Aurora, Bukhara, Crux
Australia’s War
Addiction
by Rod Johnston
September 2021
Dedication
For my grandchildren … May you all
play your part in making the world a safer and happier place.
Author’s Note
Copyright © Rod Johnston September 2021
Contents
Acknowledgements and References
Aurora …
“Here my friend. You must read this,”
his voice all but muted by the icy Antarctic blast that threatened to rip the
tattered journal from his grasp. “The irony of our current circumstance will
astound you.”
It is 3 January 2014. Later, in the
warmth of my cabin, I read ...
……………………..
Journal of a Russian Patriot
Water ... clear, calm and cool,
reflecting the distant peaks. This is my earliest memory. This vast expanse of
Issyk-Kul Lake was my childhood playground, with the high Tian Shan Mountains
of Central Asia rising in the background. From the earliest age, I would sail with
my older brother in our little boat, the fifteen kilometres, from our home near
the village of Karakol, to Oital on the northern shore.
Try as we
might, we could not agree on a name for our little boat, until at last we implored
Papa to decide for us. He set us both down and told us a strange story. Over
two thousand years ago the Greek general, Alexander, invaded Central Asia,
bringing Greek religion and mythology to the region. Eos (later known as
Aurora) was the god of the dawn and mother of the wind and stars.
We would often set off at dawn, while
wind was waxing and when stars were waning – so the obvious name was “Eos” … or
so I thought. But an eight-year-old rarely prevails over an eleven-year-old,
and my brother got his way … “Aurora” it would be.
From these journeys we derived our
shared lifelong love of boats and adventure. Here we would sleep under the
stars, before returning home the next day. Here we would spend hours gazing
across the lake at the glistening snow-capped peaks of the main Tian Shan Range,
towering menacingly over the placid water. What strange people and places lay
beyond?
Behind us, clusters of white yurts,
the round tents of the Kyrgyz tribesmen, dotted the hills that gently swept up
to define the lake’s northern rim. These semi-nomadic horsemen were our
friends. They were enthralled to be visited by the little blue-eyed Russian
boat boys, so far from their home. Mama feared that we would be abducted by
bandits, and sold in the Kashgar slave market, far to the south-east along the
Silk Road. But Papa assured her that abducting little Russian boys would cause
these Kyrgyz tribesmen more trouble than we were worth. So, our early
naval escapades continued unhindered.
Papa had ... I think ... an
important job in the service is of the Czar. I learned much later that he was
some sort of military liaison …. not an army man, but a civilian with the
authority to sort out problems whenever the locals became rebellious. Papa told
me that he was a sort of magistrate … whatever that was. I thought he said
“majesty”. When I addressed him as “your majesty”, I was severely scolded and
told that he was “just the man who kept the peace on behalf of our beloved
Czar”.
There were many who would create
problems for Russian administrators such as Papa … Kyrgyz tribesmen (my
friends) and the Chinese Dungans, who also had settled here. Twenty years ago,
these Muslim refugees had fled persecution on the other side of the Tian Shan,
making their homes alongside the Kyrgyz.
My parents moved to Karakol in 1880,
the year I was born, and they always joked that I was more Asian than Russian.
Most of my childhood was spent outdoors, usually in our little “Aurora”. I was
very close to my brother, who would often take me sailing and camping. In later
years, he left to attend university in Saint Petersburg, and I did not see much
of him after that. My two sisters were born much later, and, to my relief, did
not much like doing boy things.
The outpost of Karakol was the very
edge of the czarist Russian empire. In 1869, the czar’s army had established a
military outpost here, to protect the south-eastern edge of the empire from the
Mongols, the Chinese and the ever-threatening British, whom they believed to be
advancing in a pincer movement from both mountainous Afghanistan and mysterious
Tibet.
Early one brisk morning, my brother
(age eleven) and I (eight) planned to set off in our little boat on our usual expedition.
But this time, there was a great commotion down near the water’s edge, and even
I could sense that we should not venture out this day. Papa was there in his
official capacity, and so too was the other man … the important one, whom they
had been expecting. We hung around at the back of the crowd, until Papa finally
motioned us to come forward. He introduced us both to the great explorer,
Nicholay Przhevalsky. Although I had never heard of him at the time, this man
was destined to be my inspiration, as I sought adventure in later years.
My early education was always a
struggle, but later I was keen to learn more of Przhevalsky’s five great
expeditions, through Siberia, Mongolia, China, Tibet and Central Asia.
Commencing in 1869 and suffering great hardships, Przhevalsky had explored the
Ussuri River basin, crossed the Gobi Desert to Beijing, traversed the upper
Yangtse River, even crossing into the edge of Tibet. And now he was here with
us, on the edge of civilization, planning a further trip to Lhasa, the remote
and mysterious capital of Tibet. But something was wrong. Przhevalsky was not
well. His health deteriorated rapidly, until on 1 November 1888, the great
explorer succumbed to typhus. To me he seemed old, but he was aged only 49
years.
We mourned Przhevalsky’s passing, and
Papa set about securing his possessions to be transported back to Saint
Petersburg. Like all children, I was awe-struck by a great hero, failing to
recognize that there is a human heart behind every public persona. Przhevalsky had
sacrificed all to his passion for exploration. He never married, his diary
entry (dedicated to a mysterious young lady) betraying his priority,
"I
will never betray the ideal, to which is dedicated all of my life. … I will
return to the desert ... where I will be much happier than in the gilded salons
that can be acquired by marriage."
But passion also leads to arrogance. To my dismay, I later learned
also of the disdain that he assigned to those whose lands he traversed. Przhevalsky
had written,
“Here
you can penetrate anywhere, only not with the Gospels under your arm, but with
money in your pocket, a carbine in one hand and a whip in the other. Europeans
must use these to come and bear away in the name of civilisation all these
dregs of the human race. A thousand of our soldiers would be enough to subdue
all Asia from Lake Baykal to the Himalayas ...”
Nicholay Przhevalsky failed in his
ultimate goal of reaching Lhasa. The first European penetration of the Tibetan
capital fell to the 1903-1904 British invasion led by the Englishman, Francis
Younghusband. But this invasion resulted in up to 5,000 Tibetan deaths ... a
stark reminder of the brutality of the so-called “Great Game”, played out in Central
Asia between Britain and Russia in the late eighteen-hundreds.
The Russians re-named our town “Przhevalsk”
in honour of the great explorer, although the locals later made such a fuss
that the name was changed in 1924, back to the original, “Karakol”. But that
was still in the future … and Nicholay Przhevalsky was my childhood hero … the
adventurer who had lived and died amongst us, for the glory of mother Russia, beside
my precious jewel, Issyk-Kul Lake.
Later … much later, because my
rudimentary education advanced at a snail’s pace … I became aware that Russia
had been steadily growing for more than a millennium. In 865, the Viking war
lord, Ruric, had established a fortified trading settlement at Novgorod, and,
by so doing, assumed leadership over the local Slav tribe. Although momentarily
checked between the 13th to 15th centuries by the Mongol Golden Horde,
Russian expansion and consolidation continued, and filled the power vacuum
vacated by these retreating Tartars. Strength, the overarching feature of
Russian leadership, gave rise to a series of strong rulers, Ivan the Terrible, being
the best known. In 1613, following a prolonged period of instability, Mikhail
Romanov was offered the crown, thus initiating a dynasty that became the envy
of civilization. Russian hearts swelled with pride at the mere mention of names
such as Peter “the Great”, Katherine “the Great”, Alexander and Nicholas. Later,
as I travelled through the empire and finally came to Saint Petersburg, I could
but marvel at the wonders of the Romanov palaces and churches. The Winter
Palace, the Peterhof, Katherine’s Palace, Saint Isaacs Cathedral … just a few
of the dazzling displays of Russian grandeur.
But I move too quickly. Papa was a
good administrator and a loyal subject of the Czar. When I was twelve, we moved
from Karakol to the major city of the Uzbeks, Tashkent, the “Stone City”, down
on the plain to the west of the Altai Mountains. For me it was the end of
my childhood freedom, wrenched from the tranquillity of my beloved Issyk-Kul Lake.
I missed the mountains, I missed the lake, I missed my boat, I missed my
brother, I missed the fresh air and I missed my freedom … in short, I was miserable.
But for Papa and for the family, it meant promotion and prosperity.
Although it took a long time, I eventually
settled into our new home and our new way of life. Our governess took charge of
my education, and she was very strict. In later life, I would be thankful for
this thorough grounding in the history of glorious Russia, and the geography of
our vast empire … of course, along with a tenuous understanding of mathematics
and the classics. But for the moment, I much preferred to be out and about,
mixing with the local boys. Papa discouraged this fraternisation, but he was
very busy in the Czar’s service, and was unable to devote the time necessary to
restrict the movements of his rebellious second son. Despite our new prestige
and prosperity, it was difficult not to notice the poverty of others around us.
My rambling through the slums of Tashkent exposed me to the ubiquitous poverty,
that others of my class did not see ... or chose not to see.
For centuries, serfdom had evolved
from its origin as a practical measure of “labour in exchange for protection”,
into the most unjust form of exploitation imaginable … little different from
slavery. The lot of the peasants had deteriorated markedly ... these
impoverished unfortunates, toiling endlessly on the estates of the landed
nobility. In 1861, the well-intentioned Czar Alexander II had managed to
emancipate the serfs, but it did not end well for either the Czar or for the
serfs. For his actions, the Czar was assassinated, and the serfs lost the
security that had accompanied their previous enslavement. These unfortunate
individuals were now transformed into dispossessed rural laborers, unable to
afford the rents imposed on their occupation of the land that they had previously
farmed without cost. They became casual workers on the large estates, employed only
when needed and in constant fear of starvation.
At the tender age of thirteen, I
accompanied Papa on one of his official visits, to ancient Samarkand, then west
to Bukhara and finally to distant Khiva.
Samarkand had been the capital of the
dreaded Timur, the fourteenth century Turkic war lord, who invoked terror
throughout Central Asia. With a fearsome reputation for cruelty, Timur was
ruthlessly efficient in achieving his goals. For him, the ends always justified
the means. Although Samarkand’s enormous and beautiful mausoleums, madrassas
and mosques were now in a state of ignominious dilapidation, they still testified
to the wealth and prestige that had been generated during Timur’s lifetime. Timur
conquered ruthlessly in the tradition of his predecessor, the Mongol, Temujin
(whom we now know as Genghis Khan), seeking to spread his empire from Turkey to
China. Although initially successful, Timur died in 1405, without carrying out
his planned invasion of Ming China. Over the next century Timur’s empire
disintegrated into a number of independent khanates including Kokand, Khiva, Bukhara
and Samarkand. A Central Asian power vacuum was created adjacent to the
fabulously wealthy British-controlled India, just across the Hindu Kush and
Himalaya barriers. This was the context of the inexorable southward Czarist
expansion towards Afghanistan, and the tableau for the nineteenth century Russian-British
“Great Game” spy intrigues. Russia, of course, was ultimately successful here
in Central Asia, although we did fail to take the Indian jewel, the centrepiece
of the British Empire.
But at thirteen, I was more
interested in adventure than in history. The ruins of Timur’s capital afforded
a myriad of places to explore, and I did so with relish. Then over the
mountains to Timur’s birthplace Shakhrisabz, and the long uneventful journey to
Bukhara. Like Samarkand, the ancient city of Bukhara was a major trading centre
of the Silk Road, and it was here that one of the grizzly incidents of the
Great Game had been played out, just half a century ago. I use that name “Great
Game”, which is a British term intended to romanticize the brutal intrigues and
espionage, as the British interlopers sought to displace mother Russia from Central
Asia. In 1844, after a lengthy imprisonment, two British officers, Charles
Stoddard and Arthur Conolly, accused of spying, were publicly beheaded here in
the main square of Bukhara.
Between Bukhara and Khiva, the
traveller becomes painfully aware of the hardships that faced the trading
caravans of yester-year. The Kara Kum (Black Desert) and the Qizel Kum (Red
Desert) demanded a passage by camel of three months, with oases providing
periodic respite along the way. To the south flows the mighty Amu Darya (also
known in history as the Oxus River).
With a history stretching back
millennia, the walled city of Khiva was once a key trading centre on the Silk
Road. But many of the mausoleums, madrassas, mosques and minarets are
unfinished or in ruins … Kunya-Ark Palace, the Madrassa of Muhammad Amin-Khan,
the Juma Mosque with its ornately carved forest of timber columns, the iconic
unfinished Kalta Minar minaret, and the recently constructed Islam Khoja
Minaret. Here also is the Mausoleum of Pakhlavani Mahmoud, the 13th century
Sufi teacher and professional wrestler, who reputedly never suffered a defeat
during his 79-year career. A man of both
strong body and principle, Pakhlavani Mahmoud once disputed with the Emir of
Samarkand, and was imprisoned for his stand, stating in a quatrain written for
the occasion,
“... to be left for ages in
a dungeon is better than to have talks with [the] immature.”
For a young Russian boy, the unexpected
discovery that these places of ruin and poverty, at the edge of the Russian
empire, had once been the home of famous poets, teachers, thinkers and
scientists was truly enlightening.
Khiva had been added to our empire
in 1873, and Papa’s work of consolidating Russian control over this region was
(apparently) successful. Eventually, it came time for the long return journey back
to Bukhara, Samarkand and our home in Tashkent. Again, we approached the Amu
Darya (Oxus River) and Papa took the opportunity to give me a history lesson.
In 329 BC, Alexander the Great had crossed this same river (a little further
upstream), thus bringing Central Asia under the control of ancient Greece. There
have been many fateful river crossings in ancient history – Joshua crossing the
Jordan, Caesar crossing the Rubicon and Alexander crossing the Amu Darya, to
name a few.
This country has an ideal climate
for growing cotton, and has been producing it for over 2,000 years. All about us, the fields were dotted with laborers, forced
by hunger into this back-breaking occupation. As we approached the outskirts of
the city, I could see a boy (about my age) struggling to lift his stricken cart
which had lost a wheel, and was now blocking the road. We dismounted, just as
the loaded cart slipped from the boy's grasp, pinning his leg to the rutted
road beneath. His shriek of pain tore at my heart … I must help. I rushed
forward to assist, as the combined weight of the cart and cotton bore down,
crushing the boy’s maimed limb. But, to my horror, my action was promptly
arrested by a firm hand on my shoulder, and Papa's stern command,
"Leave it. This is not our
concern. The peasants will deal with it."
Had my ears betrayed me? My own
sweet Papa, the kindest man in the world, was telling me that the pain of a
fellow human was not my concern.
From this day onwards, I was consumed
by an acute and increasing awareness of the inequity of Czarist Russia and its
empire. There were two quite separate worlds ... one of wealth and privilege,
wedded to war and conquest, thriving on the labours of others; and the
other, an underclass of peasants and urban proletariat, whose production funded
the excesses of their overlords. While I sulked, our official party moved on …
but I had crossed my own Amu Darya, my Rubicon.
I became very restless, longing to
escape the insularity of Central Asia. I begged Papa to send me to Saint
Petersburg, to continue my education at the naval academy, where my uncle was a
senior officer. Finally, Papa relented, recognising that his unhappy second son
needed to spread his wings, and make his own way in the world. I left this
outpost on the periphery of the empire to make a new life at the very heart of
the Russian civilisation. This was the
best time of my life ... to be a man of importance (apparently older than my
years), strutting about the very capital of the world’s greatest empire. I took
to my studies with gusto, and I did well … very well indeed. In fact, I quickly
became the star student. My former governess had done her job well, and I now
recalled, with a new fondness, the endless hours of instruction that I had
previously resisted. Details of the glories and vast extent of our empire came
flooding back.
Not all of the Saint Petersburg
architecture was in the pursuit of luxury. St Peter and Paul Fortress,
protector of the empire, frowned across the broad River Neva at the splendour
of the Winter Palace opposite, and the huge edifice of Saint Isaac’s cathedral
behind. The czars had created the greatest empire the world had seen.
Nicholas II was invincible. The Russian Empire would last forever ... it
must.
Unknown to me, great events were
unfolding in the Pacific, east of Siberia. In 1854, an American naval squadron,
under the command of Commodore Matthew Perry, attacked Tokyo, capital of Japan,
forcing them to accept an inequitable and unjust trading arrangement. The
Japanese never forgot this humiliating loss of face, and soon they had mastered
the aggression, so ably demonstrated to them by the Americans. At this time
China was in political ruins, economically raped by Europeans and Americans
alike, and the Japanese wanted their share. In 1904, the Japanese War (known
to the world as the Russo-Japanese War) broke out. We Russians needed a
year-round ice-free port in the Pacific. Our outpost, Vladivostok, did not meet
this criterion, so the Czar's forces sought to establish a base in Harbin
(known to us as Port Arthur) in northern China. But this clashed with Japanese
aspirations in Korea and Manchuria, and conflict soon erupted. While our army
battled in Manchuria, the navy was mobilized.
This was my opportunity to see the
world. Although I was still young, my star status at the naval academy had
established my credibility as a tangible asset. I harangued my uncle to use his
influence and have me assigned to one of the ships of the Baltic Fleet, which
was soon to set sail for the Pacific. "Papa will be proud. Mama will weep,
but then relent. I will bring glory to the whole family." At the last
moment, I was assigned as the cadet attending the captain of the great cruiser “Aurora”
(yes … the same name), and my great adventure had begun.
The “Aurora” was the pride of the
Baltic fleet. It was one of the three modern Pallada-class cruisers built in
the Saint Petersburg Admiralty Shipyards, and intended for Pacific service. Commissioned
in November 1903, it was virtually a brand-new ship!!! The “Aurora” had set
sail for the Pacific immediately after her commissioning, but she had suffered
numerous mechanical failures en-route. When the war with Japan erupted, the “Aurora”,
still stricken, was in Djibouti. Ordered back to Saint Petersburg, the “Aurora”
was quickly refitted, and then directed to join the newly formed Second Pacific
Fleet, which was about to set sail.
My heart swelled in my breast with
pride as I sauntered down the gang plank, saluted the quarter deck and reported
to my new master, mentor and friend, Captain Yegoyev of the great cruiser “Aurora”.
No longer in my little boat on my beloved Issyk-Kul Lake ... this was the real
thing. 15 October 1904 and the great adventure began. The lines were slipped,
the mighty engines throbbed, the helm guided the majestic vessel from its
mooring and the bustle of the Russian capital yielded to the solitude of the
Baltic. While the first part of the journey was uneventful, rumours of waiting
Japanese warships rippled through the fleet, as we slipped out of the calm
Baltic into the dangers of the North Sea. Torpedoes lurked in every wave, and
every lightening flash signalled a volley of shells from a Japanese battleship.
Action!!! ... the call to battle
stations!!! ... adrenaline pumping!!! ... enemy fire!!! ... casualties!!! ...
enemy ships sunk!!! ... or perhaps not. Fuelled by fear and rumour, the
glorious Russian imperial navy had managed to negotiate a non-existent
minefield, sink a British fishing trawler (the “Crane”), damage four other
trawlers, kill three British sailors, and wound five others. But even worse,
our seven battleships had fired on the “Dmitrii Donskoi” and on the “Aurora” …
us!!! … yes us. Our own warships had fired on us, killing a ship’s priest and a
sailor, while wounding several others. The damage would certainly have been worse,
had it not been for the inaccuracy of Russian battleship gunnery. I, with many
others of the crew, was appalled. The British, of course, demanded compensation,
and only when this was granted could we proceed … but not via the
British-controlled Suez Canal shortcut. Our inglorious baptism of fire, later known
with infamy as the “Dogger Bank Incident”, resulted in a long and tedious
journey south, around the bottom of the great African continent.
Despite this humiliating setback, I
settled into life at sea, and started to thoroughly enjoy myself. Because of my
privileged position, reporting directly to the captain, my routine was not too
difficult. But my heart went out to those poor sailors whose stifling working
conditions became almost unbearable. As we edged our way down the African
coast, approaching the equator, the heat below decks became hell. But what
could I do?
In December 1904, we made landfall
in the German South West African port of Walvis Bay, enabling the
fleet to regroup. I was lucky to be granted the privilege of accompanying
our captain ashore, my first experience of a land that was not controlled by
our glorious Czar. I must say that I was not impressed. If the rest of the
world is like this, it is no wonder that we Russians are the envy of civilized society.
The fleet continued south, until we
were off the British port of Capetown. Dominated by the brooding enormity of
Table Mountain, Capetown seemed to symbolize the precarious nature of the
British hold on southern Africa. Just two years earlier, the British had
narrowly defeated the Dutch Boers of the Transvaal and Orange Free State, in a
ruthless and bloody guerrilla war, and it is difficult to see how British rule
in southern Africa would last ... but I am sure that must be wrong. Surely, I
thought, we Europeans have both the right and responsibility to bring
civilization to the world.
The Roaring Forties struck with vengeance
as the fleet rounded the Cape of Good Hope, and ploughed through the freezing
desolation towards the Indian Ocean. Again,
the crew suffered appalling privations. Frustration, born of the powerlessness
to correct terrible injustice, stalked my otherwise euphoric anticipation of
historic greatness.
After a seven months sea journey
halfway around the world, we at last approached our enemy, imperial Japan.
Our fleet’s task was simple, to engage and defeat the enemy, relieve our land
forces at Port Arthur and rendezvous with the Russian First Pacific Fleet. But,
as we learnt while in transit, Port Arthur had already fallen to the Japanese, and
the First Fleet had been destroyed … and now the Japanese fleet was stalking us.
Night time, 27 May 1905, and the flagship
of the cruiser detachment, “Oleg”, commanded by Rear Admiral Enkvist, led the cruisers
through Tsushima Straight, between Japan and Korea. Flashes ignite the horizon; shells scream
overhead and explosions burst all around. Fear fills the breast of all experienced
crewmen, as an awful truth dawns. The Japanese gunners had our range while
we were still well short of returning effective fire.
“Aurora” suffered eighteen direct
hits by 200-mm and 75-mm shells. The splinters of a 75-mm shell pierced the
conning tower, wounding the officers, and killing my beloved mentor, Captain Yegoryev.
Fifteen brave shipmates were killed, and 83 were wounded. But despite this
carnage, we suffered only moderate hull and superstructure damage, destruction
of five 75-mm guns and a 150-mm gun, and the disabling of our fire control
system. But the “Aurora” was, miraculously, still afloat.
Others were not so lucky. One
by one, our illustrious fighting ships and their brave crews, who had endured
so many privations of the eastern voyage, perished beneath the waves of the
infamous Tsushima Straight. Water ...
deep, dark and deadly.
It was the worst disaster ever to
befall the Russian navy. Of our 38 fighting ships that departed Saint Petersburg
only a few were spared. Although wounded, Executive Officer Arkadiy Nebolsine
took command of the “Aurora”, which assumed the role of flagship of the
crippled maritime remnants. Together with the only two other surviving cruisers,
we limped to the American colony of Manila, only to be interned there until the
end of the war. Finally, after a humiliating imprisonment, we were repatriated
to the Baltic.
So ended my first sea adventure, so
ended the Czar's credibility, and so ended my innocence. The Japanese had
thoroughly defeated the Czar's forces, both on land and at sea. How could Czar
Nicolas so betray his loyal soldiers and sailors. Chastened by the horrendous Tsushima Straight
defeat, I vowed to never again be used in such a way. The suffering of the
ordinary seamen, sacrificed to czarist ambition, sparked in me a growing revulsion
of Russia's rigid class system, the arrogance of the nobility, and the
resulting exploitation of the masses. I began to study the reforming thinkers,
Karl Marx, Friedrich Engels, Peter Kropotkin, Vladimir Lenin and others.
So too I was drawn to the political intrigues that sprang from their writings.
But the cross currents of reform in Czarist Russia were much more treacherous
than the dangers of the Tsushima Straight. The Czar's secret police were
everywhere, routinely rounding up dissidents, destined for deportation or
death. There were many political parties, some supporters of the Czar like the “Octoberists”,
some liberal democrats such as the “Kadets”, and socialists including the “Social
Revolutionaries”. I flirted with them
all, but was secretly drawn to radical Marxist groups, including “Social
Democrats”, the “Mensheviks” and, in particular, the “Bolsheviks”. I decided
that radical violent overthrow of the Czar and all that he stood for ... a
complete break ... was the only way to relieve the grinding poverty and
suffering of my Russian comrades.
I thought long and hard about my
current naval service, but eventually concluded, that remaining in the navy was
the best way I could influence the course of future events. Because I was one
of the few survivors of the disastrous Japanese naval engagement, and (perhaps)
because of my family connections, I experience rapid promotion, and was soon
assigned as a training officer on board the “Aurora”. The ship had been
repaired, and continued service as a cadet training ship, travelling the world.
In this role, I had the remarkable opportunity to advance my understanding of
European and world politics, and the dangerous path currently being traversed.
I undertook many varied duties in
the Czar’s service … study, promotion and travel following in quick succession.
At first, I was engaged in the inspection of naval establishments in the
disputed Baltic Sea, in the northern, often-frozen, White Sea, and in the far-eastern
Pacific base of Vladivostok. But my most enjoyable travel experience was to
visit my childhood home, in the foothills of the Central Asian Tian Shan
Mountains. I was here to assess the vulnerability of the mountain lakes and
rivers on Russia’s southern flank. My beloved Issyk-Kul Lake, now hosting a
flourishing water-borne trade, serviced by a wide variety of vessels, had
assumed some considerable strategic importance to Russia. Sailing longboats and
schooners were the first modern boats, transporting cargo and passengers,
principally to and from Rybachye and Karakol. It was here that I met and
married my darling wife, and here, on this beautiful lake, that we spent our
honeymoon. I yearned to again be at one with the placid water, and I managed to
convince my superiors that a two-week cruise in that idyllic setting was really
a research project, aimed at determining the strategic importance of every bay
and promontory around its periphery. We
embarked on a three-masted schooner, which bore the name of the lake itself,
the “Issyk-Kul”, as if water and ship had become one. Cargo, passengers and
military strategy of the early twentieth century defined the purpose of the
lake, just as the lake defined those that traversed it.
Success in each of these
assignments led my superiors to recognize that I was capable of more
responsible tasks, and my assignments became more varied within the empire, and
across the wider world. My new role was that of strategic advisor to the
general staff on maritime matters – a very important role indeed to a young man
in his early thirties. More travel, more prestige … and more insight into the
suffering that surrounded us.
Russia coveted British India.
Britain feared a Russian takeover of its worldwide empire, but was even more
alarmed by German expansion in Europe, Africa and the Pacific. The Germans had
thoroughly defeated the French in the 1870s Franco-Prussian War, so now the
French sought to contain the Germans, through the British-French Entente
Cordial and, more recently, through the British-French-Russian Triple Entente.
In response, the Germans allied with the Austrians, and courted the Turks, who
vacillated. It was the German promise to replace two Turkish battleships, that
had been seized by the British while under construction in British shipyards,
that finally triggered the Turkish-German alliance. On the sidelines, the
American and Japanese waited and watched. Nothing in international politics is
as simple as it seems at the time.
In the early 1900’s, most European
countries (except France) were headed by hereditary monarchies ...
Romanovs in Russia, Hohenzollerns in Germany, Hapsburgs in Austria-Hungary,
Windsors in Britain, and the Ottomans in Turkey. But pulling the strings of
these marionette monarchs, lurked the real powers ... the landed aristocracy
and wealthy industrialists. The schemers, the strategists, the capitalists, and
the empire builders, all aided by their politician servants, and ... trodden
beneath their feet, the ever-docile exploited worker classes struggled for
survival on the crumbs dropped by their masters.
Europe was ready to explode. Greed
set the charges, and fear lit the fuse. The spark that ignited the conflagration
came on 28 June 1914, in the obscure Serbian town of Sarajevo. Gavrilo Princip,
a radicalized dissident Bosnian Serb from the Black Hand separatist movement,
fired the fatal shots that ended the lives of the Austrian Hapsburg Archduke
Ferdinand and his wife, Sophie. The heir to the mighty and proud
Austro-Hungarian Empire was dead, and must be avenged. Austria-Hungary demanded
crippling reparations from Serbia, Russia sprang to the aid of their Orthodox
Christian Slav kinsmen, Germany supported their Austrian allies, while France
and Britain saw the opportunities for territorial gain at Turkey's expense in
the oil-rich Levant. The British dominions, naive in the affairs of the world,
dutifully followed their mother. Others were drawn in through a network of
alliances, and the scent of territorial expansion … Serbia, Montenegro, Greece,
Japan and others joined with the British-French-Russian allies, while Bulgaria and
other minor belligerents sided with the German, Austro-Hungarian and Turkish central
Powers. Finally, sensing commercial gain from a British-French-Russian victory,
the United States of America eventually entered the fray as their ally.
None of us really understood the
political intrigues that led to the outbreak of hostilities. What we did
understand, was that Kaiser Wilhelm's German fleet was far superior to Czar
Nicholas's Russian fleet. But as officers and crew of the Czar's cruiser, “Aurora”,
we dutifully set sail as ordered. I had been re-assigned to my old ship, and I enjoyed
being back at sea. Our Baltic operations involved patrols and shore
bombardment, but by February 1917 we were again in Saint Petersburg, for
repairs and a refit. Anchored in the River Neva, close to the Winter Palace, we
waited. The plight of the army was a repeat of the 1904-1905 Japanese fiasco. Our
defeated armies were retreating on all fronts. Morale evaporated and the suffering
soldiers were mutinous. Czar Nicholas was useless, and finally the
government had enough. On 15 March 1917, the government of Prime Minister
Kerensky forced Czar Nicholas to abdicate ... the end of 300 years of
Romanov rule ... the end of the world as we had known it. But Kerensky refused
to negotiate an armistice with the German-Austrian-Turkish alliance, instead
persisting with the fruitless slaughter of many patriotic Russian comrades.
The war dragged on, the deprivation worsened and the suffering of our gallant
soldiers became intolerable.
News from the front was rare, and
always bad. One of my cousins perished in the disastrous Battle of Tannenberg,
and another two were horribly maimed. And then the worst news of all ...
my closest cousin was killed in the meaningless defence of some obscure village
outside Warsaw. And here was I, stuck on
an obsolete ship, far from the action, guarding the obscenely ostentatious
treasures of a deposed monarch, on behalf of a heartless and ineffective
government.
But events moved more quickly
elsewhere. The extreme Marxist cell, the Bolsheviks, had split from the less-radical
Menshevik wing, which now supported the Kerensky government. From his safe
exile in Switzerland, the Bolshevik leader, Vladimir Lenin, was a
vociferous and scathing opponent of Russian participation in the war. The
Germans, cynically recognising this unique opportunity to neutralize their
Russian enemy, acted decisively ... they provided Lenin safe passage
by train across Germany and smuggled him into Saint Petersburg on 16 April 1917,
to join others of the Bolshevik leadership. Thus, the scene was set for a
turning point in the Great War ... indeed, as future events would prove, one of
the most important events in modern history.
Mutiny and rebellion swept through
both the army and the navy, and the “Aurora” was not spared. The seamen
mutinied, Captain Nikolsky was murdered, a new captain (Aleksandr Belyshev) sympathetic
to the revolution, was elected. We were all compelled to declare our allegiance
to the revolution. For me it was easy. From that day on the road near Tashkent,
when I first witnessed the pain inflicted by an unjust class system on a
peasant boy carting cotton, I had been moving inexorably towards this
moment. The injustice and suffering of the old system had persisted for too
long, and must be swept away.
At this time, the Kerensky
government was meeting in the Czar's Winter Palace, on the bank of the River
Neva, just across from the “Aurora”. It had proven just as weak and heartless
as the czarist regime, so it too must be dispatched. At last, at 2140 hours on 25
October (7 November in the western calendar) 1917 the order came ... load a
blank charge in the forward gun, point it in the direction of the Winter Palace
and fire ... just one shot. And that “Aurora” shot resonated around the world ...
igniting the revolution.
……………………..
Time passes so slowly, as if to
mimic the stillness of the waters. I sit here, 27 years later, gazing into the
calmness of the lake, which seems to reflect my innermost contemplation … Who
am I? What am I doing? What has led me to this terrible situation? I carried
few personal effects when on active service, but one that never leaves my
person was that letter from my beloved brother. Now, with a prisoner’s freedom to
contemplate such matters, I read his final words over and over again. How
different our lives have been, I, a warrior, an agent of destruction, and he, a
man of peace. This is my brother’s final letter.
Newcastle, Australia
20 June 1917
My dear brother,
I pray that you are safe from the ravages of the Great War, that
is consuming all of Europe and our beloved Russian motherland. It concerns me
that I am here, on the other side of the world, while you bear arms in a
struggle that involves such killing. Although I have devoted my life to working
for peace, I fear that I too will in some way become ensnared in this vicious struggle.
But enough of such melancholy … I have a strange tale to tell.
By coincidence, I too have embarked in a ship called “Aurora”, and have experienced
great adventure. My ship is the steam yacht, SY “Aurora” ... a very different
ship from that harbinger of destruction, in which you sail. My ship, SY
“Aurora”, was not an instrument of war, but an agent of peace and salvation. She was built as a whaler in 1876, but more recently has accrued a
creditable record in Arctic and Antarctic humanitarian rescues. In 1884, SY
“Aurora” participated in the attempted rescue of the stricken Greely Expedition, trapped for three years in the Canadian Arctic, around Lady
Franklin Bay. Together with three other vessels, SY “Aurora” rescued seven of the explorers, although another
fifteen had perished of starvation, hypothermia or drowning. One had been executed
for stealing food. But more shocking were the allegations of cannibalism … Life
was tough in the polar regions in those days. Again in 1891, SY “Aurora” rescued the
crew of the ill-fated “Polynia”, crushed in sea ice. But these events
were just a taste of her future role. In
1910, the Australasian Antarctic
Expedition purchased the SY “Aurora”, for Douglas Mawson’s epic British expedition
to the frozen waste of the southern continent. And this is when I joined her
crew.
We departed Hobart (Australia) in December 1911, for Mawson’s main Antarctic base at Cape Denison, calling first at the remote Southern Ocean radio relay
station on Macquarie Island. We
remained at Cape Denison for the construction of the main hut, and
then embarked again for Hobart. When we later returned to Cape Denison in
December 1912, we learned the distressing news that Douglas Mawson, Xavier Mertz and Belgrave Ninnis were overdue on a sled expedition. We waited
for as long as we could, but, when strong winds caused the anchor chains to
break, we were forced to leave and return to Hobart via the Western Base.
Meanwhile, tragedy had struck
the three-man sled expedition. First Ninnis disappeared in a crevasse, together
with one of the two sleds (the one carrying their food). Immediately after
paying their respect to their departed colleague, Mawson and Mertz turned back
for Cape Denison. But they were desperately short of food, and they were forced
to kill and eat some of their sled dogs. For Mertz this proved to be fatal. The
high levels of Vitamin A in the husky liver that both men ingested, eventually sent Mertz insane, and finally into a lethal coma. Forced to
continue the final 250-kilometre struggle to Cape Denison alone, Mawson was lucky to survive another crevasse fall. He was
saved only through good fortune. His sled became wedged in the crevasse walls,
thus enabling him to climb out. On he trudged, but in a bitter twist of fate,
the SY “Aurora” had departed
just a few hours before his arrival back at the base. The ship was unable to
return, due to bad weather, so the emaciated and ailing Mawson,
together with six colleagues, who had remained at Cape Denison, was forced to
winter there for a second year, until being finally rescued in December 1913.
But our strange adventures in
the SY “Aurora” were not over yet. We
continued exploration during the summer months of 1914, and were then
commissioned by Ernest Shackleton to set up supply depots for the Imperial Trans-Antarctic
Expedition. Initially delayed by sea ice in McMurdo Sound , SY “Aurora” despatched
her supply teams to the depots, and finally arrived in Discovery Bay. The delays had meant that SY “Aurora” was dangerously exposed to
the encroaching winter, and in May 1915 we became ensnared in the pack ice. The
ten men in the depots were stranded, and the eighteen of us, who were still on
the ship, were trapped in a floating prison. For 312 days, the ship and the ice
were locked together, drifting 3,000 kilometres across the Southern Ocean.
This was a time of hardship,
but the biggest challenge was combatting boredom and the closeness of our
living conditions. Captain Stenhouse did his best to keep us active with games
of cricket and football on the ice. Our final release came in February 1916, as
the summer warmth finally disintegrated the softening pack ice, but we were
lucky to escape sinking as the icy water poured into the hold between the
timbers that had been squeezed, as in a vice, for nearly a year. After much
pumping and judicious repairs, we were finally free. By April we were back in
Dunedin.
Most of my shipmates took
the opportunity to return to civilisation … to New Zealand that is … but a few of us signed on with a new captain,
John King Davis, for yet another rescue mission. This time we were bound for Cape
Evans, to pick up the survivors of the Ross Sea shore party. We arrived on 10
January 1917, to find that only seven of the original ten had survived. Life in
the Antarctic is fraught with danger. The sadness of departed colleagues was
further compounded by the revelation that this was to be our final Antarctic
trip.
The war has severely restricted
funds for Antarctic exploration, so Shackleton was forced to sell the ship. The
crew disbanded, and went their own ways. Perhaps it was sentiment, but, my
friend boatswain’s mate James Paton and I have decided to stay with the
ship. The SY “Aurora” has now returned
to Australia, and we are soon to embark with a cargo of coal, from the port of
Newcastle, bound for Iquique in Chile.
Oh, there is one more thing that I must share with you, my dear
brother. For many years, I was resigned to a life of bachelorhood … wed only to
the sea, so to speak. But on my last visit here in Australia, I have met the
most wonderful woman, a widow, whose only son now serves in the British forces
somewhere in the eastern Mediterranean. She calls him Digger, but I think that
might be a generic name given to all Australian soldiers. I must hasten to close now for time is short, but I will write
again from the ship with all of the wonderful news of my new love.
As always dear brother, my
thoughts and prayers are with you and our family. I suffer the remorse of
knowing that I am here in the relative safety of this Southern Ocean, while you
endure the northern peril of war. I fear for your safety in the conflagration
that is destroying our homeland. I
treasure our childhood adventures on Issy-Kul Lake in our own little “Aurora”
... keep safe.
Your affectionate brother ……”
……………………..
I
held his letter to my breast, as I had done so many times before. And
so, my beloved brother’s ship, the gallant Antarctic rescue vessel, SY
“Aurora”, embarked on a voyage that she would never complete. Somewhere in the Tasman
Sea, the SY “Aurora” disappeared forever. For the men of the SY “Aurora”,
time had stood still. While they endured their frozen prison and their final
destruction, we of the naval cruiser “Aurora”, had been locked in
a life-and-death European struggle that witnessed the deaths of millions around
the world. And so, the gallant man of peace
perished, an innocent victim of war ... while I, the man of war, live on, plagued
by remorse for the destruction, that my actions have wrought.
……………………..
But I have skipped ahead too far. As that
single shot from the “Aurora” in 1917, resonated around the world, the Russian
government collapsed and the city, now known as Petrograd and later Leningrad, dissolved
into chaos. Prime Minister Kerensky fled, the government fell, soviet cells
formed, while workers and peasants overthrew the ruling and moneyed classes,
and Comrade Lenin declared a new Russia based on the dictatorship of the
proletariat. Russia withdrew from the conflict with the Germans and their
allies, but the suffering did not end there. Everywhere there was violence,
killing, starvation and retribution.
Within a year the German armies had
succumbed to the combined strength of France, Britain, its dominions, numerous
smaller allies, and the belated contribution of the United States. On 11th
November 1918 the guns fell silent. The armistice, signed in a railway carriage
in the French Compiegne Forest, the subsequent Paris Peace Conference and
resulting Treaty of Versailles, were supposed to mark the beginning of a new
era of international cooperation. But the victorious allies were merciless and
duplicitous in their demands on the defeated belligerents, as they ruthlessly
carved up the spoils in their own interests. Germany was stripped of territory
both within Europe and overseas. Significantly, it lost the disputed
Alsace-Lorraine region to the French, and eastern territory to a resurrected
Poland, and a newly created Czechoslovakia. East Prussia became an isolated
German enclave, separated from the rest of the country by the newly-created
Gdansk corridor, designed to give Poland Baltic access. Austria was stripped of
its possessions, surviving only as a shadow of its former glory. Gone were
Hungary, Serbia, and Slovakia as well as the Balkan states, which combined to
form Yugoslavia. Bulgaria was greatly diminished, and Turkey, previously the
greatest of the Islamic powers, was stripped of its possessions, save its
Anatolian heartland and the small European foothold adjacent to Istanbul. The
victorious European allies established a string of new countries
across central and Eastern Europe, in the Balkans and in the Levant, to
serve as buffer states preventing the expansion of Russia to the west or south.
The British and French implemented the hitherto secret Sykes-Picot Agreement,
which carved up the Middle East, such as to provide France hegemony in Syria
and the Lebanon, and to protect British strategic interests from the Suez Canal
to the Arabian Peninsula and Persian Gulf, to their precious jewel, India.
Of the major hereditary monarchies,
only the innocuous British Windsors and the monarchs of a handful of minor
states remained. Gone was the Hohenzollern Kaiser Wilhelm II from
Germany, gone was the Hapsburg Emperor Franz Joseph II from Austria-Hungary,
gone was the Ottoman Sultan Mehmed VI from Turkey and gone, at last, was our
once revered Romanov Czar Nicholas II.
In-fighting within the Bolshevik
communist party threatened the very power of the Bolshevik communist
government. Lenin's death, on 21 January 1924, ushered in a ruthless power
struggle between Leon Trotsky, champion of worldwide revolution, and Joseph
Stalin, proponent of consolidation within the emergent Soviet Union. Stalin's
victory saw two decades of purges, executions and deportations of dissidents to
the Siberian gulags.
Violence begets violence. The
overthrow of the Russian system led to another five years of civil war ... Reds
versus Whites. All over the empire, Red and White armies fought and pillaged.
In Central Asia, our red armies were initially successful, but then came the
foreign intervention. British General Malleson assisted the Menshevik
resistance in Ashkhabad in Turkmenistan, and led an (unsuccessful) campaign
north to Tashkent, Bukhara and Khiva.
British Colonel Bailey participated in a mission to Tashkent, where my
parents still lived and worked. The revolution pitted class against class, but
it also split families. My father, the loyal servant of the Czar, and to the
successor Kerensky government, “nailed his (white) colours to the mast”, and
publicly declared his support for the White army and its British allies. That
declaration, honourable as it was, proved to be fatal. As the British withdrew,
the White resistance collapsed and the Reds exacted their revenge. In June
1918, the first regional congress of the Russian Communist Party was held in
Tashkent. My honourable Papa, true to
his beliefs and upbringing, refused to abandon the region, and paid the
ultimate price ... execution. Of this I knew nothing until, I came across his
final letter written many years later from Bukhara. The Reds held Papa in the
dungeons of the Bukhara Ark fortress for several years, because they thought he
could prove useful, before finally executing him. My mother and my two sisters
were only slightly more fortunate. Condemned to years of hardship in the
tenement housing of communist Tashkent, mother survived in poverty and squalor
until grief hastened her premature demise. Of my sisters, I only
know that they continued to live somewhere in the far-flung Central Asian outposts
of the Soviet Union. My brother, the companion of my youth, had already
perished in a watery grave in the Tasman Sea, as the SY “Aurora” slipped
silently beneath the waves. And so, I was alone.
My aged uncle, my beloved mentor
who had guided me and nurtured my progress through the navy, had retired from
active service in 1908. This, together with my intervention on his behalf,
saved him from deportation to the gulag. Of course, he was forced to resume his
previous role as a trainer at the naval academy, although closely monitored by
the political commissars. Thus, he laboured until age finally claimed him in
1928.
And for my part in the
revolution, I was rewarded with promotion. I spent many years at the naval
academy in Leningrad (as Petrograd / Saint Petersburg was now known). Finally in
the 1930s, as the dark clouds of war returned to Europe, I returned to my old
ship, the cruiser “Aurora”, this time as the political liaison officer.
Life was harsh in Stalin's Soviet
Union, but it was also intolerable in those countries that had been defeated
during the Great War. In particular, post-war German hyperinflation, staggering
unemployment and grinding poverty, fuelled an unfettered resentment of the
crippling reparations imposed by the victorious allies. The German people
struggled for an escape, and to many the national syndicalism policies of Adolf
Hitler's Nazi party seemed to provide the solution. But there was a dark side
to this path, that many could not (or would not) recognize in the 1930's.
Europe was again sinking into the mire of extreme nationalism, that leads
inevitably to rearmament. Industrialists thrive on arms production. German
rearmament relieved the unemployment problem, while salving a wounded national
pride. But the inevitable outcome of rearmament is war.
As a keen student of international
politics, with experience in the black arts of war, I read, with dismay,
classified reports detailing the 1930s manoeuvring of Hitler, Stalin,
Chamberlain and Daladier, as they played their dangerous games of intrigue and
brinkmanship, that would ultimately result in the deaths of millions and the
ruin of their homelands. The secret Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact of 23 August 1939,
whereby Russia and Germany agreed mutual non-aggression, was the green light
for the dismembering of Poland, and the commencement of the next deadly phase
of European warfare. Confident that his eastern flank was secure, Hitler launched
the western German blitzkrieg, overrunning the Low Countries, France and Norway
in a matter of weeks.
But the Russian-German rapport did
not last long. As the British navy enforced a trade blockade, Hitler's Germany
became desperate for the grains and the oil of the western Soviet Union
republics. On 22 June 1941, an over-confident Hitler launched Operation
Barbarossa, which struck eastwards with lightning speed, at the Soviet
homeland. German preparation had been meticulous, and the Soviet armies were
taken by surprize, initially falling back on all fronts. But the German
planning had not properly accounted for the logistics of extended supply lines,
the bitter weather, the lack of locally sourced food and the sheer determination
of the Soviet resistance. Battles for Moscow (near the upper Volga) and
Stalingrad (on the lower Volga) finally ground the onslaught to a halt. During
operation Barbarossa, over a million Germans soldiers perished, while Russia
suffered nearly five million military casualties. On top of these staggering
military losses, millions of others died of starvation or the effects of
exposure.
By 8 September 1941 Leningrad was
surrounded, but our gallant soldiers fought desperately to secure and defend
the perimeter, determined to yield not a single metre. Again, the naval cruiser “Aurora” played its
part in defending the city, although this time suffering the humiliation of
partial dismemberment. The great guns were removed to the city perimeter and
used to shell the advancing German horde. Virtually undefended, the ship was
fortunate to survive several German bombing raids. The Siege of Leningrad dragged on through two
merciless winters, as hunger and cold competed with bombs and bullets to
claim the most lives. Food was drastically rationed and ammunition ran
critically short, as the grim reaper stalked every part of the beleaguered
city.
By late 1941, the Nazi German
armies had almost completely cut off Leningrad, except for one route across
Lake Ladoga. During the warmer months, a trickle of supplies had to be
transported by water craft. But as the winter took hold, the lake froze, and
this provided a hard surface (the Ice Road), upon which our supply trucks might
travel. At first the meagre provisions, that trickled in, made scant
difference, but even so, they immeasurably boosted morale.
My years in Leningrad and my love of
the water had predestined me for this time and place. As a naval officer and an
intimate of the lake, I was ordered to command a convoy of relief boats.
Running the gauntlet of Luftwaffe attacks was dangerous, but I was in my
element. As summer water hardened to winter ice, my boat convoys were
transformed into motor vehicles, trundling by night across the frozen surface.
Subject to constant German bombing, and negotiating ice of variable thickness,
the risks multiplied exponentially.
Bombs explode, the shattered ice
yields to the lake beneath and the deadly water swallows many who traversed
that treacherous highway. Floating …
drifting … darkness … suspended in time and space. I do not know how long I
remained in this condition, but I got colder …
and colder … and freezing. Was I
dying? Was I already dead? I had entered this world beside the tranquil waters
of Issyk-Kul Lake, at the very edge of the Russian Empire, and now I would
depart amidst the cold chaos of Lake Ladoga, at the centre of the Russian
Soviet Republic. They say that your
whole life passes before your eyes at such a time … my childhood in Central
Asia, my little boat, the companionship of my beloved brother, the shocking
poverty of the peasants, my adventures in the naval cruiser “Aurora” during that
disastrous Japanese war, and that fateful shot from the “Aurora” that signalled
the start of the revolution ... But no more.
Light again … breathe again … live
again … Now I remember …. Bombs exploded, the shattered ice yielded to the depths
beneath and the deadly water swallowed those of us who traverse that
treacherous highway. The Russian soldiers snatched me from a watery grave,
moments before drowning, but had to abandon me on Ladoga’s frozen surface, as a
probing Finnish patrol drew dangerously close. And so, I became a prisoner of
the Finns. My enemy’s enemy is my friend
… or so they say. The Finns had long fought us Russians for control of the
Baltic coastline, and so the current hostilities between Germany and Russia had
forced an uneasy Finnish / German cooperation. But who needs a friend like Nazi
Germany? For the Finns it was a mixed blessing, but at least it preserved their
independence.
The brutality of this war was such
that a captured Russian officer had few privileges. The conditions of the
Finnish POW Camp were so severe that a quarter of the Russian prisoners died of
malnutrition … but perhaps being a prisoner saved me from the slaughter of the
battlefield. Convalescence seemed to take forever, but slowly I returned to
normal health. Many times, I would
retrieve that torn and faded letter that I always kept close to my heart … that
letter my brother had sent from that far antipodean shore.
I learnt during these intervening
years that the fate of the mercy ship SY “Aurora” had been sealed by the Great
War German raider, the SMS “Wolf”. During this conflict, much damage had been
inflicted by vessels such as the “Wolf”, designed specifically for subterfuge.
Launched in March 1913, this armed merchant cruiser was one of several German
raiders that wrought havoc south of the equator. With a displacement of only 11,400
tonnes, a length of just 135 metres and a mere 20 kilometres per hour top
speed, she was by no means a great warship.
But she was lethal. The “Wolf” bristled with six 150 mm guns, three 52
mm guns, four torpedo tubes, a seaplane and in excess of 450 mines. Her real
tactical advantage lay in the ability to disguise her true identity with a
false funnel, masts and sides, and thus lure her unsuspecting prey to their
doom. Leaving her home port of Keil in November 1916, the “Wolf” threaded her
way down the Atlantic, across the Indian Ocean and into the Pacific. It was in
these southern climes that she wrought the most destruction. Hers was the
longest voyage by any warship during the Great War. On returning to Kiel in February 1918, after
a record 451 days at sea, the “Wolf” disgorged 467 prisoners, together with a
significant cargo of hijacked zinc, brass, copper, rubber, silk, cocoa and copra.
During the 15 months of the voyage, the “Wolf”
had despatched to the depths over 110,000 tonnes of enemy shipping … fourteen
captured and sunk in addition to at least thirteen that fell victim to its
mines.
A deadly legacy of the voyage
lurked undetected in those perilous waters off the east coast of Australia, where
the “Wolf” had deposited many of these mines. Although there is no formal record, there can
be little doubt that my brother’s ship, SY “Aurora” fell victim to this hazard.
But in a strange twist of fate, even the
depths of the Tasman Sea could not silence the SY “Aurora”. A colleague, charged with gathering
intelligence on foreign shipping, obtained, and then passed on to me, a
newspaper cutting from twenty years earlier. It reported that an Australian (Mr.
Bressingdon), while strolling on the sand of Tuggerah Beach on Australia’s east
coast, had discovered an old wine bottle. Exhibited on the bottle was an
engraving of the SY “Aurora”, and a message, “Midwinter's Day, 1912, Shackleton Glacier, Antarctica. Frank Wild,
A. L. Kennedy, S. Evan Jones, C. Arch. Hoadley, Charles T. Harrisson, George
Dovers, A. L. Watson and Morton H. Moyes”. It was a fitting tribute bearing witness to the valiant rescue missions,
and the men who owed their lives to this ship and its courageous crew. The
bottle was believed to be still on board the SY
“Aurora” when she
vanished with all hands in 1917.
My brother’s legacy was a faded
letter and a newspaper clipping. But what of my legacy. Four decades of naval
and political experience had placed me in the thick of violent struggle … the
Japanese War, the Great War, the Revolution, the Civil War and now the Second
World War. The Russian people’s quest
for survival had been fraught with a history of greed and violence. We had
replaced the self-serving aristocracy and a useless Czar with the ruthless
ideologues of a dictatorship, which had now led us to destruction in the most
violent war known to humanity. How could we so blindly follow those
who dispensed death so casually?
I spent the remainder of the war as
a prisoner of the Finns … disillusioned, dispirited and debilitated. Thankfully,
the conflict did not last for ever, and I was finally repatriated, in 1945, to
the ruin that was Leningrad. By now I was 65 and in poor health, the privation
and humiliation of being a prisoner of war having taken its toll. I was excused
from further military service, and permitted to retire quietly to one of those
boxes they call an apartment. My darling wife had perished in the barbarous
siege of Leningrad … I miss her beyond all comprehension ... but you, my son, thankfully
have survived your military service and have now returned to me. As I approach
the winter of my life, I weary of my daily task of recording the vicissitudes
of my ongoing being. I therefore entrust this journal to you, confident that
you will preserve it and pass it on to your son, and so on down the generations.
Ever your loving father.
Postscript: A long-lost letter,
written to me in 1922 by my own Papa (your grandfather) from his prison in
Bukhara, has recently come into my possession. I will enclose it with this
journal.
…………………………………………………………………..
Southern Ocean … 2014
My friend is correct. The “irony of
our current circumstance” does astound me.
On 8 December 2013, the Russian
icebreaker, “Akademik Shokalskiy” sailed south from the port of Bluff in New
Zealand, under charter to the Australasian Antarctic Expedition 2013–2014. The
aim was to travel into Antarctic waters, in celebration of Douglas Mawson’s
expedition of a century previous, and to extend the scientific enquiry of that
era. The ship’s complement of 74 were a mixed group … 22 crew, 26 tourists, the
expedition leader’s wife and his two children, four journalists and 19
scientists. But all did not go well. The ship became imprisoned in heavy sea
ice, and a distress call was broadcast on Christmas Day. Several ships came to
lend assistance, the “Xuě Lóng” (a Chinese research ship), the “L ‘Astrolabe”
(a French research vessel), and the Australian icebreaker, “Aurora Australis”. Unable
to free the stricken vessel, the decision was taken 2 January 2014, to evacuate
the 54 passengers (those who were not crew members) by helicopter to the Aurora Australis.
Included in that group of 54 was my
Russian colleague. And so, he joined me on the deck of the “Aurora Australis”. My
friend is the grandson of a Russian naval hero, who had been born beside the
peaceful Issyk-Kul Lake, who had sailed there as a boy, and who had found peace
on the schooner that bears the name of the lake. My friend’s grandfather saw
action on the Russian naval cruiser “Aurora” in the North Sea, in the Japanese
Tsushima Straight and in the Baltic Sea. His grandfather was present as the
“Aurora” fired the shot that sparked the Russian Revolution, and participated
in the defence of Leningrad (Saint Petersburg), where the Aurora’s guns had
been put to final use. Although his grandfather had not lived to see it, that
naval cruiser, “Aurora”, is now preserved as a memorial in Saint Petersburg,
moored across the River Neva from the Winter Palace, close to where it fired
that shot. His grandfather’s brother (his great uncle) had sailed in the
Antarctic rescue ship, SY “Aurora”, in these very waters, performing many
humanitarian missions and rescues, was trapped in sea ice for nearly a year, before
finally succumbing to mines in the South Pacific.
My Russian friend and I have been
corresponding colleagues since my Moscow sabbatical, but our Antarctic reunion
has sealed the bond of our friendship. The hot coffee percolates throughout
our bodies, slowly returning warmth to our frozen extremities, as we study the
manuscript together. The more we analyse the transcript, the clearer the
message becomes. His grandfather, the naval officer, had served the Bolsheviks
faithfully, but the fog of war clouded his judgement. As that fog slowly lifted,
he sought to redeem himself, to undo the harm that his military adventures had wrought,
and to follow peaceful pursuits, as his older brother had done. But life was
precarious in the USSR, and he had to be careful what he recorded. So, he wrote
using metaphors.
It became apparent that the “Wolf”,
that notorious World War 1 German raider, was meant to symbolize the
far-reaching devastation of war, indiscriminately destroying all it encounters.
This evil leads down the path to extinction, and we must avoid it at all costs.
The Russian schooner “Issyk Kul” spent its whole life in peaceful, but
self-indulgent seclusion, trading in splendid isolation on the tranquil lake,
whose name it bore, while the whole world fell apart around it. We cannot turn
our back on a bleeding world, opt out, and ignore the suffering of those around
us. But we should use what peaceful times are available to us, to gather our
thoughts and reflect on how best to serve our fellow humans. The most famous
(or infamous) of these ships is the Russian naval cruiser, “Aurora”, the ship
that in its youth blindly participated in fruitless imperialist adventures,
immersed itself in the carnage of two world conflicts, and ushered in the death
and destruction of violent revolution. It represents the folly of youthful
spontaneity, and the suffering that it can bring if it is directed towards
violence. His exhortation … resist the war hawks, those who would consume the
carrion of their own creation. It was the mercy ship, SY “Aurora”, that offers
our best hope for the future. It stands as a stark reminder that ongoing and
valiant self-sacrifice make the world a better place.
His grandfather would have been proud
that another “Aurora”, the modern “Aurora Australis”, was carrying on the
tradition of that Antarctic rescue ship SY “Aurora”. While the fate of the “Akademik
Shokalskiy” in the icy Southern Ocean reminds us that misfortune can stalk even
the most innocent amongst us, it is the well-intentioned self-sacrificing
action of the “Aurora Australis” (and others like it) that will ultimately
triumph.
Barely legible at the bottom of the final
page of his grandfather’s journal, the old man had scrawled a short postscript.
The dark depths of the Neva obscure the image, but it is the peaceful water of Issyk-Kul that shows a clear reflection.
Bukhara
It is 2014. My Russian friend was
amongst the passengers of a Russian icebreaker, rescued from sea ice by the
“Aurora Australis”. Taking refuge in the warmth of my cabin, we have just read the
journal recorded by his grandfather, a Russian hero, who saw action 110 years
ago aboard the naval cruiser “Aurora”, witnessed the shot that sparked the
Russian Revolution in 1917, and participated in the defence of Leningrad in the
dark depths of World War 2. His grandfather’s brother sailed the Antarctic waters
in the rescue ship, SY “Aurora”, was trapped in sea ice for a year, and finally
departed to a watery grave in the Tasman Sea. But it is this letter from his
earlier ancestor, from his great-grandfather, that now absorbs our interest. I
am indeed privileged to have access to this record, written in 1922, amidst
great hardship and at a time of great upheaval. His great-grandfather’s letter to
his own son (the naval officer) reads as follows.
……………………..
Bukhara
Ark Fortress, 1922
My
dearest son,
I write
amidst the melancholy of this most dread prison, the “bug pit” dungeon, beneath
the ruined Bukhara Ark Fortress. It was from this same hole 80 years ago, in
1842, that they dragged poor British Colonel Stoddard. I can picture it even
now. The curved blade flashed in the morning sunlight, as it hovered
momentarily mid-air, before descending to the back of the poor colonel’s neck,
thus ending his life. So too, Captain Conolly met a similar fate. I live in
constant fear. Will my fate be that of Stoddard and Conolly, or will my captors
assign me to a long one-way journey to Siberia?
1922 has
not been a good year for me, but the Reds, your Russian communist masters,
still keep me alive, in the hope that I may yet prove useful to their cause.
Although I do not know what fate awaits me, there is little sign that my end
will come soon. Time is both my friend and my enemy. I value the time that I
have, but there is little to relieve the endless hours of boredom, that I now
endure. So, I write. I write memoirs, I write history, and I write philosophy.
And most important, I write to you my dear son, knowing that I may never see
you again. I pray that this letter may find its way to you, perhaps when your
ship, our great naval cruiser “Aurora”, is back in Saint Petersburg (or
Leningrad as it is fashionable to now call it).
I fear
that your brother, God rest his soul, has perished somewhere beneath the South
Pacific waves some four years ago, when his ship SY “Aurora” (that gallant
Antarctic rescue ship) fell victim to mines in the closing days of the Great
War. I have had no news of your mother and sisters in Tashkent these two years
hence, and I pray every day for their deliverance. Worst of all, this wretched
civil war divides families, pitting father against son … the White Czarist
armies and the Red Bolsheviks gnaw at the bone, devouring the flesh that was
once our magnificent Russian Empire. We may be on different sides my son, but I
implore you to watch your back, and stay safe during these dangerous times. I
do not want to lose two sons to the violence that now assails us.
Since you
were a little boy, you have always had a rebellious streak. From your childhood
voyages on Issyk-Kul Lake, high in the Tien Shan mountains, to your wanderings
with the local urchins through the back-streets of Tashkent, I knew that your
untamed spirit would lead us in opposite directions… I, a White loyal czarist
civil servant and you, a rebellious Red renegade.
Do you
remember the time when, at the tender age of eleven, you accompanied me on my
official visit to Samarkand, Bukhara and Khiva? We came across a boy (about
your age) struggling to lift his stricken cotton cart, which had lost a wheel,
and was now blocking the road. We dismounted, just as the loaded cart slipped
from the boy's grasp, pinning his leg to the rutted road beneath. He called out
in pain and you rushed forward to assist. It was an act of kindness, that made
me so proud. But a senior czarist civil servant cannot become involved in such
matters, and I was forced to reprimand you.
The peasants would deal with it. I know that you did not understand my
actions. From that day onwards, you and I would tread different paths, yours
leading to the Bolshevik navy, and mine to remain a czarist White Russian
bureaucrat.
………………………….
Your
uncle is a good man, and to me, a loyal brother. I was very grateful that he
was there in Saint Petersburg Leningrad to care for you when you left
our home, here on the periphery of the empire. Through his good offices, he was
able to secure your appointment to the “Aurora”, as it set off around the world
to fight the Japanese in the defence of our eastern possessions. It was with
such relief that I heard that “Aurora” was one of our few ships that survived
the naval disaster in the Tsushima Strait, albeit still
suffering casualties.
I watched with pride, as you rose through the ranks, and with trepidation,
when you were reassigned to the “Aurora” as the Great War erupted, engulfing
the whole of mankind in a conflagration of madness. The European protagonists
of old … the Germans, French, British, Austrians, Serbians, Turks and … yes,
even us Russians. They could hardly wait to start ripping each other apart,
like ravenous wolves. But the wolves were not the only predators. The vultures
circled, and then swooped to gorge themselves … the Americans, the Japanese and
the British Dominions. None were threatened in any way, but they could not
resist joining the fray. It was incomprehensible. The assassination of an
obscure Austrian arch-duke, and the whole world erupts.
And so,
Czar Nicholas led Russia into a disastrous war against Germany, Austria, Turkey
and their allies. For us Russians, the war was a disaster. As you know, I have
always been a loyal servant of the czar, although I will concede that his
leadership of our troops during the Great War was abysmal. The sequence of the
main events is well known. We all thought that the war would
be over in a few months, that the crazy Kaiser had bitten off more that even
the hungriest wolf can devour. But we had not counted on the incompetence of
the French, British and (sadly) our own Russian generals and politicians. The
ineptitude on all sides was staggering. For example, I was stunned to read
that, although British firms had been constructing ships for the Ottoman navy
under contract for many years, in August 1914, Winston Churchill of the British
Admiralty unceremoniously seized (without compensation) two newly-built Turkish
battleships, “Sultan Osman” and “Reşadiye”. This decision, seen by the Turks as “British
treachery”, was instrumental in swaying Turkish public opinion in favour of
aligning with Germany, and led directly to the Dardanelles naval fiasco, and
the abortive Gallipoli Peninsula campaign.
Perhaps I
am underestimating Churchill and his cronies. Forcing the Turks into the
opposing camp, gave the British and French the perfect opportunity to prosecute
war against the Turks, rather than work with them. The British army, supported
by the Arab Revolt, rolled back Turkish control of the Levant, and this gave
the British and French the ideal opening to dismember the Turkish empire, and
seize the valuable middle-east oilfields. The notorious and secret 1916
Sykes-Picot Agreement, between the British and French (signed with the assent
of Russia and Italy), effectively partitioned the Levant among these powers,
and saw the establishment of puppet Arab states in Arabia, Palestine, Syria and
around the Persian Gulf. It was all
about the oil … black gold … the lubricant of modern industry. I can vouch from
experience, that this type of ruthless partition and subjugation of native
peoples always leads to dissent. Who knows how history will unfold in this
volatile region in the 20th and 21st centuries?
Retreat
followed defeat, and rout followed retreat. Everywhere the Russian army was
collapsing and the soldier's suffering was immeasurable. On 15 March
1917, Prime Minister Kerensky forced Czar Nicholas to abdicate ...
the end of 300 years of Romanov rule... the end of my lifetime of service to
the Czar. Following a period of turmoil, Kerensky formed a moderate socialist
government, but refused to make peace with the Central Powers. Sensing the
rebellious sentiment of both the Russian bourgeoise and the Russian
proletariat, the Germans conspired with Vladimir Lenin to overthrow the
Kerensky government. Their support was subject to Lenin’s vow for an immediate
Russian withdrawal from hostilities. The Germans secretly provided Lenin with
safe passage from his Swiss haven, through Germany in a sealed train, over the
Baltic to Finland, and across the border into St Petersburg. Then came the
famous cannon shot from the “Aurora”, aimed across the River Neva at the Winter
Palace. The Kerensky government collapsed, the Bolshevik Reds, led by Lenin,
seized government, fought the White Czarists and, amidst much violence,
established the communist state that prevails, with some difficulty, today.
While the Russian capitulation saved many lives on the international
battlefield, it heralded enormous loss of life through the ensuing civil war
and purges.
I heard
from your uncle that you were aboard the “Aurora” in Saint Petersburg
Leningrad when she fired that fatal shot, across the River Neva towards the
Winter Palace. They say it was a blank, but it could not have done more damage
if it were live ammunition. It was taken to be the signal to commence the
revolution … when Lenin and his Bolsheviks seized power. The carnage that
followed was appalling. Being tucked away in the safety of Central Asia, we
were initially isolated from the death and destruction, that swept through
mother Russia.
But the
worst was yet to come … the dreaded telegram confirming the rumours from
Yekaterinburg. 17 July 1918 will forever be mired in infamy, the day the
Bolsheviks shot Czar Nicholas and his entire family. I was presented to him at
court once, you know, a reward for my decades of loyal service. He was such a
quiet, inoffensive, diminutive man, not at all the expected persona of the
powerful “Emperor of All Russia”. And his wife, the Czarina Alexandra
Feodorovna, was simply charming. They did not deserve to die. And the shooting
of their children ... absolutely contemptable. I can never forgive those
barbaric Bolsheviks for such butchery.
I apologize,
my son. I am carried away by grief and outrage, but perhaps you understand why
I cannot join you in your support for the Reds. I can understand your
disaffection with the Czar, and impatience with Kerensky’s ineffectual moderate-socialist Trudovik faction, that
formed the first government. But to throw in your lot with the Bolsheviks was
indeed to deal with the devil. Just as Faust could not outwit Mephistopheles,
you may find that the price of your so-called liberation is the curse of
eternal damnation. I implore you … do not trust the Reds!
With the
victories of your Red comrades, you are now a rising young naval officer of
some considerable importance, while I, a defeated and disgraced “enemy of the
state”, languish in this dank “bug pit” dungeon in Bukhara.
I fear
that truth is the first casualty of any war, be it a civil war, a regional
invasion or a global conflict. They say that history is written by the victors,
who emphasize the evil of their overpowered enemy, while conveniently
forgetting their own atrocities. So it will be for the Russian Civil War. But
the victors, the Russian Reds, are not alone in distorting the truth. The
Whites and their Western allies will never admit that the root cause of their
downfall was the injustice and inequity of the evil system, through which they
had previously prospered. On both sides, the hypocrisy is astounding.
The
British, French and Americans were livid at the fall of the czar, and became
implacable enemies of the Russian communist government. Who can see into the
future, and who can predict how this hostility will colour future international
relationships over the next 100 years? But these countries forget the fragility
of their own social situations. Or perhaps they don’t. Perhaps this is precisely
why they direct so much hostility against the Russian Reds. No doubt, they fear
similar proletarian revolutions in their own countries, where the working
conditions of the poor are appalling. Like I said, “… the hypocrisy is
astounding”.
My
intelligence sources … yes, I still obtain a little leaked information that is
occasionally smuggled into my hell-hole prison … tell me that immediately after
the initial revolution, the Bolsheviks assumed control of Russia, virtually
unopposed. Then the Czechs revolted, the opposing Provisional All-Russian
Government was created, and finally a coup was launched by Alexander Kolchak,
to establish a military dictatorship. This was the signal for full-scale
invasion by the western foreigners. In all, thirteen foreign powers, including
former enemies from both sides of the Great War, combined with the aim of
bringing down the Red regime.
Although
the White armies were initially successful in the east, south and west of the
empire, these gains were reversed by successive Red army victories in north and
south Russia. Kolchak was forced into a retreat to the east, despite initially
resisting in Chita, Yakut and Mongolia. I have heard that the Red Army outmanoeuvred
the White Don and Volunteer armies, in Novorossiysk and Crimea in November
1920. I fear that the White resistance has almost entirely collapsed throughout
the empire. The violence that engulfed the Russian Empire is truly horrendous,
casualty estimates ranging from 7 to 12 million, many of whom are civilians. Here
in Central Asia, where my influence was concentrated, the violence continues …
and that is why the Reds keep me alive. So, I will concentrate my comments on
this region that I know best … Bukhara, Khiva, Samarkand and Tashkent.
I was
born in Saint Petersburg 70 years ago As the Czar’s armies entered Samarkand,
so I entered the Czar’s civil service. Rising quickly through the ranks, I soon
established a reputation as an able administrator. Ambition and commitment
mingled, such that I soon accepted promotion and posting to the remote province
centred on the tranquil Issyk-Kul Lake, high in the Tien Shan mountains. And so
began my long association with the frontier regions of Central Asia. In 1880,
you, my son, were born on the serene shores of that peaceful lake. This is the
home of the Kyrghyz nomads. They did not take kindly to Russian intrusion, but
at least it was better than a British invasion from the south, across the
Himalayas. The Russian Bear and the British Lion were destined to face off for
many years, across that forbidding frontier.
As the intrigues of the Great Game played out, the manoeuvring of the
military and secrecy of the spies facilitated my rise as an able and astute
administrator. Such was my success, that I was promoted and we moved down to
the regional capital, Tashkent, on the Uzbek plain, with authority over the
entire region, as far south and west as Samarkand. Bukhara was still beyond my
direct control, so diplomacy was paramount. I know how much you enjoyed our
time on Issyk-Kul Lake, and how much you missed your brother and your little
boat, your first “Aurora”. But move we must.
Life and work in Tashkent were hectic, and the intrigues intensified. In
time, I became acutely aware that we Russians were the intruders here. While
remaining unshakeably loyal to the Czar, I did all that I could to soften the
impact of our colonialism. I befriended the local leaders, and they
reciprocated with hospitality and trust. It is through these friends, that I am
able to smuggle this correspondence out to you. The value of such friendships
is recognized by my captors, and this is the reason why I remain alive (for the
time being).
By
February 1918, the Red Army had defeated the White Russian-supported Kokand
autonomy of Turkestan. But the British and their allies soon intervened,
dispatching into Central Asia, three military leaders. First to come to
Tashkent was the dashing Lieutenant Colonel Bailey. He had been born in India,
studied and received his commission in England, and returned to the
subcontinent in 1901. Here he joined the 17th Bengal Lancers, before moving to
the 32nd Sikh Pioneers in 1903. Bailey became a proficient speaker of a number
of languages, including Tibetan. This skill that proved invaluable, when he
accompanied Francis Younghusband on the 1904 Tibet invasion. He remained in
India, transferring to the Foreign and Political Department in 1906, and
serving at various intervals as the British Trade Agent in Gyantse in Tibet.
During the Great War, Bailey’s Indian experience and Urdu language skills were
put to great use. He was wounded while serving with the 34th Sikh Pioneers on
the Western Front, and was wounded twice more at Gallipoli, while serving
during that notorious abortive invasion of Turkey. By December 1917, Bailey was
in southern Persia, before moving to Turkistan, in February 1918, to serve as
political officer. By April 1918, he had been promoted to temporary
lieutenant-colonel, and embarked on his greatest adventure. Bailey travelled to Tashkent, as part of a
joint British and American intelligence operation, led by the American, Roger
Tredwell. Their aim was to bolster anti-communist guerrilla activities
throughout the region, and they successfully created the Turkestan
Anti–Bolshevik Union, to act as a liaison with the Basmachi rebels, who were at
that time operating further east in the remote Fergana Valley.
But
Bailey’s particular concern was to discover whether the Reds had designs on
British India, to the south across the Himalayas. His mission was to monitor
the activities of Raja Mahendra Pratap, the Indian nationalist who, in Kabul in
1915, had proclaimed a Provisional Government of India (in exile), and was
currently intriguing with both the Russian Bolsheviks and the Germans. Their
plan was a joint Soviet-German attack on British India through Afghanistan.
Unfortunately (for Bailey), his presence was revealed, and he had to flee from
Tashkent. In his bid to elude capture, Bailey assumed the identity of an
Austrian prisoner-of-war, joined the Bolshevik security agency (the Cheka), and
undertook the task of tracking down the British spy! What irony. Bailey was
chasing himself! Bailey made good his
escape, and returned to his country as a hero … a prototype 20th
century spy, the stuff of legends.
It was in
Tashkent that I met Bailey. I had to admire his audacity, the boldness from
which success is born. As Bailey made his escape from Tashkent, so did I … he
to India and I to Bukhara. My flight to the relative safety of Bukhara had to
be achieved amidst the greatest secrecy, avoiding the communist sympathizers,
who permeated both town and countryside. Behind every door was a Bolshevik,
under every bed was a Red. But I too had my own network of loyal partisans, men
whom I had befriended and supported during my long career as the Czar’s magistrate
and then civil governor.
After
several perilous days and many narrow escapes, I was at last approaching
Samarkand, that ancient capital of the infamous Timur, 14th century
conqueror of Central Asia, and hero of the Uzbek Turks. Renowned throughout
Asia and Europe for his ruthless cruelty, Timur sought to build an empire that
would rival that of his famous forebear, Temujin, better known as Genghis Khan.
And he almost did … stopped only by his untimely death as he prepared to invade
Ming Dynasty China.
While my
compatriots made clandestine arrangements for my entry into Samarkand, and for
the next stage of my journey west to Bukhara, I was secretly contacted by a
former subordinate, who still resided in the city. He warned me that Bolshevik
agents were waiting in ambush, to arrest me as I entered Samarkand. My only
option was to flee deep into the deadly Kyzyl Kum Desert, taking a circuitous
route to approach Bukhara from the north, thus bypassing both Samarkand and my
pursuers. It was with some sense of irony that I recalled, this was the same
route taken by Genghis Khan seven hundred years earlier, when, in 1220, he too
bypassed Samarkand to march on Bukhara. He marched his army of 50,000 through
the seemingly impassable Kyzyl Kum desert, guided to the oases by captured
nomads. The Mongols were able to launch a successful surprize attack on
Bukhara. It worked for Genghis Khan, and it worked for me.
In 1785,
Shah Murad had gained formal recognition as emir of the Bukhara Emirate. During
the next 80 years, succeeding emirs expanded their khanate in all directions,
but 1868 saw the Czar’s armies conquer much of the emir’s territory, including
the eastern city of Samarkand. And so began 50 years of Russian influence in
the region.
As I rose
to the position of provincial governor, my circle of influential friends grew
to include emirs and tribal leaders, a factor now crucial to my survival in
these perilous times of civil war. Now, in late 1919, I was on the run, seeking
refuge with the emir in the relative safety of Bukhara. I was welcomed by my
friend, Emir Mohammed Alim Khan, with all of the hospitality for which Central
Asia is renowned. But his position, too, was fraught. Bukhara had become the
centre for capitalist development in the region, with concentration of
commercial cotton growing in preference to agriculture of food staples. This
brought great wealth to the emir and the bourgeoisie, but assigned the rural
proletariat to pitiless poverty. Spurred on by such inequity, the communists
formed the Red Turkestan Front in August 1919. In reaction, the Emir of Bukhara
conscripted an army of 35,000, and enlisted the assistance of White Russian
trainers. By the summer of 1920, Khiva to the west had fallen to the Reds, Samarkand
to the east was under their control, and the desert to the north was in their
hands. Bukhara was effectively isolated. The Young Bukharians left-wing movement
revolted on 28 August 1920, 100 km to the south in Türkmenabat. Red Army
commander, Mikhail Frunze moved to support their uprising. Two days later, the
communists began bombarding Bukhara by land and from the air. Strategic bridges
were secured, further isolating the city. On 2 September 1920, Red forces
breached the gates, street fighting ensued and the resistance collapsed.
However, Emir Mohammed Alim Khan had already escaped to the eastern part of the
state, with 1,000 soldiers. The political leaders of Central Asia are very
adept at effecting an escape, when their armies lose the will to fight.
Unfortunately,
I was not with the emir as he fled. Captured by the Red Army, I was summarily
tried as a White “enemy of the state”, and sentenced to death by firing squad.
As they led me into the square, fronting the ruined hulk of the ancient Bukhara
Ark fortress, my mind raced, recalling both good and bad of my long life.
Foremost was the love of my life, my beautiful wife whom, I had to abandon in
Tashkent, my two lovely daughters, both widowed and both alone somewhere in
greater Russia, my eldest son, now at the bottom the ocean, and you, my beloved
second son. It was to you that my thoughts turned at this traumatic time, as
the end approached. Somewhere in Russia, you were pursuing glory in the ranks
of my captors. I prayed for a miracle, that you would be spared the heartache,
that comes from a wasted life. Then a miracle did occur ... but a different
sort of miracle. The chief executioner ordered my removal from the square, and
return to incarceration.
I later
learned that they had recognized that an ex-governor, with many political
contacts, might yet serve a useful purpose. And besides, they need not be
hasty. They could execute me at any time, as the situation developed. From that
day, two years ago, I have resided in the “bug pit”, that hole in the ground
beneath the Bukhara Ark fortress … the hell-hole that had accommodated Stoddard
and Conolly 80 years ago.
I share
my cell with a forlorn British soldier, or perhaps I should correctly
acknowledge him as he insists … an Australian soldier. I do not understand
these people. He was born in that far-off wilderness on the wrong side of the
globe, apparently the great-grandchild of convicted felons, whom the British
had deported to that “Siberia of the South”. While he fiercely retains an
anti-authority insolence, he never-the-less “signed up to help his mother
country”, and he follows their orders without question. Despite being
ruthlessly blooded by the appalling carnage of the Turkish killing fields, and
despite the British military incompetence that sentenced thousands of his
compatriots to early graves, he is again following them into another military
disaster. This foreign Central Asian civil war offers no credible threat to his
antipodean homeland, yet he is here. He is again blindly following his bungling
imperialist masters, and yet again he is betrayed. Perhaps these Australians
are incapable of thinking for themselves. As I said, I do not understand these
people.
I asked
his name, but he simply drawled, “Mate, just call me Digger”. My puzzled brow
extracted the further explanation that “digger” was slang for Australian
soldier, although I have since learned that the term originally referred to the
migrants from many countries, who scratched in the Australian dirt for gold,
some 70 years previous. Despite being
called “Digger”, he seemed to suffer particularly severely from the
claustrophobia of our shared underground hell-hole. But talking seemed to relax
him, so he talked, hesitantly at first, but then he talked and talked and
talked. Digger was just 19 the first time he killed someone … the day that
Australia went to war. In the cold dark pre-dawn of 25 April 1915, he was one of
the first to struggle from the icy Aegean onto the Gallipoli shore, the killing
field later to be known as Anzac Cove. Digger told of his many mates who met
their maker on the first morning … too many for a young man, for a mere teenager.
All were tragic, but one in particular shook him to the core.
A
21-year-old sergeant had taken Digger under his wing. Before enlisting, the
sergeant had been a teacher, and was therefore used to leadership. He also had a
good knowledge of military matters … his father (now a school principal) was a Boer
War veteran, who had risen to the rank of major. The sergeant had volunteered
early in 1915, joining the Queensland 9th Battalion of the “All
Australian” 3rd Brigade. Enlisting as a private, he rose quickly
through corporal to the rank of sergeant. They were among the first wave of
Australian troops that struggled ashore before dawn, and up the steep cliffs,
flanking the beach. Dodging machine gun fire, they scaled the first ridge to
Pugges Plateau, and after 20 minutes were about 800 metres inland. The troops
still on the beach had been warned not to fire before daylight, because unseen
Australians were already scaling the cliffs ahead of them. Then disaster. The
sergeant was struck by a bullet ... in the back. He knew that he had been shot by a fellow
Australian, and was heard to say, as the stretcher-bearer dressed his wound,
“It is hard luck being hit by one of our own men”. Digger accompanied the
sergeant’s stretcher to the beach, recalling his last words: “I told them again
and again not to open their magazines”. An energetic charismatic young man,
revered by his men, loved by his parents and adored by his four younger sisters
had passed from this world, without children, without grandchildren and without
fulfilling his potential for human contribution. All that stretched before him
just moments earlier had perished.
Digger
witnessed many deaths that day, and each day of the following eight months. Both
Turks and the invaders, many of them just boys, killed and were killed. He
would never know the death toll of the Gallipoli invasion. I have since heard
estimates of 87,000 Turks, 21,000 Britons, 10,000 Frenchmen, 8,700 Australians,
2,800 New Zealanders and 1,400 Indians. The wounded numbered twice the number
of deaths. And for what? After a fruitless eight months of carnage, the
invaders, who had come ashore along the coast at Anzac Cove, Cape Helles and
Suvla Bay, retreated leaving Gallipoli to the brave Turks who, at enormous
cost, had successfully defended their homeland.
But it
was not over for the Australians. Blooded by Gallipoli, many were deployed to
the murderous western front … the cannon fodder for the disastrous trench
warfare of northern France. But Digger was fortunate. He had been raised on a
sheep farm (a station he called it), and was quite a good horseman. After
withdrawing from Gallipoli, Digger seized an opportunity to transfer to one of
the cavalry brigades that constituted the Australian Mounted Division … or as
he called it, the “Australian Light Horse”.
The Light Horse had seen action (without their horses) in Gallipoli, and
had been withdrawn along with the rest of the invaders. After regrouping in
Cairo, under the direct command of their own General Chauvel, they joined
British General Allenby’s push east out of Egypt, across the Sinai wastelands
and into the southern Levant.
Destination Damascus. As 1916 turned to 1917, Digger was in his element
… a horse, a rifle, the open air, and the opportunity to kill Turks. He was
particularly fond of telling of his participation in the action at Beersheba,
adjacent to the southern Judean foothills. The Light Horse emerged from the
Negev Desert, waterless and thirsty, approaching the strongly-defended wells at
Beersheba. They were desperate for a quick battle. If they delayed, the
defending Turks would destroy the wells, and the march to Damascus would stall.
At 1630 in the afternoon, 800 Australian horsemen of the 4th Brigade
of Chauvel’s Light Horse charged three kilometres across open ground into heavy
machine gun fire … and into history. The Australian Light Horse seized the town
and the wells of Beersheba in the last great cavalry charge of a major war. It
was the stuff of legend, and Digger never tired of recounting the detail, the
adrenalin rush and the elation of the victory.
Mature
people should pragmatically consider armed conflicts, weighing the human costs
(on both sides) against the potential benefits (if any), that might accrue from
the prosecution of the battle. But it appears that Digger, and his countrymen,
act from instinct alone. It is as if they were born myopic, unable to see past
the immediate situation into the broad sweep of history, and the damage caused
by the violence that they pursue. Digger has adopted a perverted pride in his
suffering, and he is addicted to war. I pray, for the sake of his countrymen,
that future generations can curb this war-lust, and take a more mature approach
to the resolution of foreign conflicts, particularly those that do not directly
threaten them.
Unknown
to Digger and his mates, there was political intrigue afoot. As Chauvel’s Light
Horse bore down on Beersheba, British Colonel T.E. Lawrence was scheming with
Arab Sheik Faisal (bin Al-Hussein bin Ali Al-Hashem) for the dismemberment of
the Turkish empire, and creation of a far-reaching Arab state. But unknown to
Lawrence and Faisal, British diplomat, Sykes, and his French counterpart,
Picot, had already arranged an alternative acquisition of territories, benefiting
their own countries. Reacting to domestic political pressures, the British have
declared their intention to create a Jewish state amidst the hostile
Palestinian lands. How naïve are these people? Can they not see that this will
cause Jewish-Palestinian conflict for decades into the future … perhaps
centuries? Betrayed by the British and
French, Faisal had to abandon his dream of a pan Arab state, and settle for a
subservient kingship of the newly-created Iraq. Meanwhile, his tribal enemies, the
Al Saud, are being favoured by the British power brokers as the rulers of the
Arabian Peninsula. Further north, the Turkish hero of Gallipoli, Mustapha
Kemal, has successfully displaced the disgraced Young Turk leadership
triumvirate of Enver, Jemal and Talaat. As I write, it is clear that Kemal will
also dispense with the ineffective Sultan Mehemet VI. There will be great
turmoil in the dismembered Turkish empire, genocide against the Armenians in
the east, displacement of Greeks from Asiatic Anatolia, and an exodus of Turks
from the hostile European lands west of the Bosporus. Old scores will be
settled, and there will be great bloodshed.
Poor
Digger. He is bewildered by these machinations of international power politics.
But I have had recent news of an even more perverse nature. The Basmachi rebels
are a Turkic people, who are resisting the Russian Reds, further to the east in
the Fergana Valley. In their desperate struggle, the Basmachi are supported by the
British. But the Basmachi are currently led by non-other than Enver Pasha, the discredited
former Turkish leader. Whereas Digger and his countrymen once fought in support
of the Russians against Enver and the Turks, they now are fighting against the
Russians and supporting Enver and his Turkic bandits. When I explained this to
Digger, he just wept. He finally realized that the years of killing had been
for nought.
Yesterday
Digger went to meet his maker. To the end he maintained his sense of humour,
joking with me right up to the moment when they dragged him out of our shared pit.
“We have been through hell together, mate”, he called back, “so I guess we will
meet in a better place next time!”
I think
that we both sensed that his life had been a terrible waste … killing and more
killing, just to end up being killed … and what did he achieve? He died alone
and unmourned, in an alien land far from home, without wife or children and
failing to make any meaningful contribution to advance humankind … unless you
count cracking a few jokes.
It so
unsettled me that I could not sleep. I tossed and I turned. The icy stone floor
of the dungeon sucked the warmth from my aching body, and my mind was wracked
with a kaleidoscope of horrifying images … blood and gore, swords, guns, bombs
and the whole arsenal designed to deliver death and destruction. But finally, I
must have slept, although that afforded no relief. I dreamed, but the dream
turned to a nightmare.
I am at
peace in a green field, when I sense danger approaching on all sides. From the
north, a huge bear bounds across the steppe, from the south a ravenous lion
descends from the mountains, in the western sky I see an eagle circling and, in
the east a fiery dragon is stirring. I am running, desperately running, but I
find nowhere to hide. The first to catch me is the bear. I fall to the ground
as his huge claws rip at my flesh. The pain is unbearable and I cry out for
help. Soon the lion is menacing the bear, and my hopes of survival soar. But
the bear beats off the lion, which is forced back through the mountains from
whence it came. The bear continues to devour my flesh, and I fear that I will
surely die. But then, from the sky swoops the eagle. Its powerful beak and
claws torment the bear, which finally withdraws. I am saved … but no. Now the
eagle tears at my limbs, and the pain is worse than that inflicted by the bear.
And when I fear all is lost, I see the dragon slowly but surely emerging from
its eastern lair, breathing fire and consuming all in its path, as it
approaches. The eagle and the dragon face each other, each has a vice-like grip
on my arms. I am being ripped apart. And then … then … no, I can remember no more. I must have woken. Another
day, another nightmare.
I pray
that you, my son, will somehow receive this letter, for I do not know whether I
will have the opportunity to write again before my fate is sealed. Remember I
love you.
Your most
affectionate father …
……………………………
Southern Ocean, 2014
I am moved by the tragedy of this
family … his great-grandfather’s futile loyalty to a doomed aristocracy, and
his grandfather’s misguided search for meaning through revolution. Both were
frustrated by the greed of tyrants and an ignorance of their place in history. But
I reserve my greatest pity for the young soldiers, sailors and airmen, who give
their lives to violence, from which nobody benefits. This is the real tragedy. While
we have a responsibility to resist intimidation by thugs and bullies, we also
have a responsibility to temper our reactions. We must clearly understand the likely
long-term outcomes of any violence to which we might be tempted.
The old Russian’s words, recorded in
the letter to his son, still haunt me.
I sense danger approaching on all
sides. From the north, a huge bear bounds across the steppe, from the south a
ravenous lion descends from the mountains, in the western sky I see an eagle
circling and, in the east a fiery dragon is stirring.
Crux
Crux is a Latin name, given centuries
ago to the most easily recognisable constellation of the southern sky. Many dreamtime
stories of indigenous Australians owe their origin to the Crux. It led the
Lapita ancestors of the Polynesians, the Maoris and others, as they populated
the South Pacific islands, half a millennium before the Europeans rounded Cape
Horn or the Cape of Good Hope. The Crux guided the European explorers,
Magellan, Torres, and de Quiros, as they cautiously traversed the Pacific, the
“peaceful” ocean. And so too, the Crux watched over a later generation, Hartog,
Janz, Dampier and Cook, as they cautiously charted the great south land, Terra
Australis.
Grandad was wise … yes … that is
the correct word. We never quite appreciate the wisdom of our grandparents, the
wisdom that only accrues through a long life of lived experience. Grandad would
often speak of the Crux, although he used its colloquial name, the Southern
Cross. To him, it symbolized the crossroads of life, and the many choices that
we make between foolishness and wisdom. He would sit with me for hours, nurturing
his eldest grandchild through the love that only grandparents can exude. He
would speak of the adventures of his own childhood, during the first decade of
the1900’s, the excitement of the roaring twenties, the hard times of the thirties
depression, and the dark days of the forties, as warfare overwhelmed the world.
But as I grew older, I realized that there was a gap in his narrative. What had
he done during the First World War? … the Great War as the old folk preferred
to call it. Enquire as I might, he just would not open up. Throughout my
teenage years, I remained oblivious as to what Grandad had experienced during
that conflict. As I approached manhood, the spectre of war in south-east Asia
loomed large. Perhaps it was the prospect that his eldest grandson could soon
be sent to the killing fields of Viet Nam, that finally prompted Grandad into sharing
his own story of wartime activity.
Grandad had enlisted in the Second Australian
Imperial Force in late 1914, at the tender age of nineteen. He and his fellow soldiers
trained in Egypt, shipped out to Lemnos in the Aegean, and then plunged into
the thick of the invasion of Gallipoli. Here was his baptism of fire,
struggling ashore with the first wave before dawn on 25 April 1915. He lost
many good friends that first morning. The tell-tail glistening of his eyes
betrayed his sadness as he told of one particular friend, a sergeant who was
killed by friendly fire from the beach, even before sunrise. The death during
those first few hours almost drove him mad … perhaps it did rob him of his
sanity. The invasion dragged on, until they were finally withdrawn. Later, he
served in the desert campaigns of the Light Horse. But then, in 1919, came a
real surprise. Instead of returning to Australia with those of his fellows who
had survived, Grandad joined the British forces, that had embarked on yet another
foreign invasion. Again, in the service of the British, he participated in the
invasion of Central Asia, fighting the communist forces of the Red Army. Captured
during the retreat of the British forces, he was cast into prison … the “bug
pit” he called it. But he also spoke fondly of his fellow prisoner, an old
Russian, who had helped him to understand, and ultimately survive the ordeal. It
was a terrible time, during which he was in constant fear of execution. Then
came, totally unexpected, his sudden release. To this day, he does not know why
he was freed, but he assumed that it was probably part of a prisoner exchange.
At first, I could not believe such
tales of brutality, that this kind and peaceful man was finally revealing. This
could not be the same loving grandparent, who had nurtured me from a tender
age. Grandad’s initial reluctance to speak of his wartime experiences
underscored the deep psychological scars that he had suffered at this time. But
the more he talked, the more I came to realize the sincerity of his quest for
redemption.
Freed from his incarceration into
the custody of a Russian intelligence officer, Grandad had been secreted south,
across the Amu Darya (known in the west as the Oxus River), and deposited into
the care of British agents, who were still operating in the region at that
time. Transported west to Ashkhabad, and thence through the Elburz Mountains to
Tehran, he was finally taken down to Basra, below the marshes at the confluence
of the great Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. At this time, in 1922, the British
had moved to establish a “protectorate” in Persia, which, in reality, afforded
them undisputed access to the vast oilfields of the region. After much
interrogation by British intelligence officers, Grandad was repatriated by sea,
via the Persian Gulf, through the Strait of Hormuz, transiting the Indian Ocean,
and finally back to the safety of his native Australia.
Grandad spoke of his
disillusionment. For eight years, he had been the puppet of the imperialists,
condemned to unspeakable hardship and killing, simply to enrich the rulers of a
far-away empire that had banished his forebears to the other side of the world.
Time again, Grandad would recall the words of his aged Russian mentor,
“This foreign Central Asian civil
war offers no credible threat to your antipodean homeland, yet you are here. You
are again blindly following your bungling imperialist masters, and yet again you
are betrayed. Perhaps you Australians are incapable of thinking for yourselves.
As I said, I do not understand you people.”
It took a long time and much loving
care by his family, before Grandad finally emerged from the depths of this
depression. His sister was particularly supportive. She too had known loss
during the Great War, not of an Australian serviceman, like so many of her friends,
but a Russian sailor. It was but the briefest of romances, while his ship was
refitted in Newcastle, in preparation for a voyage across the South Pacific to
Chile. But it was passionate. Her Russian sailor promised to return, make
Australia his home and to marry her. With heavy heart, she wished him
“bon-voyage”, and watched wistfully as his ship cleared the Hunter breakwater,
beyond Fort Scratchley. That was the last she ever saw of her Russian sailor.
Some years later, she noticed a newspaper article about a man who had
discovered some flotsam on Tuggerah Beach, an engraved bottle, which turned out
to be from her sailor’s ship. The closure helped her to move on.
At last, determined to build a new
life, Grandad also emerged from the chasm of despair. He immersed himself in
work and study. By the time he re-entered the mainstream of the Australian workforce,
the grandiose soldier-settlement schemes of the 1920s (whereby retuning
servicemen were settled on rural landholdings) had proven to be a failure. Undercapitalized
and under-skilled, most of these ‘would-be’ farmers had succumbed to financial
pressures, and had been forced to leave their precious farms, and return to the
cities. Arriving half a decade late, Grandad was fortunately spared this angst.
Instead, he sought trade qualifications, and employment in the newly-emerging motor
vehicle assembly industry. In 1925, Ford Motors Australia was established,
followed in 1926 by General Motors Australia, the latter merging with Holden
Motors in 1931 to form General Motors Holden Limited. As the years rolled by,
Grandad would repeat,
“Take it from me boy,
Australia has a great future in manufacturing. We will always have a vibrant
manufacturing industry, and our vehicle manufacturing will lead the world, well
into the next millennium!”. Grandad may have been wise,
but he was not always clairvoyant.
Grandad’s optimism that Australia had a bright manufacturing future was
understandable, but misguided. Following the depression of the 1930’s and the
warfare of the 1940’s, the 1950’s heralded a period of stability and growth in
Australia. Conservative governments reaped the benefit of post-war booms,
generated by global demand for pastoral, agricultural and mining products, and local
demand fuelled by steady immigration. But this increased wealth fostered
over-confidence and complacency. During the thirties, forties, fifties and
sixties, Australia manufactured cars, aeroplanes, ships, heavy equipment,
radios, television sets, electrical goods, household white goods, clothing,
specialized building materials and many others. But by the end of the
millennium, Australia manufactured virtually none of these in any
significant quantity!!! The Australian
people, led by conservative governments, failed to anticipate or prepare for
changing world trade patterns. The “protection versus free trade” arguments of
the previous century resurfaced, under the guise of “wet” versus “dry”
economics. But both of these extremes of economic ideology fail to recognize
the need for nuanced moderate economic management. During the following half century, “free
trade” killed “protection”, “dry” desiccated “wet”, and Australia lost its
manufacturing ability. But that was in the future, and mercifully, Grandad
would not live long enough to witness the ultimate demise of his beloved
manufacturing industry.
Workshop experience is invaluable.
Time on the tools develops, not just work skills, but social skills as well. A
late entry to the trade, Grandad served his time as a fitter, progressing
steadily into management. Further part-time study saw him with an engineering
degree, and a pathway to more responsible roles in the company. But he never
forgot those with whom he had laboured initially, and perhaps this enlightenment
blunted the aggression, that many saw as a prerequisite for those at the
pinnacle of management.
Grandad quit the corporate ladder to
establish a consulting practice, using his wealth of experience and expertise,
to service the industry that he knew so well. Now married with a young family,
Grandad had moved to Sydney, settling down to north shore suburban life. The stock market collapse of 1929 and the depression
of the 30’s, plunged multitudes into unemployment, devastating many families. But,
at such times of business crisis, experts survive, because their skills are in
high demand. And so it was with Grandad … his consultancy thrived.
The completion of the Sydney Harbour
Bridge, in 1932, spanning gracefully from Dawes Point to Milsons Point, symbolized
the unification of, not only the previously disparate parts of this burgeoning
metropolis, but also the country as a whole … north and south would be joined
in perfect harmony. But beneath this apparent unity, lay division and
hostility. On 19 March 1932, Captain Francis de Groot, mounted on a borrowed
horse and wielding a ceremonial sword, charged through the crowd at the
official Sydney Harbour Bridge opening, and slashed the ribbon, before the New South
Wales Premier, Jack Lang, could claim the honor. This was no childish prank,
but rather a symbolic declaration of political defiance. It was in the same
spirit as the shot from the “Aurora” that had signalled the beginning of the
Russian Revolution, and the advent of world communism some sixteen years
earlier.
Across the world, factory workers and
rural laborers worked in appalling conditions. The post-war boom of the 1920’s
had cemented the differences between capital and labour, while the looming
depression of the 1930’s cast fear into both rich and poor alike. Marxism
emerged, championing the cause of the proletariat, and led to the formation of ultra-left
communist parties, and to violent revolution. Capitalists, and other forces of
conservatism, feared this movement, and thus reactionary ultra-right fascist
movements also gained momentum. Although Australia was not immune to these
extremes, the political players were aligned differently. Captain de Groot was
a member of the New Guard, a fascist paramilitary group, founded by Eric
Campbell, and boasting, at its peak, a membership of 50,000, predominantly
monarchist, protestant and anti-communist ex-servicemen. Opposed to the New
Guard were the left-leaning Labor Party, led in Sydney by Premier Lang, and
further to the left were the communists. This was a period of ugly street
violence by para-military groups, when Australia edged closer to civil war and
coup d’état, than at any other time in its history.
As Grandad told of these events, he
became increasingly agitated. He had personally witnessed the outcome of such intransigence
elsewhere in the world. In the depths of his “bug pit” prison, his aged Russian
mentor had carefully explained how such intolerance had brought about suffering
and death in his own country. Greed and selfishness fostered poverty and
despair, leading inevitably to violence, revolution and civil war. And nobody
wins. His mentor’s advice … show compassion for your fellow humans, always seek
the middle ground, look for the “win-win” solution, and never resort to
violence.
Although Australian common sense
prevailed in domestic politics, and support for both the ultra-right-wing fascists
and the ultra-left-wing communists melted away, it was not the case in other
parts of the world. Fascism or neo-fascism rose to ascendency in Germany, Italy
and Spain, but it also had strong following in other European and American
countries. Communism prevailed in Russia, gaining strong support in most other
industrialized countries. Europe was perched on a powder keg, and the
Molotov-Ribbentrop non-aggression pact of 1939, between Russia and Germany,
provided Adolph Hitler with the confidence that Russia would not intervene if
Germany expanded westwards. Germany soon overran the Low Countries and France,
followed in quick succession by Norway. Soon most of western Europe was allied
with, or under the control of, the Axis Powers.
Despite the creation of the
Commonwealth of Australia in 1901, the Australians of 1939 were very “British”,
and Australia was an integral outpost of the British Empire. In the words of Prime
Minister Robert Menzies, “… Great Britain has declared war on [Germany] and
…, as a result, Australia is also at war …”. It was not long before the
folly of rashly committing Australian troops to yet another European entanglement
became apparent. Japan took the predictable step of breaking out of the
economic straightjacket, that had been imposed on it by the imperialist western
powers, thus initiating the Pacific War. Australia was caught flat-footed … the
bulk of its armed forces were engaged in defending the European and Asian
imperial interests of Britain. Of the four divisions of the 2nd A.I.F.,
the 6th Division was attacking Greece, the 7th and 9th
Divisions were fighting in North Africa, and the 8th Division was
defending British imperial interests in Malaya. Most of our principal naval
ships were deployed by the British Admiralty, and our RAAF squadrons were
participating in the Battle of Britain, or under British command in north
Africa. Just who was defending Australia? When the inevitable Japanese attack
did eventuate, British Prime Minister Winston Churchill was reluctant to
release these Australian forces. American General Douglas Macarthur, acknowledging
the resulting difficulty in defending northern Australia, coined the term, the “Brisbane
Line”, the concept of temporarily ceding northern Australia to the advancing
Japanese forces, while conducting a strategic withdrawal towards the south.
Grandad was appalled. He had seen this
all before, and, no doubt, we would see it all again. Like obedient school children,
Australians rushed off to the other side of the world, eager to defend the
imperial ambitions of powerful “friends”, with barely a thought of where our own
geopolitical interests lie. As his Russian mentor had said,
“… You are again blindly following your
bungling imperialist masters, and yet again you are betrayed…”
War came to Australia. Drawing on his
experience as a manufacturing expert, Grandad served as an advisor to the government.
His son (my father) enlisted, saw action in our near north, survived, returned,
married and settled down to make a home in the suburbs. After the war, our
entire family moved across the notorious Brisbane Line into Queensland, the
deep north. In 1950, I was born, followed by a couple of siblings. Baby-boomers
… the generation that would accelerate through life, with new freedoms and no
boundaries. For a child of the 50’s and a teenager of the 60’s, life was good …
full of fun, adventure and friends. And in the 70’s, I also would marry and
start my own family … although that was still in the future.
I was blessed with a close and loving family
… hard working responsible parents and affectionate nurturing grandparents. They
would all take a close interest in my school activities, and I was encouraged
to study hard and enjoy my childhood and teenage years. I was close to all of my
grandparents, but age finally claimed them one by one. Grandad was the last to
succumb, but not until he had reached the age of 70 … an age that I considered
at the time to be old, although today I have changed my mind. One of my last
memories of Grandad, was the day he came to my high school to watch a rugby
league match.
………………………………..
Thump … that hurt! I spat out the
dirt as I dragged myself to my feet again. I had brought the opposing player down,
but he still got the ball out along the back line. The five-eighth flicked to
the inside centre, and on to the outside centre. No need to send the ball any
further to their wing … the centres had neatly side-stepped our entire back
line and had scored yet another try. That must be twenty something to nil. We
were being slaughtered … but no surprize. Our opposition were the school elite,
the A Grade rugby league team. And worse still, they were the best team in the
Brisbane high school competition. Later in the season, they would go on to take
the Brisbane premiership at Lang Park. In contrast, we were just the B Grade
team, the guys who were not good enough to play A Grade. But still, we played
for fun.
This game was a so-called “friendly”,
a chance for both teams to get in some mid-season practice. But this was no
ordinary footy game. It was open warfare, and we were losing … badly. We knew we would, but we played anyway.
Most of the A Grade team were OK.
We had known many of them since Year 9. But others were the bullies from our
own Year 12 class … those thugs who had spent too much time beating up other
kids and not enough time studying. Now they were repeating Year 12. They were
older, bigger and stronger than us mere mortals, and they made school life very
precarious for anyone who would not suck up to them.
Stop dreaming … here they come
again. Tackle low and … thump … that hurt again!
This was suburban Brisbane of the
sixties, a middle-class suburb on the northern fringe of the city with its
burgeoning population of baby-boomer kids, crowding into the local high school.
Although still less than ten years old, the high school already boasted a
population well over 1,200, drawn from half a dozen feeder primary schools.
School life was raw, rough and riotous … never dull.
Look out! The kick went deep into our
backline. Our fullback fumbled it, and they were all over him. Another scrum.
Well, that’s a joke. My mate and I both played in the forwards … second row. As
we packed down, we both understood well the futility of this exercise. The
collective weight of their pack was at least 50% greater than ours. There was
no chance that we could push them back, even if our hooker was lucky enough to
claim possession. Out came the ball, their half back flicked it to blind, and
their wing crossed for yet another try.
Despite the bullying, senior school
life was pretty good. Most of all, I enjoyed the comradeship of good
mates. Some lined up here beside me now
in this team. They too were suffering the targeted onslaught from opposition
bullies, determined to pursue vendettas that could not be fought quite so
easily in the classroom. This was the opportunity to bring us to heel, to make
us kowtow to their so-called superiority. But not so.
We had been apprehensive going into
the game, fully aware of the scores that were to be settled. But buoyed by the
solidarity of our collective resolve, and by a camaraderie in the true Aussie
spirit, none of us buckled. We just kept playing … fronting up tackle after
tackle after tackle.
Thump … more pain!
But school life is not all football.
There is (believe it or not) study too. Despite absolutely appalling classroom
discipline (ha ha … that was a joke), a few of us actually managed to scrape
through our Year 12 finals with a university matriculation.
Thump … get back to the important
things in life … surviving the brutality of this slaughter. Too late, another
opposition try.
This was the year of my first
steady girlfriend … twelve months of happiness that transcended that turbulent
Year 12, and lasted into next year of work and part time university. But all
good things eventually end, and finally we parted … still friends, but both wiser
for the experience and ready to move on.
I was growing up.
Thump … Hey, that one wasn’t so
bad! The ball went loose, and our team managed to grab it. Although we still
could not cross the line, we were now playing better than anyone had expected.
There was one particularly
unfortunate Year 12 classmate, who was subjected to excessive bullying.
Although this poor boy was not particularly likeable, he did not deserve the
excesses heaped on him by the “cool” group. To befriend him would be social
suicide, but … to our credit … that is exactly what we did. He was never a
close mate, but at least in our company he was safe. I met him briefly a few
years later … just an ordinary guy, who seemed to have survived a horrendous
Year 12, without too much personality damage.
Thump … thump … thump. And so, it
dragged on. We never did score, but at least we fronted up, and played the game
to the best of our ability.
At last, … the final whistle … and
it was over. The score … oh, never mind, that is best forgotten. But we had
achieved something more important. As we limped off the field, we could hold
our heads high. We had stood up to the bullies, against the odds, and we had
survived.
……………………………….
After school, Grandad and I called
in at one of the local milk bars … the coffee shops of the 70’s. He was never
reticent in equating life’s hard knocks to what he liked to call, “learning
experiences”, and his advice was profound.
“Be
loyal to your friends, be passionate in sharing your love, and show generosity
and compassion to those who are less fortunate than yourselves. And
transcending all these, don’t be cowed by the bullies. You know, boy, Australia
is playing a football match, one in which the stakes are the very survival of
our independence and our way of life. We are (by far) the weaker team. We face
some formidable opposition … the bullies of the world … those large countries
who dominate world affairs … the superpowers. We have no choice but to play the
game, and we must play by the rules. But we must never be bullied into
abandoning what we know to be right.”
……………………………….
As I write this memoir, I reflect
on that football game, well over fifty years ago. I also ponder Grandad’s
advice.
We defend a fair go for our weaker
Pacific neighbours. Thump … that hurt! …
The Chinese place embargos on our barley, beef, wine and coal because we dare
to publicly help our neighbours.
We aspire to promote international
peace. Thump …. that hurt again! … The Americans demand that we dispatch armed
forces to invade yet another country on their behalf, even though there is no
threat to us or to our way of life. Korea, Viet Nam, Kuwait, Afghanistan, Iraq
… when will this end?
We resist the commercial pressures
of greed and exploitation that conspire to rob us of our independence and
desiccate our planet. Thump … the most painful of all! … Corporations and
politicians threaten us with lower living standards, if we baulk at sacrificing
our natural resources to foreign investors.
We are now approaching the
full-time whistle and the game is reaching its climax. So, just when will we
stand up to these bullies?
A little later that afternoon, Grandad
continued his story.
“You
know,” he said, “I spent some time with a bloke once, who helped me to
think through how we should act in the world. Although I understood none of his
language, and his English was not so good, I think I got the gist of what he
was trying to say. Up until I met him, I had been oblivious of the damage that
I had been causing in the world. I was acting like an impetuous teenager,
rather than as a mature adult. Sometimes
he would talk in riddles, sometimes representing the countries of his day by
animals … bears and lions, eagles and dragons. He tried to warn me that small
countries, like Australia, should be very careful of the superpowers, the
bullies.”
That discussion
after the football game was the last time that Grandad and I talked. He died a
few days later, quite suddenly, but peacefully. Active throughout his whole
life, Grandad was mourned by many who knew and loved him. There were his family
… his sons and his daughter, with their spouses, his ten grandchildren and a
handful of other close relatives. There were many friends from his church, and also
several from his work … colleagues from his consultancy office and others from his
charity work. There were also a couple of older men, perhaps ex-army buddies,
who place a small floral tribute, with a card that simply read, “Goodbye
Digger”.
The suddenness of
Grandad’s death shocked me at first, but the more I reflected, the more I came
to understand how fortunate he had been. To live a good and productive life,
happy and in relatively good health, and to pass on these virtues to a loving
family. What more can a person ask?
………………………………
The decades
passed. I completed high school, graduated university with undergraduate and
master’s degrees in science. I spent many years in environmental research
institutions, before being head-hunted by manufacturing industry, and rounding
out my career as the principal of a successful consulting firm. I married and
had children of my own. My own parents lived long and fruitful lives, and they
too passed away in time. Now, I am also approaching senior years, although I
refuse to admit it. My own grandchildren are a real blessing to my wife and to
me. Such is the circle of life.
I am very
fortunate to live during the second half of the 20th century and the
early decades of the 21st century, a period when Australia managed
to prosper, albeit at the expense of a once-viable manufacturing industry. Along
with fellow baby-boomers, I was born into this relative affluence and abundance,
enjoyed universally within the western democracies. Good health, low-cost
travel and relative peace converged to afford young Australians the opportunities
that no previous generation has enjoyed.
The 1970’s saw
international air travel become affordable. Where a previous generation spent
several weeks on a Europe-bound ship, Boeing 747 European flights now took only
an uncomfortable 30 hours. Initially
travel in Asia was not easy. The region was poor and emerging from colonialism.
There had been anti-communist wars in Viet Nam, Cambodia and Laos, communist
insurgencies and violence in Malaysia and Indonesia. Singapore, Thailand and
Philippines were still poor, and China was a closed communist society in the
grip of the violent “Cultural Revolution”. India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Sri
Lanka and Burma were desperately poor. So too were the South Pacific Islands,
which were yet to discover tourism. It was understandable that most Australians
feared Asia. Therefore, like many young Australians venturing overseas, my wife
and I were drawn initially to Europe, only later travelling widely in Africa,
Asia, the Pacific and the Americas. Although
most Australians still remained at home, insular in focus, we travelled widely,
and this changed the way we approached and participated in world events and
international relations.
But there was
also a dark side. During this period, Australia hid behind the military might
of the United States, relying on the ANZUS Treaty to afford us protection from international
threats that lurked on our doorstep, some perhaps real, but many imagined. But
there is always a quid-pro-quo. There is never a “free lunch”, and the price of
our “protection” has been our active engagement in foreign wars that did not
provide any credible threat to us. Since
federation, a short 121 years ago, Australia has managed to participate in the
South African Boer War, World War 1, the European theatre of World War 2, the
Korean War, the Malayan conflict, the Viet Nam War, two Iraq Wars, the Afghan
War, war in Syria, the blockade of Iran and a host of smaller conflicts … all
at the behest and for the benefit of the British or American interests … and to
the detriment of the ordinary people living in those countries, where these
wars were fought. Only the Pacific theatre of World War 2 was (unlike the
others) a defensive war.
………………………………
Where do the
years go? I have almost finished writing my book, and I am reflecting on the
dedication. But to whom? There have been so many friends, family and
colleagues, who have encouraged me. But my thoughts drift back to one of my oldest
and most consistent friends … the Russian.
In the course of
my career as a scientist, I have been privileged to travel to all continents,
meeting fellow scientists from many countries. This is how I met the Russian,
first in Moscow, and later, by strange coincidence, on the deck of an
Australian Antarctic supply ship, the “Aurora Australis”.
Although my
career has been in science, my passion is for history. This too proved to be a
common interest with the Russian. He has kindly shared much of his family
history, which has proven to be invaluable for my book, “The effects of global
politics on the ordinary citizens of Russia and the USSR”.
Although it
sounds complicated, the premise of my book is that ordinary citizens become
blinded by a sense of loyalty to the state, which induces them to actions that
they would have otherwise considered unacceptable. I chose to study the rise
and fall of the USSR, from its 1922 beginnings to its 1991 dismemberment,
because it is compact … a well-documented 69-year window during the 20th
century. However, to fully consider the context, I also included the previous
30 years and the subsequent 30 years of Russian history.
I could have
chosen any of the other world empires, considered to be the flowering of
civilization of their time. The ancient empires of Egypt, Persia, Greece, China,
Rome, Arabia, Mongolia, Turk, Aztec and Inca all exhibit same characteristics,
the subjugation of the weak by the strong. So too, the modern empires exhibit
the same characteristics, although they are presented differently. In turn, the Scandinavians, Venetians, Spanish,
Portuguese, Dutch, British, Russians, Germans, Japanese and Americans have all sought
to impose their politics, religion and economics on others. The patterns are
the same in every case. An oppressed proletariat, plebians, working-class,
common people or the third estate … no matter what they are called … seeks the
overthrow of their oppressors, by lending support to sympathetic strong
leaders. But those leaders then grow fat on the fruits of their success and, in
turn, become the oppressors. Thus, the cycle repeats.
The aim of my book
is to examine this process, not from the perspective of the rulers, but through
a series of case studies, that document the experiences of ordinary people, who
have become ensnared in this system. Hence my reliance on sources such as the
writings of my Russian friend’s forebears. It has taken much time and
considerable frustration to research suitable source documents, but, at last,
the book is close to complete. All that is left is to seek endorsement by my
Russian friend. I have sent him the following email, and I now await his reply.
From: wannabeauthor
Sent: Monday, 3 August 2021 2:15 PM
To: scientificcolleaguefriend
Subject: Greetings from Australia + Book Dedication
My dear
colleague and friend,
I hope
that this email finds you well, despite the ravages of COVID, that have
devastated most of the world for the last two years. That our countries could
have been so unprepared for such a catastrophe is an inditement of all of the
political systems around the world.
I hope
your wife is now recuperating from her illness last year. Are you able to see
your family often, or have the lock-downs kept them separated from you? Our
children and our grandchildren are managing to stay well and to keep busy,
despite our intermittent lock-downs. Living on an island, albeit a big one, has
been a real advantage for Australia, and our state and commonwealth governments
have managed to keep COVID deaths to a minimum.
I hope
that you are finding that working from home in Moscow is both convenient and
productive. Here in Australia, working from home has not been a particular
hardship … indeed, it is probably a significant advantage for one such as I, who
is preparing the final draft of a book.
Which
brings me to the main topic of this email. I would be honoured if you would
permit me to dedicate this book to you … “as a symbol of our enduring
friendship, and the future international friendships that others may also enjoy”.
I will
send to you a file containing the final draft, and your comments (as ever) will
be heartily appreciated. In the meantime, I have included below, the précise of
a few observations from the book, particularly from those chapters that draw on
your family history, which you most kindly have provided. I hope you approve of the following.
… Is it nature
or nurture (hereditary or environment) that shapes our personalities? This
question is as old as recorded history. This
book does not explore the theories or the empirical data from which this
question arises. However, it does consider this question in the context of the
drivers that move ordinary people either towards or away from war.
To what
extent are citizens driven to take up arms by their innate nature (goodness or
evil), or by nurture (the circumstances in which they were raised and live)?
We are genetically
hard-wired for survival, to take actions that will preserve and protect our
progeny ... nature. But the form of those actions (fight or flight) varies with
the circumstances in which we are placed … nurture.
It would
appear that we are neither innately violent nor innately pacifist? We will
adopt either violence or pacificism, in response to how we have been nurtured
(our upbringing) and as the circumstances dictate.
What environmental
factors lead us to war? Is it fear? Is it greed? Is it poverty? Or is it
ignorance? Or perhaps a search for relevance? What part do loyalty and honour
play?
And what
drives us away from war? Is it altruism? Is it compassion? Is it
self-preservation?
How are each
of these factors influenced by our culture, religion, education or poverty?
After
exploring each of these characteristics, the book moves on to consider several
case studies in the context of the Russian and USSR empires. I am interested in
how the attitudes of ordinary people, to politics, warfare and international
relationships are influenced by the actions of the state. How does a sense of loyalty to the state tempt
them into actions, which they would have otherwise considered unacceptable? Put
more simply … what leads the ‘hawks’ to war and the ‘doves’ to peace?
It is
here that I have included examples that you have kindly provided. To maintain
your anonymity, and that of your family, I have referred to your grandfather as
“the naval officer”, to his brother as “the rescue-ship officer”, to their
father (your great-grandfather) as “the magistrate”, and to his prison
companion as “the digger”. For all other people, I have used their real names.
The hawk
– The “naval officer” was born in a peaceful setting on the shores of Issyk-Kul
Lake, in an idyllic setting. But this was cut short, and he spent his later
childhood exposed to the poverty of Tashkent. The second son of the
“magistrate”, he idolized his father and his older brother. But as he grew
older, he also grew rebellious and independent, yearning to leave the family
home for the adventure of a naval career on the cruiser “Aurora”. It was that
career that ultimately consumed him. The violence of warfare, into which he was
thrust, honed his skills and propelled his advancement through the ranks. It
was only in later life, that he took the time to reflect on the folly of this pathway.
The dove
– The “rescue-ship officer” was the first-born of the “magistrate”, and spent a
privileged childhood in the care-free outdoors of a rural paradise. Free to
roam the foothills of the Tian Shan mountains, and to sail the placid waters of
Issyk-Kul Lake, he grew strong, healthy, independent and confident. Imbued with
a sense of compassion, that he inherited from both his parents, the
“rescue-ship officer” sought overseas adventure. But he did so with a
conscience, convinced that the future of a turbulent world could be best
assured through peaceful scientific endeavour. Unfortunately, fate intervened,
and his life was cut short, as his ship, the SY “Aurora”, perished in the Tasman
Sea in 1917. But the “rescue ship officer’s” influence did not die with him. It
is clear that his younger brother (the naval officer) was moved to remorse by
his self-sacrificing altruism.
The
martyr – The “magistrate” was a product of his time and place. In 19th
century Russia, class was pervasive, and people knew their allotted place in
society. Loyalty was the most valued attribute that one could display.
Obedience was more valued than enquiry, faith was more important than
scepticism, and conservatism trumped revolution. When the system was overturned
in 1917, the “magistrate” could not (and, more to the point) would not change
with it. What was right was right, and what was wrong was wrong. Black was
black and white was white. There was no grey area. We are tempted to applaud
such loyalty, but his martyrdom achieved little. Perhaps, with the benefit of
hindsight, he could have been more flexible. The “magistrate” was a martyr ...
a true tragic hero.
The
penitent – The “digger” is the most enigmatic of all. He was born and raised in
relative obscurity, in a remote and harsh country. Living by his wits and
ingenuity, he had grown up tough. But this was just a façade. Deep down, the
“digger” was insecure, afraid and immature. As such, he was easily led, and was
prone to coercion by those whom he assumed to be more powerful. That is why he
so readily followed his British masters, first into the Great War, and then
into the Central Asian conflict. Like so many of his compatriots, the “digger”
could have perished. But he was lucky. He got a second chance. He returned to
his homeland, a chastened and wiser man. The suffering that he had witnessed
changed him, and after a time in the emotional wilderness, he emerged with new
insight and renewed vigour. The penitent “digger” devoted his life to helping
others, to lovingly raising a family and to dispensing compassionate care for those
who are less fortunate. He demonstrates that all of us can be, at different
times in our lives, both the beneficiary and the donor of sacrificial giving. Those
of us, who are given an opportunity for repentance and redemption, should
embrace it enthusiastically.
I hope
that this snapshot is helpful. As my Grandad would have said, we have come to
the crux of the matter, we have reached the crossroads and now we must choose
the correct path.
I will
write again soon. In the meantime, stay healthy.
Your
friend,
R
PS: Your
grandfather’s journal ended with a short note. I have added to this, a
quotation and image, passed on to me by my own grandad.
“The dark
depths of the Neva obscure the image, but it is the peaceful water of Issyk-Kul
that shows a clear reflection.”
Pakhlavani
Mahmoud, the Sufi Teacher, who lived in Central Asia from 1247 to 1336, was a
man of great wisdom. He wrote …
“In the
evening I wiped my looking glass. When it was clean, I quickly cast a glance. I
saw so many faults of mine in it, I forgot of other’s faults at once.”
Postscript …
As I write, the flag of the Southern
Cross (the Crux) flutters overhead. Its green and gold are the colours of
the Australian bush on a misty mountain morning, of the wattle in the
spring time. They are also the colours of our sporting prowess. This flag
features flowers of the Australian golden wattle (symbol of a
flowering society), stylized in the shape of the Southern Cross (signifying our
southern hemisphere home). Its most important symbols are the single leaf (one
people of many ethnicities), on a single branch (following a united
destiny), against the dark green background (the Australian bush that we know
and love). This flag of the Southern Cross represents our aspirations …
non-confronting, non-violent, non-racist, post-colonial, fauna-friendly and
eco-friendly. These are our desiderata, those things that are our heart’s
desire. Or at least they should be …
Previous generations of Australians
dutifully followed Britain into a series of remote conflicts … China’s Boxer
uprising, the South African Boer War, the disastrous European World War 1 and
the European theatre of World War 2. Australia’s lack of preparedness for a
Pacific conflict with Japan, in 1941, is largely attributable to the fact, that
most of Australia’s regular armed forces were engaged in a war in support of
British masters on the other side of the world.
Our “rescue” by the United States from the Japanese, and the post-war
decline of Britain, heralded an altogether unhealthy reliance on US
“protection”. This reliance was consummated through the ANZUS Treaty of 1951,
which has led directly to Australia’s involvement in the Korean War, the Viet
Nam War, two Iraq Wars, the Afghanistan War and the Syrian conflict.
In 2001, Australia committed to support
the American invasion of Afghanistan, in retaliation for the “911” terrorist
attacks on the New York World Trade Centre buildings. Responding to the 2001
attacks, Prime Minister John Howard effectively committed Australia to 20 years
of continuous war, stating,
“… [I have] expressed our
resolute support for the United States … our steadfast commitment to work with the
United States … in support of the US response to these attacks.
Consider the similarities with Prime
Minister Harold Holt’s 1966 theme committing Australia to the Viet Nam War,
“… All the way with LBJ …”,
and Prime Minister Robert Menzies 1939
pledge that launched Australia into the European theatre of the Second World
War,
“… Great Britain has declared
war on [Germany] and …, as a result, Australia is also at war …”, and
Prime Minister Andrew Fisher’s 1914
declaration to send the flower of Australian youth to the killing fields of the
Great War,
“… Australians will
stand beside … [Britain] to help and
defend her to the last man and the last shilling".
As the debacle of the Afghanistan
conflict hits home, many are asking, “Is Australia addicted to war?”. Perhaps,
the Australian wars, of a century and a half, should be more wisely remembered
as tragedies, when an immature country sacrificed its impetuous youth, for the
benefit of nobody except its avaricious overlords.
So ... When will we learn our history?
When will we befriend our neighbours? When will we seek a balanced media? When
will we reform our political institutions? When will we act
compassionately, and when will we refuse to partake of international violence?
In short, when will we grow up?
The world cries out for a paradigm
shift … a new vision for a cooperative, compassionate and caring world, where
self-interest is subservient to mutual-interest, a new vision in which
countries of the southern cross may emerge as the world’s peacemakers. It is a
time to renounce state-promoted violence and to promote respect, cooperation
and assistance, as the only sustainable means of international interaction.
Within the next few decades, Australia
will adopt a new national flag, the symbol of our national aspirations. The
validity of those symbols will depend not on what we say, but on what we do.
The use of those symbols is not a birthright ... it must be earned. The wattle flag of the Southern Cross is
non-confronting, non-violent, non-racist, post-colonial, fauna-friendly and
eco-friendly. These are our heartfelt desires … our desiderata.
Acknowledgements and References
In “Aurora, Bukhara, Crux”, the
diarist, his family and their narrative are fictional; and any resemblance to
real persons is entirely coincidental and unintentional. However, the principal
historical events, and historical characters described therein (around which
the fictional narrative is woven), are actual events and real people. The
ships, together with their stated service and named crew members are real and
the consistent with historical records. So too are the descriptions of the
conflicts and wars described therein.
The author acknowledges that, where
practical, and as a sign of respect, writing should use local spelling and
pronunciation of place names. However, because this narrative is intended to be
read by English speakers, who are mostly unfamiliar with the region and cultures,
the spelling and pronunciation adopted herein is generally that which would be
most familiar to the reader.
This history that forms the basis
of this book is publicly available via the internet, and is widely known. The
author acknowledges that this publicly available historical material has been
informed by various sources and websites, including Wikipedia.
