ANZAC Day means a lot to me. It hit home standing on the beach at Comoro Airfield in Dili on 25 April 2000. But after that I could no longer tolerate what ANZAC Day had become. Cliched with veterans silenced and replaced by platitudinous politicians and pious padres trying to justify war using a bible full of hypocrisy and hate. People who never served trying to mansplain why I served and the awful phrase "Thank you for your service". I would rather they say nothing if they cannot be original.
I don't march anymore. My medals are in a box under the stairs. Yet I have no regrets and would do it all over again.
We all march or don't for different reasons but hopefully this is a clue to my story
So here are some stories of my service from my anthology I am putting together tilted "Always Carry a Spoon"
and dedicated the Class of December 1988 of the Royal Military College Duntroon. The women and men who make me feel safe and alive
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