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.
“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.
The main event of the Albany Anzac weekend took place on Saturday, 1 November, when naval ships from Australia, New Zealand, and Japan departed from King George Sound in a symbolic reenactment of the first convoy. It was something which I’d been excited about for months. And we were in a good position to watch it unfold. We were staying in a small cottage that abutted the sand dunes of King George Sound, near Emu Point. In a moment of foresight that is completely out of character, my father had realized this was going to be a popular event and booked accommodation 18 months in advance. Thanks, Dad.
Emu Point and King George Sound
After the celebrations of the previous night, it was nice to be able to relax on Saturday morning. It was a warm day in Albany – one of the first sunny days of the season. Garreth, Adam, and I walked down to the beach and, on a whim, went for a swim. The beach was deserted – nothing but golden sand and the cold waves of the Southern Ocean lapping at our feet. We plunged into the waves, letting out a string of swear words at the frigid Antarctic water. The fleet of warships were anchored in the middle of the harbour, only a few hundred metres away. It was an strangely jarring sight. Their steely grey hulls and angular shapes were a stark contrast to the rolling hills and cliffs of the harbour. They didn’t belong there. They seem ominous, predatory, watching over us while we played in the waves. I didn’t know whether to be comforted by their presence or intimidated by their sheer power. It was sobering to realize that each one of those ships had more firepower than the combined escorts of the first Anzac convoy. I wondered what my grandfather would’ve thought of these sullen grey behemoths.
A rather blurry photo of HMAS Sirius. 1 Nov 2014
We drove into town and joined a Commemorative Service in the late morning, where the Prime Ministers of both Australia and New Zealand gave a speech about the departure of the Anzac Convoy. It was, thankfully, an event that focused less on political point scoring and more on simply remembering the sacrifices of the soldiers. Sitting on the grass in the morning sunshine, as the gulls flapped overhead, we seemed so far removed from the horror of the war. It was too much of an abstract concept, something too dark for a day like this.
Finally, it was time for the ships to depart. We drove back to Emu Point and climbed to the top of the sand dunes. My parents were already waiting for us in a small gazebo that commanded a superb view over the Sound. The tranquility of our morning swim had been completely shattered. The warships were charging around the harbour, surrounded by a flotilla of boats and yachts. Every boat owner in Albany must have been out there. Helicopters hovered overhead, and the wind carried the cheers of the crowd from around the peninsula. We could see the four Royal Australian Navy warships: HMAS Anzac, HMAS Arunta, HMAS Stuart, HMAS Sirius, and the sleek black conning tower of the submarine, HMAS Rankin. They were joined by the New Zealand ship HMNZS Te Kaha, and JDS Kirisame from Japan.
As we watched, the ships circled around the harbour and headed towards the open sea. It was a poignant moment, seeing their blocky forms against the headland, sea churning in their wake. The sight united us across a century. The first Australians going to war. And their descendants, here today, honouring their memory.
The dramatic coastline can also produce some dramatic sunsets. Taken 1 Nov 2014.
For the Anzac convoy, the voyage to Egypt was a tedious routine punctuated with moments of excitement. Just 9 days after leaving Albany, the HMAS Sydney detached from the convoy and defeated the German cruiser Emden in the Battle of Cocos. A few days earlier, news had reached the convoy that the Ottoman Empire had joined the war. None of the soldiers had any clue that they would end up being deployed on the shores of Turkey.
On 1 November 1915, the soldiers of the first Anzac convoy departed from King George Sound in Albany, Western Australia. It was a spectacular sight – 38 convoy ships carving through the gentle swell, smoke and steam rising into the grey dawn. Their decks were lined with 20,758 Australians and 8,427 New Zealanders. In the cargo holds were 11,294 horses, as well as a few examples of native Australian fauna that soldiers had smuggled aboard. There was some anxiety amongst the soldiers; the German cruiser Emden had been attacking shipping in the Indian Ocean, and the slow ships of the convoy were prime targets. But they were well-protected. At the head of the convoy was the HMS Minotaur, once the flagship of the Royal Navy’s China Station. The cruisers Sydney and Melbourne, stalwarts of the Australian Navy, joined the formation as they left the harbor. They would soon be joined by IMS Ibuki, the Japanese battlecruiser that had been hunting for the Emden. Together, they began their journey into the west.
Aboard the HMAT Geelong, William Henry Cameron – my grandfather – was enthralled by the sheer display of naval power. He was fascinated by ships, and these magnificent behemoths which sliced through the waves captured his imagination. He wrote in his diary, “Left Albany. Most beautifull [sic] sight. 42 vessels in 3 rows. New Zeal at rear. HMAS Sydney is off our starboard side + looks lovely.” For many of the men aboard, as the coastline became lost below the hazy horizon, it would be the last time they would see their home country.
A diagram of the formation of the first convoy. Photo taken in an exhibit at the Australian National Maritime Museum, Sydney
Given its significance in the Anzac legend, Garreth and I were thrilled to visit Albany in November last year to commemorate 100 years since the departure of the convoy. It was a good excuse for a weekend away. We loaded the car with a few cartons of beer and enough meat to feed the entire town. We were accompanied for the weekend by our mate Adam, who is great to keep around because he keeps Garreth and I out of trouble. Well, sometimes. We left Perth on Friday morning, 31 October, escaping the metro area before traffic congested the roads.
Albany has long been one of my favourite destinations in Western Australia. It is the small town nestled amongst the hills and harbours of the southern coast, surrounded by rugged cliffs and windswept scrubland. It has a fascinating history as the state’s oldest permanent settlement, and the old whaling station there is a glimpse into our past. But it’s the landscape that really captures my attention. Standing on those rocky cliffs, with the ponderous swell of the Southern Ocean thundering against the rocks, stinging my face with salt spray, it’s not hard to imagine that I’m standing at the edge of the world. No matter what time of the year I visit Albany, my memories are always the same: low scudding clouds, frigid nights, squally thunderstorms, grey seas, and that unforgiving Antarctic gale. And this trip wouldn’t be any different. It has some of the most dramatic scenery in Western Australia – an appropriate backdrop for an occasion of such importance.
The rugged southern coastline of Western Australia. 2 Nov 2014.
On the drive down, we had heard varying estimates of the number of tourists expected to descend on Albany. Twenty thousand. Thirty thousand. Even eighty thousand. So I’d been prepared for a large crowd, but I hadn’t quite expected the town to resemble a festival. Roads had been turned into giant markets, with food and fresh produce available from across the south-west. There was a band playing on a large stage, while a mixture of artists and craftspeople from around Albany plugged their products. The streets were jammed shoulder-to-shoulder with tourists; it was a struggle for our group to stay together. It wasn’t the sleepy little town that I remembered, and I wondered for a moment how the locals had reacted when nearly 30,000 Australian and New Zealand soldiers had flooded their town a century ago. Before long we retreated to the comfort of the pub, where we spent a lazy few hours playing pool and throwing occasional glances out at the Anzac commemorations.
Garreth and Adam lead the way to the harbour. 31 Oct 2014.
In the evening, we went down to the shore of Princess Royal Harbour, where a light show was being projected onto the side of the Entertainment Centre. It was a freezing night, with the wind from the harbour cutting straight through my winter coat. But the crowd was in high spirits, almost giddy with excitement. The lights flickering across the side of the building slowly transformed from bright Aboriginal paintings to grainy sepia photos of Anzac soldiers marching along the streets of Albany. The town looked so different, so diminished, but now and again I could recognize a few buildings and, lifting my eyes back towards the darkened hillside, I could see them still standing there.
The light show on the side of the Entertainment Centre, 31 Oct 2014.
I’d been expecting the weekend to be a solemn occasion, like the somber memorial services I’d attended on Anzac Day. But it felt like a carnival. The audience clapped and cheered as the story unfolded on the building in front of us. I couldn’t stop smiling. There was a sense of shared purpose amongst the audience – we weren’t just there to commemorate the soldiers, but to celebrate their legacy. The Anzac legend is so inextricably linked to Australia’s history that it felt like we were celebrating the birth of the nation itself. Here’s where it had all started. Those soldiers – whose faces were flickering above us in the night – had helped forge our national identity. And they had been standing right here, on this very spot, 100 years earlier, about to embark on the most harrowing and dangerous and thrilling experience of their lives. It wasn’t a time for silence. It was a time to roar and cheer.
It was a surreal experience, knowing that my grandfather had been there 100 years ago. And, as I stood on that freezing shore, I wondered what he had been doing on his last night in Albany. Asleep on the Geelong, most likely, but I wondered if he got the chance to have a final beer at the pub, or a final walk along the beach. His diary entry for that day is typically undescriptive, with only a brief comment about the weather. Did he stand at the railings of the Geelong, studying the twinkling lights of the gathered fleet in the inky darkness of King George Sound? Could he hear the waves pounding against the nearby cliffs? And did he feel the same excitement and trepidation that I felt 100 years later, knowing that he was about to embark on a great adventure?
Several years ago, my parents and I discussed the idea of travelling to Gallipoli. I had just returned from Europe with a broadened perspective of the world, and I couldn’t wait to go travelling again. Gallipoli felt like a logical choice for a family trip. My grandfather had landed there on 25 April 1915, as part of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps. We decided to postpone the trip until 2015, when we could commemorate the centenary of Anzac Day. It seemed fitting that exactly one hundred years after my grandfather landed on that beach, amidst bullets and blood, we would be gathered there in respectful silence. Gallipoli would unite us across the generations. So we agreed. But 2015 was still a long way in the future, and Gallipoli was a place that felt more legendary than real. It was a hallowed word, something I associated with heroes and bravery, certainly something that didn’t seem part of this mundane world.
When my grandfather left Australia in 1914, sailing out of Albany aboard the Geelong, I am uncertain if he even knew where Gallipoli was. The Anzac soldiers thought they were bound for the Western Front, where they would join the fight against Germany. Gallipoli was just a small town on a small peninsula in a far away land. It meant nothing to the soldiers aboard those ships. Its importance in Australian history would be determined by the actions that he and his fellow soldiers would take in the months ahead.
In April 2014, my family found out that we were successful in getting tickets to the Anzac Day Dawn Service at Gallipoli on the centenary of the landings. Finally, we would be able to walk in my grandfather’s footsteps. Gallipoli was suddenly real to me – an actual place that I would visit. I would be standing on those same hills that had once been a battlefield for Anzac and Turkish soldiers. Now, with less than three weeks before our departure, it feels incredibly important for me to document the experience. I don’t just want to write about the Anzac Centenary; I want to explore how the Anzac legend has grown in the last century and how it still influences my sense of identity. I want to discover how the world has changed over the last one hundred years. I want to know what it means to be Australian abroad, then and now.
My companion on this trip is Garreth Bradshaw. We have been friends since high school, sharing an avid interest in history and an unhealthy obsession with pop culture. Out of all the adventures we’ve been on over the years (and the numerous misadventures), our trip to Europe is easily the most ambitious, an inevitable result of our friendship. And we’re planning to have a bit of fun. Why not? I tried to convince Garreth to be my amanuensis for this blog, but he insisted on being a co-author. And although it pains me to sully the literary quality of this project, I was forced to agree. But, jokes aside, I am thrilled to have Garreth along for the ride. Keep an eye out for his posts – he has an astute way of seeing to the very heart of matters.
Garreth and I recently visited the War Memorial in Sydney, a suitably imposing edifice to remember the Anzac legend.
Our trip will take us first to Germany. Garreth is excited to explore the Berlin of Bertolt Brecht and the decadence and sorrow of the 1930s cabaret . I am looking forward to the placid lakes and snow-capped peaks of Berchtesgaden. We are both looking forward to wiling away the hours in a beer hall in Munich. After a brief stopover in Salzburg, we will fly to Istanbul and meet up with my parents. They are thrilled to be part of the journey. None of us have been to Turkey before; the thought of wandering the streets of Istanbul, that immortal city, has excited me for months. We then embark on a tour of the country, visiting places such as Cappadocia, Ephesus, and Troy. Our journey culminates at Gallipoli on April 25th, where we will join thousands of Australians and New Zealanders in commemorating the centenary.
For an Australian, there can be no greater pilgrimage than visiting the rugged hills above that narrow beach.
Gallipoli. That single word – spoken with reverence and pride – has cast a long shadow over the subsequent century. It’s not just a place on the map; it’s not just a moment in history. It forms the background to what it means to be Australian. It is part of our shared cultural identity. We are taught its significance at a young age. I can remember endless Anzac services in school, that solitary bugle calling out in the sweltering assembly halls, the gathered students with downcast eyes, struggling to understand something that was simply beyond our comprehension. How do you explain sacrifice and bravery to a child except in only the most abstract terms? And then there’s the sad realization that many of the soldiers at Gallipoli were only a year or two older than us. It was Australia’s baptism of fire – the first time our fledgling country challenged the rest of the world. And even though it was a terrible military defeat, one that was fought for British Imperialism, we still feel a fierce pride for those fallen diggers. We read tales of their bravery. We tell their stories. We marvel at their exploits. We remember why they fought. Perhaps more than any other event, Gallipoli has shaped, and continues to shape, our national consciousness.
I feel a sense of trepidation in writing about the subject of Gallipoli. It feels like something sacred, a monolithic presence, something beyond the scope of mere words. It is certainly different from my usual writing in the genre of science fiction. But it also feels right. I have a strong personal connection to Gallipoli forged through my grandfather. His diary, photographs, and medals are among my family’s most treasured possessions. I grew up reading his hurried, scrawled words. I have looked at his drawings and studied his photos. And so writing about Gallipoli has a certain sense of inevitability. It has been brooding on the edge of my creative consciousness for years, just out of sight. Perhaps more than anything I’ve written, I feel a sense of a self in these words. I’m looking forward to travelling to those distant places. And I’m looking forward to sharing the experiences ahead.
Road to Gallipoli 
