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Major-General
J. M. Antill
C.B., C.M.G.
(A Daughter’s Tribute to
Her Father)
“He was a born soldier.”
So endeth a magnificent summary of this soldier’s career!
But what of the man! He cared so little for praise or blame. Whose wish was to be wrapped in his old Gallipoli top-coat; no pomp of funeral rites. . .
The simplicity of his great mind showed his finding contentment in his garden, his dogs, his birds, his books. He was a voracious reader with an almost uncanny remembrance of what he had read.
Sometimes, during the long winter evenings, in front of a huge log fire, with the dogs “Sandy” and “Tony” sharing the warmth and companionship, we would discuss books and recondite problems rather than people.
I never heard him “gossip.” But he would recount with vivid detail memories of his boyhood days, his mother!
And then, too, his soldier days!
Sometimes I would catch a wistful tone in his words, and a stifled sob would come to my throat. “A big lonely man” I would think. But the next moment we would be laughing together, And he playing with the dogs and me!
“Keep your chin up! Have no regrets. Life’s made of disappointments. There are compensations. Come, I’ll show you one.” This one day when we were in our garden. He pointed to the roses – great clusters of trellised beauty. “And we’ll have another look at the tomatoes!” His garden. He had made an apparently arid waste into a thing of beauty.
A hobby of his was his lathe and lots of hammers and nails, and chisels, and other tools that I could not remember the names of. It was a recreation of his for rainy days.
His great recreation in these, his last years, was bowls - but he never missed a good cricket match. But then came a day when he felt “too tired” for bowls. It was then we started to write - just fragmentary pieces - mostly.
The Courage That Lay Behind
It was his last Anzac march three years ago. He dropped out of it. He met me. “Take me home! I am very tired,” he said. Then he knew. And so did I, that he had to fight the last and greatest battle of his career.
No bowls, no digging in the garden, sometimes at his lathe. Still a daily walk with the dogs - and his daughter. These days he would say, “Don’t leave me - I am grown an old man now!”
“You’ll never be old! Why, you are as straight as a die! Keep your chin up!” And he would laugh.
Then came that fateful day a few months later. A Macquarie Street verdict shattered the happiness of both lives. No, not the bald statement from the man. Maybe an operation later. “Come,” said I, who knew his dislike of emotion, “let’s look at the Archibald Memorial.” :. We strolled on rather aimlessly.
In the end we passed through the padded doors of that great edifice, St. Mary’s Basilica. Deep silence that seemed eternal. I guided father’s footsteps to that bronze masterpiece of Lambert’s - The Soldier!
Hand in hand we stood, but I dropped to my knees.
Suddenly I felt a hot tear drop on my hand, and another. I tightened my grip on his hand and looked up. He was standing erect - this great soldier - this greater man. Not afraid of paying a tribute. . .
He helped me to my feet - this time guiding my stumbling footsteps.
We fought it together and life went on much as usual for over a year.
Another Anzac Day. We joined in the service, this time over the wireless - at home. And the garden was ablaze with dahlias.
Anzac Day, 1936. - I pinned his medals on his breast for the first and last time. We overlooked the procession from a hospital balcony. We were silent. He came home after that – and he said he was happy. It was for only a month or so.
Then came a longer illness in hospital - with alternate hope and despair. His high courage was wonderful.
Conscious to the last, he passed to the Great Beyond, without a reproach, without a murmur.
March 1, 1937, - It was a room in a nursing home. The scent of the roses hung round it. To me it was some dim memory of a day in church, only I was in the presence of something greater now. A divinely sculptured masterpiece fashioned by the Master. So still, so beautiful.
Nobleness, understanding and infinite peace were depicted on that beloved face.
Stooping, I kissed his lips.
[author unstated (daughter)]. Major-General J. M. Antill C.B., C.M.G. A Daughter's Tribute to Her Father, in Reveille 1 Jun 1937, p 20.