Anzac Day: A Personal Journey
John Emslie, the Rotary Club of Darwin (abridged)
John retired from the Army as a Lieutenant Colonel. The long-time club member was asked to address the club meeting on 24 April on a subject related to Anzac Day. John decided to tell his personal story and during his address you could have heard a pin drop.
My father had been a fighter pilot in Europe and my mother served in the WRAF, being mentioned in despatches for dragging the wounded crew from a burning, crashed bomber. So for me and my siblings Anzac Day had a special significance.
I remember those days well. After the main service in Cairns, often with a flyover by a Lincoln bomber (once dropping poppies on the parade), our family would drive up to the small fishing village north of Cairns for a picnic lunch.
Now, in those days, pubs closed on Anzac Day in that part of the world. But keep a digger from a cold beer? Pig’s! So out the back of the bottom pub would gather the bronzed Anzacs. Country police were different then, too. Accepting the fact that even if they could arrest all fifty men gathered around the keg, the two coppers would not be able to take them to the magistrate the next day because he was running the two-up game.
So, in order to keep the peace, the Sergeant admonished the assembly with a stentorian bellow: “Hey you blokes (but actually using stronger language), it’s bad enough that you’re breaking the law but you could have the decency to stay out of sight while you are doing it.” Justice done.
Yes, in those days Anzac Day meant a lot to me. I was proud of my parents and my uncle Johnno, also a RAAF vet, because of the part that they had played.
As the years passed, the Australian’s love for Anzac Day seemed to wither and die. Some say it was the disillusionment brought on by the Vietnam War and its unpopularity. Who knows? So we drifted through the sixties. Anzac Days came and went and attendance at Dawn Services and marches dwindled. I had discovered more important things in life: girls, beer and football (not necessarily in that order).
On my return from a tour in South Vietnam in 1971 I had a bit of leave which I spent in Mareeba, where my wife Connie had moved to so she could be with her parents while I was overseas.
One day, on a visit to Cairns, I joined my brother-in-law Noel and his father for a drink at the Cairns RSL. At the bar, Noel’s Dad introduced me to some of the other drinkers. I’ll never forget the reaction. I was told bluntly that, “When you’ve been to a proper war, you’ll be welcome here”. I left the bar with my beer untouched and had nothing to do with the RSL or Anzac Day for the next 15 years.
In the eighties, I was posted to the Chief Engineer’s Branch in Sydney. In each state, the CE was the senior Engineer officer and as such his office looked after those matters that affected all engineer units in that state, including organising the engineer contingent for the Anzac Day march and subsequent re-union.
One year the CE was on leave and I was acting in his place, which meant I was responsible for overseeing the Anzac Day activities. Now I didn’t do much of the organising but I had a number of quite competent SNCOs to do that. But I was expected to participate in the day’s activities. I wasn’t too keen on that, let me tell you.
So there I was at 0900 in Bent Street Sydney along with several hundred sappers ready to march down George Street. We were off and my God what a crowd. Thousands of people lined the streets all the way to Hyde Park. They were cheering and waving flags with smiles and shouts of encouragement. What was going on?
In due course we reached the end of the march and were dismissed to make our way to the Holdfast Reunion at the Macquarie Hotel in Surrey Hills. There I ran into soldiers I hadn’t seen in years, some old friends, some just acquaintances, but all fellows I had served with at some time. As well, there was a contingent of old soldiers from WWII and I spent an enjoyable hour talking with them about their experiences.
I went home by train reflecting on the day and how much I’d enjoyed. I decided that I would never miss another Anzac Day. And, except for some seriously ill time, I didn’t.
It’s the Dawn Service in Darwin that does it for me.
Gathering at the RSL for gunfire breakfast at 0500. Forming up after that in Cavenagh St. The ghostly march down to the Cenotaph on the Esplanade. I say ghostly because the last couple of hundred metres, on the Esplanade, are through the grey pre-dawn, the sound only of a solitary drum and footsteps in tune with the drumbeat.
The service starts and my mind wanders, remembers the good times and the not so good ones, mates (where are they all now?), parents, uncles, barely registering the mumbling of political speakers. The Darwin Chorale singing ‘Abide With Me’, Last Post sending shivers down the spine, and Reveille.
The sun is rising, it is getting lighter and now we can see the great crowd gathered in remembrance. Then it’s over for another year. Off to breakfast and prepare for the morning march. But that’s for show. The Dawn Service is what it’s really all about.
So, to me, Anzac Day means:
- Remembering the fallen and those still alive but suffering physically or psychologically as a result of their service.
- Remembering old comrades – the good and the bad.
- Reflecting on the follies of politicians, and:
- Catching up with old mates over a few coldies.
I’ll be there again tomorrow but I won’t be marching.
Age has wearied me, the years have condemned me, but I shall remember.