Abstract
The Ottoman defeat of the British and French imperial forces during the Gallipoli campaign of 1915, known in Turkish as the Çanakkale Wars, had already shown how the theatres of war would extend beyond Europe. While much of the poetry in English that came from Gallipoli is well known in the Anglophone world, the Turkish poetry from Çanakkale is less well known outside Turkey itself. This article analyses selected Gallipoli poems written in both languages in order to show how they had similar recourse to overlapping narratives of history and myth in their efforts to place the experience of war within a wider transhistorical and transcultural framework. By reflecting on the different uses of this double palimpsest, it aims to show how a transnational and transcultural approach to memorial culture can develop our understanding of how the Great War was written.
Much of the European literature inspired by the First World War reflects on the harrowing experiences of the carnage on the Western Front and its wider repercussions. In particular, the immediacy, accessibility and practicality of poetry as a means of both catharsis and commemoration have resulted in its profound association with the war. As Jane Potter (2012: 20–1) has shown, the poetry from 1914–18 is by definition transnational: the ‘English poetry’ by American, Australian, Canadian, English, Irish, New Zealand, Scottish, Welsh and other poets forms part of a specific canon of world literature, together with poetry written in Arabic, French, German, Russian, Turkish and other languages. 1 Although to Western readers the poetry of the First World War is often synonymous with the fields and trenches of Flanders, this vast body of work also encompasses different theatres of the conflict, such as the Eastern Front, the Dardanelles, East Africa, Mesopotamia and Palestine. This article takes as its subject matter selected poems written in English and Turkish about the Gallipoli campaign of 1915–16, known in Turkish as the Çanakkale Wars. Its focus is on the poets’ recourse to both history and myth as models through which the Great War could be represented and located in a transhistorical context. Poets on both sides drew on various historical narratives as well as the allegorical potential of myth, which is durably adaptable to different geopolitical configurations. A different yet similar operation of referentiality is at play here: beyond their initial dichotomous status as ‘fact’ and ‘fiction’, history and myth share the function of recounting and trying to make sense of human behaviour. Moreover, analogous to the merged referentiality to real and fictional places discussed in recent works of geocriticism, history and myth overlap as narratives of the past with symbolic potential for both writing and remembering the First World War. 2
The Treaty of Versailles in 1919 led to territorial changes not only in central Europe but also across the globe, as the sovereignty of former German colonies and concessions in Africa, Asia and the Pacific was transferred to different Allied powers. It also contributed to the wider onset of decolonization, exemplified by the fact that the British Dominions of Australia, Canada, New Zealand and South Africa signed the treaty separately, as did the British colony of India, all becoming founding members of the League of Nations in their own right. In the case of the Ottoman Empire, which was formally dissolved in 1922, the defeat in World War I accelerated a process of collapse which had started with successive wars against their neighbours in the preceding decades. Ryan Gingeras (2017) has shown how Ottoman rule ended without the consent of most Balkan, North African, Levantine or Mesopotamian citizens, as the post-Ottoman borders were established in the wake of foreign conquest. In this respect the process of ‘de-ottomanization’ was to a large extent not a form of decolonization, because nationalism and popular agency played a lesser role in the removal of lands from the Sultan’s domain. The signing of the Armistice of Mudros in October 1918 and the Treaty of Sèvres in 1920 led to the partitioning of the empire and the ceding of most non-Turkish territory to the Allied powers, including the creation of the British Mandate for Palestine and the French Mandate for Syria and the Lebanon. It also led to a rise in Turkish nationalism, culminating in the Treaty of Lausanne and the birth of the Turkish Republic in 1923. The aftermath of the war is specifically important with regard to the role that the Çanakkale Wars played in the creation narrative of modern Turkey; in retrospect it can be recast as an early Turkish victory, rather than a late Ottoman one. Günay Uslu (2017: 28) has argued that ‘the landscape of the Dardanelles is one of the most important lieux de mémoire for modern Turks’. It will be shown below that the poetry on both sides of the conflict drew on a variety of overlapping sources, in order to imbue this locus with a significance that both reinforced and questioned narratives of national self-determination.
The main historical antecedents for the Gallipoli campaign were the religious wars between Christians and Muslims that lasted intermittently between the eleventh and fifteenth centuries, known as the Crusades or the wars of the Cross (al-hurub al Salabiyya). In 1354 the Byzantine fort and surrounding peninsula at Gallipoli had been captured by the Ottoman Turks; the strategic importance of the Dardanelles straits for access between the Balkans and the Black Sea remained crucial at the start of the twentieth century. The topos of the Crusades informed perception of the current conflict for soldiers on both sides. In his memoir of the war, Norman Woodcock, a young soldier from Leeds, wrote: ‘We conjured up some vivid images of what it would be like to land on a foreign shore and fight the Turks on the way to Constantinople – we had all read adventure stories and seen pictures of the Orient in books’ (Woodcock and Burnett, 2014: 48). Many of the Turkish poets writing about Gallipoli alluded to the Crusades, emphasizing the fact that the soldiers were defending not only the Ottoman Empire but also Islam itself; from the Ottoman perspective, the attack in the First World War was yet one more conflict after several centuries of fighting against their neighbours, including the Crimean War and the more recent Balkan Wars of 1912 and 1913. 3
Poets on both sides found further analogies with ancient Greek mythology, particularly Homer’s Iliad and Apollonius of Rhodes’ Argonautica, the story of Jason and the Argonauts. The Iliad recounts an earlier amphibious operation between the Achaeans – as Homer calls the Greeks – and the Trojans in the same area; the ruins of the ancient city of Troy, located on the Asiatic side of the Dardanelles at Hisarlik in the province of Çanakkale, are less than ten miles south of the Gallipoli battlefields. Noting that the victors of this encounter were the seafaring Achaeans, some Allied soldiers likened themselves to the Greek heroes of antiquity, who undertook a similar journey into the eastern Mediterranean. On the Turkish side, the victory at Gallipoli could be used to avenge the narrative of The Iliad and to recast the Çanakkale Wars as a victory over Greece. 4 An early twentieth-century conflict between three competing empires (British and French against Ottoman) could therefore be construed as a variation on both the Crusades and classical mythology. This essay will discuss examples from both sides of the conflict before considering the wider implications of this recourse to history and myth as ways of writing about the First World War. 5
I
For many Allied soldiers, the location of Gallipoli invited comparisons with the Hellespont and the Trojan War before the campaign had even begun. The Iliad recounts the story of how the Achaeans defeated the Trojans despite heavy losses on the battlefield and the threat of having their ships burned. This myth provided an appealing model; the subplot involving the argument between the Achaeans’ leader, Agamemnon, and their greatest warrior, Achilles, also lent itself to analogies between the commanders and the soldiers. By chance the names of the ships that constituted the first line of the Allied fleet to enter the straits on 18 March – Queen Elizabeth, Agamemnon, Lord Nelson and Inflexible, guarded by Prince George and Triumph – display not only how classical references were part of Allied military nomenclature, but also how figures of history and myth are juxtaposed with appropriate adjectives and nouns in the all-purpose lexicon of valour and leadership (Macleod, 2015: 21). One of the most renowned examples of this anticipation comes in a letter written in February 1915 by Rupert Brooke (1968: 662–3) to his friend Violet Asquith, daughter of Herbert Henry Asquith, the Prime Minister, upon learning of his imminent departure for the Dardanelles. 6 Brooke’s enthusiastic sense of anticipation is rendered more poignant by the fact that he was never to fight at Gallipoli, dying on a French hospital ship on 23 April 1915, two days before the landings, from sepsis caused by an infected mosquito bite. The allusions in his letter both to Ancient Greek (seen in the use of the Homeric adjective ‘polyphloisbic’, meaning loud, roaring or boisterous) and to the Crusades epitomize the double palimpsest for the campaign.
In Stand in the Trench, Achilles! Classical Receptions in the British Poetry of the Great War, Elizabeth Vandiver analyses the receptions of both Greek and Roman classical tropes, showing that they were used by soldiers from all educational backgrounds. 7 Vandiver (2010: 232) argues that the narrative of the Trojan War was initially used to ennoble the experience of the Great War and to encourage recruitment: ‘in poems that claim direct connection with Troy, the Homeric paradigm is most frequently used to deny – or perhaps it would be better to say, to transcend – the realities of battle’. 8 This paradigm could also be adapted to different contexts. For example, in poems about the Western Front, Belgium represents the besieged city of Troy, with the British troops representing the Greeks coming to liberate the Belgians from German occupation. In poems about Gallipoli, classical references are often employed to add a mythical dimension to descriptions of the surroundings. They frequently mention the Gulf of Saros, north of the Gallipoli peninsula, and the islands of Imbros, Lemnos and Samothrace. Despite Greece’s neutrality during the first years of the war, Imbros and Lemnos became bases for the Allied troops, used for landing practice and respite during periods of leave. The soldiers were aware of the mythological connotations, as shown by the reference to the ‘Trojan Shore’ in the second stanza of A. P. Herbert’s ‘The bathe’, which celebrates the solace of swimming in the sea during a break from the fighting (Herbert, 1916: 20). 9 Lemnos was also the first destination of Jason and the Argonauts in their quest for the Golden Fleece, which constitutes the intertext for John Hargrave’s poem ‘Lemnos harbour’. Instead of looking back to the past, this juxtaposition of the classical myth with contemporary history is seen from the perspective of the Argonauts themselves, fellow sailors who could scarcely imagine the developments in ship design, as shown by the first of the two stanzas:
A different reference to the myth of Jason is found in the Australian poet Leon Gellert’s ‘The riddle of the Sphinx’, written in Egypt in December 1914 as the Anzac troops prepared for war. Here Gellert uses the inscrutability of the Egyptian sphinx to represent the uncertainty of the soldiers’ future. The ‘teeth of Jason’ in the final stanza refer to the dragon’s teeth sown by Jason in a field at Cochis, which sprouted and grew into warriors (Spartoi); taking Medea’s advice, Jason throws a stone into their midst so that they kill each other rather than attacking him. In Gellert’s poem the warriors are not enemy soldiers, but refer possibly to the Allied troops themselves, or perhaps to the combatants on both sides: what will be their common fate?
One of the most striking Gallipoli poems is by Clement Attlee, future leader of the Labour Party and Prime Minister from 1945 to 1951, who saw active service there as an officer in the 6th South Lancashire Regiment. Attlee wrote poetry throughout his life, including ‘Lemnos 1915’, a sonnet in iambic pentameter with an unexpected volta. The octet introduces the traveller’s long-held desire to visit the landscape of The Odyssey and The Iliad, combining characters from both texts. The first line of the sestet, ‘Happy the traveller whose eye may range’, alludes to the well-known opening line of Sonnet 31 of Joachim du Bellay’s Les Regrets: ‘Heureux qui comme Ulysse a fait un beau voyage’ (‘Happy the person who like Ulysses has gone on a beautiful journey’). Attlee’s sonnet emulates the ironic contrast with the traveller who regrets having made a journey; despite the beauty of the landscape and the richness of its classical heritage, the speaker longs to exchange the thyme-scented hills of the Aegean islands for the smell of fried fish in the East End of London. The poignancy of this poem derives from the implicit critique of the war: devoid of any description of fighting or reference to the enemy, the title alone gives the poem its historical context. Consequently, the apparently bathetic ending – the unexpected rhyme of ‘Helles strait’ with ‘Mile End Gate’ – takes on a more profound significance in its genuine expression of the soldier’s homesick longing for peace:
In other poems the classical references are used to reflect on exile and death. On 27 August 1915, an anonymous poem entitled ‘Outward bound’ was published in The Times. 10 It was written by Nowell Oxland, whose death notice was published in the same newspaper just three days afterwards (Anon., 1915: 5). Oxland had taken part in the landings at Suvla Bay on 6 August and was killed in action three days later. ‘Outward bound’, written in eight stanzas of ottava rima, reflects on the poet leaving behind his native Cumberland for an uncertain future. The final two stanzas, quoted below, allude to Tyndareus, King of Sparta, who had hosted Agamemnon and Menelaus during their exile as children and had earlier been sent into exile by his own brother. The poem’s final line – ‘We shall go not forth again’ – may be an allusion to H. G. Wells’ book The War That Will End War, published in 1914; it may also be read as a prediction of the inevitable loss of life faced by the soldiers, including the writer’s own death:
The most developed use of classical intertexts in the poetry of Gallipoli occurs in Patrick Shaw-Stewart’s untitled poem known as ‘I saw a man this morning’, written in July 1915. A former Oxford classics scholar, Shaw-Stewart went to Gallipoli with the Hood Battalion (Royal Naval Division), the same company as Rupert Brooke. 12 The poem was composed on Imbros while Shaw-Stewart was on leave and written in the back of his copy of A. E. Housman’s A Shropshire Lad. The addressee of the first line may be a fellow soldier, the speaker’s own reflection, or both. The opening stanzas play on the ambiguity of the word ‘shell’, before invoking The Iliad in order to question the purpose of the soldiers’ presence:
Shaw-Stewart refers here to the Thracian Chersonese, an ancient Greek name for the Gallipoli peninsula. The striking effect of the short iambic metre, alternating heptasyllabic and hexasyllabic lines with an occasional pentasyllable, is to accentuate the immediacy of the address to Achilles across the centuries. The two questions asked in the poem evoke the uncertainty regarding the soldiers’ presence: why are they at war and what will become of them? The invocation to Achilles, a petition for help, has less to do with valour and more to do with knowledge; in other words, to give them the strength to continue rather than to defeat the enemy. 13 As Elizabeth Vandiver (2010: 277) concludes, Shaw-Stewart ‘rejects the easy comfort of poems that suggest a parity between Homeric hero and modern fighter’. The comparison with myth is used here as a means to suggest the possible futility of the campaign: ‘the fatal second Helen’ that has taken the soldiers to fight at Gallipoli is not the abduction that led to the Trojan War, but the consequences of geopolitical machinations that seem far removed from the initial causes of the First World War.
The poems discussed above should give a sense of some of the different ways in which poets writing in English drew on both history and myth in order to make sense of their experiences at Gallipoli and connect them to wider questions concerning the effects of war on the human condition. From an aesthetic point of view, the ‘quality’ of the Gallipoli poems is of course uneven; not every poet knew about different techniques and traditions, and much war poetry is characterized by hackneyed imagery and metres bordering on doggerel. It is also striking how many poems make use of ‘high diction’ in their lexical choices, employing archaic spellings and syntactical constructions in order to accentuate this appeal to the double palimpsest of the past. These criticisms notwithstanding, the poems’ cultural value lies in the soldiers’ first-hand responses to the conflict; in order to express their reactions, they drew on poetic and lexical traditions in the same way as they drew on history and myth. Although women were present at Gallipoli, mainly as part of the medical corps, these poems also reveal the extent to which war poetry is a masculine affair with an essentialist view of gender; the references above to Circe and Helen show how these two mythical women are associated with sorcery and fatal beauty, both of which are said to lead men astray. There is no sense here of any positive female presence, not even through a familiar personification of the homeland as female. We will now turn to some of the Turkish poems in the light of this appraisal.
II
There are fewer extant poems in Turkish from the Çanakkale Wars. 14 The majority of these poems were written not by combatants, many of whom were illiterate, but by professional observers. In June 1916 the Ottoman government sent a delegation of poets, artists and film makers to the peninsula in order to record the events and provide patriotic materials to reinforce the war effort. In broad terms, we can perhaps see the Turkish poems as ‘top down’ in comparison to the ‘bottom up’ ones written by the Allied soldiers. As a result, the experiences of the Ottoman soldiers of all ethnicities are mediated through a different set of experiential, cultural and linguistic codes. This practice can also be read from a postcolonial perspective, because the collective experiences of heterogeneous groups are constructed through the official language of the imperial power. As we shall see, many of the poems emphasize the heroic valour of the Ottoman soldiers, rooted in a tradition of war writing with the purpose of ‘memorializing great military deeds as part of the history of the people’ (Brosman, 1992: 86). To some extent these poems can be seen as propaganda; for our purposes, it is also interesting to see how the official Ottoman poetry employs variations on the same tropes found in the lay poetry written by Allied soldiers.
The recurrent religious imagery in the Turkish poetry constructs the narrative that the soldiers were defending not only the Ottoman Empire but also Islam itself. This is immediately apparent in the short ten-line poem written in 1916 by Sultan Mehmet Reşad V himself: ‘Manzûme-i Hümâyûn (Çanakkale Gazeli)’, which translates as ‘Poem from His Royal Highness (Ode to Gallipoli)’. 15 Reşad (1844–1918), penultimate Sultan of the Ottoman Empire, ruled under the shadow of the nationalist government led by Enver Pasha, often referred to as Jön Türkler (Young Turks). Like all examples of Dîvan literature, the literary tradition of the court, Reşad’s ode is written in Ottoman Turkish, a language heavily influenced by Persian and Arabic (Doğan and Tığlı, 2005: 45). The Sultan’s poem, written for maximum rhetorical effect in five separate couplets, reinforces the official view of the Ottoman perspective on the campaign, emphasizing the valiant character of the soldiers. With reference to his title as the commander of all Muslims, the Sultan alludes to Constantinople, not Mecca, as ‘the heart of Islam’, an idea shared by many nationalist Ottoman Turks at the time. The lack of references to the Turks themselves acknowledges the presence of the other ethnic groups fighting on the Ottoman side, including Arabs, Armenians, Greeks, Jews and Kurds, among others. 16 The final image of the Sultan prostrating himself is an act of humbleness; he subjects himself to no other power than God, which can be read as both an allusion to the Crusades and a message to the Allied forces that the Ottomans will not yield to the pressure of the West:
The formal court poetry represented by Sultan Mehmet Reşad’s ode is contrasted with some of the poems that focus on the fighting itself, albeit from a safer distance. Born in 1871, Ahmet Nedim was one of several poets who were too old to enlist, but who wrote poems in order to maintain public morale. Inspired by newspaper reports, his long narrative poem ‘Salat’, written in November 1915, recounts over 98 lines the story of a man who encounters a soldier performing the eponymous daily Muslim prayer on the battlefield. Nedim’s poem places the anecdote in a religious and geopolitical context: one of the two enemies of Islam is named, the bomb-throwing English or so-called ‘civilized’ British, represented here by General Ian Hamilton, Commander of the Mediterranean Expeditionary Force at Gallipoli, and Sir Edward Grey, Foreign Secretary from 1905 to 1916. The poem reinforces the view that the soldiers’ faith in Allah will protect them:
Other poems place this faith in Islam in a historical context. Celal Sahir Erozan was a renowned poet and part of the literary delegation that visited the battlefields (Yilmaz, 2010: 1634–5). Published soon afterwards, ‘Ordunun Duası’ (‘Prayer of the army’) is an invocation to God that alludes in its central stanza to the past greatness of the Ottoman Empire. The term Turan, originally a Persian word meaning ‘the homeland of Turks’, refers to the ideal of uniting people of Turkic origin across the world under one Turkish banner. Still adopted today by certain political parties, the idea was devotedly supported by many throughout the Great War, including Enver Pasha himself. It was common practice for the defenders of Turan to assume that such idealism could unite all Turks against the oppression of the West, with particular reference to the Turkic populations of today’s Turkmenistan, Azerbaijan, Kirghizstan, Georgia, Tajikistan and Kazakhstan. By personifying Turan as a woman yearning for her khan, Erozan is alluding to the rulers of the Golden Horde, the great Central Asian state originating in the thirteenth century. Mount Kut (Kut Dağı), the name of a legendary mountain in Turkic mythology, also serves here as symbol of a glorious past:
Erozan’s poem thus demonstrates how it is possible in a few lines to interweave elements of religion, history and myth in its patriotic appeal to Allah for protection. This reference to three different narratives also constitutes a variation on the essentialist view of gender: the mythical motherland of Turan is represented by woman yearning for a man, who will both protect her and deliver her from imminent threat. If both Circe and Helen represent powerful temptation and distraction in some of the English poems, this unnamed female presence in ‘Ordunun Duası’ is subservient and more desirable: here the union between female and male is seen as a symbol of freedom and the restoration of past imperial glory.
One of the most striking historical references in the Turkish poetry comes at the end of Mehmet Akif Ersoy’s long narrative poem ‘Çanakkale Şehitlerine’ (‘To the Martyrs of Gallipoli’), the best-known Turkish poem dedicated to the campaign. 18 At the time of the first Allied naval attack on 18 March 1915, Ersoy was on the Arabian Peninsula on a mission for Teşkilat-ı Mahsusa, the Ottoman Secret Service. Upon reading a newspaper report illustrated by a photograph, he is said to have secluded himself from his companions before returning with the first draft of the poem (Düzdağ, 1988: 270–5). In ‘Çanakkale Şehitlerine’ description of the combatants and the fighting is followed by references to Saladin (1137–93), who captured Jerusalem and repelled the Third Crusade, and Kilij Arslan (1079–1107), who won three battles during the Crusade of 1101. 19 The direct address to the Ottoman martyrs of Gallipoli as vanquishers of the Crusaders places them in a historical lineage of noble defenders of Islam where, like the appeals to myth in the Allied poems, past and present merge into a single temporality. An analogy can be made with the similar referential technique used in the naming of Allied ships as Queen Elizabeth, Agamemnon and Lord Nelson; Ersoy refers to Saladin, Kilij Arslan and the Prophet Muhammad, placing the emphasis on history and religion rather than a combination of history and myth:
Our final Turkish example is Halit Fahri Ozansoy’s poem ‘Çanakkale’, which recasts the Turkish victory at Gallipoli as a victory over Greece. Ozansoy (1891–1971) was one of the crucial figures involved in the creation of a national Turkish, rather than Ottoman, literature in the early years of the Turkish Republic. Although he did not visit Gallipoli as part of the delegation, he responded to the victory through poems and newspaper articles between 1916 and 1917. ‘Çanakkale’ is a less traditional poem than the others discussed here, both in terms of its predominantly secular imagery and its form. The opening distich can be read as a reference to the Ottoman victory over the Byzantine Greeks in 1354, while also referring to further Ottoman victories over the intervening 600 years. The remainder of the poem, written in rhymed couplets with varying meters, casts doubt upon the veracity of the classical myth. Ozansoy distinguishes here between the glory of verifiable history and the unreliability of legend and myth, dismissing Homer’s Iliad as ‘a lie’. But in an interesting rhetorical gambit he then refers to the myth, in order to proclaim Gallipoli a victory of the Turks over ancient Greece and Achilles himself: a historical revenge for a mythical battle that took place not just six centuries earlier, but more than two millennia:
Ozansoy’s idiosyncratic take on the geopolitical stakes of the First World War adds a further dimension to the nexus of history and myth. By ignoring any references to the Allies, the Crusades or Islam (bar the reference to the ‘true victory of the crescent’ in line 12), Ozansoy places Gallipoli in a longer historical context that reframes it not only as revenge for the mythical conflict between the Achaeans and the Trojans, but implicitly as revenge for the Greek War of Independence from the Ottoman Empire between 1821 and 1832, during which Britain, France and Russia had supported the Greeks. There is also an intriguing aporia in Ozansoy’s argument: having dismissed myth as a lie, he then uses it immediately to reinforce the victory of modern Turkey over ancient Greece. We might surmise that the narratives of history and religion are not enough; in order to emphasize the victory at Gallipoli, Ozansoy employs the classical myth to revise our view of the Achaeans’ triumph over the Trojans. The same Achilles invoked by Patrick Shaw-Stewart in his appeal for help is now benighted: left in darkness, but still not forgotten.
Conclusion
This poem confronts, with unflinching clarity, many issues that we had rather forget altogether: the failures of leadership, the destructive power of beauty, the brutalizing impact of war, and – above all – our ultimate fate of death. (Graziosi, 2012: vii)
Barbara Graziosi’s appraisal of The Iliad in her introduction to the recent Oxford University Press translation could also be applied to the Gallipoli campaign itself. Such metanarrative reflection is similarly evident in the poems discussed above that draw on the overlapping narratives of history and myth. Our analysis has shown that if references to myth are more prevalent in the English poems, references to history – especially the history of the Crusades – are more prevalent in the Turkish ones. Two related reasons might be given for this: the state-sponsored appeal to a glorious victorious past for the war-weary Ottoman forces; and the role played by Islam as a means by which to rally the troops. But these distinct approaches share an appeal to symbolism based on combined narratives. It is here where we propose a potentially controversial hypothesis. Although the tenets of Islam in the poems above are considered part of a historical narrative, all three major Abrahamic religions – Christianity, Islam and Judaism – fuse elements of history and myth in their sacred texts. Moreover, the founding myths of religions become themselves elements of history; tradition is indisputably a fusion of history and myth. In terms of the aftermath of the First World War, the disillusionment at the senseless loss of life evinced by much English war poetry may not have a Turkish equivalent beyond the desire for peace, but the adoption of a revised secular constitution in 1928 by the Republic of Turkey suggests that one common consequence of the Great War was a questioning of the role that religion played in settling questions of national and international politics.
The legacy of the Gallipoli campaign is particularly significant in Australia and Turkey, where the respective annual commemorations of the campaign have become part of both countries’ national identity; Jenny Macleod (2015: 3) describes the events at Gallipoli as ‘the basis of a foundational myth for Australia, known as the Anzac legend’. 20 The Turco-Australian bond forged out of Gallipoli demonstrates how the double palimpsest of history and myth continues to evolve as identity and memory are shaped over time. 21 What emerges out of this friendship, like the symbolism of the famous unofficial Christmas truce on the Western Front in 1914, relates to the importance of writing and remembering the First World War for its recent centenary and beyond. Although the ‘war that will end war’ did not achieve its objective, a shared memory based on both history and myth, including poetry, cinema and other art forms, may help us to remember the old lie: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.
Footnotes
Acknowledgements
The research for this article was part of a project entitled ‘Unheard Voices: The Poetry of the Gallipoli Campaign’, which was supported by funding from TÜBÍTAK (The Scientific and Technological Research Council of Turkey) and the AHRC (UK Arts and Humanities Research Council) Gateways to the First World War Public Engagement Centre: 
.