One that sticks in my mind is of my great great grandfather Edward James who had his hip blown out at Gallipoli.
He and another were on patrol when a shell landed between them. Both survived, but the rest of their platoon was killed.
Edward was taken to hospital in England where he was visited by the King.
The story goes that heasked him if there was anything he could do for him and looking out the window, he said "I'd like some carrots from your garden". The next day he received a basket of carrots from the royal gardens.
Another story I grew up with always put into perspective how delicate us being on Earth really was.
During World War II my mother's grandfather in England was destined to be on the ships to D-Day. But he had fallen in love with a parachute folder - my great grandmother, and accidentally missed the boat.
My understanding is he got into a heck of a lot of trouble, but if he hadn't overslept, my grandmother, mother and myself may not be here today.
The stories, like these two, passed down through the generations, always felt a bit like legends to me, especially because most of those in my family who served in the world wars had died before I was born.
But every Anzac Day, as the New Zealand flag is raised up its pole and the national anthem is sung, they feel more real than anything else.
These are the men and woman who fought for us.
And on this day we remember we owe our lives to them.
