ANZAC Day

©2008 by: Natalie

Part 1

APRIL, 2000

I didn’t want to do this, but was given no choice. I’m supposed to be on vacation, a long overdue vacation to attend a family reunion in Australia and finally meet aunts, uncles, and cousins I’d only heard tales of before.

Should probably let you know a bit about myself: I’m Barbara, a journalism grad student at Penn State. I’m a reporter for our university newspaper, The Daily Collegian. And I have to say, my editor wasn’t happy I was taking three weeks off between semesters. But, there was nothing he could do. The trip was planned and paid for long before I began at the paper. So imagine my annoyance when I was shaken from a sound sleep by my equally sleepy cousin.

“Barb, there’s a yank on the phone for you. A George Towns,” she yawned. “Do ya want me to tell him to piss off?”

It was tempting. Very tempting. But, no, I took the call.

“Hello,” I yawned into the receiver.

“Barb, how ya doin?” He was cheerful. I hate cheerful people.

“Great, just great for three o’clock in the morning, George.”

“Oh, sorry, forgot about the time difference. Hey, enjoying your trip? How’s the family? What’s the weather been like?”

God, I really hate cheerful people when I’m half asleep! “Yes, fine, and great. Now, what do you want?”

“Ah, well,” he finally got to the point. “I’ve got a great idea for a story, a kinda human-interest travel story…”

“I’m on vacation, George.” I interrupted.

“That’s the point! There’s an Australian holiday coming up next week on the 25^th called ANZAC Day. A story on it would make a perfect travel piece for the Collegian. Lots of human interest stuff; old soldiers, teary faces, lots of sentiment. Perfect!” George enthused, trying to convince me.

“But, George, I’m on vacation. You do know what that means, right? Down time? Fun in the sun? Playtime? In fact, I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Vacation, shmacation. You want to be a reporter, don’t you? Reporters don’t take vacations.”

“Really? Watch me.” That’s what I said, but I felt that twinge. Oh yeah, George was good with dispensing the guilt.

“This isn’t a suggestion, Barbara. I want the piece by the end of next week or consider yourself off the paper.”

“You can’t do that!” I nearly shouted.

“Really?” he imitated, “Watch me.” The phone clicked off.

Damn.

~*~

I knew nothing about ANZAC Day. So, I did what reporters do: research. Asked my cousins, went to the library, read magazines, newspapers. Basically discovered the holiday’s history. It was established to commemorate those soldiers who died or were injured in the Gallipoli campaign during World War I. Since then, it’s become one of the most important Australian national holidays. It’s similar to our Memorial Day in that it is observed in remembrance of all veterans who gave their lives in service to their country.

But to me, like most young Americans untouched by war, Memorial Day was the beginning of summer; a long weekend for getaways, barbeques, and partying. And while I had a vague idea of what Memorial Day was about, I’d never attended a commemoration service nor given a thought to the sacrifices made by others on my behalf.

On April 25^th, I first attended the dawn service at the Australian War Memorial in Canberra, and returned later that morning with my family for the National Ceremony. I moved through the crowd during both services, noting that many of the attendees wore poppies and sprigs of rosemary for remembrance. The poppies glowed blood red and the stem of herb soon made me realize that never again would I smell rosemary without remembering the day…such is the power of visual and scent combined in the mind.

Both services were similar; stirring speeches, moving hymns, prayers, wreath laying, reciting The Ode:

            They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:

            Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

            At the going down of the sun and in the morning

            We will remember them.

The traditional Veteran’s March was at the beginning of the National Ceremony. Sons, fathers, grandfathers, whole families marching past. Old, young, some with a spring in their step and others in wheelchairs or walkers. All wearing bright, colorful, shiny medals. It wasn’t until then that the meaning of this holiday began to sink in.

The day had begun sunny, but clouded over as the hours passed, making the air heavy with emotion and memories I could see in the participant’s eyes. My own heart squeezed, I could actually feel the pride and sadness pressing all around. Looking up, I wondered if the ponderous graying clouds would hold their offering until the parade had passed, and I wondered if a downpour would even begin to dampen the spirits of those all around me. Would they even notice? The meaning of the holiday was simple, all encompassing, honoring. I was enthralled and almost forgot what I was doing there. I had an assignment and I needed a subject to interview.

It was later, near the end of the ceremony that I saw him, standing alone apart from the crowd. He wasn’t particularly tall, but very distinguished with thinning gray hair and a full beard, leaning slightly on a cane. He was silently watching the moving ceremony, his eyes bright with held-back tears.

“Excuse me, sir.”

He looked sideways at me, one eyebrow raised. “Yes, love?”

I noticed the medals he wore on his jacket and could smell the strong scent of the rosemary sprig. “I’m a reporter from the US. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions? I’d love to know your story.”

“Ah,” he grinned. “My story. What makes you think I have a story to tell?”

“Everyone has a story to tell.” I couldn’t help but return his smile. “Some are just more interesting than others. And judging from your medals, I’m sure you’ve got a great one.”

He sighed and looked off into the distance. Nodding, he said, “It’s time, I think. But not now, not here. Tomorrow. Meet me at O’Reilly’s Pub on Moore Street. Four o’clock.”

“Cool! Thanks,” I said as we shook hands. “Oh, and your name, sir? I’m Barbara Mason.”

“Lachlan, love. Lachlan Curry.”

~*~

Tomorrow brought all that rain that had held off during ANZAC Day. I grumbled and whined, not wanting to don a rain slicker or carry an umbrella with my loaded briefcase, notebooks and tape recorder. I wondered if old mister Lachlan Curry would even remember we had a meeting, but when I entered the pub, umbrella dripping water into my already soaked shoes, there he was, a pint in his gnarled hand and a twinkle in his sparkling eye as he nodded recognition and waved to the seat beside him. Little did I know that my entire life was about to change when he spoke his first words…

“My story…my story might break your tender young heart, love…but it is an important story for me to tell. And it’s time to tell it.”

Chapter Two