The project in Afghanistan had clear signs of failure from the start

The first time we watched the strange dance of bodies tumbling through the air was on September 11, 2001. A skyscraper, at one time a symbol of man's accomplishment, the tallest building in the world, suddenly became an inferno.

Jets full of fuel had smashed into them at full throttle and those trapped in the upper stories were cut off from the world by an inferno of flame. They had no choice. Run into the heat or walk into the air before falling; dropping through the air; tumbling as the concrete raced up to meet them.

This time it a body clung to a plane, holding on desperately against the ever-increasing rush of wind as the aircraft reached 280km/h and lifted off. Fighting the velocity, the changing pitch, and the sudden lurch before loosing his fragile grasp and falling, hopelessly, to the bare earth that rushed up to meet him from below.

The truth is no decision-maker has any time for those specks of humanity who get caught up in war. Ordinary people, with their lives and concerns, hopes and futures - are all completely, utterly irrelevant when it comes to the turning wheel of history. It moves on regardless, crushing anyone in its way, pushing blindly towards wherever it's headed. It moves forever onward, without any moral compass, heedless of those in its way.

Many years ago I'd also stood, poised, on the inside those huge concrete barriers that ring the airport, clutching a small bag, listening to the crescendo of noise outside. I couldn't be sure someone would be meeting me and the risk of thrusting myself into the fury was overpowering. Once outside the towering metal doors Afghanistan swallowed you whole, because there was no way to return. Those huge, drab concrete walls represented a divide between rules and disorder; future and past; hope and chaos.

Everyone wanted to enter because a trip to the West represented escape. In a country of almost 40 million; where the average age is 18; where mean salary is just US $586 (and half the population go hungry and sleep on dirt floors) and where, for the past 40 years, government depends on who holds a gun; the idea of waiting your turn is ridiculous. Everyone does what they can, takes a risk, and hopes for the best. Inshallah. If God wills it, it will happen.

Or not, as the case may be.

Yes, interpreters face imprisonment and execution but so too do so many others; people who will never get out. I know of one former terp, now here. His father was an official in Uruzgan who managed to slip his son a job that came with its simple gift of a visa and future. Who would blame him? And yet so very many others, just as deserving, left behind. What of those who didn't try to leave early but instead remained, working for their country until the last minute?

What of those nobody's offering to save, the ones not fortunate enough to get the plush jobs as interpreters but the ones who actually did the fighting, like the Afghan commandos who are at this moment being searched out and marked for death by the Taliban? What of the officials, teachers and business women who could be ornaments to Australia yet don't qualify to even apply? Who feels ready to step up and judge who should live and who should remain?

We listened to and believed our sweet talking leaders who assured us for years this was the good war, that our troops were doing good, that we could make a difference. What hubris! As if good intentions were all we needed. They lied to you. Every one of them, as they propagated hope and held out promises that Australia could achieve something worthwhile and yet the signs of failure were always so heavily embedded in the project that it never required much foresight to recognise that this is how it was always going to end.

Which is why, as the massive, uncaring, mechanical wheel of time kept turning round and around, pursuing its course heedless of those clinging to its undercarriage or others working, oblivious to the plane about to come through the window, it pays to think for yourself.

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Scott Morrison wrings his hands, but it was his choice to stand by, watching from the sidelines as the Taliban took over and to save hundreds, rather than thousands. It was Peter Dutton's choice to assert some interpreters "may have switched allegiances" and so didn't deserve being saved.

Is that really why they want to flee here, then? When his office was contacted and asked for an example, it didn't bother offering a response. Perhaps there is none. When her cabinet colleagues pushed to close Australia's embassy early, Marise Payne could have demanded a few diplomats remain to issue visas and co-ordinate evacuation. Instead she caved in, again, helplessly, uselessly.

And so we cut and ran, high minded rhetoric forgotten, flowery verbiage dispensed with in the rush to depart.

When he was chief of the Defence Force, Air Marshal Sir Angus Houston would always quietly correct me whenever I suggested we were trying to win the war in Afghanistan. He'd carefully, patiently, explain the limitations of the troops mission in a way no politician would.

Diplomats like Ric Smith similarly spent time understanding what could, and what couldn't be achieved. The eventual sweep of that huge wheel and how it was going to crush anything standing in its way was described to our leaders. The future of this adventure was foretold, right from the beginning, but they preferred to listen to the advice of others, the hope merchants, who proffering the idea we were powerful and could succeed.

That's why we've ended up, after 20 years, where we are today. Choices. Decisions made in your name, with your concurrence.