Jim Haynes was born in Sydney, attended Sydney Boys’ High School and Sydney Teachers’ College and then went bush to teach in towns like Menindee, on the Darling River, and Inverell in northern New South Wales. In between stints ‘in the bush’ he spent several years working in Britain and also gained two master’s degrees in literature, from the University of New England and the University of Wales.
Throughout his teaching career, Jim was usually in a band or group as a singer. He started the Bandy Bill & Co Bush Band in 1977 and also worked in radio on 2NZ Inverell and the ABC’s popular Australia All Over program.
A major career change in 1988 saw him signed as a solo recording artist to Festival Records. Other record deals followed, along with hits like ‘Mow Ya Lawn’, ‘Since Cheryl Went Feral’ and ‘Don’t Call Wagga Wagga Wagga’.
Jim has written and compiled over twenty books and released many albums of his own songs, verse and humour. He still works as an entertainer and has a weekend Australiana segment on Radio 2UE’s long-running George and Paul show.
Jim lives at Moore Park in Sydney with his wife, Robyn.
ALSO BY JIM HAYNES
Australia’s Best Unknown Stories
The Best Australian Yarns
The Best Australian Bush Stories
The Best Australian Sea Stories
The Best Australian Trucking Stories
Best Australian Racing Stories
The Big Book of Verse for Aussie Kids (editor)
First published in 2015
Copyright © Jim Haynes 2015
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
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ISBN 978 1 76011 179 3
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Cover design: Julia Eim
Cover photo: A soldier pouring an early morning cup of tea on the beach at Anzac, AWM G00588; iStock
This book is for Angus, Brigid, Ella, Emma-Kate, Fionn, Marcus, Niamh, Penelope, Rhiannon, Samuel and Veronica . . .
Lest We Forget.
CONTENTS
Preface
The Twenty-fifth of April Roderic Quinn
RECRUITED
The Call Tom Skeyhill
Recruited at the Town Hall E.F. Hanman
Devil-May-Care J.W. Gordon
Bill’s religion William Baylebridge
Recruited Thomas Barkla
Sam and me ‘Steele Rudd’
All the way from Australia Jim Haynes
The battle of Canakkale—18 March 1915 Jim Haynes
THE LANDING
Red Gallipoli H.W. Cavill
Song of the Dardanelles Henry Lawson
Birdwood Jim Haynes
The first day William Birdwood
Sam and me—Postscript ‘Steele Rudd’
DIGGING IN
Making headway Joseph Beeston
A nurse’s story Various
The Red Cross Nurse Tom Skeyhill
The Anzac wounded Anonymous
The best tribute Jim Haynes
Anzacs Edgar Wallace
The Light Horse waits Oliver Hogue
Ownerless John O’Brien
THE MAY OFFENSIVE
The battle of Quinn’s Post E.C. Buley
An engagement in May—Part 1 E.F. Hanman
Von Sanders’ mistake E.C. Buley
An engagement in May—Part 2 E.F. Hanman
Sari Bahr Frederick Loch
Eight acres of dead bodies E.C. Buley
Trooper Bluegum Jim Haynes
May 19th Oliver Hogue
The Holding of the Line Tom Skeyhill
TRUCE
A flag of truce Frederick Loch
Peaceable-looking men Joseph Beeston
May 24th Oliver Hogue
Amen Frederick Loch
GLIMPSES OF ANZAC
My Little Wet Home in the Trench Tom Skeyhill
Joseph Beeston Jim Haynes
Ambulance work Joseph Beeston
Shrapnel Tom Skeyhill
An interesting character Jim Haynes
Snipers and sappers E.F. Hanman
Shrapnel Avenue Joseph Beeston
When ‘Beachy’ Puts One Over Lance Corporal King
The Anzac line H.W. Dinning
My Cosy Little Dugout on the Hill Corporal G.L. Smith
Sidelights of battle Anonymous, The Sun, Sydney
The Ragtime Army Anonymous
Not dead yet Joseph Beeston
Lament Lance Corporal Saxon
‘Praise God from Whom all blessings flow’ Joseph Beeston
Arcadia H.E. Shell
THE AUGUST OFFENSIVE
Lone Pine William Baylebridge
The glorious charge Oliver Hogue
Fallen Comrades Anonymous
The 3rd Battalion’s rum H.W. Cavill
Thoughts of Home Rowley Clark
The second nurse’s story Various
A Little Sprig of Wattle A.H. Scott
The mighty New Zealanders E.C. Buley
The Anzac V.C.s Oliver Hogue
‘We’re All Australians Now’ A.B. ‘Banjo’ Paterson
THE FINAL PHASE
Anzac Alphabet ‘IFSH’
Winter arrives H.W. Dinning
On Post ‘Tambour 8’
Frostbite Oliver Hogue
Song of a Sock Anonymous
The greatest privilege Jim Haynes
The Australian, ‘The Bravest Thing God Ever Made’ Will Ogilvie
Evacuation Oliver Hogue
When We Return E.P. McCarthy
A silent getaway Oliver Hogue
Last to Leave W. Gamble
Anzac ‘Argent’
THE AFTERMATH
The Letters of the Dead Edward Dyson
At Randwick Hospital Anonymous, The Sun, Sydney
Killed in Action Harry McCann
A strange bond Jim Haynes
The Soul of the Anzac Roderic Quinn
The enigmatic Mr Blocksidge Jim Haynes
A dream of Anzac William Baylebridge
Leon Gellert Jim Haynes
Anzac Cove Leon Gellert
Our sons as well Jim Haynes
Dur Yolcu Necmettin Halil Onan
Traveller, Halt (Dur Yolcu) Translated by Jim Haynes
Turkey—An abbreviated history Jim Haynes
Some notes on authors
Bibliography
Acknowledgements
PREFACE
This book is a collection of stories and verse, which tell the ‘story’ of the Gallipoli campaign, with the events in chronological order, for the layman, or any Australian who has ever wondered what happened at Gallipoli, what it was like and why it is so important to all Aussies.
Included are some firs
t-hand accounts of the experiences of the Anzacs at Gallipoli. Some of them were written soon after the events they describe, while others were written later, in hindsight. All of these accounts were written as ‘stories’ rather than diaries or military reports.
Other stories and verses chronicle the impact of the conflict on those waiting at home and the reactions of writers and journalists to the whole affair once they had met with, and spoken to, the survivors of the campaign.
This collection is not an attempt to give the military history of the Gallipoli campaign or to analyse it tactically. There is, however, a brief background to the campaign, which hopefully puts it into historical and geographical context.
The bulk of the stories and accounts of the campaign collected together here have long been unavailable to the general reader. Some have never been published before and some have been out of print since the 1920s.
I have arranged the writings in chronological order to produce what I feel is a coherent and readable collection. I tried to collect together varied and disparate stories and verses that convey the feelings and emotional impact of the campaign, and help us to understand why the whole Anzac experience has become so iconic and special in our Australian culture.
The first section deals with enlistment and reactions to the news of the outbreak of war. The second section deals with the actual invasion of the peninsula and events on 25 April 1915, and the third with the repercussions of the invasion.
The Ottoman counter-attacks in May have a section of their own, as do the truce, and the Allied offensive of August.
There is a section containing observations and reflections on the campaign and everyday life at Anzac, and another which covers the winter stalemate and evacuation. The final section contains stories and accounts dealing with the aftermath of the whole experience, both at the time and up to the present.
Feelings of nationhood and self-sacrifice abound in these stories and the essential thematic element is the unique Aussie character and attitude displayed in the stoic, incredibly brave and good-humoured actions and attitudes of these amazing men.
Jim Haynes
April 2015
THE TWENTY-FIFTH OF APRIL
RODERIC QUINN
Written at the end of World War I
This day is Anzac Day!
Made sacred by the memory
Of those who fought and died, and fought and live,
And gave the best that men may give
For love of Land. It dawns once more,
And, though on alien sea and shore
The guns are silent all,
Yet with pride we recall
The deeds which gave immortality.
Great deeds are deathless things!
And doer dies, but not the deed,
And, when upon that fateful April day
Our Anzacs, throwing all but love away,
Gave life and limb for Honour’s sake,
With Freedom tremblingly at stake
They lit a beacon-light
Imperishable, bright,
That evermore the Nation’s soul shall heed.
Not Peace, not Peace alone
Can make a nation great and good
And bring it that full statute, strength, and grace
That fit it for an age-enduring place
In men’s regard. Through storm and strife
It runs to sweet and noble life;
For through its veins there runs
Who died to give it stately nationhood.
This day is Anzac Day!
Made sacred by the thrilling thought
Of those who proved their souls, it reappears;
And thus ’twill dawn, and dawn through future years
Till Time our petty deeds efface,
And others, dwelling in our place,
Tell o’er, with tongue and pen,
The glorious tale again
Of how on beach and crags the Anzacs fought.
What the papers said on Wednesday 5 August 1914:
Britain yesterday declared war on Germany and Australia has naturally declared it will join the mother country in defending her shores. Nationalist sentiment is running high with wild enthusiasm and patriotic songs taken up by crowds in the streets.
Down Victoria Parade this mob of 300 larrikins attacked the German Club. They set fire to a piece of rag they proclaimed to be the German flag and yelled abuse until finally the police came and dispersed them.
Prime Minister Mr Joseph Cook pledged to place Australian vessels under the control of the admiralty and offered an expeditionary force of 20,000 men. He said, ‘If the Armageddon is to come, then you and I shall be in it . . . if the old country is at war, so are we.’
The leader of the opposition, Mr Andrew Fisher, said on Friday that if war were unavoidable, Australia would defend Britain ‘to our last man and our last shilling’.
King George V cabled the people of Australia tonight expressing his appreciation and pride following the dominion’s desire to help.
THE CALL
TOM SKEYHILL
Young and old, brave and bold, hark to the clarion call.
Over the rolling seas it comes,
With threat of death and muffled drums,
From fields afar, where shrapnel numbs,
War, War, War!
Big and small, short and tall, hark to the clarion call.
Stay not where the crowd hurrahs,
Speed ye straight to the fields of Mars,
Where red blood flows beneath the stars,
War, War, War!
Mother rare, sweetheart fair, hark to the clarion call.
Slain out there is the peaceful dove,
Rent and torn the heavens above,
Give to the flag the men you love,
War, War, War!
RECRUITED AT THE TOWN HALL
E.F. HANMAN
Eric Hanman (known as ‘Haystack’ due to his size) fought as a private and landed on 25 April. His writing style is boisterous, energetic and almost childlike at times, yet his grasp of the language and ability to communicate via the written word says a lot for the education system of the day.
His book Twelve Months with the ‘Anzacs’ was published in Brisbane in 1916 and included advertisements for products like Nestlé condensed milk. A plea for men to enlist and ‘make a sacrifice in the most righteous cause man has ever known’ was placed next to an advertisement for Cannon and Cripps Undertakers!
***
Men lined up outside the recruitment office because our existence was threatened; because we were in danger, our homes, our wives, our children; because England needed us, because we were Britishers, and stood as one. ’Twas enough, ’twas the Call, the call to arms.
But it was at Lismore that the writer found himself on 18 September 1914. Having no home, no friends, no relations, what did it matter where he was? Nothing.
The town itself seemed deserted, save for a few rumbling, grumbling farmers’ carts, groaning on their way to some distant little homestead in the bush.
Strolling down one of the sleepy, lazy-looking streets, he suddenly found himself one of a crowd, intent upon the same purpose—that of taking the oath to serve their ‘King and Country till the termination of the War and four months after’.
In front of the recruiting hall was a quite respectable crowd consisting of nearly every class and profession. One could easily distinguish the lawyer, the bank clerk, the draper, and the labourer—mostly big, strapping fellows who looked as though they had every chance of becoming food for powder and shot.
In every face could be seen anxiety—anxiety that the owner was suffering from some complaint of which he was unaware—fearful lest he be found unfit. When a chap knows he is to be examined by a medical man, he becomes afraid, he imagines he has a weak heart, lung trouble, or any other of the too numerous diseases which afflict mankind. Assure him as fervently as you like to the contrary, and
his brain will run to imaginary complaints until he does feel quite ill. Waiting for the doctor is nearly as bad as awaiting the word of command for a bayonet charge.
Thus every man is sizing up his neighbour and weighing him in the balance when the doctor puts in an appearance. What a relief! What are these chaps with such smart uniforms, such a magnificent martial bearing and such pretty little bits of red and gold spotted on their hats, shoulders, and sleeves? Surely they are Captains; but no, by their voice, and pompous manner, they must surely be no less than Generals! Wait, worried recruit. When you have been in the Army one little week, you will know, only too well, that they are after all only Sergeant Majors on the Instructional Staff.
‘’Tion, ’tion, ’tion! Look here, you chumps, fall in, fall in, we can’t wait here all day, stand over there. No, come over here—that’s right, no—damn it—that’s wrong. Ah! now fall in.’
Some of us were beginning to think that we had fallen in right enough, but not in the way the drill instructor meant.
Then came the order to strip. What a funny sight!
The doors of the hall were wide open, and a rather fresh breeze blowing in, and there stand or sit in every self-conscious attitude about fifty fellows, all wondering what Adam did in cold weather!
One by one we were called to face the doctor, and it is not exaggeration to state that these same fellows were more frightened then than they were on that never-to-be-forgotten dawn of 25 April 1915.
At last the writer’s own turn came. He hopped, jumped, stepped sideways, backwards, forwards, touched toes, waved his arms madly about, so much so that if a stranger appeared he would imagine he was beholding a Salome dance or a rehearsal for a ‘corroboree’. He was tapped here, punched there, asked to cough—though that request is superfluous, because if by now you are not coughing, you ought to be. Twiddle round on your heels—very good—the recruit is brought to his senses by ‘Halt, about turn’.
You walk forth a soldier whose battles have already commenced, for ten to one someone has admired the pattern of your shirt, and shown a preference for your socks.
DEVIL-MAY-CARE
J.W. GORDON (JIM GRAHAME)