THREE STORIES

Korero (AEWS), Volume 3, Issue 14, 13 August 1945, Page 24

THREE STORIES

By

THE PROPAGANDIST

It didn’t take long to .find out why he was always known as “ Dargaville.” When we were in Necal the virtues of his home town were extolled at every opportunity, and one could get into an argument with him any time, say, by running down gum-digging as an industry. Dargaville thought that he had a great sense of humour, but like most of those chaps he really had none at all. He’d get away to a flying start every time the subject was broached, and you can imagine that it palled after a while. In short, Dargaville was a great bite. After we moved forward he generally had plenty of Yanks to work on. It was just as well, because we’d had enough of a bad thing. He widened his scope to boost New Zealand to our Allies, and I don’t suppose that our country has ever had a more untiring publicity agent. He painted a glowing picture of perfection, and would often have a couple of Yanks in his tent drinking it all in. Once I walked into a perfect reconstruction of that popular picture which shows an old buccaneer pointing to the scenes of romance, while a couple of boys sit hugging their knees, spellbound. “ It sure sounds a mighty nice little country,” the listeners would say, “ I only hope that we get a spell down there before we hit the States again.” At this we would try to break down Dargaville’s travelogue a bit, because we didn’t want the Americans to get too much of a shock when they found New Zealand was something like home. Although Dargaville had only one record to play, it had a reverse side all right. The more he cracked up New Zealand, the more he “ slung the mud ” at the islands. Man, how he hated them ! To hear him “ go ” the fellows who wrote about the romantic islands

of the Pacific was a treat— until you heard it a few times. If he read anything in the papers from, home which could possibly mean that sometimes we enjoyed ourselves, it was a personal affront to him. They think we are just having a picnic over here—we don’t want to go home ! Look at this mud ! Feel the stinking heat ! Look at the mossies, the bugs, the scorpions . . . ” He was off again, full bore. Nothing seemed to work out for him. He became pally with a photographer in a Marine outfit, and persuaded him to come down and snap the workshops where he toiled. Now, outside here there was probably one of the nicest bits of churned up mud on the whole island. He got his cobber to stand well back, so that there be plenty of it in the foreground. Then he rubbed a few handfuls of it on himself, and stood in a kind of pig-wallow. " Right, shoot ! ” he snarled, “ This ought to show them at home what it’s like up here.’’ The Marine agreed that it was really something. We couldn’t help laughing when the print came down, because it came out like a fairy scene. The palms and the white clouds in the blue sky were beautiful. It had been a sunny day, and no one would ever pick that the foreground was mudit all looked sparkling and bright. Dargaville was standing there looking a bit angry and grubby, and rather out of keeping with his surroundings. We told him that it looked just like Paradise, and you should have heard him go to town. Mac had always been quick to see material for a good bite. Soon things became so quiet that we all began to speculate about what was coming next for us. Each day there was a different rumour—we were going forward, we were going back to industry, we were to have

a short rest, and then onward and upward . . . Those who always believed the latest soon didn’t know whether they had been punched or bored. Still, we all knew that Mac was usually first with the dope, so we pricked up our ears when he came in looking worked up about something. “ This will please you,” he said, looking straight at Dargaville. “ I’ve just had a straight tip we’re going to another island.” “ What ! They can’t . . . ” “ Hold on, Dargaville, it won’t be so bad. They tell me that this is going to be a great

place. It is without question the most beautiful island of the Pacific. The sun shines all day, the scenery is just as Fitzpatrick says, the natives are friendly . . . ” “ Don’t feed me that hooey ! ” Dargaville yelled angrily. and they even have a gumdigging industry there.” “ They can’t have. Where is it ? ” Dargaville asked suspiciously. Mac smiled at the roof of the tent, then said softly : “ The North Island of New Zealand, my boy ! ”

MOPPING UP

The final flare-up with the Japs was a week past, and making a camp was the current job. Our bit of bush was like any other, until we cleared out the smaller stuff under the spreading boughs of the big trees. The trucks lurched in and dumped the gear in a heap, like a glorious secondhand shop. A temporary cookhouse smoked away, and the fellows parked round anywhere in their pup tents. The sergeant-major took a slasher and laid out the camp, though all we could see was camouflage tape running here and there through the bush. However, we found our tent site, and cleared a patch about 10 yards square. We were going to be comfortable this time, and wanted to pitch the tent high, to get plenty of head room. We hopped out to get some long poles from the bush. The only tool I could get was a saw, and we wandered along looking for straight pieces, which aren’t too common.

I was alone, sizing a piece up, and wondering whether it would do, when I heard Jim blundering through, and turned to ask him. It wasn’t Jim, though. The fellow was standing there, 10 yards off, looking at me, and I could hardly realize that he was a Jap. I remembered later that in this fraction of a second my only feeling was curiosity, and I think he felt the same. Then our minds ticked over, and he ducked back the way he’d come. I yelled something and rushed after him. I must have had my saw in my handin fact, nothing was according to Hoyle. I saw his green back disappearing ahead of me once, but I lost him, so dashed back to camp and gave the alarm. A patrol was out within five minutes, but they found nothing. Those extra patrols and pickets lasted three days, and, of course, every one thought I’d been seeing things. It was a darned nuisance, and I stopped a lot of abuse. Then a Nip was spotted

by the other company, a mile and a half away, and I regained face. It would be a week later that Jim and I , were roused by a blood-freezing howl in the small hours of the morning. Jim said, “ Those blasted dogs again.” The night before they had kept us awake an hour, and finished by baling up a sow and litter. It had sounded like a slaughterhouse. This time I got out and saw a small white shape trotting off into the bush. Another melancholy howl came from this spot, and it was answered by others in different parts of the camp. The devils were passing through in extended formation. Jim said, “ Come on, I’m going to fix them,” and I stuck on my boots. He took his Tommy gun, which was his pride and joy, and I had my rifle. We’d found only that day that it was an open season for these curs, but we’d have gone in any case. We could hear them about 50 yards away now, and hopped smartly after them. It was a bright, clear night. Native gardens had been here and there, and these glades seemed as light as day. Under the trees, though, it- was as black as your hat, and heavy going. At one point I jumped up on a log, and sunk up to my waist in rotten wood, crawling with ants. We kept following those howls, but the dogs were trotting along easily, and I’m hanged if we didn’t lose them. We listened, and couldn’t pick up a thing. We’d come a good half mile, and were out of familiar territory. I must have been round here myself, on patrol, but

it looked different by night. . We moved up to the edge of a still clearing. The moon shone down, and the wet leaves glittered on the trees. The night was loud with the barking of little toads, like cicades in summer. On the other side of the clearing was one of those abandoned native huts, a low-pitched thing of slats and leaf. Half of it was hidden in the pitch darkness of a huge tree, but the rest was deckled with brilliant light. A doorway showed, a menacing black patch. We both thought the samewhat a likely place for a Jap straggler ! Jim whispered : “ I’ll go inyou cover me.” We edged round under the trees, then I settled down while Jim crept on. It was ridiculous to let the feel of the place work us up like this, but something made us both feel on edge. Jim stepped up to the door quickly, and slipped in with his Tommy gun ready. Even then it was a shock when it happened. Jim roared “ Got you ! ” and let go. I heard some kind of screams, then the bursts blotted out the rest of the uproar. Then there was silence, while I waited, tense behind the sights. It was Jim who appeared in the doorway. His voice was unsteady as he said, “ Come and look at this.” I felt white round the gills, as the last Japs I had seen hadn’t been pretty, but I went. At the far end of the hut were the remains of four motheaten mongrels. We could say that we had attained our objective, anyway.

ONE JUMP AHEAD

The strip had endless fascination for us, and we hitched 'a ride up there whenever we could. There was the usual complex activity as we wandered about this morning. Stripped-down planes in the revetments received the attention of sunburned repair gangs, who worked bare to the waist and streamed with perspiration. Jeeps bowled along the dusty coral roads, and fighters snarled overhead as they took off or came in to land. Jap-held territory was only a few minutes’ flight away, and we’d have given anything to get out on a patrol. Some had managed it on the quiet, until a shot-up plane had to land at an island a few hundred miles away with a New Zealand passenger who was hard to account for. Now any one caught like this would be in for real trouble. Bombers were warming up at the end of the field, and as we walked over they were taxi-ing out into position one by one. In one of the bays the crew was climbing into a plane named “ Pistol Packin’ Momma,” with the lady herself painted on its fuselage. “ Hell, wish we could go along ! ” Jim growled. The pilot was up in the nose, and before we knew what was happening Jim had caught his eye, and, on a sudden impulse, he gave a hitch-hiker’s jerk with his thumb. The pilot nodded, and Jim scrambled in the door as the engine revved up and the plane roared out on to the runway. “ Well, for crying out loud ! ” Mac said faintly. We looked round anxiously, but no one seemed to have noticed. Bombers were now racing down the glaring, white strip one after the other, each one despatched by the flicker of a green light from the control tower. Soon it was “ Pistol Packin’ Momma’s ” turn, and she showered us with grit as she tore into the long run.

Inside the plane Jim had a large yellow life-jacket bundled to him, and stuffed himself into it, and blocked his ears with cotton-wool. He was only half adjusted when they were pelting down the strip. They went unbelievably fast, and he felt as he did when a kid on the switchback railway—as soon as

it had started he had thought : “ Let me out, I didn’t really mean to come ! ” Then the palms at the side began to drop out of view, and there was a smooth feeling which meant that they were airborne. The sensation of speed vanished as they circled to get into formation. Already the strip seemed a mere white ribbon, and the island didn’t look at all bad from the air. There were divebombers going out on this job as well, and it was quite a flight by the time that they had all arranged themselves, and they struck off over the sea in stately order. In a few minutes they reached the mainland, and they flew up that large narrow island, crossing from coast to coast several times. Jim clearly made out walled native gardens and a village far below. “ It’s about time we were there,” he thought. The ack-ack caught him quite off guard. Silent puffs appeared above them in quick groups, with a white flash like the glint of a mirror at the core of each. Already, ahead, the dive-bombers were hurtling down in formation—-a breathtaking sight. To the left one of their own group wavered, them began to go down hit. In rapid succession the rest of them went into a steep dive. Unbroken green jungle came up fast, until they levelled off at great speed and shot towards a large untidy clearing on a point. Already this jap airfield was shrouded with dust and smoke, but Jim had a confused picture of splintered palm trunks and a runway pitted with old craters. The bomb load was released, and the plane wove its way from side to side down the strip, while the gunners gave it all they had. Jim had a glimpse of one Jap gun spitting up from an emplacement in the plantation. They reached the end of the field, when the floor seemed to come at them, and he thought desperately : “ They’ve hit us 1 ” The plane had dived right down to the level of the sea, and was skimming out across the waves to avoid fire. When they were well out they climbed lazily into the blue, and joined up with a couple of others for the quiet run back.

Jim is not a jumpy type, but he found himself pretty white and shaky, and when they had taxied to a stop on the home ground his legs were strangely weak as he climbed down to the hard coral. We were waiting for him, and our one thought was to hustle him away before he was seen. He wanted to talk, but Mac growled : “ Shut up, you mug ! We’ve got to get you out of here ! ” We hadn’t got far from the bomber when Mac almost winded us both with a jab in the ribs. A peep was drawn up at the edge of the field, with a provost officer sitting in it. Thanks to a previous incident he knew us well, and was watching us as we came along. We changed our direction casually, and as soon as we reached a road we hailed a passing truck, and beat it smartly back to camp. It had been a narrow squeak, but it looked as though we had come out of it all right. There was no holding Jim back now, and as soon as we were in the tent he held forth about it all. As he finished his tale we heard a peep pull up at the Headquarters tent, and when Mac went and glanced out we saw his back stiffen. “ It’s that provost, and he’s talking to Bill ! ” he exclaimed. Bill was our platoon commander, and a great chap. Soon Bill looked in the tent and said, “ Are you there, Jim ? Here a minute ! ”

Jim got up slowly, then stepped out to the flap with a reckless air. “ All right, sir, I know what it’s about,” he said. “ Yes, I’ve been up on a raid this morning. Always wanted to since they opened the strip.” The provost was there with Bill, and there was a bit of a silence, while they both looked rather taken back. The provost glanced at Bill, then said to Jim, “ Hm, you know that’s a court-martial offence ? We don’t want you shot down on a sightseeing flight when you may be useful to the Army some day ” (a dirty crack, that). “ Actually what I came down about is a missing peep. It was taken from the runway shortly after I saw you up there, so I wondered whether you had seen it pass you. It had “ chaplain ” labelled right across the windshield. Know anything about it ? ” We didn’t, and he said “ okay ! ” and left, but only after giving Bill a long and meaning look. “ Come along with me, Jim ! ” said Bill ominously. Jim followed sheepishly, and when he came back a quarter of an hour later he still looked much the same way, except that his face was red as well by that time. When he liked, Bill could give a good dressing down. “ No, it won’t be a court-martial this time,” Jim grumbled to our questions, “ But I won’t be going on any more plane trips.” Then he added thoughtfully, “ But I wasn’t going to, in any case, the way they scared me this morning ! ”