Japan to "Save" the International Whaling Commission

Dear Jennifer.

I am sending this to all the Australian addresses I can find.

In 1943 pure evil reigned in the world. The whole world knew about Hitler. Only a few knew about Oda, the Jap who taught them how to kill themselves. If you are a Christian and you know about the presence of evil, you will know that Hitler had the powers from the ages and knew the role he would play. Oda also knew the powers of the ages and drew upon them to control his army. He taught the officers at the academy the ceremony they must perform to reach the other side, a hero.

God has his soldiers and truly believes in war to fight the forces of evil. One of Gods soldiers rose to the occasion and trained himself from birth to work with God to rid the earth of evil. Gods wrath formed in him. When he met Oda face to face he drew upon that wrath to rid the world of evil once and for all.

The devil found a way to outsmart God again. He concocted a lie and pretended the second evilist person on earth should go down in history as a brave hero instead of a shivering coward.

The story of his death must be revealed because the Japs arrogance must be put in its place.

The story is 100% true. Myself, Donna, my sister Jan and brothers Peter and Paul Hill are still living through the aftermath. I wrote this story originally as part of a family history for my daughter.

I’ll start it of with a quote from Harry S. Truman: “When even one American-who has done nothing wrong-is forced by fear to shut his mind and close his mouth-then all Americans are in peril”

On July the 4th my father would have turned one hundred, if he was still alive. His memory must be honoured.

George Thomas Gordon Hill, born on the 4th of July 1908. The great grandson of George Thomas Hill, who came to Tasmania in chains on the Atlas in 1832. He was born at a place they called the Trap Hut. In the municipality of Bothwell, Tasmania. He was the seventh child born to Lena and John Hill. Jock as he was known by, taught all the boys how to trap and hunt from the age they could walk out of the house. By the time Dad was eight years old they had twelve children.

It was 1915, The Great War had started. All the men had left the farms to go and fight. Jock was a tough hard man who ruled with a iron fist. Times were hard and there wasn’t much money to go around. After learning the basics of English and Maths, Dad left school. Jock secured, Dad and his older brother Jack, work on one of the local farms.

Dad became a farm hand. He loved to work and did the work of a man, from sun up to sundown and sometimes late into the night. He wasn’t spared anything, the work was back breaking. He learnt everything there was to know about working a farm and farming livestock.

Being only a little kid, he mucked up often. There was always someone to dish out punishment and he copped a flogging many times with the words, “That’ll teach you”.

Unfortunately, Dad never did learn not to muck up and luckily they didn’t break his spirit. In those days you grew up fast because if you could do the work of a man. You were allowed to drink like one.

Saturday morning, everyone would clean themselves up and go into town. First it was off to the shop to buy the form guide, then into the pub to study the form. (Dad knew every thoroughbred racehorse’s blood line all the way back to the beginning. So reading the form guide was like reacquainting himself with life long friends). Next off to the bookmakers or the SP bookie to put a bet on the gee gees (or donkeys if they lost). Then into the public bar for another beer. This sequence happened right up until the last race was run. If dad won big he would go in and shout the bar. Everyone would cheer. Dads head would swell. It wouldn’t take long until everyone was blind rotten drunk. The piano would fire up and soon everyone was singing at the top of their voices.

Closing time came too quick and the call for last drinks was dreaded. After swilling down the last round, they stumbled out. Then staggered around to the stables to find their horse. Many private parties were organised and it was back to someone’s house, where there would be dancing and singing and the odd game of gin rummy. If they happened to run out of drinks, they went to the many local, sly grog shops, which operated out of someone’s back lane. In the early hours of the morning everyone set of for home. All the sleeping drunks were lifted on their horses and set of in the right direction. Dad said, “Many times my horse took me home while I slept on top. Only stopping so I could open the gates. If only I could have taught him how to open a gate”.

He grew up to be 6 feet tall, charismatic, lean and muscular, a cheeky grin, a larrikin character and a twinkle in his eye. He grew up like all the kids in the bush, a horse and dog his best friends, a rifle in his hand and a shotgun slung in the saddle. He was an excellent shot, he never missed. He didn’t know how to. He worked hard and played hard, he was a wild spirit who broke horses and could ride like the wind. Along with learning how to drink, he learnt how to fight. He often said he was independent and had an independent spirit, after all he was born on the 4th of July.

He had strong role models who taught him what it was to be a man. The only way to be a man in those days was to go to war. Every able bodied man that lived in Tasmania had gone to war. The boys looked up to them and saw them as shining heroes. He was taught, war would either make or break you. He was told about cowards and what the community thought of them. Going to war was the only way to prove you weren’t a coward. It didn’t matter how many fights you won at the pub, nothing could prove you weren’t a coward except going to a foreign country and facing the enemy. Then you either had to die or come home a hero. He worked as a farm hand at various places around the central highlands until the second world war broke out.

He couldn’t wait, he was busting to go, here was his chance to go to war just like his father who was a Bushman in the Boar War. Dad was proud of what is father did, he wanted his chance to do the same, no longer did he have to rest on his father’s laurels, now he had the chance to be the man he wanted to be. He went into Bothwell and enlisted on the 20th of October 1939 and was given the number TX137.

He said he wasn’t much good at reading and writing. It was the infantry for him. He wasn’t officer material anyway.

Off to basic training at the new Brighton barracks. Where they were drilled in marching and taught how to thrust a bayonet into a Hessian bag stuffed with straw. Dad ever eager stepped forward when volunteers were called for. He soon learnt never volunteer for anything. Let them choose your fate, don’t choose it for yourself. They all whinged training was a waste of time. They wanted to get to war and get it over and done with. All this mucking around wasn’t getting them anywhere.

Dad was thirty one years old. One of the oldest in the group and a bit set in his ways. That was knocked out of him real quick. Most of the men hadn’t cut their mothers apron strings yet and were all a bit green around the gills. Dad wasn’t much better. He’d been in the bush all his life. However they needed a bit of guidance so Dad decided he would take them all under his wing and teach them how to drink and have a bet.

On the 9th of December 1939, HQ, HQ Coy and A coy, marched out of Brighton camp, en route to Rutherford, New South Wales, where they joined B, C, and D Coy. The Canecutters, the big men from North Queensland. They were all banded together and became the 18th brigade.

The Tasmanians and the Queenslanders hated each other and spirited competition aided the Tasmanians obvious lack of coordination.

Ending up at Ingleburn they joined the 2/12 Battalion that was formed a couple of weeks prior.

On the 5th of May, 1940 they embarked on the ‘Queen Mary’ for the Middle East. Meeting up with a convoy of British and Australian warships at Freetown, Sierra Leone. On the 8th of June, 1940 plans were changed due to Hitler’s Army capturing France and Mussolini taking their side and joining in.

The Mother Country needed help urgently so they all sailed straight to Gourock, Scotland, arriving on the 16th of June, 1940. Then a quick train trip down to Salisbury, England where they stayed until orders were to sail to the Middle East.

On the 17th of November, 1940 they left, sailing all the way to the bottom of Africa and up the east side. They arrived at Alexandria, Egypt, on New Years Eve, 1940 and camped at Ikingi Maryut.

After thorough planning and fine tuning, they saw their first action at Giarabub, on the 19th of March, 1941, where HQ Coy fought along side the 2/9 Australian Infantry Battalion and successfully captured the Italian garrisoned town.

The battalion left Ikingi Maryut on the 5th of April, 1941 and arrived at Tobruk, Libya and reinforced the 9th Division. There George Thomas Hill (he dropped Gordon), the farm boy from the guts of Tasmania became one of the Rats that Rommel couldn’t shake.

Dad kept most of what happened in Tobruk to himself but every now and then he would gloss over parts. By the cheeky grin on his face when he related his stories and by his character, you knew he was always up to something.

There he earned the nickname Smokey, from what he called, “Trading as The Black-market man”. He traded the tobacco and rum the non-smokers and non-drinkers didn’t use. He built himself up a nice little business, even bartering with the locals and swapping this for that. It was a role he fell into by accident. What started out as scrounging smokes for his cobbers, turned into a full time business where he was relied upon to deliver.

He spoke of great pride and fondness of his time in Tobruk. He said , “It was the adventure of a lifetime”. Except when he thought of the Poms and how they treated the Australians. He would say, “Those pommy bastards. They think they are better than us but we showed them. They couldn’t have won the bloody war without us”.

He also learnt to whistle. The soldiers whistled tunes whenever they marched. They whistled Waltzing Matilda to let everyone know the Australians had arrived. From then on Dad whistled everywhere he went.

He said, “The worst thing about the place is the, ‘bloody sand’, it gets into everything”.
That led him to talk of his feet. During basic training he learnt the most important thing was to take care of his rifle and look after his feet and he was glad he listened. Sand in your boots was a problem. Blisters were a problem. They led to infections and severe complications. Dad was proud of his feet. He said, “You cant get into the Army if you have flat feet. High arches mean I can walk forever and never get sore feet. People with flat feet can’t walk long distances. So they are no good on long marches”. He explained, how he would take his boots off any chance he got. Empty the sand out and let his feet ‘breathe’ (the opposite happened in New Guinea. Where the whole place was a mud pit. That was worse. He had to dry out his socks and feet, otherwise his feet would start to rot).

The 2/12th assisted in the defence of Tobruk until they heard the sound of bagpipes. They couldn’t believe ithey had anticipated this moment for so long. They never envisaged a bunch of ‘bloody Scots’. That truly tickled their fancy. At least they could talk to them, being kindred spirits against the Poms.

On the nights of the 26th and 27th of August 1941, the 2/12th pulled out. Leaving this time for Palestine. For more training, before assisting in the hold of Syria in late September. They returned to Palestine in early January, for even more training.

The Aussies were itching to get home. They heard how Toe Joe (Togo Hideki, Japanese prime minister and war minister), was on Australia’s doorstep. They had no idea what was happening at home. Mostly they imagined Australia was overrun by Japs and the whole population was enslaved. The mail was severely censored. They got tiny snippets of information and tried to piece it together. They had no idea what the Yanks were doing and prayed they had come to Australia’s rescue. All they did was worry about home and wonder, what’s the point of fighting in someone else’s war half way around the world when we have a war of your own to fight at home. They were all battle hardened and were desperate to get to New Guinea to help the conscripts.

The officers had an uphill battle trying to keep their moral up Until they set sail for Australia from Suez on the 12th of February, 1942. Sailing via Bombay. Singing all the way home they touched Australian soil at Adelaide on the 28th of March 1942.

All the debts were tallied in Smokey’s little black book and on realising how disgusting it was, to be owed money by his cobbers. He threw it overboard.

On the 17th of August 1942 they Arrived in Milne Bay, Papua and between the 31st of August and the 4th of September, 1942 they battled with the Japs and cleaned them up.

Somewhere along the line, Dad was given a promotion to corporal and being an excellent shot was made a sniper. Dad and Roy Swindells, a mate he grew up with, took the assignment of sitting in a tree, keeping an eye on a Japanese unoccupied airport.

Dad was given the job he was born to do. It was the one thing he had done his whole life, right up to this point. All the months spent in the bush, just him and his gun, he was being mentally prepared to outlast this mission.

They both chose a tree on opposite sides of the airport and settled in. The trees they chose had a view that stretched as far as the eye could see. There Dad sat for three months, his hands wrapped around his rifle and his body wrapped in mosquito netting. His beard had grown down to his chest. He lived on bully beef and dry biscuits and water was caught during rainfalls, which happened every day.

Night and day he stared out into the distance and learned to sleep with his eyes open, ever watchful. On the 19th January, 1943, he was in the middle of one of those sleeps when he heard voices.

Three Jap soldiers making for the airport, they were coming his way and they were close. He picked off the soldiers. Then climbed down to have a scrounge around and see what he could scavenge off them. He was going about his business, when he heard a noise. He turned around to find a Japanese officer pointing his pistol at him. The officer fired his pistol, the bullet landing in Dad’s throat. (He said, “It felt like a bee sting”).

The officer had a look of shock and confusion on his face. He went ghostly pale and started shaking like a leaf. Dad grabbed the pistol out of his hand. Switched it from single shot to automatic and then fired the magazine into him.

By this time, Dad realising he had been shot and realising who the “Fat pig of an officer was with his immaculate uniform, looking like he just stepped out of a barbers shop”. Dad flew into a rage.

He laid his boots into him. That wasn’t enough. He started jumping on him with all the force he could muster. All the while seething through his teeth, he told him for all hell to hear, “You yella bellied, fucken coward. I’ll teach you never, never, you yellow, yellow, yellow. Lily livered, gutless jumped up fucken piss weak fucken coward,…………….you yellow, yella bellied,………. cunt of a whore”.

He jumped on the bullet-ridden officer. Then continued to stomp on him until he ran out of energy. The Jap was a mangled mess. All his bones were broken, his flesh reduced to pulp.

The blood from Dads bullet hole was dripping down his beard and soaked his shirt. The sight of his own blood caused him to come back to earth. Dad kicked him a few more times. Souvenired the Japs pistol then went to get help for his wound. He eventually found the glorious Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels who stretchered him out.

The 2/12th returned home on 10 March 1943. Dad came back to Tasmania to convalesce at the Calvary Hospital. There he fell in love with all the nurses and suffered the wrath of the matron. The doctors wouldn’t remove the bullet; it was too close to his jugular vein. So there the bullet remained, just under the skin. It stayed in his neck for the rest of his life, sometimes giving him a bit of trouble, especially when he got angry, his neck muscles would tighten and the bullet would stick out. If he got too angry it would press on his jugular vein and restrict the blood to his head. That was enough to calm him down. Then he would have to sit down and gently massage it back to the right spot.

He never spoke of any other deaths. When asked how many of the enemy did he kill. He said, “I did my bit”.

The impression I got from him was, he killed a lot of men. He said, “I was a bloody good shot”. None got to him like that Japanese officer.

Dad not one to hide his bushel under a tree. On the way out of the jungle boasted to anyone who could hear. Word spread like wildfire, reaching the ears of all the boys in Bothwell.

As he lay wounded. Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Sydney Wilfred Arnold came to him with his nose stuck up in the air and a plum in his mouth, and said, “The Army doesn’t like the way you treated the corpse of the Jap. They treat us barbarically but we have to treat the enemy with dignity. It shows we are not like them”.

With that Dad was instantly demoted back to private. Arse Wipe Arnold saluted, turned around and walked out of the room with what looked like a pole shoved up his arse.

Lieutenant Colonel Arnold was recommended for an OBE on the 27th January 1943. Eight days after Dad was shot by the Jap. On the 29th May 1943 it was granted.

When Dad got better he went to sign up for duty and was sent before the top, top brass. He was excited. He knew it was a joke that he was demoted, they were finally going to give him some sort of medal and most of all the promotion, he’d worked hard for, keeping his nose clean and being a good soldier.

The General was instantly at ease with him and offered him a scotch and asked him to sit down.

What came next kept ringing in his ears over and over for the rest of his life. “When you joined the army you took an oath to King and Country. What I am asking you to do is take that oath for the rest of your life”. Dad said, “I will”. The General said, “You can never ever as long as you live breath a word to anyone about what you did”.

The General said “Thank you”, shook Dads hand, saluted him and said, “Good luck”.

Dad walked out of the office scratching his head, thinking, “I deserved a bloody medal, not a bloody demotion and he can shove his scotch up his arse”.

Next stop, pass the fitness test. Dad was fighting fit and ready to take on the world again.

The doctor wouldn’t have a bar of it. He said Dads hands were shaking. Dad said, “They are as steady as a brick”. The doctor said, “You are shell shocked”. Dad said, “I can still shoot bullseyes every time”. The doctor wouldn’t listen. With nothing else to do, he grabbed his kit and went to visit his mates at the Repat Hospital. There he asked everyone did they have any bullets for his pistol. After the visit he went to the nearest pub looking for bullets. Everyone shook their heads and said, “We’ve never seen one like it”.

Dad was officially discharged on the 23rd of March 1945. The 2/12 Battalion went back up without him and with the help of the, Yanks ‘Septic Tanks’, New guinea fell back in the hands of Australia. They then cleaned up Borneo and disbanded in, May, 1945.

He had fought from the first moment he heard about of war, all the way through, having a wild time, the time of his life until he got shot. He was disappointed he didn’t make it to the end unscathed but he was happy and proud, he did his bit.

He was strong before he went to war. He came back stronger. He was a Rat of Tobruk, he fought in New Guinea and that meant something.

All the boys from Bothwell kept the secret. Dads commanding officer had family living in Bothwell. Living in Bothwell were other officers of all ranks. Together they made sure the secret never got out. The boys were too scared to be seen together. Dad would come into town once a month to get supplies. The first thing he did was go around to his cobber, Neville Reynolds place to see if he was alright. After a two second visit Mr. Reynolds came out gave us a quick wave then ducked back inside. Dad quickly got in the car and drove off. Sometimes we saw him sitting on the front step looking sad. As soon as Dad came his face would light up. Besides Mr. Reynolds there was Leo Bannister, Vern Hayden, Lindsey Beard and Roy. These were Dads special cobbers along with others I regretfully have forgotten. Who only ever had the chance to get together on Anzac Day because any other time would have raised suspicion of some sort of collusion. What bothered Dad the most was they didn’t trust him, when he was a man of his word and so were the others.

Dad spoke of Roy. Roy was a good soldier. He was quick as lightning and could climb a tree quick in seconds flat (I imagined Tarzan flying through the jungle).

Dad always told us about stomping on the Jap and once in a moment of drunken clarity he let things slip. He blurted out, “What I did turned the war around”. I asked, “Are you a hero?”. He said, “I’m no hero. All the hero’s are still lying on the battlefield. They died protecting the rest of us. They are the hero’s. We were just plain lucky, not to get our bloody heads blown off”.

I knew he was covering up the heroics of the men that survived. I knew what they had, what it takes to survive. Dad had shown me, through his tenacity and mental strength, many times.

I saw it in the men that walked in the Anzac Day march. They had an inner strength that was as strong as 10 brick walls. They reacted at the speed of lightning. They were aware of their surroundings. They took control of their lives and all the lives around them. They all had a cheekiness that shone through. They all had a twinkle in their eyes that revealed a silent stealth like cunning. All wrapped up in a cocoon of graciousness and humility. They were part of a group that together, could rule the world.

Everywhere Dad went men would come up to him and shake his hand. When he went to the pub there would be free beer all day. Dad beamed with pride, here, today he was respected. Dad sat at the table with his cobbers that knew the truth. People came all day wanting to buy him a beer and thank him for doing his part. They never spoke of the Japs. Nobody dared mention them and if they did you could see the rage forming in them. They would raise their glasses and say, “Those bastard Japs, may they rot in hell”. The subject was quickly changed by someone saying, “Did you know such and such did this or that”. Always something larrikin in nature. Like going behind enemy lines and doing something stupid. Whenever a cobbers name was mentioned, they all raised their glassed and said, “Heres to …….a bloody top bloke”. Everyone was given a history lesson on Rommel or Hitler, although mostly the talk was about the camaraderie formed in Tobruk. If anyone asked Dad what he did in the war. He’d tell them the story of Smokey, The Black-market Man. The more they asked the more he embellished the story.

As the night wore on the alcohol brought out the singing. Everyone would stand around the piano singing old war time songs. By the end of the night Dad had his pockets full of money he had won betting on heads at two-up and his belly was full of free food and grog. He was on top of the world and after getting a few cases of Cascade Green Bitter Ale and a couple of bottles of Beenleigh rum. He would drive home singing all the way. He was proud of himself for what he did. He was a soldier. On duty for the rest of his life.

Dad had everything. He had travelled the world and conquered it and he walked not ten feet tall but twenty feet tall. Ten feet tall and bullet-proof would have been ok for the rest but he wasn’t bullet-proof.

The Jap was Major General Kesaku Oda, Commander of the South Sea Forces.

Yours Sincerely, Donna Mantoura, 3/68 Telopea Ave, Caringbah. NSW 2229.

Martin,

I was watching the proceedings as well via live Internet feed.

Your claims of hypocrisy are laughable.

Here´s the original ignobel article ..

http://www.fishupdate.com/news/fullstory.php/aid/2035/Ig_Nobel_Prize_awarded_for_fish_fart_research.html

and another link

http://www.odu.edu/sci/cqfe/in%20the%20news/news%203.htm

George,
The Swedish version's name is Farting for life!!!LOL

Makes you wonder how they carried out the research???

Svenska Dagbladet:

http://www.svd.se/dynamiskt/vetenskap/did_13001016.asp