Irish-English and Catholic, I hoped for glory
fighting in Europe for Britain against the Hun.
I found it leading a force of New Zealanders
against the stubborn Turk defending his homeland.
Twelve hundred yards of open ground we crossed
shelled and machine-gunned, keeping our intervals,
pace even, no shot fired until I gave the order.
The British watched. They called us the White Gurkhas.
I wanted a clean force, moral, disciplined, strong.
I thought my men should fear me – didn’t foresee
that I would love them and war have no other purpose,
or none greater, than our brotherhood in death.
I had posted Ruskin: ‘In war, waste never a moment’ –
but how is a moment wasted? Beyond my trench
eight acres of corpses shimmered and droned in the heat.
I looked for wild-flowers, wrote of them in my journal.
Yes we took Chunuk Bair and, unsupported
(just seventy-six surviving of seven hundred),
lost it. A British gunner delivered my death.
A gateway in Taranaki remembers my name.