by David B Hill
Johnny finished his mouthful and swallowed. ‘Malaya. And Singapore.’
‘That right?’ exclaimed Hendrick. ‘Singapore? I found myself there once. That was pretty early in the piece, trying to rescue a bunch of Brits who got themselves marooned on some island.’
The Committee members, who knew of Johnny’s Singapore experience, stopped what they were doing and sat motionless, wondering how he might react. The sudden suspension of activity seized the attention of the visitors, who also stopped eating.
‘What? Did I say something?’
Johnny put down his knife and fork. He paused, then said, ‘We should talk a bit more, Monk. Perhaps you would like to come to dinner, at my house. Would you be free, say Friday?’
★ ★ ★
Monk Hendrick was grateful he had the use of a Navy driver. The Bulls’ home was a long way from the city, and a taxi would have cost a small fortune. This way, he was able to sit back and enjoy the journey, which swept him along the beautiful foreshore of Auckland’s inner harbour, with its volcanoes, inlets and beaches. Eventually they arrived at Karaka Bay.
This too was a special place. The rising sun bathed the site daily, and on the beach in 1840, eminent rangatira from Tamaki had gathered here to sign a local version of the Treaty of Waitangi. Over time, the Bull family had built several dwellings on the land, and several generations had swum contentedly from the beach, and learned to sail on the Gulf waters.
The car pulled up outside a neat weatherboard bungalow, and four people emerged on cue: Johnny in reefer jacket and tie, his wife in a floral frock, and two children.
The two men shook hands.
‘Good evening, Monk. Let me introduce you to my wife, Cecily.’
‘Honoured, Ma’am. You have a beautiful place here.’
Hendrick was in uniform: a gesture of respect towards his host. He saluted Cecily Bull, then swept his cap off and shook her hand. He then shook hands with the two children, a son and daughter around ten and eight years old respectively, who immediately raced off elsewhere.
‘Come in, Commander,’ Cecily said to Hendrick. ‘Please come in and make yourself at home. Give me your cap. Johnny will pour us a drink. I understand you like bourbon.’
Dinner with the family passed agreeably, without any reference to Singapore or the Navy until the pavlova had been almost entirely consumed by Hendrick, and the table cleared. Then the two children left, while Cecily took orders for coffee or tea and Johnny went to the sideboard, where he collected a neat pile of documents that Hendrick had noticed previously and brought them to the table.
Johnny sat down and began to speak. Hendrick listened, as his new friend began to describe the flight of ML310 from Singapore. He was all the more attentive as Johnny described how he and the staff party had evaded the Japanese and run aground, and how he and two of his ratings had succeeded in escaping the island to seek help. Hendrick watched his friend’s demeanour change and become deeply solemn as he described his efforts to engineer a rescue for his crew and the abandoned party, and his enduring disappointment that the rescue had failed and so few had survived.
In the silence that followed, Monk Hendrick absorbed all that he had heard. Cecily Bull had quietly re-entered the room with fresh coffee and had also been listening. She put a comforting hand on her husband’s shoulder and poured him another cup. It was the first time she had ever heard Johnny talk about the subject in any detail. Their daughter Anne, who had settled under the table unnoticed, engaged in some game or other, sat listening to something she was destined never to forget.
★ ★ ★
The next morning, Johnny awoke late. His head was thick after a late night and too many brandies, and it took him a while to collect his thoughts, but in due course he made his way to the telephone, carrying a cup of tea, and sat down.
The phone rang a long time before Len answered it. He recognised Johnny’s voice immediately.
‘I’ve got something to tell you, old son,’ Johnny said. ‘Can you meet me today, at the Churchill, say 3 o’clock?’
★ ★ ★
Len lived with his wife Pat and their young son in Glendowie, which wasn’t very far from Karaka Bay, and the two men and their wives met frequently at the Churchill Club nearby.
Driving to the meeting, Len wondered what Johnny wanted to talk about. He thought about their shared wartime experiences and their lives since. Unlike Johnny, he had not found it so easy to re-enter civilian life. Johnny was seven years his senior and had returned to a wife and child and his old job, more able to pick up his former life from where he had left it, whereas he himself had left New Zealand a boy and returned a man, with little in front of him but opportunity. While he now had a family and a job working with his father-in-law, he was struggling. He had learned much about where he had come from, and who he was, but the question of where he was going with his life had not been easy to answer. On the one hand, he and Pat had begun to talk about moving away from Auckland, beyond the influence of her father, to start a new life elsewhere. But there was another question of direction that he had found not so easy to resolve.
At times like this when his friend Haami came to mind, he was forced to acknowledge how little he had enquired into te ao Māori beyond what Haami had offered. He shared this with no one, and the more he considered it, the less inclined he was to do so. To discuss the matter openly was likely to start an argument, and like his brother Bill before him, Len found that ‘being Pākehā’, as he more obviously was, was a safer space to stand; so that is where he stood, and he felt guilty for it. He felt shame even – whakamā, he remembered – for letting his friend down and not rising to his challenge to stand strong, to be counted.
There was a banging on the roof of the car. Johnny had emerged from the car beside him. The two of them went inside together, bought a beer and sat down in a quiet corner of the Club.
‘Cecily and I entertained last night, a Commander off one of those visiting US ships,’ Johnny said, and began to repeat the story Monk Hendrick had told him the night before. Len sat back in his chair and listened while Johnny told him the story of S-39 and the failed rescue.
Both men sat deep in thought.
Johnny was wondering what Collins had said to him at the time. ‘There’s little hope.’ Or was it, ‘There’s a little hope’? He couldn’t remember any more. What was hope anyway but unfulfilled promise? And he more than most understood that an unfulfilled promise lasts a lifetime.
‘What’s that?’ Len was indicating an envelope that Johnny had placed on the table when he arrived.
‘Sorry.’ Johnny took something from the envelope, unfolded it and shook it open. It was a National Geographic map of South East Asia. He laid it in front of Len.
‘You need to see this.’
The two men stared at the map, taking in the added detail. They stared at the truth, Len in a stupefied silence. The demons that had dogged both men since the war’s end now crowded the table, and truth did nothing to lighten their darkness.
The passages as inscribed on the map by Johnny and Monk Hendrick were not contiguous. The place identified by Hendrick as the island on which it was understood the men were marooned was over 100 nautical miles too far north: nearer Singapore and much closer to Bintan than to Bangka.
‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw it.’ Johnny felt his anger rising. His fists tightened. ‘How, in God’s name, could my directions be miscommunicated? Men died!’ He didn’t see the mist in Len’s eyes. ‘All that risk, and for nothing. They went to the wrong bloody place.’
Taking up their glasses wordlessly, the two men wandered outside and into the fresh air and stood staring out over the estuary. Several small boys busied themselves around two small yachts sitting up on the beach, trying to control the sails flapping loosely in the breeze.
‘The more things change,’ Johnny said, ‘the more they stay the same.’
‘You’re right,’ replied Len, eyes closed, listening to the cry of the gu
lls on the wind.
Afterword
Of the sixty small boats that fled Singapore on 13 February 1942, most were captured or sunk, and the majority of the 3000 key personnel on board the boats – staff officers, technicians, nurses – were captured or killed. Of the forty-four people on ML310, only three escaped. Those who perished of disease on the island included the Admiral and the Air Vice Marshall. Others were betrayed, or captured and executed trying to escape. Less than half survived to become POWs.
After furlough, Len and Johnny returned to active service. As part of the war effort, a fleet of twelve Fairmiles was built in Auckland and sent to the Solomon Islands to help provide anti-submarine protection and convoy support to the Allied effort. The two men served together on ML403, Johnny eventually becoming Senior Officer commanding the 80th Anti-Submarine Flotilla. While in the Solomons Len caught up with Lofty again: Signalman Neville was now serving on a minesweeper, but that is another story.
Len built a sizeable business in post-war New Zealand. In a huge irony, he gained success importing Japanese earth-moving equipment, as both New Zealand and Japan engaged in the reconstruction processes vital to their respective futures. Len’s Rotorua-based company was heavily involved in North Island road-building and forestry, as well as hydro-electric projects in the South Island. He had occasion to visit Japan more than once on business, and developed an admiration for the culture and the people. He adopted Japanese habits, and in later life he could be found living a Zen-like life of relative asceticism, shuffling about the house in yukata and slippers, enjoying the occasional sake at sunset.
Len was my father. In the early 1980s, I persuaded him to travel with me to Singapore and Java, with the idea that he might find it worthwhile. While I stayed elsewhere in Singapore, he stayed at Raffles, fulfilling an ambition that he had formed during those dangerous weeks in 1942. Later he and I rattled through Java by train. With hindsight I realise that at no time during that journey did he ever speak of the war. What I knew about his experience I had gleaned over years. I did not understand then that this was the very route that had led him and the others to safety, so his silence on the subject at the time was meaningless to me, but it means much to me to have shared that journey with him.
Years later, in retirement and listening to the radio, Len heard his name broadcast on a programme for returned servicemen. It was a message to him from Jock Brough, still residing in Melbourne. The old comrades never met again, but were able to speak on the phone on several occasions.
Johnny Bull enjoyed a happy marriage and a successful career after the war. He went into business as a trader and led a rich and rewarding life. Apart from his extraordinary encounter with Monk Hendricks, Johnny also made contact with Dutch Captain Hokke of the Sirius. He never forgot his duty to his men, something he shared with me in later life. He passed away in 1996, survived by his son Johnny and his daughter Anne.
Len avoided having to tell Ava of Tim’s probable fate. When they met again, she was already aware that he was missing. Miraculously, however, Tim Hill survived the sinking of ML311. He clung to wreckage for three days before being pulled from the water by the Japanese and interned in Changi as a prisoner of war. From there he was sent to work on the railway in Burma, where he experienced further miracles of survival. In one incident he was saved moments before being executed in reprisal for events in New Zealand involving Japanese POWs, by Australians claiming he was one of theirs. Ava, who worked for the American forces in New Zealand as a typist, only found out Tim was alive in January 1944, when his name was reported in the newspaper. When Tim was finally repatriated in 1946 and the ship berthed in Wellington, his sweetheart was standing on the wharf with her wedding dress over her arm, and they were married forthwith. After the war Tim ran a grain and seed business in Te Aroha with his brother Graham. Throughout the remainder of his days, he refused to allow anything remotely Japanese in his life. Health issues dogged him as a result of his experience as a POW, and he passed away in 1987, survived by Ava and their daughters Christine and April.
Jack Hulbert, too, was captured in Singapore, but survived being a prisoner of the Japanese, and in later years he and Len reconnected. Well into their seventies, the two old mates would disappear out into the Gulf once more, boys again, sailing lazily around the islands on Jack’s boat Ganymede, fishing for their supper and sleeping under the stars.
Len reposes there still. That’s where I scattered his ashes. Tim Hill and Johnny Bull were my godfathers.
Appendix 1
Crew and Passengers – ML310
Crew
Lt Herbert John BULL RNZNVR Escaped
Sub Lt Malcolm Haslam HENDERSON RANVR Died
L/S Andrew Dowie BROUGH RN Escaped
AB Leonard Bruce HILL RNZNVR Escaped
AB Jack HAYWOOD RNZNVR Died
P/O Motor Mechanic T H S JOHNCOCK RN POW
P/O Edwin Richard TOWNSEND RN Died
AB Alfred ROBINSON RN ?
O/S Robert William FLOWER RN Died
O/S James Edward RUSSELL RN Died
O/S Ronald Arthur JOHNSON RN POW
Stoker William PADDON RN POW
Stoker Edward TUCKER RN POW
O/Tel Alan TWEEDALE RN POW
Teh Ling/‘Charlie’ CHAN Cook Missing
Passengers
Navy
Vice Admiral Ernest John SPOONER RN Died
Cdr Pendarvis Lister FRAMPTON RN Died
Lt Richard POOL RN POW
Warrant Boatswain RICHARDSON RN POW
P/O Ralph KEELING RN Died
P/O Charles FAIRBANKS RN POW
P/O Stoker Arthur James BALE RNZNVR Died
O/T Hector SMETHWICK RAN POW
AB Herb OLDNALL RNZNVR POW
AB Bert GIBSON RN Died
AB John LITTLE RN Died
Airforce
Air Vice Marshall Conway PULFORD RAF Died
WCdr George Purcell ATKINS RAFVR POW
AC Norman SMITH RAF POW
LAC Arthur BETTANY RAF POW
Army
Lt Ian STONOR Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders POW
Sgt Edward HORNBY Royal Marines Died
Sgt Reg WRIGHT Military Police POW
Staff Sgt John LUCKETT Royal Engineers Missing
Staff Sgt James GINN Royal Engineers Missing
Staff Sgt Richard DAVIES Royal Engineers Died
Cpl Samuel SULLY Royal Marines Died
L/Cpl Henry SHRIMPTON Military Police Died
L/Cpl Jack TURNER Military Police POW
L/Cpl Stan SCHIEF Military Police POW
L/Cpl Reg STRIDE Military Police POW
Pvt James ROBINSON Royal Marines POW
Pvt Charles DAVY Royal Marines POW
Pvt William SMITH Royal Marines POW
Pvt James SNEDDON Royal Marines POW
Pvt James DOCHERTY Gordon Highlanders ?
Stoker Leonard SCAMMELL RN ?
Auburn DIMMETT Civilian ?
These are based on the crew list as written by Johnny Bull in his Report of Proceedings to Commodore Commanding China Force, Batavia, 28 February 1942.
Appendix 2
Photographs
A sombre bunch. Durban, 24 December 1942, en route to Singapore. Len sits front on the left, next to Johnno. Behind, left to right, are Jack Kindred, Harry Swift and Tim Hill.
HILL WHĀNAU COLLECTION
January 1941. The winter of 1940/41 was spent in the North Sea, escorting convoys between Scapa Flow and the Firth of Forth, which meant leave was spent in Scotland.
HILL WHĀNAU COLLECTION
Te Waka O Tū – the war god’s canoe – was the Cunard liner, Her Majesty’s Troopship Aquitania. On the cover of the programme for a concert performed during the voyage are the names of the seventeen different elements being transported to battle in Europe. Inside the programme are eighty-eight signatures of, mostly, Auckland Reservists.
HILL WHĀNAU COLLECTION
In 1943 Len was engaged in prep
aring the 80th Fairmile Flotilla for service in the Solomon Islands. His brother had returned home from North Africa on furlough. Len is on the right in the picture with brother Bill (centre) and an unidentified friend.
HILL WHĀNAU COLLECTION
1939: two young Naval Reservists, Len and Lofty, snapped in passing by a Queen Street photographer.
HILL WHĀNAU COLLECTION
Len and Jack Hulbert, a couple of happy-go-lucky lads about town, and keen sailors.
HILL WHĀNAU COLLECTION
Four mates in uniform, 1941. After Alynbank, before Singapore. Left to right: Len, Lofty, Alistair McArthur, Jackie Hayward.
HILL WHĀNAU COLLECTION
Thirty young New Zealand Naval Volunteer Reservists HMS St Vincent, Gosport, Hants, August 1940. Len sits cross-legged, front left; Tim stands on the left of the middle row; and Lofty stands at the rear, fourth from the left.
HILL WHĀNAU COLLECTION
Ordinary Seaman Len Hill RNVR(NZDiv) Gosport, Hants, 1940.
HILL WHĀNAU COLLECTION
Lt. Cdr. Johnny Bull RNZNVR Devonport, New Zealand, 1944.
RNZN MUSEUM
Acknowledgements
The genesis of this book is modest. It began in fact with a radio broadcast. ‘ML310’ was an episode of a serial called ‘On Active Service’, broadcast on New Zealand’s national radio network in early 1960. Imagine the moment a young boy, listening to the wartime experiences of ordinary New Zealanders delivered over the wireless in highly melodramatic tones, hears the name of his father – who then speaks! It was enough to justify a lifetime of enquiry.
I spent the school holidays in the 1960s travelling with my father up and down the gravel back roads of the central North Island, selling tins of re-refined motor oil out of the car to anyone who needed it. Unsurprisingly, during these long and invariably winding journeys, stories were told and questions were asked. After the radio programme the questions became more thoughtful, and over time insights were offered, snippets were revealed and answers were garnered. Naturally, even more questions arose. The more I learned, the more I wanted to know.
