PARS ABOUT PEOPLE

Observer, Volume XXXV, Issue 51, 28 August 1915, Page 4

PARS ABOUT PEOPLE

CAPTAIN "FRED" WOOD, of the New Zealand Staff Corps, and adjutant of the 3rd Auckland Mounted Rifles is reported wounded in action. Captain Wood is a highly popular officer, extensively known in Auckland, where he has spent the greater portion of his life. He began his soldiering career as a gunner in the "A" Battery (Auckland), N.Z.F.A.V., and always had a passion for military work, eagerly seizing the opportunity to become a professional soldier. He was one of the first Aucklanders to enlist in this city for service in South Africa, and as a trooper in the "First" gained the affection and admiration of his «omrades for his courage, resource and a real enthusiasm for work. He was drafted out of the "First" in Pretoria to join the provisional military police, and as a corporal was given some most interesting secret service work to do at a time men of courage, resource and quick decision were so necessary. He served'with the Sixth N.Z.M.R., and with each regiment that succeeded it, until the end of the war, winning his commission by T sheer hard work. His men declare "him to have been a most intrepid squadron leader, and his knowledge of artillery was useful on several occasions.

When Captain Wood returned to New Zealand he believed he could give up soldiering. He tried business in Palmerston North and on the land in the North, but he heard the rattle of the sabre, and, although a fully qualified officer, he joined' the New Zealand staff corps as an instructor with the rank of staff sergeantmajor. He again won his commission in the staff corps, and was given charge of an area of which Whangarei is the centre. He is one of the few New Zealand officers who have fought hard for every step gained, and has a thorough knowledge of his profession. He is an interesting writer and lecturer on military subjects, and an expert in camp arrangement and hygiene.

One of the richest men in New Zealand 1 , in the person of Mr Martin Kennedy, West Coast coal king, newspaper magnate and financial giant, was in Auckland last week, en route to the place where the warm waters bubble from the bowels of the earth. The Martin Kennedy on holiday bent is quite a different being from the business M.K. who looks at the world' with one eye half closed, as though he were mentally" measuring every man, every moment and each money making opportunity which presents itself to him. The cold, calculating commercial king becomes as jovial as a sandboy, especially when he gets out of sight of land, and can only be communicated with by wireless at expensive rates. No doubt this is partly what makes him 'sojolly. But he uses the wireless himself fairly frequently—or he 'used to; nowadays such messages are not allowed. On. one voyage, when about midway between Wellington and Sydney, on a calm moonlight night, he told his wife and daughter, who were with him, that he was going to sendl a message to a grandchild at Island Bay. They asked him what he was going to say, and offered suggestions for inclusion in, the message. But M.K. only smiled his quiet simile, which has tantalised many a spectator, and went aloft to see the wireless man. Presently the singing spark began its trumpeting; it was calling up Wellington. Seated with M.X.'s family,— just below the wireless man, was a cable man returning to the East after a furlough. Of course, the voice of the spark was as plain to him as Mr Gunson's

views regarding Trentham. Unconsciously he began to repeat the call letters, which stand for Wellington. The girls were intensely interested, and when dad's message began to flash across 600 miles of sea, the young operator gave it to them word for word. Presently M.K. climbed down from the wireless, and announced that he had; sent the message. "Yes, and it was a nice one, too," his family chimed in, "We're so glad you put all our suggestions into it." "What do you mean?" asked 1 M.K., and one of his daughters promptly reeled off the whole of his message to him, to his utter astonishment.

The death of Lieutenant George Washington Taylor at Gallipoli, recently reported, may be taken as an instance of how the war has wrecked homes and ruinedl lives, to say nothing of the heart-break that is felt by those who are left. About four years ago, Lieutenant Taylor— his nickname was Pat. —was a single man practising as a solicitor at Eltham, Taranaki. He was doing well, so well that he fell in love with a pretty typist, Miss Ella Riley by name, who had an office in that town. But they could not marry until business improved and rome money was saved. Miss Riley thought there would be more scope in her line in Dannevirke, where a firm of solicitors had. promised her steady support, if she took her type-

writer to their town. So little Miss Riley went. The prospects did' not come up to expectation, but the Dannevirke folk are kindly folk, and they gave her the glad hand of welcome. So she struggled on, knowing that some day she and Pat would be married. Not quite two years ago the wedding took place, and they lived happily in Eltham until the war broke out. Being a prominent Territorial officer, Mr Taylor considered it his duty to enlist, and, though it was hard to do it, his wife told him to go; she would! manage to live on until he came back. And now he won't come back. This simple tale is only one of thousands, yet it is when the casualty list strikes home that we realise the tragedy and grief in every line of the long lists, as the many friends in Dannevirke, Eltham' and elsewhere, of Mr Taylor, are realising now what the game little girl is up against.

When the war broke out, Sergeant David D. Sumner ton, of Port Lincoln, South Australia, was in Auckland, and at once returned to> Australia to enlist in the Australian Light Horse. An Auckland! citizen who had served in the South African war gave Sumnerton an ordinary Imperial brass jacket button, which had beeni slightly dented! by a bullet at Paardeburg, as a "mascot." Sumnerton wore the button on his khaki jacket at the first landing on Gallipoli, and a bullet struck it and turn-

Ed ; it literally "inside out," without injuring the sergeant in the least. He returned it to his Auckland friend, as an evidence that it was a button that has a habit of obtruding itself when bullets are on the wing.

An interesting ceremony took place on Friday evening, 6th inst., at the seed' warehouse of Messrs O'Leary Bros, and Downs, Ltd., Cook Street, when one of the employees, Mir Frank Blayney (of Mornings'ide) was the recipient of a handsome present and substantial cheque, accompanied by a testimonial from the firm, on his departure for the front with the next reinforcements draft leaving Auckland. The presentation was made by Mr P. D. O'Leary, who, in a patriotic speech, commended Mr Blayney's high sense of duty and patriotism in volunteering for active service, and, on behalf of the firm and staff, expressed the hope that Private Blayney would) have good luck and a successful career as a soldier of his King and country. The staff also made presents to Private Blayney, an dthe ceremony concluded with rousing cheers for the recipient. Private Blayney suitably responded.

The expressive features of lawyer "Mick" Myers, of Wellington, graced the local sidewalk a few days since. "Mick" is to Wellington' what Selwym Mays is to Auckland, and wrangles in Court for the Crown. He is a preternaturally solemn man, with a hesitating vocabulary but ultimate bulldoggedness, and he is among the potentates of the earth, because he belongs to that little group of conservative legal talent, Bell, Gully, Bell and! Myers—although Hugh Gully, the artistic, brainy bon vivant has long since gone to rest. "Mick's" chief is the great and terrible Sir Francis Dillon Bell, X.C, The other Bell in the firm is the one who suddenly assumed a commission, in order to become legal adviser to the Administrator of Samoa, and "Mick," the conscientious plodder, is the other partner in the big brain-like structure of Panama Street. Mick is a son of the late Mr Judah Myers, famous for his exuberant wealth and many philanthropies. At a time when he held anything up to quarter of a million of the best a Tattersall div. of ponderous dimensions fell into his already overloaded pocket—and he doesn't complain.

Recently died in Liverpool, George S. Munro, who, in more artificial times, was somewhat of a figure in New Zealand. He belonged to the public service period, when Tom E. Donne, with the aid of an enormous aggregation of people who had nothing to do, ran the Tourist Department in a loud but dignified manner. Mr Munro was an important cog in the Donne system. He wars drafted in 1906 to Christchurch as general manager of the Exhibition of that year. Mr Munro was typically official in appearance— large well-nourished, and wearing the inscrutable appearance which matches State furniture and saddle back chairs so admirably. He was believed by reporters who saw him daily to possess figures in regard to industry that, if published, would constitute a newspaper "scoop" of this or any other country. At that time he was just over the forty mark, but looked so large and imposing that one never considered his age, but merely the power he seemed; to wield. He has for a number of years lived in Liverpool, where he held an important post in the frozen meat trade.

John Holmes, the man who once stopped talking for nearly five minutes', but 'apologised for his silence, is back again in New Zealand, after five yeans in the Old Country, whither he went to try to colonise that interesting dependency of New Zealand. John has probably mentioned several 1 times a day since 1901 that he was one of the Royal Commissioners (roll the r'») when King George

and Queen Mary (then Prince and Princess of Wales) came through these islands. It is his greatest distinction. Mr Holmes was an agent in Wellington. If anybody had seven or eight hours to spare, he had only to remark, "And what are the trade prospects, Mr Holmes?" and John would clear his throat, square his shoulders, expand his chest, and' orate, not only till the cows came home, but until every other kind of domestic animal had gathered on the domestic doorstep. John's voice will again reverberate through New Zealand. Son Garnet is almost equiailly oratorical, and is in New Zealand, at the moment with a star movie show. Garnet invented a swivelling overhead electric street car trolley pole, with which he roused the world. It is not in general use—yet, but, like his dad, he is a smart young chap, and when he has talked you clean limp you just say, "All right, then I'll take a grass," and rush out to cool your fevered brow.

Young and sprightly at 45, mocking the greying years at each successive birthday—that is Georgie Esther, who has been, appointed secretary of the Auckland Patriotic League. His is a glad soul, smeared thickly with the milk of human kindness. If he had lived his life in Sydney or little old New York he would by now have been a terrible Bohemian, wearing empurpled ties, rhapsodising 'neath the white light of the moon, and seeking the shy and remote bars, where the five cent "schooner" lives. But they caught him in his infancy, and trained him in Dunedin, and he is therefore a wonderful mixture of indifference and efficiency. The hairs at the back of his neck bristle whenever a wowser breathes in his direction, and hate gleams deeply in his eye, but he was one of the most efficient secretaries of public bodies in Dunedin, and he had learned —as all such as he must learn in Dunedin,—to swallow his sentiments, and smile upon the dour Kirk-goer as if he loved him. Then, in these late years, George broke away from the ponderous Bumbles who run the Drainage Board in the oatcake city, and, instinctively seeking sunshine, came north and became town clerk of Whangarei. He was efficient there—it has become a habit with

him—but he wais probably not Shoppy' (How can any cosmopolitan with poetry; under hie waistcoat be happy in the mugwupmism of a village?) He has now got a job that suits him ; and the Patriotic League has got just the capable and! hardworking secretary that it wants. George will blithely allow Auckland to absorb him, and will spend his days rejoicing in the city's contrasts with Dunedin. George comes of an old Dunedini family, by the way; his father's tall silk hat was, for many years, a shining ornament in mercantile circles down yonder.

When Colonel Mackesey, 0.0. the Auckland Mounted Rifles, was at Epsom, this paper did itself the honour of looking him over and declaring he was a fighting man. Colonel Mackesey was offended 1 with the paragraph, which expressed admiration of him. He's a sort of Calvinistic scrapper, who would sit in a wet trench reading that chapter in the New Testament which tells a man what to do when his enemy smites 1 him on the right cheek, and then closes up the book and gets after him with the bayonet. With the exception of Captain Wallingford, the letter from Colonel Mackesey in the "Star" is the most important epistle that has reached Auckland from Gallipoli, especially regarding the futility of sending extra young men and men who were not in the pink of good condition and/ physical health. His men like him because he gets down to the actual work in the trenches—grabs a gun and soolis the wily Turk. Colonel Mackesey is the only officer who dared complain about the abominable boots served out to New Zealand troops, but as all New Zealand boots have long since been abandoned on the hot sands of Egypt and thrown in the gullies l of Gallipoli, it doesn't matter. The Calvinistic strain in the Colonel's epistle is highly interesting. It justifies: this paper in having likened him in minor particulars to the infinitely greater Stonewall Jackson.

Have you ever met old Louis Stott, of Waipu? He dispenseth the hospitality for which the Waipuvians are famed, and with Louis it's a, case of once met never forgotten. The dear old man has dished' out postage stamps and letters at the Nova Scotian settlement for the past nine years, and he is about to retire from the Post and Telegraph Department on well-earned superannuation. The ex-civil servant is a fairly old resident of the bountiful Dominion. He landled on its then and now warlike shores in 1869, by the barque Charlotte Gladstone, and he joined the Armed Constabulary in Wellington. After 6eeing , service in the chase after Te Kooti, he joined the department at Taupo. His public service runs continuously over a period of 44 years. Not bad, eh? Needless; to say, the Waipuheathens simply couldn't allow old Louis to

depart in peace, and so he suffered them to come unto him, not in ones andl twos, but in hundred's and hundreds, in the Coronation Hall, where "some gathering" was held. There was a programme and then speech-making. More than usually nice things were said, and Mr Angus McLennan presented the guest with a beautifully upholstered easy chair and a silver cigar case, the gifts of the public of Waipu. There were presents for Mrs and Miss Stott, presents . from the post office staff, presents from the cricket club and numerous other bodies. May the deserving prosper.

A man who sailed from the Queen's Wharf, Auckland in March last and returned) to the same jetty last Monday, was Mr G. H. Turton, of Melbourne, the' Australasian manager of the Royal Insurance Co. In the interval of five months, Mr Turton has passed through one of the most horrible experiences a man could pass through—he was on the Lusitania when that big ship went down. With others he had striven to save the women, and children who were thrown into the sea. Although he looked well! and was smiling at the pleasure of meeting old Auckland friends again, Mr Turton declined to speak of the great disaster. Words, he explained, were vain to describe the horror, the awful terror of the sinking of the leviathan by the German submarine. So, New Zealanders, who have had, so, far, only secondhand accounts of the happening, were spared by the returning survivor the gruesome details their morbid souls craved for. Perhaps when Mr Turton reaches his home in Melbourne, and has recovered his nerve in home surroundings he may speak out and shock a continent. But perhaps, after all, it would be better to leave it. to the imagination rather than crystallse "what might have been" into the cold, cutting facts of what did happen. The first we might forget, but the second never. In any case, no Britisher will ever forget andl forgive the ciume.

Trooper George Lloyd, slightly wounded while serving with the 3rd Auckland Mounted Rifles, is the only son of Mr George Lloyd, Breakwater Roadl, Napier. He is 28 years of age, and was born in Napier and educated at the Napier High School. On leaiving school he was employed by the Post and Telegraph Department in the Mail Room at Wellington. He was afterwards transferred to the Mail Room at the Auckland Post Office, and had been there about six years .previous to enlisting. Mr Lloyd was a keen sportsman. He was a member of St. George's Rowing Club, and for several years played for the P. andl T. Cricket andi Football Clubs. Three years ago he won the P.O. running championship (150 yards). He left with the First Reinforcements of. the Expeditionary

Force, and while at Trentham was engaged in the camp- P.O. On the troopship Verdalla, on the way to Egypt, he was assistant wireless operator. Arriving in Cairo, he joined the signalling corps. When lie last wrote there was a famine in envelopes, so he cut the .pocket out of bis trousers and made two out of that, securing them at the top with a safety pin. I forgot to mention that he was struck on the head with a small piece of shrapnel, which fortunately was well spent, so the wounds were not serious, and although his head was all bandaged up lie felt well enough to return to the trenches in a few days.

'Way across the Tasman pond they're talking with their usual vigour about choosing something with more or less qualifications for the pretty job of High Commissioner in London for the Commonwealth of Australia now held by the versatile Sir George H. Reid, P. 0., K.C., G.C.M.G., who has received the polite tip that his job is tolerably secure up to a certain date and; no longer. That is the way of Labour Governments. The statement that Billy, Hughes, Federal AttorneyGeneral, is to grab the bauble may be described as being only a moderately good tip. No decision has been arrived at. Eight months ago, the Caucus agreed that it was the Labour Party's turn to have a representative in London, and that the spoils to the victor would' have to apply to the High Commissionership. The Cabinet has not discussed the mattei', but the exact position is that Andy Fisher, the Prime Minister, may have the job if he wants it, failing which his nomination will almost ensure the appointment of the man he wishes. Only a few weeks ago-, it looked very much as if Mr Fisher would take the position, for which he has. had a great desire since his last visit to London. It has seemed to him a haven of rest from the turmoil of politics, which lite has borne for 30 years, and which now is particularly trying. The seriousness of the war position has emphasised doubts as to whether he should leave Australia, and it is now quite possible that he will sacrifice his treasured prospects of partial retirement in London and: nominate Mr Hughes for the position. When questioned on the subject, Mr Hughes only gives evasive answers.