As far as job satisfaction goes, and personal pride in working with the best people I’ve ever had the privilege of being around, working in a brotherhood, my time in the Regiment has been far ahead of anything I could imagine. The best soldiers I have ever seen and worked with are all from the Regiment. It is such an honour to have been able to serve and fight alongside them. Words can’t do it justice, that sense of achievement in having completed a mission successfully. Just as words can’t describe it if you lose someone. For me, as a soldier, it’s all been worth it. But that’s more my gut feeling than something measurable.
Was it worth it, geopolitically? Was World War I worth it? World War II? Korea? Vietnam? You can argue that about any war. Would the Al Qaeda terrorists have flown into more buildings if we’d left them alone in Afghanistan? Would there have been another Bali bomb produced by people trained in Afghanistan? We can never know for certain. But does not knowing mean we shouldn’t have tried to reduce that threat? Protecting our country doesn’t just mean battening down the hatches and staying on our island and hoping the threat won’t come our way. It can mean going somewhere else, going to war to uproot the threat at its source. Ultimately, you just don’t know, you can’t know, if it’s worth it. But as a soldier, you can look at your own role. I wanted to go because that was what I had trained for. If your country wants you to go somewhere, 99 per cent of soldiers will say yes. This is what they’ve dedicated their lives to.
And it’s not just so we can fulfil our training. Potentially the threat can reach out and touch anyone at home. I guess for people who’ve already made their mind up that going to Afghanistan wasn’t worth it, I would ask what they would say if there was an attack on Australia. If it happened to their family, and they were directly affected, what would they then want their country to do? Until it directly happens to them, a lot of people don’t care. When it does happen to them, they care with all their heart. Our leaders had to make that judgement on behalf of the country, and when we were sent, we soldiers had to carry out our tasks to the best of our ability.
One question I’ve been asked, as our involvement comes to an end, is whether I respect the enemy fighters and can ever see myself making the personal kind of peace with them that soldiers were able to make after the World Wars and Vietnam. As far as respect as fighters goes . . . Yes I do respect them. They live a difficult life and do know how to fight hard. As far as making a personal kind of peace . . . It’s too early to say. While I like the idea, I don’t know if we have that level of mutual respect that soldiers would have had in a traditional war. The dirty tactics the insurgents employ are hard to get over. A lot of the Talibs we came across were pieces of shit, to put it politely, and I don’t feel any remorse whatsoever for what happened to them. If you saw how they treated their women and their families and how they barged into communities that didn’t want them but weren’t strong enough to kick them out, how they threatened and intimidated kids into fighting for them, how they beheaded and mutilated people – no, it didn’t worry me if they died. I didn’t hate them, but over time I worried less and less if I had to kill one of them. It’s a nice thought that one day we could sit down over a cup of tea, but to be honest I’ll be surprised if it ever happens. I don’t know if I respect them as peers. You might have that conversation over that cup of tea, but this was not an old-fashioned war.
*
Which brings us back to the question I was asking myself at the very beginning of this. I was bestowed a Victoria Cross for my actions on one day, but I’ve come to see that as a recognition of what we all did over a long period of time. I’m just the one who happened to be singled out to represent my regiment. I accept that I acted bravely, as we all acted bravely every day. But the question remains, when I unknowingly arrived at that crossroad, when I could (some would say should) have chosen a different path, when that voice in my head told me to go back to that terp, where did that voice come from?
I’ve thought a lot about whether I would be so driven if not for what happened to Mum. If whatever it was that happened to her never took place, I don’t know where I’d be. More than likely, this drive was always within me and would have come out with some focus. I might have been in the firies or the police if circumstances were different.
If Mum was still around, I might have pursued something like this, but would I have been fuelled to drive myself through those two years in the infantry, through SAS selection, through Reo, through all the things we did overseas, through the hardship of being away from Emma and the kids? I just don’t know. What I do know is that what happened to Mum turned me into a very driven individual. Anything like that is going to shape a young man and what he does with his life. There was the period after it when I had to find my own way, but looking back, I do think that what happened to Mum was an accelerant for me to become the type of person I am, deep down. It did happen and it did spark me. I see what’s happened since as the best outcome I could have achieved, and a way to honour her memory.
As for Dad, I said at one point that he might have been angry with me for joining an army he’d spent a lot of his life resenting. But I doubt it. I reckon he’d probably be pretty happy with what I’ve done. In my twenties, I found it difficult, when I was having my adventures overseas, not to be able to send him photos, knowing he would have been right into the things I was up to. Still now, I really miss that. Everyone who loses a parent misses out on that. It’s still hard not being able to share my experiences with him. One big thing has changed, though. The whole time I had him, and for years after he died, I felt like I had to prove myself to him all the time. I’m not so much like that now. Whatever point I felt I needed to prove, I must have made it. If I could say anything to the old man now, me in my cams and him in his slouch hat and green Vietnam shirt, it would be that imitation is an awesome form of flattery.
Would it have been worth it if I hadn’t come home? If I’d caught a bullet in that valley near Anaconda on 2 September 2008, or in any other of the contacts I was in? Would it have been worth it if that second bullet on those last few days had shattered my foot instead of just missing? If you ask Emma, she would say no. This is the burden a soldier’s partner carries. Every act of valour is potentially an act leading to widowhood. Whether it’s worth it depends a lot on who you ask, and when.
Was it worth not seeing three years of my daughter growing up? Probably not. But at least now I’m more confident that Kaylee will grow up in a safer and more secure world than if we hadn’t gone to Afghanistan. At least I know there’s less threat coming from that part of the world. And I’ll be around to see the rest of her life, and Hamish’s as well.
I guess it all begs a question about the future: Where do you go after spending nearly ten years in one of the world’s most elite military units? What job could possibly be as exciting and unpredictable as that one?
I have options in the military to move forward and reach higher ranks, but that lends itself to more time behind a desk. Maybe it is time for that. I am not sure. Perhaps, like when I was young, it’s time for something completely left-field and different from the Special Air Service Regiment. Who knows? I could quite happily manage a resort that overlooked a world-class surf break. Better yet, Emma could manage it and I could go find unridden and uncrowded waves, if that ever became an option.
Before I left on my last trip, in February 2012, it was harder than ever to go. Hamish was almost crawling. I was rocking him back and forth in the days before I left, egging him on. Then Kaylee and I had a conversation. I sat her down and said, ‘You know Daddy’s got to go away for work.’
‘Yeah, just up the hill,’ she said, thinking of my day job at Swanbourne.
‘No, for a long time.’
‘Like last year?’
‘Like last year.’
I took off my wedding ring and asked her to look after it. She put it in a little box and could focus on taking care of it: her little pi
ece of responsibility.
‘But why do you have to go away?’
‘It’s my job.’
‘What do you do when you go away?’
I’ve never lied to her or brushed it off. I may as well let her know what I do – in her terms. And so I gave her a five-year-old’s version of the war on terror. ‘Dad’s in the army, and we fight for the country so you and Mummy can be nice and safe at home and bad people don’t come into the country to try to hurt you.’
‘Where do you go?’
‘To another country far away.’
‘Who are you fighting?’
‘I have to fight bad people. Sometimes there are not very nice people in the world, and we go over there to make sure they don’t come here.’
‘But Dad. Are they fighting for land? What are they fighting for?’
‘That’s a good question. Sometimes for land, sometimes because they don’t like each other, sometimes because they grow up fighting each other. My job is to go over there and help out.’
She seemed pretty much at ease with that. She’d been able to ask her questions, and was satisfied with the answers.
She gave me a hug and said, ‘Thanks, Daddy.’
Happy first birthday, 1980. On the Sandy Hollow property with the old man. He was a hard worker and set in his ways. His hair must have been fashionable at the time.
The Donaldsons – me, mum, Brent and Dad – in 1980.
Playing with the black snake under the house in Sandy Hollow in 1981. Apparently I wasn’t supposed to. Lucky Dad had already killed it.
Swimming on the Hunter River, 1981, with mum keeping a close watch in the background.
Two young, proud brothers, 1985. Brent with his under 9s Best and Fairest trophy and me with our Major Premiers trophy for the Denman Devils. We were undefeated that year. Maybe if I’d had some talent I might have had a different career…
Mother and son. This was when I was giving my mum so much grief, in 1996 or thereabouts. I like this photo, but I think her eyes give away the heartache she was going through. My hair is a giveaway of bad choices.
Me, aged 17, sleeping off another all weekender of partying, vagrancy and trouble. At least my dog Lister was there to help me sleep it off.
Somewhere near Goulburn, New South Wales, 1999. It’s me behind the wheel of this Unimog, trying to drag a machine behind it to lay optic fibre cable from Sydney to Melbourne. These were loose OH&S times. If you were not on the trigger or lost control of the winch it could obviously end badly.
Checking out the sites in Banff, Canada, 2001. The mountains were like nothing I had ever seen. I instantly fell in love with the remoteness of the place and the amazing snow they get. Check out those dreadlocks!
Domestic Counter-Terrorism training, 2005. All about the Black. Many men have spent long days and hours in this get-up. If it wasn’t for them, we would not be where we are today.
In the back of a Hercules aircraft, on personal security detail with Prime Minister John Howard, Islamabad, 2005. This was his first trip into Afghanistan. We had a rough start to the trip, but managed to crack on and get it done.
Getting some respite in the shade of the Long Range Patrol Vehicle near Chora, Afghanistan, 2006. One patrol we did was just over three weeks living and working out of them.
Resting after an early morning physical training session. The memorial behind me is dedicated to a killed US Soldier. 2007, somewhere in Southern Afghanistan.
The aeromedical evacuation helicopter that came extremely close to crashing on top of us east of Uruzgan in 2008. Apparently this is only classed as a ‘hard landing’. Those ripped up blades were only metres from us.
The Chinook that brought in the recovery team after the incident east of Uruzgan in 2008. We only had to wait five hours. I was lucky enough to get a lift back to main base with them while the rest of the recovery team pulled apart the downed helicopter. The Bushmaster cannot be shown due to operational security reasons.
Our patrol in 2008, minus Bruce who was sick. Me on the right with the flaming beard. Taylor is next to me. It was his second mission in Afghanistan. The view from up there was quite spectacular.
The injury that nearly took Taylor’s life: he is one lucky bugger. Only his third time outside the wire in Afghanistan and it does not get much closer. This photo was taken moments before we washed out the wound and stapled it shut. 2008.
Carl’s rifle. You can see where the enemy bullet has struck the ejection port and split the receiver. He was extremely fortunate not to be hit as he was shooting the rifle at the time the bullet struck. Some of his blood is still on the weapon, just above the trigger. 2008.
Helping out the others with some first aid with dried blood and gore still on my face. Not long after we returned through the gates of Forward Operating Base Anaconda, 2 September 2008.
The day after the ambush. This is what was left of the joint AUS/US patrol. We had begun with 36 personnel, not including the Afghanistan attachments or interpreters.
Me on one of the last jobs of 2008. At least we were getting a lift in a Chinook this time.
Returning from another night mission. Standing on the helipad not far from the gates of Camp Russell, Multi-National Base Tarin Kowt, late 2008.
Trying to sap some shade from under a Bushmaster to sleep. The heat can be relentless. It was a rough way to do things but kept the enemy on the back foot as he never knew if we would come by foot, vehicle or helicopter. It was times like these you needed a good crew to share some laughs with. In the desert between Tarin Kowt Bowl and the Mirabad Valley 2008.
Marrying my sweetheart in 2008. We were so happy and she was so beautiful.
Sharing stories with Ted Kenna, the Victoria Cross recipient from WWII, in 2009. A unique experience I will never forget. Lasting advice of ‘Don’t let it go to your head’. Good advice.
Enjoying the view at Yarralumla, January 2009.
Back on deck in Afghanistan in 2009. The Chief was true to his word and I was not wrapped in cotton wool. I was happy to be able to do my job once more after the whirlwind of the Victoria Cross experience.
Insurgent supply and resting tent. We denied them that option. Although the operation was successful we had one wounded in action. Guyena, east of Kush Kadir, Uruzgan, 2009.
Daryll at the helm with Rex doing his best to be in the shot in eastern Uruzgan, 2009. There were often valleys of marijuana as far as the eye could see. A dream to some of the people I used to hang around.
Some of the local militia guys we were working with in north Uruzgan, 2009. Pretty hard to tell these guys and the Taliban apart. They were working for a pittance and had their own funny ways of doing business. Sleeping and fighting alongside these guys was a very different experience.
Dust plume left by a Chinook helicopter insertion in north Uruzgan, 2009. Our patrol was split, three guys each side of this valley to provide overwatch for the rest of the troop. Boring job but had to be done.
The kids from Austinmer Public School had all sent me letters, many wanting to know different things for a project they were doing about me. I felt it best to visit them personally so I did in February 2011. Kids always ask the best questions and I also get a lot out of it. These types of events are as good as all the official ones if not better when you take out the formalities and add in the raw enthusiasm of youth. (Image credit: Department of Defence)
Sometimes the beauty of Afghanistan is striking and almost a contrast to the destruction all those years of war has done to the place. Looking towards Baluchi from inside Tarin Kowt Bowl, 2011.
New job: dog handler as well as operator. Devil would become my best and most trusted friend. He would save my life and many others. 2011.
Devil and I in 2011 taking the walk to the choppers for yet another mission.
Under-slung dog. Suspended Extraction training for t
he four-legged boys. 2011.
The camera on Devil’s back. The bullet hole shows how close it came to his spine. I had nearly lost my best mate, near the western edge of Uruzgan, June 2011.
One of the boys and some of the hardware we discovered on the day I nearly lost Devil. We ended up with nearly 30 enemy killed in action that day. The place was very bare, minimal vegetation.
Devil cooling off in an aqueduct, 2012. He was with his new handler by this stage but thoughtfully always came up and said hello when nearby.
RIP Devil, 2 July 2012. You were unconditional and will be sorely missed.
Consoling a mate and farewelling another. RIP Quake, 2012. A few days later we would find ourselves in the same position.
Ramp ceremony for one of our four-legged operators. We treated them like one of us and showed the same courtesy when saying goodbye. 2012.
The Crossroad Page 37
