The Anzac Iliad: Early New Zealand School Journals and the development of the citizen-child in the new dominion

Abstract

The New Zealand School Journal was established in 1907 to provide reading material across the primary school curriculum. Linked to reforms of the school curriculum, the School Journal aimed to introduce curriculum content relevant to New Zealand children. With the outbreak of the First World War, however, the School Journal became harnessed to the war effort, becoming entrenched in civic instruction and an upsurge in imperialism. Inclusion of patriotic reading material strongly reflected notions of self-sacrifice and reinforced concepts of the dutiful citizen-child. This article explores how preparation for war, and portrayal of war, fostered a particular notion of New Zealand’s developing identity and the role that the citizen-child had to play in the new dominion. Literary integration of subjects and genres, collapses of time and location, along with juxtaposition of items within the School Journal, particularly through the use of the Anzac story, solidified this emergent New Zealand identity. The School Journal, as de facto curriculum, became complicit in the creation and maintenance of the Anzac myth as a basis for the ideal New Zealand citizen through annual commemorative issues of the School Journal, culminating with Anzac Day as a newly created national holiday in 1923.

Introduction

The New Zealand School Journal was established in 1907 to provide reading material in support of the newly reformed primary school curriculum. Initiated by the then Inspector-General of Schools, George Hogben, the School Journal was published in the fledgling dominion with the aim of providing content reflective of New Zealand children’s interests and experiences. As the Department of Education’s only publication for children until 1939, the School Journal had a wide influence on the education of New Zealand children (O’Brien, 2007). It continues to be published to this day.

With the anniversary of the First World War taking centre stage in New Zealand currently, it is timely to reflect on the development of the widely held belief that participation in the war forged a new and iconic national identity. The year 2015 marked the centenary of the landing of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (ANZAC) ¹ on the Gallipoli Peninsula, where the myth of the rugged, stoic and heroic Anzac figure was born (see the article by Bingham, 2017, in this issue, for more on the masculinist ideal of the brave New Zealand soldier). The year 2016 saw the 100th anniversary of the Battle of the Somme; 2017 – Passchendaele. The day 12 October 1917, often called ‘New Zealand’s blackest day’ is when the largest number of New Zealand soldiers died on a single day in the First World War. ² It is in the context of the 100th anniversary commemorations that the ‘Teaching about war; yesterday and today’ project was conducted.

This article is drawn from the wider study but focused in on how the events of the First World War were taught to school children of the time. Through an examination of the collection of early New Zealand School Journals held in the Sylvia Ashton-Warner Library on the Epsom Campus of the University of Auckland, New Zealand, researchers were able to gain an insight into beliefs and attitudes at the time of the First World War. The fragile documents were electronically scanned and made available as word-searchable texts for academics and students to use for research purposes. Summer scholarships supported postgraduate students to explore the School Journal database and undertake investigations into topics of interest relating to the First World War. This article takes the theme of the development of the dutiful citizen-child through an examination of New Zealand’s developing national identity and the use of fact, fiction and myth to promote particular ideals and reinforce notions of bravery, self-sacrifice and duty to the empire.

New Zealand’s pre-First World War status

New Zealand was first settled by Polynesian voyagers, ca. ad 800. Māori lived virtually undisturbed by outsiders for centuries until European sailors found their way into the southern oceans. An influx of new settlers from Great Britain in the 1800s led to an agreement to be signed between Māori and the British Crown. Although this agreement, known as the Treaty of Waitangi, has had a contentious history, it is still considered New Zealand’s founding document. Land wars and land confiscation, illness and dislocation led to the decimation of the Māori population in the later 1800s and the rise of the British colonist as the dominant group (Mutch, 2005).

In the harsh struggle for survival, a growing sector of these new colonials became absorbed in the possibilities and potential freedoms of their new land. Wishing to escape old oppressions and inequalities, they developed a sense of independence, acting to promote their rights and extend their entitlements. They sought to distance themselves from the motherland as they forged their new identity. Separation from their origins was also coupled with a growing disenchantment with the British Empire and awareness of the associated abuses of colonialism. They began to question imperial slave-trading, dubious methods of land acquisition and the trampling of indigenous rights (Stephenson, 2010).

The death of Queen Victoria in 1901, however, saw a revival of imperialism and upper-middle class values. This was of benefit to those in power who had gained from privileges associated with their connections to empire and the trappings of authority. The Victoria League, largely a women’s organisation, and the League of the Empire, predominantly a masculine domain, were created for the purposes of revitalising allegiance to Great Britain. The revival of imperial thinking throughout British society, both in the home country and abroad, ‘increasingly equated citizenship and self-worth with love of nation and empire’ (Bush, 2000: 126). Letter writing between children of the empire, exchanges of flags, essay competitions and teacher exchanges were organised, along with a series of patriotic slideshows (Stephenson, 2010). Education became a site for instilling in the next generation a desire to honour and serve the empire.

In 1907, George Hogben, the Inspector-General of Schools, attended the first Imperial Education Conference in London. This meeting of international delegates was organised by the League of the Empire (Stephenson, 2010). Shortly afterwards, at the request of the Liberal government of Prime Minister Joseph Ward, New Zealand was granted self-governing dominion status by King Edward VII. As a dominion of the British Empire, the links to the monarchy were retained and, in New Zealand, represented by the appointment of a Governor-General. Although constitutionally significant, the event was relatively unheralded by the majority of citizens at the time (Cartwright, 2001). Britain continued to exercise a stake in New Zealand’s defence and foreign affairs. Any indication of further movement away from Great Britain was opposed by stalwart colonial imperialists, including William Massey, leader of the opposition at the time New Zealand became a dominion. Massey went on to become Prime Minister during the First World War period.

Early schooling and the establishment of the School Journals

The 1877 Education Act established a system of primary education in New Zealand that would be free, compulsory and secular. Reverend Habens, first Inspector-General of Education, prepared a curriculum that included the traditional 3Rs, grammar and composition, geography, science, drawing and music (Mutch, 2005).

Part of forging a distinctive New Zealand identity was the recognition of local talent and the production of a national literature. Prior to the publication of the School Journal, William Pember Reeves, Minster of Education between 1891 and 1896, and a poet in his own right, endeavoured to print works by New Zealanders, eschewing slavish adherence to British subject matter (O’Brien, 2007). An anthology for use in schools, The New Zealand Reader, was produced in the 1890s. ³ The Southern Cross Geographical Readers, textbooks for the middle and upper primary, with contributions from New Zealand teachers, were also published by a local firm. ⁴ The purchase of multiple textbooks that were appropriate to age, subject and school, however, placed financial pressure on parents who began to advocate for a single publication available to all the country’s primary schools (Ewing, 1970).

Hogben strongly shaped the philosophy underpinning public education in early twentieth century New Zealand, for which he was later knighted. In 1904, he reviewed and updated the curriculum. He believed education was instrumental in social change. Hogben added moral instruction, history, civics, physical education, health and manual training to the syllabus (Campbell, 1941). Hogben believed that ideals of strength and moral virtue were attainable through discipline, obedience and self-sacrifice. His reforms aligned with the New Educationist movement which aimed to foster in school children a love and attachment to their country, beginning with the local and familiar and expanding outwards to the development of an imperial patriotic spirit (Patrick, 2009). It is no surprise that these precepts became a strong presence in the content of the early School Journals.

Hogben was responsible for the creation of the New Zealand School Journal. The first edition was published on 9 May 1907. It was a multi-subject journal, focusing mainly on history, geography and civics, divided into three parts according to class levels, and made freely available to all children in state-funded schools or at a minimal cost to those in private schools (Ewing, 1970). Content included non-fiction, fiction, poetry and illustrations. Children were each to have their own copy of the School Journal which they could use at school as part of their studies and later keep at home. For this reason, November issues were larger than usual, so children might continue their reading over the Christmas holidays (O’Brien, 2007).

Theory and method

This study examines how the First World War was portrayed at the time to provide insight into how the war’s significance is remembered today and how that has influenced contemporary commemorations. The School Journal, as an adjunct to the prescribed curriculum, provides a rich source of information on the values and perspectives of the times. In this article, curriculum is viewed as a social and political construct (Mutch, 2005). As a contemporary analysis of curriculum history, it differs from early curriculum histories which celebrated developments without critically analysing them. McCulloch (1992) argues that to approach the curriculum, ‘as though it has arisen overnight, fully formed, without reference to its history, is to only inspect the tip of the iceberg’ (p. 9). Viewing the School Journal as a socially and politically constructed artefact reflective of its time provides valuable insights into how curriculum is constructed, by whom and for what purposes.

The process of locating, scanning and analysing the School Journals was a long and complex one. These highly fragile primary sources were not allowed to be borrowed directly from the Epsom campus library, so special arrangements had to be made through inter-library and inter-campus loans to enable the School Journals to be scanned at the University of Auckland’s central library. A state-of-the-art scanner was used to reduce wear and tear on the bindings. Settings were frequently manually adjusted to ensure a higher quality digital reproduction. The librarian-in-charge checked the quality of the scanned documents and was available for consultation. Records of missing issues and pages were kept, as was a record of items successfully scanned.

Each scanned School Journal issue was then thoroughly read and reviewed. Details were entered into a shared Google Docs database, which provided bibliographic data, descriptive summaries and emerging qualitative analyses that were visible to all researchers engaged in the larger project. Data relating to content, themes, type of text, year of publication, class level and relationship to other items, as well as item placement within the School Journal, were synthesised and categorised. Images were also analysed according to depictions of people, objects, places and their relationship to the significant areas of focus. Details of the contributors were recorded. Sections for additional information and comments were added as new themes or emphases emerged from the analysis. Once entered, the summaries could be reviewed and edited. In this way, a large quantity of information was available, from which it was possible to make conclusions about language, style, content and messages. Once a strong theme was identified, researchers could access both original data and summary tables, from which to structure their articles (two of which appear in this Special Issue). The scanned journal articles remain available to other researchers at the University of Auckland through a restricted library portal.

This article draws on analyses of written and visual items in the early years of the School Journal, from 1907–1930. It discusses how stories, poems, photographs, maps and illustrations were combined in a variety of ways to reinforce messages of what it meant to be citizen-child in the New Zealand of the times. The use of classical mythology is highlighted, in particular, for the way in which this literary device was used to reinforce key messages. Findings are discussed with reference to the textual content, but due to copyright restrictions, visual material from the School Journals is not able to be reproduced.

The aim is that this article will contribute to the limited body of research using the New Zealand School Journals as a primary data source and, more uniquely, the use of the School Journals to portray the civic messages delivered to school children at the time of the First World War.

Findings and discussion

In the analysis of the themes, concepts of duty, loyalty and connection to the British Empire, along with the honour of self-sacrifice, particularly in service to king and country became clearly apparent. To help make these ideals relevant to school children, tales and teachings involving young people from around the world and throughout history were often used, framed by points of civic instruction. This article reports on three key themes: how the School Journals constructed the notion of the dutiful citizen-child, how children were prepared for impending war and how the Anzac myth was used to reinforce these dutiful citizen messages both during and after the war.

Constructing the dutiful citizen

The dominant culture and the citizen-subject construct

School curricula serve a range of purposes, not least of which is articulating the knowledge, skills, values and attitudes deemed by society as being worth passing on to the next generation. Reconceptualist curriculum scholars (see, for example, Pinar et al., 1995) would ask, however, who decides what is important and for whom? At the time of the introduction of School Journal, the shaping of the dominion’s citizen-child was largely moulded by the ideals of the dominant culture. With the decline of the indigenous population in the late 1800s, the majority of New Zealanders of the time had historical, familial and cultural ties to Great Britain. The British are portrayed in the School Journal as compassionate colonisers, who, despite making a few mistakes, brought law and order to protect both Māori and European New Zealanders through their governance and institutions. A School Journal article notes that the Treaty of 1840 was ‘one of the most remarkable ever made with a savage race’ and has, ‘remained the foundation of Maori liberty and British power in our country, and it was by it that New Zealand became part of the British Empire’ (1914/2/5/pp. 70–71). ⁵

Strong ties to Great Britain were maintained through the legal system, trade, language and education. Schooling, since the 1877 Education Act, facilitated the seeding of predominantly upper-middle class British values, the assimilation of Māori and the exclusion of difference. Stephenson (2008) claims that the development of British rule prioritised Western constructions of citizenship and belonging, which over time, marginalised indigenous ways of identifying with the land and limited the ways in which Māori could fulfil their rights and obligations as a tribal society.

In the School Journal, Māori are portrayed as in need of civilising. We are told that Samuel Marsden (an early missionary) was ‘a great and good man’ who ‘came to New Zealand to teach the Maoris and to beg them to give up their savage ways of living’ (1910/1/2/p. 29). While Māori content was regularly included in the School Journal, it was presented from a colonial and patriarchal perspective. Māori were praised, for example, for how they ‘had taken to heart the teachings of the better class of Europeans’ (1912/3/1/p. 16). Their culture was portrayed through a series of ‘Maoriland fairy tales’ (see, for example, 1912/1/10).

Prince George visited New Zealand in June 1901. Nine years later when he becomes King of England, the children of New Zealand are reminded of his great visit and of the tangi (funeral wake) held for Queen Victoria by local Māori in Rotorua:

On this last day of his visit he saw the Maori as he had never been seen in all his history. In numbers, in unity of racial brotherhood, in unanimity of loyalty to the Empire and the Royal house, in generosity of heart and enthusiasm of emotion, this demonstration surpassed everything in the annals of the race. (1910/3/5/p. 147)

Consolidating New Zealand’s place in the British Empire

New Zealand’s constitutional history was presented to children as a continuous progression of British history through the centuries – part of a seemingly unbroken and legitimate chain of constitutional continuance (Patrick, 2009). Terms reflecting a close imperial relationship are echoed throughout the School Journal where New Zealand is talked of as the ‘Britain of the South’ and Great Britain as ‘dear old Home-land’ or the ‘Mother-land’. New Zealand children are located as British citizen-subjects in the making. In several issues, the ‘boys and girls of the Empire’ are directly addressed by the Earl of Meath:

May you bear in mind that, of the allied peoples of this Empire, each one looks to the others for practical sympathy, protection, and co-operation; and that not only the State to which you belong, but also the Empire itself, looks to you to be ready in time of need, to think, to labour, and to bear hardships in its behalf! May you excel in the practice of Faith, Courage, Duty, Self-discipline, Fair-dealing, Even Justice, Good Citizenship, Loyalty, Patriotism, and Sympathy, and thus by your own individual action aid in elevating the British character, strengthening the British Empire, and consolidating the British Race! (1914/3/5/pp. 132–133)

Stories of Queen Victoria, King Edward VII and King George V are regularly told and re-told, especially in the June issues, which coincide with Empire Day celebrations. Queen Victoria is the ‘Great White Queen’ and King George V, the ‘Sailor Prince’. Children would learn of George’s hard work ethic through an anecdote about joining the navy when he was 12 years old. There was no special treatment for Prince George; he did his duty as the other boys and men on board the ship did. He later embarked upon an 8-month tour of the empire, ‘so that the future King of England might become still more fully acquainted with the British dominions beyond the seas and their peoples’ (1910/3/5 p. 145).

These stories were supplemented by stories of earlier English kings, especially Alfred the Great, whose story was a regular feature across the years and school levels. Children were also introduced to the patron saints, St George, St Andrew and St Patrick; great British sailors and commanders, Drake, Cook and Nelson; and adventurers, Livingstone, Shackleton and Scott. Other famous figures of history were introduced, but not always in such favourable terms, notably William the Conqueror and Napoleon Bonaparte. Children were reminded of

… all the bold men who took the flag of England into unknown seas and lands – of Sir Humphrey Gilbert and Raleigh, of Hawkins and Drake, of Frobisher and Davis, of John Smith and William Penn, of Clive and Wolfe, of Anson and Captain Cook, of David Livingstone and Cecil Rhodes, and of a hundred others. (1912/3/5/p. 102)

The children of New Zealand were given consistent examples of their value and worth to their dominion and the empire. The importance of the part they could play in elevating, strengthening and consolidating the greatness of the British Empire was reinforced at every opportunity:

England expects, and, indeed, knows, that every man will do his duty. But the doing of duty begins with the boy and the girl, and when young we must all train ourselves and fit ourselves for the great duties and responsibilities which will fall upon us when we grow up. (1909/3/4/p. 101)

The citizen-child and the ‘golden deed’

One way in which the idea of duty was reinforced was through the notion of the ‘golden deed’ (1914/3/1). Such deeds were undertaken by selfless citizens, including children, with no thought for their own safety or of any kind of reward. Notions of imperial citizenship and self-sacrifice were cultivated through these stories of heroic deeds. The selection of items was intended to shape the beliefs and values of children by appealing to their emotions, their sense of belonging and connection with the familiar (Patrick, 2009).

The 1910 article ‘What makes a nation great?’ tells children that it is people who make a nation great. The article gives brief summaries of people whom children should emulate: soldiers fighting for their country at the Battle of Trafalgar; courageous British soldiers who stayed aboard a sinking ship off the coast of Africa so that the women and children might survive in the few available lifeboats; a bugler boy who sounded the alarm in the mid of a Māori raid, ‘determined to do his duty at any cost’; New Zealand’s Grace Darling, Julia Martin, who put herself at great risk to save the lives of a shipwrecked crew; and countless more ‘men and women who risk their lives for others in bush-fires, mining accidents, and when people are in danger of drowning’ (1910/2/4/p. 58).

The message is unequivocal: men and women, boys and girls should do their duty above all else, as in this poem:

Do your best, your very best,

And do it every day,

Little boys and girls:

That is the wisest way. (1907/1/6/p. 92)

The examples selected for publication are arranged in age appropriate year levels. Even very young children can be dutiful citizens by being brave and rescuing others. There is ‘The brave fisher lad’, ‘A brave little boy’ and ‘Some brave New Zealand girls and boys’. In ‘A brave little lad’, ‘Richard Clough … is only seven years of age … yet, as young as he is, he not only kept his home from being burned down, but also saved the lives of his little sister and baby brother’ (1911/1/5). The story ends: ‘How proud of him everybody was when it was seen what a brave boy he had been’ (p. 74).

Moreover, bravery was not only exemplified by boys who were fit and strong, as the story ‘Hans the Cripple’ shows (1914/1/2). Hans lived in the Tyrol mountains in Austria and could not march and learn to be a soldier like all the other boys as he had to walk with a crutch. But he was vigilant when all others neglected their lookout post one night and set the warning bonfire to alert his village to a French raid. Hans is shot as he tries to escape and before he dies, he gives thanks to God that he has been able to do ‘something useful’ (p. 27) for his country. The story ends with Hans the Cripple being forever remembered as one of the bravest soldiers of the region.

Even Queen Victoria was said to have displayed the qualities of a praiseworthy child who did her golden deeds by serving her country throughout life:

A princess must not dawdle –

’Tis hard to learn to rule,

And she must do her lessons

Like you who go to school.

She must obey her teachers –

No better child was seen;

And when she ruled the country,

Was never better queen. (1909/1/4/ p. 57)

Gendered role models

A broad set of gendered role models in the early School Journal includes a panorama of dutiful, self-sacrificing, loyal and patriotic citizens. In the tradition of Victorian character ideology, cultivation of desirable traits in children was made possible through stories of courageous deeds or the biographies of praiseworthy figures (Patrick, 2009). Boys were expected to be brave and adventurous (see the article by Bingham, 2017, in this issue, for more on masculine ideals). But they were also expected to be obedient. A story of Captain Cook begins by explaining that as a cabin boy, ‘whatever he was asked to do he did well, and soon was so highly thought of that he was made an officer’ (1907/1/1/p. 7).

Stories of women, of which there were few, always begin with what good little girls they had been as children. For example, the heroine, Annie McQuaid, was a ‘quiet little girl with retiring manners, a pleasant voice and appearance’ (1908/3/9/p. 268). While some stories tell of the deeds of ordinary citizens, others tell of well-known figures – yet they always begin in girlhood. Joan of Arc is introduced as

… a good and kind girl [who] used to sit and sew by her mother’s side, or go out to tend her father’s sheep in the fields. So kind was she to birds and beasts that they would come when she called them, and feed out of her hands. She had pleasant ways with sick people, and with people poorer than herself. (1909/3/2/p. 23)

Florence Nightingale is featured multiple times before, during and after the First World War – and across the three learning levels. Typically, the telling of the story does not begin with how Nightingale changes nursing and improves the care of soldiers but of how, as a young girl, she pretends to nurse her sick dolls, cares for animals and brings a sheepdog back to health. The girls of New Zealand are given a glimpse of the child they might be. It is the service to others in need that young Florence is praised for, ‘It was wonderful to see this bright girl, who might have spent her time in games and sports, giving herself with delight to nursing the sick people of the village’ (1910/2/9/p. 120). She is later praised for her work with the soldiers of the Crimean war, her new methods saving thousands of lives and gaining fame and glory throughout the Empire. ‘But all these honours were as nothing to Florence Nightingale. Her noble self-sacrifice was to her only the performance of a simple duty’ (p. 133).

Using Queen Victoria as a female role model also continued to reinforce gender stereotyping. In an early issue, Queen Victoria is portrayed as the sorrowful and loving Mother of the Empire. She is reported to have wept for the loss of life of her brave soldiers. Her ‘kindness of heart was proverbial and the terrible slaughter of her loyal subjects in the South African wars and elsewhere, caused her keen suffering and brought forth her true womanly feeling and sympathy’ (1907/1/1 p. 22). She wrote many letters of condolence to widows and mothers whose ‘dear husband or son had been smitten down on the blood-stained battlefield, fighting gallantly for Queen and country’ (p. 22).

Celebration of, and preparation for, war

Instilling patriotism through history and biography

As the extracts above demonstrate, stories in the School Journal were building in commemoration of war-themed stories and selective reporting of current events well before the outbreak of the First World War. From the very first issue of the School Journal, war was presented as a regular feature of history. It appeared that all nations went to war. Stories told of the Boers against the British, the Spanish against the Dutch, the Swedes against the Danes, the Poles against the Russians and the Romans against the Gauls. Children learned about the Crimean War, the 100 Years war, and the South African War, and of brave and fearless leaders – Richard the Lionheart, Horatio Nelson and Kitchener of Khartoum. Editorial and authorial comment, underpinned by a strong sense of patriarchal superiority, perpetuated ideals through uncritical histories and the celebratory reporting of imperial conquests and victories.

History, especially in the form of biography, was considered a useful vehicle for the achievement of civic and patriotic objectives, strengthening imperial bonds through empathy and connection. In 1912, School Inspector D.A. Strachan was of the opinion that

History becomes a living subject when through vivid and dramatic treatment appeal is made to the emotions as well as the intellect, when the great men of the past become our friends, we sympathise with them in their struggles or wish them success in pursuit of their ideal. ⁶

Instructional materials were often chosen to appeal to children or were prefaced with local or homely anecdotes to ground the lesson in the children’s own experiences. The case of Bugler Dunn provides an example that highlights duty and service. Dunn, a 14-year-old boy in the British army, was wounded crossing a river under heavy fire from an unseen enemy in the South African Wars. Recovering in a London hospital, he was visited by the daughter of Queen Victoria, and presented with a silver bugle. Making his father and the empire proud, the youth declared that he only wanted to go back and fight with his men (1911/2/1).

In early issues of the School Journal, school cadet regiments were listed on the final page and celebrated for their abilities with drills and rifles. One article featured numerous photographs of the 13,000 cadets who turned out for Lord Kitchener’s 1910 visit to New Zealand (1910/3/3). Connecting young readers with soldiers and the glory of the empire through war, and the potential role that they could play, was frequently reinforced in prose and poetry:

Children of the Empire, you are brothers all;

Children of the Empire, answer to the call … (1910/1/4/p. 64)

Using war to reinforce the dutiful citizen-child

Not only might selective usage of materials help to configure patriotic and dutiful citizens in peacetime, but targeted subject matter could provide a foundation for dutiful action in times of war. A corollary of the bravery and self-sacrifice message was that everyone could (and should) become a useful and moral citizen of the empire (see, ‘How boys and girls of New Zealand can help the Empire’, (1911/3/5). Courageous young people were honoured and remembered in the School Journal, (see, ‘Some brave New Zealand boys and girls’, 1911/3/5). This message set the scene for brave acts expected of soldiers by a well-prepared school readership being moulded for honourable lives of sacrifice (see, ‘Heroes of War’, 1912/2/5).

Enduring personal qualities were assumed to be readily translated to seemingly ordinary people who also met the demands and pressures arising from engagement in war. Bravery and self-sacrifice in wartime is exemplified by the tale of a musical Polish boy captured outside the gates of Warsaw by the Russians. This boy was not militaristic like his brother. The enemy soldiers pressured him to play a happy tune, but he sounded the alarm instead, saving the city but sacrificing his life (1911/1/8). This tale shows that children do not have to be war-like by nature to become gallant heroes. The story of a 10-year-old French girl who risked her life twice daily delivering hot drinks to soldiers in the trenches was also instructional, demonstrating that ordinary children could perform acts of kindness and aid the war effort (1915/1/5).

Stories of valiant soldiers also appeared regularly. When Victoria Cross winner, Field-Marshal Earl Roberts died in 1914, ‘Many of his old soldiers wept like children, for Lord Roberts was more than a brilliant commander – he was the soldier’s friend, and the model of all a Christian warrior should be’ (1915/3/1/p. 2). Such stories stood side by side with children’s poems:

And now we’re marching onward

In all our brave array –

On to the field of battle –

To conquer, not to slay. (1908/1/4/p. 58)

Messages in myth and legend

An extensive tradition, stretching back to the ancient worlds of Greece and Rome, provides a foundation for the construction of citizenship. In a tradition of imperial service and sacrifice, soldiers such as the unflinching Roman sentry (1910/2/7), or the brave standard bearer are represented as courageous, steadfast and dutiful in the face of mortal danger. The story of ‘The Brave Standard Bearer’, tells of a youth, probably fictional, who led Julius Caesar’s invasion of Britannia. In an illustration, he is sketched as fearlessly leaping into the fray bearing the Roman Eagle aloft, while his fellow soldiers take cover behind their shields (1911/1/7). The selection of such items reflects the belief that messages in the curriculum were thought to be readily translatable through time and space (Patrick, 2009).

Myths and symbols from ancient civilisations and battles of the past led to the romancing of legendary figures and epic odysseys, including that of Jason and the Golden Fleece. The women in this tale weep as their menfolk embark on their journey, believing the doomed heroes will meet certain death, although their fame will live forever in legend (Midford, 2012). These stories, adapted for the School Journal, were presented as lessons in morality, civics, geography and history (see, ‘Building of the Argo’, 1910/3/10).

The past was often meshed with present concerns, including national identity formation. Texts were combined within School Journal issues or between class levels to offer linked teaching points across subjects. As an accompaniment to the classical myth of the Argonauts, for example, an article adapted from the Canterbury Times newspaper cast the national export of New Zealand wool in a similar golden vein. The photograph of a steamship in Lyttelton Harbour became an ‘argosy’ bathed in golden light: ‘As the man on the wharf watched the disappearing steamship, a golden haze surrounded her. She was bearing on its precious voyage the Golden Fleece’ (1910/3/3/p. 92).

A steady flow of items served to reinforce messages of good deeds, bravery and honourable acts in the spirit of the British officer class (Grosvenor, 2005). Indeed, many New Zealand officers had been trained as school cadets from the age of 12 (see, ‘Lord Kitchener’s Message and Visit’, 1910/3/3) before leaving secondary school for the battlefronts of the First World War. Thus, the stage was set for legendary acts in wartime. With this Homeric foundation laid, it was only a short step to connect the Anzac soldiers’ landing at Gallipoli, almost within sight of the ancient city of Troy, with the myths of antiquity (Midford, 2012).

Creating and sustaining the Anzac myth

New Zealand goes to war

By the outbreak of war, in August 1914, there was already a sense of an emerging national identity, pride in our place in the empire and an expectation that citizens would do their duty and willingly sacrifice their lives to serve both king and country. All three levels of the 1913 School Journal, for example, contain multiple entries about the battleship, HMS New Zealand, which was commissioned by the New Zealand government and gifted to the empire. The naval ship toured New Zealand during 1913 and the articles proudly celebrate ‘New Zealand’s contribution to the insurance of the Empire’ in that and subsequent years (see, for example, 1913/2/4; 1913/3/4).

As the war progressed, the School Journal became filled with patriotic items of relevance to war and the home front. Early in the war, New Zealand’s first military act of consequence was to ‘capture’ Western Samoa from the Germans, with the political help of a group of Samoan chiefs exiled to Fiji (1914/3/9). Civic duties included the raising of the Union Jack amidst military spectacle and promises of improved governance. A sense of national pride was instilled in New Zealand school children through photographs of the occasion and detailed reporting of ‘what, in a sense, may be termed New Zealand’s first overseas conquest’ (p. 280).

The same journal issue contains the speech given to the New Zealand troops by New Zealand Defence Force Commander, Sir Alexander Godley. The address makes it clear that being a soldier from New Zealand means representing not only their country and their regiment, but being of equal calibre to the soldiers in the British Regular Army. ‘Remember that the whole of New Zealand will be watching you, and will expect to see … something more than ordinary from the men who are here to-day’ (1914/3/9/pp. 272–273). Godley tells the soldiers that they are comrades and members of the same team. The expectation is that dutiful children reading the School Journal will readily identify with the team analogy, and will undertake to be dutiful soldiers when they are called upon.

Creating the Anzac myth

Tales of war, other lands, adventure and heroism laid a foundation upon which to situate the myth of the ANZAC landing at Gallipoli in April 2015. A myth in this sense refers to a generalised, simplified understanding of the campaign. Not necessarily false, a myth is a ‘dramatized story that has evolved in our society to contain the meanings of the war that we can tolerate …’ (Hynes, 1999: 207). In the case of the Anzac nations, Australia and New Zealand, this myth underpins a significant intergenerational event of national importance. In Britain and around the Western world, the Gallipoli campaign is more of an embarrassment, a lost battle in a much larger war (Macleod, 2004; Pugsley, 2004). The difference in interpretation exists in how the history of the campaign was recorded and disseminated through the official and popular media of the day (Macleod, 2004).

The Gallipoli campaign was reported at length in the School Journal, (see, for example, 1915/3/8) particularly drawing on the celebratory materials available to an expectant and adoring public (Midford, 2012). The message that ‘Australians and New Zealanders amazed the whole world by their heroic gallantry at Gallipoli’ (1916/3/5/p. 137) was to become embedded in the nation’s consciousness. Maps coordinating ancient place names and legends of the past with the contemporary battles of the peninsula, collapsed the boundaries of time and place to glorify the deeds of soldiers at this historic site. An early article on the Gallipoli campaign makes links to its legendary location:

It was across the Dardanelles, then called the Hellespont, that the Persian ruler Xerxes built his famous bridge of boats when he invaded Greece, and was so bravely opposed by Leonidas and his three hundred gallant Spartans, and at the same place, a century and a half later, Alexander the Great took his army across when he invaded Asia, and marched as far as India. To-day, with the warships of the Allies bombarding and destroying the forts along the banks of the Dardanelles, this narrow strait springs again into historical importance. (1915/3/3/p. 2)

Stirring poetry glorifying war and loss on the battlefield, along with the retelling of old myths, coalesced to create a new myth of the heroic soldier (Midford, 2012):

Why do you grieve for us who lie

At our lordly ease by the Dardanelles?

We have no need for tears or sighs,

We who passed in the heat of fight

Into the soft Elysian light … (1916/3/5/p. 129)

Defeat in battle was romanticised as a national example of sacrifice and bravery, demonstrating a proud contribution by citizens of the empire (Macleod, 2004):

Sunday the 25th April is the fifth anniversary of the landing at Gallipoli – that feat of arms which for dauntless bravery has never been equalled, and which proved the loyalty of the sons of the far-off dominions to the Mother-land. (1920/3/3/p. 82)

Having established a foundation for brave conduct and sacrifice in war, the School Journal consolidated examples of courage and stoicism shown by New Zealand and Australian soldiers at Anzac Cove. Photographs of harsh living conditions in dugouts on the inhospitable cliffs would have impressed upon school children the steadfastness and endurance of the soldiers at Gallipoli. These portrayals continued well after the defeat and terrible loss of life were made known (see, for example, 1925/2/3; 1926/2/3; 1930/3/3)

The stories also portrayed the nurses, doctors and wartime ambulance workers risking their lives to convey the wounded to safety, and then working without rest to ease suffering (1914/3/9; 1916/3/5). These stories continue the theme of civilian sacrifices, demonstrated in earlier journals by exemplary people such as Florence Nightingale and doctors on past battlefields.

In turn, links are then made to the children themselves. The children of New Zealand raised over £2000 for wartime motorised ambulances to be sent to Egypt, the destination for the evacuated wounded. The children are thanked by British Prime Minister Asquith for their contributions, which are ‘a fitting way for children to help the Empire’ (1914/3/9 p. 259).

Mingling fact and fiction

Strong public expectations of heroic action at Gallipoli shaped the selective nature of army dispatches and reporting in print media across the Empire (Macleod, 2004; Midford, 2012). Consequently, romantic descriptions of the Anzac campaign found their way into the School Journal. Several articles were based on British poet laureate John Masefield’s embellished narratives, re-told in the School Journals alongside Greek myths set in the same geographical location (1926/2/3; 1930/3/3). An Anzac Day School Journal article describes the Gallipoli landing as follows:

No such gathering of fine ships has ever been seen upon this earth, and the beauty and the exultation of the youth upon them made them like sacred things as they moved away … The men went like kings in a pageant to the imminent death. (1920/3/3/p. 84)

These events of the past and present were identified in maps, effectively collapsing the significant passage of time that separated Classical Greece from the Ottoman Empire in the First World War. A drawing of cross-linked New Zealand and Australian flags crowned with an ancient victory laurel appears at the head of an Anzac poem illustrating the growing awareness of the two countries linked both to the classical world and in contemporary combination (1916/3/5). Equally as poetic, were compositions positioning the dead soldiers as war heroes resting forever in Elysian fields, visited by the ghosts of Homeric soldiers of old (1919/3/5).

It is difficult to now separate fact from fiction to determine the effectiveness of the Anzac soldiers both as a military fighting force and as war heroes, remembering that the campaign itself was an overall failure for the Allies (Pugsley, 2004). This point was seemingly lost to the New Zealand and Australian publics of the day who preferred elevation of the Anzacs to mythic proportions, taking national pride in their menfolk’s loyalty to the Empire, resourcefulness, courage, mateship and natural abilities under pressure (Macleod, 2004; Midford, 2012; Pugsley, 2004).

Keeping the Anzac myth alive

From the outset, the School Journal set up the glorification of war through the juxtaposition of mythological, historical and contemporary accounts of the call of duty and the honour of sacrifice. It was a smooth transition to include the ‘Heroes in Gallipoli’ (1925/2/3) in this historical Roll of Honour. Year after year, the School Journal told stories or showed photographs of the soldiers living a simple life on an inhospitable hillside, enduring privations with stoic resilience, dutifully serving empire and country. These portrayals served to remind children of the Anzacs’ heroic feats against all odds.

The first remembrance of the ill-fated landing at Anzac Cove, took place later in April 1915 when the news reached home. Flags were flown at half-mast and families scanned the casualty lists. Yet, the defeat was cast in heroic terms:

From the outset, public perceptions of the landings evoked national pride. The eventual failure of the Gallipoli operation enhanced its sanctity for many; there may have been no military victory, but there was victory of the spirit as New Zealand soldiers showed courage in the face of adversity and sacrifice. ⁷

In 1916, a half-day holiday was declared for 25 April, and commemorative services were held in New Zealand and in Westminster Abbey in London. Yearly commemorations became a feature. In 1919, however, the focus was instead on Armistice Day and the unveiling of the national cenotaph in Wellington. In the School Journal, the words of the officiating padre were reiterated, pointing out that the word ANZAC stood for daring, endurance, brotherhood, courage, sacrifice and emulation. Evergreen wreaths, cut flowers and crosses made by children adorned the cenotaph and Karori cemetery, honouring the memory of soldiers cut off in the flower of their lives (1920/3/3). In 1923, Anzac Day became an official public holiday. In a mix of national pride and mourning, the sacrifices, bravery, courage and stoicism of the Anzac soldiers were revered in collections of verse, memories, photographic images and war news reporting (see, for example, 1926/2/3).

In 1927, the School Journal reprinted a poem by Canadian doctor, John McCrae, recalling the poppies of Flanders Fields (1927/3/3). This symbol is then linked to Gallipoli, as poppies also grew on the graves there. In this way, the beginnings of an association between Anzac Day and the remembrance poppies of Flanders are initiated. It continues to this day. In the 1930s, dawn parades to reflect the dawn landings at Gallipoli also became part of the commemorations.

The solemnity of Anzac Day as a ‘holy day’ makes sacred the secular observance of wartime commemoration (Seal, 2007). This ritualised symbolism and sacredisation of the Anzac commemorations has continued over time (see the article on the curriculum resources prepared for 100th anniversary of the First World War in this Special Issue). The School Journal has played its part in the maintenance of Anzac Day as a hallowed event of national significance and mystique through regular Anzac issues.

Conclusion

The New Zealand School Journal is an iconic publication. It has been free to schools since 1907 as an adjunct to the formal curriculum. It was published throughout the year with material at three or four class levels. It contained fiction and non-fiction stories, poems, plays, photographs and illustrations reflecting what the Department (later the Ministry) of Education felt reflected New Zealand children’s interests and experiences. With few standardised textbooks, New Zealand teachers used the School Journals as instructional and recreational reading material as well as core or complementary curriculum resources. A recent news article claimed, ‘Say the words “School Journal” to anyone who’s been a New Zealand primary school kid, and the reaction is usually immediate. Eyes light up. Thoughts tumble out’. ⁸ A close examination of the early School Journal from 1907–1930, however, reveals that its influence has not always been so benign. Overt and covert messages were delivered to school children in engaging and accessible ways that had them accept selective accounts of history as fact and emotive rhetoric as instructive lessons.

As historical artefacts reflecting the attitudes and aspirations of the day, more than a hundred years of continuous publication of the School Journal provides detailed insight into the way in which curriculum can be used as a tool for particular purposes, from social reproduction to patriotic indoctrination. In this study of School Journal issues from 1907–1930 several clear themes emerged. First, from their inception, the School Journal reiterated a particular construction of the dutiful citizen-child of the British Empire. Second, the School Journal normalised, even ennobled, conflict and conquest – and the British Empire’s role in those events. Later, with the onset of the First World War, New Zealand’s debt to the empire was reinforced and her contribution to the war effort celebrated. As the war progressed, the exploits of New Zealand soldiers, particularly the Anzacs at Gallipoli, were then mythologised to reinforce these messages of duty to king and country. In the reifying of the myth of the rugged Anzac, however, the empire began to become less prominent in the New Zealand psyche as a new identity was forged. By the late 1930s, with Clarence Beeby becoming the Director-General of Education, in charge of the School Publications Branch, more local flavour and content emerged. Beeby is quoted as saying: ‘We could no longer be content with the educational theories and practices of the old world, however warmly we felt about them …’ ⁹

This study revealed several literary devices that were used to embed the themes of duty and self-sacrifice, the nobility of war and the exultation of the Anzacs in the School Journal. The first was the use of myth and legend. From the outset, the British Empire was linked to ancient civilisations, and its leaders to legendary heroes, through the use of language, selection of images and placement of items within the journal, often alongside stories from myth and legend. A rather extreme legendary analogy was used to build New Zealand’s developing identity as a self-governing dominion by equating shipping wool to Great Britain as an argosy carrying the Golden Fleece. The feats of the Anzacs were similarly eulogised as the fallen soldiers were said to lie in Elysian Fields with the heroes of antiquity. Historian Michael King underlines the ‘powerful influence’ of the School Journal on the ‘developing sense of New Zealand identity’, including its role in promoting ‘erroneous’ beliefs, as shared mythologies became ‘more powerful than history’ (cited in O’Brien, 2007: 15).

Another device, linked to the use of myth and legend, was blurring the distinctions of time and place. That the Gallipoli campaign took place in a part of the world visited by Xerxes and Alexander the Great, not far from the ancient cities of Troy and Ephesus, meant that maps of modern and ancient campaigns could be overlaid and given more credence than was historically accurate. The conflation of the poppies from Flanders fields with the Gallipoli campaign is another example. Similarly, stories of old were linked to the behaviours expected of children of the time, regardless of differences in location, culture, age, social status, gender or ability. Children were given the message that if Clive of India, a Roman centurion or a fisher lad could act in such a gallant manner, so could they.

This links to a third device, connecting stories with a civic and moral purpose to children’s lives. The biographies of famous figures, from Captain Cook to Florence Nightingale, from Queen Victoria to King George V, all began with the good deeds they had undertaken as a child – helping at home, giving to the poor or being studious. From such well-behaved children, they grew into noble adults who performed great feats of discovery, endurance or sacrifice, in their humble duty to the empire. By emulating their virtues, the children of New Zealand could also achieve greatness. In particular, boys, who were fed a steady diet of male role models from brave bugler boys to legendary kings, could use their physical prowess and adventurous spirit to serve the empire and even sacrifice their lives when called upon. Is it any wonder that after years of these carefully crafted messages that young men willingly signed up for their big adventure when war broke out?

As we reflect upon the First World War, 100 years later, it is important to separate myth from reality and fact from romance. Crotty (2009) cautions that we enter into ‘fraught territory’ if we continue to portray war ‘as an exercise in good citizenship or nation building’. Such mythologising may simply serve to impart half-truths, which were employed for particular purposes at a certain time but should now be challenged. We also need to critique the ‘Whiggish tradition’ of liberal, celebratory histories that are seemingly reported as fact (McCulloch and Richardson, 2000: 43). Where these selective representations appear in curriculum texts or support materials, there is even more danger of the control and dissemination of ideological perspectives. As Sheehan (2011) notes, ‘curriculum is a highly political process that works to reproduce social class patterns and keep particular elite groups in control of the official curriculum’. The evidence from the New Zealand School Journal, from 1907 to 1930, supports his assertion and this study has enabled researchers to peel back the layers of messages in the School Journal to reveal the way in which those in power, wittingly or unwittingly, shaped children’s aspirations. As the 100th anniversary commemorations at Passchendaele were played on New Zealand television screens, a Belgian attendee remarked that he could not understand why people from the far ends of the earth would come to fight in Europe. ¹⁰ Had he read the School Journal, he would know why – they came to do their duty to the empire – even if that meant the ultimate sacrifice.