Hugh Dillon

It is one of the paradoxes of our history that the battle for New Guinea between 1942 and 1945 – so much harder but so much more successful than Gallipoli – is so little studied or understood. It has made such a relatively shallow impression on our national consciousness, compared with Australia’s 1915 expedition to Turkey. The New Guinea campaign was, if not unique, certainly one of the most extraordinary conducted by any belligerents during World War II because, as Alan Powell notes, it ‘relied upon the muscle and sinew and bushcraft of the local people for success’.

If economics is a ‘dismal science’, criminology may be considered a hopeful one. Its deepest roots are to be found in the ideas of the Enlightenment, particularly the belief in progress and the improvement of human nature. It probably occurred to very few of those sweating aboard the twelve filthy transports that sailed into Sydney Harbour in January 1788 that they were the first participants in an extraordinary social experiment in which viciousness, legal principle and mercy were to be held in constant tension.

Does Australia have a soul? I have been asked this question recently, in slightly different ways, by Russian, German, and French friends. They comprehend that Australians have an identity, but their question is about something deeper than words. About what animates us at a profound level, and which is related to our identification with the land. They say Australians demonstrate many estimable qualities, but they think that, apart from the indigenous peoples, our roots are still shallow. They think we have shed our European histories but are culturally adolescent.

The Italian historian Giambattista Vico once observed that historical knowledge is less like knowing the facts of things and more like knowing what it is to experience them. Good social history fits Vico’s description. Its power lies in the detail. The paradox of social history is that the apparently prosaic details of the everyday lives of a group of people can become vivid and tantalising, and provide an imaginative experience of those lives.

Australians have always played their sports hard. We who would have given a soft part of our anatomy to have worn the baggy green for Australia love a winner or a victorious team. Our sporting aristocracy has often been characterised by a gimlet-eyed, thin-lipped determination and ruthlessness: Don Bradman is the apotheosis of these champions.

Despite Australia’s heavy involvement in wars throughout the twentieth century, few notable war memoirs by Australians have emerged. Frederic Manning (The Middle Parts of Fortune) and Richard Hillary (The Last Enemy) identified as Englishmen, despite being born here. A.B. Facey’s A Fortunate Life and Don Charlwood’s No Moon Tonight are literary benchmarks against which Australian soldier–writers must measure themselves. Allen & Unwin is doing an invaluable job with its extensive series of Vietnam memoirs. Whether any of them will become classics, only time will tell.