It happened only a week ago. There I was, working away at my desk, when, coming from somewhere at a distance on my right, the east, there was a sudden airy whoosh, two of them, in parallel, blasting past my window, above, high above, then the briefest of silences, a nano-second, before this in the west: one explosion, two explosions.
Down below my office, on the sun-drenched terrace outside the café, young men and women stopped concentrating lazily on their lattes and cappuccinos and looked into the sky. An authoritative shout went up and the young men and women, helpfully already in uniform and camouflage, got to running, sprinting.
They knew, and so did I, because the sirens made it clear: we were – our country was – under attack, we were being invaded.
Except we weren’t; my imagination was simply getting carried away with itself. Two jet planes, some kind of fighting machine, did indeed zoom through the sky above my room, but – thank the deity that is yours, or just your lucky stars – there were no explosions; it was nothing more than one of those fly-pasts, celebrating something or other that I didn’t know.
But those young military men and women: they were real enough, they are real enough, because I’m currently spending three months at the Australian Defence Force Academy. No, it’s not the most bizarre holiday you’ve ever heard, nor am I lurking behind bushes like some kind of spy. It’s just that, courtesy of the University of New South Wales, my spring is committed to a place I never thought I’d even visit let alone allow myself to become immersed, enthralled, besotted even.
Some – many, most – may consider it odd for a writer to spend spring in a place that, in essence, is teaching people how to invade and maim and kill and destroy, all for the greater good, a kind of lofty, lofty cause, one that isn’t always entirely obvious (or true)…
Keep reading over at The Canberra Times, which commissioned this piece and published it on 11 November 2013.