Remember the ANZACs

Today is ANZAC day; a day we remember the fallen during times of war, and why they died.

Some might say that for Australians to fight and die in foreign wars meant they died for nothing but a Colonialist ideal; that of king (or queen) and a country on the other side of the world.

Not so. With the ANZACs (the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps) was born a legend; a legend that our troops endeavour to uphold today, still fighting in foreign territories.

What is it that makes today so special? There were more British, French and Canadian troops killed at Gallipoli than Australian or New Zealand. It was a failed campaign in an area that had, in retrospect, little military value. So why commemorate our greatest defeat and the loss of so many young men?

Much has been said of the appalling planning and execution of the landing: with boats off course so the troops had to scale sheer cliffs to reach safety, with British commanders throwing Aussie Diggers into killing fields, when it was impossible to reach the Turk trenches.

But time and time again, the Aussies obeyed and went over the top, knowing they were going to their deaths. Few made it a quarter of the way, even fewer, halfway, none all the way. The Victorian, New South Wales and Western Australian companies all went; most died.

At night, the cries of the dying could be heard. Brave soldiers sneaked into noman’s land to retrieve them. And the next morning, they’d be going over the top again, to see who could get the furthest. But the Aussies were never bowed during the whole campaign.

They swam in the water, a pool of money set aside should one win and get wounded; they snuck into Turk trenches to steal objects, just to prove they could; they played cricket and football during lulls; they disrespected the British officers but they climbed impossible cliffs to snipe at the enemy, and they died in job lots.

The larrikinism of those soldiers is quintessentially what Australians are all about: get on with the job regardless, but doing it our way.

When the time came to evacuate – or retreat to the rear – it was the Aussies who came up with the way out: by a tin filled with water and a hole in the bottom. In that hole was a piece of string tied to the trigger of the rifle. When the string dried, it contracted and fired off a round. The Turks – a couple of days away from planning their own withdrawal – thought the Aussies were still there. It is a testament to ingenuity that no lives were lost during the evacuation.

Once the ANZACs were in another theatre of war, things changed. Statistically speaking, when the Australians were under the command of one of their own, they had the highest kill rate and lowest mortality rate than any other allied force.

My grandfather missed the Gallipoli campaign, but was awarded the Military Cross in action in France. He was a towering man to a five-year-old, more grouchy than friendly; more a source of wonder and intrigue than of fear, and I would climb into his lap while he told me stories of that time. I can’t remember those tales, but I remember his gentleness, his sadness, his pride, the twinkle in his eyes and his smile.

Apart from that time, he never spoke of his soldiering days, never told of how or where he got the medal; it was as if it was a source of anger, of betrayal. It wasn’t until I was at university studying history that I found out why: That he’d organised his men to destroy German machine-gun nests that were holding up the allied advance. That he’d led from the front in the assault: that a higher ranking officer had an extraordinarily similar citation in his file and been awarded the Victoria Cross – the highest medal awarded for valour under fire.

I’ll never know if it’s true or not, or whether that was the reason my Grandfather was so pissed off. He didn’t seem the kind of man to be concerned by such things. Maybe it was the sense of betrayal for his men, none of whom where awarded anything.

To me, he was hero, in the truest sense of the word: he did his job, he saved lives, and, most importantly, he came home to my Grandmother.

Through fire, blood and military incompetence, the ANZACs showed their worth, as they had done in the lesser known Boer War. They are still one of the best fighting forces in the world. It is the courage, the indomitable spirit, the willingness to do the impossible that we revere today.

While there are no more of the original ANZACs, their ideal lives on in the generations that followed: in the Second World War, in the Korean War, in Vietnam, in Afghanistan and in Iraq. For their inspiration, for their sacrifices, for their Aussie spirits, we will remember them.