We were fortunate to be able to return to Gallipoli the day after Anzac Day to have a more leisurely look at some of the battlefields on the peninsula. Although Garreth and I already had a pretty good idea of the challenges faced by the Anzacs due to the topography of the region, the opportunity to walk around gave us a new perspective on the campaign.
A map of the Gallipoli peninsulaImage credit: Anzac site
Our tour group were still tired after Anzac Day – being awake for almost forty hours had taken its toll, and we crossed the Dardanelles on the ferry back to Eceabat in weary silence. Once we arrived on the peninsula, without the enormous crowd and numerous security checkpoints, it was much easier to be able to observe our surroundings.
One of the most frequently cited reasons for the failure of the Anzac landings is that the forces were landed on the wrong beach. (There were numerous reasons, of course, but coming ashore at Ari Burnu, rather than Kapatepe, certainly hindered the beginning of the campaign.) The stretch of land between Eceabat (on the Dardanelles) and Kabatepe (on the Aegean coast) is a flat plain – perfect for landing a large force. If the Anzacs had landed there, as planned, it may have been possible to sweep straight across to the Dardanelles, thus cutting off the Turkish forces on Cape Helles from any reinforcements and forcing them to fight on two fronts.
We started at the Anzac Commemorative Site on North Beach, where the grandstands from the previous day were in the process of being dissembled. We scrambled down to the waterline and looked back at the cliffs. They seem to wrap around the beach, starting from Ari Burnu in the south, giving a very claustrophobic feeling to this section of sand.
Dad and I on North BeachWalking southwards along the road, we visited Ari Burnu Cemetery and Beach Cemetery, before catching a bus back up to Lone Pine, which was now empty of people.
Dad and I at Anzac CoveJust northwest of Lone Pine is Johnston’s Jolly, a part of the ridge where Anzac and Turkish trenches were only separated by seven metres. It was close enough for soldiers to be able to lob bombs back and forth between the trenches. The trenches are still visible in the dirt – narrow gullies covered with pine needles that wind between the trees.
The network of trenches at Johnston’s JollyLooking back from Johnston’s Jolly, we could see the rocky peaks of the first ridge that overlook Anzac Cove, including the back section of the Sphinx. In that valley between the ridges was some infamous places, such as Quinn’s Post, where the Anzac troops eked out a precarious existence as the Turkish soldiers rained bombs and bullets down on them. Standing up there, looking down on those vulnerable places, it was incredible to think that the Anzac forces held out for so long.
But hold out they did. On one night, the Turkish offensive of 19 May, the Anzac force of 17,500 managed to defend against 42,000 attacking Turks.
The memorial to John Simpson, at Beach CemeteryOn the ridge between Johnston’s Jolly and Chunuk Bair is The Nek, a narrow stretch of land that Charles Bean famously described as the size of two tennis courts. And it truly is precipitous – the ground drops away on either side. It amazes me to think that anyone can scale up the side of this thing, especially under fire. The barbed wire is still clustered around the trenches. It was here on 7 August 1915 that the soldiers of the 8th and 10th Light Horse Regiment charged the Turkish trenches in one of the most futile attacks in modern military history. Ordered to fix their bayonets and empty their rifles of bullets (firing would only slow them down), the Anzacs attacked in three successive waves. Virtually all of them were killed or wounded. Charles Bean wrote, regarding the 10th Light Horse, “With that regiment went the flower of the youth of Western Australia, sons of the old pioneering families, youngsters – in some cases two or three from the same home… Men known and popular, the best loved leaders in sport and work in the West… rushed straight to their death.”
Barbed wire in the trenches at The Nek. (And Dad in the background.)It’s only at the top of Chunuk Bair that I could truly appreciate the strategic significance of this mountain. It overlooks the entire peninsula, from Suvla Bay in the north to the Dardanelles in the east. It is a sacred site for the New Zealanders, where they assaulted the summit during the August offensive, actually managing to hold it for a day before being driven back by the forces by Mustafa Kemal (Atatürk). And it was here that Kemal gave his famous order: “I don’t order you to fight, I order you to die.”
The view northwards to Suvla Bay from Chunuk Bair.The real tragedy of Chunuk Bair was that the British reinforcements in Suvla Bay decided to stop on the beach for a spot of tea and a swim rather than racing inland to assist the New Zealanders. Even Atatürk would later admit that if the Anzac forces on Chunuk Bair had been able to hang on to the mountaintop, the whole campaign would have turned out differently.
All of the places I’ve described are within easy walking distance of each other. The Anzacs only held 400 acres of land on the peninsula. It couldn’t be described as a foothold, but a toehold. Those soldiers spent eight months clinging to the side of cliffs. It’s sobering to think of how many soldiers died – on both sides – for this desolate piece of coast.
I had mixed feelings as we left the Gallipoli peninsula that day. I feel privileged to have been there, in that particular place at that particular time. It felt like a sacred pilgrimage, as I visited those sites whose names have become part of Australian folklore. Finally, I was overcome with a great sense of sadness. These cliffs are a mass grave, a memorial not just to the soldiers who rest here, but a memorial to human folly, desperation, and the futile ambitions of old empires.
Awaiting the Dawn Service, the Sphinx towers above the crowd
I am currently lying on the slopes of ANZAC cove, the cool grass beneath me and nothing but inky skies and a few drops of light above. Behind me are thousands of my countrymen and New Zealanders. The great TV screen to my left plays documentaries every half hour or so and there is a general buzz as people continue to filter into the site. I have exchanged words with the New Zealand Prime Minister, aussie journo David ‘kochy’ Koch and one of my tour mates is currently chatting footy with Eddie Macguire, who Andrew and I have just finished saying G’day to as well. It is the tightly controlled media varnish of the ANZAC mythology.
The peninsula seems awash with a who’s who of Australian and New Zealand who’s who… Well… I’ll let you be the judge of that. Overall there is a carnival atmosphere that has descended upon the crowd, spirits are high, larrikanism seems to be the order of the day.
It has been an interesting journey here and a whirlwind of Turkey. Moving from Ottoman palaces to Ancient Greek and Roman cities. You can’t help but feel how Turkey has played host to every major power the world creating thousands of myths and legends that have endured time and empires. And now Turkey is playing host to thousands of Australians and New Zealanders remembering their own myths and legends that Turkey is now a very gracious and proud custodian of, as they are their myths and legends too. These myths are like the cats and dogs you will meet all over Turkey; looked after by everyone and yet owned by no one.
The Trojan Horse used in the film “Troy” with Gallipoli in the background
It’s now 3am and the whole of ANZAC cove is alive with 10,000 people, we’ve moved from laying down to sitting and now to standing as we fill to capacity. But I think we are all feeling grateful that it is a rather mild night in ANZAC, a very soft breeze is blowing and it is roughly 4 degrees. Everyone seems to be in good spirits as we stand awaiting the dawn. The spirit of ANZAC seems to be in the air this morning, keeping the crowd calm and cooperative and the word’s “a fair go” never too far from someone’s lips.
Perhaps it is mere sentimentality, but if it is then it is an atmosphere of sentimentality shared by thousands. And perhaps that’s what we as Australians could use right now. Gallipoli is a mythology, an Iliad of heroism on both sides that reads like a Homeric tale. A foolish venture ordered by an aristocracy and amidst blood and tragedy three national identities were formed. Names like Simpson, Sing, Birdwood and Throssel and their actions are the stuff of legend. It is easy to criticise the occasion as a glorification of war, but the place of mythology that Gallipoli occupies in our national consciousness makes it so much more complicated than that.
This ANZAC day we should remember those values we possessed as a nation that turned us from invaders to brothers, that taught us that war is nasty and horrific and wholly lacking in any kind of Glory. For what is ANZAC day but not a reminder that blind patriotism and nationalism is a dangerous business? That there is more to who we are than blindly following the words of others into conflict, whether they be King or Prime Minister. Most importantly of all it should be a reminder that the other people we fight are human just like us.
Perhaps if we could invest a little more in thoughts of sentimentality surrounding our national mythology our nation would be the better, more sympathetic and more tolerant for it. After all it is a day for reflection and introspection, a time to think about who we are as a nation and how we will always be defined by our actions.
“I could pour into your ears so much truth about the grandeur of our Australian army, and the wonderful affection of these young soldiers for each other and their homeland, that your Australianism would become a more powerful sentiment than before. It is stirring to see them, magnificent manhood, swinging their fine limbs as they walk about Anzac. They have the noble faces of men who have endured. Oh, if you could picture Anzac as I have seen it, you would find that to be an Australian is the greatest privilege the world has to offer.”
– Keith Murdoch, “The Gallipoli Letter”, 23 Sept 1915
We could see them across the gulf of a century. They huddled together in the boats in the bitter grey twilight as they approached the shore. We stood on the beach, cliffs at our back, eyes cast out to sea, waiting for them. When they came ashore, amidst a maelstrom of bullets and shrapnel, they were disoriented and scared. Imposing cliffs rose above the thin strip of sand and rock. This wasn’t where they were supposed to land! It was the wrong place! Across the span of time, we welcomed them in silence, here on this dismal shore in the biting cold, standing shoulder to shoulder with their former enemies. We stood here with them, here at Anzac Cove.
Nothing I’ve experienced in my life can compare to commemorating the centenary of Anzac Day at Gallipoli. We arrived on the Gallipoli peninsula in the early afternoon of Friday, 24 April. There was a great sense of migration, an inward press of people converging on the same place. We were fortunate to cross the Dardanelles so early in the day; we heard that over 300 buses were waiting in line at a crossing further up the channel. After passing through the bus registration point and various security checkpoints, we arrived at the holding area at Kabatepe.
Looking south towards Kabatepe, April 1915. Photo taken by William Henry CameronIt was our first view of the desolate Gallipoli coastline. Kabatepe was where the Anzac soldiers were supposed to land – a flat beach leading to the inland plains. To the north, we could see the beginnings of the Sari Bair range – rugged ridges rising up from the beach.
Walking north from Kabatepe, 25 April 2015The walk to the commemorative site took forty minutes. The cluster of grandstands and stages were nestled under the cliffs, looking down onto the beach. The imposing rock edifice known as the Sphinx towered over us. It’s only now that I truly understand just how steep the cliffs are – photos don’t do justice to their sheer scale. This was the worst possible place along this entire peninsula to attempt a landing. How the Anzac troops managed to even establish a beachhead is entirely beyond my comprehension. We settled down on the grass (and my parents settled down in one of the grandstands) and watched night fall over the Aegean. A long night was ahead.
Dad, Mum, myself, and Garreth at the Anzac Commemorative SiteBecause we’d arrived so early (bus number 87 out of an estimated 500), we were lucky to be able to lie down for the first few hours. But around midnight, the continued influx of people meant that we had to first sit up, then stand to make room. At 2am, there were still 1,500 people waiting to enter the site.
But it was a night full of simple moments too. Walks with Garreth and my parents along the promenade. Watching the spotlights play over the Sphinx. Chatting to the New Zealand Prime Minister, taking a selfie with Kochie. Having a joke around with Eddie McGuire and telling him that I’m a huge Eagles supporter. And an interview I did for ABC radio. The cove felt like a little slice of home, here on his distant shore.
The Sphinx spotlighted above the crowd in the night
“In no unreal sense it was on the 25th of April, 1915, that the consciousness of Australian nationhood was born.”
– Charles Bean
The dawn was announced by a dusky red glow above the cliffs. As the service began, the sky changed to a grey twilight above us. Dignitaries made their speeches, and a procession of naval ships passed by the coast. There was a palpable swelling of emotion from the crowd. The Last Post has never sounded so haunting as it did in that morning twilight.
When the main commemorative service had finished, the Australians hiked up Artillery Road to Lone Pine, while the New Zealanders continued on to Chunuk Bair. The Australian ceremony at Lone Pine was so much more relaxed than the main service, for which we were all pretty grateful, because most of us had been awake for over 30 hours at this point. The view from Lone Pine was also quite stunning, with a sweeping vista up the second ridge to Chunuk Bair. During the minute of silence, the chirping and whistling of birds sounded across the hilltop – it was hard to believe this peaceful place had once been a site of ferocious battle.
Lone Pine, 25 April 2015Seeing the memorial at Lone Pine was a sobering way to end this day of remembrance. The Dardanelles campaign was a disaster for the Allies. 43,921 dead, 97,112 wounded. The Turkish losses were even more staggering: 86,692 dead, 164,617 wounded. We were constantly reminded that every step we took was on a grave of our ancestors.
A century after the landings, it’s worth asking what the Anzac legend means to my generation, and what role it plays in defining our nation. It’s something that is hard to articulate, because it is something that exists inside us, something that is part of our identity as Australians. Gallipoli is Australia’s foundation myth. It is the story we learn in school – the story of Simpson and his donkey, the story of brave Hugo Throssell, the story of a desperate clamour up the side of cliffs, and the story of a withdrawal that didn’t cost a single life. It is our French Revolution, it is our War of Independence. It is the single moment when we became aware of ourselves as a nation – a moment when we stood up and announced ourselves to the world. As long as Australia endures, the word Gallipoli will resonate in its people. And as I grow older and think about one day having children of my own, it seems more and more important to remember the sacrifices of our ancestors, to commemorate and celebrate their lives.
Atatürk’s famous address to the mothers of Anzac soldiers is a prominent part of the Anzac memorialAnd what about those Australian values that crystallised in these trenches – mateship, bravery, larrikinism? It seems to me that those values are more important than ever. Having spent the last ten days on a tour with a group of Australian and New Zealanders, the sense of camaraderie we shared by the time we reached Gallipoli was only possible because of these shared values.
As our nation continues to grow into the next century, it becomes increasingly important for our leaders to reflect on the values and lessons learnt at Gallipoli. Australia is a different place to what it was in 1915, but many of the challenges are the same. After spending the last week experiencing gracious Turkish hospitality, and hearing about how this country has made room for millions of their neighbours fleeing from religious and political persecution, my feelings on some of Australia’s issues have been reinforced. The second verse of our national anthem says that “for those who’ve come across the seas, we’ve boundless plains to share”, and I would like to see the current leaders of Australia remember these words and be as welcoming as our Turkish hosts have been.
Dad and I at the Anzac Commemorative SiteSitting at the commemorative site, I thought about my grandfather as the dawn blossomed above me. I remembered visiting Albany, all those months ago, to commemorate the departure of the first convoy. (And how similar the coastlines of Albany and Gallipoli!) It had been the start of a long road, a journey that bridged across a century. And now I was standing in the place that had been the end of that road. My grandfather had been here, scrambling up the side of these cliffs, gasping and shouting into the dawn light. He was only here a few days before he was shot in the leg and evacuated. His story was short and furious, a mere drop in the tidal wave that washed up on this shore in 1915.
My grandfather, William Henry CameronI am humbled and honoured to be here. I know that, no matter where I go or what I do, I will always carry today in my heart. On those quiet mornings, when I lie awake and listen to the birdsong through my window, or on those tranquil evenings at Cottesloe, when the breeze is cool and the waves lap contentedly at my feet, my thoughts will return to this desolate stretch of coast and the profound and desperate events that occurred here. At the going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them.
As our tour makes its way through Turkey, we’ve seen some incredible sights – the urban sprawl of Istanbul, the olive groves of Sirince, and the surreal Moonscape of Cappadocia. We’ve seen the mausoleum of Atatürk, the ruins of Hierapolis, and the ancient chapels of Göreme. We’ve explored the tunnels and chambers of Kaymakli underground city. We’ve watched demonstrations of the Whirling Dervishes, the ancient art of pottery, and the weaving of carpets. We spent an afternoon wandering the ruined city of Ephesus, where Garreth performed a Shakespearean sonnet in the Great Theatre. And we’ve watched the sunrise from a hot air balloon above the calcium terraces of Pamukkale. Each day has brought a wealth of experiences.
Sunrise over the calcium terraces of PamukkaleSomething we’re rapidly learning is what Gallipoli means to the Turkish people, and the significance it played in inspiring a revolution and developing the modern Turkish nation. This isn’t something we could pick up from a text book: it’s something we’ve gathered from conversations with locals, watching adverts and documentaries on Turkish television, and seeing how the nation is approaching the centenary of the battle.
As soon as we’re recognised as Australians, there’s an instant kinship with our new Turkish friends. More than one local has used the term brother to describe the relationship. Australians are welcomed here – we fought in the same battle, we were forged in that same crucible. It doesn’t matter that we fought against each other; all has been forgiven. There is a distinct sense that we are travelling to Gallipoli to remember not just the Australians and New Zealanders, but the many Turkish soldiers who also lost their lives.
The Turkish experience of Gallipoli was an entirely different narrative to what we hear in Australia. The soldiers were repelling an invasion of their homeland. In many cases, they were fighting for land that had belonged to their families for generations. Many of them sacrificed their lives to protect their nation. It requires a strange sort of cognitive shift to think of Australia as an invading force, but that’s what happened.
Anzac soldiers in Cairo, 1915. Photo taken by my grandfather, William Henry CameronWhen the First World War began, the British Empire may have been at the height of its powers, but the Ottoman Empire was in a state of decline. The Committee of Union and Progress were removing power from the Sultan and placing it in the hands of the people. An empire that had lasted for over 600 years was close to imminent collapse. And suddenly they found themselves embroiled in a war between the empires of Europe. The people knew that defeat could signal the end of the Ottoman Empire. So they were fighting not just for the defence of their homeland, but for the preservation of their way of life – their traditions, their culture, their very history.
As I’ve previously written, the Turkish commemoration of Gallipoli occurs on 18 March, the day when frantic Turkish forces defeated one of the largest naval fleets ever assembled, as the British tried to storm the Dardanelles. It was an incredible victory for Turkey. A declining empire had defeated the mighty British fleet.
It’s not hard to draw parallels between Australia and Turkey in the development of nationalism after the events of the war. Gallipoli was the place that crystallised those traits that defined what it meant to be Australian – mateship, bravery, larrikinism, and a healthy disrespect of authority. It sparked the birth of our national consciousness. But in that same crucible, the modern Turkish nation was born. It was the final defence of the motherland, even as the Ottoman Empire crumbled. When Mustafa Kemal said to his soldiers “I don’t order you to fight, I order you to die,” the willing sacrifice of those soldiers bespoke of great loyalty to Turkey.
The Atatürk mausoleum, AnkaraFinally, part of the kinship between our two nations is due to one man. Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, the commander of Turkish forces at Gallipoli, who later became founder of the Republic of Turkey, singled out the Anzacs in his letter to the mothers of the fallen soldiers in 1934:
Those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives… You are now lying in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace. There is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets to us where they lie side by side now here in this country of ours… you, the mothers, who sent their sons from faraway countries wipe away your tears; your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace. After having lost their lives on this land they have become our sons as well.
By separating Australia and New Zealand from the British, Atatürk created a bond between the nations. Our sons became their sons. The blood that had fallen on the Gallipoli peninsula was mixed between all soldiers, regardless of nationality.
When we gather on the shores of Gallipoli in just a couple of days, I will be proud to be standing side by side with our Turkish brothers. The legacy of Anzac isn’t confined to Australia and New Zealand – it is still alive here in Turkey, where it all began.
It is the city that has endured. Empires have risen and fallen. Armies have surged at its gates. The ebb and flow of the world has threatened to overwhelm, but Istanbul has endured.
Descending through the ubiquitous haze into Istanbul is like being swallowed into the belly of the beast. After two weeks in the orderly land of Germany, it was a real culture shock. The streets were chaotic – traffic weaving everywhere, hawkers pushing their products onto us, the trumpeting of car horns competing with the quavering calls to prayer. There was a vitalism here that I’d never encountered before. For the first time, I truly understood why Istanbul is considered one of the great cities of the world.
The Sultanahmet Mosque (Blue Mosque), Istanbul
It is a city of many names. It began as Byzantium, a thriving trading hub on the shores of the Bosphorus. Becoming part of the Roman Empire in 73CE, it would later be renamed Constantinople as it transformed into the capital of the Eastern Roman Empire. Even as the Western Roman Empire fragmented and collapsed in the fifth century, Constantinople cemented itself as the heart of the Orthodox Church. In 1453, the Ottoman Empire captured the city and declared it their capital. Finally, after the collapse of the Ottomans in 1922, it became known as Istanbul.
This long and violent history is visible throughout the cityscape. Modern Istanbul is built on the ruins of previous cities. Ancient structures and fortifications rise out of the pavement, creating a confusing melange of old and new. Decay and modernity exist side by side.
The Basilica Cistern, Istanbul – ruins beneath the surface
The most impressive monument is the Aya Sophia. Built in 573CE, it was the largest church in the world for over a thousand years. I’ve been inside some of the worlds biggest cathedrals – St Peter’s in Rome, St Paul’s in London, the Sagrada Família in Barcelona – but there’s something awe-inspiring about Aya Sophia. The dome seems to hover in the air, defying the laws of physics. The galleries on the second floor bear graffiti that is centuries old. Golden mosaics decorate the walls, painstakingly constructed in an age when Christianity was still in its infancy. Aya Sophia breathes – I could feel the organism inhaling and exhaling around me. When the Ottomans captured Istanbul in 1453, it was converted into a mosque. Islamic symbols exist alongside Christian markings. Now that the building is a museum, this strange fusion of religions is being preserved, a reminder of the potential for cooperation and peace between religions that is sorely needed.
Mary and Christ flanked by Muhammad and Allah, a potent reminder of shared beliefs
Our time in Istanbul included a cruise on the Bosphorus, that narrow channel of water which connects the Black Sea to the Sea of Marmara – one of the busiest waterways in the world. It was utterly congested with ships. Small yachts dodged around Russian tankers and stately cruise ships. Upriver from the old town, impressively straddling the shores, was the Bosphorus Bridge, connecting Europe and Asia.
The cruise lasted until the late afternoon. The tepid sunlight reached us through the greasy haze, turning the sky a brilliant yellow. As the day faded, we could see the silhouettes of minarets and mosques clustered on the skyline.
Sunset over the Bosphorus
Looking over the city, I couldn’t help but imagine what the skyline would look like if the British fleet had managed to force the Dardanelles and reach Istanbul. I often indulge in these exercises of alternate history. The far shore of the Sea of Marmara was visible through the haze; the Gallipoli peninsula was not far. If the fleet had broken though the Turkish defences, the whole of Istanbul would have been under the guns of the British cruisers. Which of these buildings would have been razed to the ground? Would the Aya Sophia still be standing after 1,500 years? What would have been lost in the attack?
Given such high stakes, it doesn’t surprise me that the Turkish celebrate their equivalent of Anzac Day on 18 March – the day in 1915 when an enormous Allied fleet charged into the Dardanelles, only to be soundly defeated by a combination of shore defences and sea mines. The mighty British fleet was devastated, losing three battlecruisers in a matter of minutes. It was this defeat that prompted the British War Council to begin planning a landing on the peninsula. Istanbul was spared, and millennia of history was preserved.
Inside the Aya Sophia
In reaching Istanbul, we’ve begun our tour of Turkey which will culminate at the Dawn Service at Gallipoli on April 25th. The tour bus is full of Australians; each one of us has a personal connection to the Anzac legend. There’s a sense of excitement as we embark on the journey, and a sort of somber anticipation of what lies ahead. All around us are constant reminders of the Anzacs: memorials, monuments, exhibits in the museums. Most importantly is the sense of camaraderie we share with the Turkish people. They are our brothers now, our nations forged in that same crucible on that blood-soaked shore. We are bonded not in a celebration of war, but in commemoration of our fallen sons.
After five nights in Munich, it was a relief to escape to somewhere less crowded. Our time in Munich can only be described as a Hedonistic divulgence in drinking and eating. Each night found us at the local beer hall, drinking the famous litre steins and devouring pork knuckles or curry wurst. I’ve never been so full in my life. So we were both feeling a little haggard by the time we left the city, and were looking forward to some time in the mountains.
Berchtesgaden is a picturesque Bavarian village hidden in the Alps. The mountains rise above the valley, rocky grey summits appearing to slash at the sky. Forests blanket the slopes, their trees changing colour as the sun dips towards the horizon. And even though it’s halfway through Spring, there’s still plenty of snow around: many of the roads above the town are still closed. This isn’t my first time to Berchtesgaden. I came here a few years ago and fell in love with the mountains and lakes. But for all of its beauty, Berchtesgaden is a town with a dark past.
Berchtesgaden in the evening
Hitler was incredibly fond of the area, having owned property on the Obersalzburg mountain since the 1920’s. After he came to power in 1933, the Nazi Party began to occupy the Obersalzburg mountain, buying up property for party leaders and driving out the locals. In fact, Berchtesgaden was so beloved by the Nazis that it became their southern headquarters. German tourists would flock to Berchtesgaden in the hope of seeing their leader in his Alpine haunt. It was a valuable military target. An extensive bunker system was constructed beneath the Obersalzburg in case Berlin was lost. A fog machine built into the mountain could create a thick cloud that could hide the mountain from enemy aircraft. Most famously, Hitler’s Eagle’s Nest was built on the summit of the mountain. It’s still quite visible from the streets of Berchtesgaden, a grim reminder of the town’s past.
The Eagle’s Nest can be seen on top of the mountain behind the town
Berchtesgaden wasn’t bombed during the war, so many of the buildings built by the Nazis are still standing. The train station, in particular, still bears the angular lines and symmetry of Nazi architecture. Built in 1937, there are still recesses in the walls and above doors that once housed swastikas.
Berlin and Munich had been full of memorials and museums dedicated to the two world wars that had shaped the country – they offered insights into the past, along with the aim of preventing it from happening again. It some cases it was overwhelming, with the sheer number of casualties or the heart-reading stories of persecution and mass murder simply beyond comprehension. But in Berchtesgaden, we saw how a small community was impacted by war.
There’s no doubt that the people of this town suffered under the Nazi regime. The cemetery here is full of memorials to fallen soldiers from both wars. It was strange to see memorial plaques to soldiers who had fought for the Nazis. We’d spent the last couple of weeks being taught that the Nazis were the epitome of evil, yet here were their memorials, still lovingly maintained, with haunting epitaphs from grieving mothers who had lost their sons. In some cases, two or three brothers from the same family were on the same plaque. These children were so young; their boyish faces in the faded sepia photos knew nothing of the horrors of war. It was staggering to see how many of them lost their lives in April 1945, during the last weeks of the war. These kids didn’t look like the epitome of evil. They’d been caught up in the manipulations and oppression of a totalitarian regime. It brought home the fact that the first country invaded by the Nazis was Germany itself.
At night, the cemetery was lit by a field of red candles, forming rows of flickering light that flanked the dead.
A chapel on the hill above Berchtesgaden
We wanted our time in Berchtesgaden to be more than simply visiting the sites of past oppression. One of the highlights of our time here was the hike we did from Lake Königssee to the Eiskapelle (ice cave). Setting out from the shore of the lake, we climbed through Alpine forest up the side of a ridge. It was a crisp morning, with a few clouds breaking against the crest of the mountains.
The top of the ridge was covered with snow – sporadic patches at first, but soon becoming deeper, until we were trudging through calf-deep drifts. The plateau on the other side of the ridge was nestled between the mountains, and the biting wind rushed down their flanks, a remnant of Winter even in the middle of Spring. The snow was deep here. Our shoes weren’t made for this type of terrain. We could hear streams rushing beneath our feet, with the realisation that one misstep off the side of the narrow path could end in disaster.
The plateau above Lake Königssee
The Eiskapelle itself was inaccessible, buried beneath the snow. So we stood on a rock at the centre of the plateau and watched the myriad small avalanches in the mountains around us. They sounded like the waves breaking on Cottesloe Beach.
On the plateau near the Eiskapelle
On this remote mountain plateau, the only other hikers we encountered were also Australians. Typical! So as we descended down towards the lake, we shouted out the occasional “coo-ee!” and laughed when we heard their response.
The snow swirled unexpectedly in cold cotton drifts. The German gods were having some Wagnerian pillow fight in the skies above Munich as Andrew and I took our first steps beyond the hostel wall. In other words perfect beer hall weather!
Before that it was necessary to take the pilgrimage to Europe’s most over rated tourist attraction, the glockenspiel.
Marienplatz was crowded with tourists all waiting expectedly as this marvel was to unfold above us. The glockenspiel itself placed into the neo-gothic architecture of the nues rathouse (an appropriate name for a building filled with politicians) looked down upon us, it’s mediaeval romantic figures carved from wood standing ready to begin the spectacle. Then at 5pm (well, about 5:07, no auto mechanism here, it’s all reliant on someone climbing to the top and flicking the on switch) the spectacle began. The wooden figures roared into a sudden flurry of slow motion activity, before two Knights one from Baveria and the other from Austria came charging toward one another at what can only be described as a grind of hooves. The bells beating out a tune, completely out of tune, were the perfect accompaniment to this craptacular display of clockwork. The Bavarian knight triumphant in his victory over the Austrian, it seemed like all was done. But then out of a very predictable nowhere the cooper figures below the joust began their dance to celebrate the end of the plague that had once ravished Munich. When the tiny owl above the glockenspiel finally flapped his wings, as if to say “show’s over, move along”, an inexplicable cheering and clapping erupted from the crowd. My only thought on why this happened is, having suffered through the glockenspiel together the people of the Marienplatz would now not have to endure the performance again until 10am the following morning. That’s if the operator could be arsed climbing to the top of the Rathaus to torture the unfortunates below once more.
If there is one thing to be said about Australians and Germans it’s that we share a common love of beer. Munich is the beer capital of the world and Andrew and I both understood that some heavy drinking was about to ensue. We started with the Mecca of beer halls the Hoffbrauhaus.
It certainly lived up to its reputation for rowdiness and intoxication. The warm, sweet, cosy atmosphere as you wander in combined with the oom pah pah band playing leaves you in no doubt about where you have come to. The beer in its heavy 1L stein is sweet and gentle, like many of the Bavarians we have met along the way. We eventually found our way into the infamous festall, the beer hall in which Hitler announced the birth of the NSDAP and unveiled the swastika.
Munich for all its fun and frivolity makes no attempt to hide the scars of its 12 years of national socialism. It is a sobering thought that Munich with its romantic cathedrals, jovial beer halls and Bavarian kitsch was the birthplace of something so terrifying as the NAZI party.
In Munich we also found the quiet signs of German resistance. Munich is where a small group of university students known as The White Rose Society were beheaded for distributing Anti-NAZI pamphlets.
Also a little lane with a thin line of brass cobblestones remains as a monument to those, who seeking to avoid having to salute a Nazi shrine to the 1923 beer hall putsch, were beaten or killed for this small act of resistance. The Putsch shrine was guarded by two SS men 24hrs a day to ensure that passers by saluted as they were supposed to, an alley behind the shrine meant that people could quietly slip by without saluting, a small but important act of defiance. I was told that being aware of the alley way the Gestaupo placed a man there to catch those who used the alley more than once a day. If you got off lightly you were beaten to a pulp or sent to Dachau, if the officer was just in a bad mood you were executed on the spot. Despite all this the people of Munich continued to use the alley. A very quiet, but in my opinion, very proud and German act of defiance, lending a touch of irony to the name of the lane, which translates as “shirkers alley”.
The Brass trail is a monument to the German resistance of the Nazis
Andrew and I did visit Dachau whilst in Munich. I won’t go into great detail aside from to say, it is a place everyone should visit. Having passed through the horror of the camp itself, when you stand inside the little low ceilinged concrete box with its fake shower heads and feel the chill that seeps into your bones, you will know that if hell had a centre you are truly standing in it.
Below are some photos I took in the camp. I offer no commentary on them, other than asking you to take a moment to look and reflect.
I felt changed in some unalterable way by my experience here. There was an almost “there but for the grace of God, go I” sense. Given my political viewpoints, my love of the arts and some (1/8th) Jewish ancestry it is likely that, if I were a German or invaded by Germans, somewhere between 1933 & 45, I would have found myself in such a place. I walked away feeling saddened, but so much more steadfast in my belief that all human beings must be afforded their dignity and rights.
As has been said before Germans make no effort to disguise their past, but having acknowledged it and continuing to do so, quietly and respectfully they are able to enjoy those things that make Germany great.
The people of Munich are extremely friendly. On our last night in Munich, we found ourselves drinking at the Augustiner Keller. If the Hoffbrauhaus is the Mecca of beer halls then a pint from the Augustiner Keller is the holy grail of beers! So popular that allegedly it doesn’t have a marketing department, Augustiner is seldom exported beyond German borders. Sitting beneath the budding chestnut trees, we got talking with four of the local university students. We struck up an instant friendship as we discussed Australia and Germany and our many similarities. At which point the lights in the beer garden went to black and we found ourselves locked in!
A quick limbo under the wooden gates though and we were out! It was then decided that no trip to Munich would be complete without a visit to the old town to ride the boar outside the gaming and fisheries ministry and to pay a visit to the statue of Juliet… As in Romeo and Juliet… There is nothing stranger in Munich than the statue of a shakesperian character gifted from Verona to a German city.
Legend has it if you touch her breast you will meet a lover that night, but if you bring her a flower your love that you meet will stay with you forever!
Though perhaps here a point. Food, language, geography may change, but people remain the same. All capable of horrors, friendship, love and getting locked inside the Augustiner Keller. It is possible for us all to find the common ground and see our past not as something particular to Australia, Germany or Turkey, but a shared past, a communal pool from which we must drink and together seek a brighter future.
Every travel narrative should aspire to have one sublime moment, a moment when the traveller encounters something so beautiful – so vast and profound – that they are overwhelmed by the experience. The spirit soars and the mind boggles. Seeking such moments is the whole point of travel.
I admit that I was utterly cynical about Schloss Neuschwanstein. Built by the mad King Ludwig II, it has served little historical significance except as a drawcard for tourists and Disney fans. I’ve seen so many photos of it – in Spring, Summer, or Winter – that I didn’t think I could be impressed. I’m always wary of such obvious tourist traps. It’s just a castle, right?
Just another castle, according to cynical Andrew
We started the day by catching the cable car to the top of Tegelberg, a nearby mountain that serves as a launching point for hang-gliders. After a furious (yet obligatory) snowball fight, we spent some time admiring the view. The snow-draped Alps stretched to the horizon, under a blue sky that was a checkerboard of contrails.
On the summit of Tegelberg
We descended Tegelberg and went on to Schloss Neuschwanstein. It was only as we got closer that I realised the position it commands. It straddles a hill in front of the mountains, so that no matter where you view it from – the mountains or the valley – it’s framed against a spectacular backdrop. And as we walked up to the door of the castle, I could no longer deny that I was captivated. Here was a unique piece of architecture – a kind of fairy-tale gothic – surrounded by the sublime majesty of the Bavarian Alps. Snowy peaks rise above it, a river cuts a deep gorge alongside it. I was converted.
The best views of the castle are from the nearby bridge, Marienbrücke. It was thick with tourists – the clicks of camera shutters could be heard long before we reached the bridge. And it was a battle to push through the crowd. I’m pretty sure I’m lurking in the background of a dozen photos.
Neuschwanstein and Marienbrücke
We climbed a little higher than the bridge and, ignoring the numerous danger signs, emerged onto a precarious ledge that overlooked the castle. It was the best view yet, and we clung to the tree roots as we leaned over the edge. Here was the sublime in its purest form – a stunning mountain panorama, with the Alps rising high above us, coupled with the danger of falling to our deaths. I felt like a character in an Ann Radcliffe novel.
Posing on the cliff’s edge
A hike along the river finished the afternoon. A hike in the Bavarian Alps on a sunny afternoon, with the last of the Winter’s snow still melting on the ground. Our trip has been so focused on history – on the two wars that have ripped this country apart – that it was good to finally appreciate the scenery.
It’s an odd feeling you get burning away in your belly; when you leave the world you know behind and when you return you won’t quite be the same person who left.
In just under a month Andrew and I will stand in the place where thousands of our countrymen lost their lives and the notion of Australian nationhood was born. But what is Australian nationhood and what is the ANZAC spirit?
It is a beautiful mythology, our very own Iliad. Young men and women called to serve an empire only to find who they truly were in the heat of battle. They held on against insurmountable odds against an enemy defending its homeland. And in the face of enmity they created a special bond with the men in the trenches opposite. They saw themselves through the hardships with laughter and mate ship. Then when it came to retreating our very own Odysseus, Lt. Col. Charles Brundell White hatched a plan truly worthy of Trojan horse fame and not one man was lost.
It’s the stuff of glorious paintings, plays, movies and legend. It’s quite a daunting thought to think that we will forever be a part of that mythology, in the smallest of ways as we remember those who fell in a foreign land.
But before all that… Berlin, Munich, Berchtesgaden, Salzburg. There will be drinking and carousing and many many museums.
Yesterday, we left Berlin behind us. It was a sad leaving as it seems to be a city that can crawl under your skin and beg you to stay. I read a quote from the Dali Llama that said
We can let the circumstances of our life harden us, so we become increasingly resentful and afraid. Or we can choose to let them soften us, so we become kinder …
It seems Berlin chose the latter of these two options. The people of the city are exceedingly polite and tolerant. Perhaps it’s because they purge themselves through art? Everywhere you look in Berlin, people’s voices are being heard, even if it is in the uninteresting scrawl of graffiti adorning a train carriage that you pass by, it’s still there and for some reason so permissible.
This is the way the city chooses to engage with the horrors of its own past, it turns them into art.
The East side gallery, a poignant expression of division and reconciliation.
You can’t help but be overawed by the way Berlin uses art to express and heal its wounds. They have the truth of art itself, as a medicine and a hammer with which one can affect change. This is of course one of the central lessons of my great theatrical idol and it seems only appropriate to me now that this is the city in which he would choose to create his theatre and leave behind his legacy.
Brecht and I out the front of his Berliner Ensemble
Dem Deutsches Volk, “The German People”, simplicity itself adorns the German parliament. A glorious reminder that in a true democracy the people are governed by the people and for the people. It seems to sit there as an almost ironic statement given the division the city has passed through over the last 100 years or perhaps it is a very timely reminder of those words from Primo Levi:
“It happened, therefore it can happen again: this is the core of what we have to say. It can happen, and it can happen everywhere.”
At the end of the day Berlin and Germany makes me think a lot about Australia. At the moment there is a very strong, very nationalistic ideal amongst many Australians. To be fair it has always been there, but perhaps a little obscured or glanced over. In the 30’s there were race riots in Kalgoorlie, the Italian population was sent packing into the desert, we had instances on the gold fields of white prospectors scalping Chinese immigrants and we as a nation still struggle to find reconciliation with the treatment of indigenous peoples. And now we also have a media blackout on the fate of people who come to Australia seeking asylum, what is worse is we are taking those people and subjecting them to the terror of detention centres; men, women and children.
It all catalysed for me as Andrew and I visited the very solemn grey concrete rectangles of the holocaust memorial. Soaring above you and always at a slightly different angle, they reminded me of the irrationality of persecution, but being laid out in a grid it spoke of the regularity with which it happens. Again here is an artwork that invites you to engage with it, to play an active part in remembrance.
I found myself questioning when we may have to erect such memorials of our own. To remind ourselves that our past as a nation is bloody and fraught with injustices, but that knowing our past we as a nation can come together and seek a brighter future.
So, where does this all fit in along the Road to Gallipoli? Unfortunately, I don’t have an answer to that yet. It’d be nice to tie it off with a little bow, but there’s still a long way to go.
Memory plays an important role in Berlin. It serves a dual purpose: to remind us of the past, and to prevent that past from happening again. It is embedded in the foundations of the city, where brand new bars and cafés exist alongside buildings that have survived two world wars. Monuments and memorials are scattered across the skyline. And on the streets, a double line of bricks mark where a wall once divided the world.
We arrived in Berlin on Wednesday night, amidst a freezing torrent of snow and rain, dazed and exhausted after the long flight from Perth. Berlin was our first stop on our long journey to Gallipoli, and it seemed like an appropriate choice.
Standing at the East Side Gallery
Berlin occupies a unique position in the history of the twentieth century. No other city helped to shape the events of that century – and was subsequently shaped by the events – than Berlin. It was here in the heartland of Europe that the feuds and alliances that inflamed the First World War were formed. And it was here, in the decade after that war, as Germany struggled to repay its debt, that the foundations of the next war were also laid. Berlin still bears the scars of the Nazi occupation of Germany – in many ways, it defines what the city has become. For almost thirty years, between 1961 and 1989, Berlin was the physical manifestation of the divide between East and West, as the two sides faced each other, sabres rattling, over the wall. And when that wall came down and Germany was reunified, Berlin was finally able to achieve the prosperity that it long deserved.
As students of history, it was easy for Garreth and I to lose ourselves in the past of Berlin. The Brandenburg Gate. The Reichstag building. Checkpoint Charlie. The Holocaust Memorial. The East Side Gallery. Everywhere we looked, history was beckoning. And since the reason for our trip is indelibly linked with that history, we felt an obligation to explore these sights and contextualise those events. Gallipoli is still far away, but the reason why Australia went to war can be traced right here to Berlin.
The Holocaust Memorial, Berlin
There’s no escaping Berlin’s past. It follows you around whether you want it to or not. It’s the big things – the imposing stretch of the East Side Gallery, or the field of rectangular monoliths of the Holocaust Memorial. But it’s also the small things. Shrapnel damage to statues. Old facades showing through fresh paint. Those eastern industrial districts that still don’t have the affluence of the former West.
But after a few days, the sheer number of memorials and museums we had visited began to blur into one. We were always looking into the past, always seeing Berlin through the lens of history, rather than focusing on the city that currently stands. I am reminded of a city from Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities, one that is always looking backwards, never forwards, one that is entrenched so deeply in its own history that the present has ceased to have meaning.
Moonrise over Friedrichshain
It was with great effort that we pulled ourselves away from the tourist traps and tried to seek out Berlin of today. It wasn’t hard to find. It was visible in the back streets of Friedrichshain, where a blooming art movement has sprung up around the host of small bars and clubs. It was visible in the enormous number of cranes that dotted the horizon, the number of streets that had been cut open to lay new U-Bahn tracks. And it was visible in the people we saw – the smiling football fans on the train, the bartender at the Easter Markets.
Perhaps that’s the greatest thing about this city – no matter how dark the past, new memories are being made every day. And it this wild melange of old and new that shapes Berlin for a new century.
Brecht and I out the front of his Berliner Ensemble 
Road to Gallipoli 
