A Country full of Statues

Yesterday we 'celebrated' Anzac day. For non-Australians this may be difficult to come to grips with. It is a holiday that many use to go to the beach or have a barbeque, or just enjoy themselves. But it is more than that. Much more.

If you just looked at a list of dates and battles, you would think that Australia is a warlike nation. Then if you did a tour of country towns, this impression would be confirmed when in most you would see a statue of a lone soldier standing guard over a long list of names. Each one a heartbroken family, each one a shattered life. Most commemorating a grave in a foreign land. Every Anzac day people across Australia, New Zealand and at outposts around the world, gather around these memorials at dawn and remember the fallen.

The legend began nearly a hundred years ago on 25, April 1915, when our soldiers were included in an invasion force to try and take a peninsular in Turkey (what we now call Gallipoli) and then move on Constantinople (Now Istanbul) itself. The strategic importance of the aims of the invasion would take much more than I am able to write down, here or elsewhere, many books have been written about it, no doubt there is more to come. Suffice to say, it was a stuff up from the start.

We were landed upon the wrong beach, where the Turks held the high ground and well prepared positions. Soldiers fight harder when they fight on their own land and the Turks fought very hard for theirs. The command from the top was "Dig, dig, dig until you are safe" and that was what we did. Consequently, even today, Australian soldiers are called 'Diggers'. Eventually, as in many battles and campaigns in WWI the stalemate of trench warfare, just killed and killed, with little or no ground being gained as a result. The decision was finally made to withdraw. As an aside, only the enemy retreats in a battle, your own side, withdraws.

We were left with a PR nightmare, Australians fought and lost the campaign. Our men (and a few women) were killed for nothing. The newspapers got to work, reframing Gallipoli into the crucible of warfare where our new nation (we were 14 years old at the time) 'came of age' and took their place alongside the nations of the earth. We left our dead behind. And in exchange we got the statues. Those country town statues are all many families had to focus their mourning. Every one I pass, I give them a salute, and say a mental 'thank you'. When on foot, I try to read the names, It seems a pointless gesture, but I can do nothing else and my conscience will not permit me to do less.

So yes, many just go to the beach, but the crowds at the morning services continue to grow. Children march with their grandparent's medals, the old men look at the thinning ranks of the survivors and people like me, people like me, deal with the fact that these heroes fought for my freedom and all we can do is read, remember and honour their names.