On 6 and 9 August 1945, the United States detonated two atomic bombs over the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The bombings killed between 150,000 and 246,000 people, most of whom were civilians, and remain the only use of nuclear weapons in an armed conflict.

As 15^th August ( the surrender by Japan in WW II ) approaches one can anticipate the usual diatribes from the unwashed and soy-latte sets lecturing us on how bad we were in 1945 to drop the atomic bombs on Japan. None of these know-alls were even alive in 1945 so whatever they have to say comes from their collective backsides.

Britain, Germany and the USA were all working to become the first to master nuclear fission. Thankfully it was America who won.

The American effort began in 1939 when Albert Einstein wrote a letter to President Roosevelt setting out the possibilities and predicted consequences of unleashing nuclear power. Einstein, a German born Jew, left Germany to study in Zurich and renounced his citizenship in 1896 to avoid compulsory military service.

Democracy: Now With 97% Less Majority Rule

Because who needs the will of the people when you have “equity” consultants?

It’s 2025, and democracy has evolved. Not into something fairer, freer, or more representative - no, we’ve upgraded to a premium model where the minority calls the shots, the majority pays the bill, and “equity” consultants explain why you should thank them for it.

Forget one person, one vote. These days, it’s one person, one identity card, and bonus privileges if you tick the right boxes. The rules aren’t gone - they’re just optional. But only for some.

NEWSFLASH FROM DUSTY GULCH

By Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble – Dusty Gulch Bureau Chief

Hold onto your Akubras and stubby holders! Something big’s stirring in the sticks.

Yesterday morning, Mayor Dusty McFookit spotted a sulphur-crested cockatoo strutting about Duck Central. Harmless? Hardly. These feathered fiends live a century, chew through timber and wiring, and crave aluminium-sheathed coaxial cables.

The only defence? Marine-grade stainless steel. McFookit knows the cost - last time one of these beaked brutes took out the town’s water supply comms tower, the bill stung worse than a box jellyfish.

Is this cockatoo a rogue loner… or the tenth member of the infamous Nine Dastardly Ducks, here to take Dusty Gulch off the grid? Or worse?

Between the “Scrap Iron Flotilla” and “the Rats of Tobruk,” turning insults into a point of pride was perhaps a running theme for the allies.

Like many other ancillary formations of our armed services in WW1 and WW2, the Scrap Iron Flotilla has not received the same acclaim as the Rats of Tobruk. That does not undermine in any way the exploits of the Rats but it is a pity that these vital supporting formations seem to be easily forgotten as prominent objects of our remembrance celebrations.

The Scrap Iron Flotilla was an Australian destroyer group that operated in the Mediterranean during WW2.

Its story is synonymous with the Rats of Tobruk. It was the means of supply to the beleaguered town under siege between 10^th April, 1941 and 7^th December, 1941.

Its name was conferred on it by Dr.Goebbels, the German propaganda minister intending to demean and undermine morale of the five Australian ships that made up the flotilla. As happened with the conferring of the name “Rats of Tobruk” on the garrison troops by Lord Haw Haw, instead of depressing morale it spurred them to greater acts of defiance. Neither understood the make-up of the Australian character.

Before Xbox and iPads, we had mist, mud, and pinecones -  and we waged battles worthy of any history book. From Māori trenches to rice-gun rebellions, here’s how a quiet New Zealand hill turned a bunch of wholesome Sunday School kids into “savages.”

I grew up in a small rural community in the hills of New Zealand, where the mist and ever-present wind pummeled our hilltop -  and we loved every soggy second. We also loved the wars -  the pinecone wars -  that left us with bruises, bleeding heads, and glorious victory speeches.

Even now, decades later, my idea of a perfect day is a misty, drizzly one where I can take life off the hook, snuggle in, and allow my mind to drift back to those days, as kids, when we roamed the paddocks, built campfires, and fought epic battles.

Just above our home was a dairy farm with the perfect staging post for war. We called it Pine Cone Hill, and this was where we staged our greatest battles of all. 

Picture trench warfare, and you’re probably seeing World War I’s muddy, rat-infested ditches, with soldiers slogging through rain and barbed wire. That’s the image burned into our minds from history class.

But here’s the kicker: trench warfare didn’t start in 1914. It’s way older - and it’s not just a European story.

Long before French generals or our boys were stuck on the Western Front, the Māori, the indigenous people of New Zealand, were digging trenches that would make any military engineer jealous. We’re talking centuries before Sébastien Le Prestre de Vauban turned trenches into a European art form.