Australian DNA in Fromelles

I have just finished reading the book by Patrick Lindsay which tells the story of the discovery of Australian soldiers buried in a mass grave at Fromelles. But it is more than a story of that discovery - remarkable in its own right, and poignantly achieved by a Greek born Melbourne school teacher who clearly has Australian DNA well and truly leached into him. It is also a reminder of how poorly our troops were utilised in France. After surviving Gallipoli many of who had survived that madness were killed and wounded in a feint which Haig and his staff believed would distract the Germans from the main Somme battle. Trouble was the Germans knew it was a feint and paid it scant attention - only sufficient to rebuff it. Fromelles remains today our worst military disaster. Follow the white rabbit»

Long in the tooth Desert Rats

I love stories of reconciliation and forgiveness. Some of the most powerful are those of soldiers imprisoned and treated in the most appalling way by the Japanese, yet travelling to Japan after the war to convey their forgiveness - in words but also in deeds. (I do too understand those who can never stomach the thought of having anything to do with any Japanese culture whatsoever). But reconciliation and forgiveness is a powerful and poignant story wherever it is set. Reconciliation of former combatants happened recently in the home of my brother (picture here refers) who has done a great job of pulling together the story of foes who once faced off at Tobruk. Their story is told somewhat in this story in the Daily Mirror, and there is a rather compelling podcast here of an interview of two of them courtesy of the BBC. And of course, here is his book.

p.s. there is a fascinating follow up BBC interview with Rudolf Schneider here. And a piece in The Independent which is an interesting read too.

Perfect Sydney Light

Another shot from our early morning excursion which turned into a half day affair. There were no others out when we started but the fishermen soon appeared on the wharves, a couple of flashes went off from between drawn curtains in the hotel windows behind and five pedestrians shuffled past pretending to be enthusiastic fitness enthusiasts.  Ha, no bounce in their step at all. Circular Quay is not known for such a sedentary pace. But we sketchers and photographers sure do appreciate it. As for the chap who was supposed be writing, (the third part of this cultural triumvirate) well, he just stood around appreciating the view. It was all just too good for words. Lame excuse but I am sticking to it!

He is a bit sketchy early in the morning…

He sure was.  Just a bit after six in the morning and while Chris got the cameras working Michael started on the sketching - while keeping the hand from shaking too much in the early morning chill. The rising sun was starting to catch the Opera House and the glass of the city. But it was still dark enough to make a black and white pencil sketch entirely appropriate!

Smithy Flies Again…

… in vaulting stories and in our imagination as author (and former Australian Rugby rep) Peter FitzSimons regales us with anecdotes about Sir Charles Kingsford Smith, from the volume he is launching about the life and times of this Australian (and global) aviation legend.  The lunchtime crowd were mainly, well I think mainly retirees, who normally would be hiding in the newspaper section of the library. Ah, to be fair there were a large number of aviation buffs who were hanging off every word - most of them still 12 years old in their imagination. Heck, I think I was one of them. Though I groaned when one “old boy” shuffled up to Peter’s researcher and asked if she had used “this book” and thrust a blue cloth bound hardback under her nose. Looked like an early edition of Biggles I thought as I fled the crush of retirees angling for the orange juice and working themselves into line to get a volume signed.  (There never is a good sheep dog around when you need one).

While Sydney Lay Dreaming…

Each day this last week the fog has lifted off the harbour in early morning mists and the suburbs have been shrouded in rain. Seattle weather never sits well on a Sydneysider and even though we grumble at water restrictions when the dam levels drop, we do prefer our sunny days and sparkling harbour. But fog makes for great atmospherics under the bridge so we hauled out of bed at 5 o’clock and made for the harbour. Only to be greeted by a picture perfect winters day.  It was so darn good our hour of photography turned into a whole morning and we found ourselves down at the entrance to the harbour seven hours later having breakfast and lunch all rolled into one. Unusual view of Sydney Opera House – not often it is backlit by the rising sun.

Salute the Tank Driver

Remembrances of events can be two edged. Was it really twenty years since Tiananmen? Hard to believe all right. Twenty years ago those of us in the various “China watchers” groups in governments around the world were starting to think that the winds of change in China were spring rather than winter zephyrs, and that the government was serious about changing its spots. Follow the white rabbit»

But Was There an Anesthetic?

Impressive for their precision but I do wonder if there was an anesthetic! National Geographic (where else?) story here.

A Quorn Meal

Soft pink waist coats and mole grey jackets suggest something refined and gentle. The galah is anything but, especially when when it is jinking up the street with five its mates, showing off clever manoeuvres like teenage boys in their new cars. But they are the only signs and raucous sounds of life for a full eight minutes on this mild sunny day in the middle of the street.  We sit and make small talk and in the long pauses there is only silence. On the stroke of the ninth a plastic clatter of split curtains and a tray appears with our coffee and juice. And some cream dolloped on the caramel slice. Follow the white rabbit»

Quorn Dogs

“You on channel Miss Betty?”
The silence out of the radio is accompaniment for the empty horizon. “You on channel Miss Betty?”
Nothing. The microphone is dropped back into the console and we drive on, dust erupting and billowing behind us, saltbush blurring beside us.
This expedition started with a sit in the sun on the veranda lazy “what do you want to do today?” and became decisive and focused at the prospect of driving through ghost towns and exploring empty ruins - on the way to meet “Miss Betty.” Joy Betty in fact.
Run out on a straight dirt road for mile after mile leaving a Space Shuttle plume of dirt that will not settle in the still air. Bore down on a spectacular serrated, purple ridge, cut across it and be met with another flat plain with a cream slash of a road scored across it. Aim for the next serrated ridge on the horizon. Repeat often, until each flat and each rise takes you across the Adelaide/Sydney highway and into the stony ranges in which “Miss Betty” lives. Follow the white rabbit»

In Fields of Quorn

Last weekend I watched my brother play with his son and thought “Thirty years apart is far too long”. There is pain in the realisation that it has been so long. Years never recovered. Years not shared. All valuable and constructive in their own way, and all filled with light and drama and satisfaction and accomplishment. But still echoing with the emptiness of that separation, even though its an echo that is only now reverberating. We caught glimpses of each other over the years, for the briefest of moments. A swing though Devon here, a quick trip to Canberra or Sydney there. Follow the white rabbit»

Echoes of Empire

As much as I despise the culture of obsequious kowtowing to “the Empire” there are some icons that connect me to it in a more positive yet strange way.  Some are old history books. Biggles stories are another connection – they formed up some perspectives as a ten year old which seem  humourous now. Winston Churchill’s various memoirs. And the Lee Enfield .303. On reflection they are all inputs from my childhood. (The negative reaction came later in my studies of archives for my Masters but that is another story). Follow the white rabbit»