I elected to participate as an onlooker in small town New Zealand, not too far from New Zealander, in a pleasant little hick town called Shannon.
ANZAC Day, like Good Friday, is a sombre, shops shut day. The Horowhenua District pipe band let fly with bag pipes as they led the parade to the town's War Mememorial. Quietly proud Veterans with aged faces, some wearing medals walked the short distance to where a passage of scripture [Luke 22:19] was read. Wreaths were laid by various organisations whilst four NZ Army soldiers stood with their Steyrs clasped, barrels to the ground and their heads to the ground. A volley of three shots from a New Zealand Army firing party was discharged. I was swept away as I looked across the crowd at the faces of the Vets. Some had seen WWII, the younger ones would have seen Vietnam.
An uncle of mine, who I've never met was killed on ANZAC Day itself in Greece, 1941. I'd like to record here fervant thanx to my Uncle Harry and everyone else's Uncle Harrys for the sacrifice they made to ensure a better life for the generations following them.
THEY WERE CALLED AND THEY WENT
My Uncle Harry, me Mum's sister's husband and my Mum's brother were tortured almost to death during four years in Changi Prison, courtesy of 'his majesty "emperor" and mongrel bastard, Hirohito of Japan.
Human History's fourth most prolific mass murderer.
Other members of my family have served and or have been killed and/or wounded in every New Zealand War since before 1840 when they and others like them first brought Civilization and Law to New Zealand -- and saved the natives there from eating themselves into extinction.
Agree with that shaggy. Had two great uncles go away on my moms side. One committed suicide after he came back. The other one had a framed copy of Mont'y order of the day for El Alamein