Why Gallipoli Means So Much To Me...

He was an old man before I was born.
He had been born in another century, another era. When the idea of Empire, and loyalty, held different meanings to what we know today.
I only knew him when his step was already a shuffle, and his back was bent.
He was deaf, very deaf, a daunting thing to a child, like me, who was not used to shouting at adults, and knew little of his background to begin with.
He was my Uncle Peter, a man of few words, whether because of his hearing, or a natural reticence, I'm not sure (although he had his opinions, as I found when I grew older).

He was a man set in his ways, as so many elders of my time were, and I find myself becoming. There is a comfort in the routine, and as long as the routine does not become obsession, there is no harm in that.
My earliest memory of Peter McLeod, is coming into the lean-to at the back of the house to "wash-up" before lunch. A tin pan was part-filled (never fully filled) with water from the rain water tank, and a sliver of soap (I never saw a full bar, so I wonder if it was a left-over from the bathroom), was used to wash our hands, face, and back of the neck. Adults first, children last. Then it was time for lunch.

 It was later that I learned that Uncle Peter had been at Gallipoli, but that was all I learned.
Uncle Peter didn't talk about Gallipoli to me. Ever. Except once.
A year before he died, I sat and watched the Anzac Parade on the television in his home, as it was broadcast from Brisbane. (I never saw Uncle Peter at an Anzac Service in our town, but perhaps he did attend before I can remember). Anyway, he was quietly watching the parade as the different units passed by, but when the Red Cross party came on screen, he suddenly cried out, with tears in his voice; "We would have been lost without the Red Cross at Gallipoli!", and he sobbed.
And that was it. Nothing else.

Peter MacLeod passed away a year or so later, and the local Returned Servicemens League turned out to honour his passing.
I was young, idealistic. The world was black or white for me then. I was angry that these people who had nothing to do with him in his lifetime, wanted to be there at his funeral.
I didn't understand that they understood him. Men from the First World War, the Second World War, the Malayan Conflict, the Korean War, and of course, Vietnam.
Many of them wanted nothing to do with other soldiers, they just wanted their lives back, as Uncle Peter did. So they didn't seek out the camaraderie of old soldiers, but got on with their lives.
Until one of them died.
Then they came together and honoured someone that they identified with. Someone that knew their pain, their fear, but moved on with life.

Of course there were many who found comfort in the comradeship. Who gained strength from the shared experience. They were there too... honouring a fellow fallen warrior, one who had lived through the horrors that only modern soldiers can know.
But I didn't understand. I was angry. I was angry that an old man who had given so much was now being honoured by people he had never known.
I knew so little. I have learned so much.
Thank you to all of you, the shuffling old men, who don't like to talk about it, and to the rest of you who need to talk, and should talk.
Because what you have done is more than anyone should ask.

Thank you all, the Uncle Peters, the George Moores, the Ken Petfields, the Peter Bennetts,Steve Newburns, Edward Dahleimers and all the other veterans I have met along the way. I have learned so much from you all, and I will be holding you in my heart on ANZAC Day.

Lest We Forget...