It is 12am on the 25th of April, 2015. After much planning and anticipation, the big day has arrived.
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It follows three days of raw emotion touring the battlefield cemeteries.
For years now I have wondered what I would feel like when this historic day dawned.
I am excited, but I also have a yearning to speak with my family.
So I phone home and my eldest son Daniel answers.
He tells me it is Anzac Day and I acknowledge his awareness.
I am pleased.
It reminds me of my own father waking me at dawn at a similar age to attend our local services; the beginning of understanding.
My younger son Lachlan comes to the phone and demands to know where I hid his Easter eggs before I left for Gallipoli.
He tells me he will share them with me if I tell him.
I’m not so sure!
I long to keep talking with my family, but the teenagers under my care begin emerging from their rooms and, for now, they are my primary responsibility.
These young students have been brilliant, all worthy representatives of their families, schools and communities.
They’ve created a unique bond with our fellow bus travellers who have appreciated their tributes to our local soldiers at various cemeteries.
Often they have joined us at specific grave sites and have comforted our students when they broke down.
As fellow Australians and New Zealanders gather in the various lounge areas of the ship ready for departure, the usual hum and shrills of our accents seem subdued.
There is an atmosphere of quiet reverence and anticipation.
Descendants don medals.
Countrymen share stories.
It is a privilege to be here and I feel my emotions building.
Our bus boards a ferry bound for Gelibolu, a town that snuggles the eastern coast of the Gallipoli Peninsula where our service will be held.
The ferry provides an opportunity to get outside for some fresh air.
It is an unusually calm morning.
The icy wind of the last few days is gone and the water is a mirror.
From the top deck I can look down the length of the peninsula using the odd terrestrial light to recognise its form.
Now it is 3am.
I think of the allied soldiers, 100 years ago, waiting off the coast ready to land; every one of them still alive.
It is a sobering thought and I am overwhelmed by emotion as I think about the potential that was lost from this generation.
A police escort leads our convoy of buses along a coastal road toward our destination.
Illuminated on the water are eight guided missile cruisers of various nations that have been patrolling the straits for the past week.
I phone my father, a huge reason for me being here.
After attending so many dawn services with him, it feels unusual not to be with him.
He is at Villers-Bretonneux honouring his grandfather, Sapper John Wylie of the 1st Australian Tunnelling company attached to the 34th Battalion, also known as Maitland’s Finest.
It is nice to speak with my parents.
The longing for family is a profound emotion and I can only imagine how it was felt by the soldiers.
I am reminded of a headstone from the Redoubt Cemetery where the soldier’s family, perhaps unable to find the words to describe the loss of their son, resort to using his: “I am thinking of you all up to the last. I have done my best.”
Appropriately, the service in Gelibolu is positioned on a beach.
At 4.30am a reverent hush falls over the crowd as we turn our attention from the sand to open water.
The sound of oars caressing the still waters of the Dardanelles can just be heard.
Then the coloured bows of Australian surf boats emerge from the darkness.
They beach at the same time that the first troops went ashore 100 years ago.
Their arrival transforms our amphitheatre of pilgrims into more of a communal circle, which radiates out 40 – maybe 50 – people deep. One hundred oars are raised in mute salute to the heavens, signifying the commencement of our service.
A prayer appropriately begins proceedings and then the mayor of Galibolu steps forward and delivers a memorable address.
He asserts that: “There is no good war and there is no bad peace. In peace, sons generally bury their fathers, but in war, fathers have to bury their sons.”
And further, “During a war, an army of soldiers fight. After a war, armies of people mourn.”
His address reminds us of the value of a life and the terrible cost of the Gallipoli campaign, for all combatants.
The bond we now share is illustrated when he shares Ataturk’s famous words of condolence to the mothers of the fallen:
“You, the mothers, who sent their sons from faraway countries wipe away your tears; your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace, after having lost their lives on this land they have become our sons as well.” (Ataturk, 1934)
The mayor now quotes a lesser known letter, from an Australian mother of a soldier from Melbourne, who wrote to Ataturk to thank him for his words of paternal comfort that provided her with so much solace and words that only a father could utter.
Within these heartfelt exchanges, a president acknowledges a son and a mother acknowledges a father figure – the way forward becomes clear.
Peace, not war is the answer.
Lest we forget their sacrifice.
