Get Down in Turkey

Turkish Delight: Chapter 6

Putting a lid on it

I was grateful for my battered digger hat under the midday sun. We had scrambled up and down the rugged old battlefield — mostly up, my burning legs were complaining — and the shade of my wide-brimmed hat was welcome, as were the sips of water from my replenished supply.

And this was spring. In 1915 the soldiers had fought from April until December; in the heat of summer, it must have been brutal. No sunscreen in those days.

But for now, Tommy and I walked down the ridge from the gaudy fraud of the Turkish cemetery to the more restrained Australian affair at Quinns Post. As with all the British war graves here, this one was a peaceful plot of lawn, sprinkled with grave markers. The soldiers lay together, officers and men, Australian, New Zealanders, British in ranks according to the day of their death or whatever happenstance of burial.

I read the names and inscriptions. Many had no words from next of kin, many had trite sentiments, and some just pulled my heart to pieces.

When I had a moment, I hunted up a photo of this young soldier. From the crown of his slouch hat to the shine on the points of his boots, he and his uniform are fresh and neat.

As, no doubt, is his outlook on life. How innocent he looks! No wonder his loss left a tender spot in hearts at home.

His career as a fighting soldier lasted two days. The landing was on the 25th of April and he died here on the 27th.

He would have trained in Melbourne, swung aboard a troopship on the first convoy to the war, seen Ceylon and the Suez Canal, and then surprisingly found himself and all his mates in Cairo.

Apparently, the British war commanders weren’t ready to have troops from the Southern Hemisphere summer languish in the English winter. There…

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