My Anzac Day

I am a born and bred Pom with a Welsh(ish) name, an English Dad and a Scottish Mum. I may have watched Neighbours and Home and Away several times a day in my teens and enjoyed a bit of Mick Dundee, but I never liked Steve Waugh and was super stoked on the 22nd November 2003 (in my Duke of Wellington’s Regiment mess kit) as Jonny knocked one over with his wrong foot in extra time. So how did I end up in the Australian Army in 2004?

Long story – I asked, and they oddly, said yes. This was before the process was quite so well-trodden, it’s possible I snuck in under the radar. Regardless, I am incredibly glad I did. I am now a fiercely proud half-breed, particularly so having sired two young Queenslanders, and I am honoured to have worked with some of the most loyal, committed, amusing, professional and humble Australian soldiers and officers throughout a 12 year career Downunder. The Australian Army was immature when I arrived, few will argue with that, and dare I say, the culture played up to the stereotypes. I loved most of those stereotypes mind you. The normal Pom bashing is largely tongue in cheek, brotherly almost, and I enjoy it to be honest. That said I found on one day in particular, the nationalism, fed by jingoistic and factually inaccurate school propaganda in the 80s (and Mel Gibson), was verging on unhealthy and creating a crack, when lubricated, in which the immaturity and Australian stereotypes was able to ooze.

The landings at Gallipoli, the commitment of the Diggers, the positive attitude, the mateship, the bravery, the bullshit orders from the stuffy English officers, the innovation, 2 up and cricket on the beach, the flies and the cunning withdrawal - it’s all part of Aussie DNA. 20 years ago I think little was known about the AIF's fight on the Western Front after Gallipoli - that was strangely deemed less important for a long time. There are also myths, Furphs and legends, like in most good history, that have crept into reality. Some of these, I felt, where the root of the hyperbole that is thankfully, it would seem, fading away.

Anzac Day is, rightly, a commemoration and celebration all Australians (and Kiwis) are proud of. It’s also a day where all serving personnel and veterans get a pat on the back, receive sincere thanks and, if they’re lucky, a beer bought for them. It is a great day, the best day of the year. But more than just a piss up.

In my years in the Australian Army I was lucky to attend an Anzac Day ceremony each April. Initially in Singleton, a country town in New South Wales and home of The School of Infantry. I attended military and civvy services in Brisbane and on the Gold Coast. I marched, I watched, I took part in any way I could, introducing family and visitors from the UK to this fantastic day.

In Afghanistan 10 years ago his year I led a short dawn service, outside the wire, for Combat Team Delta, a patriotic and eclectic bunch of young soldiers. Mindful of them heading in to the green zone on patrol directly afterwards, I thought long and hard about what to say and how to say it. Before we kicked off, a JNCO who had and would continue to suffer greatly from the loss of a mate on a previous tour, asked me (well he didn’t ask really);

“Boss, are you going to talk about some of the later stuff, or just the usual old shit?”.

To me, that question marked the change of Anzac Day.

Anzac Day, for some, will always represent the Founding of a Nation, coming a few years after The Commonwealth of Australia was born – with no disrespect meant to the original Australians, that’s not an argument for here. It will be about how soldiers of a fledgling nation fought and died, regardless of whether a large proportion of those in the AIF were in fact born in Britain and fought for Queen and Country (or Countries). It will be about being up before the sun, pausing for a moment and then raising a glass to those no longer here. For others, as all WWI veterans have passed on, Anzac Day is a day to give thanks to everyone who have served – particularly those who have given the ultimate sacrifice while wearing uniform. Interestingly, Remembrance Day, until the last 10-15 years wasn’t really a thing in Australia; I recall explaining to people in the Army why I was wearing a Poppy in November 2004.

In 2015 I was privileged, when working as a Liaison Officer with the Defence Staff at the Australian High Commission in London, to take part in the Anzac 100 Commemorations at dawn in the 25th April at the Australian War Memorial on Hyde Park Corner - as luck would have it, opposite Apsley House and next to Wellington Arch. Over 5000 people attended and the Dawn Service with many more showing respect at a march past the Cenotaph and a service at Westminster Abbey later that day. Gallipoli, in fact the entire Dardanelles Campaign, means a great deal to many. This day, in London, reinforced to me how Anzac Day has changed, has matured, in a short period of time – well My Anzac Day has at the very least. I was more proud than ever that day to don the Slouch Hat and medals I had been awarded and make peace with the memories and the losses close to me.

Anzac Day is critical to the uniqueness, the history and the national identity of Australia - but please Think Don’t Just Drink.

I look forward to #AnzacAtHome this year.

Lest We Forget.