On Anzac Day I turned the yellowing pages of an old edition of the Weekly Times. The newspaper was close to twenty years old – April 18^th 1990. On the front page beamed the face of a man far older in years than the newspaper had shown its papery face to the world. It was the face of an old man, a very old man. It was my Uncle Matt – my Great Uncle Matthew Maynes. He was 91 at the time, a year before his death. But age did not weary him – not Uncle Matt. He had a cheeky grin on his face – as always.

 These days the Anzac legend is just that – a legend. There are no Gallipoli veterans left. It’s been almost a hundred years since the young men braved the beaches of Anzac Cove. It is incongruous for me to think of Uncle Matt as an Anzac Legend. I just remember him as a merry old man that loved horses and loved a laugh and a joke. But there he is: Anzac Legend, Australian Light Horseman, Gallipoli survivor. His eyes had seen the sullen beach at Gallipoli; the cavalry charge of Beersheba; the exotic worlds of Sinai, Palestine and Cairo. His eyes had seen too much, especially for a boy of 17.

 Of course he had lied about his age when he joined up. He was 16 – said he was 18. His mother, my great grandmother, had refused to sign the papers for him to legitimately join the Light Horse Regiment. His brother, newly arrived back from the Dardanelles, had warned him that war was hell and not heroic. But he was 16, and he wanted to go to war. Yep, that’s Uncle Matt. So he told the Victorian 8^th Light Horse AIF he was 18, and went to see the world. In mid May, 1915, he saw Gallipoli, and waded through inky water to Anzac Cove, braving rifle fire all the way.

 I can’t speak for Uncle Matt, but I suspect that the hardest time of all those hard times for him –and most Light Horsemen -was the day they left their horses behind at Tripoli. Those brave horses, who had faced artillery and machine gun fire – the redoubtable Australian Walers – could not return to Australia. Around 200 were destroyed at a quarry in Tripoli at the end of the war.  It would be nice if a monument could be dedicated to them. They are also the heroes of Anzac.

 The year after Uncle Matt died, my father (pictured in the photo) marched in the big Anzac Parade in Melbourne. As far as I know, my dad had never marched in the parade before and has never since. A naval lieutenant on HMAS Westralia during World War Two, my dad seldom talks about the war despite my curious prodding and questions. I do know that he marched in the parade to honour Uncle Matt’s memory, though he never said as much.

 For Uncle Matt was more than an Anzac Legend. He was a loving man that helped everyone he met throughout his long life. And when my dad marched on that Anzac Day I’m sure he was not thinking of Gallipoli or the glory of the Light Horse regiments, but of Uncle Matt the man – not the legend. He was thinking of that long life of helping others, of Uncle Matt’s indomitable spirit and of the life force that forever bubbled through that happy man.