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From Heritage New Zealand, Winter 2008

No Grave is Rich

by Peter Kerr

Monuments commemorating our war dead come into focus for one day a year, which makes it easy to neglect them the rest of the time. You may be able to help protect the one in your town

London's Cenotaph draws an Anzac Day crowd of expatriates. Photo: Paul Jackson

I was an eager young journalist the first time I met Jim Morris and his mates. I had recently embarked upon my new career at a daily newspaper, and been assigned to cover the upcoming Anzac Day commemorations.
Being the burgeoning writer that I was, and admittedly keen to impress the new boss, I had dispensed with the traditional, and somewhat banal, idea of putting together a preview story that simply gave a wrap-up of all the events and commemoration services planned around the region.

Instead, I’d organised to meet World War II veteran Jim Morris and a small group of his friends at the local RSA, with a simple plan: sit down around a table with these blokes and try to understand just a little of what they went through fighting for king and country, what Anzac Day meant to them and what lessons, if any, the younger generations could learn from such global conflict.

The Cenotaph, Wellington, is a central war memorial in every sense. Photo: Natalie Levy

I had watched documentaries and movies on the two world wars and numerous other conflicts. I’d seen the senselessness and horror, but I’d never heard stories first hand. My grandfather had fought in World War II, but, like many of his comrades, he’d spoken little of his time overseas.

I, rather dispassionately, thought if I could get Jim and his mates talking about their experiences, then I’d have a much better idea of the horror of war, and be able to write a better story. Of course, life is rarely so easy or dispassionate.
As it turned out, the veterans, hand-picked for me by the local RSA president, seemingly for their love of a good chat and free beer supplied by yours truly, were brilliant.

They were more than happy to regale me with stories of their time in the war, the brotherhood that existed between soldiers, the frustrations and often humorous solutions they found to problems, coping with a bitter European winter or clogging sands of Northern Africa, and even the time someone jumped a fence and wrestled a chicken into his cooking pot, feathers and all!

But, these were the “good times” stories, the ones veterans around the world chuckle over as they remember mates from long ago. I was after the “other stories,” the ones that veterans rarely spoke of, the ones that were nightmares as soon as they became memories.

At the time I met the veterans, I was in my mid-twenties. The new millennium was still a few years off, but not too far – there was already talk of some impending disaster called Y2K. And, in New Zealand, a curious pattern had been observed. People were flocking to Anzac Day commemorations in ever-increasing numbers. It’s not that we had ever stopped, of course; it’s just that Returned Services Associations were beginning to report larger crowds and, more particularly, more children attending dawn services.

I’d been a somewhat sporadic attendee of dawn services in the years after I left high school, and I was truthful enough to admit as much to the veterans. Thankfully, they were willing to forgive this transgression.

For their part, the veterans were incredibly humbled to see increasing numbers of New Zealanders, young and old, coming together to commemorate the sacrifices made by their fellow countrymen and women. It made them feel valued, remembered; like it hadn’t all been for nothing.

Over the ensuing hours, we sat and talked, and slowly the veterans began to reveal some of their darker experiences of the war. Through them, I finally began to understand for the first time the horrors they had seen, the awful burdens these men carried, like the guilt many felt for being lucky enough to make it home when friends had not.

It was one of the most moving, overwhelming experiences of my life. For a short time, these men let me into their world, and I was forever humbled by their generosity. I’m ashamed to admit it’s now a little difficult to recall the names of the men I spoke to that day, although there was one member of that group whom I will never forget.

His name was Jim Morris. It’s not that Jim’s stories were any more horrific or harrowing than those of his comrades; they all had plenty of them. It had everything to do with the way he looked me in the eye, tears rolling down his cheeks, as he described the day he lost his best friend, a mate he’d known since kindergarten. I’ll spare you a description of the manner in which Jim’s friend
was killed. Suffice to say it was grizzly, ghastly and macabre, and was clearly a memory that continued to haunt Jim decades later. By the time Jim had finished his story, there wasn’t a dry eye at the table, and a palpable silence hung over us all.

At this point, Jim forever etched himself into my memory by breaking the silence with one of his favourite poems. It was by a World War II British officer by the name of John Jarmain. I later found out the poem was called “At a War Grave”. Jarmain was killed by a German mortar-bomb in June 1944, not long after the D-Day invasion of the Normandy beaches.

At a War Grave

No grave is rich, the dust that herein lies
Beneath this white cross mixing with the sand
Was vital once, with skill of eye and hand
And speed of brain. These will not re-arise
These riches, nor will they be replaced;
They are lost and nothing new and here is left
Only a worthless corpse of sense bereft,
Symbol of death, and sacrifice and waste.

I had come to the RSA that day to get a better understanding of war. I left with a much better understanding of humanity. The final words Jim spoke to me as I left the RSA became the introduction to my Anzac Day preview story for the newspaper: “Pete, write a good story about us. Don’t let people forget the sacrifices our mates made, and, for God’s sake, don’t ever go to war.”

Perhaps it won’t surprise anyone reading this story to hear that I have not missed an Anzac Day service since meeting Jim and his mates all those years ago. Even when I went overseas for my OE to the UK, I could be found in London, every 25 April, either at the Dawn Service at Hyde Park Corner or at the wreath-laying ceremony at the Cenotaph on Whitehall, remembering the sacrifices made in our name by young men and women from New Zealand.

I feel like I’m keeping an unspoken promise to Jim. I’m also doing it for my grandfather and every Kiwi who has ever donned a uniform and gone to war. It’s my way of remembering, of not forgetting, and my way of thanking them all for their service to our country.

So, like many thousands of New Zealanders every 25 April, I make my way to a war memorial to commemorate this special day in our history. Funny things war memorials. For 364 days of the year, we probably walk right by them, not even bothering to read the inscriptions or the names of the fallen. If you come from a small community, there’s every chance a family member or a member of your neighbour’s family will appear on one of these monuments to sacrifice, while in larger centres the sheer scale of some of these memorials gives some indication of the cost, with screeds of names bearing witness to our loss.

But, come 25 April, war memorials become a focal point for our collective grieving, a conduit for remembrance. And rightly so. War memorials are a part of the cultural landscape. Practically all towns have at least one memorial to those from the area who died serving their country during the two world wars. In World War I alone, more than 18,000 New Zealand men were killed in action or died of
wounds or disease, with most being buried in foreign lands, many with no known grave.

Because of this, war memorials function as a surrogate tomb, or headstone, a place to remember those who had, before the war, been part of a New Zealand community. But, the memorials are not all the same. In fact, there is a real difference in types and symbolism employed in memorials around the country, with each being erected with great consideration.

The Greymouth Memorial Gates before they were removed. Photo: Greymouth Star

Such was the case with the Greymouth Memorial Gates, which became the subject of intense media scrutiny in January, when a property development company pulled them down to make way for a shopping centre. The company owned the land the memorial gates stood on, and was legally entitled to remove them, but it was a move that angered the community.

The Greymouth Memorial Gates at the entrance to a site that was formerly the Grey Main School on Tainui Street represented a significant community effort to recognise and commemorate 40 servicemen and women previously associated with the school, who died during service in World War I. Like numerous other war memorials throughout the country, the entrance gates served as a unique and significant reminder of the sacrifice made by the people of that community.

The pillars out of context but not out of mind in the Arahura Valley (left); Being returned to a new home in Dixon Park (right). Photo: Greymouth Star

When unveiled on Anzac Day 1922, only four years after the war had ended, the gates were hailed as a powerful reminder and exemplar for the community, especially for the school pupils, so that the names commemorated on the gates would never be forgotten. The removal of the gates caused a national outcry, as RSAs, community groups, politicians and, of course, the New Zealand Historic Places Trust condemned their actions.

But, it also came as a valuable reminder of how vulnerable our many war memorials are to the ravages of time, change and development. And it also gave the NZHPT the opportunity to explain exactly how people could best protect the war memorials in their individual communities.

Perhaps the greatest misconception about the work done by the NZHPT is that the registration process somehow provides automatic protection for the country’s built heritage. It does not. The Register of historic places identifies and tells the stories of New Zealand’s most significant and valued heritage places. Its size and focus make it one of the most important historical information resources in the country.

In many cases, registration may lead to protection. But, only if local authorities schedule it for protection under the district plan and the Resource Management Act. This is not a foregone conclusion.

Being registered does not directly create regulatory consequences or legal obligations on property owners, nor does it create specific rights or control over property.

Protection of historic places is afforded through the schedules of the district plans, which are administered by local authorities. Once included in the schedule, local authorities are required to notify the NZHPT if a project information memorandum or building consent application is received for a registered property. This allows the NZHPT to offer conservation advice to property owners, and advocate for the retention of heritage values. Registration should also be noted on relevant land information memoranda for the property.

The action of the developers in removing the memorial gates illustrated the susceptibility of this country’s heritage in circumstances where items are not listed in district plans, and consequently given some protection. And it also served as a timely reminder to all city, regional and district councils to ensure war memorials of all forms are listed as protected items in their plans.

So, the next time you’re walking past your local war memorial, do two things.
First, take a bit of time to read the inscriptions and names – you may even recognise a few of them – and, second, find out if it is listed on your local council’s district plan. If it isn’t, then set the ball in motion and get it protected. If you need any help with this process, one of the NZHPT regional offices will be more than happy to oblige, or you can contact your local authority.

As to Greymouth, the situation was resolved after days of stalemate, with the property developers agreeing to return the gates, one of which had been heavily damaged during removal. The pillars were welcomed back by tooting of car horns, and a crowd gathered to watch them being unloaded at their new home in Dixon Park.

I’m sure Jim Morris would not have been impressed with those shenanigans on the West Coast. He may have even had a poem to encapsulate the moment.
As I stood at the Wellington Cenotaph on a beautiful Anzac Day morning this year, I did what I always do. I paid my respects to my grandfather and all the other soldiers from years gone by, and then I allowed myself a small smile as I remembered a glorious day in April, all those years ago, when I shared an extraordinary day with Jim Morris and his mates.