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I can’t remember arriving late to work on July 16, 2004, but I probably did.

I would have gossiped and joked through the morning, perhaps replying to some emails and

ignoring others. What work was done at Ralph was usually done in the afternoon. I took an

early lunch hour with some of the other editorial staff, heading for the gym across the road,

under the Catholic Club.

I’m twenty-seven years old, fit, young, pretty happy and also lazy and cynical. I work at a

large circulation men’s magazine loosely modelled on a very good counterculture British

magazine called Loaded. The magazine I work for is not counterculture and is not Loaded,

but I don’t really care.

I was in the gym when it happened. I was hitting the heavy bag: straights to the top of the

bag, hooks to the middle, bashing at imaginary kidneys. I felt good – free and strong – but

inside of me a blood clot, which had developed in my hip days or weeks before, had broken

free from its vascular mooring and was wending its way through my

bloodstream and up my body.

As a digital timer above a mirror counted down the seconds, I watched my form as I

punched. The timer counted down to zero and then dinged three times. I shook the lactic

acid from my arms. A large fan blessed me with cool air. My t-shirt was matted against my

chest and my neck and facewere hot and crimson. I felt great.

I slowly shadowboxed as 2Pac’s song ‘California Love’, one of my favourites, came over the


The timer’s chime struck twice and I was at it again. As I’d been trained to do, I breathed out

sharply as I punched, creating abdominal pressure and transverse force into my glove.



I would find out later that this is called the Valsalva Manoeuvre. I would also find out later

that a by-product of this manoeuvre can be an unusual haemodynamics, with blood

travelling in an unusual direction in the body.

Unusual but almost always harmless. Almost always. The clot from my hip smuggled itself

up to my chest and then gushed into my heart with some blood, entering the cardiac

chambers through my aortic valve.

My heart pumped, sending oxygenated blood through my chest, neck and up towards my

brain. The clot followed. I kept hammering away at the bag.

Left, right, hook-hook. Psht, psht, psht-psht. I worked and boxed and sweated and the clot

jerked around the vascular highways of my brain with each heartbeat, before wedging itself

into a tight blood vessel a few inches behind my mouth. The clot was stuck, the vessel was

clogged and blood that should be feeding a section of my brain with oxygen was trapped.

The cells in my brain started to choke and die. My mind started to change.

I had been rapping in my head as I boxed, until the words of ‘California Love’ blew away as

though they were dust. Soon only the bouncing beat remained. Butterflies waltzed in my

vision. A splotchy thought was in my head, one that I could only later define.


That thought continued as I searched for the words to the song that rolled on without me. I

couldn’t catch any of them in the front of my consciousness, not even the words ‘California’

or ‘Love’.


I stopped boxing and pulled my gloves off. I spun my wraps out. I was confused. I knew this

song well.


I stood naked in a cold shower. The waltzing butterflies in front of my eyes became kites of

spotted light and colour.


I managed to clothe myself and fill my gym bag. I walked out onto the street.


The street seemed familiar but I didn’t know where to go.


A face appeared in front of me, also flushed red from gym work. It’s a familiar face yet

there’s no name associated with it.


The familiar face recognised me. He was a friend. I knew I should say something, but there

was nothing to say. I didn’t have any words accessible to me. I tried anyway. Something

came out of my mouth. Verbal sludge. I understood the language of my friend’s face.


Something was wrong. I tried again to say what was happening and again I couldn’t. I could

tell my friend was shocked and scared.I could tell he was scared for me. Another emotion

surged through my brain like a tide.


I didn’t know then what I was losing, but I knew it was a lot. I was disconnected, so much so

that I couldn’t account for exactly what and who I was disconnected from. The disconnection

hurt very badly.


Tears grew in my eyes then built and burst. They streamed down my cheeks. I looked at this

friend, this stranger. I shrugged, palms upturned. The taste of my tears as they ran into the

corners of my smile is a memory that endures.

For the next hour or so, I was at a medical centre on Pitt Street in Sydney, staring blankly at

an irritated receptionist and a medical consent form. I was told later she was convinced my

brain was addled on ice. The strong emotional journey my brain had gone through in the first

minutes after the event was likely mostly over. I say likely, because I only have grabs of

memory after leaving the gym. In the medical centre, I remember the traffic outside, a sign

with red letters on a white background, and my friend pleading for an ambulance.

I also remember one strong emotion. I’m not sure I can exactly explain the nomenclature of

the emotion but it’s the feeling I used to have when, as a little boy, I’d be in bed in a

darkened room with heavy skin and a fevered forehead, and I’d hear life continuing outside.

Can disconnection be an emotion?

If so, it was that. This was something I would feel many times, and in varying degrees, in the

weeks and months to come. I was eventually deposited at the emergency ward of St

Vincent’s Hospital in Sydney. I was led to an an examination room and there I waited, alone.

The admitting physician arrived. My heart rate and blood pressure seemed fine, I had no

pain nor mobility issues and there seemed to be no issues with my coordination. I could take

instruction after charades and prompting, but I couldn’t understand any verbal instructions. I

was almost wholly disconnected from language.

The doctor decided that something was going on. I found out later that he issued an initial

diagnosis of infection in my cerebrospinal fluid.

Time passed, but I couldn’t really parse how much. Some friends arrived and I realised

they’d finished their workday and it was evening. They would be going home or out for

dinner. I would not be. I had that disconnected feeling again.

I knew my friends’ faces, but not their names. Another doctor came in and started speaking

to me. As he spoke, I smiled and nodded in the way a toddler might when being spoken at:

understanding the cadence of the language but little of the content. A friend persisted with

me until I understood that I would be taken to a ward where they’d administer a lumbar

puncture, so they could draw some cerebrospinal fluid and test it.

I remember the smell of the lumbar puncture. I remember a doctor, young and serious. I

remember his sweater, very colourful like a Ken Done painting and clearly knitted by a loved

one. I remember smiling like a dolt and I also vividly remember a shining moment of hope.

My friends were talking and joking over me as I lay on my hospital bed. I didn’t really

understand their words, but tried to keep up as best I could so I would smile or chuckle, nod

or shake my head when appropriate. I found myself staring at one friend’s t-shirt. Across it

was one word, with illustrations around it. Through the idle chat of my friends, I focused on

the shirt’s words and pictures. I understood the pictures. There were mountains,

snow-capped, and there were black bears. I tried to read the word, I managed to read a

letter. The first letter: V. I put the sound of the letter in my mind and rolled it around as you

might roll a hard candy in your mouth.

I managed to pull some other letters from the t-shirt and put those in my mind also. I tried to

put the letters together, and then the sounds together. I added the pictures.

V-V... black bears ... an-an ... snowy mountains ... V-V-Van ...


The word on the shirt was Vancouver. I said it out loud, but quietly. I remember an instinct

not to be embarrassed. I tried to put together a sentence explaining my revelation. None

came, so I didn’t say anything. It felt good knowing that word. Hopeful.

That night, I was given a bed on a ward. I was already getting better, and I was

understanding more and being able to say more. I was still confused by most sentences but

questions like ‘Do you want some tea?’ could be answered with ‘Yes, please’ or ‘No, thank


In the relative quiet and dark of the hospital night, I understood that the doctors believed a

virus was affecting me. That was something I thought I could handle. I’d had viruses before,

and they’d run a predictable path but after finding my cerebrospinal fluid was normal, and

after a CT scan and then an MRI scan, it was decided that I hadn’t suffered a virus but a


I don’t remember exactly when I was first given this information, but I remember doctors

saying the word ‘stroke’ to me when listing the things that probably didn’t happen to me, and

then when listing things that may have happened to me, and eventually it was described as


An older doctor came to me one day, with a group of studious-looking men and women who

were all younger than I was. They crowded around me while the older doctor rattled off a

long string of descriptors to his students. The word ‘ischaemic stroke’ was wedged in the

middle. As he was about to move on to the next bed, I touched his arm.

‘Stroke?’ I asked.


‘I had a stroke?’


‘You sure?’

Flipping through the file at the end of my bed, he hummed until he found what he was

looking for. ‘Yes. Stroke,’ he said.

He patted my hand and moved on.


I’d been in hospital a couple of weeks and my migraines and nausea had stopped. I’d

stopped taking morphine and I’d been disconnected from my heart monitor and drip.

I was getting better. I read comics, watched movies and, with the prodding and testing over, I

was ready to go home.

I was discharged from hospital, went home and resumed my life, essentially. I couldn’t read

easily yet, but from the outside it seemed no other aspect of my life had been significantly


From the inside, though, things were definitely different. If I allowed myself any quietude,

there was no getting away from the fact that my brain had changed and so had I. I didn’t

want a brain that had changed and I didn’t want a different life, so the answer to that problem

was to refuse any moments of quietude that may intrude.

When I returned to work I did tasks that required the least amount of English comprehension

and composition – captioning, interviewing glamour models and personalities to be used as

Q&A text, and writing short movie and music reviews.

Then, perhaps four months after the stroke, I attempted my first long-form piece of writing.

The story required me to go to Willowbank Raceway in Queensland and write a piece about

a family who had made money in the crane business, and had put that money into a

drag-racing team.

I spent weeks arranging and rearranging text and quotes that couldn’t have been more than

two thousand words. I convinced myself that there was sense in the document that I’d

created; that I’d introduced people, a place and milieu and, through description and quotes,

I’d taken the reader on a journey.

What I’d written was unreadable gabble.

The filing process in our office was that when you had finished a story, you’d move the first

draft of it onto the office server so it could be subedited, and then a printed copy would be

left on the magazine editor’s desk. My desk had a direct line of sight to the editor and I

watched him pick my feature up and slump deeper and deeper into his chair as he read.

I felt my face flush.

It was depressing, but the absurdity of the situation also amused me. The magazine was, at

the time, overstaffed with some odd characters, so I figured I’d probably just be the illiterate

editor for a while: ‘Here’s Ben, our features editor. He can’t read or write.’

If I didn’t get better, I figured I’d just find something else to do. As I said, I wasn’t ambitious,

nor did I have any expectation that I’d be a good writer.

Those months after the stroke were hazy, but some moments and thoughts are crystallised,

and I vividly remember wondering why I was unbothered by my disordered and almost

unusable copy. I figured that it must be that I didn’t want more in life than to drink for free and

see movies and fly around the world. If I had to pay for those privileges, it’d be a shame, but

almost anything else I might do would likely pay better than working at a magazine so it’d

work itself out.

Winston Churchill once said: ‘Never let a good crisis go to waste’, which is exactly what I

was doing. Thankfully, this crisis was far from done.

The truth was, I gave less of a fuck about the magazine every month I worked on it. I should

have left Ralph before I had my stroke, but I didn’t. I had fun at my job. Why would I leave?

Then I had my stroke. This should have been the moment in which I realised there was

something better to do with my life, but I had no epiphany. After the stroke, I just considered

myself lucky that I worked in a place where there was no pressure to excel, or even turn in

much work.

At the beginning of 2005, I had accrued a lot of leave and considered a big trip. I travelled

quite often for work, often interstate and to the United States and Canada, and all of it was

fun, but I really wanted an adventure.

At Ralph, we often did things that looked like adventure, but they were usually safe

stage-managed PR exercises paid for by some advertiser or another. I wanted a real

adventure. I wanted to see some of the world.

And so it happened that I was in Israel, with only a few days before my return, that I realised

there was no way I could go back to my job.

There was a world out there, of places but also emotions, stories and experiences and,

knowing that, I couldn’t return to that office and write another listicle sponsored by an alcohol


I wasn’t confident that I’d be able to do more. I was still uncertain about my brain and my

prospects outside the magazine. I was a slow writer, often listless and lazy, something I had

attributed to my stroke.

The magazine was an unhealthy environment. I was a cynic when working there, and there

was an inherent sexism in the work that permeated my attitudes also. I had become

cloistered, however, especially after my stroke, and I feared what may be next from me. In

Israel, I figured it didn’t matter what happened next. What mattered was just that I left. The

worst that may happen is that I wouldn’t find a magazine job and that I’d have to find an

unskilled job until I figured out what to do next. That was the absolute worst that may

happen, and that wasn’t so bad. Working outside as a labourer must have its perks.

As I flew back to Sydney from Tel Aviv, I even entertained the best-case scenarios. I ate

modern military books up and was rarely seen without a book by someone like George

Packer or David Finkel. Maybe it wasn’t too late to try to do something approximating what

they did. Maybe I could go back to the Middle East and do some freelancing, and maybe that

work could convert into more work. It felt like a pie in the sky dream, but isn’t that what your

twenties are for?

Twelve or so hours after landing in Sydney, I was in the outgoing editor’s office handing him

an envelope in which there was a sheet of paper with one giant word on it: RESIGNATION.

He opened the letter and chuckled. I chuckled too.

‘Right-o,’ he said.

That was that. What came next I had no idea. I sent emails to as many editors of Australian

magazines as I could, telling them that I would soon be available for freelance work. I also

responded to a press release from the Australian Defence Force looking for expressions of

interests from journalists who may want to spend time with Australian forces in the field.

Then, a few days after handing in my resignation, a spasm of pain sharded from the top of

my breastbone, left and right towards my shoulders and up at my throat.

I clutched at my chest, sat down on a concrete planter and started to have a heart attack.

From my book The Commando: The Life and Death of Cameron Baird VC, MG


Khod Valley, Afghanistan  22 June 2013

Jutting, arid mountains sail past the windows of the American Chinook. They’re the high ground, the borders of the battlespace, the domain of the scout and the sniper. When the helicopter banks, the valley floor can be seen: green and lush, the centre of Urozgan life. This is the domain of the Australian Special Forces assault team.

Arrangements of these six-man chalks can smash through the valleys like a tidal wave. To watch them operate is to see a harmonic of flanking, covering fire, grenades and relentless advance.

Cameron Baird commands one of these chalks. He can be recognised in the Chinook by his size, and by his immaculately clean M4 assault rifle. Unlike the other matte weapons, his rifle shimmers when the sun flashes into the chopper. Baird’s facial paint is unique too. It’s not the disrupted pattern that most choose for assaults; he prefers to look like a Mohican warrior, or a Day of the Dead reveller. This is a man who wants to be seen by the enemy, and feared.

Baird is not a ‘phantom of the jungle’, a nickname the enemy gave the Australian Special Air Service Regiment (SASR) in Vietnam for their capacity to disappear and reappear at will. He’s a commando, a howling banshee, smashing through the Taliban like a wrecking ball.

A call comes in from the pilot — three minutes to target. Baird’s legs vibrate like a bass string. He stretches his arms and neck as though about to run onto the football field. Jack Ducat, another team commander, catches Baird’s eye. Cam grins and lets out a whoop.

It’s fuckin’ on. No dry holes today, no empty compounds. Here, at the very end of Australia’s war, the boys are getting one last crack at the shitbirds.

Songs often bounce around in Cam Baird’s head during helicopter rides. Quite often songs from AC/DC.

I’m a rolling thunder, a pouring rain

I’m coming on like a hurricane

My lightning’s flashing across the sky

You’re only young but you’re gonna die

The load door opens. The ground approaches. Dust blows into the helicopter.

Sometimes he contemplates passages from the books he’s been reading, volumes about Eastern spirituality by writers such as Ram Dass.

There has never been a time when you and I have not existed, nor will there be a time when we will cease to exist. As the same person inhabits the body through childhood, youth, and old age, so too at the time of death he attains another body. The wise are not deluded by these changes.

In his quiet hours, Cameron Baird — rum drinker, footy lover and fearsome warrior — is also a philosopher and deep thinker, but this is no quiet hour. His mind is only on the battle ahead.

Boots on the ground, weapon up. So begins the last incredible day of the life of Cameron Baird, VC, MG.

About Loss and Memory

This morning I was listening to American writer Chuck Klosterman talk about a trick of the mind that makes the past seem ordered and reasonable and the present random and chaotic. It got me thinking about two very oddly similar interviews I did in the last year.

Both interviews were with middle-aged women, in lounge rooms of outer-suburban homes, speaking about men that they had loved named John. One of the women, Elizabeth spoke to me about her ex-husband John Mac Acuek, who was born in 1972 and died, violently, in 2014. The other, Victoria, spoke to me about her brother John Texas Hunt, who was born in 1972 and died, violently, in 2014.

Both Johns had famous brothers I was writing books about- John Hunt being the brother of combat sport star Mark Hunt, and John Mac the brother of lawyer and refugee advocate Deng Thiak Adut. Both had contributed significantly to their brother’s success, both had lived in the houses I visited, and the sadness of their deaths still hung in the air.

Elizabeth met John Mac in the mid-nineties at a refugee camp in what was then Sudan; she was an internally displaced person, and he an SPLA officer. John Mac was in his early twenties then, but also a war veteran, having been taken from his rural village at age thirteen to join the Sudanese Peoples Liberation Army. They fell in love, married and, in 1998, planned to escape a war that John had been fighting in- and Elizabeth running from- for a decade.

While planning to get to Kenya, John found out that his younger brother, Deng, was stationed in a town named Nattinger, recovering from injuries sustained in battle. John smuggled himself, Elizabeth and Deng to a refugee camp in Kenya, and eventually to Sydney.

John Hunt lived his whole life in South Auckland, in close proximity to his older sister Victoria. John suffered a tormented life after a tormented childhood. As a child he suffered extreme and mental physical abuse at the hands of sadistic father, and lived almost his whole youth in a house where his father was raping his sister.

John was a tough youth in the toughest of New Zealand neighborhoods, and was an exceptional (and regular) street fighter. From all accounts though, he was also fair and decent. John Hunt was a good student, and was always disappointed when his younger brother, Mark, would act up, fail classes or be bought home by the police. Although he never said it, I think it’s safe to say John loved Mark, and that’s why John gave Mark his student loan money so that Mark could relocate to Sydney when Mark had started down a path of serious criminality.

John Mac was the first Sudanese person to gain an Australian degree, but never managed to find regular work in Australia except in a nearby factory. Hugh Riminton, the Channel Ten journalist and friend of John’s told me that he suspected it was because John was just too African in his look and manner. Even though he said he feared to and never would, John Mac eventually took work contracts in East Africa, and in South Sudan once the war was over.

John Mac was killed in the opening days of the South Sudanese Civil War. When the fighting started, he travelled to his ancestral village to try to stop the advance of an ethnic group called the Nuer- a group that had killed many of John’s family twenty years earlier. The unit John had been fighting with was been routed, and John Mac was surrounded and then shot, once, in the back of the head.

John Texas Hunt took his own life, dying in a public and hideous fashion that I won’t detail.

Since the two Johns have died Deng Adut has given the Australia Day address, and Mark Hunt has fought in one of the most-watched fights in UFC history. Elizabeth and Victoria are proud of Deng and Mark, but I think that pride pales in comparison to their continuing grief.

When I spoke to Victoria and Elizabeth, I walked out in a stupor. Both women, very admirably, told me about the circumstances of the lives and deaths of their John, but the narrative and meaning was absent, and I felt, as they spoke, that they were asking themselves ‘how did all of this happen? How did I come to this point?’

I think now that Victoria and Elizabeth could answer those questions, but only incompletely, so they leave the questions unanswered.

In her book The White Album, Joan Didion wrote that, “We tell ourselves stories in order to live…We look for the sermon in the suicide, for the social and moral lesson in the murder of five…We live entirely, especially if we are writers, by the imposition of a narrative line upon disparate images…we have learned to freeze the shifting phantasmagoria which is our actual experience.”

I think neither Victoria nor Elizabeth had managed to freeze the phantasmagoria, but maybe because they refused to. Perhaps, for them, there are too many elements that would need to be thrown away for a decent narrative, and they’re unwilling to give those away. Perhaps they’re unwilling to sacrifice the noise to find a signal.

Perhaps that’s what grief is, a refusal to give up random and chaotic reality for ordered and reasonable story. Oddly, it feels like there’s some virtue in that.

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