Never Forgotten

Anzac Day

Hi Everyone,

Today, 25 April, is Anzac Day, Australia’s National Day of Remembrance. A special day for many reasons. I write this post in honour of our war heroes, past and present.

Shared with our mates from New Zealand and Tonga, we commemorate all Australians and New Zealanders who served and died in all wars, conflicts, and peacekeeping operations. Anzac Day was originally devised to honour the members of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (ANZAC) who served in the Gallipoli campaign, their first engagement in the First World War (1914–1918).

War Memorial Menai Park

My Dad, Norman, was an Aussie Digger in the 7th Field Ambulance in Bougainville, New Guinea, in 1945 in WWII. He witnessed a lot of suffering and unbelievably horrific sights that he never spoke about. It was too painful. He’d rather remember his mates, the camaraderie and the good stuff, and I believe through his music and entertaining, he blocked out the savagery of war and locked it in the back vault of his consciousness, hoping it would never rear its ugly head again. He shed his tears on Anzac Day, the day we remember today.

Hero is not a word to be bestowed lightly. It’s not meant for footballers, soccer players, and the like. They are not heroes; with respect, they are sportspeople. They kick a ball around. Though heroes to their young fans, of course. But in a very different context.

We should not lessen the men and women who gave their lives, who fought for our country and continue to do so, by sharing the title ‘hero’ so liberally. Heroes are people who put their lives on hold for others. Those who give the ultimate sacrifice, their own lives. A term reserved for firemen and women, doctors and nurses, paramedics, policemen and policewomen who work tirelessly to save lives.

Hero is reserved for the true brave-hearts of our time, past and present. That is why Anzac Day is sacred to so many here in Australia and New Zealand.

Dad marched in the annual Anzac Day parade on his return from the war, to remember his mates and to honour and respect all those who didn’t follow him home and to catch up with those who lived to share the tale. Their ultimate day of mateship. Anzac Day was a day of utmost reverence for him, as it should be for all of us. We should never forget what they gave for us and our beautiful Australia, so we could all live in freedom and peace. I attend my local Anzac Day dawn service every year on 25 April. This morning was no different.

5.00 a.m. In the darkness of the early morning hours, the stillness overcomes you. Silently in this moment, this time and space, you grasp how extremely lucky we are to live in Australia. You imagine what our Anzacs endured on that fateful morning as the sun rose over Anzac Cove, Turkey, all those years ago. Not knowing what was about to transpire as they jumped from their wooden boats and landed on the dark, cold, unfamiliar beach that Gallipoli morning.

The only certainty was death.

And so, as I pause in silence amongst the hundreds of other fellow Aussies standing side by side in the darkness to honour our fallen and listen to the haunting notes of the Last Post piercing the silence, while a choir of kookaburras herald the rising sun, my heart erupts with sadness for the hundreds of brave soldiers who lost their lives that fateful morning. So many young men who never came home to their families, wives and girlfriends, and of those that did were left with no choice but to live with the torment of that moment in time – forever.

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As a child, I recall Dad loved to tell funny stories about what they got up to in the war, if there is ever a funny side to war. There isn’t. But Dad looked for the positive in all things. His passion was for life, for making other people happy and bringing joy with his music. It’s who he chose to be.

Dad told stories of the diggers putting on concerts to entertain themselves. It was a diversion from the hideous side of war to keep morale high. This was of great importance. It gave them something normal to hang on to. Insanity and pain are torturous bedfellows in times of war.

I remember the amusing stories Dad told with affection. Especially the tales that always began with ‘You wouldn’t believe it …’ The same stories were told over and over, they got bigger, better and uproariously funnier with each new version. I miss his quirky humour. I don’t miss his whistling or yodelling! Even though he was good at both. He just didn’t know when to stop! Oh, Dad, I miss you.

Every day, certain moments confirm Dad’s presence in my life. He’s been gone sixteen years; it seems like yesterday. But now and then, you get physical, human confirmation that makes the unbelievable, believable. Bearable.

Dad loved his Anzac Day and catching up with lost friends. He loved the march every year through the streets of Sydney, as is the tradition that lives on today. He wore his well-earned medals with immense pride. Following the march, it was usually off to the club for the yearly ‘brother in arms’ reunion. Though dad never drank alcohol in his life, it never stopped him from enjoying every moment. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t drink - to remember those special moments of his life.

It’s still a desire of mine to march in the Sydney Anzac Day parade for Dad. My brother keeps Dad’s prized medals safe. So, until then, I honour dad in my own way, even if that’s only sitting in front of the TV watching the march. I know he’s beside me.

On this particular Anzac anniversary, approximately five years ago, I set up Dad’s black and white army photo in front of the TV so we could watch the march together. Some would find this behaviour strange. Possibly, but when it’s all you’ve got to hang on to, it’s comforting. I know he was sitting there next to me. I didn’t need confirmation of my sanity.

I knew his regiment was one of the last to march, so I sat through hours of live TV to see his squadron banner pass by. But, as I waited for that long-awaited moment, the TV channel suddenly cut the coverage before the march finished, and it went back to normal viewing!

I couldn’t believe it! All morning, I sat there, through the dawn service, through the march, only to be shortchanged - again! I could almost hear Dad yelling profanities at the TV screen. I know I was.

So, I left Dad’s picture, complete with the obligatory sprig of rosemary (a symbol of remembrance and commemoration), on the table all day so we could remember this special day together, nonetheless.

The day came to a close, and I was ready for bed, but something, ‘someone’ kept telling me to get on the computer and look up WWII - Bougainville.

Was he trying to tell me something?

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I could feel Dad’s presence standing over my left shoulder as I typed in the information on the PC. I logged in WWII - 1945, Bougainville 7th Field Ambulance.

A couple of WWII sites appeared.

Unbelievably, the very first one I opened made my mouth drop, followed by a screech of pure bliss.

There in front of my eyes was a group of five archival WWII photos.

Amazing imagery of our men in war, probably all long gone from this planet. The story they told in the instant was mesmerising and so very sad. Their eyes, their hairstyles, their gaunt and withered bodies. Each one told an unspoken chronicle of a life in WWII Bougainville, New Guinea.

My eyes were drawn to the photo of a group of ‘ladies’. A hilarious image showing a makeshift stage with a group of makeshift entertainers with bow-legs, bad wigs and bad makeup.

Immediately, my focus shifted to the young ‘lady’ sitting on the far right of the stage with the striking blue eyes, Aussie tan and blonde Marilyn Monroe wig, slightly skew-whiff, but captivating nonetheless.

I knew instantly it was Dad looking back at me! No mistaking Dad’s eyes. In a woman’s dress? Gobsmacked!

What was more amazing was that I had never seen this photo before (dad kept hundreds of photos and memorabilia of his life), yet here he was on the World Wide Web - my ‘beautiful’ Normie staring back at me from within a black and white photo. Today of all days.

In his joking way, he was confirming his presence on that special Anzac Day. And underneath the photo, the stamp of approval. His name is recorded for all time. To prove his presence. In a blonde wig and wearing a dress! Oh, Dad, what were you thinking!! But those piercing blue eyes, unmistakably Dad’s. Unbelievable, but true.

If this wasn’t a right between the eyes spirit message, I don’t know what was.

Message received, loud and clear Normie.

I, for one, have great faith in the messages sent from beyond. They contact us to comfort us in times of sadness and desperation. They reach out in inexplicable ways. Nothing is coincidental.

They can’t physically reach out and hold you or wipe your tears, but they can show you in so many other ways. And mostly in ways that are only familiar to you. Thus, my Anzac Google moment with dad.

Dad was guiding me to the Bougainville pictures that day. Pictures I’d never seen before, and most amazingly, specific photos of Dad, to prove to me he was there with me. It was undeniable. It filled my heart with delight, magic, reminisce and love.

Here is that photo. A twinkling of light amongst the darkness.

A scene from the performance piece ‘A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody’, part of a concert staged for forty-five members of the 7th Ambulance for the entertainment of unit personnel, patients and nearby units, 12-13 April 1945, Torokina. Left to right: Private R. McDermant, Sergeant S. Savage, Private K. Boyle, Corporal D. Siggs, Private James Power, Private Alan Locke, and, far right, sitting, Private Norman Gee (My Dad). Ref: Australian Government Dept. of Veteran Affairs, Anzac Portal.

Don’t ever doubt the connectedness of life and death.

A different light within their darkness. Under horrible conditions, one can understand their need for escape. In more ways than one.

Medical Officer Major K. Friend operates on a battle casualty from the 47th Battalion at the 7th Field Ambulance dressing station, Tagessi. 16 January 1945. Ref: Australian Govt. Dept of Veterans Affairs, Anzac Portal.

This is a poem written in my father’s handwriting. Dad’s beautiful penmanship. (Author unknown)

This is my painting of Dad in his WWII army uniform, recreated from a 6x4” black and white photo. 7th Field Ambulance Unit. It’s poignant because of one very distinctive detail. Within his arms, he is cradling not a gun but a guitar. Medicine man, peacemaker, my hero.

So to you, Dad, my Young Normie, and all our Anzac heroes, your Australian family salutes you and holds you close today, and every day. I hope our ever-advancing world never forgets the sacrifices you made so that we may live in our amazing Australia today.

For all our service men and women, past and present, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

As a very proud Australian, as a daughter, as a mate. You will never be forgotten.