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Beyond Gallipoli: New Perspectives on Anzac

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Chapter 7

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THE ‘ENEMY’ AT GALLIPOLI

Perceptions of the Adversary in Turkish, Australian and New Zealand Literatures

A. Candan Kirişci

One of the many ironies associated with the Gallipoli campaign is that it included parties that would otherwise have been least likely to have any contact with one another. Contrary to their initial expectations, the colonial troops from Australia and New Zealand found themselves not at the Western Front, but struggling instead to get a foothold on the steep hills of a little known peninsula. The defence force against them consisted mainly of Ottoman troops, a predominantly Turkish force. The infamous Hun, the adversary they had been taught to hate and trained to kill, did not have much visibility in the affair.1 Likewise, the Ottomans also had to face an enemy thus far unknown to them. The term Anzac would in time acquire new meanings for the Turkish side, and mostly a positive connotation after the transition from the Ottoman state into modern Turkey.

This chapter will look at how this unexpected adversary was reflected in the literatures of Turkey, Australia and New Zealand. The body of literary works published on the topic of Gallipoli constitutes today a sizeable volume, especially in the first two countries if not so much in New Zealand. The discussion below will mostly concern itself with the period that roughly covers the first fifty years of production, from 1915 to 1965. It will primarily dwell on some of the best known examples from these literatures without making any particular distinction with regard to the genres. Not all of these texts can be considered as having high literary qualities; some stand out by virtue of their place in popular memory rather than the canon. They are important, however, in that they still communicate certain patterns of thought and style with regard to the subject at hand, the perception of the enemy.

Gallipoli as a turning point in Turkish imagination

One of the best ways to understand the significance of Gallipoli in Turkish imagination would be to consider its timing. The battles were fought by the army of the Ottoman Empire which had entered the First World War on the side of the Central Powers. The country had long been struggling to reverse the military and economic decline that had weakened its former power. External threats were a major source of concern for its administrators, who also had to contain the rising trend of secessionism within the various ethnic communities under Ottoman rule. Shortly before the First World War, in 1912, the army had suffered a humiliating defeat in the Balkans where an important chunk of European territory was lost, triggering a series of social and economic problems that further destabilised the system. On the other hand, the experience marked a turning point for the strengthening of a Turkish national identity,2 a trend also reinforced by the literature that followed from the war. But the success at Gallipoli would prove a more effective theme in that regard.

When the Ottomans joined the war it was a well known possibility that the Dardanelles would face an Allied attack. The initial round of bombardment in February 1915 was a sure warning for the military to step up the defence. Also, contingency plans were made to move the sultanate away from Istanbul in the eventuality of the Ottoman capital coming under occupation.3 The major offensive of the Allied navy on 18 March 1915 was, therefore, not unanticipated; if anything, it was much feared. To the great relief and delight of the Ottomans, the day of battle ended to their advantage, making it impossible for the British and French warships to force their way into the straits. The halt to the attempt was temporary, but it was enough to trigger a wave of patriotic literature which would continue until the end of the war, though with varying intensity. The dailies and periodicals of the time were the primary venue for this output, which mostly took poetic form. It should be underlined that these were publications that had to operate within the restrictions imposed by the war administration, and some enjoyed direct support by the War Ministry.4 The link between propagandist pressures and the poetic medium was obvious, and the content and style of the literary output from the campaign would greatly be shaped by this phenomenon.5

This literature was mostly a celebration of the hero. He was invariably depicted as a man of courage, devotion and virtue and rewarded with the most lavish praises. His picture rarely emerged in isolation however, since a typical feature of these works was to place him in direct opposition to his adversary. The term ‘enemy’ contained a temporality that extended to a bygone era of glory. Reminiscing about old conquests quickly became a cliché, often foregrounding Europe in the image of a monolithic, eternal foe. The upper hand recently gained at the Dardanelles heralded a return to those days; as expressed repeatedly, this latest victory would ‘erase the stain of the Balkan defeat’. After all, this was a defence put up by the sons of warriors that had ‘roared’ in Europe for five centuries.6 The indignation was made most clear in imagery that projected a picture of the opponent as a horde of ‘infidels’, ‘pirates’, ‘savages’ and ‘monsters’.7 And the defender of the homeland was more of a hero because he fought against this most despicable enemy. In a way, he was exalted as much by way of this stark negation as the words of commendation lavishly heaped upon him.

The source for this initial outburst included a wide range from poetically inclined patriots to renowned poets. The emphasis on the enemy differed little, however. The same indignant, antagonistic tone ran through the whole output and similar imagery contributed to the effect. In the words of Mehmet Emin [Yurdakul]8, the prominent advocate of Turkish nationalism, the threat to the fatherland came from the ‘white, black, red and yellow savages from five different worlds’. The poet did not specify these ‘five worlds’, instead elaborated on the enemy from a historical perspective. Russia, for instance, had extended its ‘ferocious claws’ into the Turkish land before; also the defeat at the Balkans had been the work of ‘bloodsucking, rabies inflicted savages.’9 As for the men at defence, Mehmet Emin, ever the nationalist-patriot, was quick to promote them as the best representatives of a race endowed with superior qualities. The famous lines of Mehmet Akif [Ersoy] who hailed from the other end of the ideological spectrum revealed different sensitivities. For this widely respected poet who favored Islamic unity at the expense of ethnic identity, Gallipoli was ‘the last stronghold of Islam’ and the heroes were ‘the magnificent sons’ of the Mohammedan army.10 The enemy threatening it, however, came across with familiar emphasis: ‘a pack of hyenas, running wild and away from their cage’.11

The composite nature of the Allied army escaped no poet’s attention. This was sometimes expressed by spelling out the names of the big powers; fingers were pointed at the British and the French as the perpetrators of an unjust war. Their reliance on colonial troops was known to some of these poets but rarely figured in early examples.12 The multinational character of the offence force was mostly mentioned in general terms, more like a rhetorical tool that emphasised the gravity of the odds facing the nation. In a rare instance, the Anzacs came into view in the lines of Mehmet Akif who described the conflict as a conspiracy of ‘the old world’ which put its dirty scheme in action with the help of ‘the new world’. What followed was the cataloging of the Indians and Canadians along with the Australians. The poet somehow left out the New Zealanders, but this in no way overshadowed the main idea that Gallipoli was a defence against ‘seven climes of the world’. However diverse they might be ‘in their faces, languages and races’, said the poet in a bitter voice, they all shared the same ‘savagery’.13

Apart from indignation, the enemy also evoked a sense of disillusionment in these poets. This can be better understood when considered from a larger context. To that day, Europe had long represented to the Ottoman elite the ultimate level of human civilisation. Its achievements in arts and sciences were closely followed, at times copied and adopted at home. Perhaps more importantly, the ideas that emanated from its vibrant culture continued to inspire younger generations for many decades. And now, as these poets liked to express bitterly, the carnage that swept across humanity was also the work of the same civilisation. In addition to this, their fixation on a monstrous enemy figure pointed to yet another phenomenon. The Europe that they had long admired presented at the same time the most imminent and serious threat against Ottoman viability. Their take on the enemy was therefore prompted by more than a propaganda effort; it was also the manifestation of the unease created by these contradicting and powerful sentiments. The raging, contemptuous tone that marked their language whenever they turned their gaze to the opponent was perhaps their way of standing up against a power that had loomed so large in their imagination.

Gallipoli as a tune sung in harmony

As mentioned before, the timing played an important role in Gallipoli acquiring national significance. The Turkish nationalist movement, which had been gradually developing by then, was quick to seize the moment and promote it to advance the cause.14 What followed thereafter was to further emphasise the place of Gallipoli in public consciousness. The battle was won, but the First World War ended with a catastrophic defeat for the Ottoman state which soon came under Allied occupation. A movement of resistance led by Mustafa Kemal who first achieved prominence at Gallipoli eventually paved the way for the establishment of modern Turkey in 1923. This was a new country, a republic, founded on the tenets of secularism and ethnic nationalism; as such it greatly diverged from the Islam-oriented, multiethnic structure that preceeded it.15

The republican era, especially in its early years, was marked by an obvious effort to distance itself from the Ottoman heritage. Gallipoli was cherished as a rare moment of pride nevertheless; it was often referred to as a self-defining experience for the young Turkish nation. At the same time, a growing emphasis was placed on Mustafa Kemal; in a well repeated metaphor, he represented ‘the sun that rose at Gallipoli’. The famed battleground also acquired a new significance as the hallow site where the Turks first met their natural leader. It was the same person that led them through further struggle and hardship during the ‘War of Independence’, as the resistance against Allied occupation came to be known in Turkish history. This crucial link was often reiterated in the patriotic literature produced by a generation of poets and writers dedicated to the republican cause. Gallipoli mainly featured in this context, celebrated as the coming of age of a young nation, but generally overshadowed by the ‘War of Independence’, the last major trial on the path to independence. Some of the poems that had appeared during the First World War were republished after 1923, along with some new works that occasionally appeared on anniversaries.16 But, in general, literary interest in Gallipoli fell short of reflecting the importance attributed to it in official mythology.

The era brought, on the other hand, a nuance with regard to the enemy. An initial instance was the famous conciliatory message to the Anzac side attributed largely to Mustafa Kemal.17 The distinguishing of the Anzac soldier as a better enemy could also be seen in the limited number of literary works solely devoted to the theme.18 One such title was Gallipoli, a verse volume published in 1939 by a professed patriot, Haluk Nihat Pepeyi, who sought to fill the void with an epic, the style which he deemed most appropriate for the subject matter at hand.19 The effort brought the poet some acclaim at the time, but largely lacked the poetic qualities that could ensure a place in the canon. Gallipoli contains, on the other hand, some of the nuances mentioned above. The introduction signed by a renowned social scientist, Hilmi Ziya Ülken, presents the campaign as a scheme where the great powers pitted the weak against the weak. The Turks and the Anzacs, in his view, were driven to conflict not by their own choice but by others. The verse that follows revolves around the same theme, placing a particular blame for the war on the British and the French. Echoing the introduction, Pepeyi’s own reference to the Anzacs conveys a similar tone of forgiveness. He calls them ‘brave soldiers’, but cannot keep from pitying ‘these blind hordes’ who would ask only too late: ‘why and for whom did we die?’20

These lines were in fact the reflection of a mindset that prevailed throughout the Republican era. Independence was deemed sacred. The struggle put up against the threat of foreign rule after the First World War was a major theme in official discourse; great pride was taken in the fact that modern Turkey was a fully independent state. The same notion was further reiterated in school books as well as literary works. The term ‘colony’ generally evoked a simple form of domination, not much unlike the relationship between master and slave, and few distinctions were made in its use. As will be mentioned again, the particular circumstances of the Anzac nations, the levels of autonomy that they had achieved within the British Empire; more importantly, the ethnic, cultural and linguistic ties that they shared with the dominating power were largely overlooked. They were mentioned as members of the same unfortunate community as any nation that ever came under foreign rule. The best example that illustrated this point can be found in The Epic of Gallipoli, a collection of poems by the renowed poet Fazıl Hüsnü Dağlarca .21 The volume was published in 1965 to mark the fiftieth anniversary. Among more than a hundred pieces that it contains, one is especially striking by virtue of its title: ‘Song of the Brothers Exploited in the Army of the Exploiters’. It features a voice directed to the Senegalese and the Indians, asking them in the same compassionate tone, ‘for whatever reason have you come?’ to fight in this foreign land. When the attention turns to the ‘brave’ Australians, the question becomes ‘what is it that your mountains want from mine?’.22 Dağlarca’s piece best captures a sentiment shared by many, that of astonishement at the turn of events that made enemies out of such distant and most unlikely nations.

As stated before, Turkish literary works treated Gallipoli with as much focus on the vilification of the enemy as on the celebration of the hero. A softer regard for the Anzacs, which emerged later, did not generally change this trend. The patriotic theme that was dominant in the period discussed here still resonates strongly. In fact patriotic fervor has always pervaded all forms of narration about Gallipoli, from its teaching in schools to commemoration ceremonies, and even to historical writing on the topic. The same stories, images and symbols have consistently appeared again and again in different forms of representation, offering little variation in terms of theme and style. In a way, Gallipoli has acquired an aspect similar to a tune sung in perfect harmony, with the rigid expectation that any mention of the affair should resound with the same intonation. Any slight deviation can be guaranteed to be frowned upon as a cracked voice. The pervasiveness of the official rhetoric across the cultural scene can partly account for this situation. Also, the very fact that public imagination as well as artistic inspiration has mostly been deprived of first-hand accounts about Gallipoli can be seen as a contributing factor. Compared to the Anzac side, the number of diaries, letters and memoirs on the Turkish side is fairly limited for the simple reason that the majority of the common soldiers in the Ottoman army were illiterate. Likewise, the voice of the combatants is conspicuously absent in literary representation. It goes without saying that such sources could have provided invaluable insights and perspectives in the study of the conflict, and shaped its perception differently. Compared to the Turkish experience, however, Australia offers a case where the same event was projected in literary form with more colour and variation.

Gallipoli as a turning point in Australian imagination

The significance of Gallipoli in Australian history and imagination has been the topic of a large volume of writings to this day. As often noted, the irony between the expectations before the war and the realities of the front experience is striking. Little did the Australian troops expect to fight at a site other than the Western Front and against an enemy other than the Hun. Little did anyone know that the date of the first landings at Gallipoli, 25 April 1915, would become so central in public imagination. Again, as for the Turkish side, the timing of the campaign was a particularly important factor in all this. The Australian troops had participated in colonial wars before but this was the first major involvement; neither would it be the last one. Subsequent battles on the Western Front would claim more lives and cause greater misery, but this initial impact was to be the strongest.

The Australians who found themselves forcing their way into Gallipoli were the members of a society long preoccupied with the issue of a distinct identity. Unlike their opponents, they hailed from a generally peaceful and prosperous land. The British influence was constantly felt in many aspects of life, from political and economic matters to arts and literature, but this was no obstacle to the development of an identity particular to the land and its people. This was a case where pride in one’s ethnic origins did not generally conflict with the sentiment of being an ‘independent Australian Briton.’23 Nationalism gained particular strength in the 1890s, but mostly as a force that developed hand in hand with a strong sense of imperial allegiance. One notion that accompanied the trend was that Australia would eventually pay a blood sacrifice on its path to nationhood.24 As compellingly put by the poet Henry Lawson, ‘the Star of the South’ could only ‘rise in the lurid clouds of war’.25 The idea resonated more forcefully in the rising militarism that swept the colonies in the decade before the First World War. Gallipoli would be the event that provided this long anticipated trial.

A glimpse at history displays little evidence to support the Turkish perception of the Australians as the helpless victims of a ruthless imperial power. It would show a more nuanced picture which reveals a certain distance from ‘the older forms of domination, control and suasion exercised by the metropolitan power over the colonial society of settlement in the periphery’. What rather prevailed in the period leading up to the war were ‘notions of cooperation and partnership, of alliance and mutual standing.’26 Characteristically, independence in certain areas coexisted with strong loyalty to Britain as a new tide of immigrants rekindled interest in the imperial tradition.27 When the war broke out, the ruling elite in Australia was quick to commit troops and resources in support of the motherland. The initial enthusiasm demonstrated by the young men to enlist was striking, and the Australian Imperial Force would remain a volunteer army throughout the war.28 As recounted in Bill Gammage’s influential study The Broken Years: Australian Soldiers in the Great War, their motives were numerous and did not always reflect imperial ideals or notions of glory; the number of recruits driven by the expectation of good pay or a thirst for adventure was not negligible.29 Clearly, this force of volunteers presented a different picture than the one painted in the Turkish examples above.

The word Gallipoli, largely unknown to the Australian public before the landings, quickly gained prominence as soon as dispatches from the front reached the local newspapers. An early poem by Henry Lawson, ‘The Song of the Dardanelles’, was published with the epigraph ‘the wireless tells and the cable tells / How our boys behaved by the Dardanelles’, which clearly recognised the praise that Australian soldiers had received in the media30. Lawson’s work also features a much loaded refrain: ‘[we] knew they would’. The line was a response to those who doubted the courage and discipline of the colonial troops. As admitted by the poet, ‘they got into scrapes’, but also ‘stormed the heights as Australians should.’ These ‘boys’ stand out in his eyes as ‘the youngest and the strongest of England’s brood’. To make his point, Lawson did not need an adversary. Like many others, he was writing in a land which did not provide him with a past laden with war memories, nor a tradition that could readily evoke a stock enemy figure. The emphasis falls on the warrior who is pictured under a spotlight not reaching far enough to illuminate his opponent. What matters is how rather than against whom he fights.

Lawson was not alone in this respect. As elaborated by Peter Pierce in a comprehensive article, the ambiguity surrounding the antonyms of friend and foe in Australian war literature is a phenomenon in itself.31 The way in which Lawson presented the Australian warrior also pointed to another characteristic of the cultural scene. The brave and rowdy colonial soldier described in his poem was no different than the bushman that he promoted earlier as typically Australian. The outback had long been part of the nationalist imagery along with the itinerant workers who struggled to lead an existence in that inhospitable environment. Lawson had greatly contributed to the acceptance of this figure in the popular mind. This was a practical and resilient man with a particular dislike for discipline and authority who could also demonstrate, at times of hardship, a great sense of camaraderie.32 As such, he served as an ideal model after which the image of the Australian soldier would be developed.

Another type that emerged from the realities of Australian life was the larrikin, and it was also popularised in the context of Gallipoli. The term resonated until then with a negative connotation, mainly owing to its association with an urban life of crime and violence. But the man that C. J. Dennis presents in his 1916 verse narrative The Moods of Ginger Mick, is a kinder version of the stereotype; he is unruly perhaps, but also soft and sentimental.33 And, at the front, he demonstrates the same courage as well as the nonchalant attitude as the ‘boys’ above. More importantly, this is the story of an Australian in the making; as Ginger Mick concedes in a characteristic vernacular, ‘the reel, ribuck Australia’s ‘ere, among the fightin’ men.’34 The mateship that bonded them together at the front would also help forge a strong sense of identity. For the protagonist created by Dennis, this is a process which evolves with a particular emphasis on self perception rather than a persistent look across the trenches.

The ‘Enemy’ as part of the myth

The works mentioned above were in line with the Anzac myth, a narrative based on the portrayal of the soldier as the embodiment of courage, resourcefulness, camaraderie along with an insubordinate streak and particular humour. The contribution of the journalist and historian C.E.W. Bean in the development of this myth is well known. One of his early efforts was to publish The Anzac Book (1916), a collection of writings and drawings by the actual combatants that bore his heavy stamp as an editor. A poem written by Bean himself is particularly revealing since it focuses on the enemy. Titled ‘Abdul’, after the nickname warmly attributed to the Turks, it reads as an appreciation for a man who knows ‘the way to die’. As he is brought down by an Anzac bullet, the grief at his loss is felt on both sides of the trenches. In Bean’s words, war is a ‘beastly game’ and both parties are equally helpless in it.35 But as pointed out by David Kent, this seemingly genuine interest in the opponent can also be interpreted as Bean’s way of promoting the Australian soldier as a gallant figure. This is not a faultless man perhaps but he certainly is magnanimous, and the respect and compassion that he displays for his opponent is the proof of it.36 Bean’s take stands, therefore, in clear contrast to the convention on the Turkish side to give a similar effect through a language of contempt and antagonism.

Brief instances of encounter with the enemy could also be seen in the prose of this period, a medium which further contributed to the development of the Anzac myth. The dominance of the nationalist theme, the exaggerated and self-congratulatory style in which this was related has already been noted in Robin Gerster’s Big-noting: The Heroic Theme in Australian War Writing.37 A volume titled Trooper Bluegum at the Dardanelles (1916) is one such example where the swaggering tone of the narrative conflicts sharply with its author’s claim to objectivity. Written by a journalist in the form of dispatches from the Gallipoli front, the book illustrates a certain view of the opponent. ‘It’s the Germans we’re up against’ says one character, even though he now has to deal with the Turks who learned from them ‘all sorts of nasty tricks’.38 Even the snipers do not seem to bother Trooper Bluegum who feels nothing but a sense of amusement at the sight of Turks charging with the cries of ‘Allah Allah’. Perhaps most revealing in the collective attitude is a final note left for the enemy: ‘Abdul’, it says, ‘you’re a good clean fighter and we bear you no ill-will.’39 A similar tone of respect for the adversary, though not as widely expressed, also resonates in William Baylebridge’s collection of stories, An Anzac Muster (1921). The work, an illustration of ‘big-noting’ to the highest degree despite its author’s earlier philosophical leanings, is not without a salute to the Turks. As the colonel says in ‘The Deathless Dead’, his soldiers ‘harboured no malice’ against him because he is deemed to be ‘a foe worthy of them’.40

Gallipoli as a tune with many variations

One aspect that distinguishes the Australian representation of Gallipoli from the Turkish case is its inclusion of voices other than patriotic. This is especially apparent in recent literature which has taken a more critical tone. But even the period discussed in this paper, for all its emphasis on the Anzac myth, witnessed a certain regard for the human element. It is also telling that the best examples of this nature were the work of combatants. Leon Gellert’s poetry collection Songs of a Campaign (1917) conveyed the perspective of a veteran who had survived the mayhem at Gallipoli, but felt no need to mythologise it.41 His verse strikes a rare lyric tone that says more on the futility of war than heroism. The soldiers that he describes from the unique position of a fellow fighter are no more than victims of the circumstances. And it makes little difference whether or not they are portrayed in any opposition; the war itself is their biggest common enemy. Likewise, the work of Harvey Matthews, another Gallipoli veteran, remains largely aloof to the notions of national glory and loyalty. His poem ‘Two Brothers’ (1931) relates an encounter with a mostly invisible enemy, a figure again associated with the distinct cries of ‘Allah! Allah!’.42 Central in the narrative are the sensations that engulf the soldiers as they prepare for attack. The Turk features only briefly, as the source of anger and grief for the man who loses his brother and succumbs to a frenzy to ‘Kill! Kill them all!’. It is clear that the urge manifests itself only momentarily and upon sudden horror, and not as the expression of long brewing hatred.

Some of the best known poetry from non-combatants is characterised by an elegiac tone. L. H. Allen’s ‘Gallipoli’ expresses a ‘tribute to those who brought their land to birth’, where pride is quickly replaced by the repeated cry ‘I weep the dead, they are no more, no more.’ Mary Gilmore’s little piece by the same title also features a mournful voice conveying, at the same time, a solemn statement against despair: ‘Only above the grave of murdered faith / The grass grows never green.’ J. Le Gay Brereton’s ‘Anzac’ is a statement by a pacifist who follows ‘only the flag of love, unfurled / For peace above a weeping world’. Yet it also reveals great respect for ‘those whom other banners led’ and mourns their loss.43

Clearly, the Australian response to Gallipoli emerged in a cultural environment that nurtured a thematic and stylistic variety despite the predominance of the heroic discourse. This was perhaps a natural outcome in a country where the war in general was subject to public debate. The very fact that dissenting voices, however limited these may be, could be heard in social and political platforms, and that the public had a say in matters such as conscription, painted a sharp contrast to the Turkish scene where the collective war experience was devoid of such dynamics.44 It would not be wrong to say that in Australia the poets and writers enjoyed greater freedom to break out of the conformity imposed on them by the exigencies of wartime than their Ottoman/Turkish counterparts. But the Australian example also differed from that of New Zealand, the other partner of the Anzac phenomenon with whom it shared similar democratic practices. Despite their common involvement in the conflict, the representation of Gallipoli in New Zealand texts would feature different characteristics.

Gallipoli in New Zealand literature: A belated response

As in Australia, the psychological impact of this first major external war experience was also powerful on this young nation. Its reflection in literature, however, would appear later and with less intensity. This phenomenon contradicts the perception of the Anzacs on the Turkish side, which generally sees little difference between the two countries. During the First World War both Australia and New Zealand belonged to the British Commonwealth, but their colonisation had followed different paths. The first settlers in New Zealand were free men, mostly traders and missionaries, a fact which spared the future generations from the convict legacy that long preoccupied the Australian psyche. More importantly, this was a colony that developed in an environment largely shaped, especially in the early stages, by the nature of the relations with its native people. The Maori were more warlike and entrepreneurial than the Aborigines and their dealings with the ‘white man’ were initially based on mutual interest and interdependence. This would change as formal colonisation gained speed at the expense of the Maori, leading to violent clashes between the two communities. And this was another aspect of New Zealand that set it apart from the ‘warless’ Australia.45 The diminishing numbers and weakening power of the Maori, however, did not keep them from looming large in the consciousness of the very community that had brought their end.

In the nineteenth century, the forerunners of literary nationalism in New Zealand looked to the Maori as a source that could add authentic colour to their writing. The image of the Maori as bygone, noble warriors was carefully incorporated in local literature which often celebrated them as the descendants of a race famed in courage and martial skills.46 This was hardly a figure, however, that could serve as a template for the representation of the white colonial man fighting in a modern war. A continuity similar to the one established between the bushman and the soldier at Gallipoli was mostly absent in the New Zealand case. Neither did New Zealand poets have, at their disposal, a popular form as in Australia, such as balladry, that could have readily lent itself for the narration of war stories.47 An additional factor was related to the limited size of the local readership. The situation had made the New Zealand writers heavily reliant on the tastes of the British audience, which in turn gave them little motivation to write about an imperial defeat with a particular focus on colonial nationalism.48

The silence of the literary community in New Zealand was not a manifestation of indifference on the part of the larger public. The First World War had hardly left a family untouched, the belief that Gallipoli had been a baptism of fire was widespread. The Anzac Days were solemn affairs that were underlied by the conviction that the heroes at Gallipoli had not only served the empire, but also established a nationhood.49 The Anzac legend had taken hold here as well, but, in the absence of a mythmaking force such as C.E.W. Bean, this would develop as a more subdued version. It was aided, nevertheless, by a number of histories that aimed at telling the public of the glorious deeds of their men at war.50

War would be treated in New Zealand literature after a lapse of time. It was in the 1930s that a literary interest became evident in the subject, a time which also gave rise to a new orientation in New Zealand literature. As put by the renowned poet Allen Curnow, the country now began ‘to look to its own creative resources, not this time to provide it with something national to brag about, but to satisfy a real hunger of the spirit.’51 It was obvious that war as a nation-maker would not be a dominant theme in this literature. Even a book dedicated to the story of the New Zealanders at war would end with a pacifist note. The Silent Division (1935) by Ormond Burton, himself a Gallipoli veteran, was one of the few works that gave considerable attention to the campaign.52 In a narrative that bordered on fact and fiction, it aimed to relate ‘the adventures and sufferings, the good fun and fellowship, the self-sacrifice and valour of our men as a mass.’53 Published in a period overcast by the clouds of another approaching war in Europe, it also expressed a warning against future involvement in armed conflict.

An important feature of The Silent Division lies in the nuanced view of the opponent. The Turk is treated by Burton in the same matter-of-fact tone that he employs to narrate the heroic deeds of his fellow soldiers. What the author sees across the trenches is a fellow human being who accidentally found himself in the opposing camp; an enemy only because the role has somehow been thrust upon him. Admittedly, ‘there was anger, and hatred and a bitter longing for revenge’ among the New Zealanders who survived the first day of landing. But these sentiments are quickly dismissed by Burton as the outburst of a reaction to the horrors of war rather than the manifestation of a particular animosity.54 The man across the trenches is sometimes warmly referred to as Johnny the Turk, even pictured fraternising with the Anzacs. The sniper is also given some degree of attention, but mostly to highlight the ease with which he will be thwarted by his New Zealander counterpart.

The few glimpses afforded to the Turks in Robin Hyde’s Passport to Hell (1936) are coloured by the wit and humour which characterise the rest of the novel.55 It tells the story of Starkie, a man constantly at odds with authority who also demonstrates exceptional skills in fighting. As such, he shares some of the traits associated with the bushman-turned-into-Australiansoldier figure, but his adventures are narrated by a writer who did not display the same engagé attitude for nation-making as Lawson. Hyde had heavily invested in the effort to give New Zealand literature a distinct character and she sought to do it by telling stories particular to her land in a voice that could only be her own.56 Starkie’s portrayal reflects this predisposition; he is the product of the New Zealand society, but his story is conveyed as a personal rather than a communal affair. At Gallipoli, he is mainly pictured as part of a rowdy party that seems to care more about retrieving moneybelts from the bodies of dead soldiers than shooting at the enemy. On the other hand, against the Turkish sniper, ‘the aristocrat of No Man’s Land’, he holds a particular grudge. This ‘cold killer’, who does not allow the regular soldiers ‘their decent modicum of rest’, is the spoiler of a war game to which Starkie easily adapts himself.57 His encounter with the Turks also reveals moments of sympathy for the men across the trenches, especially when he hears them uttering their ‘long-drawn-out floating cries of ‘Allah Allah’’.58 These words are not only chanted during charge, Starkie quickly realises, but they also come out from the mouths of dying men, signifying thus to him human vulnerability rather than belligerence.

A more loaded image of the Turkish opponent can be found in a later work, a play staged in 1982. Maurice Shadbolt’s Once on Chunuk Bair falls outside of the period taken up in this paper; it calls attention, nevertheless, as a work solely devoted to the theme discussed here.59 As professed by the playwright, the creation process was prompted by the realisation that ‘no significant poem, song, novel, painting – literally nothing in our nation’s cultural life enshrined the New Zealand experience of the Gallipoli campaign’.60 Shadbolt’s work is based on a brief episode during the August offensive, the capture of the strategic crest of Chunuk Bair by a predominantly New Zealander force and its loss thereafter. Fittingly named after the famous heights that host today a monument in honour of the fallen, the play foregrounds the notion of Gallipoli as a self-defining experience for a young nation. On the other hand, this does not keep Shadbolt from questioning the New Zealand involvement in the campaign. The Turkish enemy features in this context as a man who dies gloriously for the defence of his own land, and not fighting somebody else’s war.

The critical tone becomes more pronounced as the focus turns to British leadership. In Shadbolt’s take, the Chunuk offensive fails only because of the inability of the incompetent generals to provide desperately needed help at a crucial time.61 The central character Colonel Connolly, modeled after the well revered Colonel Malone, remarks tellingly: ‘I’d give an arm to have Mustafa Kemal as my commander’. The sense of betrayal by the biggest ally is thus conveyed with much emphasis, and with a respectful salute to the enemy. The coup de grâce also comes from the friend rather than the foe as the whole party dies in an accidental salvo by a British ship. Its significance resonates in the words of a dying man: ‘the Turks couldn’t do us. Only they could.’62

Conclusion

The questioning approach in Shadbolt’s play points to a larger reality on the Anzac side. The significance of the Gallipoli campaign in the histories of Australia and New Zealand is indisputable, nor is the dominance of the Anzac myth that surrounds the perception of the war. Nevertheless, the same myth has also come to signify a whole host of meanings, complexities and contradictions that exist simultaneously.63 Literary representations of Gallipoli have been one of the threads in this discourse, revealing national pride on the one hand, while acting as a medium for critical attitudes on the other. Works of literature nourished the myth at times, especially in the period discussed in this paper. But Alan Seymour’s The One Day of the Year, a product of the anti-war era of the 1960s, strikes with its strong criticism of the notion of war as a nation builder. Roger McDonald’s poem ‘1915’ expresses pity rather than pride for the boys who ‘totter to their knees’. In the New Zealand poet Kevin Ireland’s ‘Anzac Day, Davenport’, on the other hand, Gallipoli is remembered as a vague distant memory, a far cry from the founding myth.64

As briefly reiterated in these later examples and noted before with regard to earlier works, literary representation of Gallipoli in Australia mainly, but also in New Zealand, reveals a thematic richness that cannot be observed on the Turkish side. The thematic and stylistic trend set in the initial Turkish output, which emerged at the height of war propaganda, defined the literary production that would follow thereafter. This can partly be attributed to the Turkish perception that this was an unjust assault on their homeland which was successfully repulsed, the victorious closure thus making pointless any attempt to probe further into the affair. The whole phenomenon stands in sharp contrast to the Anzac experience where a defeat has lent itself to a myriad of interpretations with the apparent effect on literary representation. Artistic creation in Turkey has also developed in the virtual absence of first hand accounts, the kind of narratives that could have provided a unique insight into individual perceptions, or informed the later generations on personal loss and grief. Turkish response has evolved in a rather restricted environment therefore, and its character was largely defined by a national myth that posited not only the hero in the centre but also the foe. This highlights a major difference with the Anzac side where the enemy has almost been invisible. The Turkish emphasis on the opponent is still dominant, as made evident in the wave of popular novels that emerged in the last two decades. One significant phenomenon, on the other hand, is that the indignant and contemptuous tone that usually marks any mention of the enemy subsides when the attention turns to Anzacs. The occasional displays of sympathy for them, however, are rarely conveyed without a pitying look at what is perceived to be the misfortune of fighting somebody else’s war. It is our hope that the centenary marks the beginning of an attempt to narrate and represent Gallipoli in Turkey with a closer look at the human dimension, and as a collective experience not only for one community but for many others as well.

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1 The defence troops at Gallipoli were recruited from various parts of the ethnically diverse Ottoman state, but the majority was Turkish. They were fighting under the joint leadership of Ottoman and German generals, and the technical assistance offered by Germany was a factor that strengthened the defence. But German presence did not extend to lower ranks. For the composition of the Ottoman army during the war, see Erik J. Zürcher, ‘Between Death and Desertion. The Experience of the Ottoman Soldier in World War I’, Turcica 28 (1996): 240-41. Information on the German assistance in Gallipoli can be found in Edward J. Erickson, Ordered to Die: A History of the Ottoman Army in the First World War (Connecticut: Greenwood Press, 2001), 76–82.

2 Zafer Toprak, ‘Cihan Harbi’nin Provası Balkan Harbi’ [The Balkan War as the Rehearsal of the First World War], Toplumsal Tarih 104, (August 2002): 44-51 (p.46).

3 The German commander Liman Von Sanders writes of the measures to support the defence systems near Istanbul in the event of the Allied navy passing through the Dardanelles, see Liman Von Sanders, Türkiye’de Beş Yıl [Five Years in Turkey] trans. Eşref Bengi Özbilen (Istanbul: Türkiye İş Bankası Kültür Yayınları, 2010), 73–74. Also the memoirs of the renowned poet Yahya Kemal reveal the anxiety felt by a circle of intellectuals in the days prior to the major naval expedition by the Allies and tell of their preparations in the case of a possible occupation, see Yahya Kemal [Beyatlı], Siyasi ve Edebi Portreler [Political and Literary Portraits] (Istanbul: Yahya Kemal Enstitüsü, 1976), 30–35. One of the original sources that mentions the plan to move the sultanate to the town of Eskişehir in Anatolia is Henry Morgenthau, Ambassador Morgenthau’s Story (New York: Doubleday, Page & Company, 1918), 192. Morgenthau also elaborates on the sense of ominous anticipation of an Allied attack that reigned in the Ottoman government circles as well as the German and Austrian diplomatic missions in Istanbul, 184–201.

4 Some of the best known dailies that featured patriotic poetry were Sabah [Morning] Tanin [Echo], İkdam [Perseverant Effort] and Tasvir-i Efkar [Tablet of Thoughts]. Türk Yurdu [Turkish Homeland], a journal with a nationalist agenda and close ties to the Committee of Union and Progress which was in power during the First World War, was another venue for such literature. Two other important publications were Donanma Mecmuası [The Navy Review] and Harp Mecmuası [The War Review] which were known to be directly supported by the state administration. An important source on Ottoman press in the years leading to First World War is Ahmet Emin Yalman, The Development of Modern Turkey as Measured by its Press (New York: AMS Press, 1968).

5 For a comprehensive study on the role of literature in wartime propaganda, see Erol Köroğlu, Türk Edebiyatı ve Birinci Dünya Savaşı (1914-1918): Propagandadan Milli Kimlik İnşasına [ Turkish Literature and the First World War (1914-1918): From Propaganda to the Making of National Identity] (Istanbul: Iletişim Yayınları, 2004). For a shorter version in English, see Erol Köroğlu, Ottoman Propaganda and Turkish Identity: Literature in Turkey during World War I (London: Tauris Academic Studies, 2007).

6 Ali Rıza Seyfi, ‘Kal’a-i Sultaniye’ [Fortress of the Sultan], Donanma, no. 89-91 (15 April 1915), 652 quoted in Ömer Çakır, Türk Şiirinde Çanakkale Muharebeleri [Gallipoli in Turkish Poetry] (Ankara: Atatürk Kültür Merkezi Başkanlığı Yayınları, 2004), 36.

7 These were some of the terms generally used to refer to the enemy. They appeared abundantly in many poems of the time.

8 The poet will be referred to as Mehmet Emin hereafter as he was not yet known by his surname in this period. The practice of taking family names was introduced later during the 1930s, after the establishment of modern Turkey.

9 These quotations are from ‘Ordu’nun Destanı’ [The Epic of the Army] in Mehmet Emin Yurdakul’un Eserleri – I [The Works of Mehmet Emin Yurdakul], ed. Fevziye Abdullah Tansel (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Basımevi, 1989), 173-95. The poem was originally published in 1915 following a trip to the front. Mehmet Emin was part of a group commissioned by the Ottoman War Ministry to produce patriotic works based on observations at the front.

10 These quotations are from ‘Berlin Hatıraları’ [Memories of Berlin] where Mehmet Akif first mentioned Gallipoli. It was later included in his collection Safahad [Stages], ed. M. Ertuğrul Düzdağ (Istanbul: Nesil Yayınları, 2007), 283-306.

11 This line belongs to the poem ‘Çanakkale Şehitleri’ne’ [To the Martyrs of Gallipoli] which is widely accepted in Turkey as the best rendering of Gallipoli in literary form. It was originally published as part of a long narrative poem ‘Asım’ which first appeared in 1924, see Düzdağ, 363-405. It has also been reprinted separately numerous times.

12 As illustrated in the coverage of the battles in the daily Ikdam, little differentiation was made as to the ethnic identity of the enemy at this stage. The offence force was mostly referred to as the troops of the Allied army; the Australians were only mentioned in a few instances. The original coverage appeared in Ottoman Turkish, for a collection of the campaign reports in modern Turkish, see Murat Çulcu, Ikdam Gazetesi’nde Çanakkale Cephesi: 3 Kasım 1914 – 3 Şubat 1916: haber-yorum-bildiriröportaj-gözlem ve anılar [The Gallipoli Front in the Daily Ikdam: 3 November 1914 – 3 February 1916: reports-comments-statements-interviews-accounts and memoirs], A. Candan Kirişci (Istanbul: Denizler Kitabevi, 2004).

13 These lines are also from ‘Çanakkale Şehitleri’ne’, in Düzdağ, 385. The awareness with regard to the identity of the colonial forces in the poem may be attributed to the fact that it was part of a publication believed to have been in the making from 1918 to 1924. This may have given Mehmet Akif more clarity as to the facts compared to those who wrote during the actual campaign.

14 This was most evident in the publication of a special anniversary issue by Yeni Mecmua [The New Review] in 1918. For a later edition, see Muzaffer Albayrak and Ayhan Özyurt, eds.,Yeni Mecmua Çanakkale Özel Sayısı [The New Review Special Issue on Gallipoli] (Istanbul: Yeditepe Yayınevi, 2006). For an assessment of the issue as well as its significance in the formation of national identity, see Erol Köroğlu, ‘Yeni Mecmua Çanakkale Özel Sayısı’ [The New Review Special Issue on Gallipoli], Toplumsal Tarih (March 2003): 94-99.

15 An important source giving a concise account of the transformation is Erik J. Zürcher, Turkey: A Modern History (London: I. B. Tauris, 2007).

16 It is important to note that these later prints often appeared with revisions. For example, the words ‘sultan’, ‘caliph’ or ‘crown’ were either taken out completely or replaced by terms such as ‘homeland’, ‘nation’ and ‘freedom’, which reflected the preferences of the official discourse in the new republican era.

17 The history of this speech and the controversy surrounding its authorship is discussed in more detail in the chapter by Macleod and Tongo in this volume.

18 The emphasis on the Anzacs is mostly a phenomenon that has appeared in the novels of the past two decades which remain outside of the period covered in this paper. Two works that reveal a particular attention to the Anzacs are Buket Uzuner, Uzun Beyaz Bulut: Gelibolu [The Long White Cloud: Gallipoli] (Istanbul: Remzi Kitabevi, 2001) and Serpil Uras, Şafakta Yanan Mumlar [Candles at Dawn] (Ankara: Bilgi Yayınevi, 2003). Both titles have been translated into English.

19 Haluk Nihat Pepeyi, Çanakkale [Gallipoli] (Istanbul:Yeni Kitapçı, 1939).

20 Pepeyi, Çanakkale, 78.

21 Fazıl Hüsnü Dağlarca, Çanakkale Destanı [The Epic of Gallipoli] (Istanbul: Kitap Yayınları, 1965).

22 Dağlarca, Çanakkale Destanı, 77.

23 Robert Cole, ‘The Problem of ‘Nationalism’ and ‘Imperialism’ in British Settlement Colonies’, The Journal of British Studies 10, no. 2 (May 1971): 160-82.

24 Patsy Adam-Smith, The Anzacs (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1978), 8.

25 The lines belong to the 1895 poem titled ‘The Star of Australasia’ in Colin Roderick, ed., Henry Lawson Collected Verse, 3 vols (Sydney: Angus and Robertson, 1967), vol. 1, 294-296.

26 John Eddy and Deryck Schreuder, eds., The Rise of Colonial Nationalism (Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 1988), 7–8. For a detailed account on the tensions between Australia and Britain, more specifically on the Australian assertions vis-à-vis the British colonial administration in matters of trade and security, see E. M. Andrews, The Anzac Illusion: Anglo-Australian Relations during World War I (UK: Cambridge University Press, 1993).

27 Andrews, The Anzac Illusion, 11–12. As also explained in the same source, the adaptation of the British school curriculum with strong focus on British literature, history and imperial unity was especially effective on young minds, 32–35.

28 A personal account that bears testimony to this phenomenon can be found in Susanna and Jake de Vries, eds., To Hell and Back: The Banned Account of Gallipoli by Sydney Loch (Sydney: Harper Collins Publishers, 2008).

29 Bill Gammage, The Broken Years: Australian Soldiers in the Great War (Canberra: Australian National University Press, 1974). For a more recent overview of the Australian support for war and a discussion of the motives behind enlistment, see Joan Beaumont, Broken Nation: Australians in the Great War (Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 2013), 15–26.

30 The poem first appeared in The Bulletin in June 1915. Sources on the early media coverage of the Australians at the front are many; some of the best accounts can be found in K. S. Inglis, ‘The Australians at Gallipoli-I’, Historical Studies 14, no.54 (April 1970): 219–230; Kevin Fewster, ‘Ellis Ashmead Bartlett and the Making of the Anzac Legend’, Journal of Australian Studies, no.10 (June 1982): 17-30; Jenny Macleod, Reconsidering Gallipoli (New York: Manchester University Press, 2004), 103-146.

31 Peter Pierce, ‘Perceptions of the Enemy in Australian War Literature’, Australian Literary Studies 12, no.2 (October 1985): 166–181.

32 Russel Ward The Australian Legend, 2nd ed., (Melbourne, Oxford University Press, 1978), 16-17.

33 C. J. Dennis, The Moods of Ginger Mick (London: Angus & Robertson Publishers, 1976, first published in 1916). The work was also well known among the troops. See Amanda Laugesen, ‘Australian Soldiers and the World of Print during the Great War’ in Publishing in the First World War, eds. Mary Hammond and Shafquat Towheed (London: Palgrave, 2007), 93–109 (p.102).

34 Dennis, The Moods of Ginger Mick, 62.

35 C.E.W. Bean, ed., The Anzac Book (London: Cassell and Company, Ltd., 1916), 58.

36 David Kent, ‘Bean’s ‘Anzac’ and the Making of the Anzac Legend’ in War: Australia’s Creative Response, eds. Anna Rutherford and James Wieland (Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 1997), 27–39 (p.34).

37 Robin Gerster, Big Noting: The Heroic Theme in Australian War Writing (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 1987).

38 Oliver Hogue, Trooper Bluegum at the Dardanelles: Descriptive Narratives of the More Desperate Engagements on the Gallipoli Peninsula (London: Andrew Melrose Ltd, [1916]), 73–74.

39 Hogue, Trooper Bluegum, 278.

40 William Baylebridge, An Anzac Muster, ed. P. R. Stephensen (Sydney: Angus and Robertson, 1962, first published in 1921), 135.

41 Leon Gellert, Songs of a Campaign (Sydney: Angus & Robertson, 1917).

42 J. T. Laird, ed., Other Banners: An Anthology of the Australian Literature of the First World War (Canberra: The Australian War Memorial and Australian Government Publishing Service, 1971), 24-31.

43 These three poems also appear in Laird, Other Banners, 47–51.

44 It has been shown that the anti-conscription movement was propelled more as a class issue than a popular disapproval for war. From a Turkish perspective, however, it is important in that it points to the presence of open space for debate regarding the war, its cost and effects on a larger population. An account of the conscription debate can be found in Beaumont, Broken Nation, 219-248. Also, however limited, the emergence of groups, such as the Womens’s Peace Army, should also be noted as an indication of a society immersed in democratic practices, see Robert Bollard, In the Shadow of Gallipoli: The Hidden History of Australia in World War I (Sydney: NewSouth Publishing, 2013), 26-38. An important source that describes the economic, social and political conditions in the Ottoman state during war is Ahmet Emin Yalman, Turkey in the World War (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1930).

45 This passage draws on information from various sources: Michael King, The Penguin History of New Zealand (New Zealand: Penguin Books, 2003); Tom Brooking, The History of New Zealand (Connecticut: Greenwood Press, 2004) and Claudia Orange, ‘The Maori People and the British Crown (1769-1840)’ in Keith Sinclair, ed., The Oxford Illustrated History of New Zealand (New Zealand: Oxford University Press, 1997), 21-48.

46 The representations of the Maori in this early stage also included tropes such as ‘the Maori in need of a father’ or ‘as a savage ready for enlightenement’. See Lydia Wevers, ‘The Short Story’ in Terry Sturm, ed., The Oxford History of New Zealand Literature in English. 2nd edition. (Auckland: Oxford University Press, 1998), 245-320.

47 J. O. C. Phillips, ‘Musings in Maoriland –or was there a Bulletin School in New Zealand?’, Historical Studies 20, no.81 (October 1983): 520–35 (p.524).

48 This point was kindly brought to my attention by Jock Phillips in an interview on 2 August 2007 in Wellington, New Zealand.

49 R. Maureen Sharp, ‘Anzac Day in New Zealand: 1916-1939’, The New Zealand Journal of History 15, no.2 (October 1981): 97-114.

50 Ormond Burton’s Our Little Bit: A Brief History of the New Zealand Division (1918) as well as his history of the Auckland Regiment (1922) can be counted among such works. Another well-known title was New Zealanders at Gallipoli by Fred Waite (1919). Both Burton and Waite were Gallipoli veterans.

51 Allen Curnow, ed., The Penguin Book of New Zealand (Middlesex, Great Britain: Penguin Books Ltd., 1960), 38.

52 O. E. Burton, The Silent Division: New Zealanders at the Front, 1914-1919 (Sydney: Angus and Robertson Limited, 1935).

53 Burton, The Silent Division, vii.

54 Burton, The Silent Division, 46.

55 Robin Hyde, Passport to Hell, ed. D.I.B. Smith (Auckland: Auckland University Press, 1986), first published in 1936). The editor’s introduction in this later edition is especially informative on the origins of the story as well as the writing process.

56 Robin Hyde, ‘The Singers of Loneliness’, T’ien Hsia Monthly, 7 (August 1938): 9-23.

57 Hyde, Passport to Hell, 81-82.

58 Hyde, Passport to Hell, 83.

59 Maurice Shadbolt, Once on Chunuk Bair (Auckland: Hodder and Stoughton, 1982).

60 Maurice Shadbolt, Voices of Gallipoli (Auckland: Hodder and Stoughton, 1988), 9. The playwright also explains his motives in Phillip Mann, ‘The First Production of Once on Chunuk Bair: Extracts from an Interview with Maurice Shadbolt on ANZAC Day, April 25, 1987’, Illusions no. 11 (July 1989): 14-18.

61 A source that presents the failure at Chunuk Bair as the outcome of poor leadership on the part of the British command is Christopher Pugsley, Gallipoli: The New Zealand Story (New Zealand: Sceptre, 1990). A later study, Robin Prior, Gallipoli: The End of the Myth (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009), gives a more nuanced account.

62 Shadbolt, Once on Chunuk Bair, 85; 100.

63 Two important sources that relate both the evolution of the myth as well as the complexities involved in it are: Bill Gammage, ‘Anzac’ in Intruders in the Bush: The Australian Quest for Identity, ed. John Carroll (Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1982), 54-66; Graham Seal, ‘ANZAC: The Sacred in the Secular’, Journal of Australian Studies 31 no. 91 (2007): 135-144.

64 Alan Seymour, The One Day of the Year (London: Angus & Robertson Publishers, 1976); Roger McDonald, ‘1915’ in Chris Wallace-Crabbe and Peter Pierce, Clubbing of the Gunfire: 101 Australian War Poems (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 1984), 89; Kevin Ireland ‘Anzac Day, Davenport’ in Anzac Day: Selected Poems (Christchurch: Hazard Press, 1997), 68-69.

Beyond Gallipoli: New Perspectives on Anzac

   by Raelene Frances and Bruce Scates