovely wife, Colleen, whose altruistic approach to life granted me years of freedom to chase the adrenaline-charged lifestyle I craved. For this gift of love, I express heartfelt gratitude. And to our three wonderful children, Tahlie, Sian and Reyne. I love being your dad.

To my wonderful parents, Bob and Shirley. Apart from the time I kicked the garage, filled the crutch of Dad's pyjamas with itching powder, or held that party when I was 16, I wouldn't change a thing from my childhood. I truly appreciate your endless love and encouragement.

I would also like to extend my warmest thanks to Robyn Morris for giving me the confidence to write and for her literary support. And thank you to Mary Cunnane, Nikki Christer, Julian Welch and Michael ‘Jack Black' Williams for making it all happen.

Over the course of my career, I've shared photographs with fellow soldiers and workmates. Special thanks to Grant, Stu, Bungy and KVA for some of the photos that appear in this book.

Finally, to the boys! My hard-hitting brothers, who challenge, inspire and motivate me. I won't mention your names; you know who you are.