Tonight I finalised and posted the tale of Paris and all the riches it entailed. I had a discontented feeling about posting that today due to today's date: 25th April. This day should not slide past without mention or reverie in the space of this blog. It would go against all I have seen and felt over the past three days. Fitting that I should finalise and review a post about how life had occurred to me in a dream like manner, floating through the opulence of Versailles and stumbling into world-renowned restaurants by chance, on the day where history has allowed me to do just that. 100 years ago the ANZACs hit the Gallipoli coast with courage and gusto. Those same men who survived this horror were then sent to the Western Front into a deeper form of hell.
This morning we woke at 1am local time to be on a bus that took us to the ANZAC memorial in Villers-Bretonneux. It was a brisk spring pre-dawn with a chance of drizzle through the morning. Once we arrived and disembarked, the rain set in and it didn't matter how many layers you were wearing – it was cold and you were wet. I reflected that this was likely the first ANZAC day service I'd sat at in my whole life and I've been attending services since I was 7. I was thinking of Mum and Dad being home in Australia after their morning attending the local services, them watching the ABC for a glimpse of us sitting in the crowd. They were there is spirit. I was wearing Dad's replica medals and Lachlan had Pop's originals on. There was a mix of French and English dignitary speeches, letters from the Diggers read by those currently serving, and a role call of the fallen performed by high school students. It was beautiful and touching.
Emma and I had previously discussed placing ourselves into the situations faced by the women of the time, how we may have contributed to the efforts and so forth. I can see I would have stepped into the role of a nurse without too much thought, the medical version of the sports trainer work I've done. Emma and I had spent a few periods of time discussing this approach, trying to summon the conditions we were being told about in the face of rolling hills and clear blue skies. This morning while discussing the rain, the chill and how we knew it had a timeframe in which we had to endure it, we reflected that the men in the trenches had no idea when this part of their life would be complete. Today? Would an offensive be successful and they could go home? A month? 6 months? Another 2 years? Imagine not knowing when you could return to your loved ones and your former world. Your life is no longer your own, you have surrendered it. The ultimate sacrifice for the tens of thousands who lost their lives across the Western Front battlefield so we may visit the same grounds 97 years later and try to imagine their plight.
Over the past three days of touring the Western Front, touching pieces of bunkers and looking out over ridges that were fought over so fiercely, my appreciation and understanding has grown in an exponential manner. I grew up in a household with an ex-military father, a Grandfather who served in Japan and a brother with an unquenchable thirst for historical knowledge. I was surrounded by it, I had an appreciation without requiring full knowledge of the finer details. The experience of the last three days has made the stories personal, the faces familiar and the mud tangible. There now sits within me a deep sorrow combined with the highest respect for all they went through.
The hardest part is that this is an ongoing story of loss, with history being made by our family and friends at home and overseas, ensuring we aren't really 100% aware of all they face. For the life that I lead and the freedom I have, I thank you.
Lest we forget.
Happy wandering
Hx
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