Three days in, one man breaks down, unable to finish telling how his life unravelled. Others weep with him. Another relates how, at his lowest point, he locked the front gate of his property and shut out the world for two years. A wife tells of the anguish of a family living with a man haunted by the demons of war. Another night, the group is spellbound by the account of a soldier who lost his leg in an explosion in Afghanistan, yet can still see the blessings in his life.

They are trekkers on Papua New Guinea’s Kokoda Track, soldiers past and present, and soldiers’ wives, on a pilgrimage of healing – to find common ground, to repair dented self-belief, to seek answers. They all live, in one way or another, with the demons of war.

Each evening they tell their stories, most woven with the same theme – post-traumatic stress disorder, the little understood but burgeoning legacy of war and preparedness for war. Some are PTSD sufferers themselves, one is the wife of a sufferer, one carries the physical scars of war, another is a widow still grieving and bewildered by how her husband could be killed by a supposed ally.

The group is from Mates4Mates, a charity initiative of the RSL that supports ill, wounded and injured soldiers and their families trekking Kokoda as a form of therapy.

What is it about the bare act of trekking this path through the jungle that has the power to inspire, comfort, stir the spirits, provide clarity? For these trekkers, Kokoda is many journeys.

It was described by one World War II officer as a “regular orgy of hill climbing”. Kokoda is not so much a track as a 96km tangle of tree roots connected by mud and rock. The ascents come in varying degrees of agony, the descents even more so. The one brief patch of flat walking is referred to as the Golden Hour, for good reason. Kokoda is a towering physical and mental challenge that can be a potent confidence-building exercise, and setting and achieving goals beyond perceived limitations can form monumental steps to recovery for the PTSD-sufferer.

Kokoda, explains trek leader Glenn Azar, also links soldiers with a shared history. Embodying profound hardship, courage and sacrifice, it is a remarkable tale of victory against the odds, a metaphor for the underdog. The Kokoda story does not diminish these men’s war experience, Azar says. It shows them they are not alone.

For this group, it also provides an environment of universality, the knowledge that others in the group may be suffering like you and, crucially, understand what you are experiencing.

Few people in their regular lives do. Or ever can.

On August 29, 2012, in Afghanistan’s Oruzgan Province, an Afghan soldier turned his gun on three Aussie Diggers. The insider attack killed Private Robert Poate, 23, Sapper James Martin, 21, and Lance Corporal Stjepan “Rick’’ Milosevic, 40. Lance-Cpl Milosevic was the husband of Kelly Walton, 42, of Brisbane’s Morningside and father to Sarah, 10, and Kate, 8.

Death in combat is a tragedy, but at the hands of an ally, it’s even more painful and confounding. Ms Walton sought counselling through a veterans’ group but, when she became concerned about the welfare of her girls, approached Mates4Mates for the first time last year.

“I went there for the girls, but clearly I was still having difficulties. It wasn’t long before they slipped the paperwork in front of me and began talking to me,” Ms Walton recalls.

Mates4Mates director of psychology Janice Johnston suggested Kokoda. Ms Walton dismissed it as a joke but later spoke to Pte Poate’s parents and Spr Martin’s mother who had done the trek and found it helpful. Diagnosed with depression and struggling through the days, Ms Walton recognised she needed a circuit-breaker.

“I was having a lot of under-the-doona days. I thought this would give me a focus, a goal, get me physically active.”

She agreed to do the track, but only if joined by one or two of her husband’s mates. In the end, four of them made the trip, all wearing metal bracelets with their mate’s name, rank, date of birth and death, all supporting Ms Walton through the ups and downs of a track that’s been called a “green hell”.

For Ms Walton, Kokoda was the classic paradox of agony and ecstasy. On top of the mammoth physical challenge, there were moments of searing emotion, most clearly at services at the Isurava Memorial, Brigade Hill and at track end at Owers Corner, each with live, haunting renditions of The Last Post.

Her husband had wanted to do Kokoda himself, but he was there in spirit: the group brought his service medals along.

But Kokoda was not, and never could be, an act of closure, Ms Walton says. At this stage of her recovery, she’s also sceptical about it being any significant step towards healing. But it did achieve all of her original goals … and more.

“The girls got a lot out of it inadvertently, by seeing me get up and train for it,” she says.

She also acknowledges benefits which may feed into a longer-term confidence and wellbeing.

“It also made me realise that I am stronger than I thought I was.”

For 15 years, Major Mick Stone lived life in a maelstrom, fast, frenetic and dangerous. After an expedited graduation from Royal Military College Duntroon in 1999, he was plunged into the violence of East Timor following the country’s first independent elections, in charge of his own platoon on the Indonesian border. He returned in 2001 and again in 2004 in an advisory role to the local defence force, composed largely of former guerilla fighters. He later became the military adviser to East Timor president Jose Ramos Horta at Horta’s special request to then Australian prime minister John Howard.

Maj Stone, 37, became a go-to guy in East Timor, a neutral axis in negotiations between warring factions, gangs, police, army and guerillas, ultimately becoming fluent in the local tongue, Tetum.

Working in a situation of incalculable anarchy, Maj Stone chose neither to carry a weapon, nor wear a helmet or flak jacket. He saw it as a bargaining chip. But it also exposed him to massive risk and a state of constant peril which left him twitchy and hyper-vigilant.

“I was venturing places where not even military or police were willing to go,” he recalls. “I lived life waiting for that bullet, waiting for that grenade through the window.”

All the ingredients for PTSD were there. He witnessed the horrors and trauma of a war zone, lived in constant fear for his life and felt the weight of responsibility for a country drowning in problems. He was also with Horta on the day of an assassination attempt in 2008 and made the decision to divert the ambulance to an Australian army hospital, arguably saving the president’s life. He finally returned to Brisbane in 2012 “highly strung”.

“I slept badly, I had constant nightmares, a short attention span and couldn’t sit still long enough to finish a conversation,” he says. “I also felt very disconnected from our ‘reality’, was depressed, had a very short fuse … I had this deep, dark anger.”

PTSD, though, never entered his thinking. By mid-2012, when he’d repeatedly failed to adjust to anything approaching a normal life, his parents encouraged him to seek help. He was diagnosed and put on a cocktail of medication to smooth things out and help him sleep.

“Looking back, I probably lived with PTSD for five years, maybe even longer. I became rather proficient at masking the trauma,” he reflects.

He sees Kokoda as an exercise in “levelling out … a cathartic experience” and a chance to engage with veterans, importantly veterans with similar issues who understand what he is still going through. He hopes to recover to a point where he can help and mentor others with PTSD.

“Getting involved with Mates4Mates has been life-changing,” the Kelvin Grove, Brisbane resident says. “They’ve given me a range of strategies to move forward in life … I look forward to the future with hope that I can continue to make a positive contribution to society and support many other veterans facing difficulty”.

When you see the winning smile and the indomitable spirit, it’s hard to picture Lance Bombardier Brendan Dover in a place so dark and desperate that three years ago he considered suicide.

In late 2010, three months into his deployment to Afghanistan, Lance-Bdr Dover, 32, stepped on an improvised explosive device, losing his left leg and 85 per cent of the use of his left hand.

As a lad he’d been a mad-keen sportsman. At 28 he faced life in a wheelchair. After four months in hospital, despair set in as he tried to convince wife Kezia to leave him and even contemplated ending his life.

“Thankfully my wife did stay by my side and, due to her support, thoughts of ending my life ended shortly after being released from hospital,” he says.

He gained a perverse strength from those who’d given up. Call it sportsman’s grit, or the imprint of working-class Geelong, he dug in and resolved to recast a new destiny with what life had thrown at him. Last week, with one good leg and one good hand, he completed the Kokoda Track.

He didn’t do it easily, but he did it ferociously. He was an inspiration, cursing the uphills and swearing at the downhills, maintaining an astounding pace, invariably at or near the front every day.

“I knew I had more fight in me and the fact I just completed the Kokoda Track, 18 months after my last amputation, gives an indication of my resolve.”

Despite his ordeal, he has not been diagnosed with PTSD. Certainly, though, there are occasional bouts of anger; he has his moments and the highs no longer have that euphoric edge they used to, he says.

Kokoda was a huge confidence-builder, giving him a goal and a reason to train to regain the fitness and vitality he once knew.

“Hopefully it is a kickstart to a healthier life and a good springboard for me to get involved in sport again,” he says.

After the trek, he received the John Metson Award, awarded to the person who, despite adversity or hardship, pushes on without complaint.

“My future is still in my hands. If I want something badly enough, a missing leg and loss of function of one hand won’t hold me back, that’s an excuse a lesser person would make,” he says.

On day eight, Vietnam veteran John Crocker, 67, is nominated to carry the Australian flag and lead the group home on the one-hour climb into Owers Corner. It’s a huge moment for the man who told few people he was even attempting Kokoda for fear he may not start, let alone complete it. Crocker, from Redland Bay on Brisbane’s bayside, was the group’s oldest and slowest trekker, most days physically and some days emotionally, spent.

He prefers not to talk about his private battles and the struggle to adjust to civilian life after Vietnam. He was a Vietnam tunnel rat, a combat role which one special forces soldier rates as far tougher and more perilous than his own weighty roles in trouble spots.

He was a national service conscript, sent in 1969 by his government to fight communism. He went without question and returned only to be scorned in public as a child-killer, and neglected by his military masters. “It was like running in the winning try and having everyone boo the shit out of you,” he says.

Today is a small, but significant victory. As he walks under a guard of honour formed by singing Papuan porters, he knows he has just walked through a special slice of Australia’s history, of which he is now a part.

mike.bruce@news.com.au