top of page

David, Diane, and Shamus Quinn, Dublin, Ireland.


‘He told me that, at one point, there had been a push by their small platoon at dawn up one of the gullies. He had crept quietly upwards when a Turk threw down a grenade that blew off his right hand. He got stretchered out of there to the doctor at the aid station, who cleaned and bandaged his wound. He was moved onto the casualty clearing station, where a doctor gave him some morphia. Then, in darkness, he was rowed out to a hospital ship.

‘That was his war over, and eventually, he came home to us in Dublin. His mum didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so, she did both, and she hugged him long and hard, perhaps attempting to stop him from ever leaving Dublin again.

‘He was a beautiful man, even if I say so myself. I'm biased, of course, but what father isn't? He needed to catch up on sleep, eat some good food, and have some quiet time to himself.

‘When he was ready, we got to going down to the pub for the odd one, or three, you understand. It was then that I, and the drinking friends who joined us, got to understand a little more of what he had been through. With porter or Irish whiskey- or both-tongues were loosened. It was then that he gave us more details of the circumstances of his wounding and of life in general, on the Gallipoli peninsular.’

bottom of page