Today we pause with awkward humility, free and confident heirs to a legacy of self-sacrifice in commitment to one another, our nation and the ideals of mankind.

The guns fell silent on this day, at this hour, eighty-eight years ago. No words can do justice to the lives of the 61,720 Australians who were then dead.

How do we bring meaning to 155,000 Australians wounded, returning as they did forever changed into the arms of families?

Much that is precious was left behind.

In the soils of Gallipoli, Passchendaele, Fromelles, Messines, Hamel, Pozieres, Mouquet Farm, Villers-Brettenoux, Bullecourt and so many other places remained mates, innocent youth and all that can be cherished.

We did not see them in battle, their courage, support of one another and irreverent humour. Nor did we sense their heroic fear.

In retreat at Moquet Farm, Captain Harry Murray, saw a bomb drop two men in front of him. One fell, assumed by Murray to be dead. But as he jumped over him, the man’s eyes opened. Murray later wrote,

“His leg was doubled and twisted, and although he did not speak, his eyes were eloquent. It was then I fought the hardest battle of my life, between an almost insane desire to continue running and save my own life, or to comply with the sacred traditions of the AIF. I often dread to think what I might have done. I was safe enough at the time, and all I had to do was keep on going; and despite that poor twisted leg, those mute lips, and pathetic eyes, it was only the mechanical habit engendered by strict discipline, that forced me to do what I did. I dropped to my shaking knees, caught him by the arms, and pulled him on to my back. He helped me like a hero with his one sound leg, and off we staggered with Fritz just coming into our bay.”

They forged national identity in values that are ours. Ones that make us who we are.

The nature and magnitude of their sacrifice, from a nation of barely 5 million people who twice rejected conscription, laid the foundation for belief in ourselves.

Our young nation emerged to take its more confident in place in the world.

No group of Australians has given more, nor worked harder to shape and define our identity than those who wore – and now wear – the uniform of the Australian soldier, sailor or airman.

It is easy from the safe distance of this century to settle for the abstract, the broad brushstrokes of history – to forget sacrifices made in our name.

Each of them had only one life – only one chance to use in it in a way that served the interests of others and the welfare of our nation.

All who wear Australia’s service uniform remind us that there are some truths by which we live that are worth fighting to defend.

We honour them by the way we use our lives and shape our nation.

Let us recommit ourselves to never place position above principle. None of us is “just a private”.

Their Australia – our Australia, will always judge values more important than value and our responsibility to one another will always transcend and define our rights.

In responding to an American DJ complimentary of her song, “Poster Girl” and Australian soldiers, Australian country music singer Beccy Cole said by e-mail only this week;

“My Australia is a country of fiercely loyal buggers who stand by their mates and who won’t back down from their beliefs.”

We now face distant horizons and new but no less ubiquitous or dangerous threats to that for which this nation has stood in its short history. We need these qualities more than ever.

To feel some connection with this place, with the Unknown Soldier and the names on these walls is to be fully Australian.

After the bloodbath that was Fromelles, Sergeant Simon Fraser spent three days bringing in the wounded.

Exhausted, a voice rose through the fog from no man’s land, “Don’t forget me, cobber.”

He didn’t. We won’t. We never will.

Lest we forget.