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Story of the 34th

Chapter Two — War Comes To The Front Door

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Chapter Two
War Comes To The Front Door

The war that burst upon the Pacific in December 1941 placed Fiji in the battle area. Until then war to this Colony had meant merely the threat of German raiders, and the necessity of protecting the lines of supply and communication across the South Pacific. The soldiers, sailors, and airmen who had been there primarily as garrison forces were transformed overnight into defenders of a front line. This line they held for months to come, under the imminent danger of enemy attack, with insufficient manpower and equipment, until the passing months saw the Japanese advance stemmed. Then, not until the closing of the year 1942, did the threat fade into re-moteness. Our battalion, and indeed the entire New Zealand forces in Fiji, believe, and history may probably show it to be so, that the presence in the Colony of New Zealand troops tempered the audacity of the enemy, deterred him from launching a precipitate assault, and served as an insurance against an attack on New Zealand itself. The enemy lost his chance.

The battalion was at battle stations on 8 December—when news was received—and this was but the forerunner of many hours and many days spent manning the posts in our sector, standing'to in the dawn and at sundown, and wondering when, and if, an attack would come. It was only a conincidence that the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbour occurred while the battalion was practising manning its battle stations, though the powers that be have sometimes claimed that it was the result of clairvoyance on their part (clairvoyance and im agination being two of the most useful defensive weapons in Fiji at this time). Extra ammunition was immediately issued to the companies and a condition of full readiness adopted. However, by 10 page 16December the immediate urgency had departed, companies then returning to camp. There was a new tempo to everything. The pre-paration of gun positions and weapon pits assumed the greatest importance. Who knew—we might have to fight from them—Berry's Post (remarkable for its caving-in properties), Lightning Post (which had never fewer than twenty toads in it every morning), the great dug-out in which battalion headquarters was to be buried, the labyrinth of 'Cotching's Last Stand' up the Bilo road. Even the Fijian labourers did not toil as did these Kiwis. Those curious emplacements down on the seashore at Vatawangga—half in and half out of the mangrove mud, and Captain Wernham striding purposefully from one to the other in the black watches of the night—will not lightly be forgotten.

Reinforcements came from New Zealand hard on Christmas, still loud in their wrath over the scurvy trick played them at Taihape, when the train taking them on final leave was stopped, turned about, and hustled back to Auckland. They were embarked and on their way to the islands, before you could say 'Right stop pawl'. They were very welcome, for they brought the battalion up to strength both in officers and men. Within a few hours of their arrival, re-organisation took place, specialist platoons formed, and the unit committed to a policy of making itself fit to fight within (so the colonel demanded) ten days. From each of the 29th and 30th battalions a vickers platoon was passed over to us to build up our D support company to a strength of three machine-gun platoons and a mortar platoon. Bren guns, mortars, tommyguns, and vehicles were all coming to hand to augment the scanty equipment with which the battalion had previously made shift. A squadron of Airocobras swooping low over camp impressed us with their speed, and gave us some confidence in the air defences of the island which, believe it or not, had up to then consisted of four Hudsons, six Vincents, three light civil planes, and two Singapore flying boats. On an equally pathetic scale had been our artillery, the total for the whole island not exceeding four 6-inch guns, two 4.7'inch guns, and six 18-pounders. But, with the coming of the new year, there was an immense transformation in the forces and armament available for the defence of Fiji; equipment and men arrived in an increasing stream.

Even new radios were issued to the signals platoon, but their value proved rather limited. Their first real test came one filthy morning during an alarm. Battalion headquarters was at Ballantinepage 17 Memorial School, and out in the pelting rain knelt the signals officer, Second-Lieutenant H. F. G. Ready, wrestling with the knobs and dials. 'Hurry up and get me through to Bilo' called the colonel. 'Can't understand it, sir' replied sigs. 'Can't get a whisper from Bilo, but New York's coming in fine.'

That name—Bilo. Years will not efface the memory of the early days when companies were sent there for a fortnight at a time, for special training; or, later, when they took turns to occupy the Bilo sector as part of the defence plan; the mortar pits that were sunk in the paddy fields and carved from the hillsides; Captain Penne-father's interlocking perimeters of weapon pits, that he claimed before all comers to be impenetrable; the Bilo spout bath; the mud that lay deeper in that gully than anywhere else in the world; recollections of a host of stories that made Bilo a reputation for being the last word in tropical bad-spots. Any soldier who proved that he had lived at Bilo could fairly claim to have passed through the fire. Time mellows many of the hardships that seemed so vivid in their day. In those early weeks of 1942, it was hot and humid, with lashing rain at frequent intervals, and hurricane warnings. Dotted far and wide over Suva peninsula, and around Suva Bay, we toiled in small groups, digging the pits out of solid soapstone— at Bilo, Grey's Point, Lami, Suvavou, and on the commanding face of Princes Ridge, the gateway to Suva. Up and down that precipitous escarpment men tramped, sweating and cursing, and still digging. Many a stick of 'jelly' was acquired surreptitiously from the engineers to help in the carving out of the pits. We built wire entanglements out in the sea, waist deep in water; excavated tank traps back in the hills; and no reminder is needed of the tunnels that were let into the hills around Suva for various defence and supply services. Perhaps the tunnels are the sharpest memory of all, for almost everyone played a part in the hewing of those great underground chambers.

In an endeavour to obtain the best results, different hours of work were tried. Some declare that the most popular was the 7 am to 1 pm idea, with the rest of the day free. Certainly six hours was the maximum time a man could work, and continue to work, efficiently. But at one stage, such was the urgency of the situation, work continued all day, and every day except Sunday. That could not be maintained for long. It reached its extreme when, in the middle of February, battle stations were manned from 5.30 am to 7 am and 6 pm to 8 pm with a full day's work on the tunnels and gunpits sand page 18wiched in between. Tired eyes saw sun up over Suva so often that the beauty of the scene was soon lost on them.

Just before the end of the year 1941, the battalion had changed its name from Reserve to 34th, and had adopted a few weeks later a new hat patch. The old patch, dating back to Training Battalion days, was a red and yellow diamond, a combination of the colours of the 29th and 30th Battalions from whose reinforcement companies the original had been formed. The new patch became blue and gold, which thereafter remained the battalion colours. Contrariwise at about the same time we became camouflage-conscious, guided by the knowledge of Captain C. E. A. Buller, who later joined the battalion as pioneer officer. The cry everywhere was for vau bark, for after a process of soaking, drying and tieing vau bark made up into excellent camouflage netting. Borrowing from nature again, the bark of the donga tree, we found, provided a brown dye which served well to paint on sandbags. 'Mile-a-minute' creeper was planted over all gun positions. It grew fourteen inches a day reported an excused duty man at Suvavou, who had time to watch it.

In the middle of these war-like preparations, and despite the atmosphere of tension, the men of the battalion were in great heart. It was fully appreciated that, if the enemy came, he would possibly be in overwhelming numbers. Official estimates were that he would land probably one division in the initial stages of an invasion. It did not follow that it would thereby be successful. There was a determination that, even if he did effect a landing (which we would deny him if we could) he would certainly stub his toe, and lose a lot of skin in the process. The men in Samambula camp at this time will all vividly remember the weekly summary of the war situation that was given by Colonel Voelcker after church parade, sitting on the stage of the camp theatre, swinging his legs and chain-smoking. He left no one in doubt as to the threat that hung over Fiji, and he painted very clearly the progress of events on all fronts of the world.

Late in January there was a re-shuffle of defence areas. The battalion was relieved of its shoreline positions along the Vatawangga sector, and given the primary responsibility for protection of the western approaches to Suva. This involved defence in depth along the main coast road around the southern side of Viti Levu. It was planned that contact with an invading force would first be made by small mobile patrols along this road, who might withdraw into the main defence area nearer Suva. Bilo would become a fortress area.

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In many a distant Fijian village men of the 34th Battalion were honoured guests The imposing Government buildings in Suva are a feature of the Fijian capital. Below is a view of Suva Bay looking towards Grey's Point and the peak of Korombamba

In many a distant Fijian village men of the 34th Battalion were honoured guests
The imposing Government buildings in Suva are a feature of the Fijian capital. Below is a view of Suva Bay looking towards Grey's Point and the peak of Korombamba

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The Fijian scene never lacked variety. The fruit boat was pictured on the Lami River; the old lady is retrieving her live crabs at the Nausori market and below is a view of Suva's beautiful Bay of Islands, with Bilo in the background

The Fijian scene never lacked variety. The fruit boat was pictured on the Lami River; the old lady is retrieving her live crabs at the Nausori market and below is a view of Suva's beautiful Bay of Islands, with Bilo in the background

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Should the enemy bypass it, then he would be faced immediately with the first line of defence at Grey's Point. A mile further back was Lami and Suvavou, with their positions; Princes Ridge, further back still, would, if the worst should happen, be our last stop before Yokohama.

To carry out these tactical roles, X company, under Captain Pennefather, was shifted from Queen Victoria College to Bilo (where it relieved the two platoons of Y company which had been there for some time). Y company, commanded by Captain J. F. Hewitt, moved out northwards to the Queen Victoria College; Z company, under Major H. A. Wernham, handed over Vatawangga to the Fiji Defence Force and took station at Ballantine's School, between Princes Ridge and Lami. The support company detached its sections to the various rifle companies, maintining a reserve in Samambula camp. 'Time spent on reconnaissance is often wasted, and is frequently dangerous.' This statement, while not in the exact words of the well-known army maxim, might well apply to some of the activities of our officers just before moving out to sectors. One example could be offered of the carefree attitude of some young officers who on one occasion when out on reconnaissance with the commanding officer had to be smartly called to order for paying considerably more attention to the quaint behaviour of toads in an old Indian well than to the colonel's outline of the defensive plan. As for the danger, Lieutenant J. C. Braithwaite, the battalion intelligence officer, vouched for the accuracy of our anti-aircraft defences when they opened fire on a plane in which he and a number of other officers of high standing were making an aerial reconnaissance of the sectors. Lieutenant A. Dearsley's anti-aircraft platoon claimed only a 'near-miss' in this engagement. There was the occasion too, a little later, at Ballantine's School, when a group of Y company officers was inspecting these new-fangled hand grenades (there had been very few of them previously in Fiji). It slowly dawned on one of the younger and brighter subalterns that, several seconds previously, the safety pin had been removed from one grenade, the striker had sprung down, and a faint hissing was now issuing from the missile. Galvanised, he leapt upon the bomb and cast it mightily out through the window of the officers' mess, where it exploded heartily a few feet away from an unsuspecting Fijian fruit hawker. He departed in a very huffy frame of mind, but uninjured.

Pile Light was the strangest machine-gun post in all Christendom.

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Far out in Suva Harbour, near the entrance in the reef, stood this singular structure, projecting from the sea on four frai-looking legs. Formerly a beacon, Pile Light was suddenly thought of as a sentry box to guard against sneak raids by enemy torpedo boats, and also as a spotting station to mark the position of any mines dropped in the harbour by enemy aircraft. It was manned by three machine-gunners and one signaller—there was no room for any more. A three-cell torch was its sole method of communication with the shore. In a high wind or sea, Pile Light swayed grandly in all directions. At such times, the chief pastime of the occupants was hanging on; woe betide them if they fell off, for there were no lifebelts; in calm weather, shooting at the sharks that cruised around was a diversion. Sharks were always a menace to swimming, and it was customary at some places (particularly Grey's, where the water was deep and warm) to have a man on shore ready with loaded rifle while others were in the water. The chances of being shot by the look-out man were considered every bit as good as being bitten by a shark.

To provide a change of work and environment, several shifts were made from one sector to another. On 11 February, Y and Z companies exchanged positions, Y going out to Ballantine's, Z moving to Queen Victoria College. A week later the use of the college for a barracks was discontinued, and Z company came into Samambula camp, where its personnel did necessary guard and fatigue duties. One platoon was detached to billets at the Technical School, in Suva, handy to its battle stations overlooking the waterfront. Then early in March, a complete change-over was made. X company from Bilo transferred to the comparative civilisation of Ballantine's, its place at Bilo being taken by Z company. Y company was brought into camp at Samambula.

The number of times the Germans or the Japs 'attacked' Fiji is astonishing. Miraculously, on every occasion, they were driven back into the sea, or horribly annihilated before making much progress. Who can forget Private 'Red' Peters' ominous bugle call in the witching hours of the night, summoning us out of bed and to battle stations? Earlier in history Private 'Brick' Wilson had been the regular bugle-tooter, but had resigned in favour of the younger man. Men of the Reserve Battalion recall the morning when the bugler (which one of the above two is uncertain), having had a hard night made several gallant but vain attempts to sound reveille, whereupon the orderly officer, Second-Lieutenant L. J. Kirk relaxed his position of attention page 21in front of the flag-pole, seised the bugle, and himself sounded reveille with great spirit and emphasis. Some listeners declared that it was the finest reveille they ever heard.

But to return to the bugle calls that used to announce the start of yet another 'flapor training manoeuvre. That particular call, the 'Alarm' (or was it the 'Rouse') had a singularly baleful note of foreboding in it. There would be the rush to dress in the dark, the cursing, stumbling, the piling on to trucks in the pitch darkness, and the settling in, down on the posts, waiting for the stand-down to be signalled through. From Samambula camp, first away would be the dispatch riders, racing through the night to convey to the companies out on sector the unhappy news of this fresh dastardly attack by the enemy. Hot-foot after them would go the motor-cycle platoon, wheezing and spluttering (for in the early days there was no shelter for them, and they just stood out in the rain) with Second-Lieutenant N. M. Cotching leading the way out to Navua, where the enemy usually landed. Perhaps twenty-five motor cycles would start out for Samambula—a brave sight which must have struck awe into the hearts of the Hindus and Sikhs living up in the village; but ere long one machine would falter and stop. This mixture of petrol and tropical rain-water was too much for any engine. A fair proportion might make the whole distance, out over the Vesari River and towards Navua. But when stand-down came, it was sometimes a matter of days before the last machine limped home. In fairness to the men of the motor-cycle platoon, this was not their fault; it was a credit to them that they managed to keep even one machine on the road.

Most portentous of all the alerts was that on 9 January, 1942. Coast-watchers on the islands to the north had reported the assembly of a substantial enemy task force. With this news came a message from headquarters warning Fiji to expect an enemy attack on 10 January. That day came and went, with all the forces in Fiji standing to expectantly. Why the blow did not fall, we cannot yet know for sure; but it appears certain that American naval resistance about this time temporarily staved off the enemy.

Alarms always had their lighter side. There was the occasion of the slight 'Battle of Lami, when Captain Wernham was the Japanese general and Captain Pennefather the leader of the defence. The attackers' bren guns were carved from wood, and firing was denoted by beating a rat-tat on a dixie lid. Mortars were simulated by stovepiping, page 22and a resounding thump on the cab of a truck meant that one death-dealing bomb was on its way. It seems ludicrous now, but those were the days when equipment was scarce. The next best thing to having real modern weapons was to train with imitations. After all, the tank regiments in England, following Dunkirk, practised their tactics on bicycles. A batman of D support company will tell the tale of the mortar platoon commander who was so engrossed in despatching his men out to their battle stations that he finally found he had sent them all off, and left himself, plus batman, behind. The two had to hitch-hike to the front line. Nor will the wrath of the commanding officer be forgotten on the memorable morning of 9 March 1942 during the 'Battle of Nandi' (the 'real thing this time') when he found the adjutant had brought neither message pad, notebook, or pencil; or the colonel's baseless allegations that Second-Lieutenant Alison's vickers platoon liked the alarms because of the presence in the middle of its sector of a house inhabited by a pretty half-cast Rarotongan girl; or the shots that were fired into the 'wog-wagon' by the motor-cycle platoon that was holding Queen's Road, when the Indian driver didn't seem to appreciate the seriousness of the occasion; or the Fijian who ran all the way from Bilo to Princes Ridge, some eight miles, with a message from Captain Pennefather to Colonel Voelcker, and handed it over panting. It read: 'Nil report.' We never knew if these alarms were real, or otherwise. They were unpopular but necessary. The battalion learned to move in the dark, to deploy rapidly and efficiently. Such alarms served to maintain a condition of readiness which had to be Fiji's insurance against surprise attack by the enemy.

Messages from brigade headquarters to 34th Battalion on the night of 8 March 1942 and the morning of the following day bring back memories.

11.20 pm: At 2000 hours Jap convoy sighted 57 miles SW Malolo. Expect attack Nandi dawn.
3.45 am: Alert. Battle stations.
4.0 am: Convoy split during night. Half moving around south Vitu Levu. Remainder lying off Nandi.
4.30 am: Southern half convoy now 14 miles off Mbengga. Expect attack Suva dawn.
7.0 am: Nandi bombed and shelled by enemy air and naval forces.
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These messages outline the most notable of all the battles fought on the Suva side of Fiji. This time we believed it was true. The officers' conference that was held late that first night, the talks with the platoons that followed, the quietness of the move out to stations in the early morn—the atmosphere of a real show was all there. It was during the morning, when civilians were seen going to work, and the submarine net at the entrance to the reef was still open, that we realised this was just another exercise, clothed this time with rather more realism than usual.

Late in March a change was made in the battalion's tactical role. We became a mobile divisional reserve, prepared to move to any part of Vitu Levu, but with our main responsibilities still in the 8th Brigade area. This necessitated moving quarters to the small township of Nausori, some twelve miles from Suva, in the rich delta area of the Rewa River. In retrospect, Suva had given us many pleasures. To men on leave, there were the shops of never-failing interest, the Indian tailors and souvenir-sellers, who fully expected their price to be beaten down; there were the theatres, the hotels and the New Zealand Club; and while no army can help treading on the toes of local administration occasionally, yet the regard in which our soldiers were held by the local people was evident from the number of men who were entertained in Suva homes, and by residents in the neighbouring districts.