ANZAC Day Dawn Memorial Service

This morning I was up and at ‘em at three thirty. 

Nothing new there, then.

However, far from partying hard with friends, or even having a party for one at home, or watching my beloved Liverpool FC play several time zones away, I was awake at this ungodly hour for a rather more sombre reason – to attend the ANZAC Day Dawn Memorial Service, which was to be held at the beautiful and austere location of ANZAC square, in the heart of Brisbane city.

For those that don’t know, (I certainly didn’t before I moved to Australia) ANZAC stands for “Australian and New Zealand Army Corps” and April 25th is a public holiday, known as ANZAC Day, which commemorates those soldiers from Australia and New Zealand who fought – and in a lot of cases – died at Gallipoli, Turkey to fight against the Ottoman Empire in World War I.

All around Australia, there are services held to remember those who perished or were injured in Gallipoli, as well as acknowledge and to give thanks to those who gave the ultimate sacrifice in subsequent battles and wars.
Consider it Australia and New Zealand’s version of our Remembrance Day which is held each year on 11th November.

Many of these ANZAC Day services are held at dawn which I think adds a certain gravitas to proceedings and – let’s face it – what’s one early start a year in comparison to the sacrifices that those we remember today gave?

Now, let’s get one thing straight here. I am certainly not an advocate for war and I am sure most of us would agree that war is most definitely ‘bad.’ Indeed, war is a cruel and terrible reflection of all that is worst about mankind. However, what I do strongly believe in and something that I am very grateful for is to have been fortunate to have lived all my life in democracies. Something that should never be taken for granted and on ANZAC day, I take the opportunity to pay my respects to those that fought and died so that the rest of us could enjoy that privilege.

I am not making any grand political statement here but for me – ANZAC day, as well as Remembrance Day – play a vital and important part of our fabric and I will continue to take part as often as I can.

I remember as a kid back home in Northern Ireland going to the local war memorial park on Remembrance Sunday with my Nana, who proudly wore her polished medals – and those of my deceased Papa – as we paid our respects and this is a memory that I cherish to this day.

My Papa flew and landed gliders behind enemy lines to gather reconnaissance info. My other Grandad also fought in World War II and indeed lost some toes whilst under mortar attack diving head-first into his bunker. Had he not dived head-first, then he would most likely have had his head blown off instead. Which would have meant my father would never have been born and therefore, of course, neither would my brothers and I.

These were ordinairy people thrown into extraordinairy circumstances and – but for timing – I could have been thrown into a similar situation: scared, cold and a long way from home fighting an enemy that consisted of men just like me. It is hard for me to grasp that concept and almost seems surreal as I live my day to day life and enjoy a standard of living here in Australia that I shouldn’t take for granted but have to admit, I very often do.
I spent a few years living in Belgium and once went to visit the Fields of Flanders with my mum. The sight of immaculately maintained pristine graveyards containing row after row of countless brilliant-white gravestones reflecting the summer sun is a humbling experience that I shall take to my own grave.

Another lasting memory from that day was that, in the entrance to the St. Patrick's Cemetery, Loos-en-Gohelle, just one of the multitude of graveyards and the one that we happened to stop at, was a log-book of all the soldiers who were buried there. One of those names belonged to a 15 year-old Private from New Zealand. 

Can you imagine that?!

He obviously lied about his age to get into the army and would have spent weeks travelling to Europe only to fall in the Fields of Flanders. At times like these, I often wonder what it must have been like for that young boy, so far away from home caught up in the maelstrom of war...

On a lighter note – another tradition of ANZAC Day is something known as a “Gunfire Breakfast.” Now before, I go any further, I had never heard of such a thing.

One ANZAC Day, a couple of years ago, I was holidaying with friends on Stradbroke Island, a simply stunning part of the world just off the coast from Brisbane. 

The night before had been spent playing board-games, chatting amicably in the company of great friends and consuming plenty of glasses of wine, all to the soundtrack of the sea crashing up on the beach a hundred metres away and with the warm sea breeze whispering through the swaying palm trees. 

Basically, we were in full holiday mode.

And so, it came to pass, that we were rather dusty when we got up just a few short hours later to go to the small and intimate ANZAC Day ceremony on the island. 

At the close of the ceremony, the MC invited us all to the local “RSL” (Returned and Services League) Club where we were welcome to partake in the aforementioned “Gunfire Breakfast.”

Upon arriving into the club, I spied several small glasses of milk on the bar which people were taking to drink. More than a little hungover and with a parched throat, the idea of imbibing a lovely chilled glass of milk was like stumbling across an oasis in the desert and I happily plucked one from the bar and as I did so, I said hello to two elderly soldiers who were standing at the end of the bar surveying the scene.

Putting the glass to my lips, I greedily downed the glass in one – only to find that it wasn't quite what I had expected it to be. In fact – and let this be a lesson to those of you not in the know – the glass contained a mixture of milk AND RUM and was actually a drink given to soldiers for fortification as they prepared to go Over The Top into battle.

Not wanting to look like a complete and utter eejit, whilst ABSOLUTELY looking like a complete and utter eejit, I bravely swallowed the potent mix, my eyes watering as I did so. The looks on the two elderly gents’ faces were a picture. Needless to say I had one or two more that morning, all be it not by downing them in one, and by the end of proceedings I would be preaching to all and sundry about just how lovely they were…

Australia aspires to be a democratic, multi-cultural, inclusive and tolerant country. Of course, whether it has actually got to that point yet is very much open for debate but its intentions should nonetheless be applauded. 

Could this be achieved without the sacrifices that our forefathers made? I’m glad we didn’t have to find out.

So yes – I take pause for reflection on ANZAC Day and give thanks to the brave men and women who fought and died for me.

Lest we forget.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anzac_Day

Hillsborough

On the 15th April, 1989, 25 years ago, at six minutes past three, it was a surprisingly, sunny Saturday afternoon and I was hanging out with my mates at a local video library, in my home town back in Northern Ireland.

I was sixteen years of age and it was what we did. As well as renting out Stallone, Van Damme and Schwarzenegger videos, there was a pool table, there were video games, there were girls to chat to and there were also the infamous “singles”, cigarettes sold under the counter for the princely sum of ten pence each. Many of the customers were minors. Needless to say, this was illegal but no-one seemed to mind, least of all the owners.

Of course, what with this kind of commodity to be procured, the place attracted a few of the “rougher” kids in town but, as a non-smoking teenager, it was still a Cool Place to Hang Out. I honed my pool skills there and developed a wonderful ability to rack up ridiculously high scores on Wonderboy, a popular video game at the time. For 20 pence (or the price of two singles), I could be on that game for over half an hour, scoring a million-plus worth of points.

Unfortunately for me, there were other kids that frequented the place that could score even more than me. So, at six minutes past three that day, I was impatiently waiting for my turn to have a crack at beating my best score, whilst one of the other kids was effortlessly on their way to a score that I could only dream of.

These things mattered at sixteen years of age.

Some of us in the shop, myself included, were huddled around a radio, listening to a football match, where our team, Liverpool, were competing in the FA Cup semi-final for the dream of playing in the cup final at Wembley.

It was to be our Date With Destiny. Of course, none of us had any idea just what that destiny was to be.

***

Today, exactly 25 years later, this time on a Wednesday afternoon, at six minutes past three, and at the ripe old age of 41, I was in a business meeting in the head office of a multi-national mining company in Brisbane, Australia, in my role as an IT consultant discussing the kind of things that would have put that naïve sixteen-year old to sleep in a heartbeat.

Evidently, my world has moved on.

How do I know where I was at six minutes past three, 25 years ago?

One word.

Hillsborough.

For those of you that don’t know, Google it but, by way of a brief synopsis, I shall steal this paragraph from Wikipedia:

The Hillsborough disaster was an incident that occurred on 15 April 1989 at the Hillsborough Stadium in Sheffield, England. During the FA Cup semi-final match between Liverpool and Nottingham Forest football clubs, a human crush resulted in the deaths of 96 people and injuries to 766 others….and remains the worst stadium-related disaster in British history, and one of the world's worst football disasters.

Just a single paragraph describing an unspeakable horror that none of us, unless there, could even begin to comprehend.

766 injured. Whilst watching a football match.

96 dead. Whilst watching a football match.

Many of the victims were kids, just like me.

Girls, boys, women and men, the crush was indiscriminate.

Kids, who loved their football team but – unlike me – who was listening to the tragic events unfold on a radio in the video store, this being of an age when there wasn’t wall to wall coverage of football on the television - were actually able to go to the game and cheer on their Heroes in Red.

Kids just like me, with their whole lives ahead of them, excited and, as our beautiful anthem states, “with hope in their hearts.”

As the tragic events unfolded on that fateful day, for the 96 people who were cruelly taken from their families and loved ones, their lives stopped. Their stories cut short. For those that they left behind, as well as for the people who survived, the scars will be borne forever.

In the 25 years since, my life has been full of many of the experiences that any young person could hope and wish for and, of course, all the challenges that life’s journey throws at you, as well.

I have loved and been loved.

I was fortunate enough to finish school, studied at university, got a job and have seen some of the world through my career.

I learned to drive and have attempted to learn a language.

I have watched proudly from afar, as my beautiful nephew and niece came into this world and now find themselves starting off on their own life journeys.

I have experienced deaths to loved ones and family.

I have buried my father, who was taken too early from me and who I shall miss with every day that I am alive.

I have sung (badly) at karaoke.

I have met some fantastic people along the way and am blessed to consider some of them as my friends, as I hope, they too, think of me.

I wanted to play guitar but quickly found out I was rubbish at it.

I was declared bankrupt in my late twenties.

I have spent a night in the drunk-tank.

I have pissed off and hurt people who I professed to love.

Like the 96, I have cheered on my heroes in red and shared in the beautiful highs and lows that goes along with that privilege.

Along with 95000 other people at the Melbourne Cricket Ground, I sung our beautiful anthem, “You’ll Never Walk Alone” – an experience that I shall take to my grave, which will hopefully be a long time from now, as I sit here writing these words on the other side of the world from Hillsborough.

Of course, I could go on but – the point is – that at 41 years of age I have a story to tell. As we all do.

For the 96, their story ended abruptly and without warning 25 years ago today.

Who knows where those 96 stories would be now, had they not suddenly ended, through no fault of their own, on that dark day in history?

I said earlier that my world has moved on. One thing, however, has remained a constant throughout and that is my love and passion for Liverpool Football Club.

For their families and loved ones, the 96 shall of course, never be forgotten. Their loss, mourned forever. 

Their dignified search for TRUTH and JUSTICE against a system that has time and time again lied, cheated and distorted what happened that day, is an inspiration to the rest of us.

The 96 are immortalised by the Eternal Flame at Anfield Stadium but for as long as there is a Liverpool Football Club, The 96 shall all live on in all our collective memory.

Justice for The 96, for they shall “Never Walk Alone.”

96 stories that shall never end.