Barnaby Joyce (New England, National Party, Minister for Agriculture) Share this | Hansard source

I believe it is best to give this speech in three parts: firstly, Anzac's meaning to me; secondly, how it is perceived and reflected in the people whom I have the honour to represent; and thirdly, my thoughts on the effect of Anzac Day on our nation. With this perception being merely through my eyes, I hope it is not seen as indulgent, but s there are so many views on Anzac Day, we do not need to be told how to see it, but rather to compile all our views so as to say how we see it.

I am happy with the investment our government has made to support this righteous memory. At the very least, to me it is the very minor act of getting out of bed for the dawn service in memory of those who got out of a boat at Anzac Cove to be shot at, then later to be shot at on the Western Front or to be shot at in Palestine or to be shot at later in the wars in North Africa, Europe, the Pacific, Vietnam, Korea and now in the Middle East—or to be shot at in the skies or to be shot at at sea. All I have to do is get out of bed for people who were and are offering their life.

My father's father was an Anzac, arriving on the first day and leaving on the last. He was awarded a Military OBE and a Distinguished Conduct Medal. He went from Gallipoli, where the memories he had would have been horrific, but the ones he conveyed home were of swimming in the sea, growing vegetable gardens near his guns and of good humour amongst his fellow soldiers. After Gallipoli for him it was off to the Western Front and then, later in a further war, off to the Pacific, where at one stage he was the Commander of the Royal Artillery. He was a person who had progressed from the bottom of the army to be the boss—through all the ranks.

My mother's father enlisted in the air force as a radio operator on the ground of the Western Front at the age of 16. I have a photo of him, and he looks 16. When he became dangerously ill with double pneumonia he was left for dead, but he was nursed back to life by a Catholic nun and then sent home. My father's mother had, I think, seven brothers who were all killed in the service of England. My mother's mother had brothers who served in Palestine. My father served but was repatriated after an accident before even getting on the boat to embark for the Italian peninsula towards the end of the Second World War in an accident which smashed his leg and changed his life. In respect for these people, I did my brief time in the Army Reserve.

I will not pretend that I know why they served. Was it patriotism, adventure, escape or maybe as unremarkable as a job? What is important is what these people became when they went from their shores to serve elsewhere—the mateship, bravery, resilience, injury, trauma and, tragically for some of the families involved, death.

In my grandfather's citation it is noted that during operations in April 1918, when a Warrant Officer Second Class in action at Messines, he carried out his duties under very difficult circumstances in a most capable and gallant manner. Owing to casualties among the officers, he was several times in charge of the wagon lines and always maintained the ammunition supply, often under heavy shell-fire. In operations at Bapaume during August and September on several occasions when the wagon lines were shelled, his courage and coolness largely helped to avoid serious loss. When the same person was employed as a farm labourer at Hampden in New Zealand prior to the First World War, I wonder if he anticipated this life ahead. I wonder if he would have had the capacity then to undertake action to the extremities of personal courage required. Or did this developed over time and under the pressure of war? I know he was never the same person after the war as he was before, and the horror of war had a permanent psychological effect, manifesting at certain times in screaming dreams and terrified careering around the house and to hide outside on the road. People knew it as 'the jumps'; it was the fear of getting buried alive by shell fire that stayed with him, amongst other terrors.

In New England local men joined the local battalion, the 33rd. A Company was drawn from Armidale and Tamworth; B Company from Walcha, Uralla, Barraba, Bingara and Manilla; C Company from Narrabri, Moree and Inverell; and D Company from Glen Innes, Guyra and Tenterfield. Two members of the battalion received the Victoria Cross, John Carroll and George Cartwright. The battalion received a total of 14 battle honours, which were bestowed upon it in 1927.

As an anecdote of the exceptional, we should consider the actions of John Carroll, VC. Between 7 and 12 June 1917 at St. Yves, Belgium, during the Battle of Messines, Private Carroll rushed the enemy's trench and bayoneted four of its occupants. He then noticed a comrade in difficulty and went to his assistance, killing another of the enemy. Next, he single-handedly attacked a machine gun team, killing three of them and capturing the gun. Later, two of his comrades were buried by a shell; in spite of heavy shelling and machine-gun fire, he managed to rescue them. It has been claimed that Carroll failed on three occasions to appear at Buckingham Palace for his Victoria Cross award ceremony and, when he did turn up on the fourth occasion, he took advantage of one of his entitlements as a VC recipient to call out the Palace Guard. Carroll was severely wounded at Passchendaele in October 1917. John Carroll died 4 October 1971, aged 80, in Perth, Western Australia. Carroll obviously did not act for personal adulation; he acted because of necessity, personality and mateship.

Another example of this to show that it was not unique was George Cartwright. On 9 December 1915—his 21st birthday—Cartwright enlisted in the Australian Imperial Force for service during the First World War. Allotted to the newly raised 33rd Battalion, Cartwright served with the 33rd through the Battle of Messines, where he was wounded in June 1917. Later, in April 1918, he was wounded again when the 33rd Battalion's position was attacked with gas while holding a position around Villers-Bretonneux. He was briefly hospitalised but returned to duty in June. In August, the Allies launched the Hundred Days Offensive around Amiens, which resulted in a series of advances as the Allies sought to break through the Hindenburg Line. On 31 August 1918, at Road Wood, south-west of Bouchavesnes, near Peronne, France, when two companies were held up by machine gun fire, Cartwright attacked the gun alone under intense fire. He shot three of the crew, and, having bombed the post, captured the gun and nine enemy soldiers. For his actions he was recommended for the Victoria Cross. On 30 September 1918 he was wounded and evacuated to England. Cartwright was conferred with his VC by George V, and, at the end of the war, Cartwright was repatriated to Australia, arriving in March 1919. George Cartwright died on 2 February 1978, aged 83, at Gordon, New South Wales. I wonder if those around him in Gordon understood who this old man in his eighties was, and what he was.

For its service, the 33rd Battalion received the following battle honours: Messines 1917, Ypres 1917, Polygon Wood, Broodseinde, Poelcappelle, Passchendaele, Somme 1918, Ancre 1918, Amiens, Albert 1918, Mont St Quentin, Hindenburg Line and St Quentin Canal 1916-18. Both my grandparents and the New England 33rd Battalion served at Messines—in a couple of miles of line on the other side of the world a formative experience that would flow down from that point forward along the generations.

In the smallest village and in the cities, pride and sadness was etched into war memorials. Where we place flowers, mothers shed tears. Where we wait for the Last Post, wives waited and waited and waited. Where we stand, children longed for lost fathers. To quiet houses the trauma came home. To careers the dent of terrifying experience changed all prospect of a normal life. Yet before they left to go overseas to serve they had swum in the same rivers we swam in, climbed the same hills and covered themselves against the frost of New England winters. They were not bred for some divine purpose peculiar to us; they were one of us. You do not need to be related to someone who has served to be connected.

Now on Anzac Day, on a quiet morning, a memorial brings together people at every stage in life in every position in society, in every form of good luck or bad. In the dark they are all as one, the darkness hiding the good shoes from the bad, the young from the old and allowing the purpose to focus, remember, pray, mourn and thank. We have and are proud to have an egalitarian ethos. So many reasons are given for it but Anzac Day epitomises it and might suggest a reason for it. The only thing they ask of us, those who paid the supreme sacrifice away at other wars and all who have sacrificed in the defence of our nation in so many other ways, is to remember. If we forget then the sacrifice was for what purpose? Lest we forget.

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