Chunuk Bair’s lesson – history’s made up of human moments
The ceremonies to mark the centenary of Chunuk Bair also celebrated enduring values, writes Peter Biggs.
ON A sunny but wind-blown hill summit on the Gallipoli peninsula in Turkey, the New Zealand Defence Band fittingly played the Wellington March towards the close of the service commemorating the centenary of the battle for Chunuk Bair.
While the movingly simple service was a distinctively New Zealand event, it was Wellington’s day – for it was the Wellington Battalion, under Lieutenant Colonel William Malone, who played the leading role in the taking and desperate defence of the strategic height of Chunuk Bair, the key to the success of the Allies’ August offensive and attempt to break out of the Gallipoli deadlock.
To be standing on Chunuk Bair 100 years on from that landmark event in our history was the fulfilment of a promise I made to myself some years ago.
This is my third visit to Gallipoli and, each time, I have walked the battlefield clutching a battered and dog-eared copy of No Better Death: The Great War diaries and letters of William G Malone, edited by John Crawford. The book, which should be compulsory reading for all Wellington schoolchildren, reveals a man and leader of great complexity and deep humanity who led his much loved Wellington Battalion to its supreme test, the battle of Chunuk Bair, described by historian Ian McGibbon as ‘‘an epic of courage and determination’’.
Trooper H E Browne, of the Wellington Mounted Regiment, a baker from Wellington wounded at Chunuk Bair, remembered the action in more graphic terms: ‘‘Thus with the fire of the enemy on three sides and our guns blowing us to glory from behind, the place became a corner of Hell . . .’’
The capture of Chunuk Bair has taken on a mythical resonance in our history because it contains so many fascinating vignettes which make up a compelling story: the first time that Maori and Pakeha troops fought together as equals; the stunningly efficient operation by the New Zealanders to secure the foothills, described by the Australian historian Charles Bean as ‘‘a magnificent feat of arms, the brilliance of which was never surpassed, if indeed equalled, during the campaign’’; Malone’s brave refusal to obey an order to send his men forward in a suicidal attack to take the heights on August 7; the daring night assault by the Wellingtons which occupied the crest of Chunuk Bair from which they could glimpse the Gallipoli campaign’s original objective, the straits of the Dardanelles; the heroic defence over two days of the position while under constant Turkish counter-attack, shell fire and rifle fire; the bravery of Signaller Cyril Bassett who won New Zealand’s only Victoria Cross in the campaign; the death of Colonel Malone towards late afternoon on August 8, most probably by shells fired by New Zealand artillery; the eventual loss of Chunuk Bair, after two days of extraordinary suffering by both sides.
To describe the centenary service as remembering simply an event in history would be a mistake. The profoundly moving ceremony also celebrated enduring values. Malone described his Wellingtons as: ‘‘None better in the world. Brave as they make ‘em, cool, determined, enduring, clever, patient, kindly and cheerful.’’
Those Wellington values make New Zealanders respected around the world – and, if we allow ourselves to lose them, we shall have lost something deeply precious. And that is why I keep coming back to Gallipoli – not to re-live the relics of a doomed campaign, but to remind myself of our deepest humanity and how history is made up of millions of human moments, particularly those involving tragedy, described by the poet James K Baxter as ‘‘written distinct and small’’.
The most powerful words on the Gallipoli peninsula are not to be found on the official monuments. They are on the gravestones in cemeteries scattered throughout the landscape. There are the familiar comforting cliches: ‘‘The path of duty was the way to glory’’; ‘‘Thy will be done’’; ‘‘Peace Perfect Peace’’.
And then, there are the searingly personal lines, written distinct and small – such as the words on the headstone, in the remote and rarely visited Lala Baba cemetery, of 5813 Private R B Nicoll of the Scottish Horse who died on 26 October 1915, aged 27: ‘‘Dear Bob’’.
Also heartbreakingly plaintive is the sentence on the grave in Shrapnel Valley of 790 Private W A Strang, 10th Australian Infantry Battalion, who died in April 1915, aged 33: ‘‘Some day we will understand.’’
The centenary service at Chunuk Bair was one more step forward in that seemingly endless journey of deeper understanding – of ourselves and who we are as a nation.