The silent sentinels have reappeared on a busy street in my neighbourhood as a sombre reminder of Anzac Day.
Since COVID began, and we were encouraged to commemorate the fallen from our driveways in the early dawn light, these figures have taken their position in the street.
There is a remembrance ceremony there on Anzac morning followed by a community get together.
I'm told everyone is invited but I've never been, preferring to stand quietly at home and listen to The Last Post in the distance.
Growing up, my Dad, who served in Papua New Guinea during World War II, never went to the marches, but he often watched the parade on TV.
He was a shy man and suffered from huge anxieties.
He always had to sit at the back of the hall, on the end of a row, for a speech night or a school play and yet he loved the company of his peers at the pub where they had their favourite corner and was a warm and generous host at home, although no doubt his anxieties were allayed by the relaxing salve of a drink.
Dad died more than 30 years ago but some papers we came across after his death revealed a man who suffered private terrors in the wake of the war.
I now suspect those wartime memories were too painful and the anxieties were too great to overcome in the company of former soldiers down at the RSL or watching a parade go by.
Yet he was a great supporter of the league and cheerfully enjoyed the hospitality of their clubs and dining rooms over the years.
I grew up in the '60s and '70s, when Alan Seymour's play, The One Day of the Year, was an English studies staple.
The play controversially lambasted the drinking culture and behaviour of returned servicemen on Anzac Day, and explored the intergenerational angst between father and son.
As students we pulled that play, and its themes, apart and looked at Anzac Day every which way. We could never completely resolve who was right — father or son?
Looking back, I think I misunderstood my Dad's reluctance to celebrate his war service and his pride at being a former serviceman — these two things were not mutually exclusive.
One night in the city we came across a military marching display and I commented to him it all seemed a rather silly exercise for grown men.
Oh, how I wished I could take it back.
Dad didn't say anything but I could see he was disappointed in me.
Back then I couldn't see the point of it, but now I understand that discipline, teamwork, rigour and repetition were all part of a vital routine that kept people alive on the battlefield.
I cringe when I think back on it; my only excuse was that I was young.
My feelings about Anzac Day have strengthened over the years. In the past I had the genuine privilege and honour of doing a series of interviews with some veterans as part of the ABC Anzac Day Parade coverage.
They suffered awful horrors in the war and yet survived to have useful, productive and joyful lives.
I have also been a roving reporter during the street parade in previous years and the pride in the families and well-wishers was palpable.
I couldn't help but be moved by the love and affection the crowd showed for the marching men and women. They were genuinely grateful and appreciated the efforts and sacrifices of those in the march and those who never returned.
During a holiday in France we took a day to visit the battlefield of the Somme.
We were overwhelmed by the thought of the horrific conditions that the soldiers must have endured and deeply saddened by the huge cemeteries that honour the dead.
And we were struck by the irony of bullet holes in those very memorials that showed that fighting returned to the area during World War II.
Driving past the dark roadside figures last week brought back a lot of memories and I found it deeply affecting.
I'm grateful to my neighbours who take the time to organise this local commemoration. It's a tribute to so much courage and bravery as well as suffering and broken lives.
I now know that Dad paid a much bigger price for his service than I ever realised and I wish I could tell him now how proud I am.
Lest we forget.
