They weren't professional soldiers, just farmers, labourers and ordinary blokes who had volunteered to join the army after the first World War began.

Eight months later, 36,000 of these young men were dead or wounded. One of these lads was a 20 year old brickie from Bowral - Fred Crisp.

A FEW YEARS AGO, Sam Goodfellow, who lives across the river from Fred's old house in Victoria Street, landed on the Gallipoli peninsula with a bunch of other Wollongong University history students.

Each student had been required to research an Australian soldier who died at Gallipoli, then present their findings to the group on that very spot where those 36,000 lads had been killed or wounded in 1915.

It was an emotional moment in their lives. Sam chose to research Fred Crisp, the 20-year-old brickie from Bowral.

I suspect a lot of tears were shed on that Gallipoli peninsula as each student told their story.

One thing I do know is that Sam now has a strong bond with his 'mate' Fred Crisp.

"The fact we were the same age and from the same district really hit me, standing there where he was killed on that lonely hill on the other side of the world," said Sam, who has attended an ANZAC Day dawn service ever since, as well as popping a poppy beside Fred's name at the war memorial whenever he is in Canberra.

This generation of 20-somethings really seem to have embraced the Anzac tradition, haven't they, with thousands paying their respects at Gallipoli and other war graves around the world each year. So nice to see.

NOW LET ME share a letter written by another 20 year old, not long after joining the army.

"Dear Mum and Dad, I am well. Hope you are too. Tell me big brothers Doug and Phil that the army is better than workin' on the farm, but tell 'em to get in bloody quick smart before the jobs are all gone!

I wuz a bit slow in settling down at first, because ya not allowed to get outta bed until 6am. But I like sleeping-in now, cuz all ya gotta do before brekky is make ya bed and shine ya boots and clean ya uniform. No bloody horses to get in, no calves to feed, no troughs to clean - nothin'! Ya gotta shower though, but it's not so bad, coz there's lotsa hot water and even a light to see what ya doing.

"At brekky ya get cereal, fruit and eggs but there's no kangaroo steaks or goanna stew like wot Mum makes. You get fed again at noon and by that time all the city boys are buggered because we've been on a route march - geez its only as far as walking to the windmill in the bull paddock.

"This one will kill you all with laughter. I keep getting medals for shootin' - dunno why. The bullseye is as big as a bloody dingo's arse and it don't move and it's not firing back at ya like the Johnsons did when our big scrubber bull got into their prize cows before the Taralga Show last year. All ya gotta do is make yourself comfortable and hit the target - it's a piece of piss. You don't even load your own cartridges, they comes in little boxes, and ya don't have to steady yourself against the rollbar of the roo shooting truck when you reload.

"Sometimes ya gotta wrestle with the city boys and I gotta be real careful coz they break easy. It's not like fighting with Doug and Phil and Slug and Tripod and Grub and Muzza all at once like we do at home after the muster.

"Turns out I'm not a bad boxer either. I've only been beaten by this one bloke - he's 6 foot 5 and 15 stone and three pick handles across the shoulders and as ya know I'm only 5 foot 7 and eight stone wringin' wet, but I fought him till the other blokes carried me off to the boozer.

"Yep, life in the army is alright, but you'd better tell the boys to get in quick before word gets around how bloody good it is. Your loving daughter, Sheila."

Lest we forget.