The birth of Anzac Day in Brisbane

On Monday, January 10, 1916, a “monster public meeting” was held in Brisbane’s Exhibition Hall to discuss ways to publicly commemorate the more than 8700 soldiers who had died in World War I’s Gallipoli campaign.

Out of this meeting came the formation of the Anzac Day Commemoration Committee (ADCC), whose complete records are held in State Library of Queensland’s collections and give a fascinating insight into the formation of what is today a national day of remembrance.

Minutes from the first meeting show a decision that the date of observance would be April 25 – the day of the original landing – and that “the chief object of the day” would be “the recognition of the gallant courage displayed by Australia’s sons, in  fighting for the preservation of liberty and civilisation”.

Only a few months later, Brisbane hosted what is believed to be the country’s first Anzac Day commemoration, with locals experiencing a curious mixture of excitement and solemnity.

Indeed, the committee was careful to try and divorce the event from other patriotic activities being undertaken across the state.

“It is hoped,” reads the ADCC statement, “that there will be no attempt to turn the day into one of jubilation or rejoicing in any form.”

The day began with religious services “for all denominations” at army camps around Brisbane, followed by formal church services at 11am, attended by returned soldiers.

The streets of Brisbane city were adorned with flags and “floral honours”, with those in celebration mixing in with the great many in personal mourning, who “wore badges or displayed some cherished relic which was associated with one or the other of those now sleeping in Gallipoli”.

By 3pm, an enormous number of people (some estimates put it as high as 50,000) began to gather along Queen Street leading up to the General Post Office (GPO), which had been set up as a “saluting base” where the day’s main ceremony would take place. Despite city council warnings not to sit or stand on building awnings, photos show many people ignoring that advice.

By this time, more than 6400 soldiers had begun a march from the Exhibition Grounds towards the GPO. Along the route, the crowds grew so dense that police had to form a cordon to hold them back and let the soldiers through.

The soldiers eventually assembled at the front of the GPO where large platforms had been erected, populated by “Ministers of the Crown, naval, military, civic and ecclesiastical dignitaries [and] members of the judiciary” (including then Queensland governor Major Sir Hamilton Goold-Adams on a dais overlooking the street), forcing the majority of the soldiers – some wounded – to sit on the ground or gutters, both reportedly still wet from morning rain.

Nonetheless, three volleys of gunfire broke the air and the crowd fell silent as eight buglers sounded The Last Post.

Afterwards, a band struck up a  “brisk march” and the official parade began in earnest.

Even though “umbrellas were broken, hats crumpled up and trod upon,  dresses torn and hair dishevelled”, the crowd reportedly left the procession in fine spirits.

Later that night, about 2500 people gathered in the Exhibition Hall for a series of speeches commemorating the Gallipoli landing.

At 9pm, a minute’s silence began.

By request of the mayor, “all public or semi-public clocks throughout the city” had been synchronised to the tower clock on Central Station, allowing all citizens to cease “all work and amusement” at exactly the same time.

However you view it, Australia’s first Anzac Day commemoration was a sincere and impressive tribute to Australian and New Zealand soldiers whose sacrifice and “imperishable fame” would now not  be forgotten.

Anzac Day, it was clear, was here  to stay.