My Grandfather, whom is known as 'Jack' or as Hawk used to call him "Shavin's" is a surviving ANZAC from WWII.
He was a Sapper in New Guinea and for most of my life he never spoke of his time in the war but often regaled us with his tales from the Paddington Barracks and the shenanigans that he used to get up to (must be where I get my cheekiness from).
I once spoke to him about my visit to the war memorial in Canberra and told me about the story of another soldier in his unit that with his team pinned down in a valley this guy single-handedly took out a machine gun nest using his dead comrade as a shield, through his actions he saved the lives of about 10 other men. But that was it, nothing else. I couldn't imagine how bad it was, he suffered malaria and I know that never really left him, especially the memories of it.
His father was a Lighthorseman in WWI and suffered from exposure to mustard gas.
I remember asking Granddad why he didn't suit up and wear his medals and ribbons and march in the parade and he used to tell me that he didn't want any thanks or praise for his time in service, he said it was just what you did. Granddad would rather go fishing or watch a Cowboys and Indians movie.
His father was the same.
We are lucky to not know what war is like, it's hard to imagine that these boys would have been shipped off to the worst place on earth, watched their mates get obliterated and if they were lucky enough to survive they would return home and be expected to act as if nothing happened, no such thing as counselling or any of that fluff. These were real men, the men that built this country with their gumption. Just like a classic car, they don't make them like that anymore.
I don't attend any dawn services or things like that but each year not just on ANZAC day I think about Shavin's and his father before him and I think about all the things that we have and how our lives are lived and I think with the ultimate gratitude of what these men sacrificed for us.
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