Spirited gathering must have delighted ghosts of Gallipoli

Kiwi and Australian visitors to Gallipoli camp out as they wait for the dawn service to begin. Picture / Mark Mitchell

When I arrive at Anzac Cove just after 1am, thousands of people are already there, hundreds upon hundreds of them strewn along roadsides and in every available open space.


Wrapped in sleeping bags, they look much as the wounded would have looked on that fateful morning as the Anzacs stormed the beach into the murderous fire of Turkish rifles, machine guns and shrapnel shells.

In the dark distance the lights of several vessels glow on the Aegean. Hospital ships, perhaps?

Rubbish bins overflow, not with empty bully-beef tins, but with empty beer cans.

O how those bleeding, broken, and thirsty Anzacs would have welcomed a beer as they waited for hours to be evacuated from the beachhead.

Many people have been at the cove since early afternoon; others, some in their 60s and 70s, have walked up to 5km from their buses, which are not allowed past a certain point in the road.

Temporary stands sit eight rows high around the site, creating a vast amphitheatre, and two huge, bright screens play DVDs of Barry Gibb and the Bee Gees live in concert. The hits include Stayin' Alive and You Should Be Dancin'.

Thousands more people stream into the cove like battalions on the march, missing only rifle, bayonet and ammunition, but fully equipped with food, drink and bed rolls.

It's coming up to 3am and the atmosphere in this close-packed sea of humanity is cheerful and friendly. Everywhere I walk I am greeted with choruses of "good morning".

But as the full moon, shining in a cloudless sky, sinks towards the ridges to the west of the cove, I sense an increasing anticipation.

Would those whom we gather to honour object to the noise and the music, the chatter and the laughter, the eating and the drinking? Hell no.

Suddenly, out in the bay, the silhouette of a warship lights up. She is HMAS Anzac. How fitting.

Everywhere there are full dress uniforms - Kiwi and Aussie - the lemon squeezer and the slouch hat, Navy blue and Air Force blue mingling as the landing troops did on that first frantic morning.

But here there is organisation and cool precision; on April 25, 1915, all was chaos and calamity.

The Turks are here too on the beach, their white dress helmets a standout among the bemedalled officers and men of the erstwhile foes. The princes and potentates, generals, admirals and air marshals are yet to arrive, their white plastic seats awaiting them beneath the flapping flags of New Zealand, Turkey and Australia.

As dawn approaches it is getting colder, a stiff and frigid northeasterly gusting down the beach. I'd hate to be wading ashore, wet through, in this.

The atmosphere has changed. A hush has fallen on this crowd of 20,000 and climbing. The big screens are blank and an Australian military band is playing music from the wars, marches and hymns.

If any proof were needed of the significance of this occasion it is that so many people can be so quiet.

At 4.15am Helen Clark and John Howard arrive almost together. Our Prime Minister is rugged up against the cold, her high-crowned black fur hat sensibly pulled down over her ears and the collar of her full-length black coat pulled up.

The flags have dropped to half mast.

At 4.30am the screens light up so everyone can see what is happening on the shore and the prelude to the dawn service begins.

In music, poetry, song, dramatic documentary and spectacular light show, the story of Anzac is told again.

At 5.30am on the dot a member of our Maori group sings a karanga and the 90th anniversary dawn service is under way.

As the daylight slowly creeps over the calm waters of the Aegean the speeches are recited, the wreaths are laid, the quotations quoted, the prayers prayed, and the hymns sung.

It is a curiously flat performance, devoid of passion, lacking in oratory, sadly inadequate for the events it remembers - until the cheery notes of the Reveille caress the air and I am reminded that this is the dawn of a new day and I can rejoice and be glad in it as I watch another evacuation at Anzac Cove, this time in 700 buses.