ANZAC Day. Surrounded by Service.

Another ANZAC Day has passed. The alarm stirred me at 2:45am as our son was in the Catafalque Party, standing guard for the Dawn Service. Then there was a march through city streets and another cenotaph and another service. As an Air Force cadet, he has performed this routine for the last few years. There has never been a complaint about the early hour, or the cold pre-dawn.

If I cast my mind back, my youth was similar. Although if my memory drifts even further into the past, I can recall being a child, shivering in the darkness as bagpipes warmed up and “old men” in coats and hats mingled and mumbled before their Dawn Service began. My father never wore his medals or marched. He preferred to wear the discreet, “Returned from Active Service” badge on his lapel and silently attend the sombre pre-dawn service. Mum would wear her medals and gloves and together they would keep me quiet, while they were alone with their thoughts. Our home would have framed photos on the sideboard, of young faces that never grew to be old. Mum and Dad would speak of them and to me it seemed that everyone our family knew had worn a uniform at some point, be it khaki or blue.

Now, half a century later, I am waiting in the cold hours before dawn again but this time it is my son that marches to the cenotaph as part of the Catafalque Party as he has done before in recent years.

(Image: Capture Camden)

As a parent, I confess to being proud to see that sense of service that was instilled in me, continue to the next generation. My pride is only tempered by the fact that my parents did not live to see their grandson carry on their legacy.

Lest We Forget.