Peter FitzSimons’ Eureka: The Unfinished Revolution is an ambitious attempt to transform one of the most heavily mythologised episodes in Australian history into an expansive narrative of political conflict, social change and emerging democratic consciousness. First published in 2012, the book runs to more than 700 pages in its later paperback edition, an indication of FitzSimons’ determination to place the events at Ballarat in December 1854 within a much broader historical framework. The result is highly readable popular history, but as an academic treatment of Eureka it presents more complicated questions.

One of the book’s considerable strengths is FitzSimons’ recognition that Eureka cannot be understood simply by beginning with the construction of the stockade. He spends considerable time establishing the political, economic and social circumstances that produced the confrontation. The discovery of gold, rapid population growth, colonial administration, the licence system and increasingly antagonistic relations between miners and authorities all receive attention. Equally important is his recognition that many of the people arriving on the Victorian goldfields brought political ideas with them. Eureka was not an isolated eruption of colonial discontent. Chartism, Irish nationalism and the wider European revolutionary tradition formed part of the intellectual environment in which some participants understood their grievances.

This broader contextualisation is important because it challenges the simplified version of Eureka often encountered in popular memory. The rebellion was not merely a protest against an expensive mining licence. Questions of taxation, political representation, administrative authority and the legitimacy of colonial government were intertwined. FitzSimons is particularly effective at demonstrating how a series of grievances and official responses gradually transformed dissatisfaction into organised resistance.

His treatment of individuals is similarly effective. Peter Lalor, Raffaello Carboni and the other participants emerge as people rather than simply names associated with monuments and street signs. FitzSimons’ journalistic instincts are particularly useful here. He understands that historical events become comprehensible when the reader understands the motivations and personalities of those involved. Contemporary accounts, newspapers and official material provide much of the foundation from which he constructs this narrative.

It is here, however, that the distinction between popular narrative history and academic history becomes important. FitzSimons frequently reconstructs historical scenes with the techniques of a novelist. Conversations, thoughts, emotions and dramatic moments are presented with considerable immediacy. This makes the book accessible, but it can sometimes obscure the boundary between what the surviving evidence demonstrates, what can reasonably be inferred and what has been reconstructed for narrative purposes. Contemporary criticism of the book has raised precisely this issue. Historian Anne Beggs Sunter, while acknowledging the book’s effectiveness in bringing Eureka to a broad readership, criticised FitzSimons for taking liberties with aspects of the historical record.

This is perhaps the central difficulty with Eureka. FitzSimons has clearly undertaken substantial research, but research and historical method are not necessarily the same thing. An academic historian normally exposes uncertainty to the reader. Contradictory evidence is identified, the reliability of witnesses is assessed and interpretations are tested against alternatives. FitzSimons more commonly resolves uncertainty through narrative. The resulting story is clearer and considerably more dramatic, but the reader is not always given sufficient opportunity to distinguish between established fact, plausible reconstruction and authorial interpretation.

The subtitle, The Unfinished Revolution, presents a second and more fundamental interpretive problem. FitzSimons gives Eureka an important place in the development of Australian democracy and associates the rebellion with a broader movement towards political independence. There is certainly evidence for republican and radical political ideas among sections of the digger population, and the political consequences following Eureka were significant. Yet the difficulty lies in moving from demonstrating that such ideas existed to presenting Eureka as a coherent revolutionary movement.

The participants were not politically homogeneous. Their grievances, objectives and ideological commitments varied considerably. Some demanded political representation. Others concentrated upon the licence system and policing. Irish nationalists, Chartists, republicans and miners primarily concerned with immediate economic grievances could stand together without necessarily sharing a common conception of Australia’s political future. Treating Eureka retrospectively as a step towards an inevitable democratic or republican Australia therefore risks imposing later political meanings upon a much less coherent historical movement.

This matters particularly because FitzSimons does not approach the subject as a politically detached observer. His republican sympathies are well known and become particularly apparent when interpreting Eureka’s longer significance. That does not invalidate his interpretation. Historians are not devoid of perspectives. It does, however, require the reader to distinguish carefully between the history of Eureka and the subsequent political uses of Eureka. The famous flag, the miners’ oath and the language of resistance have subsequently been appropriated by groups occupying remarkably different positions within Australian political culture. The continuing contest over Eureka’s meaning may ultimately tell us as much about later Australia as it does about the diggers of 1854.

There is also a question of proportionality. At more than 700 pages, Eureka is a very substantial treatment of an event whose military climax was remarkably brief. The extensive background is often valuable, but there are occasions when the narrative becomes unnecessarily expansive. FitzSimons’ determination to provide backstories for individuals and dramatic context for events sometimes slows the argument. John Molony demonstrated in his earlier study of Eureka that considerable narrative power and historical analysis could be achieved in substantially less space, a comparison also made in contemporary discussion of FitzSimons’ book.

Nevertheless, dismissing Eureka: The Unfinished Revolution because it does not conform to the conventions of academic history would be unfair. FitzSimons is attempting something different. His great strength is historical communication. He takes an event that many Australians know primarily through a flag, a date and a few paragraphs remembered from school and reconstructs the complicated colonial society surrounding it. The book encourages readers to recognise that Eureka developed from political structures, economic grievances, administrative failures and competing ideas about rights and authority rather than appearing spontaneously on the Ballarat goldfields.

For me, therefore, Eureka works best when read as serious popular history rather than definitive academic history. It is thoroughly researched, energetic and frequently compelling, but its narrative certainty occasionally exceeds the certainty permitted by the evidence. More importantly, FitzSimons’ interpretation of Eureka as an unfinished revolution should be treated as an argument rather than accepted as the inevitable conclusion of the historical record.

That distinction does not diminish the book. In some respects it makes it more interesting. Eureka has always existed simultaneously as an historical event and an Australian political myth. FitzSimons succeeds admirably in explaining why the events of December 1854 continue to matter. Where greater caution is required is in deciding precisely what those events meant.

As an introduction to Eureka, this is an impressive and engaging work. As an academic interpretation, it should be read alongside more historiographically cautious studies, particularly those that interrogate the diversity of the diggers and the later construction of the Eureka legend. Its greatest achievement may therefore not be proving that Eureka was an unfinished revolution, but reminding us that the historical argument over what Eureka represented remains unfinished.

The Second World War has probably been examined in greater detail than almost any other conflict in human history, yet despite the enormous quantity of material published over the past eighty years, there remain events and circumstances for which historians have never established entirely satisfactory explanations. Some of these mysteries concern missing individuals, others involve intelligence operations, unexplained military incidents or the disappearance of valuable objects, while a few have developed into elaborate conspiracy theories that bear increasingly little resemblance to the available historical evidence. It is this mixture of genuine historical uncertainty and more imaginative speculation that Michael FitzGerald explores in Unsolved Mysteries of World War II.

FitzGerald has assembled an interesting collection of incidents, ranging from the disappearance of the Amber Room and the circumstances surrounding Rudolf Hess’s flight to Scotland, to the mysterious death of bandleader Glenn Miller and the extraordinary events over Los Angeles in February 1942, when American antiaircraft batteries opened fire on what they believed were approaching enemy aircraft. Other subjects include the intelligence deception known as Operation Mincemeat, missing German submarines, espionage, unexplained deaths and the persistent stories surrounding Nazi activities in Antarctica. The selection is certainly varied, and there are enough unusual incidents to maintain the interest of anyone with a general knowledge of the war.

One of the book’s strengths is its accessibility. FitzGerald writes for a general readership rather than an academic audience, presenting each mystery as a relatively self contained account that can be read without requiring an extensive understanding of the wider conflict. This approach works particularly well when examining incidents that have received comparatively little attention in mainstream military histories. Even readers familiar with the principal campaigns and personalities of the war may encounter an episode they have not previously investigated, and the book provides an entertaining introduction to some of these lesser known stories.

However, the approach also exposes what I consider to be the book’s principal weakness. There is an important distinction between a genuine historical mystery, an event for which the surviving evidence is incomplete, and a conspiracy theory that continues to circulate despite the existence of a perfectly reasonable explanation. FitzGerald brings all three together, and although he frequently discusses competing explanations, the distinction between credible historical uncertainty and unsupported speculation is not always developed as thoroughly as I would have liked.

The stories concerning supposed Nazi technological breakthroughs and secret activities in Antarctica are particularly illustrative of this problem. There is certainly a place for examining how such stories originated and why they have survived for so long, but the historian’s responsibility is to establish what can reasonably be supported by contemporary documentation rather than simply repeat the possibilities that have accumulated around an incident. The existence of several competing explanations does not necessarily mean that each deserves equal consideration, particularly when some depend upon little more than speculation.

I also found myself wanting considerably more examination of the historical evidence. The relatively short treatment of individual subjects allows FitzGerald to cover an impressive range of material, but it inevitably limits his ability to investigate the reliability of witnesses, conflicting documentary accounts and the circumstances in which particular theories emerged. For the casual reader this may not be especially important, but for someone accustomed to reading more substantial military histories, the absence of sustained critical analysis becomes increasingly noticeable.

The chapter dealing with Rudolf Hess is a good example of the difficulties inherent in writing about such subjects. His extraordinary flight to Britain in May 1941 has generated decades of speculation concerning his intentions, his relationship with Hitler and the possibility of unofficial peace negotiations. These are legitimate historical questions, but investigating them requires careful consideration of the political circumstances, the available German and British documentation, and the reliability of statements made by those involved. Merely presenting the competing theories can leave the reader with the impression that the mystery is considerably greater than the surviving evidence necessarily suggests.

Nevertheless, I would not dismiss the book simply because it lacks the depth of a specialist historical study. FitzGerald has produced an entertaining collection of wartime curiosities, and there is something appealing about revisiting events that do not fit comfortably into the conventional narrative of the conflict. The Second World War was an enormously complicated undertaking involving millions of individuals, countless intelligence operations and decisions made under extraordinary pressure. It would be remarkable if every incident could be explained satisfactorily, particularly when so much documentation was destroyed, concealed or never created in the first place.

What I would have preferred is a clearer separation between those mysteries that remain unresolved because the historical record is genuinely inadequate and those that survive primarily because the more sensational explanations are considerably more entertaining than the mundane alternatives. There is also a tendency in this type of historical writing to treat the absence of conclusive evidence as an invitation to speculate, when sometimes the most responsible conclusion is simply that we do not know and may never know.

Ultimately, Unsolved Mysteries of World War II is an enjoyable piece of popular history rather than a particularly substantial contribution to our understanding of the conflict. Its greatest value lies in introducing readers to a varied collection of unusual events and perhaps encouraging them to investigate particular subjects in greater detail. Its limitations become apparent when those same readers expect a more rigorous examination of the evidence or a convincing resolution of the questions being raised.

For someone relatively new to the history of the Second World War, there is plenty here to stimulate curiosity, while those with a more extensive knowledge of the period will probably find much of the material familiar and occasionally frustrating in its treatment. I enjoyed the opportunity to revisit some of these stories, although I finished the book feeling that several deserved considerably more attention than they received.

An entertaining collection of wartime mysteries, but one that is considerably more successful at raising questions than providing historically convincing answers.

I recently picked up a copy of Hammond Innes’s The Conquistadors from a local thrift shop, which is one of the pleasures of browsing secondhand bookshops. Occasionally, amongst the discarded novels and forgotten biographies, something appears that promises an interesting journey into the past. Innes was a well established writer of adventure fiction, but his interest in exploration and the relationship between human ambition and geography also found expression in his historical writing. Given my interest in military history, particularly the relationship between conquest, military organisation and the societies subjected to European expansion, this seemed a worthwhile addition to my collection.

Originally published in 1969, The Conquistadors examines the Spanish conquest of the Aztec and Inca empires, concentrating particularly upon Hernán Cortés in Mexico and Francisco Pizarro in Peru. Innes places these campaigns within the wider development of Spanish imperial ambition, beginning with the emergence of a unified Spanish monarchy and the religious and military traditions established during the Reconquista. His approach is essentially biographical and narrative, with the personalities of the conquistadors and the rulers they encountered providing the framework for the history.

The principal strength of the book lies in Innes’s ability to make complicated historical events accessible without entirely sacrificing their military and political context. His background as an adventure novelist is apparent in the treatment of expeditions, battles and the extraordinary difficulties encountered by relatively small Spanish forces operating thousands of miles from their homeland. The geographical challenges of campaigning through unfamiliar territory, maintaining communications, securing supplies and negotiating with Indigenous populations are particularly interesting when the campaigns are considered from a military historical perspective.

The conquest of Mexico provides an excellent example of the dangers associated with interpreting these campaigns simply as demonstrations of European military superiority. Although Spanish cavalry, steel weapons and firearms provided certain tactical advantages, they were insufficient by themselves to explain the destruction of the Aztec Empire. Indigenous alliances, particularly those involving communities hostile to Aztec domination, were essential to Spanish success. The political divisions within Mesoamerica were therefore as important as the technological differences between the opposing forces. Innes incorporates Indigenous allies into his account, although the emphasis upon Cortés and his immediate companions reflects the more traditional interpretation of conquest that dominated much popular historical writing during the middle of the twentieth century.

This raises one of the principal difficulties with the book when approached from a contemporary historical perspective. By concentrating upon the achievements and personalities of the Spanish commanders, the narrative risks presenting Indigenous societies primarily in terms of their encounters with Europeans. The Aztec and Inca empires were sophisticated political, economic and military organisations whose internal structures, diplomatic relationships and existing conflicts significantly influenced the outcome of the invasions. Their destruction cannot be adequately explained through the courage, determination or military abilities of a relatively small number of Spanish adventurers.

The campaign against the Inca Empire presents similar interpretive problems. Pizarro’s success at Cajamarca and the subsequent collapse of imperial authority have frequently been portrayed as remarkable examples of audacity overcoming overwhelming numerical superiority. However, the internal conflict between Atahualpa and Huáscar, the political consequences of imperial expansion and the disruption caused by European diseases all contributed to the vulnerability of the Inca state. The Spanish were certainly capable of exploiting these circumstances, but exploitation of an existing political crisis is not the same thing as defeating a united empire through superior military ability alone.

Another difficulty concerns the treatment of historical sources. Much of the traditional narrative of the conquest derives from Spanish chroniclers, including participants who had considerable personal and political interests in presenting events in a particular manner. Their accounts remain indispensable, but they must be approached with considerable caution. The conquistadors were frequently concerned with justifying their conduct, securing royal favour and establishing claims to wealth, land and authority. Consequently, descriptions of battles, enemy numbers, Indigenous behaviour and the supposed intentions of local rulers cannot always be accepted without qualification.

Innes’s narrative belongs to a period when the exploits of individual commanders generally received greater attention than the problems associated with the surviving documentary evidence. This does not necessarily invalidate his reconstruction of events, but it does mean that the reader should distinguish between what contemporary witnesses claimed occurred and what can reasonably be established through comparison with other sources. The familiar stories surrounding the conquest are often compelling precisely because they have been shaped and reshaped through successive generations of historical writing.

There is also the question of violence and its place within the conquest. The Spanish campaigns involved extraordinary brutality, including massacres, forced labour, the destruction of established political institutions and the appropriation of Indigenous wealth. These were not simply unfortunate consequences of otherwise conventional military operations, but formed part of a much wider process of imperial expansion. Nevertheless, it is equally important to avoid reducing the conquest to a simplistic confrontation between entirely homogeneous European and Indigenous populations. Both the Aztec and Inca empires had established their authority through warfare, political coercion and the incorporation of conquered peoples, while Indigenous responses to the Spanish varied considerably according to local circumstances and interests.

A critical history must therefore recognise the violence associated with Spanish colonial expansion without denying the complexity of the societies involved. It must also acknowledge that Indigenous peoples were active participants in these events rather than merely passive victims of European aggression.

The historiography of the conquest has developed considerably since Innes published his book. Subsequent scholarship has placed much greater emphasis upon Indigenous testimony, local political relationships, disease, environmental circumstances and the construction of the traditional conquest narrative. Historians such as Matthew Restall and Felipe Fernández-Armesto have challenged the familiar image of a handful of Europeans independently overthrowing powerful American empires, demonstrating the importance of examining the conquest through a much broader historical framework.

This does not mean that Innes’s work should be dismissed simply because it was written more than half a century ago. Historical writing is inevitably influenced by the questions, assumptions and available evidence of its own period, and older works frequently retain considerable value even when their interpretations have been superseded. Innes provides an accessible account of the principal events and personalities, while the book’s illustrations, maps and other visual material add considerably to its usefulness as an introduction to the subject.

From a military historical perspective, I would have welcomed a more sustained examination of Spanish organisation, the relationship between European and Indigenous fighting methods, the logistical problems associated with prolonged campaigning and the mechanisms through which relatively small invading forces were able to maintain their political and military influence. These matters are essential to understanding conquest as a process rather than simply a succession of dramatic encounters between prominent individuals.

Ultimately, The Conquistadors is a book that needs to be read with an appreciation of when it was written. Innes was an accomplished storyteller, and his ability to communicate the drama, uncertainty and human ambition associated with the Spanish conquest remains apparent. However, the emphasis upon the principal Spanish personalities and the conventional narrative of their achievements limits its usefulness as a comprehensive explanation of the destruction of the Aztec and Inca empires.

For readers approaching the subject for the first time, it provides an engaging introduction to the major events, while those already familiar with the history will find it more useful as an example of how the conquest was presented to a popular readership during the 1960s. It is not a substitute for more recent scholarship, particularly concerning Indigenous participation and the political circumstances that made Spanish expansion possible.

Nevertheless, I am pleased that I rescued this particular volume from the thrift shop. There is considerable pleasure in revisiting older historical works, not merely for the information they contain, but because they remind us that historical interpretation is continually developing. Innes tells the story of the conquistadors through the achievements and failures of remarkable individuals, whereas contemporary scholarship increasingly encourages us to examine the much larger and more complicated world in which those individuals operated.

As a work of historical narrative, it remains engaging and accessible; as a critical explanation of the conquest, it is necessarily limited by the historical approach of its time. It deserves a place on the bookshelf, although preferably alongside more recent studies that provide the Indigenous perspectives and broader political context necessary for a fuller understanding of these extraordinary and often devastating events.

Now, I have always admired tigers. Magnificent creatures, beautiful markings, extraordinary strength and a wonderfully confident attitude towards life. After all, when you weigh a couple of hundred kilograms, have teeth like carving knives and can remove someone’s arm with a casual swipe, there is very little reason to develop an inferiority complex.

SWMBO (She Who Must Be Obeyed), naturally, was keen to see them. I was equally enthusiastic, although for slightly different reasons. You see, there comes a time in every married man’s life when he realises that arguing with his wife is a completely pointless exercise. The tiger, on the other hand, might just have a fighting chance. So off we went.

One of the real highlights was the opportunity to actually pat a one month old tiger cub. Now, when someone mentions a one month old baby, you generally imagine something small, helpless and rather cuddly. Not this one! At just one month old, this magnificent little bundle of fur was already about the size of a fully grown capybara!

Having only recently been surrounded by capybaras, I was beginning to wonder whether everything in Thailand was considerably larger than the manufacturer’s specifications suggested.

The cub was absolutely gorgeous, with enormous paws, beautiful markings and the sort of innocent expression that makes you temporarily forget it will eventually grow into something capable of eating you. There is something quite extraordinary about being able to gently pat a tiger, particularly one so young. It was certainly not an experience we expected to have when we arrived in Phuket. Of course, I couldn’t help wondering what it would look like in another twelve months. Probably considerably less cuddly, with a much greater interest in discovering whether tourists taste like chicken.

And then there were the grown ups! There is something rather unsettling about standing close to an animal that could probably swallow your head without needing to chew. Particularly when it looks at you with the expression of someone considering whether lunch has arrived early.

Of course, SWMBO was completely unfazed.

I suspect the tigers recognised a fellow apex predator.

Indeed, while most people might worry about what would happen if a tiger became annoyed, I was more concerned about what would happen if Maree became annoyed with the tiger. My money would still be on Maree. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help contemplating the possibilities.Who knows? SWMBO might even become breakfast!

Unfortunately, the more I thought about it, the less likely this seemed. One stern look from Maree and the poor tiger would probably roll over, apologise and offer to do the dishes. And knowing my luck, I would end up having to rescue it.

The tigers themselves were magnificent, combining extraordinary beauty with the sort of effortless authority that comes from knowing nobody is going to tell you to get off the furniture. By the end of our visit, we had enjoyed another memorable Phuket experience, patted a baby tiger the size of a capybara, admired some truly spectacular animals and emerged with all our limbs still attached.

Even SWMBO survived. Which, I suppose, was just as well. After all, someone has to tell me what we’re doing tomorrow. And apparently, it isn’t going to be me! Guru Pig’s Phuket Adventures continue…

Thanks again to Open Ai for assistance with the pics.

There are certain things you expect to do on a holiday in Phuket. Visit beautiful beaches, enjoy some excellent Thai food, have a few drinks and generally do as little as possible. Then there are the things you never imagined doing, like going to a café to have a coffee with what can best be described as an oversized guinea pig with absolutely no ambition in life.
Welcome to the Capybara Café!

Now, for those unfamiliar with capybaras, imagine a guinea pig that has spent far too much time at the buffet, grown to the size of a small pig and developed the personality of a retired public servant who has decided that nothing, absolutely nothing, is worth getting excited about. And there we were, paying good money to meet them!

Capybaras are apparently the world’s largest rodents, although nobody seems to have told them. They wander about with the relaxed confidence of creatures that know perfectly well they are the main attraction and that the humans are merely visiting staff. They also have an extraordinary talent for looking completely unimpressed. You can approach them, admire them, photograph them and generally make a complete fool of yourself trying to attract their attention. In return, you might receive a slow blink, a twitch of the nose or, if you are particularly fortunate, the sort of look normally reserved for someone who has interrupted an afternoon nap.

I rather admired their attitude. Here were animals that had somehow managed to turn eating, sleeping and doing absolutely nothing into a successful tourist industry. No meetings, no deadlines, no responsibilities and, best of all, people actually bring them food. I have clearly made some poor career choices.

Of course, the real entertainment was watching the humans. Grown adults, ourselves included, behaving like excited five year olds because a giant rodent had wandered within touching distance. Cameras appeared, conversations became increasingly ridiculous and everyone seemed delighted whenever one of the furry celebrities acknowledged their existence. Meanwhile, the capybaras carried on with their important business of being capybaras. By the end of the visit, I had developed considerable respect for these magnificent creatures. They have perfected the art of relaxation to a level that even the most experienced Australian retiree could only dream of achieving.

So, if you ever find yourself in Phuket and fancy something a little different, a visit to the Capybara Café is certainly worth considering. Just don’t expect the capybaras to be particularly impressed that you’ve come all that way to see them. They have food, somewhere comfortable to sleep and a steady stream of tourists willing to pay for the privilege of admiring them.

Frankly, they’ve got life worked out better than the rest of us! And I am now seriously considering becoming a capybara. The only problem is that Maree would probably insist I still do the dishes.

Thanks to Open AI for help with the pic. Photios by the author.

Another highlight of our travels was Wat Chalong, one of the island’s oldest, largest and most revered Buddhist temples.

Officially known as Wat Chaiyathararam, the temple is situated in the southern part of Phuket and has been an important centre of Buddhist worship for almost two centuries. While Phuket is perhaps best known for its beaches, tropical scenery and bustling tourist attractions, places such as Wat Chalong offer an opportunity to appreciate the island’s rich cultural and spiritual heritage.

Our first impression was of the extraordinary beauty of the temple complex. Its buildings are richly decorated with elaborate golden ornamentation, colourful tiled roofs, intricate carvings and traditional Thai architectural details. The combination of brilliant reds, golds and whites creates a striking appearance, while the sweeping rooflines and finely decorated gables reflect the craftsmanship and religious traditions that have shaped Thai temple architecture over generations.

The centrepiece of the complex is the magnificent Phra Mahathat Chedi, a richly decorated pagoda rising approximately 60 metres above the surrounding grounds. Built to enshrine a sacred relic traditionally believed to be a fragment of the Buddha’s bone, the structure is both an architectural achievement and an important place of pilgrimage.

Inside, the beautifully decorated walls contain paintings depicting episodes from the Buddha’s life, while numerous Buddha images provide opportunities for prayer and contemplation. The upper levels also offer impressive views across the surrounding temple grounds and the hills of southern Phuket.

However, Wat Chalong is much more than a collection of beautiful buildings. Its history is closely connected with one of the most turbulent periods in Phuket’s nineteenth century past. During the 1800s, Phuket was an important centre of tin mining, an industry that attracted large numbers of Chinese workers and contributed greatly to the island’s prosperity. Yet the growth of the mining industry also brought social tensions, competition and occasional violence.

In 1876, serious unrest involving Chinese mining communities and secret societies spread across Phuket, threatening the safety of the local population. During these disturbances, the temple’s respected abbot, Luang Pho Chaem, became an important figure in protecting and assisting the surrounding community. Together with another revered monk, Luang Pho Chuang, he provided spiritual guidance and assistance to those affected by the violence.

According to local tradition, Luang Pho Chaem also blessed pieces of cloth that villagers wore for protection, believing that the monk’s spiritual power would help safeguard them during the conflict. Such accounts form an important part of Phuket’s historical memory, reflecting the close relationship between Buddhist religious leadership and the wider community.

Luang Pho Chaem’s contribution was subsequently recognised during the reign of King Chulalongkorn, Rama V, and he remains one of the most respected religious figures in Phuket’s history.

Today, visitors can pay their respects to images of these revered monks, whose continuing importance is evident in the offerings and acts of devotion made by worshippers. For us, one of the most interesting aspects of Wat Chalong was the contrast between its popularity as a tourist destination and its continuing role as a living religious institution. Despite the steady flow of visitors, the temple remains a place where local people come to pray, make offerings, seek blessings and observe Buddhist traditions. Incense, flowers, gold leaf and the quiet gestures of worshippers serve as reminders that this is not simply an architectural monument but a place of genuine spiritual significance.

We were particularly fortunate to have the assistance of our Grab driver, Laor, who proved to be an exceptionally knowledgeable and informative guide. Rather than simply dropping us at the temple and leaving us to explore, she took the time to explain the significance of the various religious practices and helped us understand the appropriate steps involved in paying our respects to the Buddha.

With Laor’s patient guidance, Maree and I were able to approach these traditions with a much greater understanding of their meaning and importance. It was a particularly rewarding experience, allowing us to do more than simply admire the temple’s magnificent architecture and instead participate, in a small but meaningful way, in the customs that remain central to Thai Buddhist life. What might otherwise have been another interesting sightseeing stop became something considerably more personal and memorable. We were especially grateful to Laor for sharing her knowledge so generously and ensuring that we approached these important religious traditions with the respect they deserve.

It was also a reminder of how much a knowledgeable local person can contribute to a holiday. Sometimes the most memorable experiences come not simply from the places we visit, but from the people who help us understand them.

The occasional sound of firecrackers, set off as part of thanksgiving and devotional practices, also provides a rather unexpected contrast to the peaceful surroundings.

The weather was somewhat overcast, but this did little to detract from the experience. The subdued skies provided a beautiful contrast to the richly coloured roofs and golden decorations, allowing the intricate architectural details to stand out against the surrounding greenery.What particularly impressed us was the care and craftsmanship evident throughout the complex. Almost everywhere we looked there was another elaborate carving, decorated roof, Buddha image or architectural feature worthy of closer inspection.

It would have been easy to spend considerably longer simply wandering around and appreciating the details.

There is something deeply satisfying about visiting places where history, architecture and living traditions come together so naturally. Wat Chalong is not merely a reminder of Phuket’s past. It remains part of the island’s cultural identity and continues to occupy an important place in the lives of its people.

Our visit provided a wonderful contrast to some of our other Phuket adventures, from the relaxed capybaras to the rather more formidable residents of Tiger Park.

Here the attractions were of an entirely different kind, offering beauty, history and an opportunity for quiet reflection.

Wat Chalong is undoubtedly one of Phuket’s most impressive cultural landmarks and a place well worth visiting, not simply for its magnificent architecture, but for the remarkable history and traditions that lie behind it.

It was another memorable part of our Phuket holiday and a reminder that there is so much more to this beautiful island than its beaches and resorts.

Peter Rees’s The Other Anzacs: Nurses at War, 1914–1918 is an important contribution to the literature of Australian involvement in the First World War, principally because it examines a group whose experiences have frequently been overshadowed by the familiar narratives of the infantryman, the Light Horse and the battles that have come to dominate the national memory of the conflict. By concentrating upon Australian military nurses, Rees broadens our understanding of what constituted wartime service and challenges the tendency to regard the experience of the Anzacs as an almost exclusively masculine undertaking. His account is both a history of nursing during the war and an examination of the personal experiences of women who found themselves confronting its consequences at remarkably close quarters.

The Australian Army Nursing Service occupied an unusual position within the military establishment. Its members were indispensable to the treatment and recovery of wounded and sick servicemen, yet their professional responsibilities did not necessarily translate into the recognition or authority enjoyed by their male counterparts. Rees explores this contradiction through the experiences of individual nurses, demonstrating that their contribution extended considerably beyond the comforting image of women tending wounded soldiers. They were trained professionals working under conditions that demanded considerable medical knowledge, physical endurance and emotional resilience, frequently in circumstances where the available resources were inadequate for the demands placed upon them.

One of the book’s strengths is its geographical scope, which takes the reader beyond the familiar Australian battlefields to the hospitals, casualty clearing stations and medical facilities in which the consequences of military operations became painfully apparent. Egypt, Lemnos, France and other locations emerge as important parts of the Australian wartime experience, reminding us that the history of a campaign cannot be understood solely through the movements of fighting formations. The wounded did not simply disappear from the battlefield once they had been evacuated, and the medical services constituted an enormous organisation whose effectiveness had a direct bearing upon the capacity of armies to continue fighting.

Rees is particularly effective when examining the circumstances in which nurses worked during the Gallipoli campaign. The inadequacies of medical preparation, the difficulties of evacuation and the enormous numbers of casualties placed extraordinary demands upon the medical services. The experiences of nurses on Lemnos provide a useful corrective to accounts that concentrate almost entirely upon events on the peninsula itself, demonstrating that the consequences of operational decisions were frequently borne by those who had little opportunity to influence them. The shortages of equipment, difficulties of maintaining sanitary conditions and relentless arrival of casualties illustrate the extent to which medical arrangements struggled to keep pace with the realities of modern warfare.

The book also succeeds in demonstrating that the hardships experienced by nurses were not confined to their professional responsibilities. Disease, exhaustion, uncomfortable living conditions and the psychological consequences of treating severely wounded men were persistent features of their service. Rees makes effective use of personal accounts to illustrate these experiences, allowing the reader to appreciate the cumulative burden of nursing without reducing the women concerned to passive witnesses of suffering. Their determination to continue working, often under conditions that would have overwhelmed less experienced personnel, emerges as one of the defining characteristics of the narrative.

An especially significant aspect of the narrative is its treatment of the nurses’ exposure to danger. The sinking of the transport Marquette in October 1915, with the loss of New Zealand nurses among the casualties, demonstrates that medical personnel were not necessarily protected from the violence of war simply because they were not combatants. Similarly, the experiences of nurses serving near the Western Front illustrate the vulnerability of medical establishments to artillery fire and aerial bombardment. Rees uses these episodes to challenge conventional distinctions between the dangers encountered by fighting soldiers and those faced by the women responsible for their treatment. The distinction between combatant and noncombatant remained important in military organisation, but it did not always correspond to the realities of wartime service.

The principal strength of Rees’s historical method lies in his extensive use of diaries, correspondence and personal recollections. These sources provide an immediacy that would be difficult to reproduce through official records alone, while allowing individual personalities to emerge from what might otherwise have become a rather impersonal account of military medical administration. The nurses were not an undifferentiated collection of selfless women, but individuals possessing their own ambitions, frustrations, prejudices and expectations. Their relationships with one another, their patients and the military authorities reveal a professional community attempting to maintain its standards within an institution that did not always appreciate the difficulties of its work.

Nevertheless, this reliance upon personal testimony also presents certain historiographical difficulties. Diaries and letters are invaluable sources, but they are not necessarily representative of the experiences of an entire organisation, and their survival often reflects circumstances unrelated to the historical significance of the individuals who produced them. Those nurses who maintained detailed records, possessed the opportunity to correspond regularly or subsequently preserved their papers inevitably receive greater attention than women whose experiences left a less substantial documentary record. Consequently, the reader should distinguish between the experiences of the particular nurses whose lives Rees reconstructs and the wider history of Australian and New Zealand military nursing.

There is also a tendency for the accumulation of personal experiences to take precedence over sustained analysis of the institutions within which the nurses operated. Rees provides considerable information about the conditions encountered by his subjects, but a more systematic examination of the military medical establishment would have strengthened the relationship between individual experiences and the broader history of wartime medical administration. Questions concerning the allocation of personnel, the distribution of medical resources, professional hierarchies and the relationship between nursing authorities and military commanders warrant consideration beyond their immediate consequences for particular individuals.

This is particularly relevant when examining the recurring shortages and administrative difficulties encountered by the medical services. It is relatively straightforward to establish that nurses were frequently required to work under inadequate conditions, but considerably more difficult to determine whether those circumstances resulted from failures of planning, shortages of transport, operational necessity or the inherent limitations of contemporary medical practice. A more sustained examination of these distinctions would have provided a stronger analytical framework for understanding the relationship between military operations and the medical organisations responsible for dealing with their consequences.

Another limitation concerns the book’s position within the wider historiography of Australian military nursing. Rees was not the first historian to recognise the importance of these women, and the subject had already received substantial attention from writers such as Jan Bassett and Ruth Rae. His contribution is therefore better understood as bringing an important body of historical experience to a wider readership rather than recovering a subject that had previously escaped historical investigation altogether. This distinction matters because the development of military nursing history forms part of a broader reassessment of women’s participation in war, including their professional status, their relationship with military authority and the consequences of service for their subsequent lives.

The book might also have benefited from a more sustained comparative approach. Although the Australian and New Zealand experience provides its principal focus, the nurses operated within a much larger imperial medical organisation, and their professional circumstances cannot be entirely separated from those of their British and other Commonwealth counterparts. A closer examination of similarities and differences in recruitment, training, working conditions and professional recognition would have helped establish which aspects of their experiences were distinctive and which reflected the wider organisation of military nursing during the First World War.

The question of gender is particularly important in this respect. The nurses entered an institution whose authority structures were overwhelmingly masculine, and their professional expertise did not necessarily protect them from restrictions imposed by prevailing assumptions about women’s proper place within military society. Rees provides material from which these tensions can be identified, although a more explicit examination of gender and institutional power would have added considerable depth to the narrative. The nurses were not simply women performing difficult work under exceptional circumstances, but members of a developing profession whose wartime responsibilities exposed contradictions between their recognised competence and their limited institutional authority.

There is, moreover, an important distinction between recognising the courage of military nurses and understanding the historical significance of their professional work. Accounts of military nursing can sometimes become dominated by the language of sacrifice, compassion and endurance, with the unintended consequence that the women concerned are celebrated principally for their personal virtues rather than their medical expertise. Rees generally avoids this difficulty through his attention to the practical demands of nursing, although the emotional force of his narrative occasionally threatens to overshadow the more technical and organisational dimensions of their contribution.

The experiences of the nurses after the Armistice provide another important dimension to the book. Returning to civilian life did not necessarily bring an immediate end to the consequences of wartime service, and the physical and emotional demands of military nursing could continue to influence their lives long after the fighting had ceased. Questions concerning official recognition, employment opportunities and access to the benefits available to returned servicemen demonstrate that the inequalities experienced during the war did not simply disappear with demobilisation. The difficulties encountered by some nurses during the subsequent decades also suggest that the public celebration of wartime service was not always accompanied by adequate material support for those who had performed it.

From the perspective of military history, the book makes an important contribution by directing attention towards the consequences of battle rather than concentrating exclusively upon its conduct. The traditional operational narrative generally follows the decisions of commanders, the movements of formations and the immediate results of engagements, whereas the medical perspective reveals another dimension of military activity in which the consequences of those decisions continued to unfold long after the fighting had ended. The casualties recorded in an operational history represented individual human beings whose survival, recovery or death depended upon an extensive medical organisation, and Rees provides a valuable reminder that the effectiveness of that organisation deserves consideration alongside the performance of the fighting troops.

Ultimately, The Other Anzacs is more successful as a work of narrative and social history than as a comprehensive institutional study of military nursing. Its considerable achievement lies in reconstructing the experiences of Australian and New Zealand women whose wartime responsibilities were demanding, frequently dangerous and essential to the functioning of the military forces they served. Its limitations arise principally from the emphasis placed upon personal testimony and the comparatively restricted attention given to the broader administrative, professional and comparative questions that those experiences raise.

These reservations do not diminish the importance of the subject or the value of Rees’s contribution. Rather, they establish the distinction between a history designed to recover individual experiences and one intended to provide a systematic explanation of the organisation within which those experiences occurred. Rees has produced an accessible and substantial account that places military nurses within the wider history of the First World War, while providing ample material for readers interested in the relationship between warfare, medicine and Australian society.

For those accustomed to reading operational histories of Gallipoli and the Western Front, the book offers a different perspective upon familiar campaigns, one in which the immediate consequences of battle assume greater prominence than the tactical decisions that produced them. It also serves as a reminder that the history of the Australian and New Zealand contribution to the First World War cannot be adequately reconstructed through the experiences of combat troops alone.

The value of The Other Anzacs lies not simply in acknowledging the courage of the nurses, but in demonstrating that their experiences form an integral part of the military history of the First World War rather than a supplementary chapter in its social history. Rees provides a substantial foundation for that understanding, even if a more rigorous examination of military medical administration and professional nursing would have strengthened the analytical dimensions of his work.

Written with Jeff Apter, Brian Corrigan’s memoir brings together military service, private security work and an operation in Lebanon that ended in imprisonment.

What happens when military training and professional confidence meet circumstances that cannot be controlled? That question provides a compelling way to approach Brian Corrigan’s In Harm’s Way. Its subject matter combines the immediate dangers of an overseas operation with the uncertainty of captivity, inviting reflection on courage, judgement and responsibility.

The memoir centres on a 2006 operation in Lebanon to retrieve Melissa Hawach’s two children. Although the children were reunited with their mother, Corrigan and another team member were detained and spent approximately three months in prison. The book also covers Corrigan’s service in East Timor and his work as a private security contractor in Iraq, placing the Lebanon episode within a broader account of his professional life.

The most striking aspect of this premise is the gap between achieving an objective and controlling its consequences. The operation accomplished its immediate purpose, but that outcome did not ensure the participants’ safe departure. This makes the story interesting beyond its elements of danger and adventure. It raises a difficult question: how should success be judged when an action achieves its intended result while exposing those involved to serious harm?

Corrigan’s experience also creates a powerful tension between competence and vulnerability. Military training prepares people to assess threats, make decisions and act under pressure. Imprisonment sharply restricts those abilities. Someone accustomed to taking action must adapt to a situation in which other people determine the conditions of daily life. That reversal gives the memoir considerable potential as an exploration of identity under pressure.

The book’s descriptions emphasise the role of discipline and military preparation in Corrigan’s survival. This is an intriguing theme because training can offer more than practical skills. It can provide routines, concentration and a sense of purpose when circumstances become unpredictable. The prison account therefore promises an opportunity to consider how professional habits help a person endure the loss of freedom.

At the same time, resilience deserves careful examination. Survival involves circumstances and relationships as well as individual determination. By this I mean that surviving imprisonment can involve both personal strength and support from others. Corrigan’s training and discipline may have helped him cope, but these issues we not explored.

For example, the relevant questions would be whether he acknowledged emotional support, practical assistance or moments of fear and uncertainty. These are what I hoped would discover but was sadly disappointed.

The Lebanon operation also introduces questions of personal responsibility. Reuniting children with their mother provides an emotionally compelling purpose, but a thoughtful reader would like to know how decisions were made and justified. Intentions, methods and consequences each deserve consideration. The memoir’s critical interest lies partly in how Corrigan explains his choices and whether his retrospective account allows room for ambiguity and competing perspectives. Alas these were only just touched on.

His movement from military service into private security work adds another layer. Skills developed within the armed forces may remain central to a person’s identity long after formal service ends. Yet applying those skills in a different setting changes the surrounding structures of authority and accountability. Corrigan’s experiences offer a basis for thinking about how military professionalism carries into civilian assignments and how individuals understand their obligations in those circumstances.

As a memoir, In Harm’s Way also needs to be read with attention to perspective. Corrigan’s participation gives his account the potential immediacy of personal testimony. He can describe his own perceptions and motivations in ways that an outside observer cannot. However, memory is selective, and hindsight shapes explanations. Readers should distinguish between personal experience and a complete account of everyone involved.

The collaboration with Jeff Apter is relevant here too. Turning lived experience into a published memoir involves choices about structure, emphasis and explanation. What can be said is that the book’s subject offers a strong foundation for a narrative that connects action with reflection.

My provisional rating is 3.5 out of 5.

For readers interested in military memoirs, survival accounts and the responsibilities attached to operating in dangerous environments, In Harm’s Way presents a thought-provoking subject. Its central experience invites a deeper consideration of what courage means when the ability to act gives way to the need to endure.

The combination of military experience, intervention and captivity gives the book considerable thematic interest. Its premise is especially compelling where it exposes the limits of preparation: expertise can help someone confront danger, but it cannot guarantee control over what follows.

Not one I would recommend.

We’ve arrived in Thailand safe and sound… just a day late!

Our first attempt involved a five-hour flight from Melbourne to Melbourne. Lovely place, but we’d already been there.

Thankfully, on the second attempt, the flaps agreed to travel internationally.

We’re now ready for sunshine, good food and a cocktail. Possibly two—we have yesterday’s holiday to catch up on!

Thanks again to Open AI for help with the pic.

Our nine-hour flight to Thailand was reduced to just five hours. Incredible, I thought. Finally, an airline exceeding expectations.

Unfortunately, our departure city and our arrival city were both Melbourne.

We’d boarded with dreams of tropical beaches, cocktails and affordable massages. Five hours later, we were back where we started, having enjoyed a very expensive preview of sitting down.

Apparently, a warning light involving the plane’s flaps meant we couldn’t land in Thailand.

Hang on a minute.

We couldn’t land in Thailand… but we could land in Melbourne?

Were these Australian flaps? Did they only work locally? Had we forgotten to activate international roaming?

I’m sure there was a perfectly sensible aviation explanation. Unfortunately, I was operating on airline coffee and a holiday that had just been cancelled by a light bulb.

The captain thanked us for our patience. This was generous, as I hadn’t brought any. I’d packed for Thailand.

On the bright side, there was no language barrier, I already understood the currency, and my phone connected immediately.

Would I recommend Melbourne? Absolutely.

Would I recommend flying five hours from Melbourne to get there? Perhaps take the tram instead it would be quicker.

Thanks to Open AI for help with the pics.