I wheeled down to the road at 5.30 am, moved by the concept of the ‘driveway dawn service’. I wasn’t sure if my Bermaguee Street neighbours would be partaking, and when I reached the street, mine was the only light. So I headed up to the cenotaph in case there’d been a social-distancing rebellion – no-one. But I knew that Helen and Peter Taylor would be out the front of their place in Bega Street with candles and wreath – and a radio. The ABC was broadcasting live the service at the War Memorial in Canberra.
I used to scoff at Anzac Day and the jingoism. I was a pacifist. No war-glorifying for me, especially after Afghanistan, the ‘Coalition of the Willing’ and the Iraq debacle. Then one Anzac Day many years ago I happened to be in Cobargo, in the park beside the bridge, when the march set off. There was a handful of local serving soldiers in uniform, some descendants in smart civvies with polished medals pinned to chests, then an old ute, proceeding at walking pace, bringing up the rear. As it turned onto the highway I saw a wooden chair strapped, back-facing, to the rails behind the cab, and an ancient digger sat ramrod-straight, hands on knees, uniform and medals and slouch hat, with such dignity in his distant gaze, and suddenly I was sobbing uncontrollably and had to take refuge under the bridge. Don’t ask me to explain but since then I’ve attended an Anzac Day service every year.
It’s not the patriotism or any sense of pride that gets me in. Certainly not the politicians. I don’t believe the ‘serving our country’ line. From where I stand, these men and women are out there for each other. Half-listening to the Prime Minister’s address this morning, my thoughts were with the boys who lied about their age to join up in the First World War, the kids who, wave after wave, went ‘over the top’ at Gallipoli to be brought down by enemy bullets, the 47% of soldiers who repatriate with mental health disorders from our current involvements in the Middle East.
At Peter and Helen’s gate this morning there was a small table with three candles, a home-made wreath studded with roses, and a framed photo of Peter’s dad, Sam. Sam Taylor was captured by the Japanese in Singapore in 1942 and laboured on the Burma Railway for three and a half years. He survived, was liberated, returned to his wife Betty, and they raised a family. They ran a dairy farm just south of Quaama, and were instrumental in raising the cenotaph in our Anzac Memorial Park.
Speeches done and wreaths laid in Canberra, the Last Post sounded—accompanied in Quaama by a family of magpies and a lone plover—as the gathering light revealed a village shrouded in mist.
Our morning was the most poignant ANZAC dawn service I can recall. A few of the neighbours (including a young Kiwi who lives behind us) and family. Listened to the service on the radio in the back of Gary’s ute. No one spoke much. There isn’t a lot to say
Those boys lied about their age because they were given some sort of assurance that the “trip” would entail a visit of “motherland”
Do you think so? Couldn’t it have been the glory, the adventure, the mateship? A bit of FOMO?
Yes I have blown hot and cold over the years but managed to sleep through this morning. I did listen to reveille from the cenotaph Beautifully done and brought me to tears for the futility of it all.
Do you happen to know the famous poem written about the first world war , about incompetent generals sending the young to die..??
No I don’t, Mansh. Give me a clue?