Over Christmas, I loved hanging out with Kaylee. I’d take her to a café and have scrambled eggs with her, letting Emma have a sleep-in. Kaylee was walking and talking and had grown up a lot. It was a summer of enjoying being married and a father. Around 6 January, I was at the gym. The outgoing CO of the Regiment, Dan McDaniel, was in there doing a workout. He came up and said, ‘Look, I’m leaving. I just wanted to say congratulations on your last trip. Your squadron did a great job increasing our knowledge, being professional and pushing the boundary of where you’re trying to get to. And I want to congratulate you personally on what you did.’ I was a bit taken aback to be noticed by the top man. I just thanked him and wished him well on his next posting.
Two days later I was heading to the café with Kaylee to get her an ice-cream. The CO rang to say the Chief of Army, General Ken Gillespie, wanted to speak to me over lunch the next day.
I said, ‘Ah, okay. Am I in trouble?’
‘No, you’re not in trouble.’
‘Can I bring anyone?’
‘You can bring your wife. Wear something appropriate.’
I got the ice-cream and went home and told Emma, and she said, ‘What’s all that about?’ I said if I wasn’t in trouble it must be something decent. I kind of had an inkling that it was an award, but didn’t think any further about it. I thought it might have something to do with that trip as a whole. We’d been incredibly busy. We were going out up to four times a week, an almost unheard-of tempo at that time.
We sorted out a babysitter for Kaylee, and when we got to the Blue Duck Café in Cottesloe, the CO and chief of army were in a corner, having sealed off the whole back end of the café. After some small talk, the chief said, ‘Well, we may as well get to the point. Have a read.’
He gave me a piece of paper with a short paragraph mentioning the Victoria Cross of Australia and my name and number. That was all I took in at first. There was a one-paragraph citation stating what I had done that day.
I sat back and breathed out. ‘Okay, all right.’ Emma was patting and rubbing my back as she was reading it over my shoulder.
‘What do you think of that?’ the chief said.
‘Yeah, pretty good.’ I turned to the CO and said, ‘What does this mean for work, if I get this?’
He gave me a bit of a look. This probably wasn’t the way I was meant to react. He said, ‘If this happens, there might be some aspects of work you won’t be able to do. But otherwise, it shouldn’t change much.’
I said, ‘At least that shows me my career path.’
General Gillespie started on his spiel. The gist of it was, ‘If you do accept this, be aware that we’re at a time when the army needs heroes, and needs to communicate the good things we’re doing over there.’
I turned to Emma and said, ‘What do you think?’
She shrugged and said, ‘It’s up to you.’
The chief said, ‘I don’t know everything that will happen, but it will change your life. It will be really big. There hasn’t been one for forty years. I understand your reservations, but trust me, the army will be there to support you as much as you need.’
I said, ‘What about going back overseas on operations?’ The common idea was that once you got that award, you were done as a soldier. They would keep you in cotton wool because politically they couldn’t risk a VC getting killed.
He said, ‘We might cross that bridge when we come to it.’
I said, ‘I’m going away in six months so we’ll have to cross it pretty soon.’
He said, ‘You might not get back over this year, but that doesn’t mean you won’t in subsequent years.’
I thought, No, it’s non-negotiable. I need to go on doing my job and going back over.
The chief gave me a bit of paper, showing me where to sign my acceptance.
‘Are you going to accept it?’
I said, ‘I’ve got a honeymoon starting next week to New Zealand for two weeks.’
‘You should be able to do that. Nothing will happen before late January, early February.’ Only he, the CO, special ops commander of Australia, the chief of the Defence Force (CDF), the minister for defence, the prime minister and the governor-general knew about it so far.
General Gillespie explained that it still had to go to the Queen for her sign-off. I thought that would take a while, so the honeymoon was safe.
I signed the paper.
The whole exchange was a bit surreal. On reflection, I don’t think I was trying to be ungrateful or defensive. I was still a very junior member of the Regiment, and cared deeply about progressing as a soldier. The last thing I wanted was to be cotton-woolled. But this was probably a screen for the feeling that I wasn’t worthy of such a huge honour. It was almost like I wanted to protect my status as a humble trooper, because that was what I was and what I wanted to continue to be. I was in shock and denial about the whole thing.
General Gillespie said I would meet the Queen, the governor-general, the prime minister and many other dignitaries. I knew what the Cross was, of course, but I didn’t really know. He said it was the first one under the new system, the inaugural Victoria Cross of Australia, and the first VC for an Australian since nearly forty years earlier, when Keith Payne was awarded one for his actions in Vietnam. As he explained what a big deal it was, I thought that no amount of preparation or training in Australia’s elite unit could prepare you for sitting at that table and being told this is what the nation wants to bestow upon you.
As it sank in, I started to feel awestruck. I definitely felt unworthy. This would increase later, when I read about other VC recipients and went to the Australian War Memorial. I’d thought the VC was for changing the tide of battle, but there are plenty that haven’t been for that. They’ve been awarded for many different kinds of one-off acts of valour, including saving the lives of others. Once I understood the diversity of acts that had been recognised, that feeling of unworthiness lifted a bit.
On the other hand, feeling unworthy of a Victoria Cross never really leaves you. When I met other VC recipients, none of them thought they were worthy. When they spoke of the acts that had earnt them the award, they all said they did what they thought was the right thing at the time. Someone had to step up and they were the ones.
I also felt embarrassed in front of the imaginary audience of my mates who had been there that day in Afghanistan. I wasn’t the only one fighting there, and others did more important things than I did. I was the one who was singled out. The last thing I wanted was to feel, or for any of the others to think I felt, that what I’d done was over and above the collective effort. Especially Bruce and Taylor.
After some more small talk, food and coffee, Emma and I made a beeline for the Ocean Beach Hotel across the road. We had a beer and said cheers to each other, and had a laugh. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘meeting the Queen, eh!’ We never thought we’d be sitting there at lunchtime with that sort of news. And then we had to go home and let the babysitter off.
We packed for New Zealand, but it soon became clear that the Cross was bigger than my honeymoon. The higher-ups talked about sending the prime minister’s plane to Queenstown to bring us back, but in the end they said, ‘It’s happening next week, you’ll have to postpone the honeymoon.’
The three of us flew to Canberra six days before the event. When we landed, Kaylee, who was still only two, cried out, ‘Mummy, yay, we’re in New Zealand, we’re in another country!’ People were looking at us strangely, as if to say, ‘What have you been telling your child?’
I provided a list of people I wanted to invite, and as soon as they were notified, they began calling me to ask what it was about. I couldn’t tell them, which with my family was difficult. I also wanted to talk to my mates from the patrols who were out that day in Afghanistan. They were the ones who wrote me up for the award. I wanted to make sure they were happy. But I was told not to talk
to anybody. I just had to make sure Emma and Kaylee were treated well. After all, I was in damage control over not going on the honeymoon!
There were all sorts of things to juggle, and I was doing my best to keep up. I requested that if my mates from the squadron were to be pulled up from their holidays and brought to Canberra, they could at least be allowed to come in civilian suits rather than their military polyester uniforms. Then there was media training. Sometimes there were light moments. At one meeting, where we sat in a circle with a great number of important officers who all had their piece to say during a long hour and a half, the deputy chief of army started speaking and Kaylee, who’d put up with it all while sitting on Emma’s lap, turned around and cried out, ‘Mummy, can you please stop the boring man talking!’ And put her hands over her ears.
Emma and I looked at the Hall of Valour at the War Memorial, helped out by the tour guides. I bought a book on Victoria Cross winners. Emma said, ‘I can’t believe you’re going to be up here with these blokes.’
‘I don’t feel I’ve done what they’ve done,’ I said.
She laughed and said, ‘The funniest bit will be when your face comes out in the paper and the guides will realise you were the bloke wandering around like a tourist.’
I talked about how much I wished Mum and Dad could have been there. Then I laughed and said, ‘I bet Dad would have kicked my arse for doing what I did.’ Regardless of how Dad felt he was treated when he came back, he was proud of what he did in Vietnam. He showed that by wearing his slouch hat everywhere. He had his green army shirts forever. He was proud all right, and would have been proud of me. As would Mum.
Emma reminded me how life is full of these moments, when you miss your parents. Kaylee has already had plenty of occasions when she’s wished I was at special parties and events, instead of away in Afghanistan.
It was good to be thinking about Mum and Dad, as I would over the next few days. I’d learnt that lots of guys in the Regiment had changed their direction in life after some type of hardship or trauma. You can either use it as an excuse for everything that goes wrong or turn it into your driving force.
When my extended family came, we were given Campbell House, the officers’ quarters at the Royal Military College – Duntroon, the night before the ceremony. The army put on a dinner for us and looked after us really well. Ross and Val, Margaret and Ken, Kenny and Julie, and Brent and Kate and their two children came down. Even at dinner, they were still saying, ‘What are we here for?’
I could only reply, ‘Wait till tomorrow.’
Afterwards, I asked Brent and Kate to stay around. Kate was very excited about how clandestine the whole thing was, but couldn’t guess why they were there. Brent said, ‘It’s either you’ve killed Osama bin Laden and have to spend the rest of your life in hiding, or your squadron is getting a big award.’
I explained what we’d done and said I was getting the Victoria Cross. They were really excited, which made me feel great. Brent shook my hand and with pride in his eyes said, ‘Congratulations.’ It was almost as good as having Mum and Dad there. But yeah, I wish I’d been on the Osama bin Laden job too!
*
Six days of preparation did nothing to ease the nerves on the big day. We went to Government House and greeted people arriving, and then went into a back room where the Prime Minister, Kevin Rudd, and the opposition leader, Malcolm Turnbull, came to meet me.
We went into the big hall, and I felt the heat of the cameras and media people, who didn’t know who I was or what was going to happen. The dignitaries came in, the trumpets sounded, and we sang the national anthem. I felt numb and overawed – all this for me?
They read out the citation, and I stood in front of the Governor-General, Quentin Bryce. She didn’t have a microphone on, and it was one of the first major awards she’d given out since starting in the job. It was a big day for her too! She said some really nice things, and I could see in her face how proud she was of this person she’d never met. I said, ‘Thank you,’ and she pinned the Victoria Cross on my chest.
Nothing prepared me for that moment. It was like she was pinning an emotional weight to me. Not a burden, just a lot of swirling emotion. It had a magic to it. It’s just a piece of cannon, but I could feel all the stories that went with it, the 150 years of history; the honour was a physical thing that coursed right through me.
Camera flashes went off. I just went with the flow and sat down with Emma. The prime minister got up and made a speech, welcoming ‘Mark, your beautiful wife Emma, and your wonderful, wonderful, wonderful . . . child.’ Kaylee’s name and sex just wouldn’t come into his head, no matter how hard he struggled. Malcolm Turnbull gave a really inspiring gee-up speech, talking about smashing the insurgency and not taking a backward step. My mates up the back, extremely hung-over after a long celebration the night before, were clapping and cheering.
The most moving part of the ceremony, for many people, was after the CDF, Air Chief Marshal Angus Houston, had made his speech. He put his hat on and came over to me. I stood up. He saluted me. It’s such a powerful thing that the CDF would salute the lowest rank in all the military. Whenever we’ve had a hat on since then, he’s always saluted me first. He doesn’t have to do that, and there’s nothing saying he has to. It’s an Australian tradition, that’s all. As they say, one medal for valour will move more people than any number of stars on a general’s or an air marshal’s shoulder.
I sat down, and everyone else in the hall was standing and applauding. Emma stood up and moved away so I would have the limelight alone. You can see in the footage how uncomfortable I am with being the centre of all that attention.
That day was the start of a six-month whirlwind. There was a media doorstop and a blur of dignitaries. I was getting quite anxious to see my family and the boys from my squadron. Barry was there, on crutches still, and the boys were suitably informal at the lunch that followed. I was at the head table, with the governor-general and prime minister, struggling to keep up with the protocol. I just don’t get it. I’m not from that background. Part of me would have preferred to be with the boys, who had two tables of their own and were starting to drink the Government House cellar dry. There was a break in proceedings and I went over to their table. The PM sat next to one of the fellas, and said, ‘How are you going?’
‘Good, Prime Minister, how are you?’
Rudd said, ‘Aren’t you hungry?’
‘Yeah, I’m starving, Prime Minister, but I’m really hung-over and feel like I’m about to throw up.’
Then another bloke showed up with his plate full and stood above the PM.
‘You right, are you, Kevin? You’re in me fucken seat, mate!’
Kevin said sorry and got up. My mate shook his head and tut-tutted and sat down to eat. The PM was at a loss for words. Maybe he didn’t realise they were taking the piss.
As per protocol, the governor-general left first, and I escorted her. One of the boys yelled out, ‘Hey, Quentin, are you going to come and get on the piss with us later?’
She turned to me and said, ‘They’re a cheeky bunch, aren’t they?’
Another of them said, ‘We know where you live. We’ll be over later!’
She found it very funny.
That night I had 260 messages on my phone, a lot from people I didn’t even know. The governor-general, who had found out about our postponed honeymoon, was flying to Afghanistan the next day and very nicely offered the Queen’s Suite of Government House, staff and all, for Emma, Kaylee and me for a whole week. ‘There’ll be no one here,’ she said. ‘Treat it like your own.’
The next morning, we found they’d left a teddy bear with a note on it for Kaylee. We had a great week. The chef kept saying, ‘What do you want to eat?’ We’d say, ‘Oh, don’t worry, we’ll just go down to the kitchen and make a sandwich.’ He said, ‘We’re working anyway, you might as well have us make som
ething.’ So when I said, ‘Oysters’d be nice,’ they brought thirty-two fresh oysters in different styles. We cracked a beer. There’s a picture of one of my mates, Kaylee and me in the suite with the massive bulletproof glass window and the view down towards Yarralumla, living large. It was incredibly generous of the governor-general. When I’ve seen her since, she’s greeted me like an old family friend.
We decided to hand the medal to the War Memorial, and the army helped me through the media barrage. I was given a great mentor, Steve ‘Patto’ Patterson, who’d been in the Regiment and was doing some reserve time. He was a sounding board for all sorts of issues, and helped me through it all with constant wise advice.
In February, we finally got to New Zealand and fell in love with the place. I managed to fit some work in, going to Auckland to meet the NZ SAS and Willie Apiata, who had received a VC for actions in Afghanistan as well. Willie is a cool, cruisy bloke, and over a beer we swapped stories. It was important to me to share the experience with someone who’d been through it. He showed me a room with gifts – a lot of Maori tribes had given him some prized patus, which were used to deliver a fatal blow to the head. ‘I only let people who’ve been actual warriors hold these things,’ he said. They were made of stone, jade, whalebone. One was stone, but felt cold and wet. Another felt very hot. One that looked heavy felt light. Each seemed to have its own kind of personality. I felt honoured that Willie, a bloke about my age but from this warrior culture, trusted me and passed on an experience I’ll never forget.
*
So many things went on in that first half of 2009, I have to restrict my account to the highlights.
Among the many invitations, one of those I was keenest to accept was to Dorrigo for the RSL’s ninetieth anniversary. It blew me away how proud they were that I’d come from their town. The father of a girl I went to school with, a hippie sort of Vietnam vet, had made a hinged wooden book with a carving of the Dorrigo war memorial on the cover and a full carving of my face inside, with an inscription of the VC and the date. He’d made it by hand, and presented it to me in front of the RSL members. I didn’t know how to handle it, I was so overwhelmed. I mumbled some words of thanks and told them how Dorrigo had made me who I was.
The Crossroad Page 27