CANBERRA: THE AUSTRALIAN WAR MEMORIAL

I will say first up, that Charlie was the one that wanted to go to the Australian War Memorial.

I inwardly thought that I would rather be stripped naked, bound and dragged across a field of broken glass, than go to a museum on war stuff.

However, being the awesome spousal unit that I am, I decided that it was fair to take a hit (and a pretty big hit) for the team, and help Charlie-Albert tick an item off his bucket list.

I promised myself that it would not nag, would not rush him, nor do anything that may imply that I was bored or wanted to leave at any stage.  Nothing to make him think that this whole exercise was a burden on my existence.  Nothing that would spoil the day for him in any way, shape or form.

This was Charlie-Albert’s day, and I would relish in the concept of him fulfilling a dream.  That should make me happy, right?  Right.

A day for a man that has seen nearly every conceivable documentary on World War II, to the point that I am seriously wondering how many more documentaries people can make about it.  Weaponry, planes, destroyers, battleships, submarines, trenches, tactics, individual battles, Generals, Field Marshalls, panzers, Luftwaffe, fighter pilots, uniforms, helmets, rations, Hitler’s triumphs and mistakes, the Japanese entering the war, kamikaze bombers, the battle in the Pacific, and 47 different versions and perspectives of each and every thing.

Visiting the Memorial would be like a stroll down memory lane for Charlie.  I swear he must have been in the military in a past life…

So this was, by far Charlie’s day, and he was just a tad excited.

Who would have thought that after seven hours (yes, you read right; seven hours) of being in the Australian War Memorial, that I was that one that didn’t want to leave.

Visiting the AWM was one of the most amazing, eye opening and moving experiences of my simplistic, unappreciated life.

Charlie said that he wanted to go on one of the tours, and I agreed.  I figured that if I was going to be bored shitless, I may as well learn something about it.

So as soon as we walk through the doors and check my bag into the coat check area (fuck carrying that 20 tonne brick around for hours), we joined a tour straight away and were off.

The first place we were taken was the Memorial itself.  The museum to me seemed to be built around the beauty and grace of the Memorial, and I’m telling you now: you would have to have a heart of stone if you didn’t feel something whilst in that space.  Seriously.

There is a massive, rectangular reflective pool in the centre of the Memorial, which is surrounded by these huge stone walls.  At the other end of the pool, is a massive staircase that leads up to a temple that contains the grave of the ‘Unknown Soldier’.  To my immediate left and right, are flights of stone stairs that led me up to balconies that run the entire length of the pool, and meet the other staircase.  These balconies overlook the beautiful reflection pool, but most importantly, protectively shelter the commemorative plaques.

With a simple sign that says 1914-1918 above them, the memorial plaques are about one foot wide and about eight foot high, I reckon.  Each plaque, stacked side by side, contains the name of every single person that lost their lives in service during World War I. 

There are about 160 plaques.

160. 

As I stood near the first one, my head turned very slowly to take in the never ending chain of plaques that extended some distance along the balcony ahead of me.  It never seemed to end.

In between each plaque, was a small gap: just enough to place a memorial poppy.  The entire wall was littered with little bursts of red.  Ironically, it looked like blood splattered across the wall, but somehow… beautiful.

Some 60,000 names were listed here.  My jaw hit the ground when the tour guide told me this.  I had no fucking idea how many Australian’s gave their lives for this cause, and I tell you right now; if I hadn’t been in a crowd of about twenty strangers, I would have burst into tears.  It took me every ounce of control not to.

So many lives lost, so many sons that would never come home, so many mothers that would never see their babies again, so many women that would never hold their husbands again, so many women that would never walk down the isle with their man, so many children that lost their parents, so many families torn apart; a generation lost.

I cannot say it was a waste of life, because that would be disrespectful I think.  These people’s lives were not wasted; they were lost fighting for a cause far greater than we can appreciate.  No, their lives were not wasted; they were treasured, and now they are honoured.

It would be ignorant of me to think that the majority of the names on these plaques were nothing more than pawns in a great game of politics to some people, but to the majority of us, they were and are heroes. 

In 1914, Australia had a population of 4 million people.  When war was declared, 250,000 people enlisted.  250,000. That’s an eighth of the population that voluntarily went to war, and we lost a quarter of them.

I felt the weight of this loss so heavy in my heart as we moved across to the World War II plaques, and I really found it a struggle not to cry. I found myself closing my eyes and breathing heavily in an attempt to control myself.  At one point, Charlie whispered to me ‘are you okay?’ to which I could only nod in reply.

The first thing I noticed about the WWII plaques, was that there were fewer of them.  About 147.  Still too many, but less just the same.  However, there were many more poppy’s on this side of the memorial.  More recent ancestors perhaps?  Family members like myself and my mother, that are still alive to remember the fallen?  Sad how, as the generations die off, so do the memories…

I found my Grandfather.  Private Hedley William Watson. 3 PW Guard Company, Australian Army.  DOD 14 August, 1943, aged 43.  Panel 78, 1393-1945 conflict.

Just another name amongst the tens of thousands of others that have given their lives for their country.

No one remembers him, but his family.  No one understands the hardships his premature death caused his wife and six children, but his family.  As the thousands and thousands of strangers pass his name, he sadly blends in with all of the rest.

No ranks are listed, here; just a name, for on the memorial wall, there is no distinction; just honour.

Even as I sit here now, I am still moved by the beauty and sorrow that this place stirred in me.  I think that’s why I purchased a poster print of The Menin Gate at Midnight.

Having gone through the one and a half hour tour, then wandering around at our leisure in the WWI, WWI, Korean, Vietnam and Peacekeeping sections of the Memorial; after spending some time in the research department finding Grandpa, we came across a most stunning painting; The Menin Gate at Midnight.

In a solitary, dark room lit with spotlights, this picture was breathtaking.  Charlie looked at it, read the blurb, and moved on.  I, however, was stuck in front of the painting for quite some time.

Will Longstaff painted the picture after attending the unveiling ceremony of the Menin Gate Memorial at the entrance of the Belgian town of Ypres on 24 July 1927.  (Ypres was the setting of a long, hard battle during the WWI).  The memorial was dedicated to the men of the British and empire forces who had died in the battles around Ypres.  Longstaff is reported to have been so profoundly moved by the ceremony that during a midnight walk along the Menin Road, he had a vision of helmeted spirits rising from the moonlit cornfields around him. 

It is said that, following his return to London, he painted the work in one session, while still under psychic influence.  Another account suggests that Longstaff was influenced by Mrs Mary Horsburg, who had worked in a British canteen during the war, and told him when he met her during his midnight walk, that she could feel ‘her dead boys’ all around her.*

As I looked at this picture, I could see what he felt, and I felt the same thing as I stood before the Memorial plaques.  

The ghosts of our fallen heroes are all around us here, and we can do nothing but respect and honour those that have given so much for the freedom we celebrate now, and certainly take for granted.

The museum component of this amazing place is so worth a look, even if you’re not into this kind of thing.  I’m certainly not, and I can’t see myself sitting down watching every conceivable documentary on the History Channel that is anything war related, as Charlie does.  However, I will certainly not treat it as flippantly as I have in the past.

Words cannot really describe the awesomeness of the Australian War Memorial, because there is so much to take in, from the elegance and peace of the Memorial, to the brilliant displays, artefacts and pieces through the museum itself. 

One thing I will note is that there were memorial plaques dedicated to all other conflicts that Australian Forces have been involved with, but they are so small in comparison to WWI and II.  The Afghanistan conflict plaque was barely four foot high, and when I see that this conflict has lasted over twice as long as WWI, I am amazed at how times have changed.

Not only in from the aspect that we are possibly learning now that there is no glory in war any more, just loss, and that the few we have lost, although a horrendous shame, is not a patch of the horrific bloodshed and sacrifice from WWI and II. 

Now I truly understand and appreciate the meaning of ‘Lest we forget’

Peace.

*information gained from the Australian War Memorial website encyclopaedia; Will Longstaff’s Menin Gate at Midnight (Ghosts of Menin Gate).  Menin Gate at Midnight