ANZAC DAY, 2007 (c) DON TATE I didn’t march last Anzac Day, for my limbs had let me down, Instead, I watched the day unfold in a crowded, country town. From dawn till dusk I shared their day, here shines the nation’s soul, For nowhere else will a finer folk pay homage to the toll. As the early morning sunlight dipped its lid to a brand new day, We stood en masse around a shrine, while the town mayor had his say. It was a cold, stone, marble monolith, with the conflicts etched in gold, And the names of the fallen soldiers, standing clear and bright and bold. “This day,” he said, “we honour those who proudly marched to wars, Who left the comforts of the hearth, and sailed to foreign shores. Men and women from this town, simple souls with a common bond, To fight for crown and country, the nation’s battle dress they donned.” He said much more that day, of course, as that type of person does, When the occasion calls for posing, and the flashbulbs start to buzz. But I guess I shouldn’t name him, since no medals crossed his breast, And despite the things he spoke that day, all knew he’d passed no test. Then I listened to the bugle notes, a sound that’d called the best, And heard it echo ‘round the hills, where the town had lain its best. ‘twas the sound of the call I’d heard myself, all those many years gone by, When I’d gone as well to a foreign war, and if called upon, to die. And the memories came, and flooded back, while that public servant spoke, Of the things I’d done, and the things I’d seen, unknown to these country folk. And I stood there reminiscing, while the tears began to flow, For those who hadn’t made it home, and the lives they didn’t know. Then the morning sun grew larger, and its rays cut through the mist, And I stood there slightly longer, while that shrine was gently kissed. A soft wind swirled around my legs, and I felt on holy ground, As I thought of those who’d died with me, no longer earthly bound. “At the going down of the sun, and in the morning,” words were read, I nodded slowly to myself. “We shall remember them,” he said. “Yes, we shall remember them,” I said, and I said it loud and clear, For these were those whose sacrifice, this country must hold dear. I watched the milling public say farewells, and quietly pray, Then I wandered slowly from that place, to find a place to play. For in this land, it’s the way it’s done, and has been since day one, To celebrate those heroes’ deeds, the two-up school is run. I found it in the local pub, a friendly copper ruled the day, And joined the eager throng that morn, who’d come to risk their pay. Yes, I had a drink, and had a bet, and many of them bent my ears, To tell me tales of things they’d done, in those long-gone, wartime years. I looked them in the eyes those men, for it’s a curious thing I’ve found, That amongst us men is a lesser man, who’s heard no battle sound. He never left these shores, you see, fought nothing but his mind, Now seeks to ease his conscience- soldiers steer clear of his kind. But in the mind of the man who’s been to war, images linger long, And as he speaks, he brings them back, of Germans, Japs, and Cong, There are desert tales when Rommel charged, and Monty saved the day, Of prison wire, and brutal deeds, and death on the Burma railway. There was terror in the trenches, from the seas, and on the beaches, Of mustard gas, and depth charges, of sharks and snakes and leeches. The heart of a man on a battlefield is a lake of a thousand fears, And as they talk you see it all, in those unexpected tears. And yes, I listened to the stories told, though I’ve heard the same before, Because these folk who do the talking, are the ones who went to war. And on this day, these Anzac Days, they’ll generally like to tell, What it’s like to face your fears, what it’s like at the mouth of hell. Mid-morning comes, and through the streets, assorted bands begin to play They’re warming up, discordant all, but soon they’re on their way. And the men and women stop their talk, and listen to the beat, To think of times when first they marched, as recruits out in the heat. Some wonder why it was they joined, and where their senses went, That left them in a cock-pit high, or up in a Nui Dat tent. Then found that no one understood, and all those years were lost, To gain a nation’s victory see, there’s been a terrible personal cost. Now I quietly slipped away that day, since I didn’t know no friend, And took some time to find a place where I knew the march would wend. And stood amongst the townsfolk, as they lined that country street, To clap and shout “Goodonya!” as they marched to a Scottish beat. I watched them pass me by that day, their faces aged and weary, And ne’er a man among them, wasn’t smiling’, bright or teary. For these simple folk were cheering, at these men who’d played their part And wore their shining medals, bright and proudly o’er their heart. The rest of the day went swiftly, I got caught up in a shout, With a couple of local soldiers, and a punk-haired, local lout. He asked us things he didn’t know, like what had we really seen, Of the who and how and what we’d done, and the strangest place we’d been. He asked us were we frightened, and what was it like to see men die, And how we lived with the things we did, did it make us want to cry? They didn’t teach these sort of things, he said, not at any school he’d been, So the only things he knew of war, were learned from a film scene. So we told him, dark and dirty, each one made it a bit more gory, Through gritted teeth we told him, each one had a favourite story. Of bayonet thrusts, and bullet wounds, and a full-on napalm strike, He shook his head in disbelief, he’d never heard the like. In the end, he made me cranky, and I finally let it slip, That I’d had a wound myself, a machine-gun bullet through the hip. And when I dropped my trousers, let them slide right to the floor, And showed him what it done to me, he bolted for the door. The stars shone bright when I stumbled out, I’d had more than I should, It’s the only day of the year, when I felt I really could. And the town was quiet and misty, and a silken moon shone bright, But I felt I walked with angels, along with those who’d gone to fight. One day, I thought, I’ll walk with them, these men who’d paid the price, Who’d given of their lives for all, who’d made the sacrifice. They’d come from towns like this, men and women- the nation’s core, No nobler type can walk as tall, than those who marched to war. So another Anzac Day, had come and gone like a Sunday roast, And I drove away from that country town back home on the southern coast. But my spirit was uplifted, and my heart was set to soar, At the way those country folk had treasured those who’d gone to war.