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 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.
The carriage lights came on, and the others began to stir. The train clattered on. There was hot tea available at each stop, but nothing on board except water. Some, like Len, had their own refreshments, discovering the odd surprise when they reached into their kitbags. His biscuits didn’t last five minutes. In turn, he enjoyed one of Lofty’s egg sandwiches and a huge slice of a fruitcake that Ava had given to Tim. Odd smells wafted from the carriage in front, and one of the boys reported that the Māori were eating barbequed sheep tails, which caused all sorts of uproar and simulated gagging among the sailors. Then someone produced a pack of cards, and before long a flask of whisky was being passed discreetly around. Eventually things quietened again, as the cold penetrated and men huddled into their jackets to catch a little more sleep before the arrival into Wellington. They covered their eyes as best they could against the lights. Only the card players stayed awake.
Things changed as they neared their destination. A few men recognised that the journey was nearing its end and stirred others, and as the sun began to rise, the whole body roused and began to take stock. The train got slower and slower as it made its way around Wellington’s harbour edge. Len had been there before, and struggled to find comfort in the city’s grey water, wind-riven valleys and scrub-covered hills, and struggled all the more this morning as squalls of rain pelted parts of the harbour and low cloud shrouded the hilltops. Nevertheless he joined the crowd in the left-hand side of the carriage from where they could see a great fleet of ships lying at anchor in the one-armed embrace of the Miramar peninsula. Two light cruisers, which turned out to be HMS Leander and HMAS Australia, appeared to be getting up steam, while Empress of Britain, Empress of Japan and Aquitania, requisitioned as troopships, were the largest passenger liners to visit New Zealand. It was an extraordinary sight.
When the train finally stopped, it was somewhat short of the quay. Nevertheless, the men found themselves ordered to disembark and assemble with their kit in marshalling yards. There was momentary chaos as items of kit or uniform were reclaimed as the men got down off the train, clambering over obstacles and tripping over rails, urged on by shouted instructions. Then, one by one, elements were called to attention, turned and marched away in the direction of the wharves, splashing through puddles, until, within minutes, the whole had been dispersed and the hissing train stood empty in a deserted yard.
The column made its way out of the rail yards, across the road and onto the quayside. Outside the rail yards, local units enjoyed the privilege of marching from their places of assembly through the streets of the city to the wharves. Oblivious to the changing conditions, citizens in their hundreds thronged the pavements and anywhere else a view could be had, held back in places by marshals and military police. They clapped enthusiastically and cheered wildly. All movement flowed towards the waterfront, where nearly 7000 soldiers, sailors and other military personnel were moving through various stages of embarkation. Somehow a train had already delivered men to the wharves, and was now being repositioned, empty, graunching and squealing through the crowd, supported by railwaymen with flags standing on its cowcatcher. When the boys from the Reserve marched, they understood that this was no ordinary day. As they reached the wharves, they all thrust out their chests, pulled their shoulders back and raised their chins, to the cheers of all those about them.
On the waterfront they discovered a host of other military personnel drawn up in loose order preparing for embarkation. Behind the Harbour Board fencing, a mass of eager civilians pressed hard against the iron rails, shouting and cheering. In places, some had been allowed to spill onto the quay by compliant gate-keepers, and they hugged or held hands with soldiers who had somehow detached from their units. Len and the Navy boys cast their eyes around as they marched onto the quay. Silent, in contrast to the noise about them, Len contemplated the extraordinariness of the scene. He looked along the rank at Tim, who was gazing up at the ship towering above them. It was at this moment that Len felt fear for the first time. It was a feeling like someone blowing cold air on the back of his neck. It made his hair stand on end and a chill fill his belly.
Apart from the Navy and the RNVR, there were anti-tank regiments, and regiments of infantry and artillery; men from Divisional Cavalry; engineers; and ammunition, supply and petrol companies, as well as 5 Field Ambulance, elements of the New Zealand Dental Corps, No 1 General Hospital, chaplains and the Pay Corps. And of course the 28th Māori Battalion.
The Māori Battalion was a volunteer unit offered by the inspirational Apirana Ngata to the Government as ‘the price of citizenship’. While some people thought that entirely appropriate, most thought it noble. Len smiled in quiet admiration. The battalion had never paraded in front of so large a crowd before, and they captured everybody’s attention. Of all the units, they presented with the most discipline, marching in perfect order, each soldier displaying a steely intensity and a fierce countenance. Every now and then one among them would break character, and turn to survey the faces on the street, to catch an eye, raise an eyebrow and a grin. The crowd seemed to love it, and cheered all the more.
The scale of activity exceeded anything in the boys’ experience. It wasn’t just the host of uniformed men. It was the crowd, the volume of shipping that lay in Wellington’s harbour, and the massive shape of Aquitania, with its four great funnels, tied up to the wharf and looming over most of the scene. When the Reserve personnel drew up in her shadow, it became clear that they, along with what seemed like most of the Echelon, were going to board the huge Cunard liner.
There were shouts of ‘Squad, halt!’ all along the line, then further instructions. ‘Left turn! … Ten ’hut! … Look lively now! People are watching! Right dress!’ When the lines were straight and the shuffling and all movement had ceased, the final command came: ‘Stand easy!’
Standing easy, Len looked up. The side of the liner occupied their whole view: a wall of riveted steel, newly painted in marine camouflage. To left and right, men were streaming up gangways into the vessel. Above, those who had already boarded crowded the rails looking down. Heads appeared at the many portholes: two, three, sometimes four at a time.
And then it was the turn of the Reservists. They shouldered their kitbags and moved to the gangway in loose order before streaming up it in single file. At the top of the gangway, a grey-haired merchant seaman greeted them each with a note describing the whereabouts of their accommodation. ‘Welcome aboard, my son. Port side, E deck, two down. Look lively now. E deck, two down.’
‘Hello, sailor,’ offered Tim.
‘Now, lad, be careful what you wish for.’
Once on board, the boys followed the instructions on the chits they had been given and fought their way down two decks to their assigned berths. Len lost touch with Tim after boarding, and could not even see Lofty. Men were swarming everywhere. He found where he was berthed, and stood dumbfounded. It was a two-berth cabin. Luxury! He dumped his kitbag on the top bunk, and with a couple of others made his way up onto the main deck and forward of the cargo derrick. Being sailors, they anticipated and found a scupper there that was big enough to accommodate all three of them, so they crouched into it and settled to watch their share of the spectacle onshore. Soldiers and sailors lined the rails or jammed portholes, cheering and waving to loved ones embedded in the crowd. Some dangled from unlikely places to gain a view.
Onshore, the crowd waved madly back. A band played. When the ship gave three enormous blasts on its horn, the crowd cringed with shock, then redoubled their cheering. From somewhere on board they heard ‘Now is the Hour’ being sung in Māori. Len had never heard it before, not in Māori, and he listened as others around him, soldiers and sailors, Māori and Pākehā, took up the refrain in either language, some weeping with the emotion of the moment.
Dozens of streamers hung between ship and shore, and as the vessel cast off and the attendant tugs took the slack, these final, fragile points of contact slowly stretched and snapped. As the Aquitania was towed out into the harbour and released, the fervour abated, and those left behind began to disperse and make their way home. Slowly the great vessel picked up speed and made its way through Wellington heads to join the assembling fleet in the straits outside. It was 02 May 1940.