Mateship spurred them onward

By KATHERINE HOBY

"This will no doubt be the greatest day in our lives," Richard Ward wrote in his diary.

When he and 1724 more of New Zealand's finest were roused from sleep to leave from Lemnos, a Greek island, they were ready to go.

Sheer excitement had kept many awake all night. Others had slept soundly, confident in the knowledge that the attack would succeed.

The Turks would never hold the beach - later to be known as Anzac Cove.

Most of the troops were upbeat, buoyed by the thought of finally getting into the fray.

The three-hour journey aboard a former German passenger liner, SS Lutzow, seemed to take an eternity.

Waiting. Watching. Hearing the rumble of guns from Cape Helles where the British were going ashore.

Reverend Fielden Taylor held a short church service. Officers took Holy Communion in the saloon.

Weapons were cleaned and checked, and then rechecked.

Some curled up on deck under warm overcoats under a Turkish carpet of stars. Most had never had a shot fired at them. Some had not fired one in anger.

Some smoked cigarettes, others wrote letters to family in case they should not make it back.

Many gazed at pictures of wives, sweethearts and families. Some kissed the pictures, others stroked them gently, as if the final touch brought them closer, brought luck.



Many shared their thoughts and memories in low voices; mateships strengthened on the deck of the the Lutzow. Some shivered as the night gave up to the streaky fingers of day.

It was more exhilaration than cold. Most who were frightened were more fearful of how they would react under fire than of the bullets and blood ahead.

They waited eagerly for dawn.

The water was like a blue sheet of glass in the sun, but what must surely be the smallest battlefield ever was a sickening mass of confusion and noise. Above that loomed rugged cliffs, scrubby gullies, the ravines, and the well-hidden Turks.

About 9am, on April 25, 1915, when the order came to go in, the sun was merciless.

The New Zealanders, already jumping with nerves and excitement, sweated and scratched in their woollen serge uniforms.

A heavy rifle, 200 rounds of ammunition, a hefty pack, and a large water bottle weighed them down. Many carried a small Bible.

After a hot drink and a prayer the men loaded themselves into the boats - lighters and barges which were to be towed to shore by a destroyer.

Every soldier was lost in his own thoughts. Any mementos, letters, photographs or keepsakes were physically out of reach.

Now they clung to the family and homeland in their heads - and concentrated on the task at hand.

Men were packed tight into the boats. Sitting almost cheek to cheek, they looked towards shore. Rifles between their knees.

Some smoked, others whispered prayers.

As they approached the shore, bullets whipped through the air, and cut up the calm water.

Men were at the oars rowing. Occasionally one would fall, and would be instantly replaced.

The New Zealanders reacted differently when fired upon.

Some joked, some cursed. Trigger fingers itched.

Waiting for them on shore were the inhospitable cliffs of the Gallipoli Peninsula - and 36,000 Turks.

The boats finally grounded and the men swung their legs over the side.

Onward then - to the greatest day in our lives.

Feature: Anzac Day

Anzac photo exhibition:
Harold Paton's pictures of WW II