by Sandy McKay
Jack
Dear Jack,
Speaking of bonny Scotland, Ma said to remind you about our Dad’s folks coming from Aberdeen. She said our aunty and uncle still live there — that’s Aunty Doris and Uncle Hugh. Aunty Doris is Dad’s sister … Ma thinks she’s got the address somewhere among Dad’s papers and it would be grand if you got a chance to visit them.
I don’t know where Aberdeen is exactly. But there’s a map of the world in our classroom and I can see exactly where Scotland is. It’s right on top of England and underneath a place called the Shetland Isles. You’re right about the UK being a long way off. You might just as well be headed for Mars.
Hey Jack! Guess what? Uncle Ced came round last Saturday to help build the kennel. He brought some timber and we used the old iron and the nails from the shed, just like you said. Amy wanted to help but she turned out to be more of a nuisance. So we put her on dog-sitting duty while Uncle Ced and I banged in nails.
Ma paid Uncle Ced with fresh eggs and girdle scones. After that he was ‘happy as a sandboy’ as our Dad used to say. You know how much Uncle Ced likes his tucker, ’specially Ma’s girdle scones.
School is hard this year, Jack. We have to do arithmetic, composition and geography every day. And then we have exams. I still reckon I’d be more use at home chopping wood.
Hope you are well.
Love from
Tom
Dear Tom,
Hang in there, mate. Study hard and always do your best. Make the old North East Valley School proud. That’s what our Dad would have wanted. Ma will be pleased as punch if you do well.
Seems there’s no escaping school work, eh — not even here on the high seas. Some of the lads are doing some study to pass the time. Billy put his name down for French the other day. And a couple of other lads are doing engineering papers. It’s good to have something to do in your spare time besides playing poker, which usually just leads to punch ups.
Best regards,
Your brother, Jack
PS — Our Crofty got himself in a bit of strife last week. He’s a good cards player when he puts his mind to it and the chap he was playing wasn’t too sharp. So the chap finished up losing his hand and a few days’ wages as well.
Things got heated when Crofty demanded his winnings and it took a few of the lads stepping in to prevent an all-out brawl.
Dear Jack,
Can you teach me how to play poker when you get home? Then we could have a game together. Ma and Mrs J play sometimes but they never get round to showing me how. Usually I end up playing patience by myself or draughts with Amy. I found our Dad’s draughts set in the top cupboard last week and I’ve been teaching Amy how to play. There were two black pieces missing but I found some coat buttons in Ma’s sewing kit that did the trick.
I’m not one for indoor games anyway. I’d rather be outside, especially when the weather’s good.
Frank and I caught some lobbies in Lindsay Creek on Sunday arvo. We took off on one of the old cycles from the shed. I was doubling him at the start but he’s getting a big lad and we soon ditched the bike near Chingford Park and walked the rest of the way.
We took the tin bucket from our shed and one of Ma’s old dishcloths for a net. Ma said she supposed it was safer catching lobbies than shooting rabbits. Luckily she hadn’t seen our creek for a while or she wouldn’t have let us go anywhere near it. There’s been a heap of rain lately and it’s the highest I’ve seen it for ages.
Anyway, we were walking along minding our own business when, guess who we ran into? Harold Duncan and his dodgy mate, Eric. Remember him? I think you were pals with his brother, Albie. Harold’s nothing like Albie. Harold’s a proper bully. They were waiting for us when we got back to the bike. And they threatened to knock our blocks off if we didn’t hand over the lobbies.
We didn’t argue on account of Harold Duncan being built like a brick lavvy. No one argues with Harold Duncan. He’s got fat knees and he smells like old socks. He’s got a firecracker temper as well.
Even so, I don’t reckon he’d have pushed us round if you’d been about, Jack. You’d have shown him!
Love from
Tom
PS — This is a drawing of me with the lobbies — before they got stolen.
Dear Tom,
You tell that Harold Duncan — any more of his nonsense and he’ll have me to answer to. God knows how much I hate bullies. That’s why we have to fight this war in the first place — because of bullies. Joves, Tom. Don’t get me started.
Just stand your ground and don’t back down. If you show any sign of weakness you’re done for. That’s what they tell us in the army, anyway. Not that we’ve had a chance to put it into practice yet. We had a much needed change of scenery yesterday when we went through a canal. Amazing! The first stretch is through flat marshy land, which is well built up and planted in trees. Then you go through locks, 1000 feet long and 110 feet wide!
The whole canal is quite a feat of engineering and an incredible sight to see. There are electric engines to the side that pull the ship through and after the first gates close the water comes racing in — raising the ship until the lock’s full. (These gates are seven feet thick!) Once you get between the high walls the gates close again until the water raises the ship level. It takes around six hours to pass through the entire canal, which gave us something new to talk about at least. It’s easy to get sick of the same thing, day after day. Boredom is hard to live with and it doesn’t take much for the lads to get tetchy, especially with no shore leave yet.
Some of us have been busy putting together a magazine. It’s called ‘From Maoriland to Blighty’ and it should make a first-class read. I got talked into doing a few sketches and I wrote a poem as well. The poem was all about our Dad and it’s got some good rhymes. Stampy’s effort was first-class. He’s got quite a way with words when he sets his mind to it. I’ll send you a copy when it’s done.
Well, that’s about all for now, Tom. We’ve been told the mail closes in the morning, so there must be a port coming up. Let’s hope we get some leave this time.
I hope you’re looking after Ma and Amy, and keeping the home fires burning.
Best regards,
Your brother,
Jack
Dear Jack,
Don’t worry. The home fires will be burning away fine this winter, thanks to Uncle Ced.
He felled a bluegum tree last weekend and we spent the whole day axing it into blocks. The wood is green as grass just now but Uncle Ced reckons six months in the woodshed should dry it out okay.
Hey! Guess what our Jacky did last week? The little beggar ran away. Usually he doesn’t go far but this time I left the gate open and we didn’t notice him missing till it was too late.
What a job we had getting him home again. He ran for miles and so did we — all the way down past the shops and up Opoho Road. We ended up with half the neighbourhood out looking and finally found the little rascal asleep in Mrs Ramsay’s wash house. Amy was pretty upset and I don’t think Ma was too happy either.
It gave me a real fright and I got to thinking how sad it would be if we lost Jacky before you two got the chance to meet.
I haven’t let him out of my sight since.
Lots of love,
Tom
PS — This drawing is supposed to be our Jacky but I’m afraid dogs aren’t my strong point.
Somewhere out at sea
Dear Tom,
I liked your drawing, mate. It showed good composition and, with a bit of extra shading, it would make a top-class sketch. I could do with some new pencils out here but seems they’re scarce as hen’s teeth. If you send another parcel would you mind putting in a couple? Also, some of Ma’s shortbread wouldn’t go amiss. The last lot travelled well and it was the best thing I’ve eaten in a long while.
Joves, Tom. Sometimes this voyage feels like it’s never going to end. Tension continues to build on board and the boys are going stir-crazy with no shore l
eave granted.
We pulled in at a coaling wharf yesterday and were told we were going to be allowed off the ship. But the beggars changed their minds at the last minute and wouldn’t let anyone off, which didn’t go down well.
I reckon they’ll be lucky not to have a mutiny on their hands soon. We’ve all been cooped up like chooks for so long that the strain’s starting to show. Some of these lads are loose cannons at the best of times. There’s one bloke by the name of Ricketts who likes to pick on the younger ones. Yesterday Thomas Bathgate had just about had enough and there was a bit of a dust up. Alfred Hoffman stepped in and threatened to knock Ricketts’ block off on his behalf. It all got out of hand and there were punches flying left, right and centre.
When the Sarge got wind of it he put the soldiers involved on report and gave the rest of us yet another lecture.
‘Look here lads,’ he said. ‘It’s the Germans we’ve come to fight, not each other.’
But you can’t keep the troops all cooped up like chickens and not expect a few feathers to fly, eh.
Best regards,
Jack
Dear Private Jack McAllister,
Chickens! Ha! I know just what you mean. Chickens are what made our Jacky run away. I found that out when I caught him with a mouth full of feathers last week. I only just managed to hide them in my pockets before anyone saw. Poor Jacky’d cop a bullet if he got found out. I’ll have to train that out of him, quick smart.
So what else’s been happening? Not much.
School is pretty much the same as usual. Boring sonnets and sums I can’t do. This week we have to write poems about summer, using ‘interesting adjectives’. That means ‘rolling’ meadows and ‘babbling’ brooks. But you know me, Jack. I don’t see the point in writing la-di-da poems about stuff like that. And who’s ever heard of a babbling brook in North East Valley anyway? Lindsay Creek doesn’t babble. Only Mrs Baxter babbles. She’s our new Sunday school teacher. She also keeps bees.
Frank Morrison’s good at poems. He wrote a cracker one about the war. Arthur Mitchell drew a picture instead. He drew soldiers shot to pieces on a battlefield. It was quite bloodthirsty and Mrs Stains looked upset. She said she hoped they weren’t New Zealand soldiers and Arthur said he didn’t know what kind of soldiers they were yet, he was still deciding.
We do lots of war things these days. Mrs Stains made us draw flags last week. We had to draw Great Britain and France and Russia and then we had a go at Australia and New Zealand. Most of us didn’t know the difference.
But if you didn’t get them right you had to stand in the corridor until you remembered. Harold Duncan got his wrong and had to sing God Save the King all by himself in assembly.
I didn’t feel sorry for him in the least!
Lots of love,
From Tom
Dear Jack,
I haven’t heard from you in a while so thought I’d write again even though it’s not my turn.
Guess what?! Ma is teaching me how to knit. I’m going to knit scarves for the soldiers. Well, maybe not all of them, just one or two. Ma said if I could only sit still for five minutes she’d show me what to do. It took longer than five minutes, but I think I’m starting to get the hang of it.
Knitting is harder than you think, Jack. It’s a tricky business because you have to do three things at the same time. Like holding your needles the right way and making sure you don’t get your counting wrong. It pays to have your tongue in the right place as well, according to Mrs J. And it doesn’t help to have fingers sticky with jam.
Mrs J says not to worry because practice makes perfect. I will try and get my first scarf knitted for your birthday, Jack. That’s not far away now, eh. What will you do to celebrate? Mrs J is coming over to our house and we’re going to have some cake in your honour. I hope it’s chocolate but I’ve got a feeling it might be sultana on account of the cocoa shortage.
Lots of love
From Tom
Still somewhere at sea
Dear Tom,
Sorry I haven’t written lately. There’s been no mail to speak of in ages.
Blimey! I’d almost forgotten my own birthday. There’s not much celebrating to be done here, I’m afraid. I look forward to receiving your scarf though. Good on you mate, and keep up the good work. There are loads of soldiers who would be glad of a nice warm scarf just now because it’s brass monkey weather out here. Recently two signallers on the bridge got frostbite on their toes.
The low temperatures take some getting used to. Last week when I was on submarine duty the wind chill was minus ten. We only do half-hour shifts in temperatures like that because it’s too cold to go any longer. We do half on–half off, with a warm-up time in-between. Our duties last for twelve hours so we’re dead on our feet by the end of it.
16 days later:
Hallelujah, Tom! We’ve been told our next stop will be Scotland or England. I don’t mind which. All I know is, I won’t be sorry to see the back end of this boat. Tell Ma I’ll send a postcard when I can.
Best regards,
Jack
Dear Jack,
Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you.
Happy birthday dear J-a-a-ck. Happy birthday to you. Hip hip hooray!
As a special treat Ma put a tin of honey in her last parcel — it’s clover honey from Mrs Baxter’s hives and I hope it arrives in good condition. Ma put in some cocoa as well, courtesy of good old Mrs J.
I hope you got my scarf in the parcel. You’ll notice a few holes that aren’t supposed to be there but, with a bit of luck, the next one should be much improved.
Ma is knitting like crazy these days. And so is Mrs J. Last week they both nearly ran out of wool. It was panic stations with Mrs Wilson coming to the rescue with emergency supplies. Mrs Wilson is the new lady from church. She brings us old jumpers that we have to unpick and make into new things for the soldiers.
Lots of love,
From Tom
PS — Did you find the little wooden elephant in your parcel? I got it at the church jumble and thought you might like to wear it round your neck for luck.
Dear Tom,
Thanks a lot for the parcel. It was waiting for me when the boat finally docked. I’m pleased to report the honey travelled with minimal leakage and the cocoa was much appreciated.
We reached our destination at 9pm but weren’t allowed off the ship until the next morning. By that time everyone was breaking their necks to have a look around but we had to obey orders and stay put. We finally boarded a train just before midday.
Crikey, Tom. There’s so much to see and I’ve been making lots of notes in my sketchbook. The countryside is very different to New Zealand. The farms are more orderly for a start — neatly laid out and square with hedge borders. Also, most of the animals live in barns here. Can you imagine herding kiwi cows into barns? I’m sure there’d be an uprising — from livestock and farmers alike. Of course, there are sheep here in England too, but not in the numbers we see back home.
We’ve seen a few new places already. We passed over the canal to Manchester, then on to Crewe, Stafford, Wolverhampton, Birmingham, Banbury and Oxford. The names are interesting and some are even familiar. I’ve heard them talk of Brighton and Portobello. Don’t know if they’ll be anything like our Brighton and Portobello, though. And I have no idea when, or if, I’ll get to visit them.
It was pitch dark when we reached Banbury so we headed straight for Sling Camp. Our new home is in Wiltshire, on Salisbury Plain, which is seventy-four miles south-west of London. It’s a bit like Saddle Hill to look at but feels very different to Trentham. I don’t know what to make of the place yet. Khaki brown tents for as far as the eye can see.
One thing’s for sure, we’re in the real army now, Tom. No doubt about it. There’s even more saluting and drilling than before. The rules are strict and we’ve been told we could be here for a while so we better get used to it. It’s feeling a lot like winter and I haven’t seen snow on the g
round like this in a long while. Thinking of you all back home.
Give my love to everyone.
Best regards,
Jack
Dear Jack,
I’m glad you finally made it safe and sound to England. There have been some awful stories going round about soldiers perishing at sea. Imagine going off to war and dying before you even got there! Ma said it doesn’t bear thinking about.
The telegram man has been coming to our neighbourhood more regularly lately and we all dread the sight of him. Yesterday he came down North Road just after lunch. We could see him pedalling round the corner from the bedroom window. Ma was sure he was going to stop at our place because he slowed right down. It looked like he was getting off his bike near our gate and we thought something had happened to you. Ma got me all worked up and in the end I could hardly breathe because my chest hurt so much.
Thank goodness he was only fixing his chain and, lucky for us, he carried on past. Not so lucky for the Carson’s though. We found out the next day he stopped at theirs.
James Carson died from wounds he got in France. His name will be in the newspaper in the roll of honour.
Love from
Tom
Dear Tom,