Anzac dawn service at Villers-Bretonneux: pomp, patriotism and plastic ponchos
At the Last Post we dug out our ponchos. The rain had held off for hours but first the bugler and then the padre brought it down. Our discomfort was complete. Only one umbrella rose above the congregation at the dawn service at Villers-Bretonneux. It sheltered the Prince of Wales.
That’s royalty. The rules for everyone else were terribly strict. We handed our our umbrellas in at the gate. But not HRH and, edging in for a little shelter, were Malcolm Turnbull on one side and Édouard Philippe, the prime minister of France, on the other.
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And when the shower passed after a few minutes – roughly when Senator Derryn Hinch was laying his wreath – there rose from the ground the absolutely authentic stench of blood and bone.
Dawn services are indestructible. We know what they are about: speeches, music and wreaths. And suffering together in the open is so much part of it all: showing we, too, can endure even if only a cold, wet morning in northern France. As they say in the theatre world: it’s a long
sit.
The Prince of Wales had appeared like a ghost out of the shadows at 4.45am. He has grown old waiting and looks more than ever like his Mountbatten cousins. He performs his chores with perfect goodwill but his face has the look of a man a little distracted, perhaps by matters of state.
Everyone with an iPhone knew sunup was still two hours away. What a great director could do with that time in such a setting and with such a purpose. Trim the speeches. Coordinate them so we don’t get three or four descriptions of the battle that – in Australian eyes – turned the war around.
And can we, please, do something on solemn occasions like this about the petty rules of politeness? How many times must Turnbull be announced at the microphone as “the Hon” and “MP”. Give us a break: he’s simply “the prime minister Malcolm Turnbull”.
He was enjoying himself. There’s a particularly mischievous grin he has and a way of rocking on his toes that signalled he was having the time of his life chatting to HRH and HE the PM of the French republic.
Perhaps moments like these make being prime minister bearable for Turnbull. Up to his elbows in the grubby brawls of his party he can take heart that soon enough there will be another guard of honour to inspect and another chance to chat man to man with the leader of a nation two or three times our size. They are his people.
A note on cold weather dress for politicians. Power flows to those who seem least prepared against the elements. HRH’s heavy overcoat betrayed his age. Tony Abbott cut an unfortunate figure in a plastic poncho. But Philippe was dressed as if he were sauntering through the rooms of the Élysée.
What brings the crowd here? Patriotism and celebration but perhaps also to wonder whether any of this, in the end, will do the trick. Hardly anyone in this crowd would have been alive the last time Europe mobilised against itself. But can these ceremonies, these monuments and museums, save us from another war?
“Please remain in your seats,” ordered Major General Mark Kelly AO DSC as hundreds of wreaths were laid in the rain. This commemoration went on and on as every name of every family and organisation was carefully announced and yet more flowers were brought forward.
But up in the stands the ranks began to break. It was perhaps the worst insurrection in these parts since the British 5th Army broke in the face of Ludendorff’s advance in 1918. “Remain in your seats,” begged the general again but the crowd had made up its mind.
The sun was up and the rain was coming down again. It was time for breakfast, time to find somewhere dry and warm. Leaving the official party in the lurch, the crowd headed for the buses, reclaiming their umbrellas on the way.