Christmas and Easter are lots of fun, true, but if Australians have a holy day, this is it. ANZAC Day. The day we remember.
In the heartbeat that follows the first two notes of the Last Post, a true Aussies' skin is humped up in goosebumps, as we recall the boys who lost their lives and limbs fighting wars in far-away lands.
We remember their shining faces, their innocence and joy, their enthusiasm for the fight -- and the letters and telegrams that came with news that crushed their families.
We remember the children growing up with no dad, wives growing tired with no husband, mothers growing older with no sons. We remember the sacrifice made by mothers and fathers and wives, knowing their boys might be lost overseas, never to lie in the good red earth of their homeland.
We remember those who came home, weary and heartsick at the things they had seen and done.
We remember those wounded and the nurses and medicos who cared for them, we remember the pilots and sailors and mechanics and drivers and officers and cooks. We remember them all.
The only time you will ever see an Australian crowd quiet and respectful, is at an ANZAC Day service. The weight of all those years, all those young men, all that blood -- we feel it.
Each year, as the number of diggers grows ever smaller, the crowd grows ever larger, swelled by those who proudly march for uncles and fathers and grandfathers.
Our soldiers are the true heroes of this nations' heart.
And we will remember them.