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The Whistle at the Nek: Glory, Grief, and the Price of Obedience

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Written by: Op-Ed Monty
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Just before dawn on August 7, 1915, the men of the 8th and 10th Australian Light Horse Regiments waited in silence on a narrow strip of Turkish soil known as the Nek. They stood shoulder to shoulder in the dark, clutching rifles with bayonets fixed, their nerves tight as piano wire. In the trenches behind them, mates shared final words, quick prayers, a letter home folded into a breast pocket. Some kissed crucifixes, others stared ahead into the blackness, hearts thudding. Then, as the first grey wash of light crept over the ridgeline, the whistle blew.

They went over the top in lines - neat, ordered, hopeless. They charged not into glory, but into annihilation. Within minutes, dozens lay dead, cut down by Turkish machine guns positioned just yards away. Still the whistle blew again. And again. And again.

Read more: The Whistle at the Nek: Glory, Grief, and the Price of Obedience

Simpson and His Donkey - ANZAC heroes

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Written by: Op-Ed Happy Expat
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It is not often that a hero can also be a larrikin and vice versa. But John " Scotty " Simpson was such a man. A deserter who found himself thrust into the horror of Gallipoli instead of implementing his plan to jump ship in England  

John Simpson Kirkpatrick was an Englishman of Scottish parentage who wanted to get away from his wife.... so he joined the Merchant Navy in 1909. 

In 1910 he deserted from his ship when it was docked at Newcastle in Australia. He led an itinerant lifestyle as a cane cutter, coal miner and various jobs on coastal merchant ships. He also became a left wing activist with The Industrial Workers of the World. Hardly the stuff of heroes.  

But he went on to become a hero. 

Read more: Simpson and His Donkey - ANZAC heroes

When You Can’t Keep Going, Keep Going”: A Reflection on Grief, Love, and ANZAC Day

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Written by: Op-Ed Shaydee Lane
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On ANZAC Day we remember the fallen, the brave, the heroic. But behind every name etched in stone was a mother who gave life, and often, gave that life up to forces beyond her control. I suppose I am thinking about a reflection on grief, not just of war, but of all we have lost and still carry. It is a quiet meditation on the love that never stops, even when the world does.

At what point does loss become grief?

Loss can live quietly for a time. It can trail behind us like a shadow we refuse to turn and face. We speak of absence, of change, of distance. We say things have been lost - as if they might be found again. We tell ourselves stories of adaptation, of coping. But grief? Grief doesn’t ask us to cope. It asks us to stop and feel. To stand still in the debris of what once was and realise...  our problem is that we remember too much to ever truly let go.

Loss becomes grief not when something leaves us, but when we realise it will not return. And then....what then?

Read more: When You Can’t Keep Going, Keep Going”: A Reflection on Grief, Love, and ANZAC Day

Chunuk Bair and Lone Pine: Courage, Command, and the Cost of a Legend

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Written by: Op-Ed Monty
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Two names. Two battles. One legend. At Chunuk Bair and Lone Pine, ANZAC soldiers faced hell on earth and forged a legacy that still shapes Australia and New Zealand more than a century later.

They climbed in darkness and fought in blood. In August 1915, on the rugged hills of Gallipoli, New Zealanders stormed Chunuk Bair while Australians clashed hand-to-hand in the trenches of Lone Pine. These weren’t just battles....they were crucibles. From the smoke, terror, and sacrifice, the ANZAC spirit emerged: fierce, loyal, unyielding. Though separated by ridges, Chunuk Bair and Lone Pine stand together in memory as the defining moments of courage, tragedy, and national identity.

Read more: Chunuk Bair and Lone Pine: Courage, Command, and the Cost of a Legend

Lead Up to ANZAC Diggers - the road to ANZAC Cove

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Written by: Op-Ed Flysa
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It has been truly said that Australia arrived in Gallipoli as six separate States and returned as a Nation with its own national identity. In achieving this, of the over 50,000 Australians who served at Gallipoli during a period of 260 days, there were 8,159 deaths in total, comprised of 5,482 killed in action, 2,012 deaths from wounds, and 665 deaths from disease.   

To the armchair Revisionists, these are merely numbers and not men who gave their lives for their country and are buried in a far-off land.  

Recently, a young man I know preparing for the HSC had to write an essay contrasting the saying that Australia discovered its identity at Gallipoli from both a traditional and revisionist viewpoint.

The traditional viewpoint is said to be a statement of history favourable to the march of civilisation with the facts altered to suit, while the revisionist viewpoint is said to be a statement of what actually happened according to the facts. In order to promote the revisionist viewpoint, it was pointed out that the first war fought by the white Australians was with the aboriginals, and in any event, Australia was defeated at Gallipoli.

What the Revisionists ignore is that until Federation in 1901, the present Australia consisted of six separate British colonies, each with its own Governor and laws, even in relation to customs duties between the States-to-be. By the time of the Gallipoli campaign, Australia had only existed as a nation on paper for 14 years.

Read more: Lead Up to ANZAC Diggers - the road to ANZAC Cove

The Ratty News Exclusive: The Barabbas Interview

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Written by: Op-Ed Ratty News
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By Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble, Investigative Reporter Extraordinaire
The Ratty News Foreign Desk | Special Report

It is the anniversary of Christ’s crucifixion, and I, Roderick McNibble - known to my readers as Whiskers - found myself somewhere I never expected. On this holiest of days, how could I write about Ratty News?  

Instead, I found myself in a dingy dive bar in Gaza, thick with smoke, secrets, and the scent of something deeply unwashed.  A place that was so unfamiliar to me. 

The place reeked of stale beer and had the unmistakable undertone of goat. A flock of them grazed lazily in the corner, apparently part of the décor. Overhead, a dusty ceiling fan spun like a crooked halo, kicking up more flies than breeze.

I had arrived only moments earlier aboard Ratty Airways' signature orange biplane, our flagship vessel fitted with dynamic whisker propulsion; an innovation I may or may not have invented after three Marmalade Brandies from the Dutsy Gulch Country Women's Association Brewing and Distilling Company;  and a high wind. The journey from Dusty Gulch to Gaza took a remarkable ten minutes, a new personal record, though I suspect the laws of time and space bent slightly just to be rid of me.

The locals call this place "The Unleavened Lounge." Others call it "Don't Ask, Just Drink." Either way, it was here I found him - the man whose release shook the world.

Barabbas.

Read more: The Ratty News Exclusive: The Barabbas Interview

Ion Idriess: The Chronicler of a Vanishing Australia

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Written by: Op-Ed Monty
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There are men who live great adventures and there are men who write about them. Ion Idriess did both. With a swag on his back, a rifle in hand, and a notebook never far from reach, he wandered the sunburnt edges of Australia, from the opal fields of Lightning Ridge to the crocodile-haunted waters of the north.

And then, like a bushfire racing the wind, he lit up the imagination of a young nation still finding its story.

Born in 1889 in the sprawl of an emerging Sydney, Idriess was never meant for city living. His spirit roamed from the start - drawn to the scent of eucalyptus and the promise of gold hidden in the hard, unforgiving dirt.

He left school early, drifted through tin camps, fencing runs, and camel tracks, learning the language of the land the hard way, with blistered feet and sun-seared skin.

Read more: Ion Idriess: The Chronicler of a Vanishing Australia

From Stones to Resurrection: The Easter Story of Joseph Cheval

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Written by: Op-Ed Shaydee Lane
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When life collapses and the weight of grief threatens to bury us, we have two choices: wait in the dark, or begin, stone by stone, to build our way back toward the light.

Joseph Cheval, a humble French postman, chose to build. Out of sorrow, he created a palace -  not for kings, but for love, for memory, and for hope.

This Easter, his story reminds us that resurrection is not always sudden. Sometimes, it is a long, aching labour... one we must undertake ourselves if we are to roll back the stone and rise again.

As Easter approaches, we often turn to ancient texts and sacred traditions. Yet sometimes, the Easter message reaches us not just through Scripture, but through the quiet lives of ordinary people whose stories go deeper than doctrine, speaking to the soul.

One such story is that of Joseph Ferdinand Cheval, a French postman from a small village. He wasn’t a priest or prophet, nor a philosopher. He simply walked his mail route each day, delivering letters across the countryside. And yet, through quiet persistence and grief-transformed imagination, he built something that still speaks to the heart of Easter.

Cheval’s story doesn’t begin with triumph, but with a stumble. Literally.

Read more: From Stones to Resurrection: The Easter Story of Joseph Cheval

Billy Sing: The ANZAC Ghost Who Never Missed

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Written by: Op-Ed Monty
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He was short, wiry, and came from the dusty outskirts of Clermont in rural Queensland. Half Chinese, all Australian. Quiet by nature, deadly by skill. His name was Billy Sing, and in the trenches of Gallipoli, his name became legend.

Before the war, Billy’s father gave him one bullet at a time to hunt kangaroos. There were no second chances. You hit your mark - or you went hungry. That quiet discipline followed Billy to the battlefield, where he became one of the deadliest snipers in the ANZAC ranks.

While artillery thundered and men charged, Billy lay still... watching, waiting. His war wasn’t loud. It came in the pause of breath, the twitch of a finger, the silence that followed a single shot.

This is the story of a man who made every bullet count. A soldier whose enemies feared him, and whose country almost forgot him.

Read more: Billy Sing: The ANZAC Ghost Who Never Missed

From Bugles to Bears: Keeping ANZAC Day Alive in the Hearts of Children

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Written by: Op-Ed Monty
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As the sun rises on another ANZAC Day in less than two weeks, and an election looms on the horizon, we stand at a crossroads...not just political, but moral, cultural, and spiritual.

The time is at hand. Our country, our heritage, and the very soul of our nation hang in the balance. Who will we trust with our future? The polished men who lie, profit, and smile as they sign away sovereignty and burden our children with a debt they never incurred? Or will we remember the men who once stormed cliffs and trenches not for gain, but for us? For freedom? For Australia?

This ANZAC Day, as we lay wreaths and whisper “Lest we forget,” we must also look forward. We must remember that bravery is not just a thing of the past. It’s needed now.

Urgently.

And strangely, it may come wrapped not in medals or uniforms, but in something as humble as a teddy bear. Because perhaps, in this moment, what we need most is what we’ve long forgotten: the courage to care, the strength to feel, and the grit to say no... gently, defiantly, but clearly. Maybe this year, it’s Teddy’s turn to hit that electric fence and charge the bull. And maybe, just maybe, we follow.

A little girl, a teddy bear, and a bull behind an electric fence. She was meant to prove her bravery, to touch the fence, to confront the danger and earn her place in the gang. But as the current hummed and the bull watched, her bear trembled. And so, in a moment of pure love, she turned and ran - not to save herself, but to protect him. That day, she “failed” by the rules of others. But in truth, she passed the only test that mattered.

Read more: From Bugles to Bears: Keeping ANZAC Day Alive in the Hearts of Children

One little girl, one terrifying bull, and one very brave Teddy Bear.

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Written by: Op-Ed Shaydee Lane
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Some memories shimmer in the mind like a heat haze, half mischief, half magic. This is one of those. A tale from childhood, when the world was big, the days were endless, and every fence was both a challenge and a dare…

When I was a little girl - maybe six or seven - my two older brothers and their friend Norman had a gang called The Silent 3.

Their clubhouse was a dusty old coal smithy at the back of our property, not far from the chook yard. It was a corrugated iron shed, long since abandoned and quietly rusting into the landscape. Perfect for a secret gang headquarters.

Inside, the floor was dirt, and it smelled of rust and mystery and was absolutely thrilling.

That smithy became the scene of a plot so bold it could’ve ended in heartbreak. Let me tell you what happened.

Read more: One little girl, one terrifying bull, and one very brave Teddy Bear.

  1. On Hospitality, Harmony, and Knowing When to Show a Guest the Door
  2. The Rodent Rebellion Begins: Whiskers McNibble Nips at the Nation’s Polls!
  3. The Origins of World War II - The Slow Burn to Blitzkrieg: Germany’s Path to War
  4. Lions to House Cats? Rebuilding the Warrior's Path After War

Page 18 of 244

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