Once on Chunuk Bair

 

Once on Chunuk Bair

(Wellington Regiment, August 8, 1915)

We moved through dark in single file, no sound, no careless tread,

Each heartbeat loud as cannon fire, each thought of home instead.

The stars looked down with watchful eyes, the earth was cold and bare,

And every man who climbed that slope left half his courage there.

 

No talk, no smoke, no clatter made, just breath and muted fear,

The taste of dust and iron’s tang, the whisper, “Almost there.”

A man slipped once — we froze in place, our nerves a tightened wire,

The night so thick, so close, so still, it smothered all desire.

 

We reached the crest before first light; the world seemed held in prayer,

Then dawn broke wide — a bastard dawn — and hell was waiting there.

The hill exploded, men went down, as lead tore through the air,

The order came to hold the ground, though none were left to spare.

 

They came in waves, the Turks below, their shouting split the sky,

And all we knew was hold the line and shoot until we die.

A Vickers jammed — old Benny laughed and smacked it with his hat,

A shell came in, took Ben and gun, and left no more than that.

 

We called for help — none ever came, command was miles behind,

Those officers with silver spoons and maps that made us blind.

They sent us up with whispered prayers and rifles short on rounds,

While comfort stayed on safer ships and watched from foreign grounds.

 

By noon the ridge was red with blood, the air was burnt and sore,

You couldn’t tell the living ones from those who’d breathe no more.

They said we took the hill that day — I guess we must have done,

But victory’s a hollow word when half your mates are none.

 

At dusk the world grew strangely calm, the guns had lost their bite,

The sea was gold; the sky was fire — it might have been a sight.

But beauty means no bloody thing when pain’s the price you pay,

And those who spoke before the dawn were mostly dead by day.

 

The medics worked with trembling hands, the sand was soaked in red,

One asked for water through cracked lips — his bottle held sand instead.

I sat beside him, said no word, just watched the daylight fade,

And wondered if the gods themselves regret the men they made.

 

They call us brave — perhaps we were, or simply too afraid,

Too proud to turn our backs and run from choices others made.

That’s war, I guess — the upper brass all safe and clean and dry,

While lads like us were fed uphill and left alone to die.

 

Years later a son returned to where that hill still stands,

The grass had grown, the stones were clean, no blood upon his hands.

He climbed that same old battered hill beneath a kinder sky,

Where gulls wheeled over rusted shards and poppies dared to lie.

 

He touched the names upon the slab, so many gone, so near,

And almost heard old Benny laugh — “First man up buys the bloody beer!”

He found his father’s name engraved upon that granite stone,

A single line, but heavy still — he didn’t die alone.

 

He knelt and brushed the dust away, the wind was sharp and clear,

And through the hush he heard again — “First man up buys the bloody beer.”

He stood and faced the rising sun, the same that lit that day,

And felt the ghosts move through the grass before they slipped away.

 

No drum, no gun, no bugle call — just silence, proud and bare,

And one young man who understood what happened at Chunuk Bair.

The wind came cold across the ridge, and whispered through the air,

The kind of sound that chills the soul — Remember Chunuk Bair.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (Oct 2025)