Anzacs

[Wally]

I was wondering if any members have tales to tell of the diggers, without the thread decending into an idealogical debate.

For my uncle WW2 was something he never got over. He went away smilie and came back damaged goods. He joined the 2/10 Infantry Battalion 20/10/39 and was discharged 4/12/45. He was one of those guys who served in North Africa and then in PNG as a sergeant. My grandmother used to tell the tale how a high ranking officer knocked on her door one day to announce her brother was being discharged, but he, along with many others had experienced unimaginable horror while in New Guinea and to expect a different man.

I hardly saw him while I was growing up, the family prefering to to sheild us kids from his odd behaviour, but when I was about 21 I had the opportunity to ask him to evaluate a stone wall I had built, because he was a mason by trade. This was only the second time I'd seen him and this time I was old enough talk one on one. It wasn't much of a conversation, we didn't have mutual history, but, and it's hard to explain, I couldn't help but feel I was in the presence of a bloke who had an extremely brave, but tortured soul and I felt helpless in relieving that pain. We had a beer, he talked little and I never saw him again.

My small contribution every year to the diggers around Anzac day and Rememberance Day is to buy a cool drink and something like a vegemite snackpak, sneek up to the old fella selling badges/poppies, flick $10 in the kick and give him the snack before scarping. It's not much, but to see the feeling of worth it gives the old digger speaks millions. It's getting harder each year to spring the surprise because they seem to be bringing in reinforcements in an attempt to nab me before I can get to them. This year I think I'll wear sunnies and a cap to get the drop on them...I am the Scarlet Pimpernel of the Brisbane Western Suburbs LOL.

[Big Bird 17]

My dad joined up in 39,served in nth africa then in europe.He never talked about it,his best mate told me he had been dropped behind enemy lines and saw some really bad stuff.He was a tortured soul and kept it to himself,used the drink to cope.RIP Dad.Go the Diggers!!!

[Spudz27]

My gran and my grandad were both in the war (WWII). My gran was in a code deciphering room. It was her job to decipher the code using the keys they had then pass it on. I am not sure what my Grandfather did as he died before I was born, and my gran gets upset talking about the war. He had some service medals, but they were stolen when my grans house was robbed. This year I am contribuitng to the anzacs by volunteering to attend the dawn service as an ambulance officer. Myself and my boss will be there to make sure if anything happens (god forbid) at least they will get treatment immediately. I am looking forward to it, will be my first dawn service in 10yrs.

[aussie muscle]

My father served in new guinea. he was assigned a bunker in the even of a air raid. when the sirens went, he jumped in the nearest bunker, the one he was assigned was blown to heck. He survived the war by getting malaria and being shipped back to Australia, having never fired a shot in anger.

[aussie muscle]

Originally Posted by Big Bird 17

He never talked about it,

my father didn't like to talk about it either.

[dannyxm]

Somewhat of a common thread for the old diggers to not talk about old war stories.

The horrors of war are simply that i guess.

My grandad was in the Royal Maltese Artillery during world war 2.

For a while there Malta was one of the most bombed places on earth due to its position in the Medeteranian sea.

He would often speak of what happened and the planes stationed in Malta.
In particular the Spitfire, and the funny Australian pilots there under RAF command.

He is still with us, 91 years of age. They built them tough back then

[FrogInASock]

I know this thread is about ANZACS, but I'd like to write about my Uncle. He fought for the other guys...

My Uncle Rudi was in the Waffen SS in Germany. I have had the pleasure of speaking to him about this twice, both times when I went to the UK for holidays. Initially, I spoke to my cousin (whom I get on with famously!) and she said that he would be approachable, so I asked him. "Uncle Rudi, were you in the war?" "Ja!", he replied, "I vas in ze Waffen SS." Umm, should I continue this conversation??? He laughed and said that the Waffen SS were the "elite" troops, a bit like Royal Marines of the day, and not "those (insert various German swear words here) who killed all the Jews". Uncle Rudi, I found, had no animosity towards the Jews, and has none to this day.

He was caught twice and escaped once. His platoon were captured and being held guard by what he described as a small and very scared Yank GI. Waffen SS had to be over 6' tall (Rudi was 6'3"), remembering that the average bloke in the war was smaller than today. So Rudi strolls up to this scared looking private with his Springfield, mentally comparing the length of his arm and gas mask to the distance between his shoulder and the bloke's head. When he decided that the second was equal to the first... CLANG!! And off they went.

Rudi spoke about the Me262 jet fighter, saying that he couldn't believe how fast it was on a low level pass (some 100+ mph faster than the Fw 190, or equivalent Allied fighter), and about the German helicopters.

After the war, he was interred in Scotland, not too far from where he lives today. He thoroughly enjoyed his time on the farm working with other internees. It was here that he met my Aunt Betty, who was also working picking potatoes.

A couple of years ago they celebrated their 60th Anniversary. Several Scottish newspapers ran articles about them, many of which I read as my cousin kept them. I cannot remember the details, but he said that his high commanding officer (from the Waffen SS or Hitler Youth, can't remember which) was at Nuremberg charged with what we would now call Crimes Against Humanity. He said that he had no idea that his CO was involved with such murders and atrocities.

[Mad Maxine]

My Father's father, my grandpa, was in WWI, enlisted at age 20 in the Australian Imperial Force in 1915.

This is him in Normanton, where he lived, just before he shipped out, aged 20:


He had been sent off as a common footsoldier and was serving in Egypt, and by chance was overheard by one of the high-ups talking about his prowess with a rifle (Grandpa won the St George Medal, the highest accolade for shooting within Australia (or so I'm told) at that time. He was then promptly hauled off and saw active service in France in 1917, trained to be the most hated person at the front: a sniper.

If not for another fortuitous turn of events, he probably would never have made it home to eventually father his only child (my Dad). He was just about to be sent off on another secret job, when the unit's only radio operator was killed. As Grandpa had been a good scout, and actually knew how to operate and interpret Morse Code, he was needed more as a Sparks than a sniper, and that is how he continued his service to the Australian Army until the war was over.

The only thing he had to say to my father about the whole war thing was "I did what I had to do". Grandpa died before I was even 8 years old, so I don't remember a great deal about him, except that he had a great sense of humour and was a gentle soul.

Another exceedingly cool thing about my Grandpa and Grandma was that they met each other at the Rifle Range, because they were both keen on marksmanship. Apparently Grandma never bettered Grandpa's shooting, but came darn close on several occasions!

Shazz, also not a bad shot with a longarm ;) It's in the genes!

[rodderz]

My grandmother drove trucks for the signal division up near Townsville during WW2, and my grandfather was in New Guinea also in signals, but luckily didnt see much battle.

I did a job for a bloke last year who was a Vietnam vet, served in infantry and special forces. He has plenty of stories about the army and Vietnam but he won't and never has talked about what he saw in battle. It's broken him a few times, he's had 2 breakdowns and psychotic episodes (tried to bash everyone in the street) but now works as a volunteer at the Vietnam Vet centre catering for others with the same problems. Must of seen some nasty stuff

[jcxr]

My old man was in the Navy, drove the LST's [landing ships] that dropped off the soldiers on the beaches. They would roar in, dump the guys off, and then return to the mother ship, p/u some more and do it all over again and again. Didnt talk much about it. Had three brothers, all returned home.

[sarrge2001]

I've been lucky in that my family have never been directly involved as armed forces personnel. Even my time in the RAAF was conflict free. But I still relate, and found this on another forum and thought I would share with you all.....


Beneath the Faded Word
By Peter Thomas, Mt Martha, Vic.

It sat out in the shearing shed for 30 years or more,
With cobwebs, dust and binder twine, and sheep dung on the floor.
An old and rusted Lockwood kept its secrets from my eyes,
A cabin trunk of leather, there since 1945.
I asked my dad, who owned it and what we kept it for,
He replied, “It’s Uncle Basil’s, that he brought back from the war.
So don’t you bl..dy touch it, or I’ll tan your bl..dy hide!”
But that only made me more intrigued to see what was inside.
I wondered at its mysteries and the secrets that it hid,
Beneath the faded word “Tobruk” stencilled on the lid.

Near Wilcannia, where only hardy cattlemen will go,
Uncle Basil had a station, Baden Park, near Ivanhoe.
A strong and gentle man, who once rode the Birdsville Track
Just to prove he wasn’t hampered by the shrapnel in his back.

So I stood alone and weighed it up; which would I decide,
Should I leave the memories undisturbed, or take a look inside?
I knew I had to take a look to see what it’d hold.
Medals? Spoils from the war – silver, jewels or gold?

The old man went off fishin’ of a Sunday with Bob Gray,
So if I was gonna do it – that would have to be the day.
I started out determined – I was done by ten past two.
With half a broken hacksaw blade, I cut the padlock through,
But even as I opened it, the truth was plain and clear,
The old trunk held no gold or jewels, there was no treasure here .
A pile of letters tied with string, an old moth eaten flag,
A rusty metal helmet and mouldy webbing bag,
A cup made from a jam tin, an emu feathered hat,
And a newspaper clipping with the title “Desert Rat”,
Some photos of the pyramids – a rusty bayonet,
An IOU – Jack Carmody – two quid ( a two-up bet).

I folded out a faded map as the day began to wane,
Foreign places like Benghazi, Tobruk, El Alamein.
Then I came upon a satchel and a little leather book
And a photo of some young blokes – so I took a closer look.
It was 20 young recruits, their faces tanned and worn
From places like Cohuna, Moama and Bamawm.
Farmers, shearers, stockmen off to fight a noble war,
For the empire in a foreign land they’d never seen before.
And scrawled across the bottom, in writing rough and coarse,
Twenty names below the words, the Echuca Boys – Light Horse.

I turned the photo over, and there upon the back
Were words that sent a chill through me, and made my mouth go slack.
A solemn list of 20 – the fate of each the same.
Every one but Uncle Basil had a date beside their name,
Some said April ’43, some said June /July.
A record from our history, the date that each had died.
I turned back to the photo and looked in every face,
And written over each one was a month, a year, a place.
A grinning, sun-bronzed soldier’s face, each now with a name
Like November 1943 – the words El Alamein.

I wonder did they think, as they sailed across the foam,
That amongst them only one – Uncle Basil – would come home?
Recorded in that little book – I remember to this day –
A record of their actions and how each had passed away,

A mortar shell out on patrol; a sniper in the night;
A landmine took one’s legs off – he died before first light.
The death of each was brutal, the reality was stark.
Forty pages written there, I finished just on dark.

I slowly closed that record of the men who kept us free
And turned to see my father, standing silently.
He didn’t do his block as I expected that he would,
He just said, “Come on pack it up, I reckon that we should.”
So with loving care we packed away the treasures from the past,
When I came upon the photograph – it was put aside ‘till last –
And with new respect and love, I recorded there his fate.
Next to Uncle Basil I wrote April ’68.
Yeah, Dad and I we packed it up and put it back again
And wrapped it in a bit of tarp, to keep it from the rain.
We never spoke about it or discussed what I had read.
I reckon that was his way, to respect those men long dead.

There’s a statue of a digger in most every country town,
And a list of names of locals, who fought with great renown.
And now, when I go by, I remember what I read,
Sitting on the floor out there, in our old shearing shed.
And I think of Uncle Gordon, lost somewhere on Ambon,
Uncle Jack on the Kokoda and, in England, Uncle John.
I remember still that photo, with sadness and remorse,
That mob of grinning faces, the Echuca Boys – Light Horse.
In a cemetery near Ivanhoe lies a bloke who’s left his mark,
Basil Thomas, of Echuca, Tobruk and Baden Park,


Lest We Forget.

[XC-351]

Originally Posted by danny351

Somewhat of a common thread for the old diggers to not talk about old war stories.

The horrors of war are simply that i guess.

My grandad was in the Royal Maltese Artillery during world war 2.

For a while there Malta was one of the most bombed places on earth due to its position in the Medeteranian sea.

He would often speak of what happened and the planes stationed in Malta.
In particular the Spitfire, and the funny Australian pilots there under RAF command.

He is still with us, 91 years of age. They built them tough back then

My great grandfather was also in the war in malta, he is also still with us and is 92 years old, the war is pretty much the only thing he still remembers well

[Biggav]

my grandfather was in WW2 as a tank driver was in the first wave to land on normandy after they had taken the beach hasnt told us much at all about the war only that and that he was hiding after nearly being captured by a german patrol.

made one big mistake and that was taking him to watch saving private ryan when out at cinemas guess it just brang back huge memories once hidden long ago.

[Bossxr8]

My grandpa was a supply truck driver, taking supplies up to Darwin, and I believe he also was in PNG.

He died a few years ago, and on his death bed he told my father he shot a Japanese soldier who came at him and another bloke in PNG. I don't know the details of it but i'd assume it was kill or be killed. He must have kept it inside for the rest of his life, he didn't even tell my nana that, and both being heavily religous I think he wouldn't have wanted her to know. He was scared to die in his final days, I think he was fearful of being judged on the other side for his actions. I'm sad I never got to talk to him about the war, i'm a bit of a military history buff, but its seems like very few who returned wanted to discuss it. At his funeral I also found out his father, my great grandfather, was a gallipoli veteran, something I never knew. I wish I knew more about it.

[fordomatic]

my grandad was in world war 2 as a navy gunner on a supply ship, i am also a soldier and he tells me lots of stories but only me. the worst one he has told me is when he was told that he was to go on another ship for a supply run and had to leave his mates behind. his mates left on his normal ship and it was sunk by three missiles, he lost all of his mates. he confides in me whenever i speak with him and it still hurts him every day to this day to think about it.

my other pop was in the infantry (1rar) and deployed to vietnam twice, he never told me stories at all and let the grog get the best of him. he died of cancer 8 years ago and i honestly believe he let his mind get the best of him, which killed him in the end.

Im a soldier in the infantry and recently returned from a 8 month tour in afghanistan, i also deployed to east timor in 2007. many stories about modern warfare as well. i just thank god that i have only lost two mates, not 30 or more like some of the older diggers have.

[uranium_death]

My mother's father was a mechanic in the German army. I am not sure when, but he was shot in the shoulder, and the bullet remained there.

[Dauphin]

Although not family, I have a good friend who flew Hueys in the Vietnam War. He started out flying slicks (troop carriers) and moved onto flying gunships, eventually serving two tours over there.

The gunners in the back would remove the silencers on their guns to make them fire better and replace the springs for faster rounds, since they wouldn't heat up so much as they flew through the air at speed, and all the noise eventually left him with permanent severe ringing in the ears.

Unlike most of his peers, he didn't have any other long-standing effects of the experience and doesn't mind talking about it.

He later went on as a private contracted pilot for the armed forces in East Timor and the Solomons Islands to perform cold insertions (non-combat) but it was so disorganised that he ended up flying into hot zones and being shot at by the locals. He was flying ordinary civilian aircraft.

Another task he'd be called upon is to drop pay packages in all the crop fields for the farmers. It was like bomb runs except you're dropping packages of money at remote locations, never stopping.

Now he flies 15 million dollar Chinook load-lifting choppers.