THERE I was on Anzac Day, not knowing whether to be more excited about the soldier with the gun or the soldier with the bugle, the old guys with all the medals on their chests or the fact that the premier was coming home after the ceremony to eat Mum’s apple pie.

I was also a little bit nervous about having to get up in front of the gathering and read out the honour roll of those who, sadly, never came home from war.

But out of the whole shebang I was definitely most excited about the guys wearing all the medals across their chests and said to the man standing next to me, “Those blokes must have been brave: look at all the medals they got .”

The reply came quickly, but quietly, “Yes, everyone is brave who goes to war, some more so than others, but those medals they are wearing are campaign medals; everyone gets them.”

“Well, where’s yours then?” I asked. He went on to tell me that he did have some but preferred not to wear them, which ended the discussion. Of course, the Anzac Day I am talking about wasn’t last week but about midway through the ’60s in Eudlo and the man standing next to me was my father, who died in the mid-’80s.

I was thinking about all this last Wednesday at the dawn service at Caloundra and I realised that the last one I attended was with my father in the ’60s.

From the moment the veteran who was running the service started speaking I started crying, not because my father was lost at war and not because of those who were, or will be lost ... it was simply because I had stayed away for so long.

I had stayed away for that exact reason; I didn’t attend these things because it brings back memories of my father. You may well ask – why did I go this time?

It came about because the morning before, my wife, Sheila, and I were walking the dogs and the neighbour asked whether we were going to the dawn service.

I quickly explained that Sheila usually goes but I don’t because it upsets me too much, even though I should as both our deceased fathers were World War II veterans: Dad to New Guinea and Sheila’s father, George, was a British World War II veteran of Dunkirk, Egypt and Italy.

The neighbour went on to tell me how popular the day was getting; that the attendance numbers were increasing every year, particularly among young people.

He then pointed out to me that, sadly, these days there is more war around us, which probably explains the higher profile. As we left him and continued on our walk, we debated whether the reason for the bigger turn-outs these days, compared to when we were growing up, was really that World War I and II were remembered and talked about – more so than Korea and Vietnam.

And then after that, there was 20 years of what at least seemed to us as peace. Since then there has been many conflicts involving Australian troops.

This probably explains the increased significance to the already iconic day.

At that stage, I was starting to consider toughening up a bit and going along, but the real clincher came when we discussed our dads, who were both quiet, didn’t talk about the war unless really pushed, and were reluctant to wear their campaign medals.

It was then decided to take the two Old Boys along – or at least their campaign medals. So off we went with the medals, firmly hidden in our respective pockets.

Instead of having our hands on our heart, we had them in our pockets when The Last Post was played, and I must say even though tears streamed down our faces, it was a great occasion.

There is no glory in war. Sometimes it is caused by egos, sometimes by madmen and, occasionally, out of necessity. But for the people who are sent to war there is plenty of honour.

So to Sapper HL Robinson, of the 24th Royal Australian Engineers, and Company Sergeant Major GFJE Lawrence, of the British Army, and those who came before and after them, you have our ever-lasting respect as do the people who organised dawn services everywhere. Thank you.