Remembering my Dad, Herbie, who fought in New Guinea on the Kokoda Track, and then in Timor during World War 2, building bridges, keeping the task force moving in impossible conditions, and being shot at and bombed. He was strafed in Darwin while he was sitting on an outside privy with dysentery and couldnt take cover. They missed. He was an official witness at the executions of Japanese war criminals at the end of the war. He says he was never the same. And my Grandpa Eddie Williams who went ashore with the Anzacs at Gallipoli on April 25, 1915, and lived through that bloody hell. Then after a short leave and a marriage to Rita, my Grandmother, he was in France, in Flanders, where he was gassed by the Germans. He survived 3 years of trench warfare and never spoke of it again, no matter how much I pleaded. He was my hero. He gave me his hair. Thank God, cos my dad was bald. He was one of the founders of the Woolworkers Union after the war and always believed in the working man– The Little Aussie Battler. I am here. I am who I am because of them in more ways than one. It is my solemn wish to never forget them and those who served with them and after them, and to never, never dishonor their memories. Lest we forget.
Posted on: Mon, 11 Nov 2013 21:49:35 +0000
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