My Grandfather was one of the young diggers who sailed all the way around the world to fight in a war that was not his and for a cause that he soon realised was a joke. He was 16 on enlistment, 17 when he embarked, celebrated his 18th, 19th and 20th birthdays in the mud of France and Belgium. As a Pioneer, he saw the worst of it. First into an area, wait for the infantry and then move onto the next shit fight. He was a telegraph operator and sharpshooter, so was a fairly high priority target for the Germans.
His brothers both fought in the Light Horse, Percy from Gallipoli through to the Palestine uprising in 1919 and Edgar joined in 1917 when he was himself only 17.
Despite their involvement in the shit show, they never held it against the German people. They hated the British high command, not the Germans. Blamed them for their losses, and realised the lads on the other side probably felt the same about their commanders. In that spirit, therefore, they fought hard but without malice, and taught me that you could fight without hating your enemy.
What was most outrageous is that the King was the Kaiser's nephew, and whilst the men were dying in the trenches, they would have nice family gatherings.
I think that the stories of Aussies playing cricket with the Turks on the cliffs of Gallipoli and the Brits playing Soccer with your lads over Christmas, 1914, shows the lack of antipathy each side had for the other and is indicative of the fact that, if not for politics, we could have gotten along just fine with your mob.
I say a prayer for all those who fought, in both wars, on whatever side, every Anzac Day for the simple fact they were all doing as they thought was right, and doing it to their best ability.