It is April 1916, the midpoint of the
Great War. Australian Units have begun to arrive in France. For the
first time the men of the AIF find themselves at the main battlefront of the
mighty conflict.
At
first, they encounter a pleasant land - a welcome change from sea voyages, the
cliffs of Gallipoli, and the training camps of Egypt. But in July, on the
Somme, they will be thrown into one of the bloodiest, most destructive battles
in history.
Over
weeks, in a series of determined attacks against strong defences around the
ruined village of Pozières, the Australians will suffer a rate of casualties so
great as to be nearly unsustainable for the volunteer army of a small nation. The AIF will confront its single worst day of
the war at the battle of Fromelles, then endure six long weeks of fighting
in the murderous ordeal that is Pozières.
The year will end in the most severe winter of trench warfare ever seen.
Many households will be cast into
mourning. In the face of such terrible
losses, Australians will be asked to decide whether the conscription of
civilians should be introduced. The
ensuing debate will leave the community riven with bitter divisions. 1916 will be a terrible year.
* * * * * *
I sat in the comfort
of a Very Fast Train on a glorious spring day watching the fields speed past –
and I thought of a man who “died of wounds” in a makeshift hospital, or in a
field not so far away.
101 years later he is
a Hero.
Was he a Hero? I have no idea.
He was a husband, a
Brother, an Uncle – a Great Uncle to children he never knew.
I know his name is
etched on a Cenotaph on the foreshore of Portsea in Victoria Australia and that
he now lies in a pretty and well cared for cemetery in the North of France.
One day I will visit
him and leave an Aussie flag –
to show him and others that “We DO Remember”.
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