Two Books

There are two new books in the history section today. They are both about the same thing.

They tell of a battle. A battle in a war a century ago, in a little part of France around Amiens. They both claim to tell the same story, and they are both priced the same.

One tells a tale of heroes. It is a roaring narrative, of brave, bronzed Anzacs fighting the faceless and nefarious Hun at the gates of Paris. Brave characters to a man, joking, cheerful, unrepressed by military discipline or the social mores of Old, Decedent Europe. They win the admiration of all Frenchwomen - bemoaning the wilted manliness of their own effeminate and weak menfolk (never mind Verdun), they open their houses, their arms and most importantly their legs for these paragons of masculinity. These men receive no help from their 'allies', who deserve more scorn than the Hun - the Frenchman is simply steamrolled in faraway places, while the British - utterly craven and worthy of no respect to a man - melt away to the rear to let others do the dying for them. The Canadians? The New Zealanders? Lesser men, a pale and laughable imitation of Australian men and Australian values (and this must be true, for Charles Bean himself said it.) And the Americans? What Americans?

War is an adventure in this book. The Germans might as well be stormtroopers, mindless evil minions who exist only to be slaughtered without reflection. Ludendorff and the Kaiser? Pantomine villains, twirling their mustaches as they plot to destroy the freedom of Australia (as if Amiens were to gate of Sydney and Melbourne). They face an army of Han Solos, hip-firing hefty Lewis Guns as they waltz into the German lines and capture their pathetic, sniveling, cowardly 'soldiery' with ease. They - they alone - they without exception - are responsible for winning this war. And it is glorious.

The other book tells a different story. This is a story of mud, of screaming artillery shells, of chlorine and mustard gas. It is a story of real people with real feelings, who happen to be clad in grey uniforms and coal-scuttle helmets, giving all they have and often more, desperate simply to end this whole mad affair. The majority of resistance to these men come from men from places like Lancashire or Rheims or Paris or London, with a few battalions of those from Calgary or Adelaide or Wellington or Philadelphia - a diverse story about diverse people, where heroism is not restricted to the Australian. And not every Australian is a good man. Some think, if they fight for the freedom of the French nation, than the women of that nation are his to pick and choose. Some are looters. Some are murderers. None are simple characters.

War in this story is terrible and drawn-out and often very boring. Brief flashes of utter, unimaginable horror are intercut with long and arduous retreats, with endless days of waiting, with logistic trains and strategic considerations and politics. Generals and leaders make hard decisions, not because they are evil or incompetent, but because sacrificing a company here might save a battalion there, and gut-wretching decisions like this are part and parcel in grand strategy. When the action does happen, men are shot, stabbed, blown apart, gassed, crippled, mutilated. Most will be affected mentally for the rest of their lives - some will be utterly destroyed.

One book is written by a best-seller, one of Australia's most popular men, a red-blooded true-blue Aussie. The other is a bespectacled 'intellectual' in a dusty office somewhere, who you wouldn't be able to tell from anybody else.

One will sell out. One will gather dust on the shelf.

One will reinforce legends. One will be forgotten.

One is a story. The other is truth.