It has been said that there should no such thing as history – just biography. For all of us, this wisdom carries with it an understanding that what we call history is simply the sum of experience of individuals lives. It carries with it an understanding that to remember events - rather than the human tragedy or triumph lived within them is to diminish their lesson.
None of us consciously condemns the experiences of other generations to dry and dusty captivity within history books. Their times simply seem so distant from our own, their lives so divorced from ours that it’s often hard to imagine we could share the same emotions – that our forebears felt happiness or hope as we feel, or suffered from grief or fear as we do. But today, we affirm our understanding that the men who fought here and the many who died here, were exactly like ourselves.
History may choose to chronicle the Battle of Lone Pine as an unsuccessful military feint, a ‘demonstration’, using the words of the time, designed to draw the enemy’s reserves away from the real breakout attempted elsewhere. But to us, it will always be about young Australians, exactly like those with us here today, like the thousands who are drawn to this place each year.
Young Australians, their bodies wearied by months of fatigue and illness, by the constant stress of combat, who nevertheless launched themselves across the killing space of no-mans land. The startled recognition that the enemy had roofed their forward trenches with pine logs, the hurried scramble to drag enough aside to leap into the half lit gloom and terror waiting in the tunnels below.
To us, it will always be about the three days of bloody, hand to hand fighting they endured amid the narrow twisting confines of enemy trenches – fought with rifles and freshly sharpened bayonets, with home-made jam tin bombs packed with nails and scrap, and at last resort with their bare hands. For us, it will remain the story of an aspiring nation’s courage.
While bare statistics tell of 2,277 Australian soldiers lost in the battle, to us, they’ll never simply be numbers on a page. For each one of those men had a name we would recognise, a home we would feel welcome in, a family that loved them as much as we are loved by our own. Each one had parents or beloved or children whose hearts were broken when they perished here. Each possessed a unique personality- as we do - apparent in a thousand ways by our mannerisms, our humour, the principles which guide our lives, the hopes we hold for our futures.
Seven Australians who, during those three short days, at places close to where we now stand, earned their country’s highest decoration for valour in the face of the enemy, the Victoria Cross. These soldiers would not have thought themselves exceptional. They may even have felt their own breath-taking acts of bravery commonplace amongst that heroic company. As one survivor of the fighting recalled “there were deeds of heroism and utter fearless bravery sufficient to warrant the issue all round of V.Cs, but nobody of high enough military rank saw them. We, their mates, saw it all”.
The origins, lives and destinies of these seven men, give us a picture of all their kind. And in their livelihoods, their interests, their pursuits, their values, we gain also a mirror in which we see ourselves.
One was a carpenter prior to his enlistment, two were clerks, one a salesman, a butcher, a farmer, the last barely out of school. Professions and trades in which Australians still strive. They lived in the cities and towns in which we still live. Their religions were listed as Church of England, Catholic, Presbyterian, Jewish. All faiths which many Australians still follow.
Two had immigrated to Australia. And in their choice to make a new beginning, we see reflected the contribution that generations of other migrants have made to our nation. One was to become a respected business leader, another a champion of the workers. Some were married, others were single. Some were destined to raise children, others were not. And in the faces revealed through fading photographs, we see our friends, our workmates, our neighbours and our sons.
In short, we stand here today not to commemorate the deeds of strangers. The passing of mere time does not render them foreign to our world or to ourselves. We are the same people, possessed of the same courage, the same determination, the same spirit. Within us all, is carried the seed of Anzac.
And as we return to the normal lives denied them, we will take with us a renewed sense of belonging, a renewed bond with the past and renewed hope for the future. We will leave behind, in voices rich with Australian accents, the pledge that these men, though separated by time, can never be separated from the affection and gratitude of their people.
Let us honour the men of Lone Pine with the evocative words of the poet, John Oxenham:
Tread softly here!
And let your soul go down upon its knees,
And with bowed head
And Heart abased, strive hard
To grasp the future gain in
This sore loss.
For not one foot of this
Dank sod but drank
Its surfeit of the blood
Of gallant men.