On a serious note, yesterday was Anzac Day in New Zealand, a day of remembering those who fought in wars, from the Second World War to Korea and Vietnam.
I was staying out in the country, and in the afternoon, we headed into town to take a look at the wreathes placed around the clocktower in the Square, where the official service had been held that morning. I'd noticed the seats being set up the day before, temporary grandstands, and had wondered what they were for.
Duh. The dawn service.
We read the cards and I was particularly struck with the wreathe from the Korean War veterans.
I'd been reading about Korea for some research the week earlier, and how for veterans it felt like the "forgotten" war.
In this recently-published history, there had been an interview with a man who had been just 17 when he'd been to Korea on a navy frigate. Seventeen!!
In this recently-published history, there had been an interview with a man who had been just 17 when he'd been to Korea on a navy frigate. Seventeen!!
Just a kid, and that was the problem. He was just a kid but he was fighting in a war, with all that came with it.
He recalled how when he came back to New Zealand near the end, it was as if he was indeed just a kid again. It was as if he'd never even left.
He recalled how when he came back to New Zealand near the end, it was as if he was indeed just a kid again. It was as if he'd never even left.
He couldn't vote, he recalled, he couldn't drink alcohol, he couldn't do anything.
And yet, he said, he had been in a war.
And yet, he said, he had been in a war.