Great Anzac Stories

by Graham Seal

  The vanished battalion

  In December 1915, the Gallipoli commander General Sir Ian Hamilton penned a dispatch on a mysterious battlefront incident that had taken place a few months earlier.

  The 1/5th. Norfolk were on the right of the line and found themselves for a moment less strongly opposed than the rest of the brigade. Against the yielding forces of the enemy Colonel Sir H. Beauchamp, a bold, self-confident officer, eagerly pressed forward, followed by the best part of the battalion. The fighting grew hotter, and the ground became more wooded and broken. At this stage many men were wounded, or grew exhausted with thirst. These found their way back to camp during the night. But the Colonel, with sixteen officers and 250 men, still kept pushing on, driving the enemy before them . . . Nothing more was ever seen or heard of any of them. They charged into the forest and were lost to sight or sound. Not one of them ever came back.

  Hamilton’s sober and professional account of this incident was only in stark contrast to a much more sensational version of the mystery in which the missing Norfolks disappeared into an ominous cloud rather than a ‘forest’.

  The 1/5th Norfolks were a British regiment, in part composed of raw recruits from the Sandringham Royal Estate, who were known colloquially as ‘the Sandringham Pals’. Their unaccountable disappearance was the subject of more than usual concern. In the absence of hard information about their fate, a legend developed that had a good deal in common with other stories of vanished battalions on the western front. These stories usually involved the appearance of a mysterious cloud or mist over the battlefield, into which marched the doomed regiment or other unit, never to be heard of again. In the Gallipoli incident a group of New Zealand sappers claimed to have seen on 21 August (not 12 August):

  Six or eight ‘loaf of bread’ shaped clouds—all shaped exactly alike, which were hovering over Hill 60. It was noticed that in spite of a four or five mile an hour breeze from the south, these clouds did not alter their position . . . Also stationary and resting on the ground right underneath this group of clouds was a similar cloud in shape, measuring about 800 feet in length, 220 feet in height, and 200 feet in width. This cloud was absolutely dense, solid-looking in structure, and positioned about 14 to 18 chains from the fighting in the British-held territory . . .

  According to this account, a British unit said to have been the 1/4th (not the 1/5th) Norfolks, ‘had marched straight into it, with no hesitation, but no-one ever came back out’. After an hour or so the unit had disappeared into the large ground-level cloud, and three-quarters of an hour later the cloud rose to the level of the others and they drifted northwards until ‘they had all disappeared from view’.

  The signatories to this account were New Zealander Frederick Reichardt and two other Anzacs. The discrepancies between the dates and correct designation of the Norfolks unit, together with the impossibility of the New Zealanders seeing what was happening four miles (6.5 kilometres) from their position at the time, strongly suggests that the event described was a battlefield delusion. Similar circumstances gave rise to such beliefs as the Angels of Mons, the Comrade in White and other apparitions supposedly experienced by battle-stressed men on the western front. However, it was close enough to what had actually happened to the Norfolks to generate the legend of the vanished battalion.

  What did happen to the 1/5th Norfolks? In September 1919 a mass grave was discovered on the Anafarta Plain, as reported by the commander of the Gallipoli Graves Registration Unit.

  We have found the 5th Norfolks—there were 180 in all; 122 Norfolk and a few Hants and Suffolks with 2/4th Cheshires. We could only identify two—Privates Barnaby and Cotter. They were scattered over an area of about one square mile, at a distance of at least 800 yards behind the Turkish front line. Many of them had evidently been killed in a farm, as a local Turk, who owns the place, told us that when he came back he found the farm covered with the decomposing bodies of British soldiers which he threw into a small ravine. The whole thing quite bears out the original theory that they did not go very far on, but got mopped up one by one, all except the ones who got into the farm.

  The bodies included their colonel. There remains a lingering suspicion that the men were executed. Whether that is true or not, the nearly 300 officers and men of the 1/5th Norfolks had advanced well past their own front lines and deep into enemy territory. They were tired, in unfamiliar terrain and, it seems, not well led. A bayonet charge failed, they were surrounded and then felled by machine gun and sniper fire. Those who apparently made it to the farmhouse also died. Fourteen survivors were taken captive by the Turks, though the legend takes no account of this.

  The two men with donkeys

  The story of Simpson and his donkey has become part of the legend of Anzac. Once taught to every child at school, it is the subject of frequent recollection in print and in the media, and is commemorated in many other ways, including in the well-known statue at the Australian War Memorial in Canberra. According to most accounts, John Simpson Kirkpatrick, an Englishman serving with the AIF, continually took one or more donkeys up to the firing lines at Gallipoli and brought back wounded soldiers for medical treatment, at great personal risk. One morning, ‘Simpson’ as he was known, was winding his way towards the firing line when a cook called out to him to come and get some breakfast. ‘I’ll be back soon; keep it hot for me’, he is said to have replied. That morning he was killed by enemy fire and the enduring legend of selfless courage and sacrifice was born, as outlined in one of the early accounts of the story.

  We have had numerous inquiries for information with regard to Private John Simpson, ‘The Man with the Donkey’ as he is perhaps better known, and mainly owing to the courtesy of a soldier who was a member of his section at Gallipoli, we are able to throw a little additional light on the career of that hero.

  In the first place, it has since been gleaned his full name was Private John Simpson Kirkpatrick, though he dropped the latter name on enlisting. He was born in South Shields, England 22 or 23 years ago and of latter years was the sole support of a widowed mother. A tall, well-set, finely figured, clean-cut young Englishman, he took to the sea as a career, and about five or six years ago came out here and joined one of the interstate vessels as a fireman, and in that capacity he travelled from port to port on the Australian coast, often touching Fremantle. In fact, of later years he is said to have been keeping company with a Fremantle girl, who saw him off when he left these shores on the Empire’s errand, the goal of which was death. But we are beginning to anticipate.

  On the outbreak of war, Simpson, to give him his better-known name, was still a fireman (we understand on the Kooringa) and he quickly heard the call and enlisted at Blackboy. Needless almost to say, this cheery, brawny, presentable young fellow was cordially welcomed, and on accepting him for the À.M.C. Captain M’Whae made an unconscious prophecy in remarking. ‘You’re just the man we want.’ He was.

  Simpson duly went through his training and participated in that march through Perth of the original first contingent, and may have been noticed by onlookers as carrying a possum, the mascot of his corps. With the men he was always popular, he sang a good song, possessed a cheery disposition and the ideal soldier spirit.

  He was with the A.M.C. in the landing that electrified the world, and was busy during the first day assisting in the tending of the wounded. Then he was missed, and for a couple of days could not be found. About the Wednesday they came across him. He had been about his country’s business. Then for the first time they beheld him in his role of ‘The Man with the Donkey.’

  It was soon found that he was accomplishing splendid work with the little animal he had picked up in conveying the wounded men to the base from difficult places where stretcher bearers could not go. His new military position was unorthodox, ‘not on the strength’ to use a military term. But the authorities were wise enough to see that he was achieving great things, and they let him be. ‘The Man with the Donkey’ he thereafter became, and ‘Simmo,’
as he was affectionately nick-named, and ‘Murphy’ the wiry little donkey with its eternal burden of wounded men, became familiar figures on the peninsula. Those who knew not his name, or whence he came, knew ‘The Man with the Donkey,’ and many a stricken soldier blessed the pair with his fevered lips.

  One day the donkey walked down to the familiar goal, the dressing-station, with a wounded man as burden but otherwise alone. Its master was not in sight. A search was made, and the hero was found dead—shot through the heart by a stray bullet. As he would have wished to die he passed away, discharging the self-appointed duty he had for weeks carried out so faithfully. This was on May 19 but for many a long day afterwards in the dug-out and in the trench was the name of ‘The Man with the Donkey’ on Australian lips.

  The donkey was taken and cared for by an Indian officer, and up to when our informant left Gallipoli it was still alive, its new master declaring that he would not part with it on any account. Whether the animal (there is talk of a movement to bring it back to Australia) was unavoidably slaughtered with the other dumb servants in the evacuation, or taken off as a special mark of affection, it is hard to say.

  And Simpson? He was buried on the evening of May 19, and a roughly carven cross erected over his grave with the simple but sufficient inscription: ‘Private John Simpson—The Man with the Donkey.’ And so he sleeps, in desolate Gallipoli.

  There was considerable agitation for a decoration for poor Simpson, but for some reason still unexplained it never materialised. ‘If ever one deserved recognition, he did,’ is the general verdict of those who knew the man and could judge of what he had done.

  The story of Simpson and his noble sacrifice was immediately popular in Australia. A Mr Frank F. Keon of Melbourne sent a newspaper clipping about Simpson to Simpson’s mother in England. Mrs Kirkpatrick wrote back in due course.

  Dear Sir—Thank you very much for the cutting that you sent me about the grand work my dear beloved son has done in Gallipoli. I should have written before now, but I have been so poorly and broken-hearted about him that I have not been able to answer to all the kind friends that sent me their sympathy, so that I hope you will excuse me for not answering your kind letter sooner. I am sending you the cutting of our Shields daily, and you will see what a tribute his officer, Captain Fry, gives him. Now, sir, hoping that you will let all my son’s friends in Melbourne know that John Simpson Kirkpatrick, that sailed in the s.s. Kooringa for two and a half years, is the donkey-man of Anzac, and tell the Australians from me, his mother, that my heart is bursting with sorrow and with pride to know that my beloved son, and the light of my life, died with the brave Australians. Now, sir, I can say no more at present, only that I have lost one of the best and most faithful sons that a mother ever had. Thanking you again for your kindness, I remain, your [sic] truly.

  Sarah Simpson Kirkpatrick.

  But Simpson was not the only man using donkeys to rescue the wounded at Gallipoli. After he was killed, the donkeys and their dangerous task were taken over by a New Zealander named Dick Henderson. And it was Henderson who actually appeared in the most famous photograph of ‘Simpson’ and his donkey, due to a mistake in the editing of the original editions of the official history of the war. This was not corrected until many years later in subsequent editions of the history. Henderson was luckier than Simpson and survived the war. He had apparently been well aware of the mistaken identities in the photograph but had chosen not to reveal the truth until the 1950s when, by then blind and ageing, he felt the need to ‘clear the story up’ so the mistake could be righted.

  There have been many calls over the years for Simpson to receive a posthumous Victoria Cross, beginning with recommendations from serving officers who witnessed the man and his donkeys at work. There was even an attempt to have him sainted. To date, though, these efforts have not met with official approval, perhaps because of the difficulty in deciding which of the two ‘Simpsons’—and probably others—was the bravest.

  Also full of controversy and rumour is the story of where Simpson’s donkey came from, and whether or not the animal was killed or managed to escape Gallipoli with the evacuating troops. As usual, there are various versions. A popular one is that the beast was the property of a Colonel Pope, commander of the 16th Battalion, AIF. Another is that it was a member of Pope’s battalion, one T. Gorman, who should have the credit. Most stories agree that the donkey was obtained at Lemnos.

  Did the donkey die when Simpson was killed? Possibly, though some said that the donkey led rescuers to Simpson’s body, surviving to the end of the campaign to be taken off Gallipoli with the troops. In some strands of this tale, the donkey died aboard ship and was buried at sea. There was another claim that ‘Murphy’ was rescued by an Indian soldier. There was also a story that, like many supposedly deceased folk heroes, Murphy was alive and well in another place, in this case somewhere behind the lines at Abbeville, France. As a newspaper article recollecting the events and rumours put it in 1936, the donkey was ‘one of the many dumb heroes of the Great War’.

  Murphy’s daughter

  A further element of the story of Simpson and the donkey involves ‘Jenny’, the offspring of Murphy and another Gallipoli donkey also known as ‘Jenny’. F. C. Dunstan of B Depot, 6th AASC wrote about young Jenny in The Anzac Book.

  For the delightful diversion which little Jenny, with her frolics and gambols, provided for the A.S.C.’s when they really had a moment to spare another medium will have to be sought. Though of short duration, her life appeared a charmed one whilst it lasted. Her freedom of action was the envy of every soldier along the beach. Her disregard for the enemy’s bullets and shells commanded our unbounded admiration. But whether her immunity for six months was due to the kindness of the Turks or their bad shooting, or her own good judgment, who can say?

  Jenny’s origin is enveloped in some obscurity; but it is said that with her parents, Murphy of Red Cross fame and Jenny Senior, she toddled into our lines when quite a mite; and, once having crossed over the border into civilization, the three emphatically refused to return whilst the objectionable Hun element obtained in their native country.

  Jenny the younger was no mere mystic mascot for the humouring of an especially created superstition. Her congenial company and high spirits, her affectionate ways and equable temperament, were the factors which gained for her the obvious rank of ‘Camp Pet.’ Her friendly regular visits will be missed, and the picture of her patrician head and dark-brown shaggy winter’s coat. Her refined voice was music compared with the common ‘hee-haw’ which characterizes her kind, or the peremptory foghorn of the sergeant-major.

  But now she is no more. Our sorrow is immeasurable. The mother never left the babe whilst it suffered excruciating agony through a deadly shrapnel pellet. Skilful, indefatigable attention, invincible iodine, proved futile. Jenny Senior is grief-stricken, and now lies upon the neat little grave in which her infant was placed by the big Australian playmates who now mourn their irreparable loss.

  The souvenir king

  Souveniring—also known as ‘ratting’—was a popular pastime of Australian troops. It involved obtaining items of enemy equipment—clothing, weaponry, medals or anything else that might be worth a few bob. Whether these items were obtained from Germans after they no longer had a need for them or were ‘liberated’ from prisoners was of no consequence. Possession, as they say, was nine points of the law.

  The Anzacs were not the only troops to souvenir all manner of items from the field of battle, but they were noted exponents of the art, as suggested in a couple of digger yarns.

  On the Western Front, a sergeant halted the enormous Private Smith, who was wearing a spiked German helmet.

  ‘Who gave you permission to wear German issue?’ he asked.

  ‘Please, sergeant’, said Private Smith, ‘don’t make me give this lid up; I had to kill seven Germans to get my size.’

  The sergeant looked at Private Smith’s feet. ‘If you ever lose your boots,’ he
said, ‘the flamin’ war’s over.’

  And one about the enthusiastic war photographer:

  It is well known to most front line Diggers that the Aussie official photographer was one of the gamest men in the war. One day he was taking the usual risks, oblivious of all considerations but that of getting a good picture. A purposeful Digger was seen stalking him from shell-hole to shell-hole.

  ‘What in the cell yer doing, Ginger?’ yelled a cobber.

  ‘Oh, it’s all right. I’m just waiting for this photo bloke to get knocked. I want to souvenir his camera!’

  The story of the colourful character who became known as ‘the souvenir king’ is full of folklore as much as fact. John Hines, known as ‘Barney’, was born in Liverpool in 1873. After many years of roughing it around the world he ended up in Australia, enlisting in the AIF in 1915 and becoming a member of the 45th Battalion. On the western front he proved to be, like so many other ‘bad characters’, as good at soldiering as he was bad at staying sober, obeying orders and otherwise knuckling down to military discipline. In addition to his apparent fearlessness and talent for taking large numbers of prisoners, Barney had a very special ability with souvenirs.

  So efficient was Barney at obtaining his trophies that he was dubbed ‘the souvenir king’. It was not only the number and range of items that Barney managed to filch from enemy sources, or elsewhere, that was impressive, but also their occasional oddity or extravagance. On one occasion he souvenired a grandfather clock; on another he added a full barrel of English beer to his stocks.

  To be fair, he was far from being the only collector of questionable mementos in the AIF or any other army. It was the publication of an evocative photograph, taken by Frank Hurley, of Barney sitting with a pile of his keepsakes that provided him with a raffish celebrity around which grew quite a few legends. The most widespread of these is the most unlikely tale that when the German head of state, Kaiser Wilhelm, heard of Barney’s looting, he placed a price on his head, encouraging German troops to hunt down the souvenir king. His notorious reputation for unhappy dealings with authority also generated the story that he was once arrested by British Military Police but caused them so much trouble that he was soon handed back to his unit. His battlefield bravery led to the folk belief that he had killed more German soldiers than any other member of the AIF.