by Barry Heard
Consequently, I found out what true loneliness means. For me, I believe there was little choice. How was I to answer the blank, wide-eyed looks I received when I announced I was going away again? Yes, within weeks, I turned my back on my girlfriend, my family, my friends, and my past good life. Many people were stunned when I left the district. Even more wanted an explanation. ‘You must be kidding,’ they said.
I wanted to hide away — to the point that, in the years that followed, I kept my recent past a secret. How does one measure the sadness that resulted after I decided to move away? Perhaps 30 years of absence might suffice.
To understand the soldier, you need to realise that he is a creature of blunt, crude training; a territorial beast intent on self-preservation at any cost. His needs are crude: to survive, and then to enjoy a brief rest swamped with food, beer, and blunt pleasure. Education, compassion, morals, wealth, and patriotism disappear … they become irrelevant.
To understand a soldier, ask another soldier. For a sanitised version, ask our politicians; they see war and soldiers in a completely different light than do I and my mates.
AFTER THE RELEASE of my book Well Done, Those Men, many people wrote letters, sent me emails, or phoned me. Most appreciated the honesty, and acknowledged the difficulty I must have experienced in writing that book, which was true. Consequently, many of them had the same message: that it must have been good therapy, even healing — which was also true, but there was more to it than that.
Writing is more than my hobby; it provides me with an unseen confidant and friend. It enables me to be alone, and to ponder my life and its difficulties; then, most importantly, it gives me a sense of perspective. Now I write every day — always a diary entry, and sometimes a recollection. It might be just one sentence, but I know it will trigger a particular memory if it’s needed in the future … when I hunger for the pen or keyboard.
Since the publication of Well Done, Those Men I have given many talks, mainly to veterans’ groups and schools. The vets’ talks are great; in no time, questions and their own yarns lead off into a night of reminiscing. The school talks have also been interesting. The students have always shown respect and have asked searching questions. Their knowledge of the Vietnam era is generally meagre, and many students are amazed that this country treated Vietnam veterans so poorly upon their return from that conflict. It’s not that schools won’t teach that part of our history; the answer lies with the lack of suitable resources, and the decisions of curriculum branches not to promote the subject.
Sadly, the other feedback I have had from today’s kids indicates that many of them have little interest in, or time for, reading or writing. Consequently, given any opportunity to do so, I encourage them to take on both of these activities.
My opinion isn’t a researched or proven one. For me, it’s a simple philosophy — writing allows you to explore your interior life in a way that talking to yourself or thinking doesn’t. Those acts pale in comparison. To me, the written word can be re-read, altered, or mulled over like a good wine. Private thoughts, ideas, or passions can be grieved over, expressed, and vented in a way that leads to healing, wisdom, forgiveness, or compassion — capacities that we all have but, at times, struggle to find.
Reading the works of fine writers is necessary. I have found many students prefer audio books on MP3 players. That’s okay. In fact, it allows the listener to close his or her eyes and enter that book entirely. As I travel only by public transport, I often listen to talking books. Recently, I’ve listened to Far from the Madding Crowd, by Thomas Hardy — what a wonderful novel. Schools should be encouraged to pursue this idea, if students don’t warm to reading.
Finally, with writing, you can tell funny stories to an audience of one — yourself. Maybe you giggle at a memory. Whatever — it’s you who decides whether to share the joke. On the other hand, there’s the opposite: you can pour out sadness with a passion that helps dissipate the pain.
Today, writing doesn’t come easily for most people. For me, the best guide is a teacher, or a good book … looking up words that don’t reveal their meaning at first glance, and then savouring a good sentence.
Consequently, I now encourage others to read and write.
As mentioned in Well Done, Those Men, I hesitated for ages to show anyone my original writings. After a time, a few mates read my short pieces and made grunting noises that I guessed were compliments, which led to me handing over the stack of paper that became the book. This time I got very good feedback. Still, I was reluctant to accept that it was suitable for other people to read — certainly not for publication. I had no confidence in my ability, or that it would interest other people.
To this day, I’m not sure why I wanted to show people my work. I certainly had no vision or belief that my writing would appeal to many readers. In those early writing days, I was writing prolifically. It dominated my life. I found writing a wonderful, healing activity.
I hope you find that reading it has a similar effect.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Max Prendergast. His assistance has helped develop my writing, and his local knowledge has been of great value. To Reg and Norma Tomkins, Blake Hollands, Tom Sandy, Barry and Topsy Newcomen — like so many locals — your stories, memories, details, and encouragement have been appreciated.
Thanks also to Bill Bricknall, a fellow Vietnam veteran, who is widely read and is always supportive. And to the local writers’ group — in particular, Maurs Rodwell, Cherry Stevens, Robyn Butson, and Rosemary Abbott — many thanks for your professional input and encouragement.
And to the staff at my publisher, Scribe, who have become like family, a sincere thank you.