Father and son both seem natural writers, and there are traces of one in the other. Arch employs a spare, precise prose that constantly searches for the essence, while Martin, though equally concise, displays a more poetic sensibility. His turn of phrase can be exquisite: ‘Over the years, a lot of stories have trickled down about the people who made up the rough hum of the bar on a Saturday afternoon.’ Martin mines his relationship with his father for great reward, but the fact that this book travels outside the father–son nexus in its search for meaning is a critical aspect of its success and importance. The son becomes ‘the old Celtic bard who sings the memories of the great ones back into the culture’. ‘Weary’ Dunlop, ‘Blue’ Butterworth, Ray Parkin, Tom Uren: these men he restores to greatness for a new generation.

It is important that younger readers get their hands on this book. Arch Flanagan tells his son ‘he can’t believe Australians have become so docile’, as damning an indictment as I can imagine receiving. This deeply personal study of war will help to convince a new generation of Australians to fire up, to lead and not be led.