9.35 pm Friday 25 April 2025 – Rebirth Day 6 Day 6 of my rebirth is a day for remembering. It is Anzac Day, the day when Australia remembers those who sacrificed themselves to create a better future for all of us. I marched in the Albury Anzac Day march and for the first time ever, my thoughts are not continuously with Margaret. I wear replica medals of those I specifically want to remember. I am at the back of the march with my granddaughter, for we have not fought in any wars. I am the descendent of a hero and the father of a hero. I am the nephew of three uncles who were heroes. Dad joined the Royal Air force in 1949 after the British Army refused to permit him to join up as a soldier in the war against Hitler. Dad was a skilled tradesman and the government decided that tradesmen were not allowed to become soldiers. The Royal Air Force did not officially permit dad to become a combatant either, but it desperately needed tradesmen so it allowed dad to join up. Dad’s main job was to make sure that the planes in Bomber Command were able to fly despite all of the holes in them from German artillery. Sometimes he had to hose the blood of his colleagues out of the planes before he could repair them. Dad’s duties were not confined to what the RAF called ground crew. By late 1943, 25% of all those who took part in a Bomber Command mission against Germany, never made it home. Many of them were dad’s friends. They were not simply statistics in an accounting spreadsheet. In 1943, Dad's Bomber Command unit asked for ground crew members to volunteer to serve as aircrew as well as ground crew. Dad responded to this act of self cannibalism by Bomber Command - if the people who repaired the planes never returned from a mission, there would eventually be no one left to repair the planes at all – by volunteering to be trained as an air crew member. So, dad flew in the planes that he had to repair. And somehow, dad survived the war, and received three different service medals. Dad was a hero and he told me nothing. When WW 2 started, uncle Bill was a barber in Liverpool. He too joined the Royal Air Force and helped man the giant ballons that were hung over Bermingham to make it harder for the Nazis to murder the people of England. Uncle Bill also earned his medals. Uncle Bill was also a hero and he too told me nothing. Mind you, he stayed in England while we went to the far side of the Moon – a place called Australia. That made it hard for uncle Bill to tell me anything. Uncle Eric was a child when the Nazis tried to destroy Liverpool in the Liverpool Blitz. Liverpool was the major port giving entry to the supplies that kept the United Kingdom alive – so the Nazis desperately wanted to flatten it. As well as enduring the constant bombing, Eric was a messenger while still a boy. His job was to deliver messages from first responders trying to deal with the results of the Nazi bombs. The first responders were desperately trying to save the lives of those whose home had been flattened by the Nazis. By running through the rubble, to deliver the messages, uncle Eric saved many lives. When he was older, Eric served on the ship SS Uganda in the Falklands War. The Uganda was a hospital ship and Eric tended to the wounded in hat war. Eric was a hero and although he told me some things, he told me only what he felt able to tell me. Eric earned his medals. Uncle Stan’s story is probably the saddest of the stories of the services given by my family to help make this world a better place. Uncle Stan was only 17 years old when he was a merchant seaman on the Rangitane. The Rangitane was sunk by the Germans and somehow, Stan survived when others died. Stan turned 18 while he was a prisoner of war on board the German ship that had destroyed his own ship. Stan was made to sign a piece of paper saying he would never engage in military activity against Germany and he was released onto the island of Emirau, now part of Papua New Guinea. After getting home to Liverpool on a ship called the Ceramic, Stan served on the ships in the Arctic convoys taking supplies to Russia. One of the Arctic convoys was particularly notorious. It was given the number PQ 17. When it left port for Russia, there were 35 ships in PQ 17. Out of the 35 ships, 23 were sunk by the Nazis and 153 merchant seamen killed. Of the British ships in PQ 17, only 2 survived and one of the two was Empire Tide. Uncle Stan was serving on the Empire Tide. Uncle Stan was a hero who told me nothing. I met Stan twice when his ships came to Melbourne. Uncle Stan earned his medals but he could never forget what he had seen. Stan drowned himself in booze but the memories never left him. He died in despair. I lost Margaret to cancer. I am not a hero, but I have a chance that dad and his brothers never had. By marching on Anzac Day, I was able to honour my son who served with the Australian Army in Iraq. I can help my son’s rebirth and I can strengthen my own rebirth. By marching on Anzac Day, I was able to show my granddaughter that her father is a hero and that he earned his medals. My son cannot really tell me his stories either. Rebirth is hard but we must all try and do it. Death should never be seen as final Death is only the doorway to rebirth and new hope. We must never forget that the world is full of heroes. Everyone who reads this blog is a hero. God bless you. | 
