The Suvla Derby
The Melbourne Cup - the race that stops a nation - has run once more, for the hundred and fifty-fourth time, and most of the punters have probably collected their winnings. In 1915 the Cup was already more than 50 years old: a well-entrenched institution on the Australian social calendar. At Gallipoli that year, the officers of the 1st Light Horse Brigade (no doubt among many others) had organised a sweepstake for the Cup, and naturally enough, wanted the results as soon as possible. Their commander, Harry Chauvel, hinted to General Birdwood that the Australian troops would take it as a compliment were the results to be cabled for and published in the Peninsula Press (the official trench newsletter). Birdwood accepted the suggestion and the results were published within a week of the race.
Surprisingly, horse racing was a daily entertainment for many of the troops at Gallipoli. In August 1915, shortly after the Suvla landings, a despatch rider service was set up to link the headquarters at Suvla with those at Anzac, 10 kilometers away. The Suvla Derby, as it became known, was run twice-daily and eagerly bet on by the men in the trenches. Unlike the Melbourne Cup, this was a one-horse-race. The wagers were not on place-getters, rather, whether or not the rider would actually finish, or be shot. Everyone on the left of Anzac knew the moment the mail had left Suvla, early each morning, by the rattle of Turkish musketry which commenced on the extreme left and continued along the line until the rider was safely in the communication trench. Later in the day the rider made the return run; this time the sun was in the snipers’ eyes and the odds more clearly in the rider’s favour. Strangely enough, recalled Chauvel many years later, this went on for nearly three months before either rider or horse was hit.
History has recorded the names of the winners of the Melbourne Cup: no such official records exist for the riders or horses of the Suvla Derby. We do know that the honour of carrying the mail was fiercely contested, despite the risk, and that the job was divided between Australian Light Horse, New Zealand Mounted Rifles and British Yeomanry regiments, each regiment providing a rider for a week alternately. Fortunately, Ernest Brooks, the British Admiralty official photographer at Gallipoli, decided the event was worth recording. He set up his cumbersome camera for a posed shot one day at a quiet stretch of beach down at the Hell Spit cemetery (out of the view of snipers). One of the riders used for this photo session, Trooper Stirling Blackett, 2nd Light Horse Regiment, remembered the event many years afterwards:
'I distinctly remember the time the photographer got permission to take the photo. He had a valuable camera and valued himself. It was hard to take photos in a safe place to avoid you or the photographer getting shot up. The place I suggested was a quiet little beach on Anzac Cove, with just a couple of graves there. I told this photographer that one of us would ride around there so he could take photos. That goes down well with the public when they see someone galloping around. So we did a canter around for him while we were sitting upright on the horse and he took these photos. We couldn't ride fast as there was a lot of traffic. When despatch riding we would crouch over the neck of the horse to avoid getting shot.'
An unexplained aspect of the twice-daily event is the nature of the mail being carried. The two headquarters, connected by undersea cable for the entire period, were in constant communication; what could possibly necessitate the risk to man or horse? Is it possible that the riders’ most valuable contribution was as a symbol, a visible reminder to the troops that the two forces formed a continuous, combined front? In 1935 the following letter, written by a nostalgic 28th Battalion soldier, was published in Perth’s The Western Mail.
“The Bloke on the Horse.
Dear ‘Non-Com.’ The low-lying piece of ground connecting Anzac with Suvla Bay was a strange contrast to the remainder of Gallipoli's ridges and ravines. Devoid of cover, it was by no means a health resort, but the repository for Jacko's stray bullets and shells, the ‘overs’ that missed the ridges. Across this piece of country, or the beach edge of it, a despatch rider on horseback daily made the trip, possibly the only mounted man at Anzac with a mount.
As he rode along thousands of eyes - Aussie, Tommy and Turk - watched his progress. I include Jacko, knowing he supplied the hurry-up to the rider who refused to be hurried, for in spite of whizz-bangs, whether front or rear, the same easy canter carried him along as he ‘three-hapence-for-tuppenced’ towards Suvla.
Murphy and his Donk found fame and a last resting place on Gallipoli. Does anyone know what became of the bloke on the horse?”
There was no reply to this letter, however a second of the riders has recently been identified as Trooper Clay Duffy. His recollections support those of Blackett’s and add another interesting yarn. Towards the end of the campaign, with the onset of winter, it could be a very cold ride. On one memorable evening, frozen to the core, he was greeted by the Indian Mule Transport driver who looked after the horses with “Come on Australia, I’ve got something to warm you up!” While a Melbourne Cup winning jockey may be treated to champagne, Duffy remembers the plate of curry he was given as the best, the hottest and possibly the most welcome of his life.