The forecourt stretched out, stark and orderly, with four weathered M2A2 howitzers standing in a commanding line facing Melbourne’s skyline. Behind them, the stairs to the Shrine loomed, a backdrop of solemn significance. The crowd had gathered at the top, a mixture of silent anticipation and scattered murmurs. Others lined the boundary perimeter, craning their necks and their camera phones for a better view of the ceremony about to unfold.
We were dressed in our pressed uniforms, brass adornments gleaming, and the iconic tilted slouch hats complete with the “Rising Sun”. The black belts and coloured lanyards contrasted sharply against our khaki “polys”, every detail a reflection of discipline and tradition. The M2A2s, relics of another era, stood as symbols of history and sacrifice.
The Battery Sergeant Major’s voice cut through the stillness, commanding us to form up. We stood at attention behind our guns. Then at precisely noon, Lieutenant Huang’s order to fire broke the silence. Gun number one roared into action. I caught the expended shell as smoke billowed out, the sharp scent of gunpowder filled the forecourt. Brass clattered against the steel breeches, the rhythm unbroken: fire, unload, reload. Each shot rippled through the ground like a disciplined cacophony of sound until all 21 rounds had echoed through the air.
By the final shot, the grounds of the Shrine were thick with smoke and reverence. Shoulder to shoulder with my comrades, the legacy of the Gunner spirit resonated. This was more than ceremony—it was a tribute to tradition, a timeless honour, and a bond with those who came before.
GNR A Laverty