We Live in Deeds, Not Years

A few years ago, we travelled to Gallipoli with our children to search for the grave of Archie Hamilton, their great-great-grandfather, who died there in 1915.

By the time of his death, 34-year-old Archie, a captain in the King’s Own Scottish Borderers, was fighting alongside soldiers from across the British Empire, all desperately trying to reach the high ridges above the beaches where they had landed weeks earlier.

He never saw the view from the top.

Archie died on 28 June, just over two months after landing at Cape Helles, south of Anzac Cove.

Today, the Gallipoli Peninsula is a peaceful place, with groups of pine trees dotting the sandy-coloured landscape of a dry Turkish summer. Like us, other visitors wandered among the gravestones of simple cemeteries in search of the name of a lost relative, a task made easier by the records kept by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission, which also maintains the grounds.

We discovered Archie’s headstone at the small Twelve Tree Copse, which contains graves of British and Indian soldiers. His headstone bears his age, date of death and regiment. Beneath it, his mother Alice’s chosen epitaph: “We live in deeds, not years.”

In that way, a small part of his family rests with him there.

As we stood in silent contemplation, nearby families did the same, apart from a few younger boys who discovered that the occasional old bullet casing still lying in the dust made a fine souvenir.

Elsewhere, larger memorials were set in formal walled gardens, neatly paved with pale limestone, softened by roses and hardy shrubs. Larger groups of visitors wandered along the geometric paths, looking up at the thousands of names carved into the stone.

So many names.

Names that belong to soldiers whose remains were never found. Names that trace the geography of the war — Māori, English, Scots, Welsh, Irish, French, Indian, Nepali and more.

Regimental names that pinpoint their place in the world — Royal Dublin Fusiliers, 6th Gurkha Rifles and the Māori Contingent, later reorganised as the New Zealand (Māori) Pioneer Battalion.

Scanning the hundreds of names carved into these large memorials, I find the saddest aspect is that they belong to men whose remains were never found — men who never received a burial or final prayer from their comrades.

With or without a grave, each man’s death was a loss to those who loved him.

After dark, the peninsula did not rest — the fighting giving way to quieter movements, whispered orders, and the steady work of men preparing for another day.

By comparison, as we left the peninsula, the only sound was the sea breeze in the trees — a gentle reminder of the peaceful lives we’ve been privileged to enjoy.

Archie’s death was only one among many thousands — yet to his close family, the one that mattered most.