Kokoda 10. The last breath

That morning we avenged ourselves. A small group of hikers snuck up on Major Cam's tent at 5:40am and surrounded his little lime green hiking dome. It was just before the wake up call. In Good Morning Vietnam style and in unison, they yelled out 'Gooooooodmorning Cameron!!! This is day eight on the Kokoda track'. I was later told there was a lot of frantic movement inside the tent with arms and legs flapping wildly, bulging up against the canopy. Cameron admitted the plan had been well executed and used one of his favorite sayings - ‘a little bit of poo came out’.

Friday 17 June 2016

I have seen countless generous acts from the Kokoda hikers towards their porters. Event though everything I was wearing was way too big for Smiddy and two of his feet could fit into one of my boots, I decided that he was the new owner of my trusted well-worn companions, my clothes and a brand new mosquito net for his children. I was told the porters like swapping shirts and shoes with each other. There were only a couple of items floating around in Paul B’s bag when he left Papua New Guinea. His porter Dick being the recipient of all sorts of  hiking gear.



The sun trying to shine through the canopy on the last morning

My body was feeling worn out that day. The intense downhill gradient caused my toes to attack the front of my boots, time and time again. Both my little toes were mushed beyond recognition. One of the nails was black, the other nail gone. The tiny pair looking an angry red raw and started oozing puss. Walking felt like trudging barefoot over broken glass until the endorphins kicked in.

We only had 45 minutes until we reached the end of the way - Owers corner. For reasons unexplained the porters left before us that morning. Just like I started on the Kokoda track, I ended up last trying to soak up the final stretch of green, tropical forest with a twinge of nostalgia. Can it really be over?

The jungle broke open

Nataly hung back to chat to me and basically snapped me into walking mode. The short walk, a lovely gentle incline, suddenly broke into open air where everyone was waiting for us on the last gravelly, zigzag of the trail. From above us came the joyful sounds of  harmonious Papuan song. The porters formed a welcoming line and were singing with gusto. I swear I could hear a couple of lines of Country Road thrown into the mix.



The end of the trail

One more last push and there it was, the arches of Kokoda. The longest row of excited, happy faces you will ever see greeting each other –  high fiving – bro hugging – Polar Bear hugging – tears of joy. It is done, Kokoda was ours.



Pandemonium at the finish line

This was the moment we said our goodbyes to the porters. Photos were taken and details swapped. It just felt like we were all mates for life.

Paul B, Simon, the Author and Jason. Happy times at the finish

After the quiet, green tunnel the sound of the two approaching buses was deafening. To send us off, the porters decorated our bus with banana leaves, muddy handprints, and with that same mud wrote the word Lauma, meaning Spirit in the local lingo.

The Spirit travelled with us

Unfortunately, the Lauma wasn’t strong enough to carry us up that first hill. With the smell of the handbrake wafting around us, half of the group had to exit the bus and walk up. The rest of us just waved them goodbye whilst driving past.

What followed, after we were all reunited in the bus on top of the hill, was the most hair-raising ride where the corners were taken at breakneck speed. I swear I felt the back wheels of the bus slide through the corner numerous times. The driver of the bus behind us resembled a beetle-nut, chomping gremlin who started to play chasey with us. Brandishing a wicked grin, he mischievously hung out of his window trying to touch our bus. All we could do was sit there and let it happen.



How fast?

Ironically we made it alive to the Bomana cemetery.

The war memorial at the cemetery

The Bomana cemetery is a large, well kept memorial site with many white headstones placed in rows. A fitting resting place for those brave soldiers that fought in Papua New Guinea. It is vast and stunning. A total of 7,500 Australians lost their lives on the Kokoda track. This cemetery is the perfect visual display, making those numbers way more tangible.



The headstones of Bomana Cemetery

We were on the trail only eight days. Spare a thought for the Australian soldiers. Most of the 39^th Battalion were fighting on this trail for two months. It wasn’t  just a lovely, self reflecting, butterfly spotting hike they were on . They dug trenches -  they carried heavy packs – they carried their rifle and amunition – they went days without food and supplies – they buried their mates – they laid waiting  for the Japanese mortar fire to hit -  they fought an enemy outnumbering them six to one, up close, and sometimes with fixed bayonettes – they saw the most horrendous acts possibly done to men - they were left to deal with the inevitable consequences without anyone, ever, to fully comprehend what it was like. Surviving the Kokoda track in 1942 was a remarkable achievement.

Flowers at the Bomana cemetery

Don did his best, but it was little enough. Though he dressed Butch’s wounds, and gave him morphine to ease the pain, the look he gave Stan confirmed the obvious – it wouldn’t be long.

They talked of the days on the farm. That time with Uncle Abe. Of Mum and Dad. Their sister and two other brothers. Sang songs of their childhood. At that moment, they knew, Mum would be just likely turning in after making Dad a cup of tea. What about the time during the floods when they were on their raft and Stan had nearly drowned, only to be saved by Butch getting to him in the nick of time? They talked of rugby, of days with the Powerhouse Club, of things that happened in the middle east. 

Finally though, at 4.00am, while Stan was holding Butch’s hand there was a sudden slight shudder then he went limp. Stan squeezed Butch’s hand, hoping for some return pressure, a spark of life left, but there was nothing, stone cold nothing. His brother’s hand was already cold and clammy.

Butch was gone. Stan wept.

The story of the Bisset brothers as described in an excerpt from 'Kokoda' by Peter Fitzimmons

The last resting place of Butch Bisset

Next to Butch, there lays Captain Owen, Private Bruce Kingsury and way too many others that took their last breath on this muddy trail to Kokoda. It is completely mind-blowing how many unknown soldiers are buried at Bomana. The quote on their head-stones reading

A soldier of the 1939 – 1945 war.

Known unto God

We all scattered through the cemetery,each of us deep in thought. What would life have been like if they were still alive? How many lives were impacted by the death of just the one soldier. How devastating would it be losing your son to war?



The universe as we knew it - ended. Another universe without son - began.

A Soldiers Farewell To His Son

I stand and watch you, little son,
Your bosom's rise and fall,
An old rag dog beside your cheek,
A gayly coloured ball.
Your curly hair is ruffled as you
Rest there fast asleep,
And silently I tip-toe in
To have one last long peep.

I come to say farewell to you,
My little snowy son.
And as I do I hope that you will
Never slope a gun,
Or hear dive-bombers and
Their dreadful whining roar,
Or see or feel their loads of death
As overhead they soar.

I trust that you will never need
To go abroad to fight,
Or learn the awful lesson soon
That might to some is right,
Or see your cobbers blown to scraps
Or die a lingering death,
with vapours foul and filthy
When the blood-flow chokes the breath.

I hope that you will never know
The dangers of the sea.

And that is why I leave you now
To hold your liberty,
To slay the demon War God
I must leave you for a while
In mother's care - till stars again
From peaceful heaven smile.

Jo N taking a quiet moment



Your mother is your daddy now,
To guard your little ways,
Yet ever I'll be thinking of you both
In future days.
I must give up your tender years,
The joys I'll sorely miss,
My little man, farewell, so long,
I leave you with a kiss.

H Bert Berros

                                    

We all piled back into the bus after spending a good deal of time at Bomana. Driving back into Port Moresby was a new assault on the senses. We had all been used to the peace and tranquillity of Pandan forest and jungle. The Gremlin still in hot pursuit.

In the afternoon we all celebrated our achievements at the yacht club, where we had a lavish meal and drinks spending our left over Kina.



The view from the yacht club

That evening, my brother-in-law Simon lent me his phone to call Julie. At the moment of the call I had a sudden allergic reaction, causing a flow of tears when I saw her on the mobile screen. This was the first time we had been able to talk to each other for eight days. Many moments I wished she was sharing this experience with me, but it would have been murder on her knees.

The cocktail of panadol, neurofen and beer knocked me out. With regret, I missed the presentation of the certificates for the completion of the Kokoda track - I was fast asleep in my hotel room. An unpredictable, unscripted finish to a tremendous experience.

Grey Bits



Peter soaking it all up

If you would like to walk with Kokoda Spirit, here is their website http://www.kokodaspirit.com.au/



Mark all smiles at the finish

The fighting in 1942 didn't stop after the Japanese advanced to the rear. They were dug in at Gona, Buna and Sanananda. It took one of the bloodiest battles in Australian history to clear those beach heads. If you would like to read about this conflict, please click on this excellent link

https://www.awm.gov.au/sites/default/files/2013%20James%20Brien,%20Bloody_Beachheads_Ver_15.pdf


Australian soldiers on their way to Gona