The ANZAC Legacy

The legacy of the ANZACs fighting at Gallipoli is said to have shaped the nature of the Australian identity. This article gives a brief summary of Australian's involvement in war, including the Gallipoli campaign, and discusses the significance of ANZAC day celebrations in modern-day Australia today. It also contains many shared poems, quotes, and links to YouTube video clips that have been posted on ExplorOz in the Forum over many years as a unified collection. Please feel welcome to contribute further to this collection by posting Your Say at the end of this article - you may include links, file attachments or simply comment, review or ask a question. Lest we forget.

How & Why Australia Joined WW1

Just prior to the outbreak of the First World War, many countries of the world had pre-existing treaties of alliance with other countries.

The Serbian assassination of Franz Ferdinand, the heir to the Austrian-Hungarian throne, on 28th June 1914, sparked retaliation from the Hungarians, who enlisted the support of their Russian allies, and consequently Hungary sought support from Germany who in turn declared war on Russia. With these two countries at war, a series of events unfurled that resulted in global war as each country was obliged to act in alliance with either the Entente Powers (France, Britain and Russia), or the Central Powers (Germany, Austria-Hungary, Turkey and Bulgaria).

Australia at this time, had become an independent nation through Federation, however she still retained allegiance to Britain. The new Government was keen to build its reputation amongst the world’s powerful nations and encouraged young Australian’s to answer the call to war enlistment. The pressure on eligible men to enlist was enormous. This took many forms, including posters, poetry, newspaper editorials and letters, the activities of organisations such as the Win the War League, and pressure from private individuals. Andrew Fisher, Labour prime minister from 1914 to 1916, declared that Australia would support Britain to 'the last man and the last shilling”. As a result, 38.7% of the total male population aged between 18-44 enlisted for service in the First World War – a total of 416,809 (source: Australian War Memorial).

At the beginning of the war, Australian soldiers were active in the possession of German New Guinea, and Bismark Archipelago in October 1914. In November, the Australian navy ship HMAS Sydney destroyed the German raider SMS Emden. And then, the notorious landing by the ANZACs at Gallipoli Cove changed Australia forever.

The ANZAC Story

In 1915, the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps soldiers (ANZACs) were involved in the Gallipoli Campaign, a brave attempt to land soldiers on the Gallipoli Peninsula to take control over the Dardanelles – a narrow channel of water separating Europe and Asia that would be critical to the allies mounting an attack on the Ottoman Empire (Turkey), an ally of Germany.

The ANZACs landed on Gallipoli on 25 April, meeting fierce resistance from the Ottoman Turkish defenders. This was the first major military day of action fought by Australian and New Zealand forces during the war but the ANZACs did not conquer nor retreat from Gallipoli for 8 months. The ANZACs conceded a stalemate with the Turks and withdrew after heaving casualties on both sides on 19 December 1915. Over 8,000 Australian soldiers had been killed. News of the landing on Gallipoli had made a profound impact on Australians at home. Although the Gallipoli campaign failed in its military objectives, the experiences shared by the “diggers” and the way Australian’s responded to the challenges of war is said to have created a new understanding of what being Australian meant. Many notable historians have been quoted as saying a new sense of Australian identity was born when Australian soldiers went to war.

In fact upon the first anniversary of the ANZAC landing at Gallipoli, Australian’s back home created a day of remembrance, dubbing 25th April, “ ANZAC Day”. Whilst ANZAC Day was observed throughout the war with patriotic rallies and parades of returned service-men, it wasn’t until the 1920s that the Australian government officially gazetted April 25 a National Public Holiday. ANZAC Day is also a public holiday and day of remembrance in New Zealand, Cook Islands, Niue, and Tonga. It is also commemorated with special services and events on or around April 25 in a range of countries across the globe. Whilst ANZAC Day falls on April 25 annually, different holiday arrangements are made in some Australian states and territories when it falls on a weekend or coincides with Easter.

ANZAC Day today goes beyond the anniversary of the landing on Gallipoli in 1915. It is promoted by the Australian War Memorial in Canberra as “the day we remember all Australians who served and died in all wars, conflicts, and peacekeeping operations”.

Australian support for what has arguably become the most significant day of national commemoration, is undoubtedly due to strong symbolic images of the Australian solider - courage, mateship, and sacrifice. These qualities are key features of the Australian sense of national identity, and as such ANZAC day continues to have meaning and relevance for all people living in Australia and should cross all cultural and racial mixes of the multi-cultural fabric that makes up the modern day Australian community.

WW11 & Beyond

Australia has been lucky in that no significant war-time action or massive loss of life has taken place on our shores. However, Australian forces have continued to battle as allied forces in the Second World War, the Occupation of Japan, the Korean War, Malayan Emergency, Indonesian Confrontation, Vietnam War, First Gulf War, and numerous Peace Making ventures such as in East Timor, Iraq, and Afghanistran, and currently continue active Peace Keeping roles under United Nations auspices.

Poems, Hymns and Video Clips

Over the years, the ExplorOz audience have shared many shared poems, quotes, and links to YouTube video clips throughout the Forum and Blogs. We thought we would share a couple of them here in this article as a unified collection.

Please feel welcome to contribute further to this collection by posting Your Say at the end of this article - you may include links, file attachments or simply comment, review or ask a question. Lest we forget.

A poem by Laurence Binyon (1869 - 1943)

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables at home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.

This verse from the poem above, is the most popular saying used on ANZAC Day.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

A poem by Rudyard Kipling
Sung as a hymn at ANZAC Day ceremonies to the tune "Melita".
The most widely use phrase on ANZAC Day is taken from this poem. The words "Lest We Forget" form form the refrain of the song.

God of our fathers, known of old—
Lord of our far-flung battle line—
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies—
The Captains and the Kings depart—
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

Far-called our navies melt away—
On dune and headland sinks the fire—
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe—
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard—
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding calls not Thee to guard.
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!

God of love and liberty, we bring our thanks this day for the peace and security we enjoy,
which was won for us through the courage and devotion of those who gave their lives in time of war. We pray that their labour and sacrifice may not be in vain,
but that their spirit may live on in us and in generations to come.

That the liberty, truth and justice which they sought to preserve
may be seen and known in all the nations upon earth.

This we pray in the name of the one
who gave his life for the sake of the world,
Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

A poem by David SmithWhite

On the beaches of Gallipoli,
in the Straits of the Dardenelles.
The cliffs hung like tattered scenery,
on a circus carousel.
The men rode their rocking ferries,
to a dark and hostile shore;
from the heights the fire was raking,
'cause that's the luck of war.

A man walked with his donkey,
across those alleys of fear.
A man walked with his donkey,
with his burden so dear.
A man walked with his donkey,
through the deadly leaden hail;
a man walking with his donkey,
surely would not fail.

A man walked with his donkey,
but it was no idle stroll.
Not a picnic or fairground fancy,
but a pit of tortured souls.
A man walked with his donkey,
with his donkey, beside;
a man walking with his donkey:
so his fallen mates could ride.

A man leant, (he was weary) ,
on his donkey to stand.
Exhausted with the furies,
on the grey sea and sand.
Such a time spent so easy,
can be a wonder to arrive;
for a man talking to his donkey,
it was good to be alive.

A man walked with his donkey,
with his donkey in tow.
A man walked through shooting galleries,
in this valley of woe.
A man walked with his donkey,
with a sure foot and pace;
a man walking with his donkey,
bravely saved his mates.

On the beaches of Gallipoli,
in the Straits of the Dardenelles.
A man led his stoic donkey,
through blast and bursting shell.
Like the heroes of the ancients,
there are still bards to tell:
how Simpson and his donkey,
made it a little less like hell.

A bugle rendition of this tune is one of the most haunting traditions of ANZAC Day ceremonies.

Another tune that is often played by a bugle at ANZAC Day ceremonies.

A poem by John McCrae (1872 - 1918)

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place: and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

By D. Hunter
(A vetern of Shaggy Ridge with the 2/12 Battalion in WW2)

I saw a kid marchin’ with medals on his chest.
He marched alongside Diggers marching six abreast.
He knew that it was ANZAC Day - he walked along with pride.
He did his best to keep in step with the Diggers by his side.

And when the march was over the kid was rather tired.
A Digger said “Whose medals, son?” to which the kid replied:
“They belong to daddy, but he did not come back.
He died up in New Guinea on a lonely jungle track”.

The kid looked rather sad then and a tear came to his eye.
The Digger said “Don’t cry my son and I will tell you why.
Your daddy marched with us today - all the blooming way.
We Diggers know that he was there - it’s like that on ANZAC Day”.

The kid looked rather puzzled and didn’t understand,
But the Digger went on talking and started to wave his hand.
“For this great land we live in, there’s a price we have to pay
For we all love fun and merriment in this country where we live.
The price was that some soldier his precious life must give.

For you to go to school my lad and worship God at will,
Someone had to pay the price so the Diggers paid the bill.
Your daddy died for us my son - for all things good and true.
For God, Queen and Australia! I wonder if you understand the things I’ve said to you”.

The kid looked up at the Digger - just for a little while
And with a changed expression, said, with a lovely smile:
“I know my dad marched here today - this is ANZAC Day.
I know he did. I know he did, all the bloomin’ way”.

By Peter Thomas, Mt Martha, Vic

It sat out in the shearing shed for 30 years or more,
With cobwebs, dust and binder twine, and sheep dung on the floor.
An old and rusted Lockwood kept its secrets from my eyes,

A cabin trunk of leather, there since 1945.
I asked my dad, who owned it and what we kept it for,
He replied, “It’s Uncle Basil’s, that he brought back from the war.
So don’t you bloody touch it, or I’ll tan your bloody hide!”
But that only made me more intrigued to see what was inside.
I wondered at its mysteries and the secrets that it hid,
Beneath the faded word “Tobruk” stencilled on the lid.

Near Wilcannia, where only hardy cattlemen will go,
Uncle Basil had a station, Baden Park, near Ivanhoe.
A strong and gentle man, who once rode the Birdsville Track
Just to prove he wasn’t hampered by the shrapnel in his back.

So I stood alone and weighed it up; which would I decide,
Should I leave the memories undisturbed, or take a look inside?
I knew I had to take a look to see what it’d hold.
Medals? Spoils from the war – silver, jewels or gold?

The old man went off fishin’ of a Sunday with Bob Gray,
Sp if I was gonna do it – that would have to be the day.
I started out determined – I was done by ten past two.
With half a broken hacksaw blade, I cut the padlock through,
But even as I opened it, the truth was plain and clear,
The old trunk held no gold or jewels, there was no treasure here .
A pile of letters tied with string, an old moth eaten flag,
A rusty metal helmet and mouldy webbing bag,
A cup made from a jam tin, an emu feathered hat,
And a newspaper clipping with the title “Desert Rat”,
Some photos of the pyramids – a rusty bayonet,
An IOU – Jack Carmody – two quid ( a two-up bet).

I folded out a faded map as the day began to wane,
Foreign places like Benghazi, Tobruk, El Alamein.
Then I came upon a satchel and a little leather book
And a photo of some young blokes – so I took a closer look.
It was 20 young recruits, their faces tanned and worn
From places like Cohuna, Moama and Bamawm.
Farmers, shearers, stockmen off to fight a noble war,
For the empire in a foreign land they’d never seen before.
And scrawled across the bottom, in writing rough and coarse,
Twenty names below the words, the Echuca Boys – Light Horse.

I turned the photo over, and there upon the back
Were words that sent a chill through me, and made my mouth go slack.
A solemn list of 20 – the fate of each the same.
Every one but Uncle Basil had a date beside their name,
Some said April ’43, some said June /July.
A record from our history, the date that each had died.
I turned back to the photo and looked in every face,
And written over each one was a month, a year, a place.
A grinning, sun-bronzed soldier’s face, each now with a name
Like November 1943 – the words El Alamein.

I wonder did they think, as they sailed across the foam,
That amongst them only one – Uncle Basil – would come home?
Recorded in that little book – I remember to this day –
A record of their actions and how each had passed away,

A mortar shell out on patrol; a sniper in the night;
A landmine took one’s legs off – he died before first light.
The death of each was brutal, the reality was stark.
Forty pages written there, I finished just on dark.

I slowly closed that record of the men who kept us free
And turned to see my father, standing silently.
He didn’t do his block as I expected that he would,
He just said, “Come on pack it up, I reckon that we should.”
So with loving care we packed away the treasures from the past,
When I came upon the photograph – it was put aside ‘till last –
And with new respect and love, I recorded there his fate.
Next to Uncle Basil I wrote April ’68.
Yeah, Dad and I we packed it up and put it back again
And wrapped it in a bit of tarp, to keep it from the rain.
We never spoke about it or discussed what I had read.
I reckon that was his way, to respect those men long dead.

There’s a statue of a digger in most every country town,
And a list of names of locals, who fought with great renown.
And now, when I go by, I remember what I read,
Sitting on the floor out there, in our old shearing shed.
And I think of Uncle Gordon, lost somewhere on Ambon,
Uncle Jack on the Kokoda and, in England, Uncle John.
I remember still that photo, with sadness and remorse,
That mob of grinning faces, the Echuca Boys – Light Horse.
In a cemetery near Ivanhoe lies a bloke who’s left his mark,
Basil Thomas, of Echuca, Tobruk and Baden park.


I wandered thru a country town 'cos I had time to spare,
And went into an antique shop to see what was in there.
Old Bikes and pumps and kero lamps, but hidden by it all,
A photo of a soldier boy - an Anzac on the Wall.

"The Anzac have a name?" I asked. The old man answered "No,.
The ones who could have told me mate, have passed on long ago.
The old man kept on talking and, according to his tale,
The photo was unwanted junk bought from a clearance sale.

"I asked around," the old man said, "but no one knows his face,
He's been on that wall twenty years, deserves a better place.
For some one must have loved him so, it seems a shame somehow."
I nodded in agreement and then said, "I'll take him now."

My nameless digger's photo, well it was a sorry sight
A cracked glass pane and a broken frame - I had to make it right
To prise the photo from its frame I took care just in case,
"Cause only sticky paper held the cardboard back in place.

I peeled away the faded screed and much to my surprise,
Two letters and a telegram appeared before my eyes
The first reveals my Anzac's name, and regiment of course
John Mathew Francis Stuart - of Australia's own Light Horse.

This letter written from the front, my interest now was keen
This note was dated August seventh 1917
"Dear Mum, I'm at Khalasa Springs not far from the Red Sea
They say it's in the Bible - looks like Billabong to me.

"My Kathy wrote I'm in her prayers she's still my bride to be
I just cant wait to see you both you're all the world to me
And Mum you'll soon meet Bluey, last month they shipped him out
I told him to call on you when he's up and about."

"That bluey is a larrikin, and we all thought it funny
He lobbed a Turkish hand grenade into the Co's dunny.
I told you how he dragged me wounded in from no man's land
He stopped the bleeding closed the wound with only his bare hand."

"Then he copped it at the front from some stray shrapnel blast
It was my turn to drag him in and I thought he wouldn't last
He woke up in hospital, and nearly lost his mind
Cause out there on the battlefield he'd left one leg behind."

"He's been in a bad way mum, he knows he'll ride no more
Like me he loves a horse's back he was a champ before.
So Please Mum can you take him in, he's been like my brother
Raised in a Queensland orphanage he' s never known a mother."

But Struth, I miss Australia mum, and in my mind each day
I am a mountain cattleman on high plains far away
I'm mustering white-faced cattle, with no camel's hump in sight
And I waltz my Matilda by a campfire every night

I wonder who rides Billy, I heard the pub burnt down
I'll always love you and please say hooroo to all in town".
The second letter I could see was in a lady's hand
An answer to her soldier son there in a foreign land

Her copperplate was perfect, the pages neat and clean
It bore the date November 3rd 1917.
"T'was hard enough to lose your Dad, without you at the war
I'd hoped you would be home by now - each day I miss you more"

"Your Kathy calls around a lot since you have been away
To share with me her hopes and dreams about your wedding day
And Bluey has arrived - and what a godsend he has been
We talked and laughed for days about the things you've done and seen"

"He really is a comfort, and works hard around the farm,
I read the same hope in his eyes that you wont come to harm.
Mc Connell's kids rode Billy, but suddenly that changed
We had a violent lightning storm, and it was really strange."
"Last Wednesday just on midnight, not a single cloud in sight
It raged for several minutes, it gave us all a fright
It really spooked your Billy - and he screamed and bucked and reared
And then he rushed the sliprail fence, which by a foot he cleared"

"They brought him back next afternoon, but something's changed I fear
It's like the day you brought him home, for no one can get near
Remember when you caught him with his black and flowing mane?
Now Horse breakers fear the beast that only you can tame,"
"That's why we need you home son" - then the flow of ink went dry-
This letter was unfinished, and I couldn't work out why.
Until I started reading the letter number three
A yellow telegram delivered news of tragedy
Her son killed in action - oh - what pain that must have been
The Same date as her letter - 3rd November 17
This letter which was never sent, became then one of three
She sealed behind the photo's face - the face she longed to see.

And John's home town's old timers -children when he went to war
Would say no greater cattleman had left the town before.
They knew his widowed mother well - and with respect did tell
How when she lost her only boy she lost her mind as well.
She could not face the awful truth, to strangers she would speak
"My Johnny's at the war you know , he's coming home next week."
They all remembered Bluey he stayed on to the end
A younger man with wooden leg became her closest friend

And he would go and find her when she wandered old and weak
And always softly say "yes dear - John will be home next week."
Then when she died Bluey moved on, to Queensland some did say
I tried to find out where he went, but dont know to this day
And Kathy never wed - a lonely spinster some found odd
She wouldn't set foot in a church - she'd turned her back on God
John's mother left no will I learned on my detective trail
This explains my photo's journey, that clearance sale
So I continued digging cause I wanted to know more
I found John's name with thousands in the records of the war
His last ride proved his courage - a ride you will acclaim
The Light Horse Charge at Beersheba of everlasting fame

That last day in October back in 1917
At 4pm our brave boys fell - that sad fact I did glean
That's when John's life was sacrificed, the record's crystal clear
But 4pm in Beersheba is midnight over here.......
So as John's gallant sprit rose to cross the great divide
Were lightning bolts back home a signal from the other side?
Is that why Billy bolted and went racing as in pain?
Because he'd never feel his master on his back again?

Was it coincidental? same time - same day - same date?
Some proof of numerology, or just a quirk of fate?
I think it's more than that, you know, as I've heard wiser men,
Acknowledge there are many things that go beyond our ken

Where craggy peaks guard secrets neath dark skies torn asunder
Where hoofbeats are companions to the rolling waves of thunder
Where lightning cracks like 303's and ricochets again
Where howling moaning gusts of wind sound just like dying men
Some Mountain cattlemen have sworn on lonely alpine track
They've glimpsed a huge black stallion - Light Horseman on his back.

Yes Sceptics say, it's swirling clouds just forming apparitions
Oh no, my friend you cant dismiss all this as superstition
The desert of Beersheba - or windswept Aussie range
John Stuart rides forever there - Now I dont find that strange.
Now some gaze at this photo, and they often question me
And I tell them a small white lie, and say he's family.
"You must be proud of him." they say - I tell them, one and all,
That's why he takes the pride of place - my Anzac on the Wall.

~author unknown~

He was getting old and paunchy
And his hair was falling fast,
And he sat around the RSL Club,
Telling stories of the past.

Of a war that he once fought in
And the deeds that he had done,
In his exploits with his mates;
They were heroes, every one.

And 'tho sometimes to his neighbours
His tales became a joke,
All his mates listened quietly
For they knew whereof he spoke.

But we'll hear his tales no longer,
For ol' Bob has passed away,
And the world's a little poorer
For a soldier died today.

He won't be mourned by many,
Just his children and his wife.
For he lived an ordinary,
Very quiet sort of life.

He held a job and raised a family,
Going quietly on his way;
And the world won't note his passing,
'tho a Soldier died today.

When politicians leave this earth,
Their bodies lie in state,
While thousands note their passing,
And proclaim that they were great.

Papers tell of their life stories
From the time that they were young,
But the passing of a soldier
Goes unnoticed, and unsung.

Is the greatest contribution
To the welfare of our land,
Some jerk who breaks his promise
And cons his fellow man?

Or the ordinary fellow
Who in times of war and strife,
Goes off to serve his Country
And offers up his life?

The politician's stipend
And the style in which he lives,
Are often disproportionate,
To the service that he gives.

While the ordinary soldier,
Who offered up his all,
Is paid off with a medal
And perhaps a pension, small.

It's so easy to forget them,
For it is so many times,
That our Bobs and Jims
Went to battle, but we still pine.

It was not the politicians
With their compromise and ploys,
Who won for us the freedom
That our Country now enjoys.

Should you find yourself in danger,
With your enemies at hand,
Would you really want some cop-out,
With his ever waffling stand,

Or would you want a Soldier,
His home, his country, his kin,
Just a common Soldier,
Who would fight until the end?

He was just a common Soldier,
And his ranks are growing thin,
But his presence should remind us
We may need his like again.

For when countries are in conflict,
We find the Soldier's part
Is to clean up all the troubles
That the politicians start.

If we cannot do him honour
While he's here to hear the praise,
Then at least let's give him homage
At the ending of his days.

Perhaps just a simple headline
in the paper that might say:

by Dave Warner

Maybe it's because of our Convict Streak
We wanna fight everyone we meet
Anzac Day is our day of the year
We march our march, we drink our beer

We don't like Slopes, we don't like Yanks
I'd personally like to blow up
every Commie tank
We're only few but we fought in 'Nam
Packed our guns alongside Uncle Sam
Ask any of us, it were no sin
The only crime was that we didn't win

And ... The Poms are weak as bleep
The French are queer
The Germans are wankers,
but they make good beer
Don't criticise what you don't understand
If you think I'm talking bleep
you don't belong in this land

I'm Australian, we all are
We watch the telly and we drive our car
But don't you ever SAY WE'RE WEAK
Or you'll learn all about our Convict Streak

The world began with Adam and Eve
But Australia started at Gallipolli
Our fathers put the Desert into Desert Rats
Their uncles slipped the boot in,
up in Lambing Flats
Don't criticise what you don't understand
It's not that we're behind the times,
we're in a different land
We might be slobs but WE'RE NOT WEAK
Maybe it's because of our Convict Streak


I'm Australian, so are you
It doesn't matter if you're Ding or Jew
Just remember, while you're here
You march our march and you drink our beer

Interesting Links

An ABC 3D documentary site about the WW1 ANZAC
landing at Gallipoli, on 25 April 1915 here

YouTube has some wonderful video clips worth watching – here’s some that have been shared previously by our Members through the Forum:

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