August 15, 1942, Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea
Landed in Port Moresby yesterday, shipped from Point Cook after months of kanji and drills. This place is a shock—hot as Colombo, but wilder, like the earth’s still half-formed. Camp’s a sprawl of tents and mud near the airstrip, planes roaring day and night. Blokes are a mix: sunburnt Aussies, local Papuans hauling supplies, and Yanks with their loud chewing gum. Smells of sweat, diesel, and jungle rot. Nights are alive—frogs croaking, bugs the size of my fist. I’m 24, a linguist turned soldier, and I feel like a kid playing at war. Japanese are out there, somewhere, and I’m meant to fight ‘em. Smoked half a pack today, staring at the hills. Locals call ‘em “fuzzy wuzzy angels” for carrying our gear. Good blokes, quiet, know the land. Beer’s scarce, but I scrounged a warm one. War feels far, but it’s coming. I’m not ready.
August 29, 1942, Kokoda TrailTwo weeks on, and I’m on the Kokoda Trail, a muddy hellhole carved through jungle. Camp’s just tents, slit trenches, and leeches that cling like glue. Rain never stops—boots squelch, socks rot. We’re humping packs up hills so steep you slide back. Mates are solid—Bluey from Brisbane, always joking, and Tom, a quiet shearer. We share smokes, talk about home. Sydney’s a dream now; this green maze is real. Locals guide us, barefoot, machetes flashing. They know every root. Japanese are close—scouts saw ‘em. My rifle’s heavy, and I’m memorizing kanji still, daft habit. Tonight, we heard gunfire, distant but sharp. Heart’s racing. I’ll be shooting at blokes soon, and they’ll shoot back. Drank muddy water, lit a fag, and tried to sleep. Jungle’s loud—birds, bugs, my own thoughts.
September 10, 1942, Kokoda TrailWeeks in, and this place is part of me, like it or not. Camp’s a routine now: dig trenches, clean rifles, swat mozzies. Jungle’s a beast—vines snag you, mud sucks boots off. We’re near Ioribaiwa, and the Japanese are real. Patrols clash daily; we found a dead bloke yesterday, theirs, bayonet still fixed. Looked my age. I know their lingo, could’ve talked to him. Instead, I’ll kill ‘em. Trained for it, but it’s heavy. Mates keep me sane—Bluey’s got a filthy limerick for every meal of bully beef. Shared my last smoke with him. Locals bring yams, grin despite the madness. I’m not the green kid from Port Moresby anymore. Rifle’s an extension of me. Japanese are dug in ahead. Tomorrow, we move. I’m scared, but I’m ready. Dad—Andrew—would say get on with it. So I will.
August 29, 1942, Kokoda TrailTwo weeks on, and I’m on the Kokoda Trail, a muddy hellhole carved through jungle. Camp’s just tents, slit trenches, and leeches that cling like glue. Rain never stops—boots squelch, socks rot. We’re humping packs up hills so steep you slide back. Mates are solid—Bluey from Brisbane, always joking, and Tom, a quiet shearer. We share smokes, talk about home. Sydney’s a dream now; this green maze is real. Locals guide us, barefoot, machetes flashing. They know every root. Japanese are close—scouts saw ‘em. My rifle’s heavy, and I’m memorizing kanji still, daft habit. Tonight, we heard gunfire, distant but sharp. Heart’s racing. I’ll be shooting at blokes soon, and they’ll shoot back. Drank muddy water, lit a fag, and tried to sleep. Jungle’s loud—birds, bugs, my own thoughts.
September 10, 1942, Kokoda TrailWeeks in, and this place is part of me, like it or not. Camp’s a routine now: dig trenches, clean rifles, swat mozzies. Jungle’s a beast—vines snag you, mud sucks boots off. We’re near Ioribaiwa, and the Japanese are real. Patrols clash daily; we found a dead bloke yesterday, theirs, bayonet still fixed. Looked my age. I know their lingo, could’ve talked to him. Instead, I’ll kill ‘em. Trained for it, but it’s heavy. Mates keep me sane—Bluey’s got a filthy limerick for every meal of bully beef. Shared my last smoke with him. Locals bring yams, grin despite the madness. I’m not the green kid from Port Moresby anymore. Rifle’s an extension of me. Japanese are dug in ahead. Tomorrow, we move. I’m scared, but I’m ready. Dad—Andrew—would say get on with it. So I will.
Wow. How amazing that you found this. I never heard any of these stories, so interesting (/ horrifying!) to read them.
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