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Riots: Returned soldiers and public disorder in Australia at the end of World War I
From 1918, 1919 and into 1920 Australia was rocked by a series of riots involving returned soldiers. From brawls in small regional towns to major riots in capital cities, thousands of men took their grievances to the streets, where in some cases police spent days quelling the chaos. Yet this noisy and violent chapter of our history has been absent from our contemporary commemorations of Anzac.
In Riots, historian Fiona Skyring uncovers the truth behind these violent events, examining the forces that drove returned soldiers to such extreme actions. Against a backdrop of social upheaval, mass bereavement, and a cost-of-living crisis, these riots reveal a side of Australia's post-war experience that has long been untold. Why did these soldiers, after gruelling years of trench warfare and being welcomed home as heroes, resort to collective violence once they returned? What does this tell us about the making of the Anzac legend in these crucial years when the diggers came home?
Drawing on historical research and compelling storytelling, Riots brings to light these untold stories of angry and lawless returned heroes and the conflicts that shook Australian society at the end of the war.
In Riots, historian Fiona Skyring uncovers the truth behind these violent events, examining the forces that drove returned soldiers to such extreme actions. Against a backdrop of social upheaval, mass bereavement, and a cost-of-living crisis, these riots reveal a side of Australia's post-war experience that has long been untold. Why did these soldiers, after gruelling years of trench warfare and being welcomed home as heroes, resort to collective violence once they returned? What does this tell us about the making of the Anzac legend in these crucial years when the diggers came home?
Drawing on historical research and compelling storytelling, Riots brings to light these untold stories of angry and lawless returned heroes and the conflicts that shook Australian society at the end of the war.
234 pages, Paperback
Published November 1, 2025
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February 15, 2026
Sixty thousand Australians were killed in World War I. Returning soldiers believed that Australia owed a blood debt to them and to the fallen. Yet this shared sense of sacrifice did not generate political unity. The meaning of soldiers’ service, and who had honoured or betrayed it, became fiercely contested. The class antagonisms that had existed before the war were sharpened by it. According to Fiona Skyring, the combination of deep political division and a common language of wartime grievance led to the eruption of riots, with returned soldiers being the primary antagonists.
Pre-war political affiliations influenced how returned soldiers directed their frustrations at Australian society when they returned home. The Returned Sailors and Soldiers Imperial League of Australia (RSSILA) was the most popular returned services league at the time. Its popularity stemmed from official military links that allowed it to advertise on returning ships. It also arose from the mistaken belief that soldiers would not receive government benefits without joining. Most importantly, many returnees were initially unaware that the league was explicitly anti-union.
Skyring notes that such leagues largely supported the political establishment. Membership quickly diminished after the war, particularly among those aligned with the labour movement, who left once they realised the RSSILA did not reflect their views. Soldiers loyal to King and Empire remained active. Over the next two years, these members frequently broke up labour strikes perceived as disloyal by rioting against unionists. Unionist veterans, by contrast, largely participated in strikes that sometimes turned into riots directed against employers and state authorities.
Disloyalty was a fluid concept. Attitudes considered disloyal included advocating a negotiated peace, calling for an end to what was described as a capitalists’ war, membership in a labour union or socialist organisation, or being Irish Catholic and, at times, Catholic more broadly. When Catholic-dominated unions protested the predominantly Protestant establishment, RSSILA-aligned returned soldiers felt justified in attacking such organisations. The conservative press represented this violence as a noble defence against disloyal, socialist agitators.
Such justifications were reinforced by the oppressive War Precautions Act 1914. Military intelligence networks and sweeping emergency powers were deployed against opponents of the government, particularly left-wing activists who refused to subordinate labour grievances to wartime unity. Activists were imprisoned, and free speech was suppressed. Not repealed until 1920, the Act allowed the government effectively to rule by decree and silence radical opposition. In this way, wartime repression entrenched the divisions that later surfaced in postwar riots.
Unionist returned soldiers also participated in riots. Skyring examines in detail the unrest in Fremantle. Wharfies sought better working rights and went on a series of strikes that gradually crippled commerce. When police were brought in to break it up, returned unionist soldiers spearheaded a riot. Some even claimed they “would rather die fighting for fellow workers than have received wounds in France.” Although tensions eventually cooled, many returned unionist soldiers were left wondering why they had sacrificed so much and been afforded so little when they returned.
These riots endured for two years. Recognising their blood debt, authorities were initially reluctant to punish returned soldiers for their actions. However, as the country sought stability and the War Precautions Act was withdrawn, soldiers increasingly faced discipline. This shift occurred only after the ANZAC legend had been consolidated in public discourse. Australia’s official war historian, C. E. W. Bean, wrote that soldiers apolitically and quietly merged into the general population. That portrayal distorted reality. Skyring compellingly dismantles this constructed myth.
The book itself is relatively short, at about 180 pages, and relies predominantly on primary sources accessed from archives across Australia. It is a strong piece of scholarship. Skyring also notes that nurses were veterans of WWI and that one thousand First Nations people served. Socially oppressive stratification limited both groups’ participation in post-war political violence, which meant that the riots were an exclusively white, male affair. The study ultimately demonstrates that the ANZAC legend obscured deep and enduring social divisions.
The argument may have benefited from modest restructuring. Chapter 3, titled Dulce et Decorum Est: Remembering Soldiers’ Sacrifice, explores the construction of the ANZAC legend during the war. It shows how official histories “deleted soldiers’ contributions which suggested that they did not want to fight, that they thought their comrades’ deaths were futile, and that unequal comforts between officers and men reflected class privileges within the AIF.” The chapter demonstrates that this selective remembering shaped how soldiers’ actions were interpreted in the post-war period.
Placing this analysis earlier may have grounded the reader’s interpretation from the outset by showing that the selective memory of soldiers’ experiences developed during the war and influenced how the post-war riots were later understood. Presenting the ANZAC legend and its construction up front would highlight the continuity between wartime myth-making and post-war interpretation. This framing would strengthen the argument’s coherence and clarify why constructed heroism is critical to understanding both the war and its aftermath.
Skyring leaves one question unresolved, which, if answered, would have augmented her analysis. Namely, why were the loyalist sympathies of some returned soldiers stronger than their shared grievance with unionist comrades? Christopher Browning’s book, Ordinary Men, concludes with a psychological examination of why some men engaged in the Holocaust. That psychological lens added depth to his historical narrative by explaining how ordinary men came to participate in extraordinary violence. A similar approach may have added comparable depth to Skyring’s politico-historical narrative.
Social identity theory is one possible pairing. Soldiers’ meaning arguably derived from identification with political in-groups, while out-groups were morally differentiated. Through processes of social categorisation, loyalty to these communities could supersede interpersonal bonds, even with politically divergent comrades. Hierarchical norms were internalised as prototypical expressions of the group’s values. Belief in the war’s utility — whether defending institutions or advancing labour rights — reinforced in-group cohesion. It also justified overriding fraternal solidarity.
Despite these minor critiques, Skyring exposes the fragility of the constructed ANZAC legend. The riots were ignored because they complicated the story Australia preferred to tell about itself. The persistence of this myth is visible in contemporary commemorative practice. ANZAC Day has become the epitome of this construction: a day framed as apolitical and solemn, yet one that overlooks uncomfortable truths about the futility of many wars Australia has fought. Forgetfulness, and even ignorance, carry political consequences.
We are told that ANZACs died for our freedom. That freedom must include the right to critique the policies that led to such wars — even on days of commemoration. Yet questioning ANZAC Day’s sacrosanct status is often considered unpatriotic, which pushes dissent beyond the margins. In honouring a legend, we risk forgetting the ANZAC as an individual with contested beliefs about what Australia should be. War is political, and the way we remember it is political. By ignoring the latter, we remain primed to engage in the former.
For more of my writing, check out my Substack: https://callumscolumn.substack.com/
Pre-war political affiliations influenced how returned soldiers directed their frustrations at Australian society when they returned home. The Returned Sailors and Soldiers Imperial League of Australia (RSSILA) was the most popular returned services league at the time. Its popularity stemmed from official military links that allowed it to advertise on returning ships. It also arose from the mistaken belief that soldiers would not receive government benefits without joining. Most importantly, many returnees were initially unaware that the league was explicitly anti-union.
Skyring notes that such leagues largely supported the political establishment. Membership quickly diminished after the war, particularly among those aligned with the labour movement, who left once they realised the RSSILA did not reflect their views. Soldiers loyal to King and Empire remained active. Over the next two years, these members frequently broke up labour strikes perceived as disloyal by rioting against unionists. Unionist veterans, by contrast, largely participated in strikes that sometimes turned into riots directed against employers and state authorities.
Disloyalty was a fluid concept. Attitudes considered disloyal included advocating a negotiated peace, calling for an end to what was described as a capitalists’ war, membership in a labour union or socialist organisation, or being Irish Catholic and, at times, Catholic more broadly. When Catholic-dominated unions protested the predominantly Protestant establishment, RSSILA-aligned returned soldiers felt justified in attacking such organisations. The conservative press represented this violence as a noble defence against disloyal, socialist agitators.
Such justifications were reinforced by the oppressive War Precautions Act 1914. Military intelligence networks and sweeping emergency powers were deployed against opponents of the government, particularly left-wing activists who refused to subordinate labour grievances to wartime unity. Activists were imprisoned, and free speech was suppressed. Not repealed until 1920, the Act allowed the government effectively to rule by decree and silence radical opposition. In this way, wartime repression entrenched the divisions that later surfaced in postwar riots.
Unionist returned soldiers also participated in riots. Skyring examines in detail the unrest in Fremantle. Wharfies sought better working rights and went on a series of strikes that gradually crippled commerce. When police were brought in to break it up, returned unionist soldiers spearheaded a riot. Some even claimed they “would rather die fighting for fellow workers than have received wounds in France.” Although tensions eventually cooled, many returned unionist soldiers were left wondering why they had sacrificed so much and been afforded so little when they returned.
These riots endured for two years. Recognising their blood debt, authorities were initially reluctant to punish returned soldiers for their actions. However, as the country sought stability and the War Precautions Act was withdrawn, soldiers increasingly faced discipline. This shift occurred only after the ANZAC legend had been consolidated in public discourse. Australia’s official war historian, C. E. W. Bean, wrote that soldiers apolitically and quietly merged into the general population. That portrayal distorted reality. Skyring compellingly dismantles this constructed myth.
The book itself is relatively short, at about 180 pages, and relies predominantly on primary sources accessed from archives across Australia. It is a strong piece of scholarship. Skyring also notes that nurses were veterans of WWI and that one thousand First Nations people served. Socially oppressive stratification limited both groups’ participation in post-war political violence, which meant that the riots were an exclusively white, male affair. The study ultimately demonstrates that the ANZAC legend obscured deep and enduring social divisions.
The argument may have benefited from modest restructuring. Chapter 3, titled Dulce et Decorum Est: Remembering Soldiers’ Sacrifice, explores the construction of the ANZAC legend during the war. It shows how official histories “deleted soldiers’ contributions which suggested that they did not want to fight, that they thought their comrades’ deaths were futile, and that unequal comforts between officers and men reflected class privileges within the AIF.” The chapter demonstrates that this selective remembering shaped how soldiers’ actions were interpreted in the post-war period.
Placing this analysis earlier may have grounded the reader’s interpretation from the outset by showing that the selective memory of soldiers’ experiences developed during the war and influenced how the post-war riots were later understood. Presenting the ANZAC legend and its construction up front would highlight the continuity between wartime myth-making and post-war interpretation. This framing would strengthen the argument’s coherence and clarify why constructed heroism is critical to understanding both the war and its aftermath.
Skyring leaves one question unresolved, which, if answered, would have augmented her analysis. Namely, why were the loyalist sympathies of some returned soldiers stronger than their shared grievance with unionist comrades? Christopher Browning’s book, Ordinary Men, concludes with a psychological examination of why some men engaged in the Holocaust. That psychological lens added depth to his historical narrative by explaining how ordinary men came to participate in extraordinary violence. A similar approach may have added comparable depth to Skyring’s politico-historical narrative.
Social identity theory is one possible pairing. Soldiers’ meaning arguably derived from identification with political in-groups, while out-groups were morally differentiated. Through processes of social categorisation, loyalty to these communities could supersede interpersonal bonds, even with politically divergent comrades. Hierarchical norms were internalised as prototypical expressions of the group’s values. Belief in the war’s utility — whether defending institutions or advancing labour rights — reinforced in-group cohesion. It also justified overriding fraternal solidarity.
Despite these minor critiques, Skyring exposes the fragility of the constructed ANZAC legend. The riots were ignored because they complicated the story Australia preferred to tell about itself. The persistence of this myth is visible in contemporary commemorative practice. ANZAC Day has become the epitome of this construction: a day framed as apolitical and solemn, yet one that overlooks uncomfortable truths about the futility of many wars Australia has fought. Forgetfulness, and even ignorance, carry political consequences.
We are told that ANZACs died for our freedom. That freedom must include the right to critique the policies that led to such wars — even on days of commemoration. Yet questioning ANZAC Day’s sacrosanct status is often considered unpatriotic, which pushes dissent beyond the margins. In honouring a legend, we risk forgetting the ANZAC as an individual with contested beliefs about what Australia should be. War is political, and the way we remember it is political. By ignoring the latter, we remain primed to engage in the former.
For more of my writing, check out my Substack: https://callumscolumn.substack.com/
January 18, 2026
Riots documents 3 years of civil unrest that centred on Australian soldiers freshly returned from World War 1 on the other side of the world. Soldiers who had endured this hell were angry with their treatment - a country that could not understand their experiences and seemed to be doing little to compensate those who fought.
The riots occurred across Australia from the major cities to the mining towns. They were often fuelled by alcohol and often happened at public forums - speeches in the open air domains, strikes and even commerative parades.
Riots sheds light on a little known period in Australian history. Fiona Skyring’s meticulous research points to a fractured society - and some of those fractures are still with us.
See the full review at: https://www.queenslandreviewerscollec...
The riots occurred across Australia from the major cities to the mining towns. They were often fuelled by alcohol and often happened at public forums - speeches in the open air domains, strikes and even commerative parades.
Riots sheds light on a little known period in Australian history. Fiona Skyring’s meticulous research points to a fractured society - and some of those fractures are still with us.
See the full review at: https://www.queenslandreviewerscollec...
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews