by G. Breckell

Created on: May 21, 2007

The rain always bleeds into the path that winds up the hill, and the trees drip solemnly onto the fallen leaves. The veterans of a war past make their way slowly up the incline, some are still proudly upright, but as their numbers dwindle so too does the remaining strength.

The hollows left by these war scars are slowly filled by the youth of our times. Although the wind curls coldly over the crest of Stockade Hill, the sun does climb out from the clouds and colours the community who turn out in numbers to support those that sacrificed so much.

For a relatively new world, New Zealand was still very humble and young when the World Wars called them to battle. In a country where roots were beginning to form, and the population struggled without their young oaks, the loss of numbers to war was devastating in both the damage and the finality of some of those partings.

Australian and New Zealand losses became blood stains on foreign soil as the Allies attempted to carve a foothold in the First World War. To this day tens of thousands of young Australians and New Zealanders make the passage to Turkey and camp out in the cold night to await the dawning of the 25th April. Back in 1915, the dawn heralded the Allied Forces attack, and the fierce Turkish defense of the Gallipoli Peninsula. More than ten thousand men died in Gallipoli during that campaign, and two newly formed countries suffered as the shock waves rippled through families and communities.

Born out of the ashes of death and destruction was the ANZAC legend. The spirit of the Australian and New Zealand forces, and comraderie born from hardship formed the basis for the ANZAC history, and entwined the two nations for the future. That small corner of the world pauses in though each year to march and commemorate the bravery of those that marched before us. Across the world, those hearts born in the Southern lands beat as the ears hear the solemn words spoken during the minutes of silence on ANZAC Day.

As we look upon the juxtaposition of young and old, innocent and weary, you hear the words and are compelled to a rush of pride and sadness for what was lost for such a gain.

"They shall grow not old,
As we that are left grow old,
Age shall not weary them,
Nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun,
And in the morning
We will remember them."

We will remember them.

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