ANZAC Morning always moves me…

The quiet. The dark. I can only imagine all those young men… waiting for their fate. Will today be my last; my first; or???

My father, Ross Vernon, was son number 7 in a clan of 10. His childhood was on a squatters selection of land and he learned the art of Jackeroo-ing from a young age in outback South Australia. His father and grandfather built their prosperity raising sheep for meat and wool, and cropping the land for wheat and cereal grains. They handed down their agricultural knowledge to their sons and daughters. The majority of my family lineage has involved following a tradition in sheep and wool industries. My parents demanded that we learn a trade before even considering going to university and so, I followed my nose and fell in love with the wool grease of wool classing.

My dad’s generation had a can-do attitude. His first answer to most opportune questions was, “yes, I can do it.” And so it was that when the Second World War began and his brothers went off and signed up, so too did he…

My father served in Papua New Guinea. He left Australian shores as a crack shot at kangaroos, and returned home to Australia hating everything a rifle and knife was capable of killing. He made sure that all three of his surviving children would be a crack shot with a gun, but never use it for harm and hurt. The knife was a tool for using at the dinner table, and for the quality butchering of a good “killer”, for the purpose of feeding the family. Knives and guns had no place anywhere else. Period.

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My father was born on the 8th April 1919. The first chapter of the ANZAC story had begun evolving on the shores of Gallipoli just a few years earlier in 1915. There was no 24 hour news or headlines in real time, but still the people of his generation understood the story of war. They understood the priceless truth of freedom. They were among the first generations to quietly rise before the dawn on 25th day of April, wherever in the world they were, and quietly and reverently commemorate ANZAC day.

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I was born on December 31, 1964 and I was taught the commemorative tradition, which this morning I am laying here in bed, sharing with y’all, under the full moon, beneath the southern cross, before the first light of “sparrow fart” raises a new dawn; and as I do every year, I am reflecting on the spirit of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps, as they ventured wholehearted into the jaws of fear, more than 100 years ago.

I think about all those men, having nothing more than a dingo’s breakfast (a drink of water and a look around), as they huddled in the silence aboard the landing boats. Trying hard to keep their chin up, and enjoy a last fag or cigar, maybe writing a note home, and just yearning to keep themselves calm and focused before the boats landed. They didn’t know it, but their experience would become the legend that has become the ANZAC dawn commemorative foundation, mercilessly written in the blood of their slaughter, and the senseless destruction that is war.

I remind myself that those young men did that for us so that we might never have to do it again. But, alas, here we are in April 2024, with so many young men and women, children and babies, waking up too often to less than a dingo’s breakfast, in the midst of horrific high technology war in their home country. God bless them all. We never learn.

The really sad thing is, these days we mask the truth by calling it “peace keeping” or something fanciful. War is war, and there’s too much of it! Centuries of priceless architecture and a complete disregard for the human rights of others is the ultimate evil that too much of the world now endures. Homelessness, disease and poverty are relentless byproducts for what ends? That’s a mystery that will never be answered.

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When my father was dying of cancer in 1984, he spent months churning over in his mind the many things that worried him for a lifetime, and which he had kept asunder in his mind.

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My father’s people had Scottish and English roots and his mother, Henrietta Margaret, had practised a staunch Church of England fire and brimstone faith, which had deeply influenced my father’s beliefs, but which he renounced in a manner, when he married my equally strong Catholic mother.

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In the last year of my father’s life, he was fraught with fear of not being allowed into the bosom of eternal life, because of the sins he had committed in his life.

My father was baptised a Catholic just six weeks before his death, at home, in his palliative care bed, and every day thereafter he would pray the rosary asking to be forgiven and allowed home to eternal rest. As the time to pass drew closer, it became apparent to my Mum that Dad needed to receive the Sacrament of Extreme Unction and be blessed by the parish priest. Such was the respect for Dad that not one but two priests visited. Although having the blessing for the sick and making his last confession gave him some solace, there was still a great deal of doubt in his heart. I spent a lot of time laying on dad’s bed with him during those last weeks of his life and when he was able to speak, we would cover so many things.

One evening, just a wee while before his death, he called me in and asked me if I could hear the voice of the one thing that was burdening him the most, and tell him honestly if I thought God would have a place for him in heaven.

Of course, I was intrigued, and a little worried about what that story might be; but in typical fashion, I bucked up my courage and said, “Yes. Of course I would hear whatever is worrying you. And God will hear us both. And of course, heaven and my brother, Canice are awaiting your arrival.”

I was hoping that my dad wasn’t going to pour out a tale about some fling with another woman, or a hidden family somewhere, but I was definitely ill-prepared and absolutely flawed by my father’s own words detailing a very frightening wartime experience in the jungle of Papua New Guinea. 🇵🇬

I was changed forever in my understanding and compassion for those who face the fear and suffering of war and oppression and the intrinsic power and passion of fate’s intrigue.