Remembering them is to honour their sacrifices

Tomorrow will be ANZAC Day and we will once again pause to remember those brave souls who served in cause of liberty. Yes, we focus on that moment when Australians waded ashore into the horrors that awaited at Gallipoli and later would serve at the Somme, Ypres, Passchendaele and more. That same spirit would fill the hearts of our WWII veterans in theatres from Europe to the South Pacific.

War is a hungry beast and appears never to be sated. Australian men and women have served in many more theatres of war and no doubt, others will follow.

Today as we prepare space in our hearts for tomorrow’s remembrances, I would ask you to think about those in your family and ‘extended’ family who have served.

I’d like you to buy an exercise book and write the stories you recall down, so that those who follow will have a person and his or her memories on which to fix in that moment of silence and reverie.

I remember my Dar (grandfather) telling me that Gallipoli was once a Greek territory, the word means ‘beautiful city’, but when much of it was destroyed by a huge earthquake in 1354, the Greeks abandoned it and their place was quickly taken by the Turks. Someone is always keen to expand their territory. Dar told me how one morning as the sun rose, it was quiet and beautiful. He promised himself that he’d go back their one day to enjoy its beauty in the silence of peace. He never did go back. By the time he could, his memories were muddied by what he’s witnessed there.

I stand in awe of all those who landed at Gallipoli or served on Australia’s WWI submarine or our surface naval forces, those who served in the fields of France and Belgium or in the deserts or in every other theatre of war since. What fine men and women with such strength of spirit. What stories they can tell.

It is these accounts and yarns that are important. Our ANZACS are now gone and we, who were told their stories, have both the privilege and the responsibility to share them with the generations to follow so their spirit may live on.

When Laurence Binyon wrote the poem ‘For the Fallen’, he set us a task – to remember them. Most of us will recognize the fourth verse that we know simply as ‘The Ode’…

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.’

I wish I had written down all the many the stories of my Grandfather, Great Uncles and Dad. Some were tragic and told of lost friends and horrific circumstances. Some were tales of bravery and skill like my

Great Uncle Denis’s involvement in the successful Battle of Magdhaba where he captured the Regimental Colours of the foe. (These now hang in the Australian War Memorial.) Some are funny – a moment of levity in an otherwise terrifying situation. ‘The Brothers’, my Grandfather and Great Uncles arrived at the cove together and immediately jumped into the water and headed for shore in the pre-dawn light. Almost at once they came under fire. One of my

Great Uncles felt something strike his chest and he fell back into the shallow waters. His brothers turned to help him, but he insisted, ‘Go on without me.’ After some time in the cold water, he realized he was neither dead nor dying and reached to feel where he’d been hit. In his breast pocket was the small Bible given by my Great Grandmother to each of her sons and in that Bible, was the bullet. At family gatherings the call to lunch or dinner would always be followed with, ‘Are you coming Cobber or shall we go on without you?’ followed by the brothers’ laughter. I miss them.

As a child, I knew a tall, quietly spoken man Charles William Scott French (he’d come from Charters Towers) and his lovely wife Pearl Constance née Paten. They owned a wonderful old home called ‘Tula’ and it was just near a large number of mulberry trees on our way from primary school to the high school where we played Friday afternoon tennis. She too had served in WWI as a ‘nurse masseuse’ – we call them physiotherapists now, but then, their fledgling branch of medicine was just emerging. She was the sister of Eunice Muriel Paten, one of the original four Gallipoli nurses.

Charles French was a tall man but bore himself with humility.

He was also brave. For his actions at the Battle of Le Hamel, he would be awarded not only the Military Cross, but the Bar to the Military Cross for ‘conspicuous gallantry and devotion to duty during an attack…he also exhibited great courage in attacking the many machine gun positions encountered during the advance’.

Mr and Mrs French had no children of their own, but invited the children of the area to their home to share their artistic endeavours and as the last stop for cake and cordial on our way home after singing carols around the suburbs. They taught me to paint and they shared the most amazing stories.

Then there was my own Dad who was just seventeen at naval college at the outbreak of war, but suddenly found himself on escort duty plying the route known as ‘Torpedo Alley’ between the UK and New York.

He was torpedoed and sunk twice in the icy waters of the Atlantic and then applied for duty in the warm Pacific … yes, torpedoed again! There he rescued men on the Burma Railroad working to get them to the safety of the hospital at Cox’s Bazaar. One of his dearest friends was ‘Uncle’ D’arcy (remember when he had honorary uncles and aunts?) who had been a POW on the Railroad, in fact, his portrait, drawn by another POW is in the museum near Hellfire Pass. At picnics, they would quietly retire to the end of the creek and send boats of leaves and bark down to we children while they unpacked their experiences and washed them away!

In the next generation my cousins Derek and Bobby would also serve – Derek in Viet Nam where he experienced ghastly injuries and Bobby also in Viet Nam but as an RAN ordinance diver. In the midst of horrors, they found time to remember silly things that happened and laughter and comradeship which sustained them.

These stories were shared at family gatherings while the sombre tales were held in our hearts and memories.

I’m proud of all these men, but my memories will die with me … unless I do something about it! How about making today the day you buy a book and write down your family’s stories while you still remember them for future generations? Record the stories of those who lived them and are still with you.

These memories are the essence of the Australian spirit that lives in us all.