Close to the Wind E-Book

David B. Hill

• Herausgeber: Huia Publishers
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

In May 1940, a group of Auckland yachtsmen who were members of the Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve left for the war. Leonard Hill, a young Maori sailor, and his friends arrived in Singapore under siege. Playing to their strengths as small boat sailors, they manned fast motor launches, raiding and rescuing Allies from behind enemy lines. On the night of 13 February 1942, the eve of the fall of Singapore, they took two Fairmiles, ML310 and ML311, to evacuate members of the Allied High Command and survivors of sinking vessels. Hunted down by the Japanese, most of the almost one hundred men perished. Some became POWs, and of those who attempted to escape, only three succeeded: Leonard Hill, Herbert 'Johnny' Bull and Andrew Brough. This is the story of how they evaded the Japanese and survived.

Leseprobe

First published in 2019 by Huia Publishers

39 Pipitea Street, PO Box 12280

Wellington, Aotearoa New Zealand

www.huia.co.nz

ISBN 978-1-77550-349-1 (print)

ISBN 978-1-77550-368-2 (EPUB)

ISBN 978-1-77550-368-2 (Kindle)

Copyright © David B Hill 2019

Cover images: Map of the East Indies © Wikimedia Commons

Tea stain © ArtsyBee / Pixabay.com

Anchor vector © Yuri Chuprakov / Shutterstock

ML403 (on back cover above map) © RNZN Museum

All other images © David Hill

The haka ‘Ka Mate’, on pages 65, 66 and 189, was composed by Te Rauparaha, who was a chief of Ngāti Toa Rangatira.

This book is copyright. Apart from fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without the prior permission of the publisher.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand.

Published with the assistance of

Ebook conversion 2019 by meBooks

It is little known that among those New Zealanders who sailed off to war in 1940 was a group of 244 ratings from the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve (New Zealand Division), many of them only teenaged.

Even less known is what happened to them.

Tama tū, tama oraTama noho, tama mate.

He who stands lives.He who sits perishes.

Contents

01A Place Desired by Many

02Somewhere Else

03Heat

04Blows against Empire

05Rising Storm

06We Will Give You Swords

07Bangka

08Marooned

09Hope

10Desperate Voyage

11Java

12Tjilatjap

13Verspijk

14Return to Eden

Epilogue

Afterword

Appendix 1: Crew and Passengers – ML310

Appendix 2: Photographs

Acknowledgements

Index

Wavell thought the Japanese would attack from the west; Percival thought they would attack the Naval Base. Wavell was right, and the poorly supported Australians bore the brunt.

WIKIMEDIA COMMONS

1

A Place Desired by Many

Because no part of Auckland is far from the sea, young Len Hill needed to travel only a couple of miles from his home in Mount Eden in order to reach it, which he did whenever he was able. He took the tram to Ponsonby, then walked down College Hill from Three Lamps and along past the Gas Company and Victoria Park to the edge of the harbour. He liked it best when the tide was out and he was able to walk – it seemed for miles – around the harbour edge, running his hands along the cliff face, tracing the serpentine geology of the shoreline. He explored beneath the contortions of massive pōhutukawa whose trunks hung impossibly from the cliffs above, or he wandered out along the mudflats between ramshackle wharves that had been allowed to stretch out into the bay, turning over stones and shells and odd bits of jetsam, looking for marine life. When the tide was full, he stood on the wharves and watched people fishing, and boatmen working the busy waterside of the old harbour, in air that offered the occasional rich mix of odours: salt, decomposing seaweed, fish in various stages of decay, paint and turpentine. A marine industry had built up along Beaumont Street, and Len would wander past the many boatyards, dawdling around the gates with curiosity, then make his way to the modest yacht clubs belonging to local communities, with names like Ponsonby, Victoria and Richmond, and watch the yachties work on their boats. Between the yacht clubs and the boatyards, beneath the cliff at Saint Mary’s Bay, stood a new, somewhat temporary-looking building next to a sliver of unused land left over after the reclamation of adjacent Freemans Bay. The building was more of a big shed built on stilts, standing in the water and accessible by a precarious staircase leading down the cliff face from the street above. The locals knew this stairway as Jacob’s Ladder. To Len, as to most, the building below was a place distinguished only by some signage referring to the Navy.

He spent as much of his free time as he could messing around the shoreline, and he was rarely alone. The boys that hung around the Saint Mary’s Bay waterfront in the 1930s were an odd assortment. There was Jackie Hayward, and two brothers who both answered to the name of Mac. There were a couple of Grammar boys from Epsom, one with a perpetual smile whose name Len didn’t know and the other a skinny, sandy-haired boy with whom Len connected the way small boys do, competing to skim stones the furthest distances, to climb higher up the cliff or out onto a pōhutukawa branch. Jack Hulbert was an only child who lived on Mountain Road in a big villa with a tennis court. He only looked undernourished. Jack had a yacht.

Len began to spend less time on the waterfront and more time on the water sailing in Jack’s yacht, and, unsurprisingly, the friendship between the two prospered. Between them, they managed to raise twenty-five pounds and pay top price for a brand-new type of sailing dinghy called a Swift, marked with the conspicuous registration Z1.

Throughout the summers of the late 1930s, Jack and Len would take off into the outer Gulf, beyond Waiheke to Rakino and Ponui, sometimes for days. Or as long as the baked beans lasted. There was always somebody they knew out there somewhere, and they came across others they recognised often. It might be a day at Motukorea, picnicking on the beach, when some of the boys brought their girlfriends. Many times they were out overnight, rafted together in some bay. Practical lads, Len and Jack hoisted a canvas over the boom, which served very adequately as shelter. Occasionally they would sleep ashore: under the macrocarpas on Motutapu was a favourite choice. There they could lie on the soft forest floor, and the air was redolent with the aroma of pine. The breeze would hiss through the trees, and from the bay below came the sound of waves breaking. When they chose not to anchor in some rocky cove, they might raise the keel and let the boat settle on sand. If they didn’t troll for kahawai, they would drop a line somewhere or winkle mussels from the rocks. The best of days were spent fishing at the Noises, or around Rakino, diving for scallops in the shallow waters then, as the sun went down, baking them open on corrugated iron over a fire.

They spotted shooting stars and named the constellations.

And they sailed.

Even in the late thirties, the combustion engine was still, for many, a technology beyond reach. Sail was king on the Gulf, and the boys revelled in the freedom it gave them. There was nothing like the sound of an anchor chain being hauled over the gunwale. It didn’t matter in what direction they headed as long as they tasted salt on their lips and felt the wind on their backs and the sun on their faces. There was nothing like hoisting the little headsail and sheeting everything in hard. Nothing quite matched the thrill of sailing close to the wind.

★ ★ ★

Len often sat at the bottom of Jacob’s Ladder, curious about the building standing in the water of Saint Mary’s Bay, and watched boys sail in and out of the bay in a whaleboat that was apparently stored inside. One day in the early spring of 1939, he was sitting there watching when a tall bloke, whom he had seen frequently on the waterfront, walked straight up the beach and stood in front of him. Confronted by this person, who stood head and shoulders above him, Len was forced to squint, trying to get the tall boy’s measure. Big ears. With the bright sun radiating from behind his head, they glowed bright red.

‘Gidday,’ said the boy. ‘If you want to, why don’t you come and have a look?’

With barely a moment’s hesitation Len said yes, and they made their way along the beach, Len hopping first to the left then to the right, and skipping a couple of times to keep up with the long strides of his companion. He introduced himself.

‘Leonard,’ said Len rather formally, and thrust out a hand.

‘Bill, mate,’ said his companion out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Call me Lofty.’

You don’t say, thought Len.

The two boys shook hands.

‘Gidday. Can I come too?’

Someone appeared beside them, out of nowhere. It was the other Grammar boy, the one with the perpetual grin.

Lofty did the introductions.

‘Lofty. Len.’

‘Tim,’ said the boy. They acknowledged one other with a handshake.

‘Gidday.’

‘Gidday.’

Tim looked at Len.

‘Yeah, seen you hanging around here. Spot that haircut a mile off. Where do you live?’ he asked.

Len’s face reddened, and he hastened to hide his embarrassment. Bloody haircut. Why did his mother have to use a bowl?

‘Mount Eden. Kowhai Street, near the school.’

‘Epsom,’ said Tim. ‘I live in Epsom. Other side of the mountain.’

‘You coming or what?’ said Lofty.

They went inside. Rectangular with wooden floors, most of the interior was a gymnasium-like space, festooned in places with ropes hanging from the rafters, flags hanging around the walls, including the Union Jack, Naval Ensign, and other memorabilia. A wooden horse and other exercise equipment were stacked neatly in one corner. Len guessed that a locker room and ablution block were down a corridor, judging from the sounds of laughter and running water that echoed back. He noticed the sign on the back wall. The place was the Royal Navy Volunteer Reserve (Auckland Division) Headquarters; it was called Ngapona. He could not help but be impressed, and he smiled.

They met a few of the other boy sailors, and Len and Tim learned a bit about the Naval Reserve before Len noticed the clock. Somehow time had flown, and if he didn’t get home in time his dinner would be cold, and so would be the reception. He hurriedly explained to Lofty and Tim, made his apologies then left, but as he gained pace walking back past the gasworks he heard his name called. Turning, he found Tim in hot pursuit.

‘Thanks, mate. I might as well head home too. We can share a tram to Symonds Street if you like.’

Tim talked, laughed and puffed all at the same time, and Len smiled to himself as they walked up College Hill. Tim’s surname turned out to be Hill too, so they talked about that for a while, exploring the possibility that perhaps they were related, a couple of generations back: strangers in a strange land and that sort of thing. Tim had six siblings and, like Jack Hulbert, also went to Grammar.

The two of them got on the tram at Three Lamps, found a seat and continued chatting, about Ngapona, Lofty, and the boy sailors they had just met. Len thought they all seemed like good blokes, and by the time the two boys reached the stop in Symonds Street, he was looking forward to seeing them again.

‘See you later,’ he said as they separated at the tram stop.

‘Not if I see you first,’ replied Tim. He swung down from the still moving tram and made straight towards an attractive girl dressed in an overcoat and clutching a small red handbag, who was leaning against the tram shelter. Just as they seemed about to meet up, another tram arrived and obscured Len’s view, so he sat there wondering until his tram reached Valley Road and he got off.

He bubbled with excitement as he told his parents where he had been and what he had seen. He could see that as they had been caught up in his enthusiasm, they had overlooked his lateness, as he had hoped, so he kept talking. In fact, the experience was the subject of his conversation for the entire following week, at the end of which his brother and sister were imploring him to change the subject. When, a fortnight later, he came home exhausted after an afternoon’s sailing with Jack Hulbert and announced he wanted to join the Reserve, it did not come as a surprise to anyone, and his parents offered no objection. On the contrary, they recognised a passion in him they had not seen before, and were glad for it. Furthermore, Len was just about to turn nineteen, and his brother Bill, three years his senior, had already joined the Territorials, so it would have been difficult for them to refuse. He did notice though troubled looks pass between them and a tone of resignation in their voices. He was aware through reading the newspaper and listening to other people’s conversations that there was the possibility of another European war, but his parents gave their consent, and that was all that mattered to him.

★ ★ ★

On 14 August 1939, Len, Lofty and one of the McVinnie boys joined the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, and their lives changed irrevocably.

On 01 September ‘Naval Mobilization Emergency Regulations’ had been published, which included a statement that there was ‘no obligation to report on any member of the Reserve’. All summonses would be individual. On 02 September shipping controls and coastal surveillance networks had been established, and a few sailors of the Reserve found themselves being sent to man coast watch stations and defensive gun emplacements. Ships began to be requisitioned. On 03 September, Lt Newell and four ratings assumed a twenty-four-hour watch at Ngapona, to prepare for call-up. The die was cast with the declaration of war on 04 September.

On 22 September 1939, Len turned nineteen.

That same day, the New Zealand Minister of Defence felt obliged to publicly reiterate that ‘Naval personnel, including trained Reservists, should continue in regular employment and would be called up if and when required.’ It was a signal to do nothing.

An extraordinary number of the waterfront gang had enlisted in the Reserve. Apart from Len and Lofty Neville, both the McVinnies were now in, as well as the three Jacks: Hayward, Hulbert and Kindred. Alistair McArthur was in, and Tim Hill. Because Len and Tim had common surnames, they were given consecutive service numbers, A1888 and A1889, and so would often share duties. Some people even thought of them as brothers.

The training establishment ran a rigorous programme three nights a week, and the trainers were all typically barnacle-encrusted ex-members of the various elements of the Royal Navy: paternal figures, many with combat experience in the Great War, who imbued in the young men over time a solid foundation of basic seamanship and a keen spirit of competition. Len now disappeared for most of every week, and not just to the Reserve Headquarters at Saint Mary’s Bay, but also to the Naval Base at Devonport. The boy sailors were involved in drills as well as sailing, where Len quickly revealed his enthusiasm and aptitude, especially in competition with the other crews. There were weekly parades and inspections. On Saturdays there were classes in signals, navigation and gunnery, and competitions in shooting, sailing or rowing. They played rugby. They boxed, a sport at which Tim Hill, a Grammar school champion, excelled. Regattas were opportunities to measure their performance against others, especially the great Anniversary Day regatta in January of 1940, and the boys especially liked racing against civilian crews: gentlemen yacht clubs in particular. Here Jack Hulbert excelled, as did Len, who by this time had confidence enough to seek positions on other people’s boats, and had a reputation for being quick, smart and generally available. In one particular race on Anniversary Day, he showed great skill and seamanship in beating a faster boat with an experienced crew belonging to the Royal New Zealand Yacht Squadron. He had found his element. It was the start of a lifetime’s relationship with the sea.

Elsewhere, in real life, the effects of the Depression still prevailed, and the boys were often hungry, had no work and typically walked to and from training. Apart from teaching skills, the Reserve also offered relief and gave whatever welfare it could afford to those who needed it. It introduced a tram fare subsidy, if only one-way, and provided tea, milk, sugar and other food supplements to improve the wellbeing of the ratings. The Officers themselves contributed to this fund.

Saturday night in summer would often end in a dance, and Ngapona earned a reputation as a dance venue, with modest suppers and interesting themes. Sometimes the boys would finish their Saturday at the Mission to Seamen charitable institution, helping the padre for the sake of a free seat to watch a picture.

On one such night, a week after the Anniversary Day regatta, Len arrived late to the darkened room in which the film had already started. In the flickering light of the projector, he squeezed past a couple of people and took his seat, waiting for his eyes to adjust. When he looked about himself, to his surprise he found he was sitting next to the attractive girl he had noticed at Tim’s tram stop. He leaned forward and looked to the person seated on her other side, and he discovered Tim looking straight back at him, smiling broadly. Len wasn’t sure, but he thought Tim winked at him, and he shook his head in disbelief. The crafty devil had smuggled his girlfriend into the film. He himself wouldn’t have had the courage. Not that it mattered, since he didn’t have a girlfriend.

At the end, the three left the room before the lights went up and headed towards the tram. Tim introduced his girlfriend. ‘Len, this is Ava. Ava, this is Len. I told you about him: the bloke with the pudding-bowl haircut.’

‘Tim!’ retorted Ava, and turned to Len, saying, ‘Don’t let him tease you.’

‘I don’t,’ replied Len, thinking how glad he was that he’d been able to pay for his own haircuts lately.

‘But he knows how to sail,’ Tim continued. ‘You remember, I told you how he luffed the Squadron crew right out of Saturday’s race. He was all over them.’

Ava looked at Len as they walked. ‘What’s luff mean?’ she asked, with a low, rich laugh. She had a real grace about her. Len began to understand how Tim had fallen under her spell.

★ ★ ★

The boy sailors continued to receive extensive training in whaleboat and pinnace manoeuvres, signalling, and gun and rifle competitions, largely ignoring the events in Europe that had filled headlines for months. The highlight of their training came with the annual parade of inspection, when Reservists publicly demonstrated their standards of efficiency, smartness and discipline. The parade marched down Queen Street to great applause and along Fanshawe Street to Victoria Park, where the general public was able to watch the review. The Rear Admiral and his party arrived from Devonport by pinnace and disembarked at Saint Mary’s Bay. It was a proud occasion for all. Len saw his parents in the crowd, his mother, Kate, a proud Māori woman immaculate in her favourite mauve suit, with overcoat, hat and gloves, and Arthur, his father, his skinny Irish frame hidden inside a blue pinstripe suit and tie. He thought he could see his sister, Joy, in the crowd, but there was no mistaking Bill dressed in his army uniform, beaming at him from the crowd, and sporting a black eye! Len looked forward to finding out how his brother acquired that.

He gave his all to the occasion for the sake of his parents. As Lord Galway offered some words, most of which drifted on the wind away from the crowd’s hearing, he contemplated the importance to him of all the other people in his life. Not only his family and friends. He thought of the boys he was standing beside. Within the Reserve, the idea that everybody mattered was fundamental; it ensured that some of his friendships would transcend the ordinary and endure.

That night he stood studying a decorative print that hung in the house beside the telephone seat in the hall. It was a popular engraving called ‘The Mission boat accompanying a New Zealand war expedition’, recorded by the Reverend Henry Williams when he and others were travelling in a mission vessel with the tauā, hoping to intercede and prevent bloodshed. As a child, Len would climb up onto a chair and stare, rapt, at the detail of the image, thinking about the challenges of seamanship and survival. The thing that constantly engaged him – then, as it did now – was the paddlers. They lined the rauawa of every waka in massed symmetry, straining forward in an attitude of great intensity, every paddle raised in unison, reaching in collective readiness for the stroke. He could feel the spray on his face.

On the back he had found an inscription, written in pencil in an elegant Victorian hand. It read ‘Titore and Ururoa, travelling in long distance war canoes to raid Tauranga’. The unusual symmetry of the word Ururoa caught his attention. He rolled it around in his mouth trying to articulate it, managing the four syllables in the end. He returned the picture to the wall properly and stood staring at it for a moment more. Who were Titore and Ururoa, and how did this picture come to be in the house at all?

2

Somewhere Else

Auckland in spring is a benign and pleasant place. Days lengthen and temperatures warm. Seasonal winds lighten and shift more easterly, and on the best days the air is still, and the sea in the inner gulf swells a little then troughs slightly as if breathing in a gentle slumber. Visibility is infinite from the mountainsides, where late daffodils seek the sun from beneath the shade of native trees, and little boats can be seen flitting across the water of the inner harbour. Across the city’s ridges and valleys, exotic species begin their bud-burst to add more colour to the thousand shades of green. Ordinarily the mood would be relaxed, even a little soporific, as people turned their faces to the sun, drank tea and dreamed of summer’s arrival.

But now, the country was preparing for war. In Saint Mary’s Bay the mood was not so much one of rising tension as it was of increasing confusion. The eagerness and enthusiasm that the boy sailors brought to their training became routine, while the government’s September instruction to do nothing and carry on their normal lives stretched into the new year, and began to erode their ambition and morale. Few had any understanding of what was going on behind the scenes, but their predicament became clearer one day when they were called to muster at Ngapona to be addressed by the Senior Officer of the Reserve.

Inside, everyone was absorbed in eager expectation, and the babble of conversation only subsided when the officers entered the hall and the boys were instructed to sit, an informality that surprised them. The informality continued when their leader, Lieutenant Commander Charles Palmer, came from behind the lectern to address them. At this point silence descended. The boy sailors held the man in the highest regard, not only because of his reputation and impressive service record in the Great War, but because of his nurturing, paternal manner. He wasn’t called ‘the Old Man’ for nothing. Among the other officers of the Reserve sitting on the podium was his son, also called Charles.

‘Gentlemen,’ Palmer began, pausing while his audience settled. ‘What I am about to tell you will be welcomed by some, and will disappoint others. Such is the nature of service. Be that what it may, what I expect from you all is understanding and compliance. Am I understood?’

‘Aye aye, sir!’ The assembled body shouted the reply in resounding unison.

Palmer turned to face his fellow officers and offered them a subtle smile before turning back to face his audience again.

‘We are members of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, albeit of the New Zealand Division.’ Here, the sailors raised a cheer.

Palmer continued, loudly, ‘Unfortunately’ – now he paused for effect, and quiet quickly ensued – ‘Unfortunately, that means that decisions that matter most to us, to each and every one of us, are made in Britain, and are made according to circumstances that are largely beyond our comprehension, and certainly beyond our control.’

Now he had their undivided attention. The boys began to sense that they were listening to something important. They hung on every word.

‘Extraordinary events are unfolding, and the resolution of these matters is complex and takes time. That is why the Minister of Defence has asked us to carry on as normal, and await further instructions. It does not mean’ – now he was staring intently at the crowd of faces, making direct eye contact with as many as he could – ‘It does not mean that we relax in our training or that we will be relieved of any expectation of service in the future. Am I understood?’

‘Aye aye, sir!’

The Old Man continued. ‘Gentlemen, there is something else that you need to understand.’ He looked intently at them, to ensure they were paying attention. ‘The Navy is not called the “senior service” for nothing. Within the service, there exists a Regular Navy, a Naval Reserve, a Volunteer Reserve, even a Supplementary Reserve, and each force is defined according to a strict hierarchy in which we Volunteer Reservists are near the bottom.’

He paused, again for effect, and took a draught of water from his glass.

‘You should know that during the last war’ – he looked back at his senior officers, several of whom were nodding sagely – ‘members of the Reserve finished up serving in the trenches! Indeed, I believe General Freyberg, who is to command our army, commanded a regiment of the Naval Division which fought at Gallipoli and on the Western front!’

Palmer let the gravity of what he had told them sink in. Among those on the podium, one or two were now looking at the floor, not nodding but shaking their heads. The boys murmured among themselves. Tim and Len looked at one another, frowning. What was the Old Man getting at?

‘The simple fact of the matter was, while during the Great War we had a trained Reserve, we did not have the boats!’

Some of the boys laughed out loud at the absurdity of it. Len, on the other hand, thought it grotesque, and immediately thought the Commander was preparing them for the worst: for the possibility they would become some appendage of the army, or some land-based fighting unit.

‘Do not worry, gentlemen. This would be a most unlikely outcome at this present moment in time.’

‘Yeah, but he hasn’t said it won’t happen,’ whispered Tim out the side of his mouth.

‘It won’t happen because we need you now more than ever. We need you now more than ever because, against my advice, the Minister disestablished List 2. So now, when we most need trained and experienced people, hundreds of skilled Navy Reservists have been let go. No longer with us. “Surplus to requirements”!’

The Commander spat out the last three words – the phrase invoked by the Minister in 1936 to justify the termination of List 2 – waving his finger in the air. He walked slowly across the podium then turned and walked back again. Len sensed a struggle for control. Then the Commander refocussed and engaged with them once more, looking at length and carefully at the crowd of faces, every one of which looked keenly back at him.

‘Now some of you – many of you – will doubtless find yourselves serving in remote places, absorbed into the Royal Navy and given tasks that you will find unfamiliar and challenging. Do not lose sight of who you are. You are New Zealanders. You are practical men, and you will adapt. Whatever happens in the future, do not lose faith, gentlemen. Do not abandon your commitment. Take pride in your uniform. It tells everybody that we are volunteers. We are the Wavy Navy. If all else fails – heaven forbid – you will find everybody will be looking to you for their salvation. Do not disappoint me. The truth is, you young men are more important than ever. You are the future of what we all hope’ – here he gestured towards the men who sat behind him – ‘we all hope will one day be a Royal New Zealand Navy.’

There was absolute silence once more, as the boys contemplated exactly what was being implied. Commander Palmer raised his voice. ‘So you will leave this assembly and dedicate yourselves to being the best you can be, no matter when or where you find yourselves. Am I understood?’

‘Aye aye, sir!’

‘You will train your hardest, and, when called upon, you will acquit yourselves to the best of your considerable abilities.’

Lofty nudged his two mates at the compliment.

‘You will make this country proud. Am I understood?’

‘Aye aye, sir!’

‘Thank you, gentlemen. God bless you all.’

The Chief Petty Officer stood and called the assembly to order: ‘Ten ’hut!’

The boys leapt to their feet and sprang to attention.

Palmer stared at his charges briefly, then spun on his heel, left the podium and strode off down the hall behind and disappeared from sight.

The boys were given brief instructions to report as usual according to standing orders, and were summarily dismissed. They did not disperse, and instead hung around in small groups, animatedly discussing what their commander had said. By the time Len got home, it was late. He found his mother in the kitchen keeping his dinner warm in the oven. He ate alone and in silence, and his mother said nothing.

★ ★ ★

Len’s signing up had thrust change upon the family, and family life changed further when Bill was drafted into an artillery unit. Both he and Len found themselves engrossed in the routines of training, while all around them – in conversation, in the newspapers, in the streets, in rail yards and on the wharves – the tempo of activity rose to meet the increasing challenge of organising men and material. The boys found themselves among the ever-growing number of servicemen appearing on city streets, proudly conscious of their uniformed appearance. Len and Lofty, the short and the tall, often found reason to walk down Queen Street in their ‘Number Ones’, formal dress uniform, to be flattered in no small way by the comments of passers-by. One refrain in particular became familiar: ‘Good on yer, mate.’

When Len looked to see who was offering these compliments, he was struck by the fact that many – no, most – were probably survivors of the Great War. But it was the sideways glances and glistening smiles of young women that the boys found particularly engaging. Once they were grabbed in passing outside Milne’s, where a street photographer had his pitch, and had to accede to being photographed with a group of young women who thought a couple of uniformed sailor boys ideal props. Who were they to refuse?

★ ★ ★

For naval personnel the period became known as the ‘Mobilisation Fiasco’. As the lengthy mobilisation procedures ran their course, the boy sailors, unwitting victims, continued to train. Tim called it ‘the gestation’.

In spite of the fact that the New Zealand Division got only a modest share of Royal Naval resources, the young men at Ngapona thrived on training with what they were given, and were gaining all the confidence and self-reliance they needed to succeed as seamen. They had their heroes. Len’s personal hero was Frank Worsley from Akaroa, Captain of the Endurance, who had navigated a small boat for over two weeks across nearly a thousand miles of violent Southern Ocean to save the life and reputation of Ernest Shackleton and ensure the rescue of his crew. Whenever Len was out on the water and the weather got nasty, he thought of Frank Worsley. William Sanders was another hero. His daring exploits in his Q-ship Prize in the Great War expressed exactly the spirit of adventure and lack of convention that characterised the average New Zealander, in Len’s mind. He was the only New Zealander awarded the naval Victoria Cross, and the boy sailors of Ngapona held him in great esteem. When Len discovered there was a memorial plaque and a bust of Sanders hidden in a modest niche in the entrance to the Auckland Town Hall, he took Tim and Lofty to see it.

Within three months of the outbreak of war, part of the First New Zealand Echelon had departed for Britain, followed by the main group in January 1940, totalling over 6500 officers and men. Conversation around the dinner table turned over these subjects, and the family tracked the progress of that first convoy through the necessarily vague newspaper reports on a small school atlas.

Surprisingly it wasn’t Bill but Len who received his orders first. After all the months of routine training and frustrating rumours being circulated, Len, Lofty, Tim and their friends suddenly found themselves called to muster.

Len sensed the occasion when he arrived at the bottom of Franklin Road to see a stream of other young sailors hurrying across Victoria Park towards Ngapona to be handed a mobilisation order. Everybody got one. No one was left out. The Reserve was to be included in the Second Echelon, and would be departing within weeks. Furthermore, all the boys, Len and Tim included, found they had been designated as candidates for Scheme B, which offered a commission to experienced yachtsmen if they succeeded in satisfying the standards. Being nineteen, Len was at the bottom of the age requirement for potential officer training, which would be lengthy. In truth, Len wasn’t sure if that was what he wanted, but both Kate and Arthur were deeply impressed. Strangely, when the mobilisation slips were distributed, the anticipated elation among the boys turned into something quite unexpected. Most of the glamour around those who left on the first echelon had subsided, and while many were relieved at the clarity if nothing else, others were subdued, and a number were silent. Len turned amid the desultory atmosphere of half cheers and one or two flying hats to catch Tim’s eye. They shook hands and patted each other on the shoulder.

‘Good on you, mate!’

‘Good luck, mate.’

‘Yeah, good luck, eh?’

At home, things shifted in equal measure. When Len’s brother, Bill, received mobilisation orders the excitement and the glamour amounted to nothing, and home became a sombre place, the atmosphere almost depressed.

Bill knew he was called Bill after a late uncle, but as younger boys, he and Len had been largely shielded from the truth behind their four uncles’ wartime experiences, though small objects and memorabilia tucked away on mantle shelves pricked their curiosity, and hushed conversations about poor Jack, poor Bill or poor Charlie similarly attracted their interest. Now, when the boys were in uniform, about to embark, and talking about their future, the family’s experiences of the Great War began to insinuate themselves into conversation. The brothers were taken into the confidence of their elders; they listened to previously undisclosed realities, too painful or grievous to have ever been mentioned before.

Kate fussed about the kitchen, busied herself weeding the vegetable garden or stood endlessly stoking and stirring the copper in the wash house. Arthur, as always, tended to silence, sitting on the steps to his basement workshop with the sun on his back, concentrating hard on the delicate art of rolling a cigarette. His health had prevented him from service in the Great War, and he felt inadequate, thinking himself unable to offer experience and therefore reassurance to his sons. So it helped when Kate’s brother Ree came for dinner. Uncle Ree steadied the mood. He also brought experience to the table, having served in the Australian Imperial Forces during the Great War, a little Māori among a host of lanky Aussies.

When Kate and Joy retreated into the kitchen after dinner to wash the dishes, the men stayed at the table, and at low volume Ree conducted a practical commentary on military matters that was largely focussed on how to avoid risk.

‘Just you remember, keep your head down. The first rule in the military is you don’t volunteer for anything. Nothing. Leave that for heroes.’

He sipped his tea.

‘Most of the heroes are dead,’ muttered Arthur.

Ree nodded, and took another sip. The tea was hot.

‘Your other uncles were the real heroes. Jack killed on the first day at Gallipoli, poor Charlie on the last day of combat. Bill at Messines. Not me.’ He knocked on his artificial leg. ‘I was just lucky.’

‘What’s it really like? The combat, I mean.’ Len asked.

Arthur sat quietly smoking, nodding occasionally when Ree invoked the names of the brothers who hadn’t returned. Ree looked at his nephews. He had forgotten Len was still teenaged.

‘You in the Navy, son? And you the artillery?’ He was looking now at Bill. ‘With any luck you’ll never find out.’

He adjusted himself in his chair.

‘Words don’t describe it.’

This time he coughed. None of it was coming easily. Len watched, embarrassed, as tears welled up in the older man’s eyes. Ree blinked several times to control them, then took a draught from his teacup and gazed reflectively into the distance.

Len offered a plate of Kate’s biscuits.

‘You know, apart from your uncles there have been other warriors in this family.’ He took a biscuit. ‘One of them is in that picture in the hall.’

‘You mean Titore and Ururoa, in the war canoes?’ Len asked him.

‘That’s right, my boy. Ururoa was your great-grandfather. He was feared in battle but died in old age. Make sure you do the same.’

The conversation went on, with openness and frankness, as it might have among old comrades. It was also the first time the subject of their being Māori had been raised in front of the boys. Len, Bill and Joy had all grown to understand that being Māori carried a certain stigma in some people’s eyes. It was a penalty that could be avoided by adopting Pākehā ways. Certainly for their mother and uncle, being Māori had been subsumed by their Pākehā upbringing, as Ree explained.

‘My father – your mother’s father – Richard Heke was Māori. He died in a forest accident before I was born. Mum – your grandmother – married again, into the O’Donnell family. That’s where the Pākehā uncles came from, and why your mother and I were brought up as Pākehā.’

Len thought for a moment and was forced to acknowledge that, apart from skin colour, there had been nothing in their lives that had spoken of Maori heritage. Until now. He was keen to learn more, and had other questions, but Kate entered the room just then, and the subject quickly changed. Later, when Arthur walked Ree to the front gate, Len went to look at the picture in the hall again, and stood in front of it wondering. Which of the tattooed warriors staring back at him was Ururoa?

★ ★ ★

Shortly after his mobilisation, Len received notice to join the Wakakura in order to complete his training with time at sea. Going to sea had always been the goal, especially as the only pay accorded Reservists was for time actually spent on board a Royal Naval ship. But those condemned to the Wakakura typically finished up wishing otherwise as it had a bad reputation as a sea boat. Lofty Neville had had a famously harrowing voyage on the Wakakura, an exercise in foul weather made worse by the fact that the only catering supplied was tinned herring, served cold. Len had a similar experience, on a voyage that took him down the east coast of the North Island and terminated in Wellington. There, he was ordered to report to the training establishment Olphert for a briefing, and joined the local Reserve complement posing for a formal photograph. By the time he returned to Auckland, his embarkation was imminent.

The day before Len was due to depart, while he was sitting on the porch having a cup of tea with his parents, Jack Hulbert came up the driveway on a bicycle. Kate fetched an extra cup. Jack had ridden from Epsom to tell them that he had been selected for hydrographic work and posted to Morewa.

Arthur was deeply impressed. Like everybody in Auckland, he knew the private sailing yacht that belonged to Sir Ernest Davis. It was one of the smartest on the harbour, and the envy of many.

‘How the heck did you get a job like that?’ asked Len.

‘It was the sailing, I reckon. I know most of the blokes. They’ve seconded Morewa for naval service as a survey vessel, charting the seabed. For harbour defence. You know, safe passage, anti-submarine defence and things like that.’

‘Half your luck, Jack, Well done,’ Len paused, then added, ‘I s’pose that means you won’t be coming tomorrow?’

Len’s rueful look belied the goodwill he felt for his mate. He would miss Jack, and the friendship and trust they had built together, and he was going to miss the Swift, the mullet boats and the Gulf.

‘No. They said I might have to go to Fiji, but I’ll definitely be sent to England for training.’

When tea was over and it was time for Jack to leave, the two mates shook hands at the gate.

‘Good luck, Len. When all this is over we’ll go sailing again.’

‘I’ll look forward to that. See you then.’

‘Not if I see you first,’ said Jack. Then he slapped his mate on the shoulder and rode off towards Epsom.

★ ★ ★

Len managed to sleep well, and woke to find his neatly ironed uniform hanging from the wardrobe door and a tantalising aroma wafting down the hallway into his room. When Ordinary Seaman L B Hill appeared at the dining table, he found his mother had prepared a lavish breakfast, and he sat down to bacon and eggs, tomatoes and fried bread, tea and toast. As he ate, he thought about what was in front of him – a great adventure; the great adventure. Behind him he felt a weight – the weight of responsibility perhaps – to his mother, to his father. To Ree, and to the dead uncles he had never known.

His thinking was interrupted by Kate’s frequent solicitations.

‘Have you got enough singlets?’ she asked. ‘It gets very cold in England in winter.’

‘Yes, Mum. I’ve got enough singlets, thank you.’

‘And keep your socks dry. You’ll get a chill very easily if you don’t.’

Across the table Bill winked at him, and Len responded with raised eyebrows. Joy smiled at her brothers’ conspiracy. Arthur arrived and sat in silence, concentrating unnaturally on his breakfast. He placed a writing pad and a bundle of envelopes on the table and pushed them purposefully towards Len.

‘You’d better not forget to write to your mother.’

‘I won’t, Dad. Thanks.’ Len looked back across the table to his father and nodded.

‘Good on you, son.’

It was a rare affirmation.

Kate herself sat and watched Len as he finished a slice of toast covered in orange marmalade before draining his cup for the last time.

He went to the bathroom. He gazed at himself in the mirror and let the water run over his clasped hands for a few moments. He could hear his mother through the wall, cleaning up in the kitchen. Arthur was already outside, his cigarette smoke wafting back into the house. Len went back into the dining room and cast his eyes around and down the hall of the villa. Kate came out of the kitchen and they hugged, in a way neither had had cause to before.

‘God bless, son. Stay safe. Be strong.’

He kissed his mother on the cheek and gave her hand a final squeeze. His kitbag lay on the veranda settee, where he had left it. He picked up his hat and, with both hands, placed it carefully and squarely on his head, then turned to face Kate and came to something like attention.

‘Ordinary Seaman Leonard Hill, reporting for duty, Ma’am.’

Kate smiled at last. Joy had tears on her cheeks and stifled a sob as she held her little brother tightly for a moment. Bill stepped forward and shook hands with Len. He slapped his little brother on the shoulder.

‘Good luck, Lenny. Look after yourself.’

‘I’ll be doing my best.’ Picking up his kit, Len raised it straight to his shoulder, and walked down the steps. Arthur waited at the bottom.

‘I’ll be home shortly, Kate,’ he called to his wife, but there was no reply. The two men walked down the drive and out the gate. Len looked back and saw his mother standing behind the lace in the bay window of her bedroom. She was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, while she watched the two men walk down the street.

★ ★ ★

As they walked up Kowhai Street, Len heard their reclusive neighbour playing the piano. ‘Für Elise’. It was an odd song to march to. Neighbours who knew of Len’s departure came outside to add their farewells.

When they reached Dominion Road, Arthur offered to carry the kit, but Len laughed. ‘It’s all right, Dad. The thing’s heavier than it looks.’

And too heavy for the old man, he thought. Kate had slipped a tin of biscuits into it the night before, but mostly, of course, it was clothes.

The Mount Eden railway station wasn’t far away, and as they got closer the foot traffic heading in the same direction became heavier, with many men in uniform. When their train clanked slowly into the Central Railway Station, it became apparent that the mobilisation had begun in earnest. A mass of people was converging on the main platform. There, two steam engines were attached to the front of a long line of carriages. As Len and his father got down from their train, they watched men begin to congregate in groups, directed by others to assemble in areas adjacent to their assigned carriages. Len could see some distant shapes in naval uniform collecting towards the head of the train. He turned to look at his father. Arthur had seen them too.

‘You’d better go, son. Don’t forget to write to your mother.’

Len nodded. He put his kitbag down and faced his father. The train gave three long blasts on its whistle, and groups of men immediately began to move in different directions. The two men shook hands, Arthur putting his free hand on Len’s shoulder.

‘Be careful, son,’ he said.

‘Wish me luck, Dad,’ Len replied, but in the hubbub, Arthur didn’t hear; he had already turned and was walking away.

Len made his way to the other end of the platform, forcing his way through the mob, guided by the tall form of Lofty in the distance. He raised his hand and saw Lofty semaphore an acknowledgement with his eyebrows. Tim arrived, forcing his way through the crowd. A smear of lipstick was visible on the corner of his mouth. Then the sailors were called to form up and answer the roll. The hubbub was soon replaced by a quieter atmosphere, punctuated by the commands of the non-commissioned officers, and slowly various groups began to board the train.

★ ★ ★

The journey to Wellington went without incident, as long as you overlooked lengthy delays at Frankton Junction and Taumarunui, and again at Palmerston North. The delay at Frankton was caused by the late arrival of members of the newly formed Māori Battalion. They caused quite a stir, laughing and singing as they made their way in what could only be described as loose order to their carriage. By the time the train began to climb onto the central plateau, it was late afternoon and except for Len and one or two others, most in the carriage had fallen asleep, lulled by the intersecting rhythms of sound and movement. Sometimes music from a lone guitar would drift on the wind from the carriage carrying the Māori soldiers, but otherwise the noise of the train dominated. At Raurimu, where the track famously spirals up the incline to a higher elevation, Len was able to look across the valley at the rear of the train following slowly behind. The smell of coal smoke swept over the carriages at times, reminding Len of home. Arthur brought coal home from the Gas Company, and sometimes coke. As they crossed the plateau, the volcanos came into view. Tongariro. Ngauruhoe. Ruapehu, the highest, steaming away on the near horizon. As the sun began to set, the mountains were caught in its lengthening rays, and for a few minutes the snow on the peak of Ruapehu flared in a brilliant orange, before the light faded and eventually extinguished and the sky behind coloured a deep indigo. Len gazed at it all in wonderment. Here were sights he had never seen, and he hadn’t even left the country.