The Outrage Factory

 

Pic courtesy junkee.com

I've been around long enough to recognise a political stunt operating as a classic dog-whistle.

(A dog-whistle, gentle reader, is a political message, predicated on fear and/or ignorance, that appeals to a very easily outraged segment of the population).

These dog-whistles are routinely trotted out around election time. Examples are the "reds under the bed" meme (which got us into the tragic mess that was Vietnam) and the "boat people are Islamic terrorists" meme which got a real go on after the Tampa incident. Both had the desired political outcomes, and 500 Australian diggers, and who knows how many genuine refugees have paid the ultimate price. But that's OK - it worked...

The Coalition (first under Menzies, and since, Howard and Morrison) have turned the strategy into an art form. They're used by both sides of politics - remember Mediscare? Labor, however, seems to have some qualms about the morality of their use. Perhaps ignorance is the factor. Many Coalition voters are hopelessly thick when it comes to their knowledge and understanding of history.

The latest dog-whistle is focussed on gender and sport. A Liberal candidate has made some pretty disgusting statements about kids with gender dysphoria. She apologised (sort of), but the front page news her words created have opened the issue up to the usual suspects.

The funny thing is, whilst most Australians aren't OK with young men playing women's sport, it's not actually happening. I have not heard of one situation in kids' sport in this country where it is an issue. It is in elite sport, but even then, is largely symbolic.

The point is, for children, the only real harm that can derive from a gender mix (and then only in contact sport) is the risk of injury when stronger and heavier kids are mismatched with small undeveloped children whatever their gender. This mismatching is a very old issue.

When I played schoolboy rugby league in North Queensland over sixty years ago, the code got around it by setting up weight divisions. Hence I played in the pre-metric 7 stone 7 team.

That way, injuries were kept to a minimum. It was managed with the minimum of fuss.

The same issue popped up in GPS rugby union about ten years ago with the influx of big strong (and agile) Pacific Islander kids who were a real risk to the smaller non-Islander players predominantly because of the physical difference. The GPS competition did nothing about it, because the Islander kids often made the difference between winning and losing in the competition.

The bottom line is, that confected outrage generated in the parents of aspiring athletes has been well and truly exploited by the Coalition just prior to the upcoming election.

There is really nothing new in this. And what also is not new is the harm they cause. Have you looked at the suicide rates of kids with gender dysphoria recently?

Comments closed.

A Factor of Ten

Today is Remembrance Day, and our thoughts turn to the winding down of the commitment of Australian troops in Afghanistan, the longest military conflict in our history.

In reflecting on that, two apparently unrelated images caught my eye.

One was a recent video grab of a C-17A landing at Tarin Kowt. On board were the next of kin of Diggers killed in Afghanistan. There was also an interview with a father. It was dignified, but there was a pervading sadness which characterised this man’s responses to the journalist's questions.

The other was a shot I took on a visit to Vietnam a few years ago.

 I was with a group of Vietnam vets conducting a service in the Long Hai hills commemorating the loss of nine diggers from 8RAR in a mine incident in February 1970. I took this photo, because my son, at that time the same age I was when I served there, read the service. I was revisiting – my son was there for the first time.

Caught accidentally in the top left of the shot is one of the 8 RAR crew, a big man, over six feet and built like a truck. Tears were glistening in his eyes.

I rediscovered the photo when I was cleaning up my computer hard drive, eliminating images that were no longer worth keeping. I kept this image, and it immediately connected in my mind with the Tarin Kowt grab.

There is a strong sense of loss associated with both Vietnam and Afghanistan, but that’s not all they have in common.

They were conflicts that hummed away in the background of our daily lives. As a nation involved in both, we weren’t officially at war, but young men and women were in harm’s way 24/7 in countries that most of us hadn’t heard of prior to the military commitments.

There were regular media reports, but generally they skimmed across the surface of the reality experienced by the diggers and their families. Like dingoes howling in the night – we heard them, but there were not affecting our lives. They were always there, always menacing, but well in the background.

For the fathers, mothers, partners and children of these Diggers, they were not background. Whether these soldiers served in Vietnam or Afghanistan their next of kin dealt daily with the understanding that at any time they might hear dreadful news. They accepted this as part of their lived reality.

For most Australian’s however, this was someone else’s dread, someone else’s fear and someone else’s problem.

In 1970, I was the one that was away, so I have no real understanding of how my parents dealt with this dread. It would not have been easy. The two hundred and fifty letters they wrote gave me some inkling.

Both of them detested the policy that sent conscripted men off to war – my father, as was his way, volubly and loudly – my mother, quietly and hidden in her heart.

It’s only since I’ve had children of my own that I’ve begun to appreciate the pervasive dread that came with this situation of separation in conflict. Adapting to separation is difficult enough when children are living normal lives. They do grow up and leave home, after all.

Parents and next of kin living the forced separation driven by involvement in conflict endure a vastly different situation.

For my parents, and the families of the serving soldiers then and now, whether they were in Vietnam or Afghanistan, the fact that their loved ones were constantly in harm’s way must have been hard to accept.

Nothing can be done when living this situation, except to endure, to manage, to focus on the mundane and to carry on. My parents obviously did this, as did my five siblings. I came home safely, and life went on.

For about 500 families, in the case of Vietnam, and 40, in the case of Afghanistan, life changed utterly. Many returned, completely changed, both physically and mentally, and they and their next of kin had to live with that.

Our government sought to honour them, and they did this passably well in the case of Afghanistan. Fallen soldiers were brought home with honour. The Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition were present at the ramp ceremonies. And so they should have been.

Looking back to Vietnam, they did less well. Initially, bodies were not repatriated, but interred in Malaysia. Twenty four casualties of the Vietnam War are buried in the cemetery of the Terendak Garrison at Malacca, in Malaysia. After 1966, they were repatriated, but without any of the ceremony afforded casualties of Afghanistan.

This situation was a product of the times. The war in Vietnam was almost always divisive, and it probably made political and practical sense to treat repatriation in a low key manner. Only the kin of those killed know whether this has been a source of bitterness.

Given that 249 of these casualties were conscripts, it would indeed be surprising if there was no residual hurt. Some of this may have been assuaged to a degree when the recent stalwart efforts to repatriate soldiers missing in action in Vietnam are considered.

The Repatriation of Flying Officer Mike Herbert and Pilot Officer Bob Carver in 2009 were the last two. They went missing during my tour. Bob Carver was from Toowoomba. Now that these two are back, all are home.

It is encouraging to note two other recent developments.

One was the joint visit of the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition to Afghanistan to honour the drawing down of our commitment.

The other was the visit of the next of kin to Tarin Kowt.

Maybe in the last forty years our nation has learnt something about honouring our servicemen and women. Maybe we have also learnt to honour the suffering and sacrifice of their next of kin.

As this is written, casualties in Vietnam exceed those in Afghanistan by a factor of ten. Is it reasonable to conclude that during the last forty years our recognition of the sacrifice of our servicemen and women has improved by the same amount?

When Work is Fun

Minus one near Oakey

This week’s trip was my last this term. It was bloody cold when I left at 6am.

Frost

This was a short one, out to Roma via Wandoan. This run takes in some of the best grazing country in the state, behind Wandoan.

Great country between Wandoan and Jackson

It’s also of historical significance relating to bushrangers, but I will wait for a later post to talk about that.

The country is beginning to brown off and look more like it usually does, but the growth is lush. We could be in for interesting times with fires come September.

The road is narrow and flood damaged

At the half year mark in the schools there are often lots of staff changes, and this year is no different. There is a massive turnover of young teachers in this part of the world. It has nothing to do with the stress of the work (although for some that is a factor). Rather, it’s a consequence of the transfer system which entitles teaching staff to a favourable transfer (usually to the coast) after a few years western service.

Ten foot bitumen

 Despite the high turnover, it’s a good scheme. Without it, these schools would simply not be staffed.

Gas wells are proliferating

The calls we hear for allowing principals the right to hire and fire ignore this complexity. As an ex-principal I can understand the advantages of school-based recruiting, but the problem of staffing bush schools will have to be addressed and some compensatory measure applied before it would work out here.

How about a special rural teachers’ award with higher salaries and opportunities for additional professional development?

Warrego junction at Jackson

All the talk out this way is about the Queensland government’s imitative to bring year seven kids into secondary. This had to happen to bring Queensland into line with the rest of the country, but it will have difficult consequences for the small schools and the families of the kids who attend them.

I went to a farewell dinner for one top young teacher on Tuesday night at a local pub. It was a great night, although I was the only one in the room over sixty – actually I was the only one over forty.

This particular young teacher wasn’t heading off to greener pastures. She and her hubby are about to have their first child. Again, it’s a sign of the times that she is moving to Brisbane next week for the birth. The west is slowly being stripped of vital human services.

She’s a talented and effective teacher and I hope she returns to work after bub. She is rare in that she comes from a property near Blackall, and her hubby has a job in Roma, so she will stay in this part of the world.

On the way back I did some work in a three teacher school. Standing proud in the school grounds is a new library built with BER funding.

One of those terrible BER constructions abhorred by Blot & Blair - note the wheelchair ramp

Like all these buildings, it is air-conditioned, wheelchair accessible, and built to a very high standard. There is no way this facility (which is used by the local community as well as the school kids) would have been built under a conservative government.

Irrespective of the carping of the federal opposition, every school in the country will benefit from this initiative for decades. It makes me smile whenever I read the whingeing and moaning about the BER from the likes of Blot and Blair..

These buildings are a symbol of a value which is simply not understood by those on the Right. It's about inclusion - making sure that every kid can access all parts of the school, and that no matter where you live, you are schooled in a high quality building.

The Right seem to believe that you only deserve to get access to a quality school library building if you live in the city and your parents have a high income.

They need to get out more.

The American Psyche

The Wikileaks saga brings into stark relief the phenomenon of American self-image. There is a national conviction that any threat to national prestige must be quickly and ruthlessly eliminated.
 

This mindset has endured for so long, that it's obviously part of the American psyche.
 

I wasn't around at the time of Pearl harbour, but listening to the stories my father told, it appears that the blow to American prestige caused by the attack was a major factor in the US response.
 

Here's an extract from Roosevelt's Day of Infamy speech on December 7th 1941 -
 

It will be recorded that the distance of Hawaii from Japan makes it obvious that the attack was deliberately planned many days or even weeks ago. During the intervening time, the Japanese government has deliberately sought to deceive the United States by false statements and expressions of hope for continued peace.
 

And
 

Always will we remember the character of the onslaught against us.
 

In other words, the fact that America was enormously embarrassed because they were caught unawares was as significant to Roosevelt as the losses of men and ships. He was well known for understanding his country's soul at critical moments.
 

George W Bush was not in the same league as Roosevelt when it came to leadership, but he was equally conscious of national embarrassment after 9/11. I'm sure we all remember well the Mission Accomplished banner on USS Abraham Lincoln on May 1, 2003.
 

In his speech he said -

In the images of falling statues, we have witnessed the arrival of a new era.

And
 

We have not forgotten the victims of September the 11th -- the last phone calls, the cold murder of children, the searches in the rubble. With those attacks, the terrorists and their supporters declared war on the United States. And war is what they got. (Applause.)
 

Paraphrasing, Bush was pushing the imagery (falling statues) and revenge (the victims).
 

The fact that the war had at least five more years to run and thousands of US soldiers would die in those five years was not foreseen, or apparently its likelihood even considered.

And now, we have an issue about embarrassment over sensitive material leaked (by Americans - it should be noted). The disproportionate response, including hysterical calls for the death penalty, and unsubstantiated claims that it will cost lives, demonstrates clearly the USA's glass jaw.
 

I have enormous personal respect for American values, especially as they pertain to free choice and individual rights, and I acknowledge their contribution to our security, particularly the history of the Pacific campaign during WW2.
 

Even during those tumultuous times, however, there were incidents which made clear that many Australians took strong exception to some uniquely American characteristics. During the 26th and 27th November 1942, one Australian was killed, and six wounded during street battles with American MPs in Brisbane. The digger killed was a Ted Webster who came from Milmerran and had enlisted in Toowoomba.

By all accounts, alcohol and boredom were factors, but there was an underlying tension between the allies, and its origin can be traced back to this same American characteristic of arrogance and hubris.
 

This is never as clearly illustrated as in the contemporary pic I've posted above. Can you imagine how the average Aussie digger of the time would have reacted to the aggressive pose demonstrated. It is obviously designed to intimidate - which may have worked with GIs. I'd suggest that a pose like that would be taken as a challenge by (say) a member of the 7th Division who were in Brisbane at the time.

No wonder there was a stoush or two.

There is a fundamental difference in the way Australians and Americans see themselves, and this is highlighted when they're in uniform. I well recall a number of incidents when I was in Vietnam in 1970.
 

We didn't have much to do with the Yanks, but there were times when we shared space and time. During R & R I travelled in a bus sitting next to a Yank GI in Bangkok. The journey lasted 20 minutes, so we had time to talk. I'm a petrol head (was then - still am now) and made some passing comment about "Yank tanks", which showed my disdain of large, overpriced, American automotive iron.

He took severe umbrage - to the point where I wondered if he was going to take a swing at me. When he settled down a bit, he gave me a ten-minute lecture on the history of Henry Ford, and how he had (amongst other things) invented the assembly line. All of which was true, of course, but the vehemence with which it was delivered was disproportionate.
 

One of my Aussie mates sitting behind me was still talking about this incident a week later when we flew back to the Dat. The lesson was simple, you never criticised any American institution or belief to a Yank. They simply couldn't abide it.
 

On another occasion, when a few mates and I were attempting to souvenir some stray bits of wood and corrugated iron from an abandoned pile of American junk at the Horseshoe, we were confronted by a sweaty and overweight Yank Staff Sergeant. This wouldn't have caused concern, except that he was waving an M16 around which had a magazine attached, which we assumed was loaded.
As we retreated with as much dignity was we could towards our own lines, I remember the remark - "bloody Yanks - why are they so up themselves?'
 

That same question seems relevant today. 

(Click on the title to find out more about the "Battle of Brisbane"). 
Photo courtesy of Ozatwar.

Friendly Fire

Yesterday was December 1oth, the anniversary of my return to Australia (RTA) in 1970. My habit has been to post a story from my tour on this day.

The last time I did this it met with a furious reaction from someone who didn't like my attitude. Let's see what happens with this post.

The pic was taken at a company harbour at about this time. Pictured are the Company OC, our CSM and my platoon commander. We were waiting to be choppered to a new AO. It was stinking hot and dry - a bit like it is here now.

Enjoy -

I’m not sure of the origin of the phrase “friendly fire”, but I’d be surprised if it wasn’t coined by the US military. The euphemism aligns well with other phrases such as “VC suspects”, used regularly at the famous Five O’Clock Follies. The American military seemed to have a talent for creating interesting euphemisms. These days we hear about “collateral damage”.

There were a number of Friendly Fire incidents during the Australian involvement in Vietnam, and some unfortunate diggers weren’t lucky enough to survive them. Early in our tour, misdirected mortars from an Australian unit hit some diggers in our battalion. We were almost as likely to be shot up by Kiwis or other Australian units as we were by the Yanks. Friendly fire was a major problem in Vietnam due to the nature of the conflict. The jungle, the lack of a defined front line, and the variety and inexperience of many of the units were all contributing factors.

From our perspective, the Americans seemed to follow the principle that if you shot off enough ordinance in the general direction of where you thought the enemy might be, you stood a good chance of hitting something. We were trained to seek targets if at all possible. Perhaps the difference in approach was an indication of the resources we had to spare. Ammunition was expensive.

We heard talk of the Yank harbour drill – supposedly every soldier fired off a magazine of whatever he was carrying at the time to his immediate front, once the platoon was harboured.

This activity, called “the mad minute”, was supposed to clean up anything and anybody near the harbour. Our belief was that it cleaned up a few wild pigs and other assorted wildlife, at the same time letting every VC within ten klics know exactly where the platoon was for the night. I didn’t have personal experience of this phenomenon, but the stories persisted. It probably had some basis in fact, although there were some very good US units.

We probably should not, as a company, have been surprised by close encounters with stray American ordinance, given an incident very early in the tour. During our first couple of weeks in-country we were taken on a “firepower demonstration”. This was a common experience for newly arrived infantry soldiers and was intended to make us feel secure as we became aware of the firepower that supported us. We were marched to an area on the edge of the Nui Dat base; where we settled down to watch what sounded to me like a glorified fireworks demonstration, except that it was in broad daylight.

Loudspeakers were set up and were patched into the air-ground communications net, so that we could hear the conversations between the forward controllers and the pilots. We were in a very good position to pick up exactly what was going on. The whole unit was assembled and all ranks were present, so the occasion, which must have cost a lot of money, was obviously considered very important.

Initially, we were treated to a demonstration of mortar fire, then artillery (our own and the New Zealanders). This was reassuring, as it was accurate and obviously very professional. It was also an impressive show, setting off a lot of dust and smoke. The area was very dry, and some secondary fires were started, something that was to become a problem for us later on our first operation.

The next part of the demonstration consisted of air-delivered ordinance. First up, the RAAF Canberras demonstrated their technique of low-speed, medium-level bombing using high explosive bombs.

Again, this was impressive, as they were very accurate and, by the look of the explosions, very effective. Next we were to watch some USAF F-100 fighter-bombers let loose some Napalm.

They came in from our left, very high and very fast. The bombs tumbled away from the aircraft and exploded with a whooshing noise and enormous clouds of black smoke. The only problem was that they fell almost 500 metres from the designated target area. In fact, they were so far off target, that one of the pilots could be heard panicking over the radio (broadcast so we all could hear), asking whether there were any “friendlies” in the area.

We never did discover the reason for the lack of accuracy, but the diggers on their second tour didn’t seem at all surprised. This left me with a very poor regard for the USAF and a determination to make sure, if possible, to be well dug-in, if there was any chance that they were being called in to “help” us. As it happened, when we did strike bunkers, the F-100s once again were inaccurate, but fortunately all they damaged was a lot of scrub.

But getting back to the “friendly fire” incident that involved my section –
We had been patrolling for some time towards the end of our first major operation, and it had been quiet. We had traveled a couple of klics in hot weather and at a fairly rapid pace, and were moving as a company. Six platoon was in the lead, we (5 platoon) followed, and 4 platoon was bringing up the rear. We were in single file, so were strung out across a wide area. The country was abandoned paddy, interspersed with clumps of bamboo and low vegetation.

The abandoned paddy was essentially bare, as the soil seemed poor, and very hard. I discovered only recently that there was a high iron content in the soil, something which became very significant in the light of what followed.

I was fulfilling my usual role of recording paces on my sheep counter and relaying the count to the skipper (who was one section up the line) when requested. I was second to last in the platoon, followed only by our tail end Charlie.

Suddenly, all hell broke loose. Somebody opened up on us from behind with what sounded like a heavy machine gun (although at that point if you had told me it was an elephant gun firing on full auto, I would have believed you). Rounds were whipping past my ears, and the vegetation, such as it was, was being chopped to bits. Before I had digested any of this, I found myself on the ground, pack abandoned, pointing in the general direction of the rear, where the rounds had apparently come from. I felt exposed, as in this particular area, there wasn't much cover of substance. Over the pounding of my heart, and my rasping breath, I could hear yelling. Some of it was coming from the direction of our tail-end Charlie, and the rest from the general direction of platoon HQ, further up the line.

Our tail-end Charlie was saying that he was hit, and someone in platoon HQ was yelling "Contact" into the radio. The firing, after this short initial burst of about twenty rounds, had stopped. Then I heard my section commander's voice asking the tail-end Charlie if he was OK. He replied "Yes, but I'm hit bad".

This didn't seem to make sense. In fact, my brain was desperately trying to understand the situation, and wasn't really getting anywhere. I didn't have long to wait. I heard the skipper yell "It's 4 platoon – don't fire", and it all began to fall into place. I also saw our section commander moving cautiously with his head down past me towards our tail-end Charlie, who, it turned out had been hit on the end of his nose, which had been removed. He was a very lucky digger. He was OK, but was bleeding profusely from what was left of his nose.

First aid was applied, in the shape of a field dressing across his face, and "Dustoff" (a "Possum" chopper) arrived very quickly. He boarded it as an ambulant casualty, and was last seen sitting beside the pilot holding the dressing to his nose.

It had quickly become apparent that we had been fired on by the gunner in the lead section of 4 platoon. Both 4 and 5 platoon reported a simultaneous contact, and Company HQ was fortunately on the ball, recognising "friendly fire" immediately.

Once the adrenaline had subsided, I began to think about what had happened. Two things bothered me. One was how close those rounds of M60 had been when they whizzed past my ears, and how random was the result. The other was how we came to be fired upon by our own people. The second issue bothered me more than somewhat, because wasn't I, with my trusty sheep counter, personally responsible for one vital aspect of navigation, distance covered? Wasn't the cause of this incident a misunderstanding of our position in relation to that of 4 platoon? We were supposed to be separated by at least 400 metres, and we had obviously been a lot closer than that.

I heard nothing more from the skipper, so understood that I was not being held responsible. By this time we were at the point of harbouring for the night. It was dusk, sentries were called in, and we stood to for a while. For the first time in this operation, we dug shell scrapes. It was amazing how twenty rounds of M60 whizzing by at close proximity reinforced our collective sense of vulnerability.

I’ve learned a great truth about “friendly fire”. The term has a particular irony for anyone on the receiving end. I can assure you that it feels anything but friendly.

In the last few years (over thirty-five since the incident), I've also discovered something else. I researched and read the after action report. It claimed that enemy had been seen, and this was given as the reason for the fire. As one who was there, I strongly doubt this interpretation, although I can understand why it was recorded as the official explanation. Obviously, no enquiry is necessary if a "friendly" has been wounded – however slightly – by "overshoot". It saves paperwork.

The other revelation came in conversation with my platoon commander in 2008. He told me that the iron content of the soil in this particular area rendered compasses almost useless. My distance recording was not the factor that cost the unfortunate digger his nose. This was comforting, even if I learned about it thirty-eight years after the event.