I grew up worshipping the idea of two brave men.
William Smith and Arthur Morris, my grandfathers, who left Dunedin to go to war.
When I was young, I imagined them in an open field, surrounded by Germans, firing their guns in a whirlwind of combat.
The reality was different, but both saw action in North Africa and Italy.
Bill served as an artilleryman at El Alamein and Monte Cassino, as did Arthur, a sapper and truck driver, who ran a gauntlet of incoming shells to supply troops at the front.
I was not old enough to truly appreciate Bill's service before he died, and I recall only one war story he was prepared to share.
He interrupted a family get-together suddenly one day, describing the American pilots who strafed his convoy and killed his friends as he ran into the desert to take cover.
``I lost a lot of cobbers that day,'' he concluded, as the room fell silent.
As I grew older, Arthur's service became more of a focus.
He, like many veterans, came home wanting only to forget war and get on with life.
He had no time for Anzac Day, refusing to attend for years, before eventually softening his stance later in life.
Eventually, I began my own Anzac Day tradition, by giving him a card each year with a simple message of thanks.
The cards continued until his death, aged 93 in 2012, and he still comes to mind every year, on April 25, as I wait for dawn at Dunedin's Queens Gardens.
But as the Last Post sounds and my thoughts turn to the horrors of war, to Bill's shocking story and Arthur's refusal to look back, I also find myself asking another question each Anzac Day.
What am I doing here?
It is a question asked in different ways by commentators contemplating the rise and rise of Anzac Day in recent years.
From its beginnings in 1916, to the record crowds of centenary celebrations two years ago, Anzac Day has changed.
But with the rising popularity has come questions about the message underpinning Anzac Day - about whether history's warning of war's futility is under attack from mythology.
And about whether the notion of a country born on the slopes of Gallipoli should ever challenge Waitangi Day as the basis for New Zealand's national day.
It is a concept that carries little weight for Tom Brooking, of the University of Otago, a specialist in New Zealand history.
The ``born on the bloody slopes of Gallipoli thing'' was a ``very questionable idea'', not least because soldiers refused to talk about the war once home, he argued.
``It was so horrendous, so awful, so tragic, that they just didn't have the language to pass on what it felt like.
``They wanted to forget it and move on.''
It was an experience that began on the beaches of Gallipoli, as thousands of New Zealand, Australian and Allied soldiers came ashore on April 25, 1915, to fight Ottoman forces for control of the Dardanelles.
The campaign eventually claimed nearly 8000 New Zealand casualties, including 2700 killed, from the 17,000 who fought.
But the survivors had more horrors to face on the Western Front, from the Somme and Messines to Passchendaele.
That did not stop Anzac Day commemorations beginning even before the guns fell silent.
The first services were held in 1916, and, by 1918, hundreds of veterans were marching along Dunedin's streets, under bunting and flags, watched by cheering crowds.
Wreaths, hymns and sombre services mixed with the comments of city mayor J. J. Clark, who praised ``New Zealand's proudest day'' at Gallipoli.
``By their chivalry and valour, by their devotion and duty, they had taught us the true nature of manly virtue and the spirit of unconquerable patriotism,'' he said.
But perhaps less well known is the ebb and flow of Anzac Day crowds over the decades since 1915. By the 1930s, the cheering had died down as the crowds dwindled, and it was not until the end of WW2 that interest rebounded, Prof Brooking said.
The pattern repeated from the late 1960s, as the Vietnam War fuelled an anti-war movement and crowds dropped again.
The low ebb continued into the 1990s, when a ``nationalist push'' by the prime minister, Helen Clark, helped promote the Anzac story as a key ingredient in New Zealand's identity, he said.
New documentaries telling Anzac's story, and more travelling Kiwis visiting overseas battlefields, also contributed, he said.
The result was a steady increase in Anzac Day crowds in Dunedin, from 900 people in 1997 to 5000 in 2003, 7500 in 2006, 10,000 in 2012 and up to 20,000 in 2015.
The changing of the guard also helped, as old soldiers faded away and were replaced by a younger generation of relatives.
Mr Kellas' earliest memories of Anzac Day were of old soldiers forming ranks on Moray Pl in the 1960s, but also the reluctance of many to talk about their experiences.
``It was such a shock to them that when they came back I think they felt if they told their story, nobody would believe them, so they tended to keep it among themselves.''
Mr Kellas' uncle was among those to remain silent after WW2, and it was not until after Vietnam that Mr Kellas understood ``the meaning of Anzac''.
He served as a radio operator for 161 Battery, an artillery unit attached to an Australian infantry company, and confronted Vietnam's horrors directly.
``I got very friendly with a couple of Aussie guys, and unfortunately they were cleaned up in a firefight.
``I suppose on Anzac Day I just pause to reflect on that event, that day, but I don't dwell on it. I just move on.''
For him, Anzac Day marked a ``defining moment'' in New Zealand history, but was a chance to pause and reflect with just ``a simple service''.
``I don't think we need to dwell. I just think we need to say `thanks very much'.
``You can use all the words, like sacrifice and bravery and courage and conviction, but at the end of the day, war's a bloody brutal game.''
Capt Fogarty's family links to conflict included two great uncles lost at Gallipoli - one of them, James Sheein, killed at Chunuk Bair.
His father, Tom, also served on HMNZS Achilles during WW2, and helped liberate Japanese prisoner of war camps outside Nagasaki and Hiroshima after both cities were devastated by atomic bombs.
He was also reluctant to speak about his experiences after the war, but he was not alone.
``That's the other tragedy, that so many of these soldiers who went home were seriously affected by what we now know was post-traumatic stress disorder.
``That was the reality of what these guys had suffered, and continued to suffer.''
Their collective silence saw many veterans turn inwards, preferring the company of other veterans, and alcohol, on Anzac Day.
``It wasn't something kids were invited to. Certainly wives weren't.
``The men would go to the RSA, or the pub, and swap stories and have a few beers - and in some cases quite a few beers.''
The change, beginning in the 1990s, saw Anzac Day become more inclusive and community-orientated, ``which is great to see'', he said.
But the scale of war's impact on New Zealand was still not adequately appreciated, he believed.
Capt Fogarty visited the Western Front's battlefields and war cemeteries while helping organise New Zealand commemorations in Europe, and the experience had a big impact on him.
The rows of white graves brought back memories of names etched on monuments in small towns across New Zealand, he said.
``Most of those guys are up here, buried.
``Thousands of New Zealanders who never came home . . . the impact on every town and little community would have been horrendous.''
It was a sacrifice that underscored the need to remember, even if some still doubted Anzac Day struck the right tone.
Richard Jackson, deputy director of the National Centre for Peace and Conflict Studies at the University of Otago, said some ``slightly disturbing'' myths were still promoted.
That included the notion New Zealand fought only ``good wars'', when the Gallipoli invasion was part of an ``Imperial war'', and a focus on tragedy that overlooked the political decisions that led to it, he said.
``That's the change that we've seen. Over the years it's become a lot more about national pride and national identity . . . rather than a real look at the nature and ugliness of war.''
Anzac Day turnouts reflected that rise in nationalism, and some services did not do enough to denounce war, he believed.
That made the ``Anzac myth'' harder to question, and meant it could be invoked again to justify the next war, he said.
For that reason, the centre organised its own Anzac Day ceremony, at the peace pole at the Otago Museum reserve, to promote its message.
``I think we honour the people who died in war best by ensuring that no-one ever has to suffer what they did again.''
Dunedin researcher George Davis, who wrote a paper on Anzac Day for his PhD, said the focus of commemorations had shifted over time.
New Zealand had generally adopted a ``softer tone'' to commemorations than Australia, but it had flirted with Anzac Day nationalism at times, he said.
That included the notion New Zealand's national identity was born at Gallipoli, he said.
``Quite frankly, it's rubbish,'' he said.
Anzac Day was important, but should recall the sacrifices by men and woman ``who lived in a different time'', he said.
``If they looked at things that happened at Anzac Day now, some of them would be aghast,'' Dr Davis said.
The commemorations were ``part and parcel of emerging national identity'', but appropriate to those who served, he believed.
``People wish to stand up and acknowledge `I'm a New Zealander','' he said.
There was ``nothing wrong'' with some nationalism, as long as the services also stressed the need to avoid repeating war's mistakes.
``We've been there, done that, and we don't want to go down there again.''
Prof Brooking said he became involved in organising events precisely to help ``stop it getting too macho'', and agreed the tone was appropriate.
``There's not a lot of glorification going on, and nor should there be.''
But though crowds remained strong, there appeared to be little appetite to elevate Anzac Day to the status of New Zealand's national day, those spoken to agreed.
Anzac Day was already a national public holiday, but one with a specific purpose not suited to commemorating the birth of a nation, Prof Brooking believed.
Waitangi Day might be ``fraught'', but it remained a ``truly foundational'' event in New Zealand history.
``I'm not sure Anzac Day is quite right. After all, it was someone else's war . . . whereas Waitangi Day is about us,'' Prof Brooking said.
Instead, Anzac Day appeared to offer an outlet as a new form of ``civic religion'', which used ceremony to offer a new sense ``of meaning and community and nationalism'', Prof Jackson said.
Mr Palenski believed the growing crowds also reflected a deepening understanding of New Zealand's war experiences, and a desire by a younger generation to step into their relatives' shoes.
``Knowing their fathers and grandfathers can't be there, they're there for them. It's their way of being in touch . . . it's just a feeling of closeness to what they did, I suppose.''
AND, like many others, it is an experience that keeps me coming back each Anzac Day.
As I stand in the dark, and the blast of a howitzer sends a shudder through the crowd, my thoughts return to Bill and Arthur.
I wonder why I pay silent tribute to these two men and their experiences of war, when their reasons for fighting are now forever theirs.
I can only imagine one answer - that as old men, they could look back and say they were part of something that counted, even if they suffered the consequences.
They, and thousands of others like them, confronted the full-blown horror of war. They survived, put their lives back together, and somehow managed to carry on. The least we can do is remember.
