GUARDING THE PACIFIC

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 86, Issue 307, 30 December 1942, Page 2

GUARDING THE PACIFIC

N.Z. AIRMEN FLY TROPIC PATROLS JOB CARRIED OUT WITH THOROUGHNESS N.Z.E.F. Official War Correspondent. South Pacific Port, Dec. 18. 1 j or.i a croud cut tnrougn coconut palms on an island alternately steaming ur.aer a Glazing tropical sun anu turmg into a quaunme under a ueiuge of tropical rain, big fat-bellied aircraft witn guns sticking irom their milages, vvfui nign explosives tuexeu behind, their bomb doors and with Royal New Zealand Air rorce markings on their wings, roar out every iou stand in the doubtful shade ci a palm, mopping the grimy sweat irom your brow and orusning the undismayed flies from your race, anu watch them go. One alter anotner they lift themselves noisily from the earth, circle for height and dwindle, each in a different direction, into tne distance across the island-studaed sea. Six long hours later their drone smotners the chatter of biros and the oitzz ol insects, and the reconnais-sance-bom oers wheel in again, black silhouettes against a hot, namouoyant sunset. One by one they ease down on to the runway, turn and taxi to the parking bays. Their motors ccugn out anu their tousle-headeu cicws, in khaki snorts and shirts, walk off to waiting trucks. ‘ilj'.e any excitementyou ask them. And the chances are their answer is “Not a thing.” Fur that’s the way it was with living personnel of the No.— Squadron of the K.N.Z.A.F. when 1 left them a lew i ays ago to operations that take them closer than any other New Zealand force to the war in the Pacific. It Migh Happen There. At any moment the situation might have changed and their job sent them roaring down on grey Japanese warships, hurtling through an upward hail of shrapnel and tracers, lighting off a swarm of angry Zeros. Thai could have happened, and still can happen, on any day to this squadron of ours. Every stiffing day is iraughl with the possibility of real action—every day. as the crews go out, they wonder whether the blue Pacific will show them battle or the same deadly empty monotony as it did the day before. Long-distance aircraft patrol can be an exasperating job, only removed from the boredom of an army’s garrison duty a hundred miles behind the line by the fact that you never know what may happen out there over the sea. Actually, “no news” is “gooa nows” in this kind of work, since when tne suomarines or raiding lorces lor which you are scouring tne sea do not appear, it is safe to assume that it is in part at least your constant vigilance that keeps them away. Yet tnis to young men eager for battle seems a negative sort ot success. Wherever t went among New Zealanders in the Pacific I found that they, like all good soldiers, gained small compensation liom knowing they were “keeping the enemy away,’ instead of going out m purely combat craft to “take a crack at the Japs.” But here is a job that has to be done, mid the New Zealanders are doing n with traditional thoroughness. However unspectacular, the results are positive enough to be counted in terms ol ships kept afloat, of submarines and raiders discouraged from operations except at extreme risk. Better-Than-Fair Exchange. They told me, when I asked if I might go out on one of their longdistance air patrols, that I would oe bored stiff, that I would have nothing to do and nothing to see, and so i could take it or leave it. But, in any case, I thought, taking another blind stab at the Hies and wriggling to free my shirt from my clammy back, it vould be a relief to get into the cool air. To trade flies and sweat for more boredom is a better-than-fair exchange in the tropics. It is happened that this was one of the times when the something-may-happen element was stronger than usual. Two naval forces, American and Japanese, had been battering away at each other somewhere in the stretch of ocean over which we were to fly, and there was at least some chance of our encountering, say, scoutplanes from a Japanese aircraftcarrier. The very thought might relieve the boredom. In a tent hidden in the jungle off the runway, the crews were given c’ata on the weather, the courses they were to follow—in other words “briefing,’ ’or what the army knows as operation orders. Then we drove over a rough road to the steel-matted tarmac, busy since early morning with a constant inward and outward flow of Allied planes. We had to wait while giant American bombers trundled down the runway and then roared back along it. on their way 7 to track down that Japanese task force. (They found it, too.) We sat under the wing of our aircraft. because there it was cooler, or rather less hot, than inside the machine. The day was still young, but you could almost have fried an egg on the metal film of the fuselage. I began to wonder whether Egypt had been so bad after all. Lesson in Shooting. “Do you know how to work a machine-gun?” the wireless operator asked me. “I don’t, say we are sure to run into anything, but you never know. It may be a good idea lor you lo gel the hang of my gun. just, in case I have to stav at the set.” We took off at last, the aeroplane seemingly dragging itself up through I he thick air. but then climbing quickly until the aircraft down on the runway looked like toys, and the island like a head of hair—dirty and unkempt where the dense green jungle covered it. neatly combed where the coconut plantations lay in straight rows. We circled and swung out to sea to begin a long and lonelv patrol. Looking down on a tiny, isolated island, I saw black, half-naked figures moving about a cluster of thatched huts, and wondered at the impact of the most modern of all wars on some of the most primitive of all the people. A century ago those natives and their huts would have looked the same, and their ways of living been the same. Even a year ago the sight of a trading steamer passing on the horizon would have been the only 7 sign to them that the outside world was changing. They Said it Would be Boring. And here now, roaring over their heads, was the most modern of modern man’s machines, distant fiom them physically by only a few hundred feet, but spiritually by centuries. I wondered how they felt when they saw the first one—terrified, probably, and after that amazed, but by this time they hardly bothered to look up. It had become familiar, and yet it was still out of reach of their lives and always would be. for when the war has passed this little island may never see an aeroplane again—unless these men who created it choose to tight again. In a matter of minutes, the islands had shrunk into a misty green blur on the horizon behind us, and from now on the unbroken sea and sky swallowed us into a lonely silence. They had been right when they said it would be boring. You could stare out at the whirring airscrews and wonder at the marvellous reliability of those big motors, their beat more