Anzac Day.

After yesterdays slow gentle rain, 7ml, the first in four weeks, it was especially pleasant setting out on my walk up the spur this morning. The ground was wet and the air cleaned of dust and the smoke from DSE burns that's been hanging in the air these past weeks.
I had my transistor radio in my carry bag, tuned, unusually, to the ABC 774, and Macca's 'Australia all Over'. Being the last Sunday before Anzac Day (next Wednesday), the show had an Anzac Day focus. As I went up Quinn Rd. a brass band played a slowish version of Waltzing Matilda interspersed with the trumpet tune of the 'The Last Post'. Enjoying this inspiring musical nuance, I was distracted by an empty drink can on the road. It was a 'Woodstock' bourbon and coke can. I crushed it with my heel and put it in a plastic bag in my carry bag.

"Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda, you'll come a waltzing Matilda with me."

The music finished and I walked on, half listening to Macca's prattle, the shows jingles, the voice grabs, but my mind was now on Anzac Day. In the clarity of the sharp morning air, feeling fit and fresh, it dawned on me that I have a problem with Anzac Day. It's difficult, if not impossible, for me to join the feeling of celebration that now comes with it. Or to accept, as Macca said, that it's become our 'National day'.
Don't get me wrong, I have no disrespect for it, or the RSL. It's just that it fills me with mixed emotions, sadness and anger. I'm sad for the those who lost their lives serving in the name of their country. Sad for the civilians, men, women and children, killed in the crossfire or obliterated by bombing. Sad for those crippled physically, and sad for the mental and emotional suffering. Sad for the inhumanity of war.
I wondered what my grandather would think? He served in WW1, in the 57th Battalion, made up largely of men from suburban Melbourne. Australia's, and the 57th Battallion's, first major action in France was the battle at Fromelles. Grandfather, fortunately, missed the first day, when 2000 Australians died, and the 60th Battalion was almost wiped out in the heaviest day of casualties in our military history. Men of the 57th Battalion spent the next four days bringing wounded men back from no-man's land between the trenches. There were some 8,000 plus Anzacs killed at Gallipolli over 8 months, 2000 in one day at Fromelles. There's a statue at the site in Flanders of a sergeant of the 57th Battalion carrying a wounded digger on his shoulders. Like Simpson and his donkeys at Gallipolli, this is the epitome of Anzac Day.
Grandfather Wilson, Poppa to us, was wounded by shrapnel in the face and back at Ypres and sent to hospital in England, and was back with the 57th Battalion when it liberated Villers-Bretonneux on Anzac Day 1918, after it had been occupied by the Germans in a forward push. Later he was shot in the right buttock at Boulogne and again sent to hospital in England, where he was when the war ended. He died fifty years ago so I didn't know him really, but Elvie tells me he was a self-effacing man who didn't waste words. A non drinker, he didn't participate in Anzac Day, he didn't like the boozing that went on afterwards, and didn't like being reminded of the war. He gave his army mates the silver service when they came to his house, and always helped returned men.
By the time I reached the top of the hill I'd picked up more empty cans, another 'Woodstock' bourbon and coke, a 'Jack Daniels' Tennessee whisky and coke, and two 'Jim Beam' and coke. Also a plastic bottle of Coca-Cola and a glass bottle of vodka cruiser. And, no kidding, a condom, still sealed in it's plastic sachet. I put it in my shirt pocket, thinking I might meet a nymphomaniac around the next corner. It didn't happen.
I can't help but to feel anger on Anzac Day. Anger at the military command that sent the diggers to their deaths in the water, on the beach, and on the cliffs at Gallipolli. Anger at the politics of war, invading Turkey intending to take Constantinople to give to the Russian ally later. Anger at the stupidity of sending thousands of men out of the trenches into heavy machine gun fire and almost certain death at Fromelles. Anger at the flagwaving and the superiority it engenders. Anger at Vietnam. Anger at Iraq. Anger at inhumanity.
Finishing my walk, I counted the crushed aluminium cans I'd collected as I put them in Jod's box in the shed. There's always more on a Sunday morning. There were 6 'Woodstock' Kentucky bourbon and coke, 5 'Jack Daniel's' Tennessee whiskey and coke, and 3 'Jim Bean' Kentucky bourbon and coke, one Bundaberg rum and coke, and one VB.

Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda, you'll come a waltzing Matilda with me.