Richard Moore: Moving day always one to remember

The tune came out of the shiny brass bugle and, as it has always done, not only grabbed my attention, but also put a choke lock on my throat and brought tears to my eyes.

I just cannot help it. Hearing The Last Post brings an emotion to me that not even my rule-the-heart mind can stop.

It is mournful, simple and yet so overwhelmingly powerful.

The images it conjures up are of young men heading off to fight in the War to End All Wars. Innocent, adventure-seeking guys who had absolutely no idea of the hell that awaited on the cliffs and wastelands of Gallipoli and later the Western Front in Europe.

Or their sons who, having seen the damage done to their dads and uncles, were sent off to fight the troops of a monstrous evil in the Western Desert of North Africa, Greece and Italy or the much closer enemy staking an imperial claim on the Pacific.

Let us not forget the brave airmen who flew over the skies of Europe to cripple Germany's war machine, or the sailors who either patrolled the oceans and seas to protect or deliver men and material for the war effort.

Soon after their younger brothers were packed off with United Nations troops to stop North Korean aggression against their southern brethren and then hordes of Chinese in a follow up invasion. It was a pitiless war often fought in terrible conditions.

Next the fields of operations were again close by in Malaya where Anzac forces took on firstly communist guerrillas and then an invading Indonesia.

If I'd had any much older brothers or cousins they would have been men drafted and sent off to fight in the terrible Vietnam War where neither Australia nor New Zealand should have got involved.

It was a wrong war against people just wanting independence, but our young Anzac troops served well and bravely and then were subjected to awful treatment from idiot protesters when they returned home.

They were abused, spat on, had blood thrown at them and were called baby killers.

I guess most of the emotion I get when hearing Last Post is for those poor Vietnam vets. They were crucified by their own people. Most were forced to go through the draft system and had a hell of a time when they got back.

In Australia, I'm not sure about here, they were shafted by the Returned Services League.

Many were excluded from the RSL because they "didn't fight a real war" and were not allowed to march in Anzac Parades. Some said they had not upheld the Anzac spirit in that war.

It is no wonder Vietnam vets have a haunted look to them and many were left with terrible psychological issues.

One of my most stark memories of an Anzac Day service was when the Vietnam vets led the Melbourne parade to the Shrine of Remembrance.

As tens of thousands of well-wishers clapped and cheered them on the long march, their strained visages morphed into ones showing honour, joy, relief and pride. They were finally home after decades of being missing in life.

I'm getting teary just remembering watching them. I think I even stopped taking photos to applaud them marching by.

I missed the Dawn Service down at the Mount Maunganui cenotaph this year, but did get along to the mid-morning one.

It is a really nice, community service and good numbers of people - young and old - turned out. The pipes and drums of the Tauranga City Band added to the occasion.

When I was a kid, World War I soldiers were the age I am now. Today, they are all gone.

Those who fought in WWII were older than my father's generation and I remember seeing them as strong men who seldom spoke about what they went through. One farmer I knew would always fall asleep in the afternoons and I asked why this was. Seems he lost a large portion of his insides from a Japanese grenade.

Nowadays many of those men and their comrades have either gone, or are physically struggling. But chat with those at an Anzac Day service and you hear the voices of their youth and if you look through the years you can see their eyes twinkle - and sometimes shadow - with their memories.

I love Anzac Day. It is sacred to me. As the Last Post sounds I remember my great grandfather who fought in the Durham Light Infantry in WWI, my grandad who was a British despatch rider in Italy and my great uncles who were in the New Zealand artillery in the Western Desert.

I silently thank them and, as the strains of the tune wash over me, I hope nobody sees the tears in my eyes or the fact I'm finding it hard to swallow.

Lest we forget.

richard@richardmoore.com

Richard Moore is an award-winning Western Bay journalist and photographer.