When I was a child, the ceremony at the Sorell Memorial Hall on ANZAC Day was a grand affair. We’d throng around the flagpoles and statues by the hundred, finding what shelter we could from the autumn winds, as the band marched into position at the head of ranks of men adorned with medals, erect and stiff, everyone an ex-serviceman.
The voice of the Anglican minister provided a softened tone between the echoing ring of military voices and the roaring speeches carried on the wind. And the old hymns have stayed with me now for a life-time.
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