With a large grin Smiddy handed me my dried clothes that smelled like a smoky wood fire just after the morning call went off. He must have picked them up off my tent lines the night before and dried them for me. I thanked him several times for this moving gesture during the day. Dry socks on this track is a priceless commodity. We spent most of the morning talking about our families and his plans for the future in Popondetta, where he owns a block of land near the beach and wants to set up accommodation for tourists.
Sunday 12-06-2016 - Alola to Templeton 1
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| One of the amazing creatures we came across on the trail |
“Ten minutes” Jimmy would call in the morning or at every break. This pint-sized local with his massive smile is the front man of the Kokoda caravan. When he yells out “rock and roll” we are off into the jungle. You are not allowed to pass Jimmy. You can try to go overtake him, but even though he wears thongs, his pace is pretty full on. Today I had the pleasure of burning off one of the steepest hills on the track with the boys up front. I mainly saw Pete (nicknamed Gandalf due to his enormous wooden hiking stick) and Adam up there in this hour and a half
of torment. If you are looking for a physical challenge with some healthy competitive spirit thrown in, the Kokoda track is the right place for you. We soon found out that everyone has their own pace and the group became more splintered.
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| So much water cascades down these slopes |
After heaving ourselves over some massive hills we came to one of the first river crossings of the track. Some dodgy sticks of bamboo were loosely laid next to each other to form a makeshift bridge. A rope was strung across and held tight by some of the porters to use as a makeshift hand rail. The boys helped us all, sometimes by holding on to us, across the cool raging stream.
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| The troops crossing the river in the old days |
I stood beside the bridge and took many photographs, but missed a good photo-op of Simon cracking one leg through the panda fodder and ending up with his backside on the usually super strength bamboo - his leg dangling precariously above the furious stream. He recovered quickly and after checking himself for splinters he walked off into the jungle with that familiar grin on his face.
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| Another hairy crossing with Kathleen still smiling |
Morning tea time was gloriously sunny and the porters laid out
the damp tents to dry out. From that moment on the weather was almost extravagantly
luxurious for hiking. Warm in the valleys and cool up the ridges. I patted
myself on the back for choosing the right time of the year to hike Kokoda. These tracks have so
much potential for a wet, spirit sapping, mud bath experience which plagued the 39th
Battalion in 1942.
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| All tents laid out - even undies were drying |
This is an excerpt from Fitzsimons Kokoda
The 39th Battalion’s D Company, meanwhile, was
hit by another Japanese ambush at the tiny village of Pirivi, but they also
fought back well. In savage hand-to-hand fighting, where the bayonet did at
least as much damage as the bullet, the Australians had the best of the notably
bloody fighting. At the conclusion of the second engagement of the morning, the
Japanese had been especially badly hit and it was they who’d withdrawn and the
Australians who were momentarily masters of this bloody section of the track.
So hurried was the Japanese withdrawal that they left behind their dead and some of
their immobile wounded, including one Japanese soldier who had been hit in the
upper thighs. He was still conscious, lying sprawled on the track, his own
machine gun out of his reach as the Australians tentatively approached.
The sergeant took one look at him and gave an order: ‘Smoky’
finish him orf, he said to one of his men, ‘Smoky’ Joe Howson.
Stillness on the track. Heavy air, with insects buzzing…roaring.
Every ounce of the Japanese soldier’s terrified
consciousness was now focused, staring up at the pure blackness of the muzzle
that the Australian soldier was pointing at his forehead. Pointing, not moving…
‘Smoky, finish him orf,’ the sergeant had said. Smoky knew
it was obvious that the bloke could live, but he asked himself what else could
he do?
‘With that I looked down,’ Smoky would recount after, ‘than
he looked back at me. And I’ve been looking at those eyes ever since…’
________________________
Before lunch we inspected a Japanese mortar launching site. Incredibly
there is a pile of rusty mortars and a couple of helmets laying around as if
the Japs had just left there. Yes, underneath the enclosed canopy of the jungle we found out that this war was
real.
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| A Japanese helmet with a morbid whole in the top amidst mortar shells |
So much of the ammunition, guns, parts of shoes and equipment is still out there
waiting to be found. We were assured that none of the old corroded mortars
would go “boom” whilst passing them between us.
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| Boom? |
In the afternoon high up one of the hills we found a
strategically positioned foxhole dug by the Japanese a long seventy four years ago.
Cameron explained with expert commentary why the Japanese had chosen this
position and how the Australians would have sent a patrol up the track risking
their own lives looking for an ambush just like this.
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| The foxhole dug by the Japanese |
After being forced to retreat from Isurava the Australians,
including the 39th, took to an ambush and retreat style or a punch and run fighting
strategy, trying to delay the Japanese as much as possible. The
longer they were kept in the jungle and the longer their supply route became
the more difficult it became for the Japanese to feed themselves and resupply their ammo. They became increasingly
more hungry, frustrated and demoralised the
further they went up (and down) this angry snake. When the Japanese were advancing to the rear, (apparently there is no such word as retreat in their language) later on in this war time saga, they gave us some of our own medicine with many ambush sites like the one photographed above.
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| Many of the locals completely disappeared during the conflict |
Today was a very tough day in the boots as we needed to
make up the time and kilometres we lost due to our flights being cancelled. The hills are steep
but beautiful and I spotted many plants and flowers. One such flower is believed to be the blood of the fallen soldiers
by the locals of Papua New Guinea. It was growing in many places.
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| The blood of the soldiers |
How our tired minds came to talking about “how to repair a
plastic blow-up doll” is still a mystery to me but it did happen. Because I am still wired to your brain I can hear the sounds of disapproval coming from your lips. Tut tut tut!! Michelle eagerly
reported the disturbingly funny highlight of her day at news time that evening.
The banter was let loose after this incident.
Cameron our trusted guide provided our group with 41 laminated
cards with, on each of them, a soldier that died in the current campaign in Afghanistan. At news time we were, it seemed, travelling over the bridge between the past and the present, when we read tragic stories of more young men losing their lives. The tales about these young diggers became all the more tangible because Cameron served with many of them and, as many of them were his mates, 'this' added a real personal touch. Gripping stories - far more than we possibly could have asked for.
My card read as follows
Scott Palmer,
27, a private in the 2nd Commando Regiment, serving with SOTG. He was killed in the crash of a Blackhawk helicopter on 21 June 2010, during operations in the Shah Wali Kot.
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| Private Scott Palmer courtesy of the Daily Telegraph |
Grey Bits
The soldiers of the 39th Battalion were told to keep what happened during the Kokoda campaign to themselves which was not unusual during wartime. It is great to see that we currently have a handful of agencies in Australia that can be called on for any returning army personnel that may be struggling with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or depression. I selected two for your information.
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| Bree receiving a helping hand whilst crossing a raging torrent |
It is common courtesy to ask parents for permission if you are taking photos of their kids.
I have found this old photograph of a soldier brandishing a Bren gun. The gun was used by Private Bruce Steel Kingsbury as described in my last blog.
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| A Bren gun as used in 1942 |
It was Joanna P that did a great job in reading the intensely sad poem "Not a Hero" at Isurava.
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| Jo in action |
