2.
The Start. (Yes Really!)
Whilst everybody else was planning to commemorate the Centenary of the start of the Gallipoli campaign actually on or off the coast of the Gallipoli peninsular, I had another plan.
Just before the invasion, the Ottomans (Turks) were convinced that the main attack would happen on the Anatolian (Asian) side of the Dardanelle Strait, therefore the vast majority of the Ottoman 5th Army was kept there. To keep them there whilst the main invasion on the Gallipoli peninsular went ahead, on the morning of 25th April, the French landed two companies of infantry near the small village of Kumkale. They were supported by three French and one Russian battleship that shelled Kumkale whilst the landing took place. That night, there was also a dummy landing by the French about 10km to the South at Besika Bay. The idea was to convince the Ottomans that the main invasion would happen on the Asian side. The ruse worked and the Ottoman troops that were detained in the area weren’t able to join the fight on the Gallipoli peninsular until the 29th. The French withdrew their forces on the 27th after counterattacks by the 39th Ottoman Regiment nearly forced the French to surrender. The total losses for this unknown but significant action were 1,735 for the Ottomans and 786 for the French. I should also mention that in February 1915, a small force of Royal Marines landed at Kumkale to destroy the coastal artillery which was threatening the British warships in the area.
So, I headed off to the battlefield of Kumkale, hoping to camp there until the morning of the 25th. Whilst the rest of the world watched the services at Helles and Anzac bay, there would be a lone Englishman having his own dawn service in the peace and quiet on the forgotten battlefield of Kumkale.
It didn’t exactly go to plan, but it worked out ok in the end.
The ride down to Kumkale was pleasant enough. On the way I met a Canadian couple, who were doing a cycling tour of Turkey. They couldn’t believe what I was wearing to ride in and expressed shock at the state of my luggage system. They seemed to understand a bit more after I explained that I was equipped for the mountains which I would encounter later in my journey. (The only cycling thing that I had was the bike itself.) They were heading to the fabled remains of Troy which are near Kumkale, so I joined them on the ride down. There’s a bit of a dispute over whether it actually is Troy or not and I suppose nobody will ever know. I definitely won’t, as I lost the couple and never found Troy. Oh well, I had other places to go to.
The village of Kumkale was interesting. It looked just like any other remote Mediterranean village, except for the spoils of war which were dotted around the place. I spent a few minutes inspecting the mortars and field guns before carrying on. The road (if you can call it that) got very rough after the village, as it wasn’t worth their while to replace the ancient cobbles with tarmac. They weren’t like the nice smooth cobbles that you get in the west though, they were big and horrible to ride a bike on, so I pushed instead.
After crossing a bridge the going got a bit better and the cobbles had been replaced by sand. (At least I could ride.) As I passed some locals, who were working in a field, they waved and I waved back. They were probably wondering what the heck I was doing there, as it wasn’t exactly on the normal tourist route.
After passing a small wood of stunted and wind-blown pine trees, I came to the Turkish cemetery of Kumkale-Osmanli Mezarligi. It was located on a small hill which had a commanding view over the western side of Kumkale and was where the Turks positioned themselves during the three day long battle. It looked like the Turkish dead had been buried where they fell, as there was no organisation to the cemetery. The white, stone grave markers were haphazardly placed all over the hill with the remains of the trenches weaving around them. A brand new, bright red Turkish flag was flying on a huge flagpole placed on the top of the hill, which showed that despite the untidy appearance of the cemetery, the local population were respectful and mindful of their sacrifice. Yes it was untidy, but so is war. It was a very fitting memorial to their dead. Later on my journey, I found it difficult to imagine what the soldiers had gone through, as the majority of the cemeteries on the Western Front have been cleansed of any trace of their suffering. Not so at Kumkale and that is a better memorial to both the dead and the folly of mankind...
Leaving the cemetery behind I headed south, following the coastline towards another small hill which used to hold a battery of Turkish guns. This was my intended camping spot for the night, but unfortunately it didn’t happen. About halfway there, I came across some dogs- a lot of dogs and they were really mean and nasty. There was no way that I was getting past them in one piece, so I turned back and despite them following me a little too closely, I made it back to the relative safety of the Turkish cemetery. (It had a fence and gate.)
As I sat under the shade of a stunted tree, I developed a backup plan. I was bitterly disappointed to have to change my plans so early in my journey, but there wasn’t much choice, as getting eaten by a pack of wild dogs wasn’t exactly on my bucket list! I could handle a few dogs, but not twenty odd of the buggers and what would happen when it got dark? (This type of situation would come back to haunt me later in my journey!)
No, there was no option but to head back up the long hill towards Canakkale. On my journey to Kumkale that morning, I had noticed what looked like a quiet stretch of beach and coastline to the south east of Canakkale, so I headed there.
It was a good location but despite this, I was still slightly spooked from my dog encounter in Kumkale, so I chose a section of beach next to a Turkish Army camp. Being not too far from possible help would make sleep a little bit more possible. I needn’t have worried though, as there were quite a few families and groups of people who had the same idea.
After I’d put my tarp up and got prepared for the night, a kind man invited me to sit around his family’s fire for some coffee. Now I don’t normally drink coffee, but how could I refuse? His name was Mustafa and, like a lot of Turks, he had been named after Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, the founder of the Republic of Turkey and the commander of the Ottoman 19th Division during the Gallipoli campaign. I don’t remember the names of his wife or three children but they were a happy, amusing family with a strong understanding of history. Mustafa spoke perfect English and I enjoyed an entertaining couple of hours listening to his stories and waiting patiently whilst he translated mine to his waiting family. They were especially interested in the reasons why I was doing my journey. I gained a greater understanding of those reasons too, as I had to elaborate a bit further, instead of just saying that I wanted to do something to commemorate the centenary of the Great War.
I’d never really thought about my reasoning before, as I’d just concentrated on the planning and the doing of it. Yes, of course I was there to commemorate the centenary of the Great War, as that’s what was and will be on all of our minds until the centenary of the Armistice in November 2018. This wasn’t my only reason though. Lots of people were doing something to mark the centenary, but I noticed that they were just doing it in remembrance of the dead from one side; our side, the ‘winning’ side. I felt and still do think that it’s more important to remember everybody who was killed, wounded or just disappeared during that horrible conflict. Not just soldiers, but civilians too. Throughout my journey, I therefore made a conscious effort to visit the sites and cemeteries of my Great Grandparents’ enemies, even if it meant missing out our own. (I have purposely not said ‘our enemies’, as they are not.)
Whilst sitting with Mustafa and his family something amusing happened, although I’m not sure if they found it funny? As Turkey is an Islamic country, they do their call to prayer over a loudspeaker. It takes a bit of getting used to, but it was just normal for me by that point. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the everyday call to prayer that I was used to hearing. It was coming from the Turkish army barracks nearby. For some reason, they were letting what sounded like young lads (probably recruits) do it and they were really taking the piss by wailing stupidly and laughing. I didn’t know what to do so I just looked out to sea, trying not to laugh. In the last light of dusk, I could see another group of people further down the beach shaking their heads and waving their fists towards the barracks. Mustafa then turned to me and just said, “Boys will be boys” before laughing. Phew! The tension went out of the air...
They had to go soon after as their children needed to sleep, so after saying our goodbyes, I went back to my lonely vigil on the beach. Over the flickering light of my own campfire, I watched the lights of a dozen or more ships sail from Canakkale, down the straits and around Cape Helles at the tip of the Gallipoli peninsular. They were the warships and cruise liners which were due to take part in the centenary ‘celebrations’ at Anzac Bay the following morning. It felt right to be where I was, instead of amongst them...
The following morning, whilst half the world was watching the Commemorations at Anzac Bay and Helles on their TVs, I was trying to figure out why my smart phone had stopped working. It had been fine the day before, when I’d tried charging it directly from my solar panel. I was stuffed without it, so there was nothing else to do but go and find a phone shop in Canakkale. ( I’m worse than useless when it comes to dealing with technology.)
Just before I left the beach, I had an urgent call of nature. There were people on the road behind the beach, so I positioned myself behind a bush. So there I was, having a pee whilst facing out to sea. There was a warship sailing back up the straits, but it was a fair distance away so I carried on peeing. HONK, HONK, HOOONK! Either they had their binoculars out, or they were signalling the port? Either way, it made me jump and my automatic reaction was to wave at them (whilst I pissed down my leg!) A great start to the morning, NOT! Trousers off, rinsed in the sea and back on, then off to find a phone shop...
The young lad in the phone shop was really helpful, I had gone in there to buy a cheap phone, but he took one look at my phone and said “let me charge it up, come back in two hours.” I waited down by the harbour where it was absolutely heaving with people, the vast majority were Aussies from the cruise ships and some journalists. I found a quiet spot and watched a display by some Turkish Air Force jets. They weren’t as good as the Red Arrows, but it was still entertaining. Instead of doing the usual aerobatics, they preferred to scream in at low level from the direction of the sea in order to make as much noise as possible for the crowds watching below. I was really craving peace and quiet again, as I’m not exactly a massive fan of large crowds and big noisy things.
Back at the phone shop everything was alright again. It would seem that the solar panel had somehow drained the power from my phone, I felt like a right numpty! The lad said that charging phones from solar panels was a big no, no. You need to charge battery packs up first and then use that to charge your phone, I knew this anyway, but I was just trying to cut out the middleman. I bought another battery pack from him, as he had been so helpful and kind. I then headed back to the harbour to catch a ferry.
Gallipoli.
On the 2nd January 1915, Grand Duke Nicholas of Russia directly appealed for Britain and France to help Russia fight the Ottomans, who were in the process of conducting an offensive in the Caucasus region. As Russia was part of the Triple Entente alliance along with Britain and France, they didn’t have much choice but to try to support their ally. There was only one problem: the Ottoman Empire controlled both the Bosphorus and Dardanelles Straits. To help their ally, Britain and France would have to gain control of both of these before capturing the city of Constantinople. (Istanbul.)
Between mid February and Mid March 1915, the Royal Navy attempted to force their way through the Dardanelles. On the 18th of March, the British lost the battleships HMS Ocean and HMS Irresistible, with HMS Inflexible damaged by mines. Whilst the French lost their battleship Bouvet, with the battleships Suffren and Gaulois badly damaged. The naval commander, Admiral John de Robeck was forced to retreat and save what remained of his fleet. Thus the naval campaign was over and a new strategy had to be devised; hence the ground campaign.
The journey on the ferry was quite short, as the straits are only about a mile wide. I could see why the British and French couldn’t get their battleships through; you’d only need a few sea mines to block it and that’s just what the Turks did.
The destination for the ferry was Eceabat. I didn’t know how to pronounce this, but being British, I just made my own up. ‘I see a bat’ sounded about right!
I once again had the problem of finding somewhere to sleep, as everywhere was packed due to the centenary, although I needn’t have worried, as it turned out that I wasn’t the only person who’d decided to go to Gallipoli without booking anything.
Just off the ferry in ‘I see a bat’, was a wonderful bronze sculpture depicting the battlefield. It had life size bronze figures of Anzac and Turkish soldiers as well as the detritus of war, all set in two opposing lines of trenches. It was very well done and worth seeing. I imagine that it’s probably there for good and not just for the centenary, so if anybody’s ever in the area, it’s worth stopping by for a look. Next to this was a large scale relief map of the battlefields. I found this more useful than my poor maps for planning the route for the next couple of days. ‘I see a bat’ didn’t have the same party like atmosphere as Cannekale; it was more sombre, as it should be.
After a while, I headed north along the sea front in the hope of finding somewhere to camp, I wasn’t very hopeful and imagined that I would be sleeping on the beach again. I was right, but at the same time, I was wrong, as I then discovered the Boomerang Bar.
I saw a bloke next to a tent at the far end of the sea front and I went to ask him what the score was with camping there. his answer was, “if you spend some swag in the bar, then it’s alright.” Eh? (I quickly worked out that swag is money.) He was a Kiwi called Matt (so I’ll call him Kiwi Matt.) and he lived in the south of England and had ridden there on his motorbike for the centenary. He was a bit gobsmacked when I mentioned that I would be heading that way in a few months time. He was a really nice bloke and we got on really well straight away. He had been chatting to an older Aussie bloke when I came along and I got involved in the conversation.
The Aussie had been sold a fake ticket and hotel room for the centenary events. He’d only realised this when he’d got off the plane in Istanbul, but had somehow managed to get to ‘I see a bat’ anyway and was sleeping on a sofa in the pub. (I hope that he’s now caught up with the low-lives who sold him the dodgy ticket!) He wasn’t fazed by it at all; he had wanted to get to Gallipoli for the centenary and he’d made it, but like Kiwi Matt and I, he didn’t have a ticket to visit Anzac bay on the actual day. Luckily for him, though, Kiwi Matt had a plan!
The only part that I played in it was to lend the Aussie my cycling helmet, then Kiwi Matt put him on the back of his motorbike and off they went. I later found out that despite having to avoid Turkish police and soldiers by doing a bit of off-roading, they managed to get to the beach at Anzac cove. Well done Kiwi Matt, you made an old bloke happy, you’re a legend!
Whilst they were galavanting around the countryside, I put my little tent up before checking out the Boomerang Bar. I’ve never been to Australia, but I imagine that it wouldn’t look out of place on Bondi Beach or somewhere similar. The owner, Mesut, had obviously aimed the decor and style of the place towards the Aussie tourists who come to Gallipoli. He probably does very well out of their trade, but you wouldn’t know by looking at him. He just looks like a chilled out middle aged beach bum. (I mean this in the nicest possible way!)
I’d been sat for a while, enjoying the view and having a couple of beers, when Kiwi Matt and the Aussie came back. They were ecstatic about getting there (and back!) It was no mean feat, as I’d seen at first hand the amount of security that the Turks had put in place for the centenary commemorations. I thought it was unfair about needing tickets, but looking back now, they needed to do something to manage the events at Helles and Anzac Bay. This was probably the only real way to keep people safe in the current political climate.
I’m not usually a big drinker, but I had quite a few beers that night in the Boomerang, so much that it’s all become a bit of a blur! One event springs to mind though...
Quite early on in the evening, another guy on a motorbike turned up, his name was also Matt, so I’ll call him ‘Also Matt.’
Also Matt was an Englishman who lived in Romania. He was on a bit of a motorcycling tour to who knows where and on some point on his journey to Gallipoli, a herd of goats had eaten his tent, so he was now touring without a tent and just sleeping where he could. For the only time in my journey I was relieved to be using my tiny coffin like bivi tent, as he ended up sharing Kiwi Matt’s tent that night. He said that he was a plumber, but I’m not entirely convinced about that, as he spoke about ten different languages and seemed to have no problem communicating to the Turks by using Arabic. (Mesut, the owner, wasn’t too happy about this for some reason?)
It was a great place to meet people, they were mostly Aussies and Kiwis, but there were also a couple of Yanks, a few Turks and little old me, the only Brit. (Except for Also Matt.) Nearly everybody was friendly and it was wonderful to listen to their stories, they were all so happy to be there for the centenary. The mood was great except for one character. He was a stereotypical Aussie bloke and to be brutally honest, he was a total berk! (I’d like to call him something else, but my Mum will be reading this book!)
He was staying in a campervan with a Dutch lass. She was nice, but unfortunately for her, he wasn’t. He was loud, boisterous, argumentative, continuously drunk and always flashing his cash. Nobody could figure out what he was doing there, as instead of visiting the battlefields and cemeteries, he just propped the bar up! Maybe just being there was enough for him and his way of honouring the dead was by drinking a lot of beer? Each to their own I suppose, but I thought he was a very strange bloke!
The mood the following morning was more sombre and everybody was getting ready to go their separate ways. Kiwi Matt had to be back home in three or four days and was stressing about that a bit. Also Matt was going somewhere else before heading back to Romania, but I can’t remember where. I swapped some gear with Kiwi Matt: my neoprene gaiters for four pepperoni sticks and a cooked breakfast. It was a fair swap, as I was hungry and he was sick of water going down his boots whilst riding his motorbike. I really liked Kiwi Matt, we could’ve been good mates if we lived closer together, but he’s near the south coast and I’m up north in Yorkshire.
On the ride down to Helles, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d been left behind. I hate that feeling and I had to tell myself to snap out of it. It was true though, I was being left behind. It was my choice though.
Cape Helles.
On the morning of the 25th of April 1915, the British 29th Division landed at Cape Helles. Their objectives for the first day were to advance 6 miles and capture the heights of Achi Baba, as well as the forts which guarded the straits. As history shows, this didn’t exactly go to plan. To put it bluntly, the British commander, Major General Aylmer Hunter-Weston wouldn’t have been capable of organising a ‘piss up’ in a brewery!
Not only did they fail to capture their objectives on day 1, when the enemy had limited resources in the area. They never managed to reach those objectives throughout the whole of the campaign. The landing beaches V and W were both a bloodbath and the fighting degenerated into an exact copy of the Western Front, i.e. the stagnation and living hell that was trench warfare.
The first cemetery that I reached was Redoubt cemetery, whose location was more or less on the final front line of the campaign, just south east of the village of Alcitepe. To reach it, I turned off the road onto a sandy track which led through a tunnel formed from the branches of the gnarled trees which lined the track. After a couple of hundred yards, it opened out into a clearing where the cemetery lay. The Commonwealth cemeteries on Gallipoli are slightly different to those seen in most other parts of the world. It was discovered that the sandy soil wouldn’t support the weight of the large Portland headstones which were normally used, so it was decided to use smaller grave markers which wouldn’t be affected by the poor soil structure. As expected, they were no less beautiful... This cemetery is the resting place of 2,027 British and Commonwealth servicemen, with over half of them unidentified.
Further down the road towards Sedd-el-Bahr is Skew Bridge Cemetery. Although smaller than Redoubt, it still commemorates 607 Commonwealth servicemen who are known or believed to be buried at this location.
Just North of Sedd-el-Bahr is the lone grave of a British Officer.
On the morning of the 26th of April 1915, Lt Col Charles Doughty-Wylie led the the survivors of the landings in capturing Sedd-el-Bahr and the nearby castle. They were successful, but Lt Col Doughty-Wylie was killed in the action. He was buried where he fell and was later awarded a posthumous Victoria Cross.
As I sat and rested for a while next to his grave, it dawned on me that give or take a few minutes, it was exactly 100 years since he fell on this spot. I’m not religious, but I still said a few words to him before leaving a poppy and heading off towards the towering obelisk of the Helles Memorial nearby.
The 30m high Helles Memorial stands at the very tip of the Gallipoli peninsular. It has dual function as the Commonwealth battle memorial for the whole campaign and as a memorial to the Commonwealth soldiers who have no known grave. It is inscribed with the names of over 20,000 of the missing.
The single poppy that I left there was drowned out by the many wreaths and flowers which had been left at the centenary ceremony the day before.
Afterwards, I took the opportunity to sit on a grassy bank overlooking the landing beaches. I was just trying to imagine what it looked like a hundred years before but it was impossible, so instead I just watched people. There were a couple of coach loads of Turkish children with their teachers and I’ve got to say that their behaviour was impeccable. There was no stupid behaviour or laughing, which put to shame some of the western tourists that I’d seen. They were just very well behaved children who seemed to understand where they were. (Either that, or they still cane school children in Turkey?)
As I was getting ready to go, I got talking to a group of Turkish lads in their early 20s. Once again, their spoken English was perfect and they seemed really impressed about my journey. Everybody that I spoke to in Turkey was really friendly and I encountered no hostility whatsoever. (I was worried about travelling through Turkey beforehand.) After posing for a few photos with them, I went back through Sedd-el-Bahr towards the French Cemetery.
This is located north east of the massive Turkish Martyrs’ memorial. I decided to follow a track through some woods and enter the cemetery through the side entrance. I’m glad I did, as in the woods outside the cemetery are the remains of a trench system. It’s the old front line of the French sector and the location where many of the soldiers who now ‘sleep’ in the cemetery next door spent their last moments.
The trenches snaked between the trees as far as my eyes could see. They were partially filled with branches and undergrowth, but I managed to find a deep section which was clear. Stepping down into it was like going back in time; it was still about 6 foot deep (head height.) I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what it was like, but it was impossible. The smell of the musty earth was probably the same, but that was it. Almost a century ago, brave men had died in that trench. It was time to go and visit them but before leaving, I left a single poppy at the bottom of the trench.
The following words are an extract from my diary, which I wrote just after visiting the French cemetery.
“The lowest point for me during my journey so far, is the French cemetery near Morto Bay. On entering, I was astounded by the beauty of the place. It is by far the most striking war cemetery that I have seen so far. The use of old barbed wire pickets as grave markers was a good idea. They were surplus to requirements after the war and they help you to remember the harsh reality of the events which unfurled there. But upon reaching the cenotaph at the top of the cemetery, I was upset to discover that nothing had been left to honour the sacrifice that 10,000 French soldiers had made, especially as yesterday was the centenary of the start of the campaign in which they were killed. All of the other cemeteries and memorials at Helles were inundated with wreaths, poppies and flowers, but not the French cemetery.
I left two poppies as a mark of my respect. I wish it had been more, but I also made a promise to the dead, that I would find out why they had been ignored and I would try to make sure that it didn’t happen again.
Ultimately, it is up to the leaders of France. It is their choice, but if the dead could look down, what would they find the worst? Would it be the fact that their country, which sent them to their deaths, had chosen not to recognise their sacrifice 100 years later? Or maybe that the only person to leave something at their resting places was an Englishman!”
The above passage weighed heavily on my mind for a lot of my journey, as I honestly thought that the French didn’t care. (Other people who saw it too might still be thinking the same) But then I reached France and discovered that out of all the countries that I had passed through, the ordinary French people actually cared the most. So, why was nothing left at Morto Bay French cemetery? There was a wreath from the French Government left at the Helles Memorial to the Missing. To get there, the person who left it would have had to pass very close to the French cemetery, so why the oversight?
Whatever the reasons, my promise still stands. Upon my return, I had a letter translated into French, which I sent to everybody of importance that I could think of in France. They’ve had a lot on their minds with terrorist attacks etc, but it would be good to get an answer one day....
A little way from the French cemetery was the Turkish Martyrs Monument. It was very busy when I got there and the police wouldn’t let me leave my bike anywhere, so I only saw it from a distance. It didn’t matter as I wasn’t in the mood for large crowds anyway. It’s a very large monument, but for all the time and effort which went into its construction, it still didn’t compare to the stark and simple beauty of the Turkish cemetery at Kumkale.
I spent that night camped back at the Boomerang Bar. It felt strange to be back there after saying goodbye to the two Matts that morning. Once again, I had that familiar feeling of being left behind. The drunk Aussie was still there, but everybody else was dif