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Furlough Draft from Middle East Arrives
News Spreads Like Wildfire – Great Crowds Give Welcome
Wellington, July 12. – A large draft of officers, men and nurses, from the Middle East arrived here today on extended furlough. As soon as the news became known, it spread like wildfire and tremendous crowds greeted the contingent.
Welcoming the men on behalf of the Government, the Prime Minister, Mr. Fraser, said the draft had well earned a respite. And when the furlough ended they would rejoin the Division refreshed and ready to play whatever part was allotted to them in smashing the enemy under their great leader, General Freyberg, who during his recent tour of the Dominion was given a well-deserved and overwhelming welcome wherever he went.
All men were given railway passes for their wives and themselves for the duration of their furlough.
19 July 1943, NZEF Times
Image 57
Time off From Battle
‘Home Front’
A civilian wanders among some soldiers returning to New Zealand on leave from the battle front.
For three years these men had been exposed to all the horrors of which science is so far capable. Every day on land and most of their days and nights at sea they had risked the terror that lurked in the sand; that dropped out of the sky; that leapt at them out of the sea; that came whining at them across the horizon. There had been no safe place, and no silent place, and yet here they were back on their first furlough with most of their misery forgotten. I found it difficult to ask them about experiences which were already so far away.
I tried a young railway sapper, but he referred me to the infantry.
‘They had the tough times. We just followed them up.’
‘What about Tobruk?’
‘Yes, that was tough during the siege, but we were taken out after about four months.’
‘Benghazi, then?’
‘Oh, that was a special stunt. We were flown there to get the Italian railway going, and got cut off. It scared me a bit getting away by sea, but the navy chaps were doing things like that all the time.’
When I tried the infantry I was referred to the artillery, and so it went on. The only man who spoke freely and frankly was a brigadier, and he was answering a question about the Maori. Were they really as good as report made them, or was that partly a romantic build-up?
They were better than the reports conveyed, he assured me.
‘They are incredible. In battle they rise above themselves. It is a spirit of exaltation that is not easy to explain. Their position in the Division is unassailable. I think they would best any battalion in the world.’
In the mass and as individuals they looked precisely as I had seen them when they sailed away. They were the same men. But I spent half a day among them, and it suddenly dawned on me as I worked my way back to the gangway that I had never heard so many men making so little noise.
The explanation was that they were disciplined thousands. Not a heel-clicking army, but men who had learnt to wait, to take their turn, to accept discomfort, to help and not to talk. I recalled how little they had told me in those crowded four hours, how careful they were of their tongues, even now that the journey and the danger seemed over. They were, in short, an army – from the batmen to the brigadiers, disciplined soldiers – resting now but not forgetting themselves, remembering the men who had not come back home, and never losing sight of the fact that they were again going back.
23 July 1943, The Listener
Not All of Us
John Male
Not all of us are articulate,
but is it necessary to tell everything?
Easy to record minutely the tortured
second between whine and shell burst,
the road bracketed, the Military Policeman at the corner
staggering concussed to the ambulance;
easy to record afterwards the mock heroics
about numbers on high explosive shells.
These things are with us continually;
day after day; and we are careless and dull, finally,
from too much experience.
Who wants to be articulate? These
are years we have lost; love a memory;
excuse us if we are silent
as the dead are.
1989, Poems from a War
Italy – We’ve Had It!
Jim Henderson
Smyrna, June 2
We are up at six o’clock, ready and exceedingly willing to go on to our own British ship. The Italians bring us our last bowl of coffee and torpedo-shaped roll of bread. Mac keeps his bread roll. He says he is going to have it varnished and put up on his mantelpiece at home, in North Auckland. Then whenever he feels discontented with life, he will look at the bread roll and remember and be thankful instead. I eat mine, however, thinking in mixed fashion about the bread of humiliation and bondage, and this is the last time, forever...
Our names are called and checked by an English-speaking sergeant and we wait on the promenade deck of the Gradisca for exchange. We lean over the rails and look across the 500 yards of water to the English hospital-ships and freedom. Turkish tugs and police speedboats dash here and there. No civilians are allowed out in the harbour to create ‘incidents’, for Turkey is observing strict neutrality.
The minutes plod on. We have waited years for this day and yet we become impatient at the passing of an hour. Down the sides of the English ships Italian stretcher cases are lowered cautiously in slings to waiting barges. At ten o’clock they come to our ship. The walking cases come up the gangway to a dither of kisses and salutes, a frowsy lot in their faded finery. Mac and I look down upon the wounded, arms, legs missing, feebly stirring like swatted flies. Maybe we were responsible for some of that – Mac with his little old Bren-carrrier, I with the little old 25-pounder. Mac looks at me and I know he is thinking the same, so I say: ‘Any regrets Mac?’
‘Nary a regret.’
‘Same here.’
Our memories of the barbed wire are still too bitter...
How much longer will this go on? Some of the boys say they’ll swim for it soon ... ‘Follow me to freedom,’ suddenly cries the English-speaking Italian sergeant melodramatically. We let out a whacking great cheer and down the stairs we go, the Italian sergeant leading us no less proudly than Joshua heading into the Promised Land.
Oh boy, oh boy! To the gangway. To the barges forming a wharf beneath. ‘Goodbye, good luck,’ cries the sergeant, waving.
Gosh. If that’s Italy, I’ve had it. Thank God!
We’re moving. Past the Italian ships, City of Tunis and Argentina, with ‘PROTECTED’ on their sides in huge white letters – to our very own ships with the Union Jacks and cheers, nurses waving, cameras, matron with a big bunch of red flowers, smiles, yells, salutes.
‘Welcome home, boys, oh welcome home.’
‘Tears? Yes.’
‘Have you got a cup of tea waiting?’
‘We have an’ all.’
‘Hurry up, boys, no more macaroni.’
‘Hooray!’
‘We’ve steak and chips and onions ... and beer.’
‘That’s the stuff!’
We look at one another; we’ve lived it out; we’ve waited; we’ve prayed; we’ve wept; we’re here. ‘Mac, we’ve made it!’ But is this really true ... where is the barbed-wire, the white huts, the sentry, the bayonet?
The stretchers go up first. It is difficult. Halfway up the gangway they must turn into an entrance on the side of the ship. Up goes ‘Aussie’, damaged spine, poor little freckled face sharp and wasted biting his under-lip. They spin him round on nearing the entrance and an Indian orderly backs under the stretcher for a better lift. I hear a thin scream, once, twice, then ‘Soon over old soldier’ ... in he goes.
Up we go, guided to our ward. We sit on our beds, facing one another. ‘Mac, we’ve really made it.’
‘We’ve made it.’
And a great, deep shudder of relief goes through us and I feel as if something heavy has left me, to be replaced with effervescing fruit-salts. I am so fresh and clean and happy and new. A sister welcomes us, distributes packets of cigarettes, promises not to give us macaroni. We open the English cigarette-packets ... gosh: ‘Best wishes from Red Cross and St John’ ... our old friends, faithful to the last. From them too, toilet gear, pyjamas, sweets.
Amazing discoveries, such as water taps marked ‘HOT’ and ‘COLD’ again! Lunch. Abundant. As much as you want. Never to be hungry again. No need to save crusts of bread in case of uncertain tomorrows. It takes me a few moments to recall how to use a knife and fork ... some 2 N.Z.E.F. Times, Free Lances and Weekly News. Rapture ... We go downstairs and back to our beds in a daze of delight.
After supper we go up on deck, two bottles of Stella beer between us. High on the foremast floats the New Zealand flag, flown whenever New Zealanders are in this British ship. Could we ask for anything else?
Mac looks up, the muscles work on his elderly face. He stiffens to attention, he salutes, I hear him murmur:
‘The old flag ... the best of the lot.’
I wave up to the beloved four red stars on the blue with the Union Jack and say ‘Hiya toots’ to stop myself bursting into tears.
1974, Gunner Inglorious
Going Back
E.N.T.
The other night we went into our favourite cafe for a beer or two. Our usual table in the corner was vacant so we sat down and waited for George to bring the Stella along. ‘This will be our last night in here together,’ I said.
Lofty said ‘Yeah,’ and tucked his F.S. cap under his shoulder tabs. He looked a bit melancholy too. ‘Funny isn’t it? he said, ‘It doesn’t seem true.’
‘It’s true all right,’ I said.
‘About me going home? Oh yes, that’s true. But, us, I mean.’
‘Splitting up?’
‘Yeah, it’s rotten.’
I said, ‘We’ve drunk beer in here a few times, Lofty!’
‘My oath,’ he said, ‘from when we first arrived here, right up till tonight.’ Then he gazed into his glass and said, ‘Remember those nights when we came down from Alamein on that three-day leave?’
‘And the little Scottie joker who wanted to sing all night.’
‘Yeah, and the night you tipped the beer over the shoe shine wallad!’
Then we laughed and old memories came rushing back. Lofty said, ‘A joker ought to take this bar back with him for old times’ sake.’
‘But leave the wogs behind, though!’ I said.
‘Well – I dunno Jim. You get to like things when you’re going to leave them.’
‘Funny, isn’t it,’ I said.
Lofty then called for two more beers. ‘Anyway, we’ll sink a few handles in the Waterloo someday, Jim.’
‘My oath we will Lofty.’
‘Like the old days, eh?’
‘After the matches at the park.’
His eyes lit up. ‘The old park! Struth, it’ll be great to see it again. Yeah, that old Omega clock on the scoreboard.’
‘And the mists coming down the western bank, just before the final whistle blows.
‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘remember that day you potted that goal from touch, almost?’
‘Right on time too,’ I recalled.
Lofty’s eyes grew moist. ‘If it hadn’t been for the war, you and I would have made the Reps that year ... Maleesh ... it didn’t happen, anyway.’
‘I suppose you’ll take a shufti at the gym on training night?’
‘Try and keep me away,’ he said, but his brow was wrinkled in a deep frown.
‘Just for old times.’
‘Yeah, for old times, Jim; I might be able to help out in the coaching.’
‘Might! They’ll grab you as soon as you get off that boat,’ I said.
‘You never know.’
Then George came along and tipped the peanut shells onto the floor. ‘Finish beers,’ he said, ‘gin and lime – cheery brandy – whisky?’
‘La,’ said Lofty, ‘Bardini!’ He started to put his cap back on his head.
‘Where to soldier?’ I asked.
‘Up the street,’ he said, with his old grin. I want to have a last shufti at the ‘Sweet Melody’ before I go.’
‘You’re a beaut,’ I said ... ‘wouldn’t it rotate you!’
He rose from his seat slowly and I stood up. Then slowly and a little regretfully he looked around the cafe for the last time.
I took his crutches from the corner and gently placed them under his arms ... I felt sort of full in the throat.
‘Come on!’ he said, ‘let’s get an iggri on. I’ve still got one leg left...’
24 January 1944, NZEF Times
Coming Home
A number of sick and wounded soldiers on a hospital ship have arrived in Wellington from the Middle East. The sun doesn’t always shine when troops return, but fine or not, a crowd will gather at the wharf barricades long before the ship has berthed. Hospital ships are white and conspicuous from the time they appear in the harbour, and it’s not long before everyone knows of the event. Some time before, relatives received a telegram informing them of the arrival, and naturally they are the vanguard of the expectant crowd, and able to enter the enclosure behind which the general public witness proceedings.
As the ship nears the wharf there are cries of ‘There’s Harry!’ and ‘Tom’s over there by the lifeboat!’ First on board after berthing is a technician from a sound truck who sets up a microphone, and as each man comes down the gangway, assisted by medical orderlies, his name and home town are announced. He also hears the band playing and cheers and clapping that accompany each announcement. Although his thoughts are probably concentrated on those to whom his homecoming means more than anyone else in the world.
Wearing a smile that’s on the faces of all present, he makes his way to the clearing hospital on the other side of the street. Looking back he sees his fellow soldiers disembarking. Some have already recovered sufficiently to refuse offers to carry their kit bags: some have arms in slings and bandaged eyes, but still happy. One man sees his son for the first time. Another is the object of puzzled inquiry of a little girl who is trying desperately to recall what her Daddy looked like when he left home a few years ago.
18 January 1943, NZEF Times
Image 58
Johnny NZED Says: ‘What A Life!’
‘I wonder how the blokes who went home are making out,’ I said. ‘I see they’ve given them free rail warrants for themselves and their wives.’
‘They’ll have to cut out Bab-el-Louk Tough Tactics School stuff,’ said the bloke. ‘That won’t ring any bells at home.’
‘Barring the fire bell,’ I said.
‘Come to think of it,’ said the bloke, ‘chap’d have to be careful. Couldn’t start pushing the little woman out of the bus queue and then trying to borrow an acker from her.’
‘No provosts to settle the taxi fares,’ I said.
‘My OC Troops does that at home,’ said the bloke. ‘She’s better than any provost.’
‘I see the news spread like wildfire when they arrived.’
‘I don’t like the term,’ said the bloke.’ It’s only a step from wildfire to wild fire-water.’
‘I bet some of the boys are telling them,’ I said. ‘There’ll be some battles over counter-lunch.’
‘It’s going to be awkward. Some of these jokers are going to crab all our copyrights,’ said the bloke.
‘Some alibis are going to take a lot of substantiating, yours, for instance.’
‘Trouble is I don’t know whether they keep my letters or not. It’s got me worried.’
‘You remember that story of yours about the tank you destroyed single-handed at Ruweisat,’ I said. You didn’t let that get home did you?’
‘Well, not exactly,’ said the bloke. ‘I only made passing references to it. Perhaps the Censor cut them out.’
‘I shouldn’t wonder,’ I said.
‘Good chaps the censors,’ said the bloke. ‘Very necessary in wartime.’
‘Aiwa.’
‘You know,’ said the bloke, ‘it’s going to be tough for the troops being at home in winter. Imagine having to sit over roaring log fires all day with the rain dashing on the roof.’
‘Imagine!’ I said.
‘Afraid to go out in case you get caught in a blizzard.’
‘Afraid to go out in case you drive on the wrong side of the road,’ I said.
‘Afraid to go into a pub in case you forget the drinking hours,’ said the bloke.
‘Afraid to use money in case you think there’s 100 shillings to the quid.’
‘Afraid to talk about the war in case they start comparing notes.’
‘Afraid not to talk about the war in case they think you never saw it,’ I said.
‘Afraid to go down town in case your creditors have got long memories,’ said the bloke.
‘Afraid to go to the races because you don’t know the horses,’ I said.
‘Afraid to do chores in case you set a precedent.’
‘Afraid to go to a dance in case the red-caps break it up.’
‘Afraid to sleep in, in case the sergeant goes you,’ said the bloke.
‘Afraid to get up early in case they think you don’t like your little home anymore,’ I said.
‘Afraid to talk in case they can understand Arabic,’ said the bloke.
‘Afraid not to talk in case they think you’re sulking,’ I said.
‘What a life!’ said the bloke.
‘I’m glad I wasn’t sent home,’ I said.
‘My oath, Dig!’ said the bloke.
9 August 1943, NZEF Times
Image 59
Going Again
Martyn Uren
Some things I would like to tell of, I may not: I would be censored. For instance that final hour of furlough (when precious days had fled like chaff in the wind) when every man had to decide for himself whether he would go away again to that living hell, or stay and risk the humiliation. It seemed at first that the people of New Zealand did not want us to go back – most of them during the first three months used to say, ‘You are not going back are you?’ but when after three months our furlough was extended week by week for lack of transport, the question gradually and almost imperceptibly changed in tone to, ‘When do you have to go back?’ Near Christmas it became almost fashionable to express surprise and say ‘Why, haven’t you gone yet?’ By that I do not mean to say that everyone wished us gone: far from it. But the odd person was getting restless, lest perchance we stay and sit by the fire, whilst they be forced to fight. This restless feeling had infectiously spread. The public is a fickle thing and, except for the love and loyalty of those near to us, the country heaved a sigh of relief when 600 of us faithfully and rather quixotically boarded the ship.
Until the last minute the new reinforcements stood by in Trentham Camp, fully packed up, waiting for the body of us to make up our minds as to whether we would, or would not, depart overseas a second time. When at last we stood in two groups (surely the strangest fiasco Trentham has ever seen), two groups, those who would and those who would not; when for the tenth time a final count of those who would go was made; then and only then were the reinforcements who were waiting patiently and eagerly on the parade ground, detailed for active service overseas.
I stood and watched it with a deep-seated feeling of unreality. It was grotesque. It was unheard of ... I heard Walter Batty (artillery sergeant major, ex All Black) count us and report to the senior officer present. I watched Jimmy Gilbert (ex sergeant major of 7th N.Z. Anti-tank Regiment) march across the asphalt and with brisk counting and crisp orders, detail the lads who were to be the eleventh reinforcements. We numbered about 600, the eleventh then detailed numbered almost 3000!...
But perhaps the strangest thing about the whole affair was that there were no ill feelings between the men who stayed behind and those few who went away again. The principal issue had lain in the fact that we all felt that it was time some of our men who had done over three years active service were allowed to take a nice well-paid industry job. That was the issue; some stuck to their guns and refused to leave the country; some 600 of us did, in effect, volunteer again – but there were no hard feelings. It was for each man to decide for himself.
1945, Diamond Trails of Italy
Hicko Broughton was the most outstanding character of the 22nd Battalion. He returned to New Zealand on furlough but when the time came to return to the Division he was missing...
‘Now Broughton,’ said the prosecuting officer, ‘you are charged with being absent without leave ... Don’t you realise that you had let your mates down? What reason had you for not being there when the ship sailed?’
Gazing round at the assembled hard-eyed personnel, Hicko spotted his old commanding officer Brigadier Les Andrews VC, and decided that this was no time to play dumb.
‘I was there,’ said Broughton. (He was never known to say ‘Sir’.)
‘Where?’
‘On the wharf.’
‘What were you doing on the wharf?’
‘Waving the bastards goodbye.’
The Return of the Anzacs, Robert Smith
[Broughton did return; he was one of a few who served with his battalion for the entire war]