by David B Hill
He gave his all to the occasion for the sake of his parents. As Lord Galway offered some words, most of which drifted on the wind away from the crowd’s hearing, he contemplated the importance to him of all the other people in his life. Not only his family and friends. He thought of the boys he was standing beside. Within the Reserve, the idea that everybody mattered was fundamental; it ensured that some of his friendships would transcend the ordinary and endure.
That night he stood studying a decorative print that hung in the house beside the telephone seat in the hall. It was a popular engraving called ‘The Mission boat accompanying a New Zealand war expedition’, recorded by the Reverend Henry Williams when he and others were travelling in a mission vessel with the tauā, hoping to intercede and prevent bloodshed. As a child, Len would climb up onto a chair and stare, rapt, at the detail of the image, thinking about the challenges of seamanship and survival. The thing that constantly engaged him – then, as it did now – was the paddlers. They lined the rauawa of every waka in massed symmetry, straining forward in an attitude of great intensity, every paddle raised in unison, reaching in collective readiness for the stroke. He could feel the spray on his face.
On the back he had found an inscription, written in pencil in an elegant Victorian hand. It read ‘Titore and Ururoa, travelling in long distance war canoes to raid Tauranga’. The unusual symmetry of the word Ururoa caught his attention. He rolled it around in his mouth trying to articulate it, managing the four syllables in the end. He returned the picture to the wall properly and stood staring at it for a moment more. Who were Titore and Ururoa, and how did this picture come to be in the house at all?
2
Somewhere Else
Auckland in spring is a benign and pleasant place. Days lengthen and temperatures warm. Seasonal winds lighten and shift more easterly, and on the best days the air is still, and the sea in the inner gulf swells a little then troughs slightly as if breathing in a gentle slumber. Visibility is infinite from the mountainsides, where late daffodils seek the sun from beneath the shade of native trees, and little boats can be seen flitting across the water of the inner harbour. Across the city’s ridges and valleys, exotic species begin their bud-burst to add more colour to the thousand shades of green. Ordinarily the mood would be relaxed, even a little soporific, as people turned their faces to the sun, drank tea and dreamed of summer’s arrival.
But now, the country was preparing for war. In Saint Mary’s Bay the mood was not so much one of rising tension as it was of increasing confusion. The eagerness and enthusiasm that the boy sailors brought to their training became routine, while the government’s September instruction to do nothing and carry on their normal lives stretched into the new year, and began to erode their ambition and morale. Few had any understanding of what was going on behind the scenes, but their predicament became clearer one day when they were called to muster at Ngapona to be addressed by the Senior Officer of the Reserve.
Inside, everyone was absorbed in eager expectation, and the babble of conversation only subsided when the officers entered the hall and the boys were instructed to sit, an informality that surprised them. The informality continued when their leader, Lieutenant Commander Charles Palmer, came from behind the lectern to address them. At this point silence descended. The boy sailors held the man in the highest regard, not only because of his reputation and impressive service record in the Great War, but because of his nurturing, paternal manner. He wasn’t called ‘the Old Man’ for nothing. Among the other officers of the Reserve sitting on the podium was his son, also called Charles.
‘Gentlemen,’ Palmer began, pausing while his audience settled. ‘What I am about to tell you will be welcomed by some, and will disappoint others. Such is the nature of service. Be that what it may, what I expect from you all is understanding and compliance. Am I understood?’
‘Aye aye, sir!’ The assembled body shouted the reply in resounding unison.
Palmer turned to face his fellow officers and offered them a subtle smile before turning back to face his audience again.
‘We are members of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, albeit of the New Zealand Division.’ Here, the sailors raised a cheer.
Palmer continued, loudly, ‘Unfortunately’ – now he paused for effect, and quiet quickly ensued – ‘Unfortunately, that means that decisions that matter most to us, to each and every one of us, are made in Britain, and are made according to circumstances that are largely beyond our comprehension, and certainly beyond our control.’
Now he had their undivided attention. The boys began to sense that they were listening to something important. They hung on every word.
‘Extraordinary events are unfolding, and the resolution of these matters is complex and takes time. That is why the Minister of Defence has asked us to carry on as normal, and await further instructions. It does not mean’ – now he was staring intently at the crowd of faces, making direct eye contact with as many as he could – ‘It does not mean that we relax in our training or that we will be relieved of any expectation of service in the future. Am I understood?’
‘Aye aye, sir!’
The Old Man continued. ‘Gentlemen, there is something else that you need to understand.’ He looked intently at them, to ensure they were paying attention. ‘The Navy is not called the “senior service” for nothing. Within the service, there exists a Regular Navy, a Naval Reserve, a Volunteer Reserve, even a Supplementary Reserve, and each force is defined according to a strict hierarchy in which we Volunteer Reservists are near the bottom.’
He paused, again for effect, and took a draught of water from his glass.
‘You should know that during the last war’ – he looked back at his senior officers, several of whom were nodding sagely – ‘members of the Reserve finished up serving in the trenches! Indeed, I believe General Freyberg, who is to command our army, commanded a regiment of the Naval Division which fought at Gallipoli and on the Western front!’
Palmer let the gravity of what he had told them sink in. Among those on the podium, one or two were now looking at the floor, not nodding but shaking their heads. The boys murmured among themselves. Tim and Len looked at one another, frowning. What was the Old Man getting at?
‘The simple fact of the matter was, while during the Great War we had a trained Reserve, we did not have the boats!’
Some of the boys laughed out loud at the absurdity of it. Len, on the other hand, thought it grotesque, and immediately thought the Commander was preparing them for the worst: for the possibility they would become some appendage of the army, or some land-based fighting unit.
‘Do not worry, gentlemen. This would be a most unlikely outcome at this present moment in time.’
‘Yeah, but he hasn’t said it won’t happen,’ whispered Tim out the side of his mouth.
‘It won’t happen because we need you now more than ever. We need you now more than ever because, against my advice, the Minister disestablished List 2. So now, when we most need trained and experienced people, hundreds of skilled Navy Reservists have been let go. No longer with us. “Surplus to requirements”!’
The Commander spat out the last three words – the phrase invoked by the Minister in 1936 to justify the termination of List 2 – waving his finger in the air. He walked slowly across the podium then turned and walked back again. Len sensed a struggle for control. Then the Commander refocussed and engaged with them once more, looking at length and carefully at the crowd of faces, every one of which looked keenly back at him.
‘Now some of you – many of you – will doubtless find yourselves serving in remote places, absorbed into the Royal Navy and given tasks that you will find unfamiliar and challenging. Do not lose sight of who you are. You are New Zealanders. You are practical men, and you will adapt. Whatever happens in the future, do not lose faith, gentlemen. Do not abandon your commitment. Take pride in your uniform. It tells everybody that we are volunteers. We are the Wavy Navy. If all else fails – heaven f
orbid – you will find everybody will be looking to you for their salvation. Do not disappoint me. The truth is, you young men are more important than ever. You are the future of what we all hope’ – here he gestured towards the men who sat behind him – ‘we all hope will one day be a Royal New Zealand Navy.’
There was absolute silence once more, as the boys contemplated exactly what was being implied. Commander Palmer raised his voice. ‘So you will leave this assembly and dedicate yourselves to being the best you can be, no matter when or where you find yourselves. Am I understood?’
‘Aye aye, sir!’
‘You will train your hardest, and, when called upon, you will acquit yourselves to the best of your considerable abilities.’
Lofty nudged his two mates at the compliment.
‘You will make this country proud. Am I understood?’
‘Aye aye, sir!’
‘Thank you, gentlemen. God bless you all.’
The Chief Petty Officer stood and called the assembly to order: ‘Ten ’hut!’
The boys leapt to their feet and sprang to attention.
Palmer stared at his charges briefly, then spun on his heel, left the podium and strode off down the hall behind and disappeared from sight.
The boys were given brief instructions to report as usual according to standing orders, and were summarily dismissed. They did not disperse, and instead hung around in small groups, animatedly discussing what their commander had said. By the time Len got home, it was late. He found his mother in the kitchen keeping his dinner warm in the oven. He ate alone and in silence, and his mother said nothing.
★ ★ ★
Len’s signing up had thrust change upon the family, and family life changed further when Bill was drafted into an artillery unit. Both he and Len found themselves engrossed in the routines of training, while all around them – in conversation, in the newspapers, in the streets, in rail yards and on the wharves – the tempo of activity rose to meet the increasing challenge of organising men and material. The boys found themselves among the ever-growing number of servicemen appearing on city streets, proudly conscious of their uniformed appearance. Len and Lofty, the short and the tall, often found reason to walk down Queen Street in their ‘Number Ones’, formal dress uniform, to be flattered in no small way by the comments of passers-by. One refrain in particular became familiar: ‘Good on yer, mate.’
When Len looked to see who was offering these compliments, he was struck by the fact that many – no, most – were probably survivors of the Great War. But it was the sideways glances and glistening smiles of young women that the boys found particularly engaging. Once they were grabbed in passing outside Milne’s, where a street photographer had his pitch, and had to accede to being photographed with a group of young women who thought a couple of uniformed sailor boys ideal props. Who were they to refuse?
★ ★ ★
For naval personnel the period became known as the ‘Mobilisation Fiasco’. As the lengthy mobilisation procedures ran their course, the boy sailors, unwitting victims, continued to train. Tim called it ‘the gestation’.
In spite of the fact that the New Zealand Division got only a modest share of Royal Naval resources, the young men at Ngapona thrived on training with what they were given, and were gaining all the confidence and self-reliance they needed to succeed as seamen. They had their heroes. Len’s personal hero was Frank Worsley from Akaroa, Captain of the Endurance, who had navigated a small boat for over two weeks across nearly a thousand miles of violent Southern Ocean to save the life and reputation of Ernest Shackleton and ensure the rescue of his crew. Whenever Len was out on the water and the weather got nasty, he thought of Frank Worsley. William Sanders was another hero. His daring exploits in his Q-ship Prize in the Great War expressed exactly the spirit of adventure and lack of convention that characterised the average New Zealander, in Len’s mind. He was the only New Zealander awarded the naval Victoria Cross, and the boy sailors of Ngapona held him in great esteem. When Len discovered there was a memorial plaque and a bust of Sanders hidden in a modest niche in the entrance to the Auckland Town Hall, he took Tim and Lofty to see it.
Within three months of the outbreak of war, part of the First New Zealand Echelon had departed for Britain, followed by the main group in January 1940, totalling over 6500 officers and men. Conversation around the dinner table turned over these subjects, and the family tracked the progress of that first convoy through the necessarily vague newspaper reports on a small school atlas.
Surprisingly it wasn’t Bill but Len who received his orders first. After all the months of routine training and frustrating rumours being circulated, Len, Lofty, Tim and their friends suddenly found themselves called to muster.
Len sensed the occasion when he arrived at the bottom of Franklin Road to see a stream of other young sailors hurrying across Victoria Park towards Ngapona to be handed a mobilisation order. Everybody got one. No one was left out. The Reserve was to be included in the Second Echelon, and would be departing within weeks. Furthermore, all the boys, Len and Tim included, found they had been designated as candidates for Scheme B, which offered a commission to experienced yachtsmen if they succeeded in satisfying the standards. Being nineteen, Len was at the bottom of the age requirement for potential officer training, which would be lengthy. In truth, Len wasn’t sure if that was what he wanted, but both Kate and Arthur were deeply impressed. Strangely, when the mobilisation slips were distributed, the anticipated elation among the boys turned into something quite unexpected. Most of the glamour around those who left on the first echelon had subsided, and while many were relieved at the clarity if nothing else, others were subdued, and a number were silent. Len turned amid the desultory atmosphere of half cheers and one or two flying hats to catch Tim’s eye. They shook hands and patted each other on the shoulder.
‘Good on you, mate!’
‘Good luck, mate.’
‘Yeah, good luck, eh?’
At home, things shifted in equal measure. When Len’s brother, Bill, received mobilisation orders the excitement and the glamour amounted to nothing, and home became a sombre place, the atmosphere almost depressed.
Bill knew he was called Bill after a late uncle, but as younger boys, he and Len had been largely shielded from the truth behind their four uncles’ wartime experiences, though small objects and memorabilia tucked away on mantle shelves pricked their curiosity, and hushed conversations about poor Jack, poor Bill or poor Charlie similarly attracted their interest. Now, when the boys were in uniform, about to embark, and talking about their future, the family’s experiences of the Great War began to insinuate themselves into conversation. The brothers were taken into the confidence of their elders; they listened to previously undisclosed realities, too painful or grievous to have ever been mentioned before.
Kate fussed about the kitchen, busied herself weeding the vegetable garden or stood endlessly stoking and stirring the copper in the wash house. Arthur, as always, tended to silence, sitting on the steps to his basement workshop with the sun on his back, concentrating hard on the delicate art of rolling a cigarette. His health had prevented him from service in the Great War, and he felt inadequate, thinking himself unable to offer experience and therefore reassurance to his sons. So it helped when Kate’s brother Ree came for dinner. Uncle Ree steadied the mood. He also brought experience to the table, having served in the Australian Imperial Forces during the Great War, a little Māori among a host of lanky Aussies.
When Kate and Joy retreated into the kitchen after dinner to wash the dishes, the men stayed at the table, and at low volume Ree conducted a practical commentary on military matters that was largely focussed on how to avoid risk.
‘Just you remember, keep your head down. The first rule in the military is you don’t volunteer for anything. Nothing. Leave that for heroes.’
He sipped his tea.
‘Most of the heroes are dead,’ muttered Arthur.
Ree nodded, and took another s
ip. The tea was hot.
‘Your other uncles were the real heroes. Jack killed on the first day at Gallipoli, poor Charlie on the last day of combat. Bill at Messines. Not me.’ He knocked on his artificial leg. ‘I was just lucky.’
‘What’s it really like? The combat, I mean.’ Len asked.
Arthur sat quietly smoking, nodding occasionally when Ree invoked the names of the brothers who hadn’t returned. Ree looked at his nephews. He had forgotten Len was still teenaged.
‘You in the Navy, son? And you the artillery?’ He was looking now at Bill. ‘With any luck you’ll never find out.’
He adjusted himself in his chair.
‘Words don’t describe it.’
This time he coughed. None of it was coming easily. Len watched, embarrassed, as tears welled up in the older man’s eyes. Ree blinked several times to control them, then took a draught from his teacup and gazed reflectively into the distance.
Len offered a plate of Kate’s biscuits.
‘You know, apart from your uncles there have been other warriors in this family.’ He took a biscuit. ‘One of them is in that picture in the hall.’
