Our next port of call was to be Istanbul and I looked forward to new experiences and sampling the mysteries of the middle-east as we sailed away from Cyprus. Our route would take us north and we would pass between the islands of Crete to port and Rhodes to starboard as we sailed up into the Aegean Sea. I had no idea at the time that I was sailing among islands I have since come to love as holiday destinations; back in 1971 I had travelled very little and was not worldly wise. Sailing the deep blue waters between the idyllic Greek islands of Kos, Naxos, Lesvos, et al, and watching dolphins swim and jump around our bows, it was hard to imagine how deadly the area we were approaching had once been.

To make our destination, Bulwark would have to negotiate the Dardanelles Narrows before reaching the Bosphorus, the Sea of Marmara and eventually Istanbul. Today the disaster that had been the Gallipoli campaign is all but forgotten to anyone without an interest in history. There are a lot of misconceptions and many half-truths that have passed into common knowledge and certain figures have taken on the trappings of folk-lore heroes. The truth behind the campaign was very different.

Being a bit of a naval history buff, Jimmy the One had written a screed for the less educated among us, which he posted on the ship’s notice board and I’m not ashamed to admit that I was one of those who digested it thoroughly. My schoolboy history had barely touched on events in and around the Dardanelles and as far as I was concerned the whole mess had been Winston’s worst nightmare: 1915 was of course a very long time ago even then and as history goes, Gallipoli had been pretty much written off.

Looking outboard as we entered the narrow channel it was easy to see why an assault from the sea had been such a disaster: most of the shoreline had very little, if any, beach and rocky, steep to the point of being almost vertical cliff faces plunged down into the sea. The ship took on a respectful silence as sailors and marines alike stood gazing at the shore.

Between the first landings on the Gallipoli Peninsula on 25 April 1915 and the evacuation which began eight months later in December, some 43,750 allied soldiers lost their lives. At least 86,500 Turkish soldiers also died. These casualty figures may have been small compared to the later catastrophic losses in France and Belgium, but were nonetheless devastating for the families at home.

Fighting men have an affinity with death and although our cruise had so far been one of unadulterated pleasure, I doubt there was a man aboard left unmoved when at sunset as Bulwark made her way into more open water a marine bugler sounded the Last Post.

The combined Australian and New Zealand forces, the Anzacs, regard Gallipoli as their war and commemorate it every year with Anzac Day. The truth is though, that while some 10,500 Anzacs died on the Gallipoli Peninsular, so did over 10,000 French, 21,000 British and close on 87,000 Turks.

In addition to those killed were something in the region of 400,000 casualties wounded, many of whom later died from dysentery or enteric fever thanks to the unsanitary conditions of the peninsular. Among those who died was Rupert Brooke, from a septic mosquito bite, that stunning British poet known for his idealistic War Sonnets (reproduced below in tribute to “the most handsome man in England") written during the early months of the First World War.

The War Sonnets

I. Peace
Now, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour,
And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping,
With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,
To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,
Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary,
Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,
And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,
And all the little emptiness of love!
Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,
Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,
Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;
Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there
But only agony, and that has ending;
And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.

II. Safety
Dear! of all happy in the hour, most blest
He who has found our hid security,
Assured in the dark tides of the world at rest,
And heard our word, "Who is so safe as we?"
We have found safety with all things undying,
The winds, and morning, tears of men and mirth,
The deep night, and birds singing, and clouds flying,
And sleep, and freedom, and the autumnal earth.
We have built a house that is not for Time's throwing.
We have gained a peace unshaken by pain for ever.
War knows no power. Safe shall be my going,
Secretly armed against all death's endeavour;
Safe though all safety's lost; safe where men fall;
And if these poor limbs die, safest of all.

III. The Dead
Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!
There's none of these so lonely and poor of old,
But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.
These laid the world away; poured out the red
Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be
Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene,
That men call age; and those who would have been,
Their sons, they gave, their immortality.
Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth,
Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain.
Honour has come back, as a king, to earth,
And paid his subjects with a royal wage;
And nobleness walks in our ways again;
And we have come into our heritage.

IV. The Dead
These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,
Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.
The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,
And sunset, and the colours of the earth.
These had seen movement, and heard music; known
Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;
Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;
Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.
There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter
And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,
Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance
And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white
Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,
A width, a shining peace, under the night.

V. The Soldier
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.