WE GATHERED in the dim light and, as always on Anzac Day, it was slightly cold. In the east, dawn broke slowly over the snow-capped mountains of the Hindu Kush and from the west, dust blew from the central Asian steppe.

A soldier high on the roof behind his machine gun watched vigilantly over the far horizon - a silent sentinel. Overhead the moan of a jet on patrol and the clatter of returning gunships broke the early morning silence, reminding us that we were in a war zone.

The lament of the Canadian piper playing Amazing Grace indicated that we should gather. Soldiers rubbed shoulders with generals, the way it is on Anzac Day, and the murmur of voices, Australian, British and American - allies all - stilled.

The soft accent of a New Zealand soldier reminded us of the bond we have on this day, and forever, with our cousins across the Tasman.

The SASR Roll of Honour was read - so many names - and the last - that of Sgt Andrew Russell who died not far from here, but far from home.

The Ode was read, as it was a thousand times this day across Australia. Lest We Forget.

Two minutes of silence followed. The Australian flag flapped gently in the breeze over a strange land. The gentle Scottish burr of the Chaplain bid us to go forth in peace - the soldier's ultimate goal.

There was hesitation at the end of the service as one Australian soldier turned to another and laughed, "Come on mate, let's get the two-up out and get some money off these Yanks!"

And so the thread that connects the past to the present continued - the chain that binds the diggers of Anzac to the diggers of Afghanistan was complete.

By an SASR soldier in Afghanistan