Kath's Travel Adventures

The sun was warm even at this time of the morning and already hazy. Before us stretched the end of the Gallipoli peninsular; scrub made way for trees and in the far distance we could make out sandy beaches. We had arrived at the southern end, where on 25th April 1915, British and Allied soldiers came ashore during the World War I Gallipoli Campaign. The peninsular was beautiful and peaceful now, a far cry from the horror nearly a century ago.
First we visited a Turkish Cemetery, with rows upon rows of white headstones embedded with glass panels, on either side of which were names of 18 of the fallen. As if to shade these silent sentries, trees were interspersed amongst them, casting a cool air over the 70,000 souls buried there.
The nearby Cape Helles Memorial glared white against the deep blue sky. On it were names of Royal Navy battleships and military Corps that had participated in the Allied landings. British losses are less known than the Australian/New Zealand or Turkish ones but British troops suffered too with approx 220,000 casualties during the equally futile Helles landings.
The steep descent to “W” (Lancashire Landing) Beach, on the west of Cape Helles, was overhung with a thick green canopy of Turkish firs. Although it was named after the battalion of Lancashire Fusiliers who landed here, our interest was with the Worcestershire Regiment who supported them. The rocky water’s edge became an idyllic white sandy beach, the remains of a small boat still partly buried, with the jagged iron edges protruding through the sand like teeth in a gaping mouth. Immersed now in serenity, the beach did not betray the horror and bloodshed that it beheld all those years ago.
Located 500 metres inland, the grey entrance of the Lancashire Landing Cemetery reflected a sombre mood but inside it was immaculately kept; the grass clipped short and tasteful bushes and flowers distributed between the rows of small white squat memorial stones. Surrounded by trees with birds singing, in peace and tranquility, 1300 faced towards the beach.
We sought one in particular, Private Albert Hill of the Worcestershire Regiment, who died in June 1915 aged 30. My Mum had seen his name on a war memorial at home, but the family never spoke of him or his death. “It's Row B”, she trailed off; there were no row letters. “I've found him”, I called back. There it was, his stone, weathered but blinding in the midday sun.
Mum came over and stood by me, teary eyed. “Hello, Granddad”, she said.