HE WAS AN INSTITUTION

Korero (AEWS), Volume 3, Issue 11, 2 July 1945, Page 22

HE WAS AN INSTITUTION

A KORERO Report

There was a person unlisted by name on any one establishment or daily state within the Second New Zealand Expeditionary Force ; unknown in the ranks of any one platoon ; unable to respond to a greeting, “ Hey, there, Johnny ! ” ; never seen around a Naafi table on beer issue night, nor sipping free tea from a cracked cup after Sunday evening services in the Y.M.C.A. ; never seen tickling lizards on a Syrian roadside, nor brewing over a petrol fire in the rocky waste of the Western Desert. Yet he must have answered the roll in some platoon, swapped reminiscences in some Naafi, and brewed inevitable shai over many a desert fire, because week after week for years his thoughts and experiences were chronicled in N.Z.E.F. Times. These columns identified him beyond a doubt as a soldier among soldiers. His experiences were theirs, his language their own. His was the pen, inked with pungent humour, which expressed their discomforts, their impressions, their suspicions, their intolerances, their contentment, their biting, bickering, unshakeable camaraderie.

But if he could have been, located, a greeting, “ Hey, there Johnny ! ” would have brought response, because Johnny was his name—Johnny Enzed. He was an institution. Johnny Enzed was a soldier, a soldierobserver, and an observer of soldiers with an omniscience for the deeds, thoughts, and words of all New Zealand soldiers. He saw humour in the commonplace, and with humour reduced to the commonplace those institutions and events which appeared exaggerated in the eyes of Dominion servicemen. He burnished everyday events with the outlook of a sardonic adventurer. Take, for example, these extracts from his description of that section of the CairoMaadi road along the Nile known to all as the “ Mad Mile ” : “The Mad Mile is bounded on one flank by what are known in M.E. as ‘ usines,’ and what would be known anywhere else as something much less complimentary. Behind them runs the river Nile, which marks time at this point to provide an anchorage for the Royal Felucca Club of Egypt. Here the corn, the cotton, the bricks, the camel dung, the flower-pots, and the watermelons of Egypt are unloaded in all their rich luxuriance, loaded on to mule and donkey carts, wheel carts, camels, barrows, and heads of women to be carried out into the Mad Mile as course hazards. “ On the other flank the course is bounded by a length of Egyptian railway in all its pristine freshness, and here, sleeping in the noon-day sun and making no attempt whatever to get their day’s work done, can be seen serried ranks of policemen, dogs, fellahin, wallads, donks, and heaps of rags camouflaged as human beings. From time to time, when aroused by the imperious toe of authority, these debouch on to the roadway from the rough, where they bounce lightly from bumper to bumper . . .

“No one has yet succeeded in computing the number of melons and pumpkins eaten and thrown away in Egypt, but practically all of them proceed in procession along the Mad Mile. Heaped upon carts, heads, camel humps, and other points of vantage, they move in a steady stream towards the city, while lines of trucks, staff cars, jeeps, and Don R’s are dammed up behind them. A similar conglomeration of W.D. vehicles and drivers is damning in front of them. It is one of the great occasions when Mr. Kipling is proved utterly wrong and East and West meet head-on. “ To add variety to this colourful Eastern scene, a row of vehicles, loosely described in this part of the world as trams, set out into the Great Unknown from this point. Pursuing their way with majestic impartiality while the driver eats his breakfast over the front railing, they fend off melons and threetonners alike, and go on their way rejoicing. "In the maelstrom a General or a Brigadier is less than the merest pumpkin and a staff car a mere plaything of Fate. Red tabs and red faces may lower threateningly through unshatterable glass, but

the men in the galabiehs and the ladies coiffed in tin cans are invariably colour blind. Occasionally Egyptian policemen, in their pure and incorruptible white, speed the passing guest, but more often they merely stand and think. Grimfaced men in red-topped caps loom through the dust clouds, but go down before the avalanche of perambulating vegetables. At intervals strident-voiced gentlemen in tarboushes organize auction sales, betting rings, and study circles which encroach further and further on to the road as the day goes on ... ” Introducing the Bloke After a year or so writing in this form Johnny Enzed decided that he required a companion with whom he could discuss matters : perhaps as a spur, perhaps a butt, but certainly in the interests of clearer expression. And so the bloke (never with a capital B) was introduced. The bloke was unknown except to Johnny Enzed, but he represented a composite of the grumbling, cheerful, disappointed, sergeant - hating and sergeant - baiting, happy, sand-happy, browned-off, average soldier.

gif they did nothing else, Johnny and the bloke perpetuated in the New Zealand soldier’s vocabulary the Arabic word “Aiwa” (meaning “Yes”). This was the bloke’s invariable affirmative, and “ ‘ Aiwa,’ said the bloke,” became an affirmative phrase in general use. Throughout the scores of scattered units comprising Second New Zealand Expeditionary Force “ Yes ” was never used where the Arabic “ Aiwa ” was understood ; and “ Aiwa ” was seldom used without the addition of “ said the bloke.” Johnny and the bloke reviewed a great variety of subjects as time went on. The Q.M. store, flies, bed bugs, the moneyborrowing habit, debits in pay-books (invariably quoted, according to Army form, as the “ A 864 ”), furlough drafts, sergeants, Arabic, base camp institutions, Egyptian customs, war developments, Italian habits, Army discipline and routine, New Zealand news, the pronouncements of politicians, All were discussed by Johnny Enzed and the bloke when such subjects were topical.

It is difficult to quote extracts from the column with any great degree of justice. It may be said, however, that the conversations of Johnny Enzed and his provocative partner were on the whole representative of average discussions in tents, slit trenches, and rubbled casas. If they were not fully representative it was only because average language and, more particularly, satire were both of necessity tempered for publication in the official journal. Thus, in part, the two discuss the General Election of 1943 :— “ Well, there’s Peter Fraser and Bob Semple and Walter Nash and Sid Holland,” I said. “ Alright ! Alright ! ’’ . said the bloke. “ Skip it. What are the party planks in this election ? ” • “ I don’t know,” I said, “ except that they all love returned soldiers.” “ ALL returned soldiers ? ” said the bloke. “ Aiwa,” I said, “ They haven’t returned yet,” said the bloke. “ In the sweet by-and-by they may,” I said. “ But will they still love them then ? ” said the bloke. Across the Mediterranean Towards the end of 1943 characteristics of Egypt, campaigning in the desert, leave in Palestine, Syria, or Alexandria, with its attendant adventures, sidelights on the Division’s advance through Tunisia, &c., gave way to as great a field for customary complaints in the shape of Italian mud, mud, mud and rain. To sand-dried soldiers meeting the beginning of Italy’s winter and the first of the heavy rains was too much of a contrast. The bloke almost altered his standard affirmative (“Si mean, aiwa,” said the bloke) and gradually the whole influence of the change in scene was marked by the use of more and yet more Italian words and phrases, generally used ungrammatically as only an impatient soldier-linguist will use them, until the dialogue at times assumed the character of a difference of opinion at an Esperanto Convention. It remained intelligible to soldiers who themselves were finding

difficulty at times in reconciling their practised Italian phrases with an Army Arabic hard to discard. The old favourite “ Maleesh,” which will die hard in the returned soldier’s vocabulary, was not displaced and the familiar “ Shwoya ” (for small, or little) battled evenly with the newly-acquired “ poco.” With red-caps continuing to hold high priority, the range of subjects for discussion increased tremendously in Italy. Vino, the average township street scene, lack of originality in nomenclature for Italian infants, suicidal American 6x6 truck-drivers, Carabinieri, Polish road signs which said ” Ostry Zakret ” and “Post Waski,” and opera, were a few. Opera and stout prima donnas, having been seen by the . duo, come in for criticism on the following lines : — “ What’s this opera stuff got that boogie-woogie hasn’t, anyway ? ” “ Culcher,” said the bloke. “ Look at Lucy da Lam-er-more ...” “ The one I saw made a quarter-bloke look like an advt. for Berlei,” I said. “ Just one big foundation garment.” “ But she could sing,” said the bloke.

“So can I,” I said. " But it doesn’t get me double rations.” “ How do you know she gets double rations ? ” said the bloke. “ It’s deep breathing that does it.” On rare occasions (when it was assumed the bloke was on leave or in hospital) Johnny Enzed reverted to his former style of essay writing. It was his ability to express what all saw and heard that made him so popular and in the following extracts from a column written in May, 1944, when we had seen only a third of the country, is demonstrated the ease with which he summed up first impressions of Italy : — “ There are more children to the square yard in Italy than any other country, and almost all of them are prospective Galli-Curcis or Carusos. Deep breathing and vocal exercises for the Italian young commence at birth and reach crescendo before they are (a) strangled, or (b) promoted to grand opera chorus. Almost all Italian small girls are called Maria, and almost all Italian small boys are called Nino. From time to time Italian mothers stand

in the street and cry out ' Ma .... ree ee . . . . . a ’ and then commence a creche scramble to disentangle the assorted offspring who answer the roll-call. A popular diversion on the part of the rude foreign soldiery is also to cry out ‘ Ma .... reeee .... a’ in the still watches of the night (when these can be found) and then await results. A well-delivered cry of this nature is guaranteed to populate every window and window-balcony, in a block. “ The leading industry is growing vines and selling vino. This last may be had in all grades from multo multo buono to lousy. Rude foreign soldiery drinking the latter become even more rude. Those drinking the former become insensible . ...” Identified Much as in the days of the French Revolution, when there was a very popular inquiry, “ Who is Pimpernel ? ”, so was indentification sought for Johnny Enzed’s creator, anonymous to all but a few. Recently, however, a collection of the columns has been published in New Zealand under the title “ Johnny Enzed in the Middle East,” and the author is

identified as E. G. Webber, of Rotorua, who recently returned to New Zealand after four years’ service overseas. Captain Webber wrote his first Johnny Enzed column in the sixth issue of N.Z.E.F. Times (August 4, 1941) and, in his own words, has “ continued to beat out these belles-lettres on tom-toms, anvils, dixie lids, and Army typewriters ever since.” Johnny Enzed’s creator makes no claims for the column other than hoping “ that this collection of ill-assorted facts and observations may prove a not altogether depressing record of some aspects of life in the 2nd N.Z.E.F.,” at the same time freely admitting that “ any similarity between characters and persons wholly or partially living is intentional.” For thousands of New Zealand servicemen, however, there was no question of retribution against the character, pictured with tilted hat and pendant cigarette, who spoke for the private soldier. To them there was no question of an outrage against the public weal. Johnny Enzed was a Dig among Digs, their representative and champion, and the greatest quality they saw in him was that he made them laugh at their own vexations, prejudices, and the constant trials of a rigorous campaigning life in the field.

The illustrations for this article are by Neville Colvin. He knew Johnny Enzed very well from the time when he supplied the original drawing for the “ Face Which Launched a Thousand Quips.” For some time Colvin was a regular contributor to N.Z.E.F. Times and achieved popularity with that sketch well known to all members of 2 N.Z.E.F., “ That’s not a Wog, son. That’s a ThirtyNiner ! ” He joined the staff of the paper as illustrator, and such sketches as “ Interval at the Opera ” and his “ Clueless ” series were very popular. He illustrated “Johnny Enzed in the Middle East,” from which these drawings are taken.