Lost Battalions: The Vietnam Vets Who Walked Into the Wilderness and Never Came Back
We often talk about the heroes who returned from war and the ones who made the ultimate sacrifice. But history is also written in the silences—in the stories of those who simply vanished. After the Vietnam War, a curious and sombre phenomenon occurred in both Australia and the United States: a notable number of veterans returned home only to eventually disappear, opting for a life completely “off the grid.”
The question isn’t just a matter of historical curiosity: Just how many ex-servicemen from Australia and America went off-grid after dabbling in drugs in Vietnam, and why?
While the romanticised image is of a lone vet building a cabin deep in the woods, the reality is far more complex, tragic, and rooted in the unique trauma of the Vietnam experience.
The Uncountable Numbers: A Statistical Ghost Story
First, the hard truth: we will never know the exact number. By its very nature, going “off-grid” means severing ties with official institutions—no census, no veterans’ affairs paperwork, no tax records. These men became statistical ghosts.
We can, however, look at the clues:
Rough Estimates: Some researchers and veterans’ advocates have suggested that in the US, the number could be in the tens of thousands over the decades following the war. This doesn’t mean they all fled immediately; for many, it was a slow, painful fade from society after failed attempts to reintegrate.
The Australian Experience: Australia sent nearly 60,000 troops to Vietnam. While the numbers would be proportionally smaller, the pattern was strikingly similar. Reports from the time and subsequent decades tell of veterans retreating to the vast Outback, the tropical Daintree, or isolated coastal regions to escape the world they no longer recognised.
The common thread in these disappearances? For a significant number, it was intertwined with their experience with drugs during the war.
The “Why”: A Perfect Storm of Trauma
To understand the drift towards isolation, you have to understand the Vietnam War’s psychological battlefield. The decision to disappear wasn’t about a single thing; it was a cascade of factors.
1. Self-Medication for Unseen Wounds: In Vietnam, drugs—particularly marijuana and heroin—were cheap, potent, and astonishingly prevalent. For many young soldiers, substance use began as a way to cope with the unbearable daily stress of guerrilla warfare, the fear of booby traps, and the moral ambiguity of the conflict. They weren’t using it for a high; they were using it to numb the horror. This created a physical and psychological dependency that they brought home.
2. A Society That Spat, Rather Than Embraced: Unlike the heroes’ welcome of previous wars, Vietnam vets returned to a deeply divided society, often facing open hostility and being branded “baby killers.” There was no parade. There was no understanding of PTSD (a term that wouldn’t even be officially recognised until 1980). This profound rejection made “the World” feel just as hostile and alien as the jungles they had left. Why stay in a society that hates you?
3. The Failure of Traditional Support Systems: Many vets found the VA (Veterans Affairs) systems in both countries overwhelmed and ill-equipped to handle their specific trauma and substance abuse issues. Feeling failed by the very governments that sent them to war, they concluded that no one could help them. The only solution was to rely on themselves, away from everyone else.
4. The Lure of the Familiar Unknown: The jungle was hell, but it was a hell they understood. It was a place of hyper-vigilance, self-reliance, and stripped-down simplicity. For some, the logical escape from the confusing noise of modern society—the traffic, the bureaucracy, the crowds—was to return to a wilderness they could control. The Australian bush or the American backcountry became a substitute for the environment where they had last felt a grim sense of purpose and competence.
5. Guilt, Shame, and the Desire for Erasure: Many veterans carried immense guilt for things they had done, things they had seen, or simply for having survived when their mates did not. Coupled with the stigma of addiction, this created a powerful desire to erase themselves. Going off-grid was the ultimate form of penance; a self-imposed exile to escape the demons within and the judgmental eyes of the world without.
Beyond the Myth
It’s crucial to move beyond the romanticised “Rambo” narrative. These were not action heroes. They were deeply wounded men, often self-medicating with the drugs they first encountered in the war, failed by their societies, and crushed by a trauma they had no name for. Their flight to the wilderness was not an adventure; it was a last resort—a desperate attempt to find a peace that society could not, or would not, provide.
Their legacy is a stark lesson. It underscores the critical importance of mental health support, the devastating cost of societal rejection, and the lifelong battle soldiers face long after the final shot is fired. They are the starkest reminder that some wounds are invisible, and some battles are fought not in foreign jungles, but in the silent, lonely woods of a soldier’s mind.
The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.
Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.
“So, Jacobi, tell me what I don’t know.”
I was taking the track slowly and keeping within a short distance of the cars behind me. The road was little more than a dirt track, and in places, there were almost un-navigable ruts. We would not have got a truck down this road.
He looked sideways at me. “You know as much as I do.”
“That’s not possible. I know nothing. You set this up. Tell me about the leader of this group. Is he the heard of his own militia group?”
“An area commander of a larger group spread out across the top of the Republic, bordering onto Sudan. They get their guns and other military hardware across that border. Where we’re going, it’s their main camp in this location.”
“How many men will be here?”
“Twenty, thirty. Sometimes they train new recruits.”
“Those militia back there, were they his people?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you do, Jacobi. And I think if you want to come out of this alive, you might consider giving me all the facts. If they were his men, there could be ramifications if they don’t report back, especially if he was expecting to add to his payday.”
“Even if they were, there’s no communication lines out here. They would have to report back to the camp first. And then there’s the possibility with all the money they were supposed to collect, there might be a detour. It’s why I think they asked for 10,000 rather than the 5,000. The commander was going to take a cut. Loyalty only goes so far in these places.”
“No likely surprises?”
“None that I’m aware of. You killed them all anyway. Dead men do not get up, walk back to come and inform.”
No, they didn’t.
A mile to go I saw the rear car stop for a few seconds and Monroe and Stark get out and disappear into the bush. The chances were they could walk through the bush faster than we could drive on the track, and beat us there.
And, then, the checkpoint was in sight, a pair of empty petrol drums with a piece of wood across the road, each end resting on a drum. Behind the barrier were three men, one I presumed to be the commander, the other two, guns at the ready, his guard. Behind them was a clearing with several buildings and to one side several huts that might belong to some villagers. There were a truck and two Toyota tray utilities parked to one side.
All in all, I could see about ten men.
When I reached the barrier, I stopped but left the engine running. Just before we arrived, I gave the order to hide the hand weapons. It was risky going in unarmed, but the chances were they’d take the guns if we were wearing them. This way, if we needed them, there was a slight chance we might be able to retrieve them.
Both Jacobi and I got out. I left my door open. Jacobi closed his.
“Sergeant James, I presume.” Good English, beaming smile, friendly manner.
“I think I know how Dr. Livingston felt. I am he.”
A puzzled look for a moment, then the resumption of good nature. He didn’t understand the nuances of British history in Africa.
There was no handshake, none was expected. Jacobi stepped forward. “I assume the packages are here, and in good condition.”
“Of course. I assume that you have brought the exchange material.”
“We have. Now, if we can just park these cars, we can get on with the exchange.”
“In a hurry, Jacobi? Somewhere else to be?”
“Yes, as it happens. I’m a busy man, as you are aware.”
Politeness disappeared from his face as quickly as the sun sometimes went behind a cloud.
The commander looked over towards a hut just back from the road, one I hadn’t seen from the car because it was hidden by a grove of bushes. Two men came out.
“Move the barrier.”
As they did, he said to me, “Tell your men to get out of the vehicles and come slowly up the track. My men will bring the vehicles into the camp. Tell them also not to make any sudden or suspicious moves, or there will be trouble.”
A glance back showed another four of his men, also armed, appearing out of the bush towards the driver’s side of the cars.
I’d brought the radio and gave them the instructions the commander had given me.
Five minutes later we were standing outside one of the huts, the cars were parked neatly in a row, and each of us had been frisked as I thought we would. The four who acted as drivers were now our guards, not with weapons trained on us, but they could be very quickly.
The commander waited until the guards at the checkpoint had replaced the barrier, then came striding towards us. I could see he was counting heads and seemed perplexed by the time he reached us.
The Unbreakable Vow: How Accurate Must Non-Fiction Really Be?
The Ethical Tightrope Walk of the Storyteller
In an age where information is constantly challenged and fact-checking seems like a lost art, the role of the non-fiction writer has never been more vital—or more scrutinised. When a reader picks up a memoir, a history book, or a piece of investigative journalism, they enter into a sacred contract with the author.
That contract is simple: This is the truth.
But how absolute is that requirement? Writing, after all, is an art form, not a police report. Where does artistic license end, and fabrication begin? And what happens when a writer breaks the cardinal vow of non-fiction?
1. The Currency of Trust: Defining Accuracy
Non-fiction is built on trust. Unlike the novelist, whose power lies in invention, the non-fiction writer’s power rests entirely on verifiability.
The Standard is Rigour
For true accuracy, a writer must adhere to several key principles:
Verifiability: All key facts, dates, events, and quotes must be traceable to reliable sources (documents, interviews, established historical record).
Contextual Honesty: Presenting a fact accurately is not enough; it must be presented within its proper context. Omitting crucial context can turn a truth into a lie of implication.
Due Diligence: The writer has an ethical obligation to actively seek out and include information that might contradict their central thesis, rather than cherry-picking facts that bolster their argument.
The Grey Area: When Narrative Needs Taming
The truth is often messy, disorganised, and tedious. To shape a compelling narrative, even the most rigorous writer must perform certain operations that skirt the edges of pure objectivity:
Composite Characters: Combining minor, unnamed figures into one character for the sake of narrative flow (e.g., “a nurse” who represents three different nurses the author spoke to). Ethical Boundary: This is acceptable only if the composite character does not perform actions that never happened or fundamentally alter the setting or plot.
Dialogue Recreation: Human memory is imperfect. Few people remember the exact wording from conversations years ago. Writers often recreate dialogue based on notes, journals, or the known speaking style of the person. Ethical Boundary: The reconstructed dialogue must faithfully reflect the actual intent and meaning of the original exchange.
Compression of Time: Events that occurred over weeks may be described as happening over a day to maintain momentum. Ethical Boundary: This cannot mislead the reader about cause and effect.
In essence, the rule for navigating the gray area is this: You can compress, simplify, or rephrase, but you cannot introduce invention. If the event, the essential characters, or the core outcome did not happen or exist, you have crossed into fiction.
2. The Cardinal Sin: Fabrication and Lying
Fabricating material in non-fiction is not merely a mistake; it is an act of fraud.
A writer lies when they invent interviews, invent sources, invent data, or fundamentally alter the outcome of a factual event simply to make the story “better.”
The motivation for lying is almost always narrative convenience—the truth wasn’t exciting enough, complete enough, or emotionally satisfying. This choice, driven by desperation or arrogance, guarantees catastrophic consequences.
3. The Scorched-Earth Consequences of Lying
The consequences for writers who fabricate or lie about non-fiction material are swift, catastrophic, and often permanent. They touch every aspect of the writer’s professional and personal life.
A. Reputational Death
For a non-fiction writer, reputation is their lifeblood. Once fabrication is discovered, the writer is professionally toxic.
Loss of Credibility: A single lie taints every word the writer has ever published and ever will publish. The reader instantly wonders, “If they lied about this date, did they lie about the entire premise?”
Ostracization: Publishers, editors, journalists, and academic institutions will severely limit or cease association with the writer. The writer is no longer a professional peer; they are a liability.
The Loss of the Subject: If the work was a biography or history, the writer loses the ability to access primary sources or interview subjects, as no one will risk having their story distorted again.
B. Financial and Legal Ruin
Fabrication often leads to substantial financial and legal actions:
Book Recalls and Returns: Publishers are often forced to recall and pulp thousands of copies, costing millions. Royalties are stopped immediately, and the author may be required to pay back advances (a “clawback”) based on breach of contract.
Lawsuits: If the fabricated material slanders or libels a real person, or invades privacy, the author and publisher face costly civil lawsuits. This is especially true in memoirs, where the writer has misrepresented the actions or character of family members or acquaintances.
C. The Death of the Work
When fabrication is exposed, the work itself ceases to be viewed as literature or history; it becomes a footnote in the history of literary scandal.
Academic institutions remove the book from reading lists.
Awards won by the book are often revoked.
The work, no matter how engaging the fictional elements were, loses its cultural permanence because its foundation is rotten.
The Example of Literary Hoaxes
History is littered with examples of celebrated non-fiction—particularly memoirs—that were revealed to be frauds. These incidents rarely end with the writer receiving a slap on the wrist. They often involve public confession, professional exile, and a permanent asterisk next to their name in literary history. The narrative satisfaction gained by lying is never worth the loss of an entire career.
The Ultimate Responsibility
The job of the non-fiction writer is the challenging, often frustrating, task of wrestling the truth into a readable shape. It means accepting that sometimes, the real story is incomplete, ambiguous, or less dramatic than we might wish.
The commitment to accuracy is not just an ethical preference; it is the scaffolding upon which the entire genre is built. When we pick up a pen or open a keyboard to write non-fiction, we make an unbreakable vow to the reader to stay true to the facts, not because it’s easy, but because the alternative is professional and sometimes personal extinction.
The truth may be messy, but in non-fiction, it is the only story that matters.
John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities, and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.
Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.
If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.
At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.
That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.
Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.
It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone. It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air. In summer, it was the best time of the day. When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.
On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’. This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.
She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable. The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day. So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.
It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her. It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
I sat in my usual corner. Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner. There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around. I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria. All she did was serve coffee and cake.
When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?” She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.
“I am this morning. I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating. I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise. I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”
“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me. I have had a lot worse. I think she is simply jealous.”
It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be. “Why?”
“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”
It made sense, even if it was not true. “Perhaps if I explained…”
Maria shook her head. “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole. My grandfather had many expressions, David. If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her. Before she goes home.”
Interesting advice. Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma. What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?
“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.
“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much. Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone. It was an intense conversation. I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell. It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”
“It is indeed. And you’re right. She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one. She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office. Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”
And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful. She had liked Maria the moment she saw her. We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived. I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.
She sighed. “I am glad I am just a waitress. Your usual coffee and cake?”
“Yes, please.”
Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.
I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one. What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.
There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it. We were still married, just not living together.
This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her. She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.
It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.
There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd. She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right. It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.
But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings. But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.
Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart. I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit. The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.
I knew I was not a priority. Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.
And finally, there was Alisha. Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around. It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties.
At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata. Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.
Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.
When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan. She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores. We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated. It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.
It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard. I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.
She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top. She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.
Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak. I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.
Neither spoke nor looked at each other. I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”
Maria nodded and left.
“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests. I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence? All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”
My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.
“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us. There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”
“Why come at all. A phone call would have sufficed.”
“I had to see you, talk to you. At least we have had a chance to do that. I’m sorry about yesterday. I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her. I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”
An apology was the last thing I expected.
“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington. I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction. We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”
“You’re not coming with me?” She sounded disappointed.
“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. You are so much better doing your job without me. I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband. Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less. You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it. I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”
It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement. Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points. I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever. The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.
Then, her expression changed. “Is that what you want?”
“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways. But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”
“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”
That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud. “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan. You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy. While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”
“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother. She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right. Why do you think I gave you such a hard time? You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously. But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”
“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”
“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”
“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”
I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead. Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers. Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen. Gianna didn’t like Susan either.
Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her. She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.
She stood. “Last chance.”
“Forever?”
She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face. “Of course not. I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship. I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”
I had been trying. “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan. I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”
She frowned at me. “As you wish.” She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table. “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home. Please make it sooner rather than later. Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”
That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car. I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.
The Unbreakable Vow: How Accurate Must Non-Fiction Really Be?
The Ethical Tightrope Walk of the Storyteller
In an age where information is constantly challenged and fact-checking seems like a lost art, the role of the non-fiction writer has never been more vital—or more scrutinised. When a reader picks up a memoir, a history book, or a piece of investigative journalism, they enter into a sacred contract with the author.
That contract is simple: This is the truth.
But how absolute is that requirement? Writing, after all, is an art form, not a police report. Where does artistic license end, and fabrication begin? And what happens when a writer breaks the cardinal vow of non-fiction?
1. The Currency of Trust: Defining Accuracy
Non-fiction is built on trust. Unlike the novelist, whose power lies in invention, the non-fiction writer’s power rests entirely on verifiability.
The Standard is Rigour
For true accuracy, a writer must adhere to several key principles:
Verifiability: All key facts, dates, events, and quotes must be traceable to reliable sources (documents, interviews, established historical record).
Contextual Honesty: Presenting a fact accurately is not enough; it must be presented within its proper context. Omitting crucial context can turn a truth into a lie of implication.
Due Diligence: The writer has an ethical obligation to actively seek out and include information that might contradict their central thesis, rather than cherry-picking facts that bolster their argument.
The Grey Area: When Narrative Needs Taming
The truth is often messy, disorganised, and tedious. To shape a compelling narrative, even the most rigorous writer must perform certain operations that skirt the edges of pure objectivity:
Composite Characters: Combining minor, unnamed figures into one character for the sake of narrative flow (e.g., “a nurse” who represents three different nurses the author spoke to). Ethical Boundary: This is acceptable only if the composite character does not perform actions that never happened or fundamentally alter the setting or plot.
Dialogue Recreation: Human memory is imperfect. Few people remember the exact wording from conversations years ago. Writers often recreate dialogue based on notes, journals, or the known speaking style of the person. Ethical Boundary: The reconstructed dialogue must faithfully reflect the actual intent and meaning of the original exchange.
Compression of Time: Events that occurred over weeks may be described as happening over a day to maintain momentum. Ethical Boundary: This cannot mislead the reader about cause and effect.
In essence, the rule for navigating the gray area is this: You can compress, simplify, or rephrase, but you cannot introduce invention. If the event, the essential characters, or the core outcome did not happen or exist, you have crossed into fiction.
2. The Cardinal Sin: Fabrication and Lying
Fabricating material in non-fiction is not merely a mistake; it is an act of fraud.
A writer lies when they invent interviews, invent sources, invent data, or fundamentally alter the outcome of a factual event simply to make the story “better.”
The motivation for lying is almost always narrative convenience—the truth wasn’t exciting enough, complete enough, or emotionally satisfying. This choice, driven by desperation or arrogance, guarantees catastrophic consequences.
3. The Scorched-Earth Consequences of Lying
The consequences for writers who fabricate or lie about non-fiction material are swift, catastrophic, and often permanent. They touch every aspect of the writer’s professional and personal life.
A. Reputational Death
For a non-fiction writer, reputation is their lifeblood. Once fabrication is discovered, the writer is professionally toxic.
Loss of Credibility: A single lie taints every word the writer has ever published and ever will publish. The reader instantly wonders, “If they lied about this date, did they lie about the entire premise?”
Ostracization: Publishers, editors, journalists, and academic institutions will severely limit or cease association with the writer. The writer is no longer a professional peer; they are a liability.
The Loss of the Subject: If the work was a biography or history, the writer loses the ability to access primary sources or interview subjects, as no one will risk having their story distorted again.
B. Financial and Legal Ruin
Fabrication often leads to substantial financial and legal actions:
Book Recalls and Returns: Publishers are often forced to recall and pulp thousands of copies, costing millions. Royalties are stopped immediately, and the author may be required to pay back advances (a “clawback”) based on breach of contract.
Lawsuits: If the fabricated material slanders or libels a real person, or invades privacy, the author and publisher face costly civil lawsuits. This is especially true in memoirs, where the writer has misrepresented the actions or character of family members or acquaintances.
C. The Death of the Work
When fabrication is exposed, the work itself ceases to be viewed as literature or history; it becomes a footnote in the history of literary scandal.
Academic institutions remove the book from reading lists.
Awards won by the book are often revoked.
The work, no matter how engaging the fictional elements were, loses its cultural permanence because its foundation is rotten.
The Example of Literary Hoaxes
History is littered with examples of celebrated non-fiction—particularly memoirs—that were revealed to be frauds. These incidents rarely end with the writer receiving a slap on the wrist. They often involve public confession, professional exile, and a permanent asterisk next to their name in literary history. The narrative satisfaction gained by lying is never worth the loss of an entire career.
The Ultimate Responsibility
The job of the non-fiction writer is the challenging, often frustrating, task of wrestling the truth into a readable shape. It means accepting that sometimes, the real story is incomplete, ambiguous, or less dramatic than we might wish.
The commitment to accuracy is not just an ethical preference; it is the scaffolding upon which the entire genre is built. When we pick up a pen or open a keyboard to write non-fiction, we make an unbreakable vow to the reader to stay true to the facts, not because it’s easy, but because the alternative is professional and sometimes personal extinction.
The truth may be messy, but in non-fiction, it is the only story that matters.
Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?
…
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
The cover, at the moment, looks like this:
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.
That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.
At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me. I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.
The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.
Routine was the word she used.
Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible. I could sense the raging violence within him. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.
Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.
After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.
But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.
The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.
For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.
They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts. Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.
No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.
She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy. Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution. Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.
It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down. I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess. Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.
What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again. It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.
And it had.
Since then, we saw each about once a month in a cafe. I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.
We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee. It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.
She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.
I wondered if this text message was in that category. I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.
I reached for the phone then put it back down again. I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.
Well, if the wharf at Pinkenba in Brisbane is anything to go by, a tin shed and a wharf that the ship is considerably longer than, then where the hell had he finished up?
The port of Brisbane in 1914 didn’t amount to much, but it did have a railway station and a train he could catch to Brisbane proper. From there, it was another two trains from Brisbane to Rockhampton and then to Winton.
Outback Queensland, Australia. Fortunately, Winter is coming, but it’s not going to be the winters of England. Although cool at night, the temperatures in the tropics were much warmer.
From Winton, it’s a truck ride from the station to the cattle station, about 20 miles or so from the front gate. It’s big with thousands of acres, and the station house is like an oasis in the middle of scrub. His uncle owns the station with other family members. They raise beef cattle for export to their home country. As the war approaches, the war effort will likely require supplying beef for the army.
But war is not yet upon them, and he is introduced to life on the land.
His guide is his cousin, a girl about his sister’s age, and the difference between his cousin and his sister is as wide as a chasm. His cousin is a station hand, manager, personnel manager, musterer, and guide. She will be the one to train him up in what will be required, and with no time to unpack his belongings, they’re out into the wilds for a week’s orientation.
Time to put the team back together, well, sort of.
We’ve been given the introduction to who Barry McDougall is, or the man otherwise known as ‘Brainless’, and after three days of trying to get it straight, this is the first rough draft of his start in the story.
…
Barry, whose daring selfless deeds earned him the nickname Brainless because that was the only way to describe the motivation behind them, was one of the regular soldiers, and, for a long time, had been my only true friend. His was a reputation both friends and foes alike considered awesome. He’d been in Vietnam, and later just turned up at Davenport’s camp, reporting for duty.
Davenport was more surprised than I was at his arrival, but obviously, after checking his credentials, was impressed because he let him stay. And it would be true to say, if he had not, I would not be here now.
So Barry was just the sort of person I needed to help me.
That was the good news.
The bad news was Barry, at the best of times, either on one of his ‘benders’ using drugs or alcohol, whatever was easier to get at the time, lost to everyone, or locked up in a mental institution, having admitted himself. He had no interest in participating in life, hadn’t worked in years, and often said, in moments when he was at his lowest, that he did not care if he lived or died. It had not always been that way, but his demons had all but taken him over, and despite the help, I tried to give him, nothing could shake him out of this lethargy. He said once he envied me that I could not remember the dark days, and, now those memories had returned, I knew what he meant.
For a long time, I could not understand why he didn’t try harder to help himself, and I guess he humoured me by accepting the jobs I’d found him, and the help I offered. I owed him a great deal, but that was probably the one honourable thing about him, he never expected, nor wanted anything in return.
He tried to make a go of being a police officer and lasted several years before he resigned over an incident that didn’t reach the papers. There was, he said, no place for heroics in modern society. I hadn’t got to the bottom of it, but I heard he shot some thieves at a time when the police were trying to promote a pacifist image.
He tried a few other occupations with an equal lack of success, so now he survived on whatever money I gave him. He lived on the street, and when he was not there, I knew he could be found in a bar, in one of the more seedier parts of the city, a ubiquitous underground bar called Jackson’s, named after a man who had a salubrious reputation that hovered between load shark and saint, and who was reputed to be buried under the storeroom floor. The present owner, or what I assumed to be the owner, was a large, gruff, ex-prizefighter, who had the proverbial heart of gold, most of the time, and who took my money and looked after Barry without making it look like he was.
I’d called the bartender in advance, and he said he was in his usual spot, and that it was at the start of the next cycle, having just discharged himself from the hospital after a bout of pneumonia. It was, he said, getting worse, and taking longer to recover.
It was probably only a matter of time before it took him, so perhaps this time I would have to try harder to convince him to give up his nomadic lifestyle.
When I walked in, the aroma of spilled beer, stale sweat, and vomit, mingled with the industrial-strength carbolic cleaner almost took my breath away. In the corner, two construction workers were sitting, quietly smoking and drinking large glasses of beer. In the other, Barry was being held up by the table, an untouched double scotch sitting in front of him. Sitting at the bar was a woman of indeterminate age, badly made up, and thin to the point of emaciation. I was not sure what she was drinking, or what it was she was smoking, but I could smell it from the front doorway.
The bartender, Ogilvy, no first name given, was pretending to polish glasses, standing at the end of the bar, looking at the television, playing some daytime soap. He didn’t look over when I came in, but I knew he didn’t miss anything. I saw him flick a glance at Barry, and then shake his head. I think he cared as much about Barry as I did but could recognise the sadness within him. As much as Ogilvy said, which wasn’t much, he too had seen service in Vietnam, and it had affected him too.
I ordered an orange juice, caught the glances from the construction workers, and a steely look from the woman then went over to Barry’s table and sat down. Despite the loud scraping noise when I moved the chair, or the creaking as I sat in it, Barry didn’t move.
Whilst the bar had that seedy aroma, Barry was showing the signs of having spent the time on the street. It was one of the disadvantages of having no permanent residence and though there was a shower at the bar which Ogilvy let Barry use from time to time, he obviously hadn’t for a few days.
A groan emanated from the table, and Barry moved his head slightly.
I shifted the drink in front of him, and then a hand went out and moved it back. He lifted his head to look at me and then lowered it again.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 