Tears, beers, fallen heroes and Yahoo Serious
ONE more semi-sleep ’til Anzac Day.
For some reason, this is my children’s favourite public holiday (not counting Christmas, of course).
They love the perceived naughtiness of waking in the middle of the night as we make our pilgrimage to Currumbin’s Elephant Rock, of bundling up against the ever-so-slight chill of an April dawn in the subtropics, the novelty of playing in the sand sans sun — and the McDonald’s breakfast postservice.
It’s true that often at the most poignant moments of the packed ceremony, I find them making sandcastles beneath our feet and paying scant attention to the service. It’s also true that when I ask them about the meaning of Anzac Day, there’s something in there about soldiers and Australia, but they’ll figure it out eventually. In their minds it’s still much more about the adventure.
But then, that’s part of the Anzac spirit isn’t it?
The First World War was full of Aussie boys who signed up for a grand international exploit, only to give the greatest sacrifice.
Despite the (true) legend of their heroics, they were teenagers at heart, freed from home for the first time and determined to enjoy any minute they could. Especially since tomorrow often never came.
There was news just yesterday that more than 2000 signatures from our first Diggers have been counted in caves underneath the rustic village of Naours, in northern France. The soldiers were taking respite from the trench warfare when they visited the caves.
The director of overseas projects for the Department of Veterans Affairs, Ian Fletcher, says the soldiers were just simple sightseers. Typical Aussie tourists — always out for a laugh and, in this case, a cheeky bit of graffiti.
“We always talk about the gore of war, the fighting, the battles, the mincer of war, but this is a different story, a story of behind the lines, of what they did in those times off and the relief that they had,” says Mr Fletcher.
That adventuresome spirit is what has long drawn thousands of Australians to the shores of Gallipoli on April 25. Yes, we can remember the Anzac spirit somewhere closer to home — but making the journey not only feels like a deeper honour, it also fulfils that wanderlust bred within anyone born on an island … even one as big as ours.
Unfortunately, our tourists in Turkey number far fewer than previous years, thanks primarily to the shadow of terrorism.
Three years ago the isolated peninsula was packed with 10,000 Australians and New Zealanders, this year it’s just 1300.
Obviously the desire for adventure does not extend to toying with safety. Nor should it. I just hope that this pause in our pilgrimage does not become permanent.
Sixteen years ago, my husband and I along with four close friends made the trip to Gallipoli. To call it an adventure is beyond an understatement.
After tasting the delights of Istanbul — where we became hooked to the hookah pipes, apple tea and the bazaar (my favourite line by a Turkish hawker: “Yes please, Aussie, may I rip you off?”) — we made our way to Anzac Cove.
There we laid our sleeping bags on the dirt in a much colder northern hemisphere spring and attempted to snooze — despite the strains of Cold Chisel, John Farnham and AC/DC blaring through the loudspeakers.
It was a strange atmosphere, solemnity was thin on the ground as many young Aussies around us downed tins of rum and Coke. But eventually the music was turned off and we waited in blessed silence.
At dawn, I stood clad in my sleeping bag, in which I had slept not at all, and quietly cried as I thought of those poor bastards on both sides so many years ago.
Then we walked to Lone Pine for another ceremony, this time in the heat with the grit of a night on the ground in our eyes. We sat upon the graves and sobbed.
We walked through the old trenches and finally boarded a bus and ferry back to Canakkalle. Where we discovered that our tour group forgot to book our accommodation — so we ended up sleeping in a Turkish nursing home. I’m not sure who was more confused, the young Aussies or the old Turks.
Bracing ourselves for the night ahead, we found a pub where we ended up in a sleep-deprived not entirely sober debate about the Australian flag.
Apparently we became so heated that the guy at the next table heard us and asked if he could join in. He said he was making a movie along those lines. It was then we noticed this guy was Yahoo Serious. It was just one of those trips — it changed all of us in some way.
Three weeks later, our last Gallipoli veteran passed away.
I dearly hope that the world will one day settle enough to allow my children their own Anzac pilgrimage to Turkish soil.
We may never know the courage our soldiers held — nor the fear they faced — but through our actions we can remember their spirit of adventure. Lest we forget.