I woke early this morning.  Excited.  First time overseas for 25 April.  A chance to experience foreign gratitude for those brave Aussies (and a few New Zealanders) who tried valiantly to invade Turkey back in 1915.  Under the superb strategic guidance of Winnie Churchill, they chose to invade vertically rather than horizontally.  Clever.  

So here I am, in allied territory.  Tuscany actually, and the Italians were with us back in the First World War, and stayed the course in part due to ongoing payments of 100 pounds a week sterling (equal to about $7,000 a week in today’s money) made by Britain’s MI5 directly to Benito Mussolini in order that he bring his supporters along for the ride.  Italy’s support also owed much to a 1915 promise made by the British and French governments to support Italy’s claim over the Adriatic coast, that area controlled by Venice at the height of her powers centuries earlier.  Of course, come the end of the war and Britain and France could remember nothing of this promise.  The Italians were a bit put out by this, in fact there were claims, undoubtedly in Italian and thus unheard by the Brits, that this “was not Cricket.”  This got more than a few Italians sandpapering their balls, so to speak.  

The Italian poet Gabriele D’Annunzio was so pissed off that he and 2,000 mutineers occupied the Adriatic town of Fiume.  He then invented the Stiff Arm Salute, shaved his head, donned black uniform (similar to that worn by Border Force in Australia), spoke obsessively about sacrifice and martyrdom from his balcony, before retiring to his sexual partners of the day.  Benito Mussolini and Adolf Hitler took note.  

Any way back to Anzac Day in Allied territory, here I am with my father’s medals all polished, the smell of BRASSO everywhere.  Its 4.30am and I’m ready to join the march.  I drive around and find nothing, not a cracker.  Windows down I listen for the sound of brass bands, of bugles. Nothing. Deeply disappointed I head home, for latte and a lie down.  I pack Dad’s (replica) medals (blackening now) back in their blister pack.  

We have visitors coming today and decide to meet them at the nearby station, and to do a little co-op shopping beforehand.  There is almost no traffic on the narrow roads, and almost none in the towns.  We arrive at the Co-op, again there is no-one around.  The co-op is closed.  All the shops are closed.  We have an hour to fill in before the train comes.  We drive to the high town, the old town, to the square.  The car parks are full, the bars to the edge of the square are packed. 

Italian ANZACS with a feather in their caps.

People are well dressed, are happy.  There are many older people, and quite a few young ones too.  And some, just a few, a dressed in uniform.  Is this the celebration of ANZAC that we have been looking for.  We look, we ask, but no-one seems to understand ANZAC.  

We google.

It is Liberation Day, the day Italians celebrate the end of Fascism.  

I’ll try to get them to understand how much more appropriate it would be if they would just hand it over to Brendan Nelson and the Australian War Museum to organise a proper celebration of a proper victory.