Lest We Forget

By Andrea Grigg

Like thousands of Australians and New Zealanders, Anzac Day holds a very special place in my heart. I grew up in Auckland, and, as a little girl, I can remember going to the Cenotaph in the Auckland Domain with my Granddad and planting a poppy in the early dawn light.

This photo was taken in 1919 on the Salisbury Plain in England, not long before Granddad was shipped back to New Zealand. It also graces the cover of a CD called ‘Lest We Forget’ that I and a number of children recorded back in 2002. It’s an original song, penned by myself and Karen Howard, the music teacher at our school at the time. You can view the YouTube clip here..

But back to Granddad.

Captain James Joseph Davison was born in 1889, and served in the trenches of France and Belgium during World War 1. Despite suffering shrapnel wounds, he lived a long and fruitful life. He really wanted to make it to 90, but missed by seven months, and so on the plaque at his gravesite are the words, ‘In his 90^th year’. He would’ve loved that.

It’s because of my granddad and thousands of other NZ and Australian soldiers, that we live in the wonderful countries we do today. Thousands didn’t come home, and the ones that did were often scarred mentally by the sights they’d seen. Granddad had three war diaries. In one of them he wrote: ‘I will not mention casualties or sights – they will live in my memory forever.’

With the passing of these diggers, these memories could have been lost, or, at best, become watered down and insignificant. Yet, this is not the case. Every year, the number of people attending Anzac services is increasing, and the appreciation and understanding of the sacrifices these men and women made is definitely on the rise. Even the very young are getting it.

Take a look at this essay, written by the son of one of my former teaching colleagues. By the time you see this post, Callum will have read this at the Dawn Service at Currumbin Rock ...

Significance of ANZAC Day

I feel the dry sand crackle under my feet and I imagine the same feeling under the boots of the brave soldiers 101 years ago.  The smell of the salt lingers in the air as the surf boats paddle out to the horizon. Silence surrounds the crowd as we stand proudly remembering. I am with my family standing on Currumbin Beach, the best place to be on ANZAC Day.

On April the 25^th 1915 our Aussie troops landed on the dangerous shores of Gallipoli. The journey ahead was terrifying, scary and unknown.  They hoped to survive and they soldiered on with determination and courage. This is where the ANZAC spirit was born. 

What does ANZAC Day mean to me, a ten year old boy from the Gold Coast? Well to me it means mateship, trust, sacrifice and that no-one gets left behind.  When I look into the eyes of those diggers I see all of that and more! That is because we are Aussies and Aussies stand proudly side by side today just as they did 101 years ago during that epic battle.  We never give up, we never give in standing together forever!

We will forever stop and remember this day for those men and woman who fought in those tragic wars and who sacrificed their lives for our freedom.  Those who fought in WW1, WW2, Vietnam, Afghanistan and many others. Those who saw the horror and witnessed having their best friend die beside them. We say thank you, our nation will forever be grateful.

Lest We Forget.

By Callum Simpson  

So, as you can see, the spirit of the Anzac is alive and well, for which I am very thankful. Have a wonderful Anzac Day.

Andrea Grigg is the author of two contemporary romance novels, A Simple Mistake and Too Pretty. The best way to contact her is by email: andreagrigg(at)live(dot)com

Anzac Day

Tomorrow is Anzac Day. I'll be awake, showered and dressed long before dawn, then driving across town in the dark and hoping I've beaten the crowds and there will still be a space in the liquor store carpark next to the local Returned Services Association, location of tomorrow's Dawn Service. This is followed by the civic service, normally held at the cenotaph in Memorial Park but this year in the Domain, a special service to commemorate 100 years since the ill-fated Gallipoli campaign.

I’ll attend both services wearing the green and black uniform of the local Brass Band, sitting front and centre playing my tenor horn.

The Dawn Service is special, arriving while it’s still dark and watching the sun rise as the music plays and prayers are intoned. I'm always impressed by the number of families with children. Some wear medals that used to adorn the chest of their father, grandfather or perhaps great-grandfather. They wear these medals with pride, in memory of men they may never have met, men who have become legends for their service and sacrifice.

Also present are the legends themselves, men who fought in France, Crete, North Africa, Korea, Vietnam, the Falklands, or Afghanistan. These men wear the medals they earned facing enemy fire under what were often horrific conditions. There are no longer any veterans of Gallipoli with us, but we still meet at dawn on 25 April to remember and honour the men who served in that disastrous campaign, the battle that forged the Australians and New Zealand Army Corps and our identities as nations. And we meet to honour those who served in subsequent wars in the Army, Navy, and Air Force, as well as those who served in the merchant navy to keep the home nations supplied and fed, and who were just at risk of being torpedoed or bombed as their army and navy counterparts.

The veterans and visitors will sing as we play the God Save the Queen, the national anthems of Australia and New Zealand, and a hymn. I’ll be able to hear a pin drop when Peter, our lead cornet player, stands beside the Cenotaph to play the Last Post, as we pay silent tribute to those who fought and died for freedom. I’ll feel slightly guilty that protocol says the band remains seated while everyone else stands as a mark of respect.

After the Dawn Service and our hot breakfast at the RSA, we will head to the Domain for the civic service. I'll feel guilty as I drive past the road block to park in our reserved spot, rather than having to use the park and ride facility (but not so guilty that I'll catch the bus and risk being late). This service starts with a march, led by shuffling veterans who have fortified themselves at the RSA bar, followed by the cadet forces marching proudly, then groups such as the Boy Scouts and Girl Guides.

A group of Army, Navy and Air cadets will form the honour guard at the service, standing to attention throughout the service. The choir will lead the congregation in singing hymns and the National Anthem. The band will play quietly as wreaths are laid by representatives from local community groups. An Army chaplain will pray for the fallen. Peter will play the Last Post again. A student representative from one of the local high schools will read the famous poem, In Flanders Fields. Everyone will be silent, as befits such a solemn occasion.

Another student, probably the Head Girl, will deliver a speech about what Anzac Day means to her. She might mention a family connection to one or both of the World Wars, or possibly a later conflict. She will talk about freedom from oppression, and about the innocent young men who travelled far from home and made the ultimate sacrifice, their lives in exchange for our freedom. She might even quote the Bible: For greater love has no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.

But her polished speech will miss the most important sacrifice: the sacrifice Jesus made on the cross for your sins and for mine. She will miss the end of the story of sacrifice: the victory Jesus gained through the resurrection. Anzac Day without Jesus is like Good Friday without Easter Sunday. It’s only half the story.

Anzac Day is important. It’s a time to come together as a community and remember those who have gone before, those who gave their lives that we might live. But it’s more than a commemoration of sacrifice. It’s the story of victory.

Lest we forget.

Guest Post: Mary's War

By Meredith Resce

By the time Australia had entered the conflict known as The Great War, Mary had been living in this new country for thirty-eight years. She and her husband, Charles, had arrived in 1876 with a young daughter and an infant who had been born on the ship just before they’d disembarked. She had lost a small son on the trip over and buried him at sea, which is a dignified way of saying they dropped their child overboard in an unmarked place in the ocean. Charles had then brought Mary further away from the city of Adelaide into an area that was only just being opened up to white settlers about 200 kilometres north.

They had their children, some building materials and supplies, and their ingenuity and determination with which to build a home and establish a market garden. In the years that followed, Mary worked hard in this undeveloped land, produced a further eight children and did her best to keep home and hearth together. Charles died in 1904, and Mary was left to see her children and grandchildren grow.

Mary’s youngest son, Charlie, born in 1893, was just twenty-one when war was declared. Three of the neighbour’s boys and Charlie decided to enlist together. At that time, war was an opportunity for adventure. There were no war movies depicting the horrors of battle; if there was any media influence through books and newspapers, war was depicted as a glorious and honourable pursuit. Charlie and his mates were keen to go to the city barracks and receive their kit.

For Mary, in the out-of-the-way settlement of Wirrabarra Forest, all she could see was her youngest son leaving with no promise of protection. She was a mother and even though she might not have seen Saving Private Ryan, her mother’s heart would have been anxious. The quarrels of European heads of state were no concern of hers. Charles and Mary were not originally from the United Kingdom. Charles hadn't even been from a British colony, and had had to apply for citizenship before being allowed to purchase his land. What did she care about the rhetoric calling the boys to rush to support the mother country? She had no particular attachment to England, having been brought up in the colony of Bermuda not far from North America.

I’m sure Mary had her qualms and possibly expressed them, but the young Australian men were not about to listen to the fears of their mothers. So off they went, leaving behind only anxiety. Mary and her neighbours must have regularly prayed for the safety of their boys. They didn’t really know about what happened at Gallipoli or on the Western Front. They didn’t know about the trenches and the dysentery and the horrors of barbed wire and bombs.

All they knew was what they were fed intermittently through newspapers, and this news was heavily censored extolling the glorious honour of defending the cause of right. And there were the lists posted regularly at the post office. Mary lived quite a way out of town, but I suppose someone would make the trip in and read the lists to see if any of their boys were either listed as missing or killed in action. Other than the atmosphere of tension that was over the entire country – worry for the boys – there was no sign of war at home.

Then one day, Mary received a visit from the minister from the next town away. He came bearing the following telegram:

When I read this telegram, I cannot help but feel what Mary must have felt. Looking at the date, it looks as if Charlie might have been dead for two weeks before she knew about it. Apart from the grief she must have felt, she might have been forgiven for asking the question: “What was the point of that?” She was to learn later that two of the neighbour’s boys were also killed in action. The small settlement paid a high price for someone else’s quarrel.

Much later, the family received word from the military to say that their son and brother had distinguished himself in action, had received three citations for bravery and courage under fire. I’ve read the citations, and though I never knew Uncle Charlie, these citations tell of a man who placed himself in the line of fire numerous times, risking his own life on behalf of his comrades. I’m glad of that, but from Mary’s point of view, I suppose that was cold comfort. They received the medals and the citations, and though I suppose it is better than knowing he died of dysentery or was shot as a deserter, still what is a medal when it is your son you want to welcome home.

Uncle Charlie was actually my grandmother’s uncle and she was only a few years younger than him. She was a teenager during the war and knew him well, but she never told me the story about him. You might not think that odd, but I do as my Grandmother was a prolific story-teller, and the main subjects of her stories were family. I can tell you hundreds of family stories that she told us – not just once, but repeatedly – and yet I never heard her tell the story of Uncle Charlie.

As I sit here now, one hundred years later, I have to assume that it was all too painful. Uncle Charlie never came home. He was awarded medals and citations for his bravery, but the family didn’t tell the story with relish like all the other favourite stories. Mary’s war was not one of bombs and barbed wire, trenches and disease. It was one of loss – a loss that is remembered every year on ANZAC day.

Now, one hundred years later, Australians and New Zealanders still gather at dawn services and marches on 25 April, to commemorate young men like Uncle Charlie. Today I would also like to commemorate people like Mary and Ella (my Grandmother). Mothers, sisters, wives, daughters, nieces – women whose war looked very much like everyday life, and whose pain was not physical - but it was pain nonetheless.

Lest We Forget.

Meredith Resce – author of ‘The Heart of Green Valley’ series; ‘Cora Villa’ and other Australian Christian Fiction titles. You can find out more about Meredith at her website.