We have so much to thank them for, so many of them paid the ultimate price, so that we remain free...
This morning my daughters and I awoke early and headed off to Bellbowrie for the dawn service, it was so nice to attend a dawn service dressed in t-shirt and thongs - instead of shivering in beanies, coats and scarves.
It was quite a wonderful service, the sun was rising across the Brisbane river, there was a background chorus of Kookaburras in song, before the service commenced there was a quiet buzz coming from the crowd that would number in thousands not hundreds. Apparently the service in Ballarat was the biggest in a long time as well. It seems that ANZAC day is special for many other people as well.
After we had our own little gunfire breakfast we headed into Kenmore to see the ANZAC parade march by. The crowd again was impressive, people lining both sides of Moggill Rd to clap and wave as the Diggers, bands, Scouts, Guides and students marched by. I wish I had taken my camera to the march!
Both of my grandfathers served in WWII.
Frederick William Stephen was a RAAF Corporal in 452 Squadron which was equipped with Spitfires. Fred received a 1939-1945 Star and Pacific Star for his service in the RAAF, where he was an aircraft mechanic Fitter class (II)E. Fred was part of 452 Squadron when it saw service in Darwin and Morotai, they also flew ground attacks against Japanese island garrisons to support the invasions of Tarakan and Balikpapan.
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| Fred's Service Medals |
Geoffrey Keith was a Private, then Craftsman in the Australian Army, he served in the 37/39th Battalion and was part of the 259 Australian Light Aid Detachment when discharged. Keith received a Pacific Star, Defence Medal, War Medal and ASM 1939-1945.
I know very little of my grandfathers' service, Fred died before I was born and Keith never once spoke to me about the war or his service. What knowledge I do have has come from my parents, uncles and aunts and time spent scouring the hard to read digital copies of Fred and Keith's war service records, which I accessed via the National Archives of Australia.
We plan to spend the rest of the day doing something together as a family, not sure what yet, but a cricket game between the Army and a Brookfield United CC XI beckons me to Brookfield, unfortunately I hold little hope of the girls wanting to watch. Whatever we decide to do you can rest assured that our grandparents, great grandparents and servicemen past and present will not be far from our thoughts...
The following poem by Robert Laurence Binyon which was first published on the 21st of September 1914 is one of my favourites...
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children
England mourns for her dead across the sea,
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eyes, steady and aglow,
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
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.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again,
They sit no more at familiar tables of home,
They have no lot in our labour of the daytime,
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires and hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the night.
As the stars shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
Flanders Fields written by John McCrae is another poem I enjoy each ANZAC day.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Finally one last poem that pays tribute to...
The Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels
Many a mother in Australia,
When the busy day is done,
Sends a prayer to the Almighty
For the keeping of her son,
Asking that an Angel guide him
And bring him safely back
Now we see those prayers are answered
On the Owen Stanley track,
For they haven’t any halos,
Only holes slashed in the ears,
And with faces worked by tattoos,
With scratch pins in their hair,
Bringing back the wounded,
Just as steady as a hearse,
Using leaves to keep the rain off
And as gentle as a nurse.
Slow and careful in bad places,
On the awful mountain track,
And the look upon their faces,
Makes us think that Christ was black.
Not a move to hurt the carried,
As they treat him like a Saint,
It’s a picture worth recording,
That an Artist’s yet to paint.
Many a lad will see his Mother,
And the Husbands, Weans and Wives,
Just because the Fuzzy Wuzzy
Carried them to save their lives.
From mortar or machine gun fire,
Or a chance surprise attack,
To safety and the care of Doctors,
At the bottom of the track.
May the Mothers in Australia,
When they offer up a prayer,
Mention those impromptu Angels,
With the Fuzzy Wuzzy hair.
-Sapper H "Bert" Beros NX 6925, 7th Div., RAE, AIF
England mourns for her dead across the sea,
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eyes, steady and aglow,
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
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.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again,
They sit no more at familiar tables of home,
They have no lot in our labour of the daytime,
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires and hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the night.
As the stars shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
Flanders Fields written by John McCrae is another poem I enjoy each ANZAC day.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Finally one last poem that pays tribute to...
The Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels
Many a mother in Australia,
When the busy day is done,
Sends a prayer to the Almighty
For the keeping of her son,
Asking that an Angel guide him
And bring him safely back
Now we see those prayers are answered
On the Owen Stanley track,
For they haven’t any halos,
Only holes slashed in the ears,
And with faces worked by tattoos,
With scratch pins in their hair,
Bringing back the wounded,
Just as steady as a hearse,
Using leaves to keep the rain off
And as gentle as a nurse.
Slow and careful in bad places,
On the awful mountain track,
And the look upon their faces,
Makes us think that Christ was black.
Not a move to hurt the carried,
As they treat him like a Saint,
It’s a picture worth recording,
That an Artist’s yet to paint.
Many a lad will see his Mother,
And the Husbands, Weans and Wives,
Just because the Fuzzy Wuzzy
Carried them to save their lives.
From mortar or machine gun fire,
Or a chance surprise attack,
To safety and the care of Doctors,
At the bottom of the track.
May the Mothers in Australia,
When they offer up a prayer,
Mention those impromptu Angels,
With the Fuzzy Wuzzy hair.
-Sapper H "Bert" Beros NX 6925, 7th Div., RAE, AIF
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