Showing posts with label ANZAC DAY Diggers Mates Soldiers War. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ANZAC DAY Diggers Mates Soldiers War. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Anzac Day '09 Continued
Zizi cooks up a feast, blue skies watch over us for inaugural Anzac Day Service at Clunes, a wonderful day.
Anzac Day 09
We awake slowly from sleep in the spare room. Unsure of the time (it’s so dark) I visualise the clock, guesstimate – 4am. I hold my own private dawn Service in my head, still foggy from a dreamless night’s sleep.
Finally we both answer the call of nature and to our surprise, it’s 7am. So much for an early start, but I am thankful of the sleep-in. It’s Anzac Day, and we are in Clunes, a small township south-west of Byron Bay; the welcome sign boasts “Welcome to Clunes – proudly retaining Village Life”
A few cups of tea later, and we walk to the local park around the corner. They are holding their very first Anzac Day ceremony and we will be there to join in the spirit of what is to come. Zizi stays behind to cook our breakfast. We each have a job to do. Mine is to witness everything, so I begin to people-watch and take notes in my head.
A small crowd are gathered. The old women outnumber the old men. In the middle of a roughly mown paddock, stands a short stone monument beside a white flagpole. We stand in the shade of a huge Poinciana tree, gazing upwards I can see the spread of its branches, like a huge leafy umbrella.
Various men stand next to the monument, fiddling with a stereo system. There is no band, or drummer, but to my left there are five or so soldiers; beautifully dressed on their slouch hats and golden ‘rising sun’s badges.
People chat amongst themselves. Two school children - in white and red uniforms – rehearse their speech and mum fusses over her son. “He’ll need a chair, get him a chair” until even I turn to her and say with a smile “oh, he’s got young legs, he’ll be right!” but this isn’t enough, and she’s off, a helicopter mother in full flight, carrying her son in Year 7, a bloody chair so the poor boy can sit down. It must be a weight for him to hold his piece of paper, and wreath.
The sky is magnificently blue and clear; gazing over the far-away hills to the east I can see forever. Fat trees and knee-deep grass, lush after the recent rains.
Then we begin. To my disappointment, there is no hymn ‘Abide with Me’ but there is a small prayer, and I try not to note two spelling mistakes and one whole paragraph gone walk-about off the page.
The flag begins at half-mast; is raised and then lowered again for the Last Post. The bugler reads his music – holding a sheet of music out in front of him with his left hand - and manages to hit B-flat several times. We wince, and try to look respectful.
A minute’s silence is punctated by magpies warbling softly in the tree beside me, the bright red-roof of the cottage to my right grins cheerily as if to say “She’ll be right mate”. A semi truck roars past this huddle of strangers, the back reading “It’s cool” and I know that life does indeed, go onwards.
Later; at the pub, I watch the televised Dawn Service at Gallipolli; and then France; and note that their Bugler is so intent on playing his mournful piece so beautifully, his eyes close for the entire performance. When the last notes have played, he slowly opens his eyes, and then closes them again. He swallows hard, twice. He is in his own world remembering some time past. He blinks once, twice, and then retreats. It’s a beautiful moment, but for now, I am back in the paddock, with the sun beating down and the school children about to lay their only wreath. An old woman stands stiffly in front of me, her walking stick poised to support herself. Uh-oh I think, but when duty calls, she rises to the occasion with a stiff back and a quick gait. I am surprised!
We then sing the National Anthem, and then the thankyous begin. These seem to take almost the same amount of time as the entire Service.
The MC says in his strine voice “ Sterlo, thanks for the music – not!” and also includes the lawn-mowing men in his praise. “Gees good thing this paddock was mown, two days ago it was knee-high and looked like the bloody Vietnam jungle, if it hadn’t had been mown, I would’ve freaked out!” We all laugh, but I can’t help but wonder what he has been through.
Later, I chat to the remaining four soldiers and have my photo taken with them. A lone man stands beside the monument, reading the wreaths. I take his photo from a distance. Just him, the sky, the land, the green, the blue, the flag, the thoughts and memories, fresh and half remembered.
Lest we Forget.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Meeting Dennis
‘It. Robs. Me. Of. My. Dignity,’ he gasps, chest rising and caving with each word.
His thick fingers gently stab at his heart.
Holding his left hand, careful not to interrupt his oxygen flow, I hang my head and the tears fall.
He continues, and it’s such an effort for him. Eyes open and shut with the words: ‘I think of your dad, John, and how he battled.’
His fingers squeeze mine. I roughly wipe the wetness away from my face, and blow my nose.
‘My, how he battled. I think to myself: if John can do it, I can do it too.’ He believes this.
****
The hospital smells of hospitals; of death, and dying, and despair. Looking around, I count 23 pieces of A4 notices, and only 2 dreary artworks.
VISITORS PLEASE NOTE: IN THE RESPIRATORY WARD NO FLOWERS ARE ALLOWED.
It is silent except for a muffled chat show across the hallway. An old lady watches her television, her feet in lambskin slippers. I remember how dad’s feet were also wrapped like that, the heel splits; it’s the first sign.
****
The young cleaner bristles past, blue mop squeezed with such enthusiasm you have to see it to understand. A passionate mop-squeezer. We exchange smiles.
When I sit beside Dennis, the nurse warns me to ‘watch the wet patch’ in case I slip.
****
I let Dennis speak, it’s important to him.
He continues - ‘The days are in limbo, I look at the clock and it says 2pm, but it feels like the middle of the night. When I sleep I hallucinate. I dream I am sleeping in a garage’; and his eyes dart quickly around the room as if to confirm he is indeed in ward 2M at the Wesley, Brisbane.
‘I drift off, and have to struggle to recall which sentence I am saying.’
I glance quietly at his arms: thin, bony, once carrying his heavy pack and gun; in war.
‘I’m 89 and-a-half.’ He smiles briefly as his life memories fly past.
****
There’s not much to the room. Another old man, behind me, lays a silent witness to our conversation. It doesn’t even occur to me to say hello to him; something I regret now, but my thoughts and attention were for Dennis, my late father’s old Regimental buddy.
‘It’s my kidneys, they’ve given up, had it,’ and he flicks his wrist in contempt.
‘But there’s nothing-wrong- up -here.’ He taps his head. ‘ I’m 110%,’ and indeed, his mind is very sharp.
He asks me ‘How’s Chris?’ and I am delighted he remembered my husband’s name. Pretty good really. Mentally, I applaud him.
****
‘I have never lost the Faith,’ he tells me, and we discuss the realities of simply getting to church, the physical challenge of pushing his new wheelie-walker in the rain, and up the ramp. 'I used my new walker and they greeted me like I was the Governor,' he chuckles to himself.
‘Then,’ he whispers, ‘they started the happy-clappies, and I just won’t go.’ He breathes hard at the memory - it stings him - he needs to go to his church; and he needs to hold onto his Faith. It’s important to him, at the end. Old people don't cope well with change.
****
‘I’ve told my daughter, Susan, to just have a small private service for me - that’s what I want, but she might do something different.’
I joke with ‘You won’t know what’s going on, you will be up there with dad, having a beer,’ and we smile at the image of seeing John again.
‘He was always my Padre,’ he says. His eyes are closed. I wonder if he will nod off, and whether I should go.
I stand and stretch, leaning over the bed has pinched my back, and I walk to the Nurse’s Station to see if I can source some Blutack. The Nurse is unhelpful, so I then ask if she might have some sticky-tape instead.
‘What are you doing here tomorrow for Anzac Day’ I enquire. Her eyes narrow.
‘Nothing. Why?’
'Will the street march be on telly,' I persist? Yes. They can watch it on their telly.
Grinning, I walk back into this room, this room of old men and over one-and-a-half-centuries of memories. I tape up the little Chinese-made Australian flag to the end of his bed. He also has a paper red poppy, and I wind the wire of this around the top of his little flag. Dennis beams at me, now he is truly happy.
I hold his hands - both of them - and he grips them more strongly now.
We continue to chat about our children, and his grandchildren, now well into their 30s and 40s.
‘Oh, the times we had playing cricket at Marchant Park,’ he enthuses.
Outside, Brisbane turns on a spectacular autumn day, sky mad with the blue, no clouds. He tells me that when he gets out - and he will get out next week - that he intends to sit in the sun and enjoy its warmth.
****
I have brought a small packet of Anzac biscuits, store bought, not home-made, but it’s the thought, right? Some barley sugar jubes, and a small bottle of shiraz, so he can toast his buddies tomorrow.
Tomorrow is Anzac Day – Lest we forget – but whilst we continue to talk and chat to the living, we won’t forget.
Cannot forget.
I kiss his cheek, say a little prayer in my head for him, and let him sleep.
ANZAC Day 2004
Found this - was originally posted in my Old Blog, now gone, (thanks Google)
A red wine and a day full of memories, bear with me as I reminisce about yesterdays ANZAC Day Dawn Service and parade....
My eldest sister has never been to a Dawn Service, being a Nursing Sister, she is usually working, or sleeping, so I suggest that she stay at my home and we go in together as a family to reflect and understand our heritage...
The alarm sounds at 3.15am, my feet automatically swing to hit the floor, after years of being a radio reporter (and a rowers mum) and getting up at absurd hours, I know enough about myself not to simply lie there... I will fall back asleep.. so like a robot, I am up and on my feet before my eyes have opened...
We have pinned on Mum and Dad's war medal miniatures the night before, always on the right side if representing someone else, and we add rosemary sprigs...
Cups of hot tea, toast and Vegemite, and we are on our way, driving into the remnants of a black, still, autumn night... the two boys of mine and Sissy, making our way along the streets watching the late-night clubbers spill out onto the footpaths at 3.50am...
Park the car, a quick walk till we merge into the pedestrian mainstream of other families (like spawning salmon) with a common destination in mind... right next to the Memorial where the wreaths will be laid...
The clock behind us seems to slow like treacle. 3.33am. 4am. 4.10am. I imagine our young Aussie soldiers, like the scene from the Tom Cruise movie, kissing their photographs in their pockets, saying a prayer, finding God, willing themselves on because they are Aussies, and it's what you do. In war.
I turn around again, until I decide not to do it anymore...but I still do, I need to know how much longer. I am waiting for 4.28, the exact time our young men began their battle and became national heroes.
The last time we stood here, two years ago, sirens of an ambulance screamed past; and I was momentarily annoyed, but within its sound I found a safe secure feeling of being looked after.
This morning, there is only silence, 10,000 people breathing in and out and thinking and wondering and remembering and being quiet and reflective, young boys and girls, university students, families, oldies, all anticipating the arrival of 4.28am.
The Catafalque party stand stiff and proud, their uniforms ironed with utter precision, their faces so young, some with medals already pinned to their chest, perhaps Iraq, perhaps Timor, who knows?
In the distance there is a strumming, no…. It’s more like a drumming… That’s it… drums, lots of them… And sure enough the sound grows and expands as they approach the crowd. Soon a Pipe Band marches into view, no bagpipes, only the drums, urgent and demanding, rat-a--tat! rat-a-tat! The sound engulfs us till suddenly - nothing. The air hangs with expectation.
A young girls voice begins....
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted:
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
Lest we forget.
The service begins, with the moving hymn, 'Abide with Me' God save our Queen, and so on... words from the Governor, my arm around my sisters waist, my two boys spontaneously breaking out to sing Advance Australia Fair, my pride in them, the Last Post, wreath laying, complete strangers brought together to remember our history... and so we turn and look at each other and go home...
It's now 5.15am, and nearly time to take Bear to his own parade, at another suburb, he changes into his Scout uniform, pinning on his Grandfathers medals, and then Sissy and I and Bear are driving into a blazing red sky sunrise... 'red sky in the morning, shepherds warning, red sky at night, sailors delight'.
Naturally I stop and photograph the sky, this gorgeous dawn over Brisbane, a celebration of colour and clouds and nature and God and things you and I could never know about....
Bears parade goes well, Wonga out the front of the Scouts, Joeys and little Cubbie Scouts, all looking very spiffy in their uniforms, Bear looking older and older as I stare at him in disbelief. When did he grow up so fast? He looks very handsome and mature, and manages to roll his eyes at me as I photograph him...
We have been there before, for the Scouts, but this is our last time, as Bear is about to graduate from Scouts and leave...
Singing Abide with Me again, I listen to my sisters clear pure voice, softly, quietly; holding the notes, saying the beautiful words, her voice mesmerises me, and I cannot sing, it is beyond me today, I am choked with emotion... my mouth opens and closes without a sound... I am mute.
Hold thou thy cross before my closing eyes;
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies.
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.
Again the Last Post.
More tears, until my body is shaking with sorrow; no sound, I am wracked with grief, overcome and distraught....
I cry more at this service, than at Dad's funeral.
I sob, breathe, sob some more, until I run out of tissues... time to hug and hold each other in our grief, our first ANZAC Day without Dad, the first of a number of firsts...
We managed, it wasn't the same, it can never be the same without you Dad, but we managed...
Home to a huge breakfast of bacon and eggs and toast and tea and hugs and a candle lit for you Dad and for everyone else.
ANZAC day 2004. Lest we forget.
A red wine and a day full of memories, bear with me as I reminisce about yesterdays ANZAC Day Dawn Service and parade....
My eldest sister has never been to a Dawn Service, being a Nursing Sister, she is usually working, or sleeping, so I suggest that she stay at my home and we go in together as a family to reflect and understand our heritage...
The alarm sounds at 3.15am, my feet automatically swing to hit the floor, after years of being a radio reporter (and a rowers mum) and getting up at absurd hours, I know enough about myself not to simply lie there... I will fall back asleep.. so like a robot, I am up and on my feet before my eyes have opened...
We have pinned on Mum and Dad's war medal miniatures the night before, always on the right side if representing someone else, and we add rosemary sprigs...
Cups of hot tea, toast and Vegemite, and we are on our way, driving into the remnants of a black, still, autumn night... the two boys of mine and Sissy, making our way along the streets watching the late-night clubbers spill out onto the footpaths at 3.50am...
Park the car, a quick walk till we merge into the pedestrian mainstream of other families (like spawning salmon) with a common destination in mind... right next to the Memorial where the wreaths will be laid...
The clock behind us seems to slow like treacle. 3.33am. 4am. 4.10am. I imagine our young Aussie soldiers, like the scene from the Tom Cruise movie, kissing their photographs in their pockets, saying a prayer, finding God, willing themselves on because they are Aussies, and it's what you do. In war.
I turn around again, until I decide not to do it anymore...but I still do, I need to know how much longer. I am waiting for 4.28, the exact time our young men began their battle and became national heroes.
The last time we stood here, two years ago, sirens of an ambulance screamed past; and I was momentarily annoyed, but within its sound I found a safe secure feeling of being looked after.
This morning, there is only silence, 10,000 people breathing in and out and thinking and wondering and remembering and being quiet and reflective, young boys and girls, university students, families, oldies, all anticipating the arrival of 4.28am.
The Catafalque party stand stiff and proud, their uniforms ironed with utter precision, their faces so young, some with medals already pinned to their chest, perhaps Iraq, perhaps Timor, who knows?
In the distance there is a strumming, no…. It’s more like a drumming… That’s it… drums, lots of them… And sure enough the sound grows and expands as they approach the crowd. Soon a Pipe Band marches into view, no bagpipes, only the drums, urgent and demanding, rat-a--tat! rat-a-tat! The sound engulfs us till suddenly - nothing. The air hangs with expectation.
A young girls voice begins....
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted:
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
Lest we forget.
The service begins, with the moving hymn, 'Abide with Me' God save our Queen, and so on... words from the Governor, my arm around my sisters waist, my two boys spontaneously breaking out to sing Advance Australia Fair, my pride in them, the Last Post, wreath laying, complete strangers brought together to remember our history... and so we turn and look at each other and go home...
It's now 5.15am, and nearly time to take Bear to his own parade, at another suburb, he changes into his Scout uniform, pinning on his Grandfathers medals, and then Sissy and I and Bear are driving into a blazing red sky sunrise... 'red sky in the morning, shepherds warning, red sky at night, sailors delight'.
Naturally I stop and photograph the sky, this gorgeous dawn over Brisbane, a celebration of colour and clouds and nature and God and things you and I could never know about....
Bears parade goes well, Wonga out the front of the Scouts, Joeys and little Cubbie Scouts, all looking very spiffy in their uniforms, Bear looking older and older as I stare at him in disbelief. When did he grow up so fast? He looks very handsome and mature, and manages to roll his eyes at me as I photograph him...
We have been there before, for the Scouts, but this is our last time, as Bear is about to graduate from Scouts and leave...
Singing Abide with Me again, I listen to my sisters clear pure voice, softly, quietly; holding the notes, saying the beautiful words, her voice mesmerises me, and I cannot sing, it is beyond me today, I am choked with emotion... my mouth opens and closes without a sound... I am mute.
Hold thou thy cross before my closing eyes;
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies.
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.
Again the Last Post.
More tears, until my body is shaking with sorrow; no sound, I am wracked with grief, overcome and distraught....
I cry more at this service, than at Dad's funeral.
I sob, breathe, sob some more, until I run out of tissues... time to hug and hold each other in our grief, our first ANZAC Day without Dad, the first of a number of firsts...
We managed, it wasn't the same, it can never be the same without you Dad, but we managed...
Home to a huge breakfast of bacon and eggs and toast and tea and hugs and a candle lit for you Dad and for everyone else.
ANZAC day 2004. Lest we forget.
ANZAC Day 2004
Found this - was originally posted in my Old Blog, now gone, (thanks Google)
A red wine and a day full of memories, bear with me as I reminisce about yesterdays ANZAC Day Dawn Service and parade....
My eldest sister has never been to a Dawn Service, being a Nursing Sister, she is usually working, or sleeping, so I suggest that she stay at my home and we go in together as a family to reflect and understand our heritage...
The alarm sounds at 3.15am, my feet automatically swing to hit the floor, after years of being a radio reporter (and a rowers mum) and getting up at absurd hours, I know enough about myself not to simply lie there... I will fall back asleep.. so like a robot, I am up and on my feet before my eyes have opened...
We have pinned on Mum and Dad's war medal miniatures the night before, always on the right side if representing someone else, and we add rosemary sprigs...
Cups of hot tea, toast and Vegemite, and we are on our way, driving into the remnants of a black, still, autumn night... the two boys of mine and Sissy, making our way along the streets watching the late-night clubbers spill out onto the footpaths at 3.50am...
Park the car, a quick walk till we merge into the pedestrian mainstream of other families (like spawning salmon) with a common destination in mind... right next to the Memorial where the wreaths will be laid...
The clock behind us seems to slow like treacle. 3.33am. 4am. 4.10am. I imagine our young Aussie soldiers, like the scene from the Tom Cruise movie, kissing their photographs in their pockets, saying a prayer, finding God, willing themselves on because they are Aussies, and it's what you do. In war.
I turn around again, until I decide not to do it anymore...but I still do, I need to know how much longer. I am waiting for 4.28, the exact time our young men began their battle and became national heroes.
The last time we stood here, two years ago, sirens of an ambulance screamed past; and I was momentarily annoyed, but within its sound I found a safe secure feeling of being looked after.
This morning, there is only silence, 10,000 people breathing in and out and thinking and wondering and remembering and being quiet and reflective, young boys and girls, university students, families, oldies, all anticipating the arrival of 4.28am.
The Catafalque party stand stiff and proud, their uniforms ironed with utter precision, their faces so young, some with medals already pinned to their chest, perhaps Iraq, perhaps Timor, who knows?
In the distance there is a strumming, no…. It’s more like a drumming… That’s it… drums, lots of them… And sure enough the sound grows and expands as they approach the crowd. Soon a Pipe Band marches into view, no bagpipes, only the drums, urgent and demanding, rat-a--tat! rat-a-tat! The sound engulfs us till suddenly - nothing. The air hangs with expectation.
A young girls voice begins....
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted:
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them
Lest we forget.
The service begins, with the moving hymn, 'Abide with Me' God save our Queen, and so on... words from the Governor, my arm around my sisters waist, my two boys spontaneously breaking out to sing Advance Australia Fair, my pride in them, the Last Post, wreath laying, complete strangers brought together to remember our history... and so we turn and look at each other and go home...
It's now 5.15am, and nearly time to take Bear to his own parade, at another suburb, he changes into his Scout uniform, pinning on his Grandfathers medals, and then Sissy and I and Bear are driving into a blazing red sky sunrise... 'red sky in the morning, shepherds warning, red sky at night, sailors delight'.
Naturally I stop and photograph the sky, this gorgeous dawn over Brisbane, a celebration of colour and clouds and nature and God and things you and I could never know about....
Bears parade goes well, Wonga out the front of the Scouts, Joeys and little Cubbie Scouts, all looking very spiffy in their uniforms, Bear looking older and older as I stare at him in disbelief. When did he grow up so fast? He looks very handsome and mature, and manages to roll his eyes at me as I photograph him...
We have been there before, for the Scouts, but this is our last time, as Bear is about to graduate from Scouts and leave...
Singing Abide with Me again, I listen to my sisters clear pure voice, softly, quietly; holding the notes, saying the beautiful words, her voice mesmerises me, and I cannot sing, it is beyond me today, I am choked with emotion... my mouth opens and closes without a sound... I am mute.
Hold thou thy cross before my closing eyes;
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies.
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.
Again the Last Post.
More tears, until my body is shaking with tears, no sound, I am wracked with grief, overcome and distraught....
I cry more at this service, than at Dad's funeral.
I sob, breathe, sob some more, until I run out of tissues... time to hug and hold each other in our grief, our first ANZAC Day without Dad, the first of a number of firsts...
We managed, it wasn't the same, it can never be the same without you Dad, but we managed...
Home to a huge breakfast of bacon and eggs and toast and tea and hugs and a candle lit for you Dad and for everyone else.
ANZAC day 2004. Lest we forget.
A red wine and a day full of memories, bear with me as I reminisce about yesterdays ANZAC Day Dawn Service and parade....
My eldest sister has never been to a Dawn Service, being a Nursing Sister, she is usually working, or sleeping, so I suggest that she stay at my home and we go in together as a family to reflect and understand our heritage...
The alarm sounds at 3.15am, my feet automatically swing to hit the floor, after years of being a radio reporter (and a rowers mum) and getting up at absurd hours, I know enough about myself not to simply lie there... I will fall back asleep.. so like a robot, I am up and on my feet before my eyes have opened...
We have pinned on Mum and Dad's war medal miniatures the night before, always on the right side if representing someone else, and we add rosemary sprigs...
Cups of hot tea, toast and Vegemite, and we are on our way, driving into the remnants of a black, still, autumn night... the two boys of mine and Sissy, making our way along the streets watching the late-night clubbers spill out onto the footpaths at 3.50am...
Park the car, a quick walk till we merge into the pedestrian mainstream of other families (like spawning salmon) with a common destination in mind... right next to the Memorial where the wreaths will be laid...
The clock behind us seems to slow like treacle. 3.33am. 4am. 4.10am. I imagine our young Aussie soldiers, like the scene from the Tom Cruise movie, kissing their photographs in their pockets, saying a prayer, finding God, willing themselves on because they are Aussies, and it's what you do. In war.
I turn around again, until I decide not to do it anymore...but I still do, I need to know how much longer. I am waiting for 4.28, the exact time our young men began their battle and became national heroes.
The last time we stood here, two years ago, sirens of an ambulance screamed past; and I was momentarily annoyed, but within its sound I found a safe secure feeling of being looked after.
This morning, there is only silence, 10,000 people breathing in and out and thinking and wondering and remembering and being quiet and reflective, young boys and girls, university students, families, oldies, all anticipating the arrival of 4.28am.
The Catafalque party stand stiff and proud, their uniforms ironed with utter precision, their faces so young, some with medals already pinned to their chest, perhaps Iraq, perhaps Timor, who knows?
In the distance there is a strumming, no…. It’s more like a drumming… That’s it… drums, lots of them… And sure enough the sound grows and expands as they approach the crowd. Soon a Pipe Band marches into view, no bagpipes, only the drums, urgent and demanding, rat-a--tat! rat-a-tat! The sound engulfs us till suddenly - nothing. The air hangs with expectation.
A young girls voice begins....
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted:
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them
Lest we forget.
The service begins, with the moving hymn, 'Abide with Me' God save our Queen, and so on... words from the Governor, my arm around my sisters waist, my two boys spontaneously breaking out to sing Advance Australia Fair, my pride in them, the Last Post, wreath laying, complete strangers brought together to remember our history... and so we turn and look at each other and go home...
It's now 5.15am, and nearly time to take Bear to his own parade, at another suburb, he changes into his Scout uniform, pinning on his Grandfathers medals, and then Sissy and I and Bear are driving into a blazing red sky sunrise... 'red sky in the morning, shepherds warning, red sky at night, sailors delight'.
Naturally I stop and photograph the sky, this gorgeous dawn over Brisbane, a celebration of colour and clouds and nature and God and things you and I could never know about....
Bears parade goes well, Wonga out the front of the Scouts, Joeys and little Cubbie Scouts, all looking very spiffy in their uniforms, Bear looking older and older as I stare at him in disbelief. When did he grow up so fast? He looks very handsome and mature, and manages to roll his eyes at me as I photograph him...
We have been there before, for the Scouts, but this is our last time, as Bear is about to graduate from Scouts and leave...
Singing Abide with Me again, I listen to my sisters clear pure voice, softly, quietly; holding the notes, saying the beautiful words, her voice mesmerises me, and I cannot sing, it is beyond me today, I am choked with emotion... my mouth opens and closes without a sound... I am mute.
Hold thou thy cross before my closing eyes;
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies.
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.
Again the Last Post.
More tears, until my body is shaking with tears, no sound, I am wracked with grief, overcome and distraught....
I cry more at this service, than at Dad's funeral.
I sob, breathe, sob some more, until I run out of tissues... time to hug and hold each other in our grief, our first ANZAC Day without Dad, the first of a number of firsts...
We managed, it wasn't the same, it can never be the same without you Dad, but we managed...
Home to a huge breakfast of bacon and eggs and toast and tea and hugs and a candle lit for you Dad and for everyone else.
ANZAC day 2004. Lest we forget.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
ANZAC DAY 2008
My fingers slowly trace the rough, sharp surface of dad’s Memorial plaque.
2/6 FD.REGT. R.A.A.
The early morning sun is glinting brightly off the gold lettering, and behind me, a few families wander in and out of the brick walls of the Garden of Remembrance, holding Australian flags and bunches of fresh flowers, looking for their dead.
I didn’t bring anything for dad, but I think he may have appreciated small rum, to start his ANZAC day. I can just seeing him grinning cheekily, and raising his glass to me in a silent toast. Cheers mate! This is the 4th year he has been gone, and as a result, our 4th ANZAC Day without his booming voice lifting the hymns, and his gentle touch on a weary Vets shoulder.
I miss him, of course, but only on special days like this. Every other waking day, he is simply with me, in spirit. How can you miss someone who hasn’t left you?
Today started at 4am, on the knock, my alarm buzzing urgently to say “Get up! Time to remember!” I decided not at attend Dawn Service in the city this year, my sons are not able to be with me, and I don’t have the energy to drive in by myself.
Grief and remembrance needs company and loving arms to hold, so this morning I will sit in my own kitchen and listen to the radio, live from ANZAC Square.
It doesn’t seem right to turn the lights on, so a candle is lit, and I sit in the cool morning’s quietness, listening to Spencer Howson, listening to 10,000 people breathing as one. The air crackles with silence. Every now and then, the radio crosses to another chat show, somewhere in Australia, perhaps Sydney, perhaps Adelaide, who knows?
I think this is an automatic backup by ABC Radio, to fill the lack of announcing on-air, but I don’t really know, and whilst intrusive, it reminds us all that life does indeed go on all around the world, in different cities, with different voices, discussing different topics; a brief snatch of time to peer into their world, before returning to Anzac Square to resume our own Dawn Service.
Although my candle is soft, radiating a yellow glow, my kitchen technology blinks back at me like a dismantled Christmas Tree. Lights glow from the microwave, the radio, the computer, the speakers, the modem, and on it goes, I count 9 separate lights, blues, greens, reds. It’s too silly for words, really. Earth hour should happen every night!
Each Dawn Service follows the same format. The drummers, the speech “They shall not grow old” and I hang my head and determine not to cry. The Governor makes her speech, and another hymn, “Abide with me” calls through the crowds and reaches me – sitting by my candlelight – in my kitchen. At one stage of the Service, there is another long, uncomfortable silence, the kind that makes you imagine what our young Diggers were doing. Busy yelling; busy charging; busy running; and busy taking their time, dying where they fell.
Spencer tells us that someone from the crowd has yelled out impatiently “What’s the holdup?” and I have agree, what is the holdup? Life sometimes takes her own sweet time, regardless of what brand watch we wear, or how much we need people to rush. Wreaths are laid, choirs sing, and the crowd disperses.
Our memories of ANZAC Day 2008 have begun! Time to visit dad.
Friday, April 25, 2008
War Poetry
In Flanders fields
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place: and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
John McCrae (1872–1918)
For the fallen
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables at home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
Laurence Binyon (1869–1943)
Beach Burial
Softly and humbly to the Gulf of Arabs
The convoys of dead sailors come;
At night they sway and wander in the waters far under,
But morning rolls them in the foam.
Between the sob and clubbing of gunfire
Someone, it seems, has time for this,
To pluck them from the shallows and bury them in burrows
And tread the sand upon their nakedness;
And each cross, the driven stake of tidewood,
Bears the last signature of men,
Written with such perplexity, with such bewildered pity,
The words choke as they begin -
"Unknown seaman" - the ghostly pencil
Wavers and fades, the purple drips,
The breath of wet season has washed their inscriptions
As blue as drowned men's lips,
Dead seamen, gone in search of the same landfall,
Whether as ememies they fought,
Or fought with us, or neither; the sand joins them together,
Enlisted on the other front.
Kenneth Slessor
Turkish Prayer
Those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives,
you are now lying in the soil of a friendly country.
Therefore rest in peace.
There is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets to us here:
they lie side by side here in this country of ours.
You, the mothers who sent your sons from far away countries,
wipe away your tears;
Your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace.
After having lost their lives on this land,
they have become our sons as well.
Kemal Ataturk, the Commander of the Turkish 19th Division during the Gallipoli Campaign and the first President of the Turkish Republic from 1924-1938
Tribute to the Australian serviceman
At the going down of the sun...
I crouched in a shallow trench on that hell of exposed beaches... steeply rising foothills bare of cover... a landscape pockmarked with war’s inevitable litter... piles of stores... equipment... ammunition... and the weird contortions of death sculptured in Australian flesh... I saw the going down of the sun on that first ANZAC Day... the chaotic maelstrom of Australia’s blooding.
I fought in the frozen mud of the Somme... in a blazing destroyer exploding on the North Sea... I fought on the perimeter at Tobruk... crashed in the flaming wreckage of a fighter in New Guinea... lived with the damned in the place cursed with the name Changi.
I was your mate... the kid across the street... the med. student at graduation... the mechanic in the corner garage... the baker who brought you bread... the gardener who cut your lawn... the clerk who sent your phone bill.
I was an Army private... a Naval commander... an Air Force bombardier. no man knows me... no name marks my tomb, for I am every Australian serviceman... I am the Unknown Soldier.
I died for a cause I held just in the service of my land... that you and yours may say in freedom... I am proud to be an Australian.
A poignant tribute to the Australian serviceman, hangs in the offices of the Queensland State Headquarters of the RSL.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place: and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
John McCrae (1872–1918)
For the fallen
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables at home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
Laurence Binyon (1869–1943)
Beach Burial
Softly and humbly to the Gulf of Arabs
The convoys of dead sailors come;
At night they sway and wander in the waters far under,
But morning rolls them in the foam.
Between the sob and clubbing of gunfire
Someone, it seems, has time for this,
To pluck them from the shallows and bury them in burrows
And tread the sand upon their nakedness;
And each cross, the driven stake of tidewood,
Bears the last signature of men,
Written with such perplexity, with such bewildered pity,
The words choke as they begin -
"Unknown seaman" - the ghostly pencil
Wavers and fades, the purple drips,
The breath of wet season has washed their inscriptions
As blue as drowned men's lips,
Dead seamen, gone in search of the same landfall,
Whether as ememies they fought,
Or fought with us, or neither; the sand joins them together,
Enlisted on the other front.
Kenneth Slessor
Turkish Prayer
Those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives,
you are now lying in the soil of a friendly country.
Therefore rest in peace.
There is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets to us here:
they lie side by side here in this country of ours.
You, the mothers who sent your sons from far away countries,
wipe away your tears;
Your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace.
After having lost their lives on this land,
they have become our sons as well.
Kemal Ataturk, the Commander of the Turkish 19th Division during the Gallipoli Campaign and the first President of the Turkish Republic from 1924-1938
Tribute to the Australian serviceman
At the going down of the sun...
I crouched in a shallow trench on that hell of exposed beaches... steeply rising foothills bare of cover... a landscape pockmarked with war’s inevitable litter... piles of stores... equipment... ammunition... and the weird contortions of death sculptured in Australian flesh... I saw the going down of the sun on that first ANZAC Day... the chaotic maelstrom of Australia’s blooding.
I fought in the frozen mud of the Somme... in a blazing destroyer exploding on the North Sea... I fought on the perimeter at Tobruk... crashed in the flaming wreckage of a fighter in New Guinea... lived with the damned in the place cursed with the name Changi.
I was your mate... the kid across the street... the med. student at graduation... the mechanic in the corner garage... the baker who brought you bread... the gardener who cut your lawn... the clerk who sent your phone bill.
I was an Army private... a Naval commander... an Air Force bombardier. no man knows me... no name marks my tomb, for I am every Australian serviceman... I am the Unknown Soldier.
I died for a cause I held just in the service of my land... that you and yours may say in freedom... I am proud to be an Australian.
A poignant tribute to the Australian serviceman, hangs in the offices of the Queensland State Headquarters of the RSL.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
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