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Shovel Sword and Scalpel: A record of service of medical units of the second New Zealand expeditionary force in the Pacific

Chapter Seven — 24th NZ Field Ambulance

Chapter Seven
24th NZ Field Ambulance

page 132

I
Embryo

With the entry of the Japanese into active participation in World War II, New Zealand began to fear for her peace and plenty. Came general mobilisation of all territorial forces and the departure of the 8th Field Ambulance for Memorial Park, Masterton. Months of training followed, days of scaling hillsides, endless hours of infantry, company and stretcher drill under the pitiless summer sun and the equally pitiless winter winds. In December, 1942, came orders to move to Waiouru Military Camp. The days tumbled by—days of soul-destroying infantry training, stretcher drill, and Thomas splinting, during which our acquaintance with army routine became most intimate. 'On 12 April, 1943, the 24th NZ Field Ambulance was created out of the ashes of the 8th. Reinforcements began to arrive— some 40 men from the 2nd Field Ambulance and a further reinforcement from the deep south. The changeover was affected with little pomp or ceremony. We were marched in solemn concourse to the camp records office, accosted by a clerk, and marched back to our area. By which thrilling ceremony the 24th NZ Field Ambulance was given birth.

Came July and mountain fever was in the air. We had thought that the appetite of those who craved lofty places would have been satisfied by a previous Tongariro expedition. But such was not the case, and we were scheduled to storm Ruapehu—'field exercises' the official papers read. We set off complete page 133with six blankets, a small issue of morale, and 'Shorty' Nicoll. The commanding officer (Lieutenant-Colonel W. R. Fea, NZMC) set a slow but progressive pace. Halts were frequent. There was some trouble with crowders, and the colonel's remark, (Remember you're an army, not a bloody French revolution,' was as classic as it was ineffective. And so to our Shangri-La—the summit, the Crater Lake as unexpected as it was iovely; a hot lake of beautiful hue set in an icewalled basin, beset by summit peaks. Little need be said about the descent, save that it was fast and exhilarating, with an anxious moment or two on the ice slopes.

Remember the fights at Ohakune! The US Marine Corps turned out a team of sluggers, complete with professional seconds, smelling salts, embrocation and a fine will to win. It was soon obvious what our boys were up against when a nuggety marine, billed at a modest 10 stone, bounded into the ring, beat his hairy chest, and proceeded to lay about a lighter 'Snow' Dyer, who became so mussed up with blood that the referee stopped the bout. And so the murderous night wore on. The last bout saw Lieutenant Dick Skelley sitting patiently in his corner, mouth full with a tremendous guard, awaiting the much-publicised 'Golden Gloves Kid.' From the comments around it was obvious the audience thought Dick was another lamb for the slaughter. But he came in immediately with his left and had the 'Kid' backing away. Followed three rounds of really good boxing, with Skelley rocking lefts into his man and seemingly little affected by return blows. A draw was given, and we are sure that was at least deserved—some thought more and let it be vociferously known.

Then there was football. With a paucity of good teams around Waiouru in 1943 it is possible that we gained a false impression of the quality of our team. But after three comfortable victories against Mangaweka, Armoured Fighting Vehicle School, and Wanganui, it was a painful process to watch the débacle against Taranaki at Pukekura Park, when the lads in maroon went down to Taranaki to the tune of 32 points to three.

We suspected that we were not going to like Trentham, and when we arrived there on 30 July, 1943, we were certain of it. Everyone slunk round, seemingly terrorised. 'A concentration camp, only on our side,' as one sage said. Furthermore, it appeared that long weekend leave was unheard of, and the best we could get, outside 'jumping the fence,' was a 36-hour weekend once a month. Trentham was a riot of rumour. A company was page 134ordered to pack early in August, and rumours entwined themselves around this known fact. 'A company is a ship's baggage party,' said one-who-knows; 'They're an advanced party to take over from the 22nd Field Ambulance, who are coming home on furlough/ whispered another; 'The 24th is definitely breaking up, and this is the first sign of the split,' whined a doom-voiced prophet; 'We are eventually all going to Burma,' confided a fourth. But from all the rumours we gained little information that could be regarded as a certainty.

A company, with sea-kits bulging and laden like pack horses, marched away in embarkation order on 3 August. But it was a spurious start, and some 10 days later they arrived back from Papakura, from New Caledonia, and, by the way they talked, from Japan itself. All day they had to face the insults of the rest of the unit, and were dubbed 'Harper's Hasbeens—The Boomerang Brigade.' The rest of the month passed with members of the unit as the mainstay of the Wellington waterfront and assuming a stevedore attitude to life. Those of us not fortunate enough to go on fatigue duty at the wharves were subjected to an intensive session of 'bullring'—maybe the most fruitful, but not the most popular army diversion.

II
Outward Bound

In the early morning of 7 September, 1943, a body of men could be seen staggering to the Trentham station loaded down like mules. Some two hours later that same body of men filed aboard the James B. Francis. We had cast off from Wellington by mid-afternoon, and within an hour were sailing west in Cook Strait, past the sombre eminence of Terawhiti, massive signpost of New Zealand.

Our feelings as we left our native country and saw its shores fade in the twilight were not according to the book. Sorrow, loneliness, and a lingering love for the ones left behind are the supposed emotions of men going off to war. But the mood that seemed to prevail on the James B. was more one of relief that we had finally got under way and that the period of indecision was page 135dissolving. Moreover, there was much to interest us. Arthur King talked robustly and with much assurance of 'hatches forard on the starboard beam; while those eminent yachtsmen, Cliff Hollis and Ron Pearce, chatted together amiably in terms of 'luffing,' 'bearing off,' and 'splicing the main brace.' We landlubbers felt so inferior.

The days were calm and peaceful. Our plane escort disappeared. It felt very lonely—one ship trudging through the vast seas. We lay out above decks in the warm sun reading, talking, sleeping, playing cards, or just sunning ourselves. Our only organised entertainment was the nightly garbage dumping party, with 'Squeak' Kerr as master of ceremonies. It was only to be expected, therefore, that the hold of the ship at night looked more like a casino than anything else. The noise down there was terrific. Above the confused mumblings of small five-hundred schools came the steady roar of Leo Andrew's 'housie' lingo— 'all the sixes, clickety click'— 'two and four, a coupla doz'— 'five owe, blind fifty'—'on its own, number one, Kelly's eye.' A consistent obbligato to this chatter came from the sing tai lu fans, baseball addicts, Tom Foughy and his five card studders, and an occasional, 'Crown runs for the ole man; any gen'leman take the crown; crown still … Close up, there's an officer on the stairs!'

Four days at sea. Four days at sea during which one-time crooner, Jack Smith, groaned in his bunk and showed no sign of recovery at all, despite the calm seas. By 12 September we sighted land. Yes, there on the northern horizon lay the elongated mountainous strip that meant New Caledonia. We anchored at Fisherman's Bay, Noumea Harbour. All around us we saw the store houses and mass equipment of war. Invasion barges, launches, speed boats, troop barges, and native junks drifted around us in idle curiosity. One thing we missed in this, our first port of the south seas, was a native craft plying fruit or souvenirs. A few Kanakas sailed around us, but were very silent and sober—quite different from what Mr. James A. Fitz-patrick had led us tG expect.

On election day, 13 September, 1943, we cast our votes in an unusual place—the hold of an American ship. For all of us the election was singular. We had no impassioned speeches from plausible politicians, we had no Press campaigns in recent weeks to impress any particular angle on us, we had not been prey to the subtle insidiousness of partisan cartoonists, and so we had page 136been left to consider for ourselves and assess political values without interference or emotional appeal—almost' by their deeds shall ye know them.' Patience was sorely tried by the long wait in the hot hold. This delay was unavoidable if the ballot was to be kept secret, and it gave an opportunity to talk politics ad lib. Alf Flowers recalled, with much gusto, elections of past years in all their savagery and vindictiveness, and the psalm-singing campaigns of the Salvation Army for prohibition—how they gathered outside the polling booths with their bands and sang, in hymnal tones, 'Strike out the top line.'

And so we stagnated in Noumea Harbour. One of the minor miracles of the war befell Jack Heath about this time. He went about with a long face announcing that he had dropped his watch overboard. But Heath's watch was uninteresting and we forgot all about it. Yet the incident of 'Heath's watch' was to become notable, found its way into every letter written home. For the next day Howard Purser was dreamily fishing when he felt a slight tug on the line. He jerked the line slightly. No response. Yet there was still this slight drag. He drew the line in. And what was on the end of it? Yes, your guess is right—Heath's watch. And if 'Believe It Or Not Ripley' wants proof the whole complement of the good ship James B. Francis will stand witness. Our surprise at this amazing act of God was so intense that some were transported away to celestial thought. Like the Apostle Thomas, the unbelieving Tom Mathie, demanding further proof, next evening sneezed his false teeth over the side, and to the best of our knowledge is still looking for a reiteration of divine providence.

The unit went ashore at Noumea. As we pulled in to the barge jetty, truck loads and barges of American servicemen awaiting transportation to the hospital ship lying out in the harbour were mute evidence of war in the Pacific. We realised, with a shock, that when we left New Caledonia to go further south a sterner phase of the war would begin. That morning we strolled through the streets. In twos and threes we wandered along the road that led to the shopping area, made slow work of it as we •stopped every few chains to watch the life flowing by. Side by side with the friendly child-like Kanakas were American servicemen, negro and white, French people looking to us typically French, Javanese scurrying along on sandalled feet, and, to delight our 10-day celibate eyes, a few pretty French girls. With page 137the air of bustle, the mixture of nationalities and colours, the smell, the dust, the palm trees, the white-suited colonists and traders, and the dusty white streets, Noumea justified the glamour built round tropic ports in the South Seas.

On 19 September a detachment of the unit participated in a ceremonial parade of allied nations' forces held in celebration of the Free French Movement. The parade should have been a glittering spectacle, but, alas, just as the New Zealand troops left the waterfront the rain started. This was our first experience of tropical rain, and it was some experience. We left the waterfront and, within five minutes, our light drill shirts and trousers were a sodden dark brown. We marched to the Rue Georges Clemenceau, where we stood in the rain while the Free French Forces, mainly native troops, marched past us, the Governor spoke, and the Governor and a retinue of allied officers inspected us. While the Governor spoke it rained twice as hard; as his speech was translated into English it took three times as long; and the French people standing nearby looked four times as sorry for us. After the inspection came a march past the saluting base. Still soaked to the skin, we stepped out to the music of our divisional band with a lively step and an occasional sneaked smile at the French girls, who chuckled at our plight. We marched up a side street and were halted while a further torrent swept the city. Then, all hope of proper marching gone, we floundered and swam through the submerged streets up to the French barracks, where some colours were presented to someone or other to the music and peculiar bugling of native trumpeters.

III
To The Solomons

Just two weeks after we left New Zealand we pulled out of Noumea Harbour for an unknown destination. The trip was devoid of incident, and on the morning of 25 September we sighted land on the port bow—the high rugged jungle of San Cristobal. We watched small islands appear and disappear around us during the day until, with nightfall, we were steaming well into the Solomons and wondering when we would strike page 138Guadalcanal. Next dawn we watched the mountainous ridges of the island we knew to be the 'Canal come closer and closer. Many attempted to identify every open patch of land as either a fighter strip, Henderson Field, or Hanson Field.

As we watched, many thoughts must have coursed through the minds of we New Zealanders, who had come to know the name of Guadalcanal more familiarly than any other battlefield of this war. Back at home we had seen the men of the US Marine Corps leave to go up into this area; we had heard of the deaths in action of many whose brief acquaintanceship we had made; we had seen so many of them return, shocked, ill and ridden with malaria; we had heard them talk of the horror that was Guadalcanal. Now we were lying outside Guadalcanal, waiting to be taken ashore. But what a difference! Whatever our feelings as we saw the numbered bearhes come into view, saw the numerous craft that jostled out to meet us, and saw the waving palms preluding the jungle behind, how different they must have been to the thoughts of the men of the marine division who launched the attack against Japan in the South Pacific on 7 August, 1942, when they landed on these same beaches. We knew we were going to build a camp under difficult conditions, that we would have to suffer the rigours of life and work in the tropical heat and were going into a zone that was still prey to air raids; but we would have no Japs sniping at us, no traps in the jungle, no excessive fear of malaria, and we would have the assurance of constant and safe supply lines. Indeed, we were very fortunate. In all humility, we felt a deeper appreciation of those Americans who fought and died there such a short time ago.

We thought we had seen the last of the James B. Francis when we stepped ashore, but for the next few days almost the whole unit was used to unload our two-week floating home. Working in the heat of the day certainly was trying. We were told that, after a while, when we were acclimatised, we would not feel it so badly, but sweating in that stifling hold was as close to hell as most of us will wish to be.

And so to the building of the camp. The company lines were situated on either side of a cleared ridge, flanked on each side by a jungle that had been mildly tamed. Once our tents were up and firmly secured we started on the longer job of building cookhouses, native style huts, digging sumps, making proper page 139latrines, recreation huts, and a score of paths through the wilderness. The addiction of some of us to ease and luxury made us rather out of place in our new environment. Associated with this addiction was a horrifying lack of manual ability and craftsmanship. This incapacity to serve in any other way than as manual labourers extended to those who belonged in civilian life in professional spheres. Whereas the one-time manual labourers, farmers, carpenters, roadmen, mechanics and plasterers directed operations with initiative and inventiveness, most of the white collar fraternity—led by Bohemian vocal virtuoso Gordon Hooper—a motley collection of clerks, accountants and pedagogic chalk-throwers stood around agape and could only assist with pick and shovel.

Occasionally we studied the jungle beside us. Bamboo thickets gave way to flowering hibiscus blossoms topped by tall trees. Extending from the beach and up past the road to the camp was a coconut plantation, but the palms seemed confined to this area and could not be seen in the jungle proper. Broken branches, often heavy ones, were scattered through the jungle and were only held up by the profusion of vines. The undergrowth was alive with every type of creeper and crawler imaginable—iguanas, land crabs, hermit crabs, centipedes, lizards, rats, snakes, spiders of abandoned colours and tremendous size, and a myriad army of ants, which were our greatest pest. The neighbouring jungle gave up its timber for the numerous conveniences that abounded around our tents. The natural initiative and ability which the New Zealand soldier possesses resulted in our company lines taking on the appearance of a Heath Robinson holiday resort. Makeshift showers vied with one another for mechanical grotesqueness in their arrangement of tins and cans. Shelves, clothes racks, bookcases and chairs completed the parody on the cottage for two.

Spare time in the evenings was filled in many ways—writing letters home, reading and talking. Some nights we went over to the movies at Field Maintenance Centre. The theatre, dubbed the 'Regent,' was situated in a clearing in the jungle, where the audience could sit and watch the films, smoke, talk, jeer at the actors and be nipped by ants. The screen was suspended between two huge trees, an arrangement that served a double purpose—if the show was lousy we could lie back and wonder at page 140the fascinating setting in which the inane celluloid was projected. Not that that was often necessary. The films were donated by the War Services Division of the American motion picture industry, and, as was usual with-the Americans, only the best went to their troops. Besides movie going, debating groups were started, discussion groups got under way, and a chess club was formed to sponsor the game within the unit.

At two o'clock on the morning of 11 October, 1943, and again at four o'clock we experienced our first air raid- We had been expecting these since the moon was waxing, and at last the Japs decided to take another crack at the 'Canal. Their efforts had previously been directed to the American end of the island, but this morning they tried a new stunt. An enemy plane flew in just over the top of the jungle in the same line as the American planes took towards Henderson Field. This tactic shielded it from anti-aircraft fire, and, as it flew on to the tarmac, it suddenly rose and shot out over the harbour, bombing a transport that lay in the bay before the gun crews realised they had been fooled. These details, of course, only came to us during the day. While the raid was on we had no idea what was happening, and the whole show was singularly uninteresting. We decided that air raids on Guadalcanal were very dull affairs at this stage of the Solomons campaign, though no doubt the sailors on board the bombed and burning transport would hardly have agreed with us.

The date, 25 November, 1943, had little significance for us until the cooks told us that a feast had been supplied by the Americans in celebration of their Thanksgiving Day. Considered historically, what a delightful paradox! We, British people, joined in celebrating the thanksgiving offered by the Pilgrim Fathers on the occasion of their first successful harvest—those Pilgrim Fathers who founded America, those Pilgrim Fathers whose deadly enmity towards the British Government drove them from England and led them to renounce their associations with the British people. Anyway, extra rations were supplied by the Americans to the New Zealanders serving with them in the Pacific, and the menu presented to us at evening mess was so good it bears repeating. Here it is, the meal adjudged by the boys the best they had had in the army:—Grapefruit juice, turkey, seasoning, beans, green peas, cauliflower, potatoes (baked and boiled), peaches and cream, followed by tea or coffee, with page 141candy and a packet of cigarettes for everybody. That, you will agree, was a meal hardly to be expected on Guadalcanal.

During this same evening the open forum committee sponsored a discussion—' Whether closer political, economic and cultural relations with the USA would be of advantage to New Zealand.' Speakers leading in the discussion were Lieutenant (Cultural) Christie, Alan (Economic) Low and John (Political) O'Shea. The open forum committee certainly kept cultural affairs bowling along merrily, inaugurating one December evening what they claimed was the first Brains Trust to meet in the South Pacific. Whether their claim was justified or not the evening's entertainment they provided was very popular. The Trust consisted of Lieutenant-Colonel Fea, Lieutenant Christie, Sergeant 'Anopheles' Belton, Driver 'Comrade' Dale, and Private O'Shea. The question-master for the evening was Sergeant-Major Les Hay, who plied the 'professors' with a variety of questions ranging from details about the planets and the Einstein theory to the melody of Toscelli's 'Serenade.' The 'professors' displayed a wide range of knowledge, and there were few spheres which their combined brain could not cover. The brightest spot in the evening came when the question-master opened the session to impromptu questions from the floor. After a string of (Whodunits,' George Reid drew a wellearned laugh with his perfectly timed, 'Who owns this hat?'

Just prior to Christmas, 1943, the entertainment committee presented 'Polynesia Purchase' to an audience of New Zealanders and their American friends. For some days rehearsals had been bawled out, curtain wings built to a large stage, seating space cleared and filled with logs and a couple of rows of seats. Sans champagne, the theatre, in a natural shell behind A company's lines, was launched with the grandiloquent name of 'Medicine Square Garden.' The farce was staged with a dark dome of night overhead, giant trees and vines dimly outlined through the haze of tobacco smoke, and mosquitoes lifting and falling in the floodlight. The dialogue might have stepped right out of the Bronx. You know the sort of thing—'Listen to dem boids.' 'Those are birds, not boids.' 'Well, dey choip like boids.' We think that most of our pleasure derived from the obvious delight with which the Americans in the audience received the quips and sallies against the 'Great American Way.'page 142We may have been a very small section of the forces on Guadalcanal, but we showed that our lighter moments were as good as our serious ones. The real measure of the play's success was that the players gave request performances to other units and went on the road to fulfil a USO itinerary.

IV
Final Preparations

From the beginning of February, 1944, the tempo of activity and excitement increased with each successive day. A gentleman with a spray gun, a machine and many tins of paint stationed himself outside B company's recreation hut. In due course we submitted our web gear, belts and ground sheets to him to be camouflaged—a job which was begun in great haste but prolonged itself over three days.

Conjecture mounted high. A and B companies got wind of the news that some of them would be forming parts of combat teams. B company was to supply two sections, under Captains J. L. Adams and L. W. Suckling, to be attached to battalion combat teams, and A company was to provide a third section, under Captain A. G. Harper. All three would go in on the first wave of troops on reaching the island objective. Headquarters company and remaining personnel of the ASC and the two companies were to land with the second wave to establish the main dressing station. We were all practically certain that the Green Island Group was to be our objective, and, though there were some lingering traces of doubt, we reached the stage of seeking out all available information about the island. Bush telegraph reported that there were few Japs in occupation on Green, but its location placed it smack behind the Japanese lines, some 55 miles from their airfield on Buka and about 150 air miles to the north-east of Rabaul. It was impossible to deny being a little excited with the prospect.

While waiting for our D-day we were assailed by lecturers and tested once more on an already thorough knowledge of the medical panniers we would be using. Though we each had our specific jobs we were required to become familiar with all types page 143of work which we might have to undertake. The members of company sections practised the carrying of their distributed equipment. Sixteen men in the section and the loads were tough—two men to three panniers and three large water cans, one man to the fly of a tent and poles, one man to the rest of the tent and poles, one man to three stretchers and three Thomas splints plus bandages, one man to four stretchers. In addition to these 100-pound loads we were carrying all our web gear loaded to maximum crush capacity, a shovel, a pick or axe each, a rifle or tommy-gun, and 100 rounds of ammunition.

In the midst of our preparations 'Shorty' Nicoll left for the casualty clearing station. Amid many individual farewells our talkative, jingoistic laundryman left the unit. There was no doubt that his eccentricities were often a source of amusement. Probably most of us will remember 'Shorty' best as the happy originator in anger of many phrases current in the unit at various times. At Trentham we were 'a slap-happy, Bible-banging outfit'; on the James B. Francis we were exhorted to keep our 'skulls down'; after three months of Guadalcanal we were a 'darktown outfit'; and at all times we were collectively and individually greeted with remarks which, though inevitably adopted into the jargon peculiar to our field ambulance, lose something of their colour when repeated in cold print, and, for that reason, they are excluded from this narrative.

However, the business of packing and crating equipment continued. We were issued with two days' K ration and one day's chocolate ration; also half a pup tent each, a 'heatab' outfit and stand, an issue of atebrin tablets, of which 10 were for use when we reached our objective—an indication that we would spend but three days aboard ship.

Almost a year after the forming of the 24th NZ Field Ambulance we were headed for action. The first echelon of the unit left in four types of ships and on four different dates. On 6 February, 1944, after many delays, two jeeps with their drivers left by LCT. Five days later the bulk of the equipment and the headquarters of the field ambulance left by LST, to be followed next day by another draft in LCIs. The sections under Captains Harper, Suckling and Adams travelled with their respective combat teams on APDs. Those of us travelling on LCIs assembled at the ASC lines for transportation to Kukum Beach, where the ships were waiting. We lay in the sun at the beach page 144for some time while numerous officers with sheaves of papers in their hands anxiously rushed up and down the ramps of the LCIs avoiding the resentful glances of the troops boiling in the hot Guadalcanal sun.

What did we look like as we left Guadalcanal? Take, a look at Bill Beissel as he finally struggles up the gang-plank of the LCI. He is dressed in a summer two-piece jungle suit which is coloured a motley green, grey and black; on his head is a floppy jungle hat that neither comes nor goes; on his face, the impassive, inscrutable expression that means Bill Beissel. But these are only his underclothes. Around him, on top of him, under and about him are his web gear, valise, small pack, water bottle, bayonet, jungle knife and matches; and slung about his throat his mosquito net is wrapped uncomfortably in a gas cape. Over all this, in some insecure and incredible manner, he supports a shovel and a 'dixie,' which jangles along behind nonchalantly, boots and gaiters almost falling off his pack, a rifle in one hand, an axe in the other.

By four o'clock in the afternoon the convoy had assembled half a mile out. The 12 LCIs took up their position with the salvage boat from Lunga, which was to minesweep the entrance to Nissan's lagoon. Our screen of five destroyers and one cruiser impatiently waited for the ships to muster. We sailed up the coast of Guadalcanal, taking a last lingering look at the jungle covered ridges, the forbidding coast line of that famous.island. At nightfall we were just north of Cape Esperance with Savo behind us. The clear, starry night was leading us to Nissan. All next day we sailed under a cloud-flecked sky across a smooth Pacific, until, late in the afternoon, we pulled in at Vella Lavella, where more New Zealanders boarded the LCIs. Many of these troops sported beards and moustaches, cultivated since the early days of the Vella campaign. They looked rough and tough, these Kiwis, with their whiskery, sun-browned yet atebrin-yellowed faces, their dirty, sweaty jungle suits, their floppy hats, their sharp features. Even the worst of desert warfare never seems to make troops look as thoroughly uncivilised and unkempt as does the jungle. We pulled away from Vella during the night, and the next morning could see the Treasuries clearly to starboard. Then Bougainville slipped over the horizon. Most of us hunted for shade on the crowded decks. We read, slept and talked. We stayed up on deck talking till well after dark.

page 145

V
Nissan

Here we were, on the threshold of our D-day. The story of 15 February, 1944, might tell a Third Division cavalcade of fighting and heroism that would rank beside the grim stories of Guadalcanal and Tarawa. The 14th NZ Brigade might be matched with the AIF's veteran 17th Brigade which struggled through to Salamaua. Its story might provide grist for the mills of future Anzac bar-room arguments. But 15 February, 1944, was destined to have little place in the Kiwi chronicles of World War II. A wellnigh unopposed landing was followed by a day's consolidation against an almost Japless jungle. Our long-awaited D-day produced feelings of bathos and anti-climax, a little disappointment, but at the same time a feeling of relief and thankfulness that there were no casualties after the first day of occupation. Firmly entrenched after an easy invasion, our fear of air attacks rapidly faded.

At Blue Beach, on the Pokonian Plantation, the landing of the second wave was not without event. Lieutenant N. D. M. Harvey and his section had unloaded the last of the equipment and were filing ashore with their own gear when a Japanese barge was reported to be firing on the landing craft. The resulting din was terrific as Bofors, machineguns and the full fire power of the LCIs and LSTs standing off shore was directed at the barge. Then the excitement subsided and the first incident of the day ended. All that was left were the graphic descriptions to be related, and, we suspect, exaggerated by the participants. Arthur King, A company's rascally cook, maintained that he felt the flapping of wings as his guardian angel picked him up and flew him across the water to the shore; while George Rix told such an exciting tale of the flurry that we began to understand his success in the field of advertising.

With the equipment ashore, headquarters and the attached personnel from the companies had a heavy day shifting it along the narrow crowded trail to the hospital site. The only truck allowed to the hospital itself became bogged in the mud soon after it left the LCT and was useless for the rest of the day. Despite much arguing and many ruffled tempers our MDS was page 146
Nissan Island was the end of the journey. A convalescent depot was established near South Point; one field hospital on the coast near Tanaheran and the other near Pokonian

Nissan Island was the end of the journey. A convalescent depot was established near South Point; one field hospital on the coast near Tanaheran and the other near Pokonian

page 147functioning in two and three-quarter hours. Though handicapped by having a quantity of our equipment dumped at the wrong beach, we were able to care for patients who soon began to arrive. Highlight of the day had been Padre T. H. Carr's cups of tea, which seemed inexhaustible. The work was hard, the heat savage, and the relieved nervous tension made us tired, hungry and thirsty.

The three sections with the combat teams had had an uneventful day, and, once their fox-holes were dug, a fairly easy time. For them the night also was quiet. Again the MDS struck what action was going when an air attack came too close to be merely entertaining. All over the island that night nerves were jumping. No contact had been made with the enemy, but, mindful of Guadalcanal, Bairoko and Mono, the perimeters were on the alert, and some of the guards became slightly trigger-happy; which added to our uneasiness.

Our first battle casualties arrived on 17 February as the little islands of Barahun, Sirot and Pinipel were cleaned out. Both the field surgical unit, which had been attached to us, and our own operating theatres were busy until well after dark. By the 18th we had 59 patients, mostly sick. On the 19th more battle casualties drifted in, some to be evacuated next day by returning ships of the second echelon, which had brought the remainder of our unit. On 20 February we established a few tents and No. 1 Field Surgical Unit on a new site between the road and the lagoon about a mile nearer to the mission. Towards the late afternoon this same day fresh battle casualties began to come in, and an appeal for stretchers, blankets and jeep ambulances was received from the 30th Battalion. Apparently the Japs had at last come to light, and things were happening at Tanaheran, a few miles away. Later, casualties were intercepted by the field surgical unit at our new site, where work continued until five o'clock next morning.

On 22 February, 1944, the MDS personnel, complete with harried tempers, sweaty bodies, blistered hands and unpleasant dispositions, shifted both hospital and patients from the location at Pokonian to the new site. A gang, under the architectural direction of Lieutenant J. L. Meanie, and stimulated by the verbosity of Dennis Chambers, had been working on the site for a few days and had all the necessary holes dug and rails ready for the speedy re-erection of the MDS. Within 15 days of the page 148occupation of the island General Barrowclough's 'Forty Thousand Thieves' were following a normal routine. They were making themselves comfortable, had found something for nothing and only needed a ration dump to be situated nearby to be quite happy. Then followed four and a-half months of occupation, with our hospital well established on a good site, with its own pier for evacuation of patients by barge. In this evacuation service, and in all respects, the American naval authorities were most cooperative. To facilitate evacuation by air we established a holding hospital on the air strip.

What did we do during these four and a-half months? The time passed, albeit with dragging feet, in work and play. One testimony to the former was the complete treatment of the native population for yaws. Captain Adams gave weekly injections at the native village at Salipal, and, with Major W. W. Hallwright, from divisional headquarters, at the villages on Pinipel Island. Results were splendid, and our efforts were obviously appreciated. Our hospital was soon filled with a constant flow of skin diseases, accident cases, and odd minor epidemics. The laboratory, manned by Ted Mead and Alan Low, was always busy, for the eosinophil survey during a hookworm scare was a complete one and revealed some interesting figures.

For play there were a few canoes, swimming, and the exciting hunt for giant rays. On one occasion 17 of these fish cruised past the camp, and, with the assistance of rifle, grenade and harpoon, we managed to bring two ashore. One measured 10 feet six inches by nine feet six inches—a goodly fish. Commercial instincts, dormant since our departure from Guadalcanal, reappeared, and shells began to find themselves rapidly transformed into necklaces—a modest venture this, with full economic setup which paid many dollars into New Zealand pockets. Then there was rain on Green-—-it rained some days, most clays, always.

The first draft of manpower releases left, the second followed, and, on 6 July, 1944, the remainder of the unit said a not regretful farewell to Nissan and headed, in the USS Celeno, for New Caledonia.

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VI
New Caledonia

Arrived in Necal we found that a good camp had been prepared at Moindah, though none of us anticipated a long stay there. The temperate climate was much appreciated, and the conditions generally were good. The 4th NZ General Hospital was most generous in providing accommodation for a draft of men each weekend so that Noumea could be visited in search of the elusive silk stocking. Came final boards of survey, packing and the striking of tents, a short stay at Kalavere, the home of the convalescent depot, and then embarkation at Noumea and arrival at Auckland on 17 August, 1944. From the time of departure from New Caledonia the unit had ceased to function as such, and, once in Papakura, rapid disintegration took place as men set off for their homes. The 24th NZ Field Ambulance had to its credit but a year of overseas service, all of which was spent in the Solomons. It had prepared in many ways and, through arduous endeavour, had attained a high standard of fitness without which life in the jungle could have exacted a heavier toll.

What of our camps now on Guadalcanal and Green? What trace is left to show that New Zealand feet trod there? Probably very little. One might be pardoned for concluding with these lines dedicated to any tropic island:

'Isle of beauty, azure seas and skies,
Of tropic's verdant growth which given time
Will tirelessly enclose the ravages of men and war.
For time wins in the end; there is no end to time.'