The dawn service was sombre, dignified, and ghostly with the dawn and lights throwing a soft sheen over the gently breaking sea. A morning you would imagine the original Anzacs experienced only with starbursts of shell and rattle roar of machine gun. I [thought] of a quiet expectant death on a lapping shore.

Here men became … animals. [They] throttled, bashed, bayoneted … [It was a struggle] to survive and the Australian ceremony reflected it … [There was] a larrikin din of party homage … There are catcalls, laughter, talk. There's also [an] undeniable recognition of the torture and pain of this little acre. Those below the ground would rise to the sound and party with their great-grandchildren – and they're all young, all boisterous, all full of life.