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My dad is a quiet man. Joining the navy at 19, he trained to become a clearance diver – a navy seal. His quiet persistence and unwavering emotional aloofness held him in good stead throughout the training period or as David Goggins calls it, ‘Hell Week’. He seems to reminisce fondly, finding comedy in the trials that were designed to break him. His characteristic smirk that got him in a lot of trouble with senior officers, ever present as he recounts having to run as a group of trainees for as long as it took until someone gave up. It took over 12 hours of running the Sydney coastline before someone quit, giving up their spot in the unit.
Dad loved his job – he loved the challenge, he loved the people, and he loved to help. But he loved his family more. He stood down from clearance diving in 2008. He made this decision after returning home from another lengthy period overseas. When he tried to carry me inside, I wouldn’t let him unbuckle me from the car seat. I didn’t recognise him as my dad. No matter how little emotional expression he shows, it had hurt – and he returned to civilian life shortly after.
I used to marvel at his stories like they were just stories – tales of bombs and guns and underwater warfare being told by a gentle man who reads for most of the hours in his day. When I was younger, these stories were fun, they were tales where the good guy always wins. But I remember the moment when I realised that my dad had been shielding me from the other side of his adventures – of loss, sacrifice, and fear. Where, as my dad always tells me: “Life isn’t fair”.
I was in year 4 at the school’s ANZAC day assembly. I was one of two students in the year group who were part of a military family. For me, ANZAC day was a day to acknowledge the sacrifice of soldiers far removed from me. I couldn’t picture their faces and I didn’t know their names. For the other student, ANZAC day meant more. I can remember the teachers taking her out of the hall toward the start of the assembly – she was crying. She had lost her dad to military service in Afghanistan. She wasn’t just remembering faceless soldiers; she was remembering her dad – who hadn’t been able to shield her from the darker side of sacrifice.
The next time I listened to my dad’s stories something had changed. Maybe I was just overthinking or maybe for the first time I was really listening. His face didn’t seem as aloof – it seemed detached, distant. I had wondered if his characteristically nonchalant approach to anything emotionally challenging wasn’t just ‘dad being dad’, but because when you are 260 ft underwater and dealing with explosive detection and disposal, there is no room for emotion. If you wish these adventures to become tales to tell your children, there is only room for pure self-control and a little bit of luck.
For those of us who have never served, ANZAC day is a day to honour all of those who did. It is an eternal promise to remember the courage and sacrifice of individuals no different to us, only distinguished by the circumstances they faced that we don’t have to. They may seem distant and foreign, but they had families waiting too. They are not just the historical figures of the world wars; they are the family of our peers and closer to our community than some may think.
St Andrew’s remembers and honours those who served with a plaque at the main building’s entrance, dedicated to former students—young adults, some our age—who fought but never returned. They shared our rooms; they wore the blue and white and they embodied the commitment to community and service that distinguishes all Androvians.
Since the early times of warfare, the half-light of dawn has been favoured for attack, utilising misty shadows to seek some advantage over one’s adversary. In Australia and New Zealand, the timing of the dawn service links symbolically to the first landing on Gallipoli at dawn on the 25th of April 1915. For the vast majority of the 16,000 Australian, New Zealand, and First Nations troops, that morning was their first experience of combat and by evening 2000 would be killed.
ANZAC day is more than just a public holiday and attending the dawn service is an integral part of the customs and traditions that honour those who served. They are not faceless nor are they distant. They are men and women and young adults like us who loved their families and hoped to return home.
This ANZAC day we will remember them. I am grateful that my dad was here to push me onto waves in the surf and is still here to talk through a tough day over udon noodles at our favourite spot. But I also mourn for those remembering lost family members and the modern-day stories of bravery, fear, and sacrifice that never made it home.
Grab your mates and stand together for something bigger than us. See you at the dawn service. 5am at the USYD quad this Thursday 25th of April.
