Lest We Forget

There are traumas endured by those at war that they’re neither likely to forget nor are they likely to heal from—not without a lot of intentional work.  But we’re happier that our veterans came back alive than die in the conflicts they fought in.

Both my grandfathers fought in wars.  My maternal grandfather (“Grandad”) fought in World War I in the British Army as a Private in the Leistershire Regiment and Labour Corps.  My paternal grandfather (“Pop”) fought in World War II in the Australian Imperial Forces in the 2/11 Australian Field Regiment as a Gunner.  My wife’s maternal grandfather fought in World War II as a Rear-Gunner in the Lancaster Bombers, flying I think over 30 missions.

Like in all families especially over the years, there are certain details that remain sketchy.  I can’t be sure, but I think trauma affected both my grandfathers—but both liked to be larrikins.

But I’m focusing for the present time on my Pop and his service and sacrifice in World War II.  We may not think “sacrifice” is a good word to use for someone who didn’t lose their life on the battlefield.  But really any veteran who wrote that blank cheque made payable to their country they served for “up to and including his or her life,” who served in an inherently hazardous occupation, made a sacrifice, even if they didn’t make the “ultimate” sacrifice.  And trauma brought back from wartime is just another form of ultimate sacrifice.

My Pop enlisted on June 6, 1940, and was discharged on October 19, 1945, spending one thousand nine hundred and sixty-two (1,962) days in Continuous Full Time War Service, of which 868 days of active service were in Australia, and 786 of active service were served outside of Australia.  Photographs he sent back home have him serving in Syria and “Palestine,” but he fought in Asia as well.

As I looked through the photographs of all my Pop’s military documentation, I was reminded of the structure and clarity I’d expect to see of a military force as it organises its troops.

In enlisting for service, each veteran entrusts their life beyond their own control, because the nature of the service is combat.  Any level of combat is a life-risking endeavour.

We’re all at much closer risk of being in that place of serving in combat now than we seemed to be a few years ago with the Russian invasion of Ukraine.  Anyone 18 to 60 years of age in my country.  We should all be ready for the ultimate sacrifice, whether that’s us or someone close to us.  I know as a Christian that being Christian never sets you too far away from martyrdom, i.e., in a force demanding the recanting of faith for instance.  It’s the same with a war that our countries might commit troops to at any time.  But even reading those words “we should all be ready for the ultimate sacrifice” brings incredible gravitas.  There’s nothing more sobering.

None of us should take for granted the great freedoms men and woman of bygone eras fought to protect.  Those same freedoms are just as much at threat now than at any time in our history or memory.  It makes us extremely naïve to think we’ll be able to swan along in life at peace from now ad infinitum.

Our ANZAC Day commemorates the Australia and New Zealand Army Corps, circa 1914.  But that ANZAC legend lives on in those fathers and brothers and mothers and aunts and sons and friends and daughters who have served and continue to serve.

My Pop married my Nanna during those war years, and my father was born just before my Pop’s discharge from the AIF.  My Dad wasn’t conscripted for the Vietnam war, and thus far there have been no such conflicts in my time, but that could change.  If required, I would want to serve as a chaplain.

We can never assume history won’t repeat itself at some point in time in the future.  Perhaps it’s from that solemn viewpoint that we truly respect the gravitas of ANZAC Day.

Acknowledgement to my cousin, Scott, who helped with the research on this article.