This will come as no surprise, but the time between me reading this book and then writing the review is far too long. My records show I acquired it at the end of February 2023 and, by all accounts, read it in late 2024 and/or early 2025. Nothing like fresh memories, especially when I forgot the simplest of things – start and end dates. In keeping with this theme, my copy has quite the non-descript appearance (not the lovely artwork edition above); there’s not even a title on the spine. Reliant on a diary and some slightly fallible memories, Heroes are Fools is quite the surprising package, and it’s written by a former member of the Royal Australian Air Force (RAAF) no less.
The author
began his RAAF training in January 1941, working up as a navigator/bomb aimer.
He is sent to Egypt before attending an operational training unit in Kenya.
After several periods of seemingly interminable waiting around, coupled with
immense frustration at being ready to go but missing out at the last minute, Murray
flies his first operation on Blenheims with No. 113 Squadron, out of Asansol,
India, in May 1942, having previously flown into Akyab just before it fell.
Conditions at Asansol are not pleasant and, over time, despite a serious amount
of operations (what he refers to as the ‘monotony of life’), or because of
them, Murray begins to drink heavily, somewhat out of wanting something to do. Ferry
flights from Africa and trekking in the Darjeeling district serve to break up
the routine, but only the latter is an escape from the oppressive heat and
clapped-out Blenheims.
Upon completing
his tour of 300 hours, Murray asks to stay on until his pilot finishes his tour
but is told his nerves are shot. Arguing the point to no avail, he realises,
once he begins ‘flying a desk’, that his nerves are indeed gone. While
instructing, he spends some time in hospital before finally returning to
Australia, Geelong specifically, pending his next tour. The return to
operational flying is initially with No. 32 Squadron in Queensland and then No.
8 Squadron in Tadji, New Guinea, where he spends much of 1945 flying three
times the number of sorties as he did in India (for a total exceeding 200, of
which 153 were ‘completed bombing strikes’). Inexplicably, he consistently
refers to the aircraft of 8 and 32 Squadrons as Bisleys, not the Beauforts they
clearly were.
Post-war, he
studied law before moving to Israel and, remarkably, was called up to the Israeli Air Force for brief service (including on board a Flying
Fortress during a bombing raid where it appeared he was the only ‘professional’
among the crew). Raising a family in Israel, he was, of course, still impacted
by conflict despite being too old to serve. There is a sense of relief when he
mentions that and it is clear, at the time of writing the book, he is tired of
humans being no different to animals. The weariness that crept in during his
tour in India, held at bay by the importance of his work as squadron bombing
leader in New Guinea and replaced by an enthusiastic idealism in the 1950s and
60s, returns as it only can in people who have fought for what they saw as
right over and over again.
While the subtitle
refers to the book being a diary, the narrative is certainly not set out that
way. Indeed, there are mentions of future events (such as the huge amount of
flying he goes on to do, the positions he held, etc.) throughout. It is,
however, classic storytelling with lots of decent anecdotes painting pictures
of life in Egypt, Kenya and India in particular.
It was
surprising to read of Murray’s move to Israel post-war. His faith is clear throughout
his service, and guides many of his activities, but he did not come across as
ardent, though it was clearly a major part of his life growing up. If nothing
else, services, acknowledging specific days and dates of note, and networking
with local Jewish communities gave him something to do. The networking proved
useful and seemed to keep his social calendar full. With the passing of time,
however, what probably peaked in the 1950s and 60s mellows as he ages and reflects
on our inability to evolve beyond armed conflict.
Rather bizarrely,
details of family history, growing up, education, and his post-war study,
relationships and work are placed in appendices. This perhaps contributes to the
impression Murray was not married to his faith as the narrative opens with his
first day in the RAAF. While it’s straight into the whole reason for acquiring
this book, the familiar structure of, at least, growing up and education in
Melbourne would have helped the reader build an image of the author, rounding
out their understanding as he embarks on the great events of his young life. With
the Crawcour story coming to an end, I admit to not being terribly interested
in the family history and religious introspection, for example, by then and
skimmed a fair chunk of the appendices (which make up about a third of the page count).
To each their
own from that point of view, but don’t let it scare you off trying to find a
copy of Heroes are Fools. It is largely a book about flying in India/Burma and
I’m all for that, especially considering the Australian connection. There’s
only a handful of pages covering New Guinea, indicating how busy he was, which
is a shame as such accounts aren’t exactly thick on the ground, especially ones
as entertainingly written as the Indian sojourn is. That said, the eclectic
photo section includes some good images from the New Guinea tour, although all photos
are reproduced a little on the small side, there being enough room on each page
for them to be made at least 20 percent larger.
Heroes are Fools is a self-published (in Israel, remarkably) diamond in the rough. The
passage of time is a little hard to follow – although some good indicators are
easy to note if you need them – and there’s a couple of niggles when it comes
to memory that can lead to questions elsewhere, but it’s an otherwise entertaining
and thought-provoking read. The author’s access to his diary and logbook
provides an immediacy to his writing and serves as an ideal trigger for his
colourful and erudite observations which are, albeit, slightly influenced by
looking back over a life peppered by a series of conflicts witnessed firsthand.
That said, the narrative is seemingly unaffected by external ‘influences’ such
as contemporary memoirs, unit histories or even in-depth archival research. This
might have added helpful context, but it would have removed the reader from
their place at Murray’s side, diluting an engaging tale.
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