Yesterday was ANZAC Day. The day the Australia / New Zealand Army Corps landed at Gallipoli – the day most of our fatalities occured. Anacdotely, I’ve heard it said that half of our fatalities happened on that one day. It may have been half from that particular battle, but either way, it’s an enormous loss and a definining day in the history of this country. Last year I found out that more Turks died than allied soldiers, so the total impact of this beach is incredible.
A listener rang up Triple J the day before to say that they were at Gallipoli with a crowd of Australians, waiting to watch the sun come up as the soldiers who survived might have. I got teary just imagining being there. I don’t know what the hold on me is. None of my family were there. My grandfather’s biggest war story is being left for dead after his plane crashed on the runway. As far as I know, he never faced the enemy.
It got me thinking about who this day affects and how. Dave was born in Australia, but his parents moved here after WW2, so he has even less reason to get emotional than I do and said that the idea of going to Gallipoli doesn’t touch him. But he admitted to tearing up when watching Gallipoli the movie and having a deep respect for the people that fought the war so Australia could be free. Over half the Australian population is as new to the country as Dave’s family is and personally, I think it’s good to know that we all share in our respect for the Diggers and a fervent hope that we’ll never be put into that situation again.