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.