by David B Hill
‘You mean Titore and Ururoa, in the war canoes?’ Len asked him.
‘That’s right, my boy. Ururoa was your great-grandfather. He was feared in battle but died in old age. Make sure you do the same.’
The conversation went on, with openness and frankness, as it might have among old comrades. It was also the first time the subject of their being Māori had been raised in front of the boys. Len, Bill and Joy had all grown to understand that being Māori carried a certain stigma in some people’s eyes. It was a penalty that could be avoided by adopting Pākehā ways. Certainly for their mother and uncle, being Māori had been subsumed by their Pākehā upbringing, as Ree explained.
‘My father – your mother’s father – Richard Heke was Māori. He died in a forest accident before I was born. Mum – your grandmother – married again, into the O’Donnell family. That’s where the Pākehā uncles came from, and why your mother and I were brought up as Pākehā.’
Len thought for a moment and was forced to acknowledge that, apart from skin colour, there had been nothing in their lives that had spoken of Maori heritage. Until now. He was keen to learn more, and had other questions, but Kate entered the room just then, and the subject quickly changed. Later, when Arthur walked Ree to the front gate, Len went to look at the picture in the hall again, and stood in front of it wondering. Which of the tattooed warriors staring back at him was Ururoa?
★ ★ ★
Shortly after his mobilisation, Len received notice to join the Wakakura in order to complete his training with time at sea. Going to sea had always been the goal, especially as the only pay accorded Reservists was for time actually spent on board a Royal Naval ship. But those condemned to the Wakakura typically finished up wishing otherwise as it had a bad reputation as a sea boat. Lofty Neville had had a famously harrowing voyage on the Wakakura, an exercise in foul weather made worse by the fact that the only catering supplied was tinned herring, served cold. Len had a similar experience, on a voyage that took him down the east coast of the North Island and terminated in Wellington. There, he was ordered to report to the training establishment Olphert for a briefing, and joined the local Reserve complement posing for a formal photograph. By the time he returned to Auckland, his embarkation was imminent.
The day before Len was due to depart, while he was sitting on the porch having a cup of tea with his parents, Jack Hulbert came up the driveway on a bicycle. Kate fetched an extra cup. Jack had ridden from Epsom to tell them that he had been selected for hydrographic work and posted to Morewa.
Arthur was deeply impressed. Like everybody in Auckland, he knew the private sailing yacht that belonged to Sir Ernest Davis. It was one of the smartest on the harbour, and the envy of many.
‘How the heck did you get a job like that?’ asked Len.
‘It was the sailing, I reckon. I know most of the blokes. They’ve seconded Morewa for naval service as a survey vessel, charting the seabed. For harbour defence. You know, safe passage, anti-submarine defence and things like that.’
‘Half your luck, Jack, Well done,’ Len paused, then added, ‘I s’pose that means you won’t be coming tomorrow?’
Len’s rueful look belied the goodwill he felt for his mate. He would miss Jack, and the friendship and trust they had built together, and he was going to miss the Swift, the mullet boats and the Gulf.
‘No. They said I might have to go to Fiji, but I’ll definitely be sent to England for training.’
When tea was over and it was time for Jack to leave, the two mates shook hands at the gate.
‘Good luck, Len. When all this is over we’ll go sailing again.’
‘I’ll look forward to that. See you then.’
‘Not if I see you first,’ said Jack. Then he slapped his mate on the shoulder and rode off towards Epsom.
★ ★ ★
Len managed to sleep well, and woke to find his neatly ironed uniform hanging from the wardrobe door and a tantalising aroma wafting down the hallway into his room. When Ordinary Seaman L B Hill appeared at the dining table, he found his mother had prepared a lavish breakfast, and he sat down to bacon and eggs, tomatoes and fried bread, tea and toast. As he ate, he thought about what was in front of him – a great adventure; the great adventure. Behind him he felt a weight – the weight of responsibility perhaps – to his mother, to his father. To Ree, and to the dead uncles he had never known.
His thinking was interrupted by Kate’s frequent solicitations.
‘Have you got enough singlets?’ she asked. ‘It gets very cold in England in winter.’
‘Yes, Mum. I’ve got enough singlets, thank you.’
‘And keep your socks dry. You’ll get a chill very easily if you don’t.’
Across the table Bill winked at him, and Len responded with raised eyebrows. Joy smiled at her brothers’ conspiracy. Arthur arrived and sat in silence, concentrating unnaturally on his breakfast. He placed a writing pad and a bundle of envelopes on the table and pushed them purposefully towards Len.
‘You’d better not forget to write to your mother.’
‘I won’t, Dad. Thanks.’ Len looked back across the table to his father and nodded.
‘Good on you, son.’
It was a rare affirmation.
Kate herself sat and watched Len as he finished a slice of toast covered in orange marmalade before draining his cup for the last time.
He went to the bathroom. He gazed at himself in the mirror and let the water run over his clasped hands for a few moments. He could hear his mother through the wall, cleaning up in the kitchen. Arthur was already outside, his cigarette smoke wafting back into the house. Len went back into the dining room and cast his eyes around and down the hall of the villa. Kate came out of the kitchen and they hugged, in a way neither had had cause to before.
‘God bless, son. Stay safe. Be strong.’
He kissed his mother on the cheek and gave her hand a final squeeze. His kitbag lay on the veranda settee, where he had left it. He picked up his hat and, with both hands, placed it carefully and squarely on his head, then turned to face Kate and came to something like attention.
‘Ordinary Seaman Leonard Hill, reporting for duty, Ma’am.’
Kate smiled at last. Joy had tears on her cheeks and stifled a sob as she held her little brother tightly for a moment. Bill stepped forward and shook hands with Len. He slapped his little brother on the shoulder.
‘Good luck, Lenny. Look after yourself.’
‘I’ll be doing my best.’ Picking up his kit, Len raised it straight to his shoulder, and walked down the steps. Arthur waited at the bottom.
‘I’ll be home shortly, Kate,’ he called to his wife, but there was no reply. The two men walked down the drive and out the gate. Len looked back and saw his mother standing behind the lace in the bay window of her bedroom. She was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, while she watched the two men walk down the street.
★ ★ ★
As they walked up Kowhai Street, Len heard their reclusive neighbour playing the piano. ‘Für Elise’. It was an odd song to march to. Neighbours who knew of Len’s departure came outside to add their farewells.
When they reached Dominion Road, Arthur offered to carry the kit, but Len laughed. ‘It’s all right, Dad. The thing’s heavier than it looks.’
And too heavy for the old man, he thought. Kate had slipped a tin of biscuits into it the night before, but mostly, of course, it was clothes.
The Mount Eden railway station wasn’t far away, and as they got closer the foot traffic heading in the same direction became heavier, with many men in uniform. When their train clanked slowly into the Central Railway Station, it became apparent that the mobilisation had begun in earnest. A mass of people was converging on the main platform. There, two steam engines were attached to the front of a long line of carriages. As Len and his father got down from their train, they watched men begin to congregate in groups, directed by others to assemble in areas adjacent to their assigned carriages.
Len could see some distant shapes in naval uniform collecting towards the head of the train. He turned to look at his father. Arthur had seen them too.
‘You’d better go, son. Don’t forget to write to your mother.’
Len nodded. He put his kitbag down and faced his father. The train gave three long blasts on its whistle, and groups of men immediately began to move in different directions. The two men shook hands, Arthur putting his free hand on Len’s shoulder.
‘Be careful, son,’ he said.
‘Wish me luck, Dad,’ Len replied, but in the hubbub, Arthur didn’t hear; he had already turned and was walking away.
Len made his way to the other end of the platform, forcing his way through the mob, guided by the tall form of Lofty in the distance. He raised his hand and saw Lofty semaphore an acknowledgement with his eyebrows. Tim arrived, forcing his way through the crowd. A smear of lipstick was visible on the corner of his mouth. Then the sailors were called to form up and answer the roll. The hubbub was soon replaced by a quieter atmosphere, punctuated by the commands of the non-commissioned officers, and slowly various groups began to board the train.
★ ★ ★
The journey to Wellington went without incident, as long as you overlooked lengthy delays at Frankton Junction and Taumarunui, and again at Palmerston North. The delay at Frankton was caused by the late arrival of members of the newly formed Māori Battalion. They caused quite a stir, laughing and singing as they made their way in what could only be described as loose order to their carriage. By the time the train began to climb onto the central plateau, it was late afternoon and except for Len and one or two others, most in the carriage had fallen asleep, lulled by the intersecting rhythms of sound and movement. Sometimes music from a lone guitar would drift on the wind from the carriage carrying the Māori soldiers, but otherwise the noise of the train dominated. At Raurimu, where the track famously spirals up the incline to a higher elevation, Len was able to look across the valley at the rear of the train following slowly behind. The smell of coal smoke swept over the carriages at times, reminding Len of home. Arthur brought coal home from the Gas Company, and sometimes coke. As they crossed the plateau, the volcanos came into view. Tongariro. Ngauruhoe. Ruapehu, the highest, steaming away on the near horizon. As the sun began to set, the mountains were caught in its lengthening rays, and for a few minutes the snow on the peak of Ruapehu flared in a brilliant orange, before the light faded and eventually extinguished and the sky behind coloured a deep indigo. Len gazed at it all in wonderment. Here were sights he had never seen, and he hadn’t even left the country.
The carriage lights came on, and the others began to stir. The train clattered on. There was hot tea available at each stop, but nothing on board except water. Some, like Len, had their own refreshments, discovering the odd surprise when they reached into their kitbags. His biscuits didn’t last five minutes. In turn, he enjoyed one of Lofty’s egg sandwiches and a huge slice of a fruitcake that Ava had given to Tim. Odd smells wafted from the carriage in front, and one of the boys reported that the Māori were eating barbequed sheep tails, which caused all sorts of uproar and simulated gagging among the sailors. Then someone produced a pack of cards, and before long a flask of whisky was being passed discreetly around. Eventually things quietened again, as the cold penetrated and men huddled into their jackets to catch a little more sleep before the arrival into Wellington. They covered their eyes as best they could against the lights. Only the card players stayed awake.
Things changed as they neared their destination. A few men recognised that the journey was nearing its end and stirred others, and as the sun began to rise, the whole body roused and began to take stock. The train got slower and slower as it made its way around Wellington’s harbour edge. Len had been there before, and struggled to find comfort in the city’s grey water, wind-riven valleys and scrub-covered hills, and struggled all the more this morning as squalls of rain pelted parts of the harbour and low cloud shrouded the hilltops. Nevertheless he joined the crowd in the left-hand side of the carriage from where they could see a great fleet of ships lying at anchor in the one-armed embrace of the Miramar peninsula. Two light cruisers, which turned out to be HMS Leander and HMAS Australia, appeared to be getting up steam, while Empress of Britain, Empress of Japan and Aquitania, requisitioned as troopships, were the largest passenger liners to visit New Zealand. It was an extraordinary sight.
When the train finally stopped, it was somewhat short of the quay. Nevertheless, the men found themselves ordered to disembark and assemble with their kit in marshalling yards. There was momentary chaos as items of kit or uniform were reclaimed as the men got down off the train, clambering over obstacles and tripping over rails, urged on by shouted instructions. Then, one by one, elements were called to attention, turned and marched away in the direction of the wharves, splashing through puddles, until, within minutes, the whole had been dispersed and the hissing train stood empty in a deserted yard.
The column made its way out of the rail yards, across the road and onto the quayside. Outside the rail yards, local units enjoyed the privilege of marching from their places of assembly through the streets of the city to the wharves. Oblivious to the changing conditions, citizens in their hundreds thronged the pavements and anywhere else a view could be had, held back in places by marshals and military police. They clapped enthusiastically and cheered wildly. All movement flowed towards the waterfront, where nearly 7000 soldiers, sailors and other military personnel were moving through various stages of embarkation. Somehow a train had already delivered men to the wharves, and was now being repositioned, empty, graunching and squealing through the crowd, supported by railwaymen with flags standing on its cowcatcher. When the boys from the Reserve marched, they understood that this was no ordinary day. As they reached the wharves, they all thrust out their chests, pulled their shoulders back and raised their chins, to the cheers of all those about them.
On the waterfront they discovered a host of other military personnel drawn up in loose order preparing for embarkation. Behind the Harbour Board fencing, a mass of eager civilians pressed hard against the iron rails, shouting and cheering. In places, some had been allowed to spill onto the quay by compliant gate-keepers, and they hugged or held hands with soldiers who had somehow detached from their units. Len and the Navy boys cast their eyes around as they marched onto the quay. Silent, in contrast to the noise about them, Len contemplated the extraordinariness of the scene. He looked along the rank at Tim, who was gazing up at the ship towering above them. It was at this moment that Len felt fear for the first time. It was a feeling like someone blowing cold air on the back of his neck. It made his hair stand on end and a chill fill his belly.
Apart from the Navy and the RNVR, there were anti-tank regiments, and regiments of infantry and artillery; men from Divisional Cavalry; engineers; and ammunition, supply and petrol companies, as well as 5 Field Ambulance, elements of the New Zealand Dental Corps, No 1 General Hospital, chaplains and the Pay Corps. And of course the 28th Māori Battalion.
The Māori Battalion was a volunteer unit offered by the inspirational Apirana Ngata to the Government as ‘the price of citizenship’. While some people thought that entirely appropriate, most thought it noble. Len smiled in quiet admiration. The battalion had never paraded in front of so large a crowd before, and they captured everybody’s attention. Of all the units, they presented with the most discipline, marching in perfect order, each soldier displaying a steely intensity and a fierce countenance. Every now and then one among them would break character, and turn to survey the faces on the street, to catch an eye, raise an eyebrow and a grin. The crowd seemed to love it, and cheered all the more.
The scale of activity exceeded anything in the boys’ experience. It wasn’t just the host of uniformed men. It was the crowd, the volume of shipping that lay in Wellington’s harbour, and the massive shape of Aquitania, with its four great funnels, tied up to the wharf and looming over most of the scene. When t
he Reserve personnel drew up in her shadow, it became clear that they, along with what seemed like most of the Echelon, were going to board the huge Cunard liner.
There were shouts of ‘Squad, halt!’ all along the line, then further instructions. ‘Left turn! … Ten ’hut! … Look lively now! People are watching! Right dress!’ When the lines were straight and the shuffling and all movement had ceased, the final command came: ‘Stand easy!’
Standing easy, Len looked up. The side of the liner occupied their whole view: a wall of riveted steel, newly painted in marine camouflage. To left and right, men were streaming up gangways into the vessel. Above, those who had already boarded crowded the rails looking down. Heads appeared at the many portholes: two, three, sometimes four at a time.
And then it was the turn of the Reservists. They shouldered their kitbags and moved to the gangway in loose order before streaming up it in single file. At the top of the gangway, a grey-haired merchant seaman greeted them each with a note describing the whereabouts of their accommodation. ‘Welcome aboard, my son. Port side, E deck, two down. Look lively now. E deck, two down.’
‘Hello, sailor,’ offered Tim.
‘Now, lad, be careful what you wish for.’
Once on board, the boys followed the instructions on the chits they had been given and fought their way down two decks to their assigned berths. Len lost touch with Tim after boarding, and could not even see Lofty. Men were swarming everywhere. He found where he was berthed, and stood dumbfounded. It was a two-berth cabin. Luxury! He dumped his kitbag on the top bunk, and with a couple of others made his way up onto the main deck and forward of the cargo derrick. Being sailors, they anticipated and found a scupper there that was big enough to accommodate all three of them, so they crouched into it and settled to watch their share of the spectacle onshore. Soldiers and sailors lined the rails or jammed portholes, cheering and waving to loved ones embedded in the crowd. Some dangled from unlikely places to gain a view.