Work Text:
25th April 2023
ANZAC Day
Washington DC
The Brig approached the podium to give the address at the ANZAC Day service in Washington DC. The sun was rising at her back and it seemed oddly appropriate. As a rule she didn’t much like giving speeches, she went to some effort to avoid them normally. But this was an exception, here she was again, talking about what it meant to be an ANZAC. Her main problem with this one was finding something different to say every other year. She alternated with her Kiwi counterpart. The current one was a Navy man, been in the post since August. He was a Commodore who had been reluctantly promoted off his ANZAC Class. He was about The Brig’s age and not quite comfortable in his post, having not lost his sea legs yet. He and Squid knew each other a bit. He was a good guy, The Brig liked him.
I was thinking the other day about what to say here. Every time I sit down to write this address, on the advice of my predecessor, I try to think of a different angle. I’ve done a few over the years and, it occurred to me somewhere between a draft about the classics: Gallipoli, Bersheba, Tubruk… Mateship, courage… all the things you find in the brochures. The address that’s been given a thousand times at a thousand things like this and will be given at a thousand more. I’ve never spoken in this setting about what being an ANZAC means to me. So, if you’ll permit me…
Being in the Army was the only thing I ever wanted to be. Most of the most important figures in my life were in the military and being an ANZAC was something I always felt drawn to. When I joined up in 1993 at nineteen years old I was amongst the first to do so as an openly queer person.
I carried on a proud family tradition of service in the ADF.
My great grandfather rode with the light horse in World War One and was present at the charge of Beersheba. His brother died at Gallipoli.
My grandfather and his brother both served in World War Two. My grandfather was killed in action while his Brother Max went on to serve in Korea and Vietnam.
My uncle Charlie served in Vietnam and retired a Major General about a decade ago. He recently came out of retirement to fill my post for a few months while I was temporarily assigned elsewhere.
He’s married to a Navy man.
Four of my cousins and my kid brother are also in the ADF, one in the Air Force, one in the Navy and three in the Army.
I also have a brother-in-law in the Army and a sister-in-law in the Navy.
Three of my niblings are in the ADF, one Army, one Navy and one RAAF.
And that doesn’t take into account the various strays we’ve managed to pick up along the way.
Suffice to say, I am the middle of an ANZAC legacy. One that, I’m proud to say, is in safe hands.
I don’t have to look any further than my own family and de facto family to see the very best that every branch of the Australian Defence Force has to offer. And yet I find them everywhere I go. In every corner of the world, in the darkest moments of the last century, The ANZACs are there to help. To roll up our sleeves and pitch in. We do the dirty work. And just sometimes, we get to do really cool stuff.
Entering the Army thirty years ago as an openly queer woman, I knew it wasn’t going to be easy. I had the great fortune of having grown up with several queer members of the ADF. Uncle Max, Charlie and his partner of my entire life, Grant. I had the privilege of knowing that there had been queer people in the military for at least the last three wars. Going in, I knew I wasn’t the first and going in I knew I owed it to those who came before me as well as those serving in other militaries that I had to stand up and be counted.
The first time I almost died in the Army, I was a Cadet.
There was an instructor, a Captain. He jumped me in the dark and almost killed me. He took exception to having a queer woman in the Army.
He was out of the Army in about as long as it took to do the paperwork.
I hadn’t been sure until that point that the idea I had of the Army, the impression I’d gotten from Charlie, Grant and Uncle Max and their friends was entirely accurate. But the care and support I got from the people around me. From my classmates, instructors, the investigators and my fellow officers and NCOs. Exemplified to me the mateship and ANZAC spirit they talk about in the brochures.
Those first ANZACs joined up for a bit of an adventure and I’ve certainly had that. I’ve met people I never would have met. I’ve done things I never thought I could do.
My wife looked at this and, she’s an academic, she said: well, you should bring it back to your main point. So, being that she’s better at this kind of thing than I’ll ever be. What does being an ANZAC mean to me? It means I’ve got your back and you’ve got mine.
When my nephew was little I was about to be deployed to a warzone. He was of an age where it was quite important for him to understand where I was going and what that involved t5o a point. It wasn’t long before I was due to leave so I sat him down and we had a talk. And I don’t think I've ever explained it better. He asked me to promise him that I would do everything I could to come home. And I said, I couldn’t promise him that because when I put on my uniform, it’s a promise to everyone I serve with and everyone that they love that I’m going to do everything I can to get them home safe but not to worry because everyone I serve with makes the same promise.