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Beyond Gallipoli: New Perspectives on Anzac


Chapter 15



Early Children’s Histories of Anzac

Frank Bongiorno

The story is a heroic one, and every boy and girl should read it, not only for the enthralling interest of it, but because … there is aroused in the mind a more glowing pride in this land that can produce such men as the Anzacs, men who stand unrivalled in the art of warfare, in initiative, resource, and all that makes for a good soldier as well as for good citizenship.1

Books for young people can provide a vivid picture of the values prevailing in a society, yet they have so far received limited attention from scholars writing about the Anzac legend and the history of the First World War. There has been an explosion of First World War-themed stories in Australian young people’s literature and history in recent years, as well as continuing debate about how Anzac and war should be taught in schools.2 Historians have also explored the manner in which Australia’s education system prepared its pupils for war and, once conflict had broken out in 1914, how individual schools, teachers and education systems responded to the crisis.3 There has also been a recent study of the controversies of the mid-1920s over who should be authorised to speak of the war in Australian schools on Anzac Day.4 But historical attention to early efforts to produce Australian war histories for children and youths remains limited.

In his study of what he calls ‘the heroic theme in Australian war writing’, Robin Gerster briefly considers a few books written for children about Australia’s role in the war; they provide additional support for his argument concerning the prominence of the notion that ‘Australians excel, even revel, in battle’ and that their performance in war was both a measure of their supposed racial vigour and a reinforcement of it. The Australian soldier is represented ‘as a twentieth-century embodiment of classical heroic virtue’.5 The war trilogies of the two best known Australian children’s authors of the era, Ethel Turner and Mary Grant Bruce, have figured in more detail in a study by Brenda Niall, who argues that from these books there emerges a ‘composite portrait of the Australian soldier’ that accords largely with the image found in Charles Bean’s writings on war and its role in displaying and adapting national character.6

While it will give some attention to fiction, this chapter will mainly focus on avowedly ‘historical’ writing about the war designed for children during the war and early post-war years. There is a sense in which this immediately sets up a false distinction. The themes to be discovered in supposedly nonfictional writing – histories, if you will – are so similar to those found in novels that there really seems very little point in making a hard and fast distinction between fictional and non-fictional modes. Some fiction in any case claimed for itself a share of the authority and authenticity that its authors associated with real history. Joseph Bowes, a Queensland vicar who wrote the Anzac War Trail about the Australian Light Horse’s desert campaign, explained that his book was ‘a story and not a history’, but that he had ‘striven to place it in historic perspective. Some of the characteristics are imaginary, but not all’. Here was an each-way bet; his accounts might not be ‘photographic’, he explained, but they were in broad ‘agreement with official despatches’.7

My approach here is to consider historical and contemporary ‘nonfiction’ for young people in the larger context of children’s war literature. The mass societies that fought the First World War quickly recognised the need to tell war stories suitable for the young. In the Australian case, right from 1915 when State education departments circulated Ellis Ashmead-Bartlett’s stirring account of the Australians’ landing at Gallipoli,8 there were private, commercial, semi-official and official efforts to place before Australian children stories of the heroic deeds of Australian soldiers in the theatres of the war where the Anzacs fought. In a recent study of Victorian schools and the war, Rosalie Triolo has emphasised the significant role played by the Victorian School Paper in disseminating ideas about and images of the war – and not only among the children who were expected to part with a penny of their pocket-money to buy each issue.9 The various State-based school magazines must have reached thousands of homes, and are likely to have been read by adults as well as children.10

It was a feature of the heroic tradition of war writing that it tended to evade the most brutal aspects of industrialised slaughter, but it is nonetheless the case that young people’s histories and novels do not entirely shy away from war’s violence and destruction.11 Mary Grant Bruce’s Jim and Wally, for instance, has the boys badly injured in a gas attack. It might not be the modernism of Wilfred Owen, but no one who read her account should have been under any illusion concerning the foulness of war and the damage inflicted by poisonous gas.12 In Ethel Turner’s Captain Cub, Millicent’s fiancé Jim returns to Australia having lost an arm and a leg, and with ‘innumerable scars … on his face’; that Millicent evidently intends accepting him despite his disfigurement, and that he is presented with a sum of money by a benefactress that will supposedly set him up for life, cannot entirely mitigate the impact of his hideous injuries.13 Even books written for very small children drew attention to the suffering created by war. The Young Australias’ [sic] ABC of War predictably tells its readers that ‘A’ is ‘for ANZACS’, but it also includes ‘R’ for ‘homeless REFUGEES’; even in this little picture book there is something rather more complex than a mere glorification of war being carried on.14

Australian children’s histories were preoccupied with explaining why the war had broken out, why Britain had entered it, and why Australia had joined in the slaughter. Such literature was concerned with the political, diplomatic and ideological history of the war in ways that underline one of its key purposes: to justify the conflict to a young audience who might otherwise have wondered why a distant war should matter to them.15 C.E. Sutton Turner in Quick March: the story of England’s Great War: a book for Australian boys and girls explained that a seventeen year old had killed a prince and princess, and that Austria had responded by unjustly deciding to punish the entire Serbian people.16 More commonly, authors blamed Germany for the war. ‘There would have been no war if Germany had not meant that there should be war’, explained Charles Atkins, an army captain and Melbourne municipal councillor in a book presented to State school children in that city.17 ‘[T]he real cause of the war’, according to Alfred G. Waterworth, a Tasmanian school-teacher writing a book on behalf of the Returned Sailors’ and Soldiers’ Imperial League, ‘was the desire of Germany for world power and dominion over other nations’. Britain, he indicated, entered the war not so much out of a narrow perception of a threat to its national or imperial interests, but out of a sense of altruism, chivalry and honour:

When Britain saw Belgium invaded, when she saw France in danger, when she saw solemn promises broken, she could stand aside no longer. She knew that the liberty of the whole world was in danger; she knew that, should Germany win, the rule of the war lords would prevail, the rule of oppression and injustice. She knew that no freedom-loving nation on the face of the earth would be safe. So to save France and Belgium, to save liberty, to save humanity, she declared war on Germany.18

Britain had entered the war, another author agreed, because of its commitment to freedom and justice. He thought it unsurprising that Australia should sympathise with the fate of Belgium, another small nation, but it was Australia’s membership of the British Empire which had been decisive in her entry into the war.19 As C.E. Sutton Turner explained, ‘You know Australia is part of the great British Empire, so that Britain’s enemies are also our enemies, and her friends are our friends’.20 But another text pointed to Australia’s own interest in ensuring the defeat of Germany which, if it were not vanquished, would surely seize Australia and New Zealand, confiscate property, fill the country with German colonists, and impose the German language on the population – and how school-children already struggling with French must have feared such a fate!21

What kind of empire did these children learn that they were defending? Some Australian historians have seen ‘British race patriotism’ as the dominant nationalist ideology of Australia in this period.22 Yet the empire that is evoked in the pages of children’s histories is a cosmopolitan one, a global community united not by race but by common identification with a British empire of liberty. The image is of a benevolent empire bringing the benefits of British freedom to people across the world, the Indians being prepared to fight, explained one text, because ‘they are as free in their own country as we are in ours, and they know it, and have shown that they know it by their splendid loyalty to Britain from the very beginning of the war’.23 The British-based Australian expatriate author E.C. Buley, in A Child’s History of Anzac – a book that the Victorian Education Department said ‘should be in every school library’24 – emphasised that the Australians had found at Gallipoli ‘a great variety of nations’ that included ‘coloured soldiers from the French Colonies in Africa’, as well as ‘Sikhs, Gurkhas, and Pathans; some of the pick of the Indian army’. The Maori from New Zealand, Buley explained, was ‘a born warrior … No finer coloured race exists in the world’.25 Egypt, too, according to one author, had benefited from British rule, which had helped to make it ‘one of the prosperous nations of the world’.26

Turkey often figures in Anzac mythology as a worthy and honourable opponent, but the Victorian School Paper of August 1915 deployed a more familiar orientalism when it explained that the sons of the world’s youngest Commonwealth were ‘fighting against an effete monarchy; it is a new and vigorous Antipodes pitted against the corrupt and truculent armies of the ‘Sick Man of Europe’’.27 After the campaign was over, having ended in the defeat and withdrawal of the allies, the mythologisation of the Anzacs’ glorious deeds seemed better served by presenting the Turks in more positive terms, as brave and noble warriors. This admiration did not extend to the Ottoman Empire’s political arrangements; Buley’s book stresses the Turks’ foolishness in being duped into siding with Germany, a condescending attitude that denies the capacity of the Ottoman Empire to make its own diplomatic judgments about how its interests would be best served. ‘It would be very hard to say why Turkey had done this’, Buley went on, ‘for we have always been very good friends with the Turks, and have helped them in trouble, not once, but many times’.28 Whereas the clash between the British Empire and Germany is understood as a great war of ideas, Buley does not pay the Turks the courtesy of attributing to them a politics comprehensible in conventional diplomatic terms. Yet while he presents them as having ruled their empire badly, their soldiers are presented as brave, if less effective as fighters than the Anzacs. ‘[H]ad the Anzacs been Turks, and the Turks Anzacs’, Buley speculated, ‘the invaders would very quickly have been driven from the peninsula of Gallipoli’.29

Buley presents the Anzacs’ time on the peninsula as a little like a voyage of discovery in which initial prejudices against the Turks as ‘cruel and cowardly’ are conquered as the Australasians gain a fuller appreciation of their opponent’s humane warrior virtues.30 The Anzacs, he explains, had become aware of the killing of the Armenians, having heard ‘stories of Turkish cruelty that made their blood run cold’. Indeed, so appalled were the Anzacs by what they had heard, and what it seemed to signify the Turks would do to them if they fell into their hands as prisoners, that some committed suicide rather than suffer as the Armenians had. Yet despite the truth of the stories they had heard, the Turk proved ‘a merciful and chivalrous foe’, and ‘[t]he same men who would turn old men and little children out of their homes, and beat them till they fell by the way, would risk their lives to take a drink of water to a wounded enemy’.31

One purpose of this kind of rhetoric was to hold on to a sense of warfare as still governed by traditional virtues of heroism and gallantry, rather than being industrialised mass butchery. Moreover, the emphasis on Turkish warrior virtues underlined the Anzac achievement, demonstrating that the Australians had held their own against an able and worthy foe. But a further reason for the emphasis on Turkish virtue was that it allowed the author to explain who the true enemy really was: Germany. Whereas there were civil exchanges at Gallipoli between the Turks and the Australians, it was explained, the Germans were said to have remained aloof.32 In the end, the Ottoman Empire, rather like the British Empire itself, is understood as a victim of Germany and ‘it is a great pity there should ever have been a quarrel with the Turks’.33 Children’s histories explained that Germany was the enemy, since, as a booklet by H.D. McLelland, the deputy chief inspector of schools in New South Wales, explained, that nation had ‘seemingly gone mad with the idea that its people are a chosen people of God, superior to all others in all things, and destined to bring all other races under their sway’. McLelland’s book included a lengthy description of the German political system intended to underline the differences between the free institutions of Britain and her dominions, and the Prussian tyranny that characterised the German state. The Germans, he said, were ‘not free as we understand the word’.34 The children’s histories do not dwell on German atrocities; similarly, Triolo has suggested that the Victorian School Paper was remarkably reticent about discussing the enemy during the war years, possibly reflecting the leadership of the Victorian Education Department’s continuing admiration for German pedagogy.35 In any case, defining the differences between the British and German empires could be a hazardous business in wartime. C.E. Sutton Turner, presumably writing before Britain’s introduction of conscription in Britain in early 1916, explained that there was

one great difference in the armies of Great Britain and Germany. In the British Empire, of which Australia is a part, only those who volunteer become soldiers and go to war. But in Germany and Austria every man is compelled to be a soldier, and forced to go to war, whether he wants to or not.36

It is easy to understand why the voluntary ethic would be treated here as the essence of British freedom because service in defence of empire was understood as among the greatest of virtues in children’s history, as well as in fiction for young people. The novels of Mary Grant Bruce and Ethel Turner set down the pathways by which both young men and women could achieve such virtue. For the men, military service is the ultimate call to duty in time of war. In Ethel Turner’s The Cub, after an initial reluctance to join in the fight, by the end of the novel John Calthrop (the Cub) is overwhelmed by the impulse to help the mother country. While the heart’s desire of this wealthy young man has been to build cheap homes for the poor, he abandons his philanthropy for the army out of ‘the feeling you get for England at the mere thought of her being in danger’.37 Early in its sequel, Captain Cub, it is explained that ‘[h]e was a man, he had had the fierce, strong joy of being able to do something better than knit when the war broke out’.38

The reference to knitting – a common wartime activity of women on the home-front39 – underlines the distinction between men’s and women’s service, which can never be equated. In Mary Grant Bruce’s Jim and Wally, the troubled relationship of women to war is played out in an extended discussion of whether Norah Linton will be allowed to light a beacon that is needed to capture some German submariners active in coastal Ireland, where the family is having a break while the lads recover from their gassing. There is a tension between the image of the independent ‘Australian Girl’40 – a product of a new world pioneering society – and prevailing assumptions concerning the gender order:

‘I know you couldn’t have me where there’s shooting,’ she said. ‘But I can do something, if you’ll let me: and in Australia women always did help men when there was need, and they didn’t talk about things being ‘women’s work.’ Women had to fight the blacks, too.’41

Here is the idea of a new and more vigorous version of white British womanhood, formed by a harsh frontier. Initially, the two young Australian soldiers resist her being in any way involved but on Norah’s insistence that their plan has a better chance of success if this task is allocated to her, she goes ahead with it, and with the desired results.

In Turner’s Captain Club, while the English Brigid is sufficiently spirited to take a ride on a flying fox, her virtue resides in her devotion to fundraising and charity, in contrast with Mrs. Gale, the stepmother of an Anzac, who uses her connection with him to exploit the sympathy of others to ensure that she ‘waxed more happy and prosperous’ than before the war.42 The Calthrop girls, too – the Cub’s sisters – are by way of contrast with Brigid somewhat frivolous young society women disconnected from the disciplines that should rightly have been imposed by the war. But the war ultimately brings about the reform of all so that they learn to see their duty, rather as it makes real men – vigorous in both their physique and their character – of boys.

For the men, service often leads to death, but the histories for children assured them that there was no more honourable death than in defence of one’s country. Gallipoli acquired a special status where Australians, being ‘outnumbered by two to one … flung themselves into the impossible, and earned more by death there than by an easy victory elsewhere’.43 Following Ashmead-Bartlett – indeed, sometimes merely reproducing his famous account of the landing – the children’s histories present the Anzacs as ‘cheerful fellows, who looked on the bright side of life even in the face of death’. For Buley, the charge at the Nek was a triumph of heroism ‘because they knew they could not win’ but still ‘went out cheerfully to their death’.44

Yet the novels and histories do not treat the Anzacs only as heroes in the imperial tradition, for they are a particular kind of hero, an Australian hero, whose character has been formed by the conditions of Australian life. So Ethel Turner’s The Cub, for all his wealth, joins the army as a private, advances quickly through the ranks to become an officer, and he has a best mate in a working-class lad named Harry Gale (or Galileo) – who also becomes an officer.45 The Anzacs were in this way presented as classless and egalitarian, and the Australian Imperial Force as a meritocracy in which quality rose naturally to the top.46 For Buley, the Anzacs were also ‘daring and resourceful’, ‘steady and cool’, and with a remarkable courage and endurance in adversity.47 Like the war correspondent and official historian Charles Bean, Buley identified them with the bush, where they ‘had been trained to do naturally things that, maybe, would never have occurred to an ordinary British soldier’.48 Buley was an Australian working as a journalist in England who had discovered a lucrative trade in churning out popular books on the war, and one can sense his hesitation here in ascribing a superiority to Australian troops when compared with their British cousins.49 Similarly, in commenting on the Suvla Bay landing, Buley was careful not to question the courage of British troops who failed to advance, instead merely suggesting that they were poorly led, being sent ‘into a strange country in the dark’.50 Unlike Anzacs, whose bush-bred skills meant that they were capable of marching through unknown country, the British could not be expected to go forward so readily. But that there was something special about the Anzacs almost every text could agree. ‘Germany did not make very many mistakes’, declared one account, ‘but the ones that it did make were very big mistakes. The biggest mistake of all was to think that it had nothing to fear from Australia’. This history then goes on to explain how the Australians led the allies to victory on the Western Front. Where British troops find themselves ‘driven out’, the Australians – whose ‘well-won honour’ it was ‘to be chosen to lead in all the most difficult and most dangerous attacks’ – staunchly and successfully resist the Germans.51

Importantly, the Gallipoli campaign was not fought in vain. Children’s histories sometimes went to great lengths to set out the benefits that had arisen from a campaign that it was all too easy to see as having been bungled from the jump. Waterworth’s history for Tasmanian children, for example, quoted a number of sources, such as Charles Rosenthal, the Australian officer, Arthur Mee, the British journalist and educator best known for his best-selling children’s encyclopedia, and John Masefield, the English writer and later poet laureate, who were each able to discern strategic advantages having flowed to the allies from the campaign. Gallipoli had diverted the resources of the Central Powers, weakened the Turks in a manner that assisted the allies in later campaigns in Palestine, even possibly encouraged Italy to enter the war against Austria.52 If such flights of the imagination were insufficient to persuade the young reader, Waterworth had more in store: he reproduced a poem by the Presbyterian minister, J.L Rentoul, which presented the Anzacs, rather implausibly, as liberators of the oppressed Armenians:

Pale Armenia–freed at last,
Outrage, tears, and tortures past,
Woman’s wail and maiden’s cry
Pleading to a ruthless sky! –
Anzac lads, ‘twas not in vain
All your valour and your pain.53

The storming of the cliffs of Gallipoli was presented to the Australian young as an exemplary history – a story ‘that must be placed among the imperishable glories of our race’ – in a way that joins these early histories of Anzac for children to our own times. Waterworth argued in 1920:

The Anzacs climbed and fought with dogged perserverance and indomitable courage; they won because they never dreamed of failure or surrender. They had determined to conquer or die. If you face your battle in that spirit you will conquer.54

Such sentiments do not belong to a dead past: the notion that the Anzacs exemplified a ‘spirit’ to be emulated in the present remains the central message in literature, songs and images still designed for Australian children. Indeed, it permeates the Anzac message delivered to the Australian people more generally, via their leading politicians, media and culture industries.55

* * *

Anzac children’s literature has proliferated in recent years, and scholars interested in the reasons for, and nature of, the Anzac resurgence since the 1980s may well find a rich ore to be mined for this purpose in works designed to be read by young. The disjunctures and continuities with past young people’s literature should be a major theme of such studies. Books for children about the war in the period from 1915 were designed to serve a propagandist purpose, but they also disclose with a notable clarity many of the historical meanings that contemporary society attached to the war. Children’s histories, as a result of their didactic purpose, are probably more explicit about matters, such as the distinction between German ‘liberty’ and British liberty, taken for granted in propaganda designed for a general audience. We find many of the same themes in writing for children as in other kinds of wartime literature, history and journalism – including the prominence of the heroic theme, the evil of Imperial Germany, the valour and humanity of Ottoman troops, and perhaps above all, the effort to distinguish a particular distillation of British virtue in Anzac troops as well as in the women they left behind.


1 Alfred G. Waterworth, The Story of Anzac Day: Told for Boys and Girls (Launceston: Returned Sailors and Soldiers Imperial League Launceston Sub-Branch/Tasmanian Education Department, 1920), 50.

2 Anna Clark, History’s Children: History Wars in the Classroom (Sydney: NewSouth, 2008), 43-63; Marilyn Lake, ‘How do schoolchildren learn about the spirit of Anzac?’, in Marilyn Lake and Henry Reynolds with Mark McKenna and Joy Damousi, What’s Wrong with Anzac?: The Militarisation of Australian History (Sydney: NewSouth, 2010), 135-56.

3 S.G. Firth, ‘Social Values in the New South Wales Primary School 1880-1914: An Analysis of School Texts’, in Melbourne Studies in Education 1970, ed. R.J.W. Selleck (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 1970), 123-59; Michael McKernan, The Australian People and the Great War (Melbourne: Nelson, 1980, 43-64); Rosalie Triolo, Our Schools and the War (Melbourne: Australian Scholarly Publishing, 2012); Maxwell N. Waugh, Soldier Boys: the Militarisation of Australian and New Zealand Schools for World War I (Melbourne: Melbourne Books, 2014).

4 Phillip Deery and Frank Bongiorno, ‘Labor, Loyalty and Peace: Two Anzac Controversies of the 1920s’, in Labour and the Great War: the Australian Working Class and the Making of Anzac, a special issue of Labour History, ed. Frank Bongiorno, Raelene Frances and Bruce Scates, no. 106 (May 2014): 205-28.

5 Robin Gerster, Big-Noting: The Heroic Theme in Australian War Writing (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 1987), 2, 5.

6 Brenda Niall, Seven Little Billabongs: The World of Ethel Turner and Mary Grant Bruce (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 1979), 135.

7 Joseph Bowes, The Anzac War Trail (London: Humphrey Milford/Oxford University Press, n.d. [1917]), vi.

8 Ellis Ashmead-Bartlett, Australians in Action: the Story of Gallipoli (Sydney: W.A. Gullick, Govt. Printer, 1915).

9 Triolo, ‘Our Schools and the War’, xvi.

10 See, for instance, Norma Townsend, ‘Moulding Minds: The School Paper in Queensland, 1905 to 1920’, Journal of the Royal Australian Historical Society, 75, part 2 (October 1989): 142-57.

11 Triolo, ‘Our Schools and the War’, 272, shows that the Victorian School Paper, in a similar vein, did not entirely avoid matters such as wounding.

12 Mary Grant Bruce, Jim and Wally (London and Melbourne: Ward, Lock), 1916, 27-9.

13 Ethel Turner, Captain Cub (London and Melbourne: Ward, Lock, 1917), 194.

14 Young Australias’ [sic]ABC of War ([Australia], Gordon and Gotch, n.d. [c. 1918]), 6.

15 See also Triolo, ‘Our Schools and the War’, 16, for the Victorian School Paper on these matters.

16 C.E. Sutton Turner, Quick March: The Story of England’s Great War: A Book for Australian Boys and Girls (Sydney: Turner & Sons, n.d. [c. 1915]).

17 Cr. Captain Charles Atkins, Australia and the Great War (Melbourne: Bennie & Pelzer [Printers], n.d.), 3.

18 Waterworth, Story of Anzac Day, 13.

19 H.D. McLelland, The Great War: Written for Young Australians (Sydney: Government Printer, 1916), 16-17.

20 Turner, Quick March, 5.

21 McLelland, Great War, 31-2.

22 See, for instance, Neville Meaney, ‘Britishness and Australian Identity: The Problem of Nationalism in Australian History and Historiography’, Australian Historical Studies 32, no. 116 (April 2001): 76-90.

23 McLelland, Great War, 14.

24 Triolo, ‘Our Schools and the War’, 260.

25 E.C. Buley, A Child’s History of Anzac (London, New York and Toronto: Hodder and Stoughton, 1916), 66-7, 164.

26 McLelland, Great War, 10.

27 School Paper for Grades VII and VIII (Victoria), 2 August 1915, 99. For a discussion of the Victorian School Paper’s treatment of the Turks, see Triolo, ‘Our Schools and the War’, 263.

28 Buley, Child’s History, 34.

29 Buley, Child’s History, 122.

30 Buley, Child’s History, 106.

31 Buley, Child’s History, 107-8.

32 Buley, Child’s History, 112.

33 Buley, Child’s History, 116.

34 McLelland, Great War, 26, 29-31.

35 Triolo, ‘Our Schools and the War’, 24, 28-31.

36 Turner, Quick March, 8.

37 Ethel Turner, The Cub: Six Months in His Life (London, Melbourne and Toronto: Ward, Lock, 1915), 249.

38 Turner, Captain Cub, 18.

39 McKernan, Australian People and the Great War, 73-4.

40 Tanya Dalziell, Settler Romances and the Australian Girl (Crawley: University of Western Australia Press, 2004).

41 Bruce, Jim and Wally, 236.

42 Turner, Captain Cub, 88.

43 The School Paper, Classes V and VI (Queensland), April 1916, 38.

44 Buley, Child’s History, 18, 160.

45 Turner, Seven Little Billabongs, 136, 148.

46 For an exploration of this theme, see Geoffrey Serle, ‘The Digger Tradition and Australian Nationalism’, Meanjin Quarterly, 24, no. 2 (1965): 148-58.

47 Buley, Child’s History, 100, 104.

48 Buley, Child’s History, 19.

49 John Lack, ‘Buley, Ernest Charles (1869–1933)’, Australian Dictionary of Biography, National Centre of Biography, Australian National University,, published first in hardcopy 2005, accessed online 26 March 2015. See also E.C. Buley, Glorious Deeds of Australasians in the Great War (London: Andrew Melrose, 1915).

50 Buley, Child’s History, 137.

51 Atkins, Australia and the Great War, 6, 10.

52 Waterworth, Story of Anzac Day, 54-5.

53 Waterworth, Story of Anzac Day, 63.

54 Waterworth, Story of Anzac Day, 55-6.

55 Tony Abbott, Speech at the 2015 Dawn Service, Anzac Cove, Gallipoli;query=Id%3A%22media/pressrel/3798640%22

Beyond Gallipoli: New Perspectives on Anzac

   by Raelene Frances and Bruce Scates