This ANZAC Day I grieve for my family

On the 9th of October, 2007 I was awoken by the worst phone call a person can expect.

My husband took the call. It was about 5am – well before anyone should be ringing.

The call was brief, matter of fact, and unremarkable. Or so I thought. My husband is good like this. He takes in the facts and siphons out the emotion, to be dealt with at another time.

After he ended the call I recall laughing as I joked about something simple. I felt carefree. The very first hint of the morning sun was glowing on the horizon and I knew day break wasn’t far off. Little did I know that in a matter of seconds my world would turn upside-down.

Then, a light-bulb moment.

“Who was on the phone?” I chirped.

Calm face. Clear, blinking eyes stared at me. And then the words that I will not ever forget.

“That was your Dad on the phone. David’s been killed in Afghanistan.”

Silence. He blinked.

Lots of laughing from me. I think I slapped him on the arm.

“That’s not funny. That’s the worst joke!”

Silence.

More deadpan face from him.

Then I remembered the news report from the previous afternoon. Two Australian soldiers had been reported injured in an attack in Afghanistan.

I pushed him in the chest. Then maybe punched him.

“Don’t fucking joke about that!” It came out like a laugh. But I collapsed as I said it.

I was crying now. Sobbing. I understood the message. I had finally received the phone call. My husband was holding me in his arms on our bed as I realised that my uncle was dead.

Of course I’m shaking and crying now as I write this, because raw moments like this don’t resurface easily. I’d only emailed my dear uncle hours before he was killed. We’d exchanged emails when I proudly shared with him the first ultrasound pictures of my unborn daughter. He joked with me. He said endearing words. I knew he was proud.

I ended my last exchange with him by saying, ‘Be safe, I love you.’ What else can you say to someone living in a war zone? He never replied. I never spoke with him again.

The roller coaster of emotions that our family experienced was magnified by military protocol and the very public media spotlight as David was the second Aussie soldier killed in combat since the Vietnam War.

Days went by in a blur.

The overwhelming grief was displayed in a sobbing reality at the repatriation as we were reunited with our dear David, only to say goodbye. A lone metal casket in an otherwise empty RAAF C-17 transport plane. An Australian flag draped across his capsule. The wails from that aircraft will forever haunt me.

I had somehow expected to see him swaggering across the tarmac, walking towards us with a huge grin on his face. His khaki kit bag slung over his shoulder. ‘Gotcha!’ I wanted him to say.

Instead we were met with a cold, solitary coffin. Any remaining doubts or denials were gone. Cold, hard reality. He really was dead. My uncle was lying in that casket. Broken. Lifeless.

His beautiful, young, impressionable daughters have lost their father to a roadside bomb. His devoted, loving, and cherished wife stands vigil, and grieves her husband who will never return to her. A family longs for the larrikin, the mentor, and the glue the bound us all together.

There’s such a void now.

As a nation, we celebrate on ANZAC Day not just to remember a century old campaign. We celebrate this day not just for Two-UP and a day off work. We might have a few beers with our mates and feel Aussie Pride, and some might even wave some Australian flags.

But when I stand on the beach this ANZAC Day as the sun breaks over the horizon, I will remember all of the fallen and all of their families left behind. My heart will break for the boys and girls who could never savour a joyous reunion with their Daddies upon their return. But above all, I’ll stand grieving for the life of our soldier; Trooper David Pearce.

I’ll grieve for my Aunt. I’ll grieve for my sweet cousins. And I’ll grieve for myself and the unique relationship I’ve lost.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young.
Straight of limb, true of eyes, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.

I will remember him.