Identities forged on battleground

About a third of the way up the Dardanelles, etched onto the hillside of the Gallipoli peninsula is an ominous warning large enough to read from the deck of any passing ship: "Dur yolcu! (Stop passerby!) This soil you thus tread unawares is where an age sank. Bow and listen, this quiet mound is where the heart of a nation throbs."

The wanton deaths of thousands of unaware young men during the First World War pay testament to the mettle of this statement.

Shortly after 4 a.m. on April 25, 94 years ago, a battalion from the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (Anzac) landed on the Aegean shore of Gallipoli. These men were an enthusiastic part of a protracted plan to see Britain and her allies take control of the Dardanelles. After which the mighty British Navy could steam up the straight unopposed and quickly take Constantinople, then the capital of the Ottoman Empire, and bring about an early end to the war. What had not been planned for was the heart and determination of the Ottoman soldiers defending their nation. After eight long months and the frivolous sacrifice of an estimated 100,000 lives on both sides, the attacking allies quietly retreated into the night.

While the Gallipoli campaign is filed into the history of WWI alongside many other equally bloody and futile campaigns, for both New Zealand and Australia, and also the Turkish Republic, it will always hold a special significance.


The identity of the new nation of Turkey was forged in the events along these trenches, so too was the self-development of both the young Anzac countries. Next weekend thousands of young Australians and New Zealanders will descend on Gallipoli from all over the world for the official Anzac Day Dawn Service, in what has become something of an annual pilgrimage.

At school in New Zealand you can’t find one student unaware of his ancestors’ sacrifice at Gallipoli. My own interest peeked when a competition sought a direct decent of a Gallipoli veteran to represent the youth of New Zealand at a special ceremony in Turkey to mark the 80th anniversary of the end of the war. A quick foray into family history uncovered that my great-grandfather served in the New Zealand cavalry here. Frank Wright survived the campaign but not before enduring the ignominious honor of being shot off his horse. And although I missed that chance to see Gallipoli for myself that year, I would get the opportunity 11 years later.

My own arrival at the small beach called Anzac Cove - the Turkish government has also officially named it Anzak Koyu - was a little later in the morning. It is here that an observer can keenly feel the sense of tragedy and despair of this whole fruitless episode.

This stretch of the Aegean is a rich turquoise in the spring sunshine. The island of Imbros dominates the horizon, while on land the slopes of the Sari Bair range are covered in scrub right down to the edge of the narrow beaches where Beach Cemetery is the first of many scattered over this part of the peninsula. The landscape makes the setting not so much solemn but provides something of a haunting serenity. Rather than dilute it, the natural beauty seems to compound the senselessness of the misadventure that took place here.

By the beach is a monument inscribed with Atatürk’s now famous words telling the mothers of the dead that their lost sons are buried in friendly soil and are thus grieved for by a nation in the same way it does for its own lost lives. The sentiment of these words continues to tug at the emotions of anyone that reads them. They also capture the unique spirit that was later forged between the combatants.

For now though, the first deadly error of this insidious campaign soon became abundantly clear. When the Anzacs first came ashore it was immediately apparent they had landed disastrously off course.

Even in the early morning dark the sheer rise behind this stretch of beach was easy to make out. In the light of day, the exposed cliffs enclose the shore creating an amphitheatre for the ensuing tragedy that unfolded. With orders to take the high ground, the soldiers immediately headed up the slopes.

Even without a rifle and pack, not to mention the rain of enemy fire from above, it was difficult enough to for me to blaze a trail up the exposed ridges. That morning in 1915 those Anzacs that made it soon became separated from their commanders and each other, and in the chaos were uncertain how to proceed.

Eventually progress was made and the defending Ottoman soldiers were soon retreating. It was at this moment that the legacy of Mustafa Kemal was established, and it was his military genius that many historians attribute to the successful defense of the peninsula. Out of ammunition, Kemal ordered the retreating soldiers to turn back and use only their bayonets. They did so and managed to force the attacking Anzacs back to the tops of the cliffs they had just scoured.

Both sides were to become entrenched here for eight months of reckless death.

Plugges Plateau
Once atop the cliffs, the land flattens into what the Anzacs called Plugges Plateau. Here the terrain gently undulates toward Chunuk Bair, the highest point on the peninsula and the objective of the whole offensive. On these pine and scrub covered ripples the two sides entrenched themselves astonishingly close to one another Ğ in some parts no-mans land was barely as wide as a road Ğ and it is here that the vast majority of casualties on this front of the campaign occurred.

It is also the scene of a series of events that led to this episode being optimistically called a "gentleman’s war" and where the sprit Atatürk captured in his words was born. Before this point the young Anzacs knew nothing about whom they were fighting, much less why.

They were instilled with a sense of jingoistic bravado that meant the Ottomans were seen as a monstrous enemy. In mid May an event played out here that was as absurd as it was admirable. Following the failure of an Ottoman offensive, during which wave after futile wave of soldiers was gunned down in seconds, the small peaks and troughs of no-mans land became congested with bodies.

Under the May sun it was not long before the rotting corpses could be ignored no longer, and after some initial confusion - not recognizing its meaning, Ottoman snipers put two bullets through a red cross flag - a cease-fire was agreed upon. Both sides emerged from the trenches to recover the wounded and bury the dead and the opposing forces were brought face to face for the first time and were soon mingling and sharing cigarettes. The surrealism was soon disturbed and both sides went back to trying to kill each other.

But the occasion had changed entirely the way the Anzacs viewed the Ottoman enemy. They soon became known as "Johnny Turk" and stories abound of soldiers on the front tossing food, cigarettes and even letters into the opposing trenches.

Among the pines, remnants of the trenches can still be seen today. They provide a kind of forensic setting for the acts of noble human interaction coupled with mindless killing that played out for so long in this confined arena. With the proximity of the trenches it becomes easy to imagine the scene.

Standing between the trenches in the absence of sniper fire there is a superficial calm, beneath which the memory of all that went on continuously stirs. However, all the emotions that such tales of humanity inevitably inspire only compound the sense of frustration at the pointless waste of life on so grand a scale and only serve to remind that there is no glory in war.

Somewhat unfortunately, the controversial paved road recently built atop the peninsula runs directly through considerable sections of what was no-mans land. Each coach that thunders past punctures the sombre atmosphere. The road continues up to the elusive Chunuk Bair, and the easy stroll up is almost an act of contempt of the soldiers that lost their lives trying to gain single meters.

Along with monument to all the New Zealanders that served, this summit contains appropriate testaments to the Turkish fortitude and the countless lives lost successfully defending the peninsula. As the buses and domestic tour groups culminate here, the usual array of vendors inevitably congregate.

However, this is surely an unavoidable consequence of something more important. That a growing number of Turks are visiting the sites is a tribute to the thousands that died there; the road and buses are a modern reality.

But the number of Anzacs that arrive each year at this time has always created a controversy of its own. This year the returned servicemen associations of both countries have called on people to visit at other times.

Not unlike the opposing forces up on the ridges, the memory of this painful period is so deeply entrenched in Gallipoli and will forever be a more powerful testament than any choreographed ceremony.