The PR Blog

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.