In the predawn darkness of August 7, 1915, New Zealand soldiers from the Wellington Battalion clawed their way up the razorback ridges of the Gallipoli Peninsula, their boots slipping on loose scree, their breath ragged. Ahead loomed Chunuk Bair, the second-highest peak in the Sari Bair range—a strategic prize that promised dominance over the Dardanelles Strait. By sunrise, they seized the summit, planting their flag in soil churned by Ottoman shells. But their triumph would last barely three days, a fleeting victory steeped in blood and blunders, etching Chunuk Bair into the soul of nations.

The Gallipoli Campaign, conceived to secure a sea route to Russia, had stalled into trench-bound misery by summer. General Sir Ian Hamilton’s plan to break the deadlock hinged on capturing Chunuk Bair and neighboring peaks. The task fell to the New Zealand Infantry Brigade, British 13th Division, and Indian and Gurkha troops. Opposing them stood Mustafa Kemal, the Ottoman commander whose tactical genius would later forge modern Türkiye.

The assault began with a night march on August 6. Led by Lieutenant Colonel William Malone, the Wellington Battalion navigated gullies so steep men hauled themselves up by flax ropes. “Silence, boys—no smoking, no talking,” Malone ordered, his voice a taut whisper. By dawn, they stormed the summit, surprising the Ottoman defenders. Malone, a lawyer turned soldier, commanded his men to dig in: “Make yourselves a roof!” They scraped shallow trenches with bayonets and helmets, knowing artillery would soon answer.

It did. Ottoman shells rained as Kemal rallied his troops, declaring, “I don’t order you to fight—I order you to die.” Wave after wave of Turkish soldiers surged uphill. The New Zealanders held, their rifles searing hot, their water gone. Malone, ever meticulous, scribbled pleas for reinforcements in his notebook. None came in time. On August 8, a misdirected British naval shell struck his position, killing him instantly. Leadership fractured, but the Wellington Battalion clung to the summit for 48 more hours, their numbers dwindling.

British relief troops—the 6th Loyal North Lancashires—replaced the shattered Kiwis on August 10. They lasted hours. Kemal’s final assault, led by fresh reserves, overran the summit. When the smoke cleared, Chunuk Bair was a charnel house: 3,000 New Zealanders lay dead or wounded, alongside thousands of British, Indian, and Ottoman troops. The Allies had gained nothing but a lesson in futility.

Tactical failures doomed the operation. Poor intelligence underestimated Ottoman resilience; disjointed commands left Malone isolated. Artillery support misfired, and reinforcements arrived too late. Yet from this debacle emerged myth. For New Zealand, Chunuk Bair became a forge for national identity—a story of ordinary men thrust into extraordinary hell, their tenacity immortalized in memoirs and monuments. The Chunuk Bair Memorial, listing 849 names of Kiwis with no known grave, stands as a pilgrimage site where visitors tuck poppies into crevices.
Kemal, too, transformed defeat into legacy. His leadership here foreshadowed his role in Türkiye’s rebirth. In 1934, his tribute to Allied soldiers—“heroes lying in the soil of a friendly country”—bridged former enmities, a gesture echoed in modern Türkiye’s preservation of ANZAC graves.

Today, scholars parse the battle’s dual truths. For Māori, Chunuk Bair’s losses, including the Pioneer Māori Contingent, catalyzed demands for equality in post-war New Zealand. Turkish historians reframe it as a defensive triumph that united a crumbling empire. Each year at dawn on ANZAC Day, the ridges resound with the Last Post, its mournful notes mingling with the rustle of rosemary—a scent soldiers once stuffed into letters home.

The Battle of Chunuk Bair endures not as a military lesson, but as a mirror. In its story, we see the folly of empires, the fragility of command, and the uncanny power of sacrifice to shape nations. As the sun rises over the peninsula, warming the trenches where bones and bayonets still surface, the land whispers: This is what it costs to remember.

Discover More