Reflections

150 Years of History

Introduction by Geoffrey Blainey Edited by Steve Foley

150 Years of History

Introduction by Geoffrey Blainey Edited by Steve Foley

1 5 0 Y E A R S O F T H E A G E v

F o r e w o r d

A good newspaper both reflects and celebrates the community it serves and holds to account those in the community who have the power and privilege to shape its future. It covers the lives – the dreams and aspirations and problems – that confront ordinary people. It covers

personal tragedies and personal triumphs as well as tragedies and triumphs we share as a community.

It brings the world to its readers, the local world and the national world and the world shared by the whole of humanity. It entertains and provokes. It makes people laugh and cry. It uncovers uncomfortable truths about those who rule us. It celebrates triumphs. It marks tragedies. And everything it does is overlaid by a love of the place from where it is produced, the city and the state that is its home and that it seeks to serve.

For 150 years, The Age has been part of the fabric of Melbourne and Victoria and Australia. Without this great newspaper, our community would be less enriched, less informed, less celebrated. Those of us who have had the privilege of working for The Age know that we are just passing through. While we are concerned with individual careers, above and beyond that, we love the paper and want to leave it in better shape than when we arrived.

In the years that I have edited The Age, this has always been at the back of my mind. I have always been aware of what a great honour it is to work for The Age, to edit it, to help shape its future. One day, I shall be gone, but The Age will go on.

That’s how it has always been in its 150-year history. Of course The Age has had its ups and downs, but in the end, the paper has always met the challenges it faced and triumphed. It is a paper that has always been greatly loved by its readers. It has always been a paper that its readers feel they own. It’s their paper. I hope that remains the case forever.

This magnificent book reflects The Age’s history and at the same time, is a history of Melbourne and Victoria and Australia. It is a history of the events, large and small, of people, powerful and less powerful, who made Melbourne and our state one of the best places on Earth in which to live. There will be major challenges that we will all have to face, that our children and grandchildren will have to face, but I am confident that all those challenges will be met. And I am sure that The Age will be there to record all this. It will continue to inform and entertain and yes, infuriate. It will be there to enrich the lives of future generations of readers.

Enjoy the book. The next 150 years, I’m sure, will be as exciting and eventful as the past 150 have been.

Michael GawendaEditor-in-ChiefThe Age

A dOublEdAy bOOk

First published in Australia and New Zealand in 2004by doubleday

Copyright © The Age, 2004

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

National library of AustraliaCataloguing-in-Publication Entry

Foley, Steve.Reflections: 150 years of The Age Includes index.ISbN 1 86471 086 1. 1. Age (Melbourne, Vic.) – History. 2. Melbourne (Vic.) –History. I. Title. 079.9451

Transworld Publishers,a division of Random House Australia Pty ltd20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, NSW 2061http://www.randomhouse.com.au

Random House New Zealand limited18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland

Transworld Publishers,a division of The Random House Group ltd61–63 uxbridge Road, Ealing, london W5 5SA

Random House Inc1745 broadway, New york, New york 10036

Publisher Jane Southward Production manager linda Watchorn Cover and text design by The Modern Art Production Group, MelbourneCover photographs courtesy of The AgeTypeset in 11pt Electra by The Modern Art Production Group, MelbournePrinted and bound by Sing Cheong Printing Co. ltd, Hong kong

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

1 5 0 Y E A R S O F T H E A G E v

F o r e w o r d

A good newspaper both reflects and celebrates the community it serves and holds to account those in the community who have the power and privilege to shape its future. It covers the lives – the dreams and aspirations and problems – that confront ordinary people. It covers

personal tragedies and personal triumphs as well as tragedies and triumphs we share as a community.

It brings the world to its readers, the local world and the national world and the world shared by the whole of humanity. It entertains and provokes. It makes people laugh and cry. It uncovers uncomfortable truths about those who rule us. It celebrates triumphs. It marks tragedies. And everything it does is overlaid by a love of the place from where it is produced, the city and the state that is its home and that it seeks to serve.

For 150 years, The Age has been part of the fabric of Melbourne and Victoria and Australia. Without this great newspaper, our community would be less enriched, less informed, less celebrated. Those of us who have had the privilege of working for The Age know that we are just passing through. While we are concerned with individual careers, above and beyond that, we love the paper and want to leave it in better shape than when we arrived.

In the years that I have edited The Age, this has always been at the back of my mind. I have always been aware of what a great honour it is to work for The Age, to edit it, to help shape its future. One day, I shall be gone, but The Age will go on.

That’s how it has always been in its 150-year history. Of course The Age has had its ups and downs, but in the end, the paper has always met the challenges it faced and triumphed. It is a paper that has always been greatly loved by its readers. It has always been a paper that its readers feel they own. It’s their paper. I hope that remains the case forever.

This magnificent book reflects The Age’s history and at the same time, is a history of Melbourne and Victoria and Australia. It is a history of the events, large and small, of people, powerful and less powerful, who made Melbourne and our state one of the best places on Earth in which to live. There will be major challenges that we will all have to face, that our children and grandchildren will have to face, but I am confident that all those challenges will be met. And I am sure that The Age will be there to record all this. It will continue to inform and entertain and yes, infuriate. It will be there to enrich the lives of future generations of readers.

Enjoy the book. The next 150 years, I’m sure, will be as exciting and eventful as the past 150 have been.

Michael GawendaEditor-in-ChiefThe Age

A dOublEdAy bOOk

First published in Australia and New Zealand in 2004by doubleday

Copyright © The Age, 2004

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

National library of AustraliaCataloguing-in-Publication Entry

Foley, Steve.Reflections: 150 years of The Age Includes index.ISbN 1 86471 086 1. 1. Age (Melbourne, Vic.) – History. 2. Melbourne (Vic.) –History. I. Title. 079.9451

Transworld Publishers,a division of Random House Australia Pty ltd20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, NSW 2061http://www.randomhouse.com.au

Random House New Zealand limited18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland

Transworld Publishers,a division of The Random House Group ltd61–63 uxbridge Road, Ealing, london W5 5SA

Random House Inc1745 broadway, New york, New york 10036

Publisher Jane Southward Production manager linda Watchorn Cover and text design by The Modern Art Production Group, MelbourneCover photographs courtesy of The AgeTypeset in 11pt Electra by The Modern Art Production Group, MelbournePrinted and bound by Sing Cheong Printing Co. ltd, Hong kong

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Foreword Michael Gawenda v

Acknowledgements Steve Foley viii

T H E H I S T O R Y

The cabbage patch that grew Geoffrey Blainey 1-46

T H E P L A T E S

Politics Michael Gordon 47-82

War Peter Ellingsen 83-130

City James Button 131-175

Witness Andrew Rule 176-220

Life Jane Sullivan 221-246

Fashion Janice Breen Burns 247-264

Music Shaun Carney 265-278

Crime Gary Tippet 279-288

Culture Michael Shmith 289-306

Sport Greg Baum 307-361

The writers 362

Notes on sources 363

Photo credits 364

Index 368

C o n t e n t s

Foreword Michael Gawenda v

Acknowledgements Steve Foley viii

T H E H I S T O R Y

The cabbage patch that grew Geoffrey Blainey 1-46

T H E P L A T E S

Politics Michael Gordon 47-82

War Peter Ellingsen 83-130

City James Button 131-175

Witness Andrew Rule 176-220

Life Jane Sullivan 221-246

Fashion Janice Breen Burns 247-264

Music Shaun Carney 265-278

Crime Gary Tippet 279-288

Culture Michael Shmith 289-306

Sport Greg Baum 307-361

The writers 362

Notes on sources 363

Photo credits 364

Index 368

C o n t e n t s

1 5 0 Y E A R S O F T H E A G Eviii

T his book is dedicated to the editors, journalists, artists and photographers, past and present, whose work I have tried faithfully to reflect. The story of the past 150 years is, quite literally, theirs to tell. The words, images and etchings they have left behind offer a glimpse of the

world in which they lived and the changes brought upon it. From these reflections I hope some useful insight is gained into the eras that defined Melbourne and the state of Victoria.

Newspapers of any longevity accumulate vast troves of material and wherever possible acknowledgement is given, except in circumstances where it has been impossible to trace the origin. Any omissions are unintentional.

Though comprehensive, The Age’s archive is by no means complete. In order to provide a balanced representation it has been necessary to access complementary collections, in particular The Argus Collection which was gifted by The Age to the State library in 1976, the latrobe Picture Collection of the State library and the Public Records Office of Victoria.

like most projects of any scale this book has been a collaborative effort. I am particularly indebted to The Age’s associate librarian Marian Crawford for her patience and willingness to help me find many of the remarkable pictures this book contains. Special thanks also to my Age colleagues david Rood, who helped me with the writing of City and War captions; Stephen Howell and Rohan Connolly who helped compile the Sport captions; and louise Graham who helped make some of the photo selections in Sport. Janice breen burns did the Fashion captions for which I was most grateful. To inform the remainder of the book I drew on the broad body of work published in The Age during the past century and a half.

My sincere thanks also to The Age books Manager Steve berry for both managing the project and giving invaluable guidance; to The Age art director bill Farr for conceiving the elegant ‘look’; and to deborah Snibson, kim bear and Grant Slaney of The Modern Art Production Group for the magnificent result. Paul Rovere of The Age imaging department did an outstanding job of scanning, and in some instances, restoring the images, assisted by Richard Wilson.

I gratefully acknowledge, too, the assistance of david Green, who cast a meticulous eye over all the pages; Mick Connolly for his graphics; Patrick donovan for his music input; and the staff of The Age Research library for their dedication and patience, and Michelle Stillman in particular. I am also indebted to Madeleine Say and Fiona Jeffery of the latrobe Picture Collection for unearthing some of the treasures in this work, to the bull family for finding Hugh bull’s photos from Hiroshima and Mrs Janice Harper for the McPhee brothers. To Andrew Webster for tracking down the Spiteri triplets in Life and don davis for providing helpful information used in War, I also give thanks.

From The Age management team I thank Editor-in-Chief Michael Gawenda, Editorial Operations Manager louise Graham, Imaging Manager brendon McCullough, Communications director Nigel Henham and a special acknowledgement to Fairfax Corporate Affairs Manager bruce Wolpe for all their help in making this book possible.

My thanks also to the team at Random House for their guidance and hospitality. led by Publisher, Non fiction, Jane Southward, they are linda Watchorn, Nadine davidoff, Sophie Ambrose and Jessica dettman.

Finally, deepest thanks to my wife Anne, who has been my mainstay.

Steve FoleyEditor, Reflections2004

A c k n o w l e d g e m e n t s

W a r

This historic PM edition of The Age on March 21, 2003, at the outbreak of the war on Iraq, was the last to be printed at the newspaper’s Spencer Street plant.

The following day’s edition of The Age marked the beginning of a new era of production at its $220 million plant at Tullamarine.

War, which historian John Keegan called that old, unhappy, far-off thing, is too extreme to explain. It chews up too much life, and erodes too much hope. So we talk about it as if it makes sense, with tales of heroic achievement.

Usually the story turns on glorious victory. But sometimes the loss that is at the heart of war emerges to transcend fairytale and leave its mark on the mind. It is then that the symbols – a creased Australian flag, webbing belt, or Rising Sun army badge – become cathartic. Time stands still and boundaries collapse.

It happened in the remote Lou-ou village on the far western coast of Hainan China, when the remains of the only Australian soldiers to have fought beside Chinese guerillas in World War II were found. It had been 46 years since the soldiers, members of Gull Force, a unit raised mainly in Victoria in 1941, died battling heavily armed Japanese forces. But the villagers, many of whom had cared for the soldiers’ remains, had not forgotten. Stooped and leaning on a bamboo stick, Qing Jaying, 85, who buried the Australians in 1944, dabbed at his tears and said he would miss his old friends. He had honoured a promise given to Chinese fighters to always protect the memory of the “tall men with big noses”.

It was a similar story on the flat, haunting plains of northern France when the villagers buried Sergeant John White, a Victorian blacksmith who died in the second Battle of Bullecourt in 1917. It took 78 years for his remains to be unearthed, and when they were, the whole village of Bullecourt turned out to remember. Most were born after the battle that claimed 8000 diggers, but even the school children had heard of the Australians who, according to Canberra’s official war historian, C.E.W. Bean, kept fighting only through the “sheer quality of their mettle”.

It is this kind of carnage on the battlefield that bloods a nation, forging the myth of national character. It is a way to find a place for unimaginable barbarity, as well as a redemptive story of who we think we are.

In this myth-making, no story is more powerful than Gallipoli. The reason is not the 8000-plus death toll – the battles of Fromelles and Pozieres in 1916 claimed similarly high numbers of casualties – it is the deeds involved, and the fact that, unlike the mud hell of the Somme, the fighting was never so perfunctory that its value was blurred.

The Gallipoli landing in 1915 also was the moment when a young nation was casting about for an identity. Writers at the time said it had something to prove. But that was not what was in the minds of the young men who rode and walked up to 3000 kilometres to volunteer. They sensed adventure. Taking on the Kaiser was a “Grand Picnic in Europe”, they were told. And the pay was six shillings a week, nearly double the average wage. All this added up to a group of men who were fiercely independent, the “ragtag and bobtail of Australia”.

There was little that was regimented about their effort, which was just as well because when they hit the tiny indentation on Turkey’s coast on April 25, 1915, they found machine-gun fire so ferocious, bodies littered the beach and a make-shift cemetery was in place by 10am. After that, it got worse. For almost nine months they dug into the jagged yellow cliffs without achieving any military objective.

To adapt a couplet from war poet, Wilfred Owen, no red lips were as red as the stained stones kissed by those farm boys of the First Australian Division. They faced sheer cliffs that rear out of the sea at oblique angles. Staring at the climb now, you wonder how that first wave of 1500 got out of their pathetic dug-outs at all. They

expected open ground but found a wall of scrubby ridges and a hail of bullets. In the pre-dawn dark, it could only have been terrifying. So was this a case of rare bravery? That is the way the myth-tellers portray it. It

certainly took determination to push on over the bodies of fallen comrades. But there can be no extreme uniformity of human behaviour; some would have wavered. And if courage was the currency at Gallipoli, what drove it? Was it love of King and Country or some steely resolve that made them extraordinary?

When you stand where they died, you wonder about such things, along with the question, “How would I have behaved?”

As John Keegan says, we are deeply and secretly interested in war and its violent acts. At Gallipoli, though, there is something else, something more important than whether they won or lost.

For me, it is how they touched their adversaries. Lone Pine, where seven VCs were awarded, is deeply moving, mainly because of the selfless courage of the 2200 Australians who died trying to secure a tiny stretch of dirt. But even more moving is how the Turks treasure the Australians. At least 86,000 Turks died at Gallipoli. That is close to the 101,000 Australians who died in both world wars. And yet, Australians are honoured in a rare way. It is not just the words of Turkish leader, Kemal Ataturk, declaring there is “no difference between the Johnnies and Mehmets”. It is stories like the one told by a young Turk, Sijat Gumrijkcij, who drove me over the battlefield.

As we bumped our way past the Nek, where Corporal John Simpson kept the donkey he used to ferry dying soldiers to safety, Gumrijkcij explained how his grandfather, Ali Riza, defied orders to save a young Anzac, Paddy McDonald, of Coolgardie, Western Australia, whom he had bayoneted in a trench. The fighting was

then so fierce and confused that, despite a brief armistice, 14,000 bodies were never recovered, and burial was a luxury. Riza, like most of the Turks on the bluff firing down on the Australians, was amazed at the guts of the young invaders.

The Australians refused to run, preferring, as the war historian, Dr Bean says, to curse “like a dog snarls at its tormentors”, but what happened when they fell is less clear. The Australian legend turns on their motivation. As one wrote in a letter: “There was no co-ordinated effort about it. We were just a crowd of diggers working with each other, trusting each other blind.”

The sentiment must have touched the enemy because Paddy McDonald, who, like the other 1915 volunteers was just the fourth generation of white settlers in Australia, was taken by Ali Riza to his home where he was nursed to health. “My grandfather called him ‘the kid’ because he was just 17,” Gumrijkcij explained. The two later corresponded until Ali Riza died in 1984.

The story of Gallipoli, as costly as it is, is filled with tiny miracles. The remarkable thing is how it has been passed on. This is not, as some seem to assume, because of what the modern world likes to call success. It is because loss, when mixed with conscious sacrifice, has the power to echo down the generations. Many of the diggers knew they were going to die. Some said their goodbyes as they lifted themselves out of the trenches. As Gumrijkcij dropped me off at the ferry that services Gallipoli, he made a request. Handing me a spent 303 shell with a flower inside, he asked, “Will you put this on the grave of an Australian soldier.” It mattered not what soldier; their joint action had left a memory that spoke of hope beyond heroism. It made them immortal.

1 5 0 Y E A R S O F T H E A G E84 1 5 0 Y E A R S O F T H E A G E 85

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Carnage and catharsis Peter Ellingsen

August 1914 September 1939 August 1945 December 2003

War, which historian John Keegan called that old, unhappy, far-off thing, is too extreme to explain. It chews up too much life, and erodes too much hope. So we talk about it as if it makes sense, with tales of heroic achievement.

Usually the story turns on glorious victory. But sometimes the loss that is at the heart of war emerges to transcend fairytale and leave its mark on the mind. It is then that the symbols – a creased Australian flag, webbing belt, or Rising Sun army badge – become cathartic. Time stands still and boundaries collapse.

It happened in the remote Lou-ou village on the far western coast of Hainan China, when the remains of the only Australian soldiers to have fought beside Chinese guerillas in World War II were found. It had been 46 years since the soldiers, members of Gull Force, a unit raised mainly in Victoria in 1941, died battling heavily armed Japanese forces. But the villagers, many of whom had cared for the soldiers’ remains, had not forgotten. Stooped and leaning on a bamboo stick, Qing Jaying, 85, who buried the Australians in 1944, dabbed at his tears and said he would miss his old friends. He had honoured a promise given to Chinese fighters to always protect the memory of the “tall men with big noses”.

It was a similar story on the flat, haunting plains of northern France when the villagers buried Sergeant John White, a Victorian blacksmith who died in the second Battle of Bullecourt in 1917. It took 78 years for his remains to be unearthed, and when they were, the whole village of Bullecourt turned out to remember. Most were born after the battle that claimed 8000 diggers, but even the school children had heard of the Australians who, according to Canberra’s official war historian, C.E.W. Bean, kept fighting only through the “sheer quality of their mettle”.

It is this kind of carnage on the battlefield that bloods a nation, forging the myth of national character. It is a way to find a place for unimaginable barbarity, as well as a redemptive story of who we think we are.

In this myth-making, no story is more powerful than Gallipoli. The reason is not the 8000-plus death toll – the battles of Fromelles and Pozieres in 1916 claimed similarly high numbers of casualties – it is the deeds involved, and the fact that, unlike the mud hell of the Somme, the fighting was never so perfunctory that its value was blurred.

The Gallipoli landing in 1915 also was the moment when a young nation was casting about for an identity. Writers at the time said it had something to prove. But that was not what was in the minds of the young men who rode and walked up to 3000 kilometres to volunteer. They sensed adventure. Taking on the Kaiser was a “Grand Picnic in Europe”, they were told. And the pay was six shillings a week, nearly double the average wage. All this added up to a group of men who were fiercely independent, the “ragtag and bobtail of Australia”.

There was little that was regimented about their effort, which was just as well because when they hit the tiny indentation on Turkey’s coast on April 25, 1915, they found machine-gun fire so ferocious, bodies littered the beach and a make-shift cemetery was in place by 10am. After that, it got worse. For almost nine months they dug into the jagged yellow cliffs without achieving any military objective.

To adapt a couplet from war poet, Wilfred Owen, no red lips were as red as the stained stones kissed by those farm boys of the First Australian Division. They faced sheer cliffs that rear out of the sea at oblique angles. Staring at the climb now, you wonder how that first wave of 1500 got out of their pathetic dug-outs at all. They

expected open ground but found a wall of scrubby ridges and a hail of bullets. In the pre-dawn dark, it could only have been terrifying. So was this a case of rare bravery? That is the way the myth-tellers portray it. It

certainly took determination to push on over the bodies of fallen comrades. But there can be no extreme uniformity of human behaviour; some would have wavered. And if courage was the currency at Gallipoli, what drove it? Was it love of King and Country or some steely resolve that made them extraordinary?

When you stand where they died, you wonder about such things, along with the question, “How would I have behaved?”

As John Keegan says, we are deeply and secretly interested in war and its violent acts. At Gallipoli, though, there is something else, something more important than whether they won or lost.

For me, it is how they touched their adversaries. Lone Pine, where seven VCs were awarded, is deeply moving, mainly because of the selfless courage of the 2200 Australians who died trying to secure a tiny stretch of dirt. But even more moving is how the Turks treasure the Australians. At least 86,000 Turks died at Gallipoli. That is close to the 101,000 Australians who died in both world wars. And yet, Australians are honoured in a rare way. It is not just the words of Turkish leader, Kemal Ataturk, declaring there is “no difference between the Johnnies and Mehmets”. It is stories like the one told by a young Turk, Sijat Gumrijkcij, who drove me over the battlefield.

As we bumped our way past the Nek, where Corporal John Simpson kept the donkey he used to ferry dying soldiers to safety, Gumrijkcij explained how his grandfather, Ali Riza, defied orders to save a young Anzac, Paddy McDonald, of Coolgardie, Western Australia, whom he had bayoneted in a trench. The fighting was

then so fierce and confused that, despite a brief armistice, 14,000 bodies were never recovered, and burial was a luxury. Riza, like most of the Turks on the bluff firing down on the Australians, was amazed at the guts of the young invaders.

The Australians refused to run, preferring, as the war historian, Dr Bean says, to curse “like a dog snarls at its tormentors”, but what happened when they fell is less clear. The Australian legend turns on their motivation. As one wrote in a letter: “There was no co-ordinated effort about it. We were just a crowd of diggers working with each other, trusting each other blind.”

The sentiment must have touched the enemy because Paddy McDonald, who, like the other 1915 volunteers was just the fourth generation of white settlers in Australia, was taken by Ali Riza to his home where he was nursed to health. “My grandfather called him ‘the kid’ because he was just 17,” Gumrijkcij explained. The two later corresponded until Ali Riza died in 1984.

The story of Gallipoli, as costly as it is, is filled with tiny miracles. The remarkable thing is how it has been passed on. This is not, as some seem to assume, because of what the modern world likes to call success. It is because loss, when mixed with conscious sacrifice, has the power to echo down the generations. Many of the diggers knew they were going to die. Some said their goodbyes as they lifted themselves out of the trenches. As Gumrijkcij dropped me off at the ferry that services Gallipoli, he made a request. Handing me a spent 303 shell with a flower inside, he asked, “Will you put this on the grave of an Australian soldier.” It mattered not what soldier; their joint action had left a memory that spoke of hope beyond heroism. It made them immortal.

1 5 0 Y E A R S O F T H E A G E84 1 5 0 Y E A R S O F T H E A G E 85

W a r

Carnage and catharsis Peter Ellingsen

August 1914 September 1939 August 1945 December 2003

1 5 0 Y E A R S O F T H E A G E88

B I R T H O F A L E G E N D

ABOVEWilliam J. Lambie, an Age journalist, was the first Victorian to die in the Boer War in 1900. Mistaken for a soldier, he was shot through the head and heart trying to flee on horseback. The pre-eminent war correspondent of his day, Lambie’s death shocked the pre-Federation colony.

RIGHTGlorious News! Mafeking relieved. Rejoicing throughout the Empire. Tumultuous enthusiasm scenes in Melbourne, The Age declared in May 1900.

OPPOSITE TOPThe beginning of a legend. As the brave men of the 10th Battalion prepare for the imminent invasion of Gallipoli, none could have conceived the legacy of their sacrifice. In nine months of futile battle, Australia suffered 8709 fatalities and more than 18,000 wounded. For many, survival meant facing the even bloodier fields of the Western Front.

OPPOSITE BOTTOMThousands of Australian soldiers who landed on Gallipoli’s shores were greeted by the jagged peak called the Sphinx. It was their shelter for the duration of the nine-month stalemate.

PREVIOUS PAGESThe last parade of the 3rd Australian Light Horse Brigade at Heliopolis Camp, Egypt, on May 5, 1915, from where they were sent as infantry to Gallipoli. The charge of the 3rd Light Horse Brigade at the Nek on August 7, 1915, was described by military historian Charles Bean as “a deed of self-sacrificing bravery which has never been surpassed in military history”.

1 5 0 Y E A R S O F T H E A G E 89

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1 5 0 Y E A R S O F T H E A G E88

B I R T H O F A L E G E N D

ABOVEWilliam J. Lambie, an Age journalist, was the first Victorian to die in the Boer War in 1900. Mistaken for a soldier, he was shot through the head and heart trying to flee on horseback. The pre-eminent war correspondent of his day, Lambie’s death shocked the pre-Federation colony.

RIGHTGlorious News! Mafeking relieved. Rejoicing throughout the Empire. Tumultuous enthusiasm scenes in Melbourne, The Age declared in May 1900.

OPPOSITE TOPThe beginning of a legend. As the brave men of the 10th Battalion prepare for the imminent invasion of Gallipoli, none could have conceived the legacy of their sacrifice. In nine months of futile battle, Australia suffered 8709 fatalities and more than 18,000 wounded. For many, survival meant facing the even bloodier fields of the Western Front.

OPPOSITE BOTTOMThousands of Australian soldiers who landed on Gallipoli’s shores were greeted by the jagged peak called the Sphinx. It was their shelter for the duration of the nine-month stalemate.

PREVIOUS PAGESThe last parade of the 3rd Australian Light Horse Brigade at Heliopolis Camp, Egypt, on May 5, 1915, from where they were sent as infantry to Gallipoli. The charge of the 3rd Light Horse Brigade at the Nek on August 7, 1915, was described by military historian Charles Bean as “a deed of self-sacrificing bravery which has never been surpassed in military history”.

1 5 0 Y E A R S O F T H E A G E 89

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1 5 0 Y E A R S O F T H E A G E90

T H E F A R A W A Y W A R

ABOVELike a Roman legion, soldiers from the 15th Battalion march down Collins Street in December 1914.

RIGHTThe shot that echoed around the world. As the Archduke Ferdinand and his wife lie dying in Sarajevo, police seize their assassin.

OPPOSITE TOPWith their reflections captured in the rain-filled crater at Hooge, infantry move to the front line of the Western Front in October 1917. Its saw-tooth trench-line stretched 700 kilometres from the Belgian to the Swiss border. At Fromelles in July 1916, the 5th Division suffered 5533 casualties in 24 hours alone.

OPPOSITE BOTTOMThe apocalyptic landscape of battle. Australian soldiers walk a duckboard track at Ypres on the Western Front.

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1 5 0 Y E A R S O F T H E A G E 91

1 5 0 Y E A R S O F T H E A G E90

T H E F A R A W A Y W A R

ABOVELike a Roman legion, soldiers from the 15th Battalion march down Collins Street in December 1914.

RIGHTThe shot that echoed around the world. As the Archduke Ferdinand and his wife lie dying in Sarajevo, police seize their assassin.

OPPOSITE TOPWith their reflections captured in the rain-filled crater at Hooge, infantry move to the front line of the Western Front in October 1917. Its saw-tooth trench-line stretched 700 kilometres from the Belgian to the Swiss border. At Fromelles in July 1916, the 5th Division suffered 5533 casualties in 24 hours alone.

OPPOSITE BOTTOMThe apocalyptic landscape of battle. Australian soldiers walk a duckboard track at Ypres on the Western Front.

W a r

1 5 0 Y E A R S O F T H E A G E 91

C i t y

1 5 0 Y E A R S O F T H E A G E 1611 5 0 Y E A R S O F T H E A G E160

C A F E S O C I E T Y

ABOVE AND LEFTIn Melbourne coffee is not merely a drink but an event, destination and conversation. Peering from the hidden nooks of city laneways, today’s cafes are a throw-back to the coffee palaces and cafes past – boutique eateries such as the Coq D’or Café circa 1946 and Pellegrini’s which has remained virtually the same as the day it opened its doors onto Bourke Street in 1954.

BOTTOM LEFT The boom years of the 1880s gave birth to grand temperance hotels which refused to sell alcohol. Edwardian women, in particular, were attracted to their sober salons. The elaborate Federal Coffee Palace standing on the corner of Collins and King streets, with its iron-framed dome tower, was prime among them. Thousands turned out to see its demolition in 1973 to make way for a concrete office block and carpark.

BOTTOM RIGHT Mietta O’Donnell personified what many regard as Melbourne’s finer attributes: good food and wine, conviviality and a passion for the arts and literature. All these elements were celebrated in the restaurants that bore her name, notably her last, a grand establishment in Alfred Place that was popular with the city’s power elite. A celebrity of the understated kind, Mietta could be an elegant presence in her chandeliered dining room, but equally comfortable mixing downstairs with writers and musicians in what was the equivalent of an 18th century salon. She died tragically in a car accident in 2001.

G H E T T O S

TOP RIGHT We are building what will become ghettos of poor quality, cheap, badly built, high-maintenance houses in the sky. These towers will form an urban and social blight within 10 years that will scar the tissue of the city. They are badly built and unsuited for renovation. They will most likely be demolished when their investment use-by date is up.

Architect Norman Day was giving a damning assessment of what he called the “cookie-cutter” apartment towers punctuating Melbourne’s skyline in 2003. His words may yet have a prophetic ring; he could just as easily have been passing judgement on the bleak high-rise blocks built by the Housing Commission in the 1960s.

Melbourne has more high-rise public housing than any Australian city. Once seen as the solution to overcrowded, unsanitary slums, the public housing towers of the inner-city are now universally condemned as social blights – a term associated with Michael Gawenda’s 1982 Walkley Award-winning feature Ghettos in the Sky.

BOTTOM RIGHT To an outsider, the Housing Commission flats of Melbourne’s inner suburbs rise drab and lifeless. But behind those concrete walls lives a diversity of colour, movement and sound. To many it is home: a haven, a shelter, a shrine. Inquisitive about the lives within, Sunday Age photographer Jerry Galea compiled a 1999 photo essay that featured, among others, Leo and Kathy Kemp. Residents for 40 years, the Kemps proudly displayed a lifetime’s memorabilia that filled their Kensington living room. Each item was a symbol of their affection for each other. “Mr Kemp gave me this for our 10 years together, and our anniversary and my birthday,” Mrs Kemp told Galea as she pointed out her favourite things.

PREVIOUS PAGE During the Depression, crowded, rotting and unsanitary workers’ cottages were condemned as slums. Whole swathes were bulldozed but by the early 1970s, similar-styled terraces were fashionably renovated. Gentrification has turned them into valuable assets.

C i t y


C A F E S O C I E T Y

ABOVE AND LEFTIn Melbourne coffee is not merely a drink but an event, destination and conversation. Peering from the hidden nooks of city laneways, today’s cafes are a throw-back to the coffee palaces and cafes past – boutique eateries such as the Coq D’or Café circa 1946 and Pellegrini’s which has remained virtually the same as the day it opened its doors onto Bourke Street in 1954.

BOTTOM LEFT The boom years of the 1880s gave birth to grand temperance hotels which refused to sell alcohol. Edwardian women, in particular, were attracted to their sober salons. The elaborate Federal Coffee Palace standing on the corner of Collins and King streets, with its iron-framed dome tower, was prime among them. Thousands turned out to see its demolition in 1973 to make way for a concrete office block and carpark.

BOTTOM RIGHT Mietta O’Donnell personified what many regard as Melbourne’s finer attributes: good food and wine, conviviality and a passion for the arts and literature. All these elements were celebrated in the restaurants that bore her name, notably her last, a grand establishment in Alfred Place that was popular with the city’s power elite. A celebrity of the understated kind, Mietta could be an elegant presence in her chandeliered dining room, but equally comfortable mixing downstairs with writers and musicians in what was the equivalent of an 18th century salon. She died tragically in a car accident in 2001.

G H E T T O S

TOP RIGHT We are building what will become ghettos of poor quality, cheap, badly built, high-maintenance houses in the sky. These towers will form an urban and social blight within 10 years that will scar the tissue of the city. They are badly built and unsuited for renovation. They will most likely be demolished when their investment use-by date is up.

Architect Norman Day was giving a damning assessment of what he called the “cookie-cutter” apartment towers punctuating Melbourne’s skyline in 2003. His words may yet have a prophetic ring; he could just as easily have been passing judgement on the bleak high-rise blocks built by the Housing Commission in the 1960s.

Melbourne has more high-rise public housing than any Australian city. Once seen as the solution to overcrowded, unsanitary slums, the public housing towers of the inner-city are now universally condemned as social blights – a term associated with Michael Gawenda’s 1982 Walkley Award-winning feature Ghettos in the Sky.

BOTTOM RIGHT To an outsider, the Housing Commission flats of Melbourne’s inner suburbs rise drab and lifeless. But behind those concrete walls lives a diversity of colour, movement and sound. To many it is home: a haven, a shelter, a shrine. Inquisitive about the lives within, Sunday Age photographer Jerry Galea compiled a 1999 photo essay that featured, among others, Leo and Kathy Kemp. Residents for 40 years, the Kemps proudly displayed a lifetime’s memorabilia that filled their Kensington living room. Each item was a symbol of their affection for each other. “Mr Kemp gave me this for our 10 years together, and our anniversary and my birthday,” Mrs Kemp told Galea as she pointed out her favourite things.

PREVIOUS PAGE During the Depression, crowded, rotting and unsanitary workers’ cottages were condemned as slums. Whole swathes were bulldozed but by the early 1970s, similar-styled terraces were fashionably renovated. Gentrification has turned them into valuable assets.

C i t y


P A R T Y T O W N

From East to West, the greatest show on Earth rolled across the globe in a universal, pyrotechnic salute to a millennium that brought war, pestilence and injustice, tempered by great discoveries, the words of the poets and the kindness of the human heart, The Sunday Age, January 2, 2000.

ABOVE A typical Saturday night, Melbourne’s big night out.

TOP RIGHTIn Melbourne an estimated 350,000 people jammed into the city to watch in awe and wonder as a fire and light spectacular above the Yarra welcomed the new millennium.

MIDDLE RIGHTAt 2.30am, the platforms of Flinders Street Station resemble morning rush hour as revellers head home from, arguably, the biggest party ever held.

BOTTOM 3.40am. Naomi Rose and Benjamin Hahne embrace the millennium and each other at Flinders Street.

H E R I T A G E S A V E D

ABOVEFor almost 70 years the Skipping Girl vinegar sign has shined in the Melbourne skyline. First switched on in 1936, “Little Audrey”, as she was dubbed, inspired Barry Humphries to write The Ode to the Skipping Girl in 1970.

TOP LEFTIn less sensitive times, construction of the Melbourne Central shopping centre would have seen the demolition of the Coops Shot Tower. But as 1980s Melbourne began to embrace its architectural heritage the 50-metre tower was enclosed within a conical glass ceiling.

BOTTOM LEFTA stack of concrete malt silos, a sign for a plastics manufacturer, a clock lit by orange light bulbs – and a Melbourne icon, now covered by the highest level of heritage protection under Victorian law.

I'm high on the hillLooking over the bridge To the M.C.G. And way up on high The clock on the silo Says eleven degrees– Paul Kelly in Leaps And Bounds

C i t y


P A R T Y T O W N

From East to West, the greatest show on Earth rolled across the globe in a universal, pyrotechnic salute to a millennium that brought war, pestilence and injustice, tempered by great discoveries, the words of the poets and the kindness of the human heart, The Sunday Age, January 2, 2000.

ABOVE A typical Saturday night, Melbourne’s big night out.

TOP RIGHTIn Melbourne an estimated 350,000 people jammed into the city to watch in awe and wonder as a fire and light spectacular above the Yarra welcomed the new millennium.

MIDDLE RIGHTAt 2.30am, the platforms of Flinders Street Station resemble morning rush hour as revellers head home from, arguably, the biggest party ever held.

BOTTOM 3.40am. Naomi Rose and Benjamin Hahne embrace the millennium and each other at Flinders Street.

H E R I T A G E S A V E D

ABOVEFor almost 70 years the Skipping Girl vinegar sign has shined in the Melbourne skyline. First switched on in 1936, “Little Audrey”, as she was dubbed, inspired Barry Humphries to write The Ode to the Skipping Girl in 1970.

TOP LEFTIn less sensitive times, construction of the Melbourne Central shopping centre would have seen the demolition of the Coops Shot Tower. But as 1980s Melbourne began to embrace its architectural heritage the 50-metre tower was enclosed within a conical glass ceiling.

BOTTOM LEFTA stack of concrete malt silos, a sign for a plastics manufacturer, a clock lit by orange light bulbs – and a Melbourne icon, now covered by the highest level of heritage protection under Victorian law.

I'm high on the hillLooking over the bridge To the M.C.G. And way up on high The clock on the silo Says eleven degrees– Paul Kelly in Leaps And Bounds

C i t y


R E A C H F O R T H E S K Y

ABOVE Long before the ICI or Rialto towers speared skywards, Melbourne had a totemic structure that was to influence height limits for the next 70 years. On completion in 1888, the 12-storey Australian Building, at the corner of Elizabeth Street and Flinders Lane, was one of the world’s tallest buildings and one of the first in Australia to feature hydraulic lifts.

TOP Melbourne’s first skyscraper, the ICI building, led the city’s modernisation. The building’s definitive blue-glazed panels more than doubled Melbourne’s 132-foot building height limit, abolished in 1957. A company brochure boasted the staff cafeteria “probably commands the best view of any dining room in Melbourne”.

BOTTOM LEFT Melbourne lost. The grand columns of the Colonial Mutual Life Assurance building dominated the turn-of-the-century Melbourne skyline. Built in 1893, the block of land on the corner of Collins and Elizabeth streets was purchased for £360,000. In 1837 the same block cost £64. During construction one life was lost for each of the building’s seven storeys. By 1960 the grand building was gone, demolished by Whelan the Wrecker.

BOTTOM RIGHT A worker from demolition company Whelan the Wrecker places its sign under the statuary of the Colonial Mutual Life building. In the 1950s and ’60s “Whelan the Wrecker is here” signs marked the beginning of a new Melbourne landscape and a heritage lost.

G O T H I C B E A U T Y

ABOVE First they tried smoking them out but the bats of the Botanic Gardens simply refused to go. When firing cap guns failed to shift them, sharp-shooters were sent in to cull numbers – until animal welfare activists said they would destroy rare tree species in response. Next the government spent $130,000 recreating bat “heaven” in one of the city’s leafier precincts, complete with fake bats and free feeds. Then it was taxpayer-funded “dispersal agents” whose job it was to shoo them away. After two weeks of harassment – including loudspeakers on the back of four-wheel-drive buggies – the bats finally vacated the garden’s fern gully, where they had lived contentedly for 20 years. In animal-obsessed Melbourne, no other issue – with the possible exception of its beloved connies – has fixated Age letter writers more than Batmania.

LEFT In 1939, shrouded in mist, the monolith that is St Paul’s Cathedral looks like a Tolkien fantasy. Its soaring spires crowned the vista from St Kilda Road, Melbourne’s most prized aspect. With the gothic masterpiece of St Patrick’s Cathedral in nearby East Melbourne, it gave the city two of its greatest landmarks. Both are powerful symbols of faith, but they are also reminders of the power that unimpeded views exert on the built environment. Nothing since has been allowed to threaten St Paul’s hallowed place in the city’s affections.

C i t y


R E A C H F O R T H E S K Y

ABOVE Long before the ICI or Rialto towers speared skywards, Melbourne had a totemic structure that was to influence height limits for the next 70 years. On completion in 1888, the 12-storey Australian Building, at the corner of Elizabeth Street and Flinders Lane, was one of the world’s tallest buildings and one of the first in Australia to feature hydraulic lifts.

TOP Melbourne’s first skyscraper, the ICI building, led the city’s modernisation. The building’s definitive blue-glazed panels more than doubled Melbourne’s 132-foot building height limit, abolished in 1957. A company brochure boasted the staff cafeteria “probably commands the best view of any dining room in Melbourne”.

BOTTOM LEFT Melbourne lost. The grand columns of the Colonial Mutual Life Assurance building dominated the turn-of-the-century Melbourne skyline. Built in 1893, the block of land on the corner of Collins and Elizabeth streets was purchased for £360,000. In 1837 the same block cost £64. During construction one life was lost for each of the building’s seven storeys. By 1960 the grand building was gone, demolished by Whelan the Wrecker.

BOTTOM RIGHT A worker from demolition company Whelan the Wrecker places its sign under the statuary of the Colonial Mutual Life building. In the 1950s and ’60s “Whelan the Wrecker is here” signs marked the beginning of a new Melbourne landscape and a heritage lost.

G O T H I C B E A U T Y

ABOVE First they tried smoking them out but the bats of the Botanic Gardens simply refused to go. When firing cap guns failed to shift them, sharp-shooters were sent in to cull numbers – until animal welfare activists said they would destroy rare tree species in response. Next the government spent $130,000 recreating bat “heaven” in one of the city’s leafier precincts, complete with fake bats and free feeds. Then it was taxpayer-funded “dispersal agents” whose job it was to shoo them away. After two weeks of harassment – including loudspeakers on the back of four-wheel-drive buggies – the bats finally vacated the garden’s fern gully, where they had lived contentedly for 20 years. In animal-obsessed Melbourne, no other issue – with the possible exception of its beloved connies – has fixated Age letter writers more than Batmania.

LEFT In 1939, shrouded in mist, the monolith that is St Paul’s Cathedral looks like a Tolkien fantasy. Its soaring spires crowned the vista from St Kilda Road, Melbourne’s most prized aspect. With the gothic masterpiece of St Patrick’s Cathedral in nearby East Melbourne, it gave the city two of its greatest landmarks. Both are powerful symbols of faith, but they are also reminders of the power that unimpeded views exert on the built environment. Nothing since has been allowed to threaten St Paul’s hallowed place in the city’s affections.

1 5 0 Y E A R S O F T H E A G E166

O A S I S

TOP RIGHT Oasis of tranquility: the Botanic Gardens, swampy marshland until 1846, has drawn generations of visitors to its cool glades. Entering the gardens can be a magical moment, as it was for Sharon Morrison, 11, from Warragul, on her first visit.

BOTTOM RIGHTIn 1902 the Royal Botanic Gardens lake was uncluttered and gleaming. William Guilfoyle had, literally, dug up Baron Ferdinand von Mueller’s original layout (1857–1873), making the gardens less formal and more recreational. Guilfoyle’s fondness for sweeping lawns, curving pathways, bridges and promontories is clearly evident. Today, two million visitors a year enjoy the splendour he bequeathed.

A landmark in the making. Looking east, bricklayers work on the construction of Flinders Street railway station, the Edwardian Baroque pile that stretches for a city block from Elizabeth to Swanston streets. The design for a European-style station emerged from a competition in 1900. Trains had

terminated at the site since 1854, but by the 1880s the buildings were far from adequate.

The grand edifice was unveiled in 1910, giving Melbourne its most recognisable building. For the first half of the 20th century, Flinders Street was more than a transport hub. Geographically and socially, it was the meeting place of Melbourne. People made appointments “under the clocks” (and still do), dancers sashayed around its parquet ballroom, shopping mothers entrusted their children to a rooftop nursery and groups as diverse as rose growers and debating societies regularly gathered in its warren of meeting rooms.

Reporting the opening of the Victorian Railways Institute in 1910, The Age described a lavishly appointed third-floor suite of rooms that were more akin to a gentlemen’s club than a railway station. Along with a concert hall (later used for dances), amenities included a lending library of 8000 books, a billiard room, gymnasium and dining room laid with silver, crystal and linen. The philanthropic railway commissioners saw these “elaborate” facilities not as their exclusive domain but intended for the betterment of their workers. It was to the advantage of the employer when the employees were off duty to see that . . . their moral and physical welfare was cultivated and their education advanced, The Age reported.

Dominating the intersection of Swanston and Flinders streets – St Paul’s spires were not added until 1926, and nearly a century would pass before the long-promised plaza that became Federation Square was finally realised – the Grand Dame of the railways has since fallen into decline as a community asset. Seedy in parts, it remains secure in the affections of generations of Melburnians.

H U B

1 5 0 Y E A R S O F T H E A G E 167

ABOVEWorkmen haul one of the clock’s four dials into position atop the tower of Flinders Street station in 1909.

TOP AND BELOWAt the turn of the century, Flinders Street station was seen as a popular public utility. When the Kennett Government privatised the railways in 1999, the French-owned operators promised to add some pizazz, suggesting a name change to “Northbank”. The boutique hotel for trainspotters, upmarket shops, galleries and restaurants they proposed never materialised.

1 5 0 Y E A R S O F T H E A G E166

O A S I S

TOP RIGHT Oasis of tranquility: the Botanic Gardens, swampy marshland until 1846, has drawn generations of visitors to its cool glades. Entering the gardens can be a magical moment, as it was for Sharon Morrison, 11, from Warragul, on her first visit.

BOTTOM RIGHTIn 1902 the Royal Botanic Gardens lake was uncluttered and gleaming. William Guilfoyle had, literally, dug up Baron Ferdinand von Mueller’s original layout (1857–1873), making the gardens less formal and more recreational. Guilfoyle’s fondness for sweeping lawns, curving pathways, bridges and promontories is clearly evident. Today, two million visitors a year enjoy the splendour he bequeathed.

A landmark in the making. Looking east, bricklayers work on the construction of Flinders Street railway station, the Edwardian Baroque pile that stretches for a city block from Elizabeth to Swanston streets. The design for a European-style station emerged from a competition in 1900. Trains had

terminated at the site since 1854, but by the 1880s the buildings were far from adequate.

The grand edifice was unveiled in 1910, giving Melbourne its most recognisable building. For the first half of the 20th century, Flinders Street was more than a transport hub. Geographically and socially, it was the meeting place of Melbourne. People made appointments “under the clocks” (and still do), dancers sashayed around its parquet ballroom, shopping mothers entrusted their children to a rooftop nursery and groups as diverse as rose growers and debating societies regularly gathered in its warren of meeting rooms.

Reporting the opening of the Victorian Railways Institute in 1910, The Age described a lavishly appointed third-floor suite of rooms that were more akin to a gentlemen’s club than a railway station. Along with a concert hall (later used for dances), amenities included a lending library of 8000 books, a billiard room, gymnasium and dining room laid with silver, crystal and linen. The philanthropic railway commissioners saw these “elaborate” facilities not as their exclusive domain but intended for the betterment of their workers. It was to the advantage of the employer when the employees were off duty to see that . . . their moral and physical welfare was cultivated and their education advanced, The Age reported.

Dominating the intersection of Swanston and Flinders streets – St Paul’s spires were not added until 1926, and nearly a century would pass before the long-promised plaza that became Federation Square was finally realised – the Grand Dame of the railways has since fallen into decline as a community asset. Seedy in parts, it remains secure in the affections of generations of Melburnians.

H U B

1 5 0 Y E A R S O F T H E A G E 167

ABOVEWorkmen haul one of the clock’s four dials into position atop the tower of Flinders Street station in 1909.

TOP AND BELOWAt the turn of the century, Flinders Street station was seen as a popular public utility. When the Kennett Government privatised the railways in 1999, the French-owned operators promised to add some pizazz, suggesting a name change to “Northbank”. The boutique hotel for trainspotters, upmarket shops, galleries and restaurants they proposed never materialised.

TOP The railway children: In 1935, young mothers from the suburbs were encouraged to leave their children in the care of railways’ staff while they shopped in the city. Many took advantage of this early form of creche. A wire cage on the roof of Flinders Street was used for play activity; under supervision, children could watch the trains.

ABOVE Juice bars, in vogue today, were just as popular in 1926. Here, thirsty travellers line up at a fresh fruit juice bar at Flinders Street station.

ABOVE RIGHTIn 1930, women could attend “physical culture” classes – the equivalent of today’s gym junkies – in the grand ballroom of the railways’ building, otherwise used for tea dances.

RIGHT Closed in the 1970s, the ballroom that entertained Melbourne couples for 50 years is now neglected and shut away.

OPPOSITE The Age was not alone in its centenary year.

1 5 0 Y E A R S O F T H E A G E168

TOP The railway children: In 1935, young mothers from the suburbs were encouraged to leave their children in the care of railways’ staff while they shopped in the city. Many took advantage of this early form of creche. A wire cage on the roof of Flinders Street was used for play activity; under supervision, children could watch the trains.

ABOVE Juice bars, in vogue today, were just as popular in 1926. Here, thirsty travellers line up at a fresh fruit juice bar at Flinders Street station.

ABOVE RIGHTIn 1930, women could attend “physical culture” classes – the equivalent of today’s gym junkies – in the grand ballroom of the railways’ building, otherwise used for tea dances.

RIGHT Closed in the 1970s, the ballroom that entertained Melbourne couples for 50 years is now neglected and shut away.

OPPOSITE The Age was not alone in its centenary year.

1 5 0 Y E A R S O F T H E A G E168

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