Close to the Wind

by David B Hill

  Onshore, the crowd waved madly back. A band played. When the ship gave three enormous blasts on its horn, the crowd cringed with shock, then redoubled their cheering. From somewhere on board they heard ‘Now is the Hour’ being sung in Māori. Len had never heard it before, not in Māori, and he listened as others around him, soldiers and sailors, Māori and Pākehā, took up the refrain in either language, some weeping with the emotion of the moment.

  Dozens of streamers hung between ship and shore, and as the vessel cast off and the attendant tugs took the slack, these final, fragile points of contact slowly stretched and snapped. As the Aquitania was towed out into the harbour and released, the fervour abated, and those left behind began to disperse and make their way home. Slowly the great vessel picked up speed and made its way through Wellington heads to join the assembling fleet in the straits outside. It was 02 May 1940.

  3

  Heat

  Fremantle is a port town some miles south of Perth. The two huge Cunard liners Aquitania and Queen Mary were unable to tie up in Fremantle itself, their draft being too great, and so sat at moorings in the Gage Roads outside the harbour. The troops on board were seriously alarmed to hear explosions occur periodically around them, and wondered if the war had found them out. They discovered eventually that Naval Auxiliary Patrol vessels were conducting security patrols. They were dropping demolition charges from time to time to deter saboteurs from attaching mines to the troopships. Learning this, the sailors gained their first impression of the lengths the authorities found necessary to protect them.

  Everybody had to be ferried to shore, and by the time Len, Lofty and Tim were finally given shore leave, they found the town already swarming with troops, jamming into the many public houses and spilling into the streets. With half a dozen others they found a pub a couple of blocks behind the port area and squeezed themselves into a corner of the main bar. The place had a pervasive odour of stale cigarettes, beer and disinfectant. What seemed like several hundred men were engaged in roaring conversation under a fog of cigarette smoke. Around a leaner near the bar, a group of local wharfies managed to hold their ground, and engaged in talk with some of the servicemen. The challenge of drinking the house dry had been announced, and everybody was enthusiastically pursuing the goal. Except for Len, who sat slumped in his chair, oblivious to the noise. He felt the floor tilt, more than once, as he thought back over the voyage they had just accomplished. Even though the authorities had deemed this second convoy fast, it had taken them over four days just to cross the Tasman, during which time the boys in the Reserve along with the rest of the sailors had had ample opportunity to demonstrate their sea legs.

  Len turned down the offer of another beer. While the others had drunk two schooners of Aussie beer each already, he had barely made an impression on his. He had unwillingly signed the pledge as a boy of fourteen, promising to abstain from drinking alcohol, and sat in mortal fear that his mother might discover he was breaking it.

  Len watched four Māori soldiers make their way into the bar from the street. As they made to pass the wharfies, the largest of the dock workers loudly exclaimed, ‘What are those black bastards doing in here?’

  Shocked, Len waited, ear cocked, for some sort of reaction. Those who did hear fell silent, while elsewhere, fortunately, the noise continued unabated. The soldiers stopped and turned to face their antagonist. A fight seemed imminent. The smallest of the Māori stepped up to the wharfie and looked him in the eye. He said, ‘These black bastards are on their way to war. But we’re going to have a beer first. OK?’

  The wharfie was nonplussed by the little man’s unblinking challenge. He sized up the other Māori, three big fellows. One of his own companions nudged him with an elbow, but the wharfie shrugged him away. The moment seemed explosive, then a Kiwi voice from somewhere said, ‘Make that two beers, e hoa.’

  There was a burst of laughter. Some soldiers in New Zealand uniform moved towards the bar, barging their way between the two groups, breaking up the confrontation. The little man looked up at his opponent and smiled. Then he raised his eyebrows and turned towards the bar. Behind him, his companions smiled broadly at the group of waterside workers, before they too made for the bar. The wharfies returned to their beers, but not before the big man had cast an eye around the room to gauge the reaction. Except for the group of sailors in the corner, most of the men hadn’t even noticed.

  The following morning, Len raised the incident with Tim. ‘What was that stuff last night at the pub? Why did that guy want to have a go? What is it about people here?’

  ‘Buggered if I know,’ Tim replied. ‘I don’t remember.’

  They were all a bit slow after the excesses of the previous night.

  Lofty pitched in, ‘Didn’t you short-arses see the sign? Above the front doors it said “No blacks allowed. By order of the Department of Flora and Fauna”.’

  ‘What?’ said one of the Macs, rising at last to the conversation.

  Lofty drew breath deeply and spoke from on high. ‘Aboriginals are not allowed to drink. They’re run by the Department of Parks and Wildlife.’

  ‘Say that again,’ Tim said.

  ‘Yeah. They have to wear dog tags, and they’re not allowed to drink,’ Lofty explained. ‘Like animals. Wildlife.’

  This equation weighed heavily on the boys.

  ‘Jesus. Who told you that?’ Len asked, a little stunned. It was the first time he had ever taken the Lord’s name in vain. His mother would have belted him.

  ‘One of the Māori boys. They negotiated their way around the problem by pointing out they were only brown.’

  It hurt to laugh. Their heads still ached.

  ★ ★ ★

  The convoy, the US3, departed Fremantle on 12 May, heading for Colombo and the Suez Canal. Even the boys found the early going nauseating, but eventually they found their sea legs again. On 15 May, both convoys received new instructions, and changed course for South Africa. Rumours flew. Circumstances in Europe were shifting rapidly. The Suez Canal was threatened, Italy was inevitably going to stand beside fascist Germany and the Mediterranean was becoming dangerous. With the safety and wellbeing of thousands of troops at stake, the convoys would now be going to Britain the long way, via Cape Town and Freetown in Liberia.

  At sea, life aboard the Aquitania had developed a certain routine. At ease, there was a barber’s shop on board, as well as a theatre and a library. A newspaper was produced, and entertainment organised. Most of those on board, the ordinary rank and file, kept a close ear to the news broadcasts that were relayed to the ships. Lofty, trained in Signals and stationed on the ship’s bridge, was able to supply an endless commentary about what was happening across the convoy. When tea was served on the bridge and the Signalman was included, Lofty stood against the glass holding up his mug, making sure his mates on deck below could see him having tea with the Captain. Broadly speaking, the men were aware that events in Europe were changing, and for the worse. This fuelled conversation, especially at mealtimes. Everyone received three meals a day from the ship’s galleys, rotating through sittings at tables of four or eight in a wood-panelled dining room. It was very civilized; a far cry from cold herring and fighting for a place in the mess on Wakakura.

  Lofty complained, though. The tables were too low to accommodate his long legs, which stuck out sideways, like cupboard doors.

  ‘Bastard tables,’ he would say as he wedged himself in on arrival and extricated himself on departure. It turned out he had been assigned an eight-berthed cabin, too, which was way too many arms and legs for him. ‘Bastard cabin’ was another of his regular expletives.

  He compensated for his frustration at mealtimes by using his enormous reach to snatch food from under the noses of his tablemates and anybody else in range. He ate like a horse. The last available seat at mealtimes was always next to Lofty.

  For Len, the dining room and its comfortable atmosphere was another reminder of his mother and home, but he didn’t let on. It w
asn’t that he was homesick, but any sign of sentimentality or wishful thinking about home, mothers or girlfriends was viewed as weakness and triggered merciless teasing and mockery. Tim relished this sort of combat, invoking Ava’s name frequently, then inviting all his critics to eat their hearts out. He would taunt them, ‘Just ’cause the closest you’ve ever got to a real woman was your mother!’

  Len did most of his thinking lying on his bunk each night. His thoughts led him through an increasingly familiar labyrinth. Every corner he turned revealed an irreconcilable doubt against which he struggled. Would he meet the standard – not just the training standard but the standard laid down by the Old Man? Yes, he would. What would real combat be like? He could only imagine. Would he perform well? He had no idea. Did he have the discipline and the physical resilience to succeed? He would do his best.

  As the ship rolled and pitched in the ocean swell and the engines thumped and the propellers shuddered, he came to the most frightening doubt of all – between the distant poles of skill and luck, would he survive? His three uncles hadn’t but Ree had, albeit minus a leg. And Tim’s belief in survival seemed inalienable. ‘We’re smaller than the average target,’ he would say. ‘And Lofty might be tall, but he’s bloody skinny.’

  If he was fortunate, Len would fall asleep at this point. Sometimes, he didn’t.

  ★ ★ ★

  Things were entirely different during daylight hours. There were fitness exercises and weapons drills for everybody, soldier and sailor. They had instruction in gunnery. Other units could be observed in some sort of training, or jogging around the decks in tight circles. Whatever the Māori troops were engaged in, exercising or stripping and reassembling their weapons, they could always be heard laughing and singing.

  Then there was boxing. There was a ring erected on the main deck, and everybody was expected to go a couple of rounds during the rotation of physical exercises. Shortly after they left Fremantle, a notice appeared on the ship’s noticeboard announcing a tournament, and inviting competitors to put their names forward. Tim put his name down without hesitation. The first name on the list was Māori: Haami Parata.

  On the day of the tournament, the list of participants was posted, and Tim had drawn Parata in the very first match. Len seized a place under the ropes and watched as his mate climbed into the ring, followed by his opponent. They both recognised the smiling Parata as the combative little bloke they had seen in the pub at Fremantle. While he paraded up and down the ringside closest to his mates, with his arms raised in mock triumph, Tim stood passively by the ropes and assessed his opponent. While he himself was lean and fit, Parata was broad in the shoulders and thighs, and, Len knew, he would have a lower centre of gravity. He would be hard to knock down. Not that Tim had a knock-out punch, Len thought, as he watched Tim standing there in his headgear with his over-sized singlet hanging from his shoulders. What he did have was fast hands, and he was nimble and seemed able to out-box bigger opponents.

  At the bell the two touched gloves, and Parata immediately started talking, smiling all the time. ‘OK, white boy. Let’s see what you’re made of, eh?’

  Parata was quick himself. Tim failed to see his opponent’s first punch – a swift left jab that sat him straight down on his backside. As Tim climbed back to his feet, Len heard the whoops and giggles of the Māori over the shouting crowd, and shouted some advice to his friend:

  ‘Keep moving, mate, keep moving. And keep your guard up!’

  Then Tim seemed to decide a more scientific approach would be prudent, adopting a defensive posture and moving to the right, away from Parata’s left hand. Parata proved aggressive, and twice caught Tim with right hooks that he didn’t see coming and which had the ref send him to his corner before he was allowed to box on. Each time it happened, Parata turned to bask in the adulation of his battalion, and each time Tim came back out of his corner to surprise his opponent with clever combinations – jabbing left, left, left-right-left, left, then a right uppercut when Parata sought to clinch. The crowd loved it: especially the Māori, who roared louder even when their mate was on the receiving end. Tim continued to move right, making Parata turn to the left, preventing him from getting full value out of his left jab and forcing him to overreach with his right. By the end of the two rounds Tim’s experience was showing, and the little Māori wasn’t smiling so much, but the ref called it a draw, to the irritation of a number of men who had clearly bet on the outcome.

  That evening Len was sitting after dinner with Lofty and Tim and one of the McVinnies when Haami Parata and two of his big mates dragged a couple of chairs over to their table and sat down. Haami and Tim shook hands, and there were introductions and much eyebrow-raising. One of the Māori looked at the sailors’ uniforms. ‘Didn’t know you fullas could box.’

  ‘I’ve had a bit of practice,’ Tim said.

  ‘You did OK,’ Haami said, with a twinkle in his eye. ‘For a Pākehā.’

  The combat was still going on.

  Tim replied, ‘Our Māori doesn’t box.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like there’s any Māori in this unit,’ Haami said.

  But Tim nodded, in an exaggerated manner, and slowly turned towards Len.

  There was a moment’s silence while everybody turned and looked at him. Under his tan, Len reddened.

  ‘What makes you think I’m Māori?’ he said clumsily, and saw the Māori stiffen. ‘I mean, how do you know I’m Māori?’

  ‘I saw your mother at the Victoria Park revue, remember? All dressed up, but she still looked pretty Māori to me.’

  Haami turned to Tim, who acknowledged his offence by holding up his hands in mock surrender.

  Now the questions came fast, and each one put Len further into a unique predicament.

  ‘You really Māori, mate?’ This was from Lofty, confused.

  ‘You don’t look like much of a Māori to me, e hoa,’ said one of Haami’s mates.

  ‘Must be part Māori, eh.’

  ‘I am part-Māori.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Which part?’

  The Māori hooted with laughter, but Len had never felt so confronted. At home, the question was irrelevant. Ever since he could remember, everyone in his family had walked, talked and behaved like a Pākehā. The one anomaly had been Kate’s coffee-coloured skin – and Ree’s, of course. Otherwise the question of identity had never arisen; until, that is, the conversation with Ree. Then there were the incidents involving Bill at the Enlistment Centre. Bill had told him about them on the night of the parade of inspection, after the family had got home from watching Len’s performance. His brother had attempted to intercede on behalf of a Māori bloke in a fight that had broken out with a couple of Pākehā. The Māori had given him a black eye, thinking he was on the side of the Pākehā. Then the recruitment officer had challenged Bill about declaring himself ‘European’.

  ‘European? You’re Māori, aren’t you? Why have you written down European?’

  At this point Bill became furious at being challenged about who he was, and the interviewer wisely backed away, satisfying himself by writing ‘swarthy’ on Bill’s enlistment card. Bill learned a lesson, deciding then and there that there were no half measures. It was all or nothing, and he avoided the subject ever after. For Len, the predicament was just emerging.

  ‘This is a can of worms, mate, but it’s not my problem.’ So saying, Lofty got up, slowly unwinding to his full height. As he did, one of the Māori looked him up and down, and spoke to the others in a low voice.

  ‘What did he say?’ demanded Lofty, looking at Haami.

  ‘He said you’re tall.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, what he actually said was, “Clouds always gather around the tallest mountain”.’

  Lofty looked bemused, so Parata elaborated. ‘Think of it as a compliment.’

  Lofty shook his head and walked away.

  ‘So what are ya?’

  This was one of Haami’s mates, staring at Len. It was more of
a taunt than a question. It was a challenge. Staring at the tabletop, Len struggled to answer, shaking his head in disbelief. He was suddenly angry beyond words.

  Haami stood up. ‘Whakamā!’ He slapped Len on the shoulder hard, man to man. He forced him to look at him in the eye. ‘Don’t let the shame eat you up, e hoa. Kia kaha.’

  Then Haami walked away, jerking his head at his mates to indicate that they should follow. The others slipped away too, and in a short time only Tim remained.

  ‘Sorry, Lenny, I didn’t mean to drop you in it. I didn’t know it mattered.’

  Len nodded.

  ‘It never mattered before.’ He took a deep breath. ‘It’s beginning to matter now, though.’

  That night he lay on his bunk wide awake, rolling from side to side with the ship’s motion, searching for resolution. The fan kept pinging against its protective cover, and somewhere a cupboard door banged open and shut, open and shut.

  So far, he had never had to make a choice between Māori or European, but he saw now that there was no middle ground, no possibility of being both. Yet that was exactly where he now found himself. In between. Standing with a foot in each culture he began to realise that a choice was being thrust upon him.

  ★ ★ ★

  On 26 May, the people of Cape Town awoke to find the huge convoy berthing, all except for the Queen Mary and the Aquitania, which, again because of their size, were obliged to berth a few miles away at Simon’s Town. There was a fair amount of frustration on board the Aquitania before arrangements were made for the men to go ashore, where the boys made a beeline for the train and headed into Cape Town. To their delight they found the citizens made much of the presence of the New Zealanders. There were dances, cricket matches, home visits and barbeques or braai. The Māori concert party had been marvellous entertainers during the voyage, and now their rousing efforts in Cape Town thrilled the locals. They brought the house down with their massive haka. Len was not the only person disturbed by this. The enthusiasm with which the Māori were received contrasted fiercely with what he and others saw was the experience of the local African and coloured people. Here, the coloured people were the majority by far, yet there were signs everywhere, in shops, in parks, on transport, that placed restrictions on them. The racial divide was far more obvious than it had been in Australia.