In the summer of 1927, Ashburton businessman and philanthropist Frederick Ferriman, shared a poignant story with one of his associates. It concerned John Wildermoth, a young banker who had left his job in Invercargill in 1914 to join the New Zealand Expeditionary Force for World War I. By December John was overseas, and just a few months later he was dead – killed in action in May of 1915 at Gallipoli. Ferriman’s focus however, was not on Wildermoth’s death, but what came next.

As was common practice in the armed forces, Wildermoth had filed a will before he embarked overseas, and he had set aside a sum of money to cover some debts his father had incurred. One of these debts was to Caleb Tucker, a businessman in nearby Rakaia, but he refused to accept the money. Instead, Tucker approached Ellen Wildermoth, John's mother, and proposed to erect a streetlamp in memory of her son. Ferriman finished his story with the news that the lamp had been completed, and would now 'burn nightly at the expense of Mr. Tucker […] during his lifetime.'¹ This memorial lamp-post was just one of the many monuments that were constructed across New Zealand as expressions of remembrance in the years following the Great War. Unlike the grand cenotaphs and memorials that still stand today, Tucker’s modest tribute has been lost to time, with no trace in the historical record beyond Ferriman’s account.

More than 100,000 New Zealanders served overseas during World War I – one in ten of the country’s population. The war touched every facet of daily life, and almost everyone knew someone who was serving in some capacity. Around 18,000 of those who served overseas died, and most of these men and women were buried in war cemeteries far from home. The impact of this loss on a small country was immense, far surpassing earlier conflicts involving New Zealanders. Every community had sent someone to war, and as a consequence, many had experienced personal losses. This collective grief translated to a need for shared acts of remembrance, and throughout the country war memorials appeared in reserves, squares, and high streets.

War memorials were present in the country before 1914, but they were not as widespread. This was because the conflicts they commemorated had occurred in a different context and with fewer casualties. The New Zealand Wars were wars of colonisation within New Zealand, and generally only government forces and their allies were remembered on the memorials. In the South African War there were relatively few New Zealand losses (under 250), who were remembered on about 50 memorials. Jock Phillips, in a study of memorials around the country, said that the main motivator for these was pride in a 'contribution to the imperial cause.'² World War I memorials represented not just pride, but deep communal grief. In the words of Phillips, the earlier memorials had carried a sense of ‘self-congratulation and imperialist trumpeting’ that overshadowed the associated loss.³ While World War I was a victory for the British Empire and its Dominions, the cost of victory was too high and too far reaching to be forgotten.

The global nature of the war meant that many New Zealand families had no physical grave they could visit to mourn their loved ones. In other circumstances there might have been a cemetery nearby, or the opportunity to visit the place where a person had died, but this was not possible when those who served were buried on the other side of the world. In this context, memorials became substitutes for the distant graves, and were spaces where families and communities could gather to pay tribute to the fallen.⁴ In a letter to F. A. Hickman, Secretary of the Ashburton RSA, Caleb Tucker wrote of the Soldiers’ Memorial at Rakaia that ‘whenever I kneel to clip the grass edges, I kneel with reverence in the very presence of those who surrendered their all for me.’⁵ For Tucker, the memorial was not just a physical symbol, but a spiritual space where he could be in the company of those who were remembered there. Tucker also speaks to the nature of loss in his letter, saying that there were ‘people that know, but do not understand and therefore cannot sympathise.’⁶ While he didn’t serve in the war, Tucker’s two sons had died in infancy, a loss that likely shaped his understanding of grief and remembrance.

The first memorials to those who served in World War I appeared as early as July 1915, less than a year after the war had begun, and only months after the landings at Gallipoli. While memorials appear throughout New Zealand today, there was significant debate at the time regarding their form and function. Some supported utilitarian memorials – memorial halls, hospital wings, or libraries – intended to benefit the living as well as honour the dead. Others, led by figures such as Sir James Allen, the acting Prime Minister, argued that a memorial should capture the ideals of war – something ‘no building could represent’.⁷ Allen’s stance, echoed by others, seems like it was merely continuing the imperialist principles of earlier memorials, but it also offered comfort to those who had experienced personal loss: their loved ones had not died in vain.⁸

The funding of memorials was also contentious, as the public and councils grappled with their purpose. Opponents to public funding argued that utilitarian memorials – like hospital wings and memorial halls – would not properly ‘honor [sic] the memory of the dead.’⁹ Further, they were necessary buildings which would be built with public funds anyway, and fundraising for them under the guise of memorials was inappropriate. The staff of the Auckland Star questioned what the point of a war memorial was if failed to be a ‘direct, clear, impressive, and unmistakable’ reminder of ‘sacrifice, heroism, and victory’.¹⁰ Like Allen, the Star believed a building could not serve that purpose. In the Waipā district, the council viewed public funding of memorials as a misuse of rates revenue. Memorials, they argued, should be funded ‘by voluntary private subscriptions’, a sentiment shared in many parts of the country.¹¹ But the sheer number of private memorials would eventually become a burden. In Timaru, one letter to the editor of the Herald listed five different projects, suggesting that one be ‘completed before further projects’ were proposed.¹²

There were no universal guidelines on what a memorial should look like, and because the government was not funding them, those decisions were left up to local groups. This led to a wide variety of styles: some communities chose simple obelisks, while others opted for statues with fine masonry. They generally had one thing in common: the lists of engraved names. The names were those of the fallen, and often those who had served, and they reflected the history of towns and districts around the country. In many cases, multiple family members appeared side by side, their surnames clustering together. The groups funding the memorials – churches, schools, boroughs, or returned soldiers’ associations – each applied their own criteria for inclusion. Because names were submitted rather than assigned, inclusion often depended on who was available and willing to submit a name – or who wasn’t. In some cases, servicepeople were omitted simply because no one stepped forward on their behalf.

Memorials and Online Cenotaph

Recognising the importance of these memorials as sites of remembrance has been the focus of one of the long-term projects undertaken by the team. Our goal has been to identify the names inscribed on memorials throughout Aotearoa New Zealand and to add images of those memorials to the corresponding records in Online Cenotaph. By connecting physical memorials to individual service histories, we aim to provide a richer, more accessible account of those who served, ensuring that the stories behind the names are not lost to time. The Ministry for Culture and Heritage has identified over 500 memorials World War I across the country, with many more commemorating those who served in other conflicts. With the support of dedicated volunteers, we photograph memorials, transcribed the lists of names, and attempted to identify the commemorated individuals.

The challenges of this work are considerable. Names on memorials often appear as an initial and surname only, with no additional detail. The range of groups responsible for erecting memorials, from borough councils to churches and community organisations, and the transient nature of early twentieth century life in New Zealand make this identification process complex. In some cases, individuals named on a memorial had no clear personal connection to the location. They may have passed through while working or had whānau who remained in the district. Despite these challenges, the team has now added 290 memorials to over 13,000 Online Cenotaph records.

This work has been supported by many individuals who have generously contributed their time and expertise. Among them is John Halpin, who has taken a large number of photographs that now appear on Online Cenotaph. John lives in Auckland but his travels through New Zealand, from Russell in the Far North to Marlborough in the South Island, have taken him to many memorials which he has kindly photographed and passed on to us. His interest in memorials came after completing compulsory military service as a young man, and finding historic family connections. 'One of the things that really got me into it,' he said, 'was James Attwood, who received a conspicuous gallantry medal in World War I. I found him on the family tree.'¹³ The two experiences informed each other, and it was a short leap from researching family to researching the memorials he noticed dotted around the country.

Another of our dedicated Online Cenotaph volunteers, Marion Dickinson, is particularly interested in the stories that lie behind the names. She frequently uncovers personal histories while researching individuals, and often shares this information with the team. Her work has proven invaluable in confirming identities – especially when a person had no apparent connection to the memorial on which they are named.

John Wildermoth, the soldier referenced at the beginning of this article, is one such example of the ambiguity surrounding memorialisation. The Western Star reported that all those from Southland who had died would be included on the memorial ‘under the district where-in they were domiciled.’¹⁴ Yet Wildermoth, who was living and working in Invercargill at the time of his enlistment does not appear on the Invercargill Cenotaph. He does however, appear on the Bank of New Zealand Roll of Honour, – located at the bank’s head office in Wellington, a city with which he had no personal association. His name once appeared on the memorial lamp-post in Rakaia, thanks to the efforts of Caleb Tucker, but he does not appear on the official Rakaia War Memorial, as he had not resided there. Wildermoth’s story highlights the inconsistencies and complexities of memorial practice – and underscores the enduring effort by individuals and communities to remember those who never returned.

Memorials tell us much about how communities chose to remember, but they also reveal what could be overlooked, misremembered, or lost. Through the work of Online Cenotaph and the dedication of our staff and volunteers, we are helping to fill those gaps – linking place, name, and story to ensure that remembrance is not confined to stone alone. In doing so, we honour both the individuals who served and the communities that have sought to keep their memory alive.

References

¹ Unknown, 'Note for File', 11 Feb 1927, MS-599-37, Auckland War Memorial Museum.

² Jock Phillips, To the Memory: New Zealand’s War Memorials, Nelson, 2016, p.67.

³ ibid., pp.87-88.

⁴ ibid., p.89.

⁵ Caleb Tucker to F. A. Hickman, 15 Oct 1927, MS-599-31, Auckland War Memorial Museum.

⁶ ibid.

⁷ To the Memory, p.96.

⁸ ibid.

⁹ ‘What is a War Memorial?’, Auckland Star, 16 August 1919, p.6.

¹⁰ ibid.

¹¹ ‘War Memorial Question’, New Zealand Herald, 14 August 1919, p.6.

¹² ‘War Memorials’, Timaru Herald, 19 November 1919, p.5.

¹³ James Attwood was awarded his medal for his role in the Zeebrugge/Ostend raids of 1918. You can read more about his service on the Torpedo Bay Navy Museum website.

¹⁴ ‘Southland’s Appeal’, Western Star, 5 April 1921, p.3.