Day 6. April 25. Lest We Forget

There's only been one time I've gone into a hotel room with a man I've never met (no really). It was in Istanbul in April 1990. I was 25. He was in his 90s and it was all a big mistake. I regret nothing.

It was the eve of the 75th anniversary of the landing at Gallipoli and I had made the pilgrimage to Turkey at the very beginning of a two-year European working holiday. Fresh from resigning as a reporter on the Sunshine Coast Daily, I had arranged to meet up with one of the veterans in Istanbul to have a chat.

I went to his hotel reception and called his room. He kept telling me what the weather was like and what time of day it was ... facts that I clearly knew as I was in the same building. But he was very deaf and clearly had no idea who I was or where I was.

A very bemused hotel receptionist watched all this playing out and eventually let me go up to his room. When I got there it became apparent that he thought he's just been speaking to his daughter in Australia. So we chatted for a bit and as he was clearly exhausted I got up to leave. He asked me to tuck him in which I did and quietly left. God only knows what his room mate mate of all of this.

It was one of those priceless memories (as was our group getting escorted off the HMAS Melbourne some time early the next morning after drinking rum in the non-commissioned officers' mess). The things you do when you are young.

So off to Gallipoli which until this point was something I knew only from the history books and the rather excellent Peter Weir movie starring Mel Gibson and Mark Lee.

My memories of that day are a very mixed bag. I remember being incredibly saddened and disappointed by the behaviour of many drunk young tourists who saw this as an occasion to tick off like the Running of the Bulls and Oktoberfest. But it was impossible not to be overwhelmed by the spirit of the place and the sheer stupidity and futility of the mission.

I am no war strategist but seeing the scale of the cliffs and the protective tunnels and lookout posts constructed by the Turks at the top, those young Australian and New Zealand men were lambs to the slaughter.  I promised myself that day, that I would always attend ANZAC Day ceremonies in future. Today was just one more April 25 when I have broken that promise. But there were moments of quiet reflection and I did not forget. I will never forget