• Address given by Wing Commander Sharon Bown before the Anzac Day Dawn Service, 2014

    Ladies and Gentlemen.

    As we stand here together, awaiting the dawn, the shadow of night tenderly cloaks each of us in a comforting sanctuary of darkness.

    In the early hours before the dawn, we are drawn from our private homes to gather here as a community of ordinary strangers, united by the actions of extraordinary strangers who fought for their country; their mates; and their lives, 99 years ago upon the shores of Gallipoli.

    They were the soldiers of Australia and New Zealand.  They were the ANZACs.

    The darkness before the dawn clutches us.  We are unable to see that which lies beyond the light; unable to perceive that which may bring us harm.  Our security, once delivered by extraordinary strangers of yesterday, remains safely entrusted and protected by the extraordinary strangers of today: the men and women of the Australian Defence Force; men and women who will give their all to defend you and to ensure that you may forever gather here within the comfort of their ever watchful shadow.

    As the ANZACs approached the shores of Gallipoli in the early hours before the dawn, the shadow of darkness may have shielded their presence from the enemy, yet in turn, it also shielded from them, the treacherous peril that lay in wait. From the ANZACs to Afghanistan, the shadow of night which offered protection equally exposed their vulnerability.

    Even I, a Nursing Officer of the Royal Australian Air Force, have lived in such a place: where both security and vulnerability arrive with the darkness of nightfall; where we deliberately ensure that all light is extinguished to remove us from the view of those that would do us harm, those that lie and wait for their black cloak of darkness to descend.

    I have watched from the dirt ramparts of the base at Tarin Kot whilst brave men and women left the warm glow of its lights to slip silently into the cold clutches of the night beyond, and put themselves in harm’s way to protect us. I have felt their departure as they slip into the invisibility of that very darkness in the company of their comrades, striving to shield you from the world’s unimaginable shadows.

    I have heard the noise of battle in the distance; taken the radio call and annotated the nine liner; then eagerly awaited the sound of rotor blades that would deliver the war to me.

    I have awaited their return and tended their wounds, never able to fully comprehend the darkness of man that they encountered upon their journey.  I have witnessed their adrenaline fuelled highs of survival and their immense depths of despair at the loss of a mate.  I have laughed reservedly at the often black-humoured stories of soldiers who photograph their legs before a patrol, just in case they never saw them again; and faced the reality of their need to loosely wear a tourniquet on each limb, ready to stem the almost inevitable haemorrhage that could end their life.  I have been privileged to hear of unimaginable acts of bravery and self-preservation; and I have stood by silently to attempt to pick up the pieces when it all falls apart.

    I have worn their blood.

    So many of us have worn their blood.

    I have seen the strongest and finest reduced to flesh; and witnessed the death of innocence and a once supposed sense of immortality.

    I have stood in a trauma room surrounded by the victims of an IED blast and watched as our finest doctors, nurses and medics ask themselves not just “which casualty first?” but “which wound on which casualty first?”  I have marvelled at their skill; their courage; their resilience.  Together, we have waded through their blood, fighting our own battle to protect and secure. Fending off the enemy of death, of disfigurement of disability; tapping into that unique fighting spirit of the Australian soldier before us, whose courage and sheer determination will see them through another day.

    I have sat in silent contemplation amongst peers as we reflect upon decisions made, lives saved and lives lost as a result of, and in spite of our efforts. 

    I have seen them arrive at the edge of the battlefield and known that when they departed for home, that they would never again be the same.  I have gathered the passports of Australian soldiers who were to be repatriated back to Australia, and not been able to match the battle weary faces to the documents in my hands.

    I have always, always hoped that they will forever find the strength and courage to emerge from the too often persistent shadows; to stand tall in the world for which they have given so much to secure; to stand shoulder to shoulder with comrades; loved ones; and ordinary strangers, in these early hours before the dawn.  I have always hoped that they would somehow come to value and accept that which they have seen, that which they have done, and mostly, that which they have given.  I have hoped that they will see the advances and not just the retreats; the gains and not just the losses, and ultimately, the immense value of their service.  I have clung to the revelry of their joyous reunion; their unique bond of brotherhood; of victory; of realising the reality of just what they would and could do to protect each other.  I have trusted that this will help them to emerge from the shadows and once again feel the sun upon their face.

    I have held their widows and widowers; consoled their parents; their brothers; sisters; and friends; and gazed upon their children, some too young to comprehend the enormity of that which they have lost.

    As a casualty myself, I have crawled out of the darkness and I have fought for my life.

    I am no different from many other Australians.

    So many of those like me, stand silently amongst you today; each of them once more shielded by the darkness; each of them withholding the horrors of war, still endeavouring to provide protection to each and every one of you.

    They will not likely share the truth of their experience.  They will not likely ever find the words to do it justice, and even if they could, it is not likely that anyone other than the brothers and sisters that stood alongside them could ever come close to understand.

    They will mostly choose the anonymity of the darkness before the dawn; the anonymity of the dark suit before the uniform.

    Shining upon the walls of the Memorial behind me, are the names and faces of the 40 soldiers killed in Afghanistan – Australia’s longest and most recent war; brave men who paid the ultimate sacrifice in the service of their country.

    You do not see the 261 who were wounded.[i]

    You do not see those who wrestle with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder nor the other mental health issues that have resulted from their service.

    You do not see the 26 500 [ii] who, if asked, will claim to have simply served.

    You may not hear their voices as they reflect:

    If I had died over there, I would have been remembered forever, but I survived and my name will never be known.”[iii]

    They stand silently amongst you today.

    As the dawn delivers the daylight, pause to reflect upon the memory of those that have gone before us in your name, those whose faces and names grace the walls of our Memorial.  But, I implore of you to also pause and watch carefully as the dawn sheds light upon the faces of the extraordinary strangers that stand beside you.  Contemplate, if only for a moment, that which they may have done, that which they may willingly continue to do, so that you may return to stand here each year, in the darkness before the dawn awaiting the light of a new day and the warmth of the sun, a community of ordinary strangers . . . drawn together to honour their extraordinary service.

    Lest we forget.

     

    [iii] Keene, D. 2014. The Long Way Home. The Sydney Theatre Company.

     

Format:

  • Transcript

Date:

  • Friday 25 April 2014

Speaker:

  • Wing Commander Sharon Bown