Something for all in Gallipoli pilgrimage

On the upstairs balcony of the Denizkizi fish restaurant in Istanbul, the waiter comes over and guesses we are from New Zealand.

"Kiwis," he says. "You come over every year to visit your dead. That is a good thing."

The Kiwis in question left New Zealand on April 19 with an optimistically-detailed 15 page programme headed "Op Gallipoli 10."

The 23 veterans, 24 students and 80 Defence Force staff returned on Friday, exhausted after days of travel through Darwin, Penang, Dubai and Istanbul to get to and from the Gallipoli peninsula. They had achieved exactly what the waiter said - visited their dead at Gallipoli on a small scrap of land which has become perhaps the most sacred piece of land for New Zealanders outside their own country.

People remembered different things of that Anzac Day.

For some, it was the thousands of young backpackers and the immensity of Anzac Cove and the Dawn Service, a meticulously produced affair at which Australians dominated and stall vendors charged $3 for a tiny instant coffee or shouted "kebap, kebap," adding chicken noises for extra drama.

For others, it was the quieter New Zealand service at Chunuk Bair that tugged emotions.

Often it was the small details. Veteran Ted Brock, usually a matter-of-fact man interested in military history and strategy, was entranced by tiny birds perched on the NZ memorial singing during the service at Chunuk Bair.

He watched them and remembered reading in a book that birdsong disappeared at the same place within a day of the battle beginning back in 1915. He was glad to see them.

For those in the Defence Force, the deaths of the Iroquois men in New Zealand brought fresh grief but Anzac Day was also about those who went before.

So Air Force member Ange Dalton carried in her pocket a small wooden elephant, bought by her great grandfather in Egypt as a good luck totem just before he was sent to Gallipoli.

The students learned more than simple history. Any fears of grumpy old men boring them with old war stories quickly turned into deep respect for those veterans and a different perspective on the world they are growing up in.

They learned a bit about fashion - Christian McSweeney-Novak was nicknamed Gordo jnr after buying an Akubra-style hat so he could look like Vietnam vet Gordon Garwood.

From ex-SAS veteran Bill Taare they learned an effective way to deflect street hawkers - point to some innocent woman standing nearby and say "my mother will buy two".

More importantly, from Mr Taare they also learned that the enthusiasm of a boy need not end at 18 or even 60 and that it is OK for even the most battle-hardened man to also be gentle, to reflect on the horrors of fighting with bayonets, and to cry when remembering a best friend he got drunk with, rode motorcycles with and who had died in action in Malaya, where his body still lay.

The veterans also learned that Kiwis would rarely be good enough to bargain the traders at Istanbul's hectic Grand Bazaar down to their true lowest price, and they feasted on monstrous prawns and Tiger beer in Penang.

The trip ended in appropriate Anzac fashion at the bar of the Returned Services League in Darwin where posters advertised "authentic Gallipoli sand" at the bargain price of $15.

As the veterans slowly filed off the plane in Wellington, the rest of those aboard burst into spontaneous applause. It reached a crescendo when Morris Johnstone, at 88 the last and the oldest, made his creaky way down the aisle.

He seemed at first surprised and then rose to the occasion, doffing an imaginary cap and bending in a wobbly bow before heading for the stairs with a grin.