We Will Remember Them

Our grandfather went to war.

So did Uncle Bill, Mr Berriman, Mr Sullivan from Heidelberg, and a couple of blokes from farms near Drouin. Men with names like Stan and Alf and Ted. Sons and brothers. Fathers, mates, husbands. Some of them barely out of their main pubescent growth spurt. Most of them ignorant of the battles they were about to confront.

Our grandpa went to war. Dad’s dad. Both wars. So by the time the Nazis attacked France and Britain swung her ball and chain, harnessing the cannon fodder of the colonies, our grandfather knew what might lay ahead in WW2. He’d seen the Great War. Had a ‘heads up’. Knew there’d be carnage and chaos, without a splinter of glamour in sight.

Not so the ANZACs of 1914. They left our shores with little knowledge of the battlefield. Those revolting, heartrending realities. Most were enthusiastic, energetic, brimming with patriotic fervour… but the Great War was the ultimate teacher. The headmaster with raised cane, embedded with enough dynamite to shatter thousands of dreams and ambitions, ruining lives with the weight of his ire.

Ah, the Great War. If ever an oxymoron played out across the oceans, blasting the boys on the Gallipoli Peninsula and shelling the men in the trenches, it was this. Great War. The words don’t belong together, even if great is referring to the vastness of the campaign and the number of people involved. War may be huge, but it is never great.

We were a young nation when our grandfather went to war. Federation in 1901, most of our population with strong ties to the mother country. Many blokes sought new horizons, lulled by the idea of travelling overseas, doing something useful, protecting families, friends and hearth. It’d be exciting. See new places, get off the farm, leave the desk job, answer the call. The need. I can do this. For King and country and all that.

It’s quite easy to understand why our ANZACs went to war. It’s easy to understand what they felt when they saw the recruitment posters, heard rousing words ring from wirelesses around the country, and watched their mates enlist. It’s even easy for us to sit in hindsight, and talk about futility of war, the wastage of young lives, the rights and wrongs and everything in between.

What’s not easy for us to understand is the hideous reality of a WW1 battle. The belt of the solider’s heart when adrenalin crashes their system, the dilation of pupils, the acceleration of breathing. The brief mutter of the Lord’s Prayer or the gentle kiss of pre-battle lips against a wedding ring. The sting of gooseflesh, the hammer of thoughts, the calamity of disembarkation just as the war machine sidles into the beach.

Gallipoli.

We’ll never really understand the essence of that horrendous battle. And we thank our collective Gods or spiritual advisers or whomever we turn our gratitudes toward on days like this. But our ANZACs lived it. Our grandfathers went to war, our great uncles, our nurses and infantry, our representatives. They mightn’t have fought on that particular beach in April 1915, but their actions, their sense of duty, enabled us this lifestyle.

Our lives. With homes, cars, backyards. We work and thrive, we laugh and bathe in the sun. We write and read, go to the footy, play cricket and netball, plant stuff, grow things, cook. We eat and send our kids to school and enjoy the moment. We are lucky. Most of us, anyway.

And for that, we give thanks. We remember.

We don’t celebrate this day, we don’t festival-ize it, but most of us close our eyes and give thanks for the tiny square of universe we call home. The peace we breathe. The air we cotton-wool ourselves in, the opportunities we have.

I don’t believe the Gallipoli battle gave birth to our nation — war, and the glorifying of it, makes me extremely angry — but I will always acknowledge the bravery, sacrifice and fortitude of men and women in service. They gave so we could grow. They went, so we didn’t have to, and some of them died so we could live. What more can a human do?

Lest we forget.

Post script: photo supplied by cousin Steph, the eternal keeper of Osborne family history. Thanks gorgeous lady. NS Osborne (ww1 and ww2)