Anzac Day

ANAZING how the rooster crows at the sound of the crackled recording of ‘The Last Post’.

‘That bloody bird did the same thing last year’.

‘Probably wonders what the hell’s going on — take a look at the moon.’

No ghostly galleon here, perched high over the dawn cenotaph. A crisply thin crescent moon coming up on its back with invisible struts to a large star anchoring it in the lightening heavens. Its light is reflecting on Nicko’s medals.

“It’s the Turkish flag, I’m sure.”

“If it is, our blokes were probably shooting at it about 90 years ago.”

It seems the entire town has emerged, bleary-eyed to the Triabunna Cenotaph, murmuring ‘lest we forget’, before filing into the memorial hall, filling every seat, swilling coffee and rum, implements tinkling porcelain plates and tucking into a tradition of lambs fry or sausages.

‘Beautiful stuff, Diedre. Thank you,” an old fella calls.

“Thank you,” she replies. Her eyes seem perpetually wet on Anzac days.

“There’s more in the kitchen if anybody wants some more tucker,” says the announcement from where just a handful of the old guard chat and glance along the tables, nodding their recognition of the new vets coming to take the helm of the ancient Triabunna RSL. A cheque for a thousand bucks is handed over to the new Treasurer, a veteran of the Vietnam war.

“This has all come from our euchre nights, so it’s time that some of you young people learned to play.” This is the auxiliary president speaking and she shoots a stern lance at the Vietnam boys.

“All you blokes have got to sign on to the RSL.”

“We will.”

Failed offensive

“That was a bloody order,” cackles Nicho. He’s already signed. A nasho, Nicko left 7 RAR early and got hauled off to Vietnam with Purcey and about 150 others, mostly nashos, to bring the new 6th battalion up to fighting strength for urgent dispatch to war. Purcey copped it in Operation Hobart and we heard about it on the news at the Puckapunyal Hotel.

“Jesus they’re serious over there.”

Long Tan cemented just how serious the North was in trying to get rid of the Aussies. Nicko played his part in the massive and failed offensive to over-run the Aussie task force at Nui Dat.

“Their plan was to kill everybody and teach us a lesson for backing the yanks.”

“Still not popular politics.”

Thousands of advancing communist soldiers were intercepted in the Long Tan rubber plantation by 6RAR’s D company and the monsoon late afternoon and night crackled with gunfire and the new turks in jungle green marched into Digger tradition.

It’s going to be a long day. The 2006 Dawn Service. Spring Bay Hotel’s doors are open at 5.30am. Some vets arrive early with their wives in tow. Hot coffee and rum on the bar. The fire is blazing, The pub is warm in the chilly Anzac Dawn. Upstairs a vet fumbles in the dark with the flag as he who owns the pub, Keith Eltham holds the torch.

“Make sure it’s not upside down or the bloody SAS will arrive.”

Dawn Service done, back to the pub to the first ‘handle’ before 7am.

“Me doc asked me what time I had me first beer on Anzac Day and I said ‘about 6’ and he said ‘oh, that’s okay’ and I said ‘nah doc, six in the mornin’.”

“You know Legless?”

“Dunno.”

Hit with the claymore

“John H-.”

“Think so. Is he the bloke with Nine RAR…”

“Got hit with the claymore in the Long Hai’s.”

“That’s him.”

“He’d have to be the singular most miraculous survivor of the Vietnam War.”

“Not wrong.”

‘Legless’ arrives and the magnetic force that binds Vietnam Vets, the colours on the chest, has him at the bar and surrounded with mates, some strangers, within a few minutes of his arrival. Anzac Days are good. He was a nasho like us. He is the personification of our dread. Coming face to face with the horror of the unexpected.

“Our bloody lewie trod on an anti-personnel and was cleaned out like a dressed ‘roo . Lost the friggin lot. Begged not to be treated.”

“Holy shit!”

“Worst part about drinking before the march is that you need a piss while they’re placing the wreaths.”

“What’s the time?”

“Quarter to.”

“Got time for one more.”

“Does a bear piss in the woods?”

“This bear will piss himself at the cenotaph.”

It’s a short march

“I’ll walk up to the corner and join you blokes as you go past,” says Legless.

“Yeah, we’ll be at the back. Don’t trip over. Your legs are stronger than ours.”

It’s a short march. Only four old diggers up the front, setting the pace. Legless won’t have much trouble keeping up. He cranes his neck trying to see us as we near and he fills the blank spot reserved for him; his four medals swinging to the awkward gait of artificial movement.

“You’re getting us all out of step, Legless. Pick up that step, soldier!”

“You would have made a prick of a lance-corporal, Nicko.”

“Jesus, the whole town’s here.”

“Anzac Day at Triabunna mate.”

“Can’t let it die.”

“Won’t”

Wreaths lay the end of the solemnity and young men and women file into the Spring Bay Hotel and don’t intrude as memories flow between the ageing vets of the Vietnam War. But they’re within hearing distance.

“His eyes. His fuck’n eyes. Just before he pressed the clamp. I saw his eyes.”

“Where was he?”

“In the trench. Looking up at me.”

“Where was the Claymore?”

“I’d just passed it.”

Both your legs are gone

“Did you know that you’d lost your legs?”

“Nah. I was out of it.”

His two mates directly behind him were killed by the exploding Claymore. John was semi-conscious and in shock, the battle all about him surreal. He lay on the battlefield for two hours.

“How the fuck did you survive. Both your legs gone. How come you didn’t bleed to death?”

He was so close to the mine when it exploded, the searing heat cauterized his wounds. He didn’t bleed. The stumps of his legs were cooked.

“I just remember the chopper coming in. Yank chopper. Other blokes picking up my bones and feet and boots and stuff. Woke up in a little tin field-hospital with gorgeous yank nurses, all packing guns in case the Cong found them.”

“Didn’t the Aussies dust you off?”

“Nah. They wouldn’t come in during a firefight.”

“The yanks…”

“Yeah they came.”

The day is coming to an end. Another Anzac Day done. One vet remains in the pub. Young men and women move closer … sit about him at the fire. Lot of piss has been drunk. It’s been a great day. No agro.

“It’s a bit like Christmas ain’t it?”

“It is, mate. Sort of spiritual.”

We were proud

“Dunno how you blokes dunnit. Dunno how I’d go.”

“You’d be okay mate.”

“We were sayin’ that we were proud to be in the company of your mates today. I mean, really proud.”

“Wait there young fella.”

The sole remnant of the vets gathering went to the bar stool where he’d earlier taken off his medaled coat and returned: struggling with his focusing as he unpinned a brass badge … a kangaroo and crossed rifles.

“This is the badge of the Royal Australian Regiment. I want you to have it. You might wear it one day.”

“Nah. I can’t take that.”

“Yep. You’ve got it. What you just said to me, young fella, has made it all worthwhile.”

And so Anzac Day Triabunna ended in the going down of the sun. By full darkness, all the memories of the day by those who marched and drank and laughed and remembered would have ended in deep and pleasant slumber: for one, the last memory of the day, a glinting brass badge on the jacket of a Triabunna boy. As we remembered Purcey, and heard the story of a comrade, he will remember a Triabunna Anzac Day.