By Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble, Special Correspondent for Ratty News
Roderick Whiskers McNibble here, tail fluffed against the dawn chill and heart heavy with reverence.
I’ve scampered through many stories in my time, from the murky shadows beneath Canberra restaurant bars and lobbies to the marmalade-slick contraband lanes of Dusty Gulch, but none quite so stirring as the memory I unearthed this ANZAC Day morning.
It’s a tale that rises like the Rotorua mist, warm with the scent of ANZAC biscuits and the ache of old truths. A tale from Australia that was born in New Zealand and needs to rise again.
A tale of two countries bound together in blood and memories of battles fought and lives lost. Of friendship. Of mateship. Of the ANZAC tradition.
This isn’t just a story - it’s a soul-marking memory, born at dawn and carried through decades. And if you’ve ever felt your fur bristle at the bugle's cry or your eyes sting with tears you didn’t expect, well then, dear reader… you’ll understand why I had to share it.
Roderick: It’s ANZAC Day. A day of silence. Of memory. Of biscuits. I found myself not at the frontlines, but in a quiet corner, speaking with someone who’s been to the dawn service - and not just once, but in spirit, every year since. I’m sitting here with the one who, nearly 55 years ago, had her first encounter with sacred mist, bugle, and biscuit. Let’s call her... The Girl Who Became a Patriot.
Tell me - what was your first ANZAC Day really like?
The Patriot: My very first Dawn Service was at St Faith’s Church at Ohinemutu in Rotorua, New Zealand. The steam was rising out of the tombs at the lakeside cemetery as the sun rose over Lake Rotorua. In the church, the glass window showed Christ walking on water.
It was bitterly cold; the air was still and the mist just starting to lift off the lake.
As the bugler sounded out the Last Post, I felt chills throughout my body – not from the cold, but from the intense emotional atmosphere that surrounded me. Tears welled up from within me and I felt an overwhelming sense of Pride, Loss, Grief, Patriotism and genuine Humility.
Roderick: That’s no small declaration. A patriot - at fifteen?
The Patriot: Strange to say, isn’t it? But yes. I felt it with all my being. Like a religious moment - not the learning kind, the knowing kind. At that moment, I understood sacrifice. The price of peace. I knew I could never be the same again.
Roderick: What happened next? Did the world understand what you had just become?
The Patriot: No. I rode back to Ngongotahā with friends. I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. The moment was too large. But then we arrived at their house - and the kitchen smelled like comfort and history. Fresh ANZAC biscuits. The hearth was lined with photos, flags, memories crocheted in love. That’s when I realised: remembrance doesn’t end with the bugle. It’s in every bite. Every cup of tea. Every quiet kitchen on the 25th of April.
Roderick: Let’s talk biscuits. You’ve got strong feelings about them.
The Patriot: Damn right I do. That humble oat-and-syrup biscuit was born of sacrifice - no eggs, because the poultry farmers had gone to war. It stood for our resilience. Our shared struggle.
Roderick: Meanwhile, I understand Dusty Gulch has taken matters into its own oven?
The Patriot: Yes! The ladies of the Dusty Gulch Country Women’s Association have been baking around the clock. The town smells like golden syrup and righteous indignation. Ratty Airways has been chartered. They’re loading bikkies onto every available wing and are preparing for an aerial drop over Canberra - hoping a few crumbs of decency might land on the heads of those in Parliament who’ve been asleep at dawn for far too long.
Roderick: So we’re not just talking about a protest. We’re talking about a full-blown Operation Biscuit Storm?
The Patriot: Exactly. A crunchy, home-baked wake-up call. It’s time they woke up and smelt the biscuits .... while we still have a few crumbs of Old Australia left to savour.
Roderick: And what of the veterans, the fallen?
The Patriot: Forgotten, mostly. Token gestures and PR campaigns. But truth? The way we treat our defenders today is shameful. I remember when Australian lives - and New Zealand lives - mattered deeply, publicly, proudly. We must return to what was right. Not because it’s nostalgic .... because it’s true.
Roderick: Final thoughts?
The Patriot: Save the old recipes. The real ones. The ones made of courage, grief, oats, and golden syrup. Remember who we are. If we don’t - if we forget the sound of the bugle, the meaning of the mist, and the love baked into a biscuit - then the Last Post may not be just remembrance. It may be prophecy.
Roderick: Lest We Forget.
BREAKING RAT-LINE NEWS: CWA LADIES MOBILISE IN BISCUIT AIRLIFT
By Roderick McNibble, reporting from the runway behind the Dusty Gulch CWA Hall and the Hangar at Ratty HQ.
Meanwhile, in a flurry of flour and righteous fury, the CWA ladies of Dusty Gulch have been baking non-stop for days. Aprons are flying, kettles are whistling, and Doris “Danger-Mittens” McCrae has commandeered the biscuit tins for Operation Crumbs of Decency.
At dawn, a bright orange Ratty Airways biplane took to the skies, loaded with payloads of tradition: thousands of warm, honest ANZAC biscuits wrapped in brown paper, string, and sentiment. The plan? A daring aerial drop over Canberra - the hope being that a few crumbs of courage, history and common sense might tumble down and rattle the windows of Parliament.
“We just want them to wake up,” said Betty McTavish, stirring her fifth bucket of golden syrup. “They’ve been asleep at dawn for too long. It’s time they woke up and smelled the biscuits - while we still have a few crumbs of old Australia left.”
Lest We Forget. And Lest They Regret.
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