When I saw this photo on Brianβs site,
Bushboy’s World, I knew I wanted to
write something. Here it is. Thanks to
Brian for the use of his wonderful photo.
The old bicycle leaned against the shed wall in Gallipoli, 1915. Private Thomas Webb had ridden it through dust and danger, leather saddlebags stuffed with dispatches too sensitive for the telegraph.
The green canvas bag held rations …. hard biscuits, a tin of jam. The pale linen pouch concealed folded maps, pencil-marked with troop positions. The rolled leather bundle on the front fork? Letters, dozens of them, from mothers and sweethearts, promises of home.
Thomas never read them. That wasn’t his job.
On a Tuesday morning in April, he made his last run between command posts. The bicycle came back without him, bags still full, chain still ticking softly as it rolled to a stop against a stone wall.
Someone propped it there. Nobody moved it.
If only bags could speak.
NARΒ© 2026
This is βDiggers of the Anzac (This is Gallipoli)β by John Williamson
All text and graphics are copyright for Nancy Richy and are not to be used without permission. NARΒ©2017-present.
The Elephant's Trunk 