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| “ | The machine-gunners' dreams of point blank fire into serried masses of Emus were soon dissipated.
The Emu command had evidently ordered guerrilla tactics, and its unwieldy army soon split up into innumerable small units that made use of the military equipment uneconomic. A crestfallen field force therefore withdrew from the combat area after about a month. |
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| “ | From this distant vantage point, the Earth might not seem of any particular interest. But for us, it's different. Look again at that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every "superstar," every "supreme leader," every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there – on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam. | ” |
| “ | Take for instance the self-educated and much-loved memoirist Albert Facey, in 1914 a near-perfect embodiment of the legendary bushman cum digger. Bert Facey found his faith fading sometime between his first bayonet charge at Gallipoli and his eleventh.
 Two of his brothers were killed in that campaign, and he suffered injuries from which he never recovered. His son was killed in the next war. By then Facey had decided “there is no God, it is only a myth".  There was neither science nor theology to his conversion, unless “the awful look on a man’s face after he has been bayoneted” qualifies as one or the other; his experience served better than evolution to change what he called his “outlook”. “It is a terrible thing, a bayonet charge,” he wrote.[1] |
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