PEACE DOESN’T COME EASY TO ALL VETERANS
SHOT while fighting the Taliban through a network of underground tunnels, former commando Paul McMahon briefly surfaced to check on a mate then charged back underground to continue fighting.
With a bullet lodged in his leg and pistol drawn, his hunt for the enemy was thwarted by grenade and gun fire — the hallmarks of the bloody Afghanistan war.
Focus on the enemy through the darkness was his sole purpose, on this day in 2012, as he combined with comrades from the Australian Army’s most elite squad.
Picking off men in white with Taliban links, Mr McMahon, 42 at the time, was suddenly showered in rubble; a grenade had blown in the tunnel roof.
All he could see was a narrow ventilation column hollowed through rock, but backtracking through the tunnel with bullets flying he found an escape.
Recounting this bloody vignette from 32 years of active service, Mr McMahon — unwillingly discharged in 2018 due to injury — is unemotional and unshaken.
His actions are a window into the DNA of a Digger, which permeates army ranks.
Never show signs of weakness, help your mates at all costs and maintain a dogged focus on the mission, regardless of injury or physical barrier, are the mantras.
These ideals were carried with Mr McMahon’s special operations colleague, Ryan, who when wounded overseas had a finger amputated to give him the quickest path to a return to service.
The alternative — return to
Australia for multiple surgeries to salvage his finger — was never entertained.
In situations where most civilians would retreat, Mr McMahon and generations of others in the armed forces are drilled to charge head on.
THE motivations of defence personnel, and why so many have died by suicide, during and after service, will be probed by the royal commission announced this week.
More than 400 Australian Defence Force members died by suicide between 2001 and 2017 — contrasting with the 41 troops who died as the war in Afghanistan raged.
Mr McMahon wants the royal commission to deliver better communication between federal government departments, so veterans aren’t forced to repeatedly recount the horrors of war to access compensation and medical assistance.
Mr McMahon, 51, who has lost service mates to suicide, said more lived experience of defence force life was needed to inform the Department of Veteran Affairs’ approach to welfare.
And preparing serving personnel for a purposeful civilian life needed to start during service — rather than after discharge — Mr McMahon said.
“Defence needs to take their piece (in this) and set
(serving personnel) up to transition successfully. They’re not doing that now. This has being going on since WWI … the same thing is happening.”
Torquay RSL president Bob Tyler wants the royal commission to deliver better access to veteran contact details so outreach is completed proactively.
He estimates there are 200 veterans across greater Geelong who the RSL can’t get in touch with due to privacy legislation.
“We can’t get a hold of them to give them help. We have to wait for them to come to us,” Mr Tyler said.
“One of the biggest things is getting the Digger to open up.
MWe’re too slow in reacting to all the problems going on.”
Other pundits say the royal commission will need to address red-hot resentment held among veterans following years of welfare mismanagement.
ULTIPLE tours of Afghanistan and other war zones left Mr McMahon with a medical file stretching to two volumes.
It’s a catalogue of injuries dating back to the 80s, and includes a smashed vertebra; an acquired brain injury from a grenade used at close range; an ankle smashed from a high drop out of a helicopter; a broken arm; and a deformed hip.
Recently Mr McMahon received cortisone injections to numb shoulders accustomed to lugging up to 60kg of gear on duty.
“I can’t remember when I was not in pain,” Mr McMahon said from his couch this week, recounting the impact of service.
The pain of these injuries, Mr McMahon said, was exacerbated having to retell and repeatedly plead his case to government staffers during an 18-month discharge process.
“You’re going to somebody who has probably never been deployed in their life, never seen combat, probably never had anything to do with your role … and all of a sudden they look at you and think ‘This guy must be completely pathetic’. My discharge was so muddled up I didn’t know if I was in or out,” he said.
SERVING psychologists monitored the impact that seeing injury and death had on Mr McMahon. But he repeatedly “told the psychs what they want to hear” to trigger his redeployment.
“When I returned to Australia I didn’t speak too much about it so I ended up getting redeployed — all I wanted to do was go back,” he said.
“There was no way I was going to ask for any help because every person that I saw asking for help ended up being moved on.”
This “ticking boxes” mindset of defence personnel is what Bob Tyler says has to change.
FINDING purpose since his discharge is a challenge Mr McMahon faces.
At first he channelled energy into veterans’ welfare via roles at the Victorian and Geelong RSLs.
He’s stepped back from those because of a perceived shift of the RSL away from veterans’ welfare.
Now Mr McMahon’s energy is put into renovating parts of his rural property on Geelong’s fringe. A sunroom is the latest addition.
He concedes some mornings it takes him “25 minutes to get out of bed” and said more assistance for veterans to work in the government departments could help fill the void he and others face after service.
The one-time sergeant rues not having time or assistance to set up his life post-service. He understands his unbridled commitment to the nation could be his undoing.
“Maybe in 10 years time I’ll have a massive breakdown,” he said. “Who knows?”