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Stepping Stones to the Solomons: the unofficial history of the 29th Battalion with the Second New Zealand Expeditionary Force in the Pacific.

Chapter Four — Paradise Lost

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Chapter Four
Paradise Lost

Few of the men knew the exact moment when the first rush of foam opened between them and New Zealand. They were standing by below on the morning of Tuesday, 29 December, sweltering in one of the dull, interminable abandon ship drills, when someone noticed that the floor was vibrating. They would have liked to see Auckland fading away behind them, the great white museum and old, familiar Rangitoto. But the decks had been cleared. Later, through a porthole in an upper deck, they saw a green island slide past—somewhere on the outer fringe of the harbour. And then long cream beaches along a hill-crowned coast. Again the ship swung, and the porthole revealed only the limitless, lonely sea. So for the second time the 29th Battalion drew away from New Zealand, and once more it was on a voyage into the Pacific, about which the older hands held no illusions. For some it was a first voyage, however, and New Caledonia sounded all right as a start.

The decks were crowded each day from early in the morning until time to darken ship. There was a veto on gambling, but Crown and Anchor boards seemed to monopolise most of the shady corners. The divisional band played In the Mood and Isa Lei on the sun deck. All round, the ocean became a deeper blue, the foam more white. The vagabond clouds trailed down to the horizon. But down below it was hot—a steaming, stifling heat that is found nowhere but on a large troopship. Sleep was next to impossible. Tidiness and cleanliness were desperate goals that kept always out of reach. No portholes were ever opened. Cards, books, perspiring relaxation made up the day. Through the announcing system, an occasional meaningless twang. Long mess queues to the inferno of the kitchens. Occasional pictures in a suffocating hall.

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Looking at Falamai from the deck of an LST loaded with transport and supplies. Below is a view of the smoking village with a landing craft on the beach. Japanese mortars were still falling on the beach

Looking at Falamai from the deck of an LST loaded with transport and supplies. Below is a view of the smoking village with a landing craft on the beach. Japanese mortars were still falling on the beach

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Walking wounded—a study on Mono by an official war artist

Walking wounded—a study on Mono by an official war artist

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As an indication of the extent to which they would be working under the Americans, the men changed their money into dollars—two pounds worth each at sterling rates. Days of letter writing and talking of the land that lay ahead. The most startling news that had come back from the advanced party was a warning that fleas were prevalent. So everyone had brought flea powder. The Cambridge shops sold out. The panic spread to Hamilton. None of it was ever used, except to annoy the long caravans of ants that trailed over the New Caledonian dust. To the relief of the many who were not the best of sailors, the weather remained perfect. Only the throb of the screw confirmed to those below that they were still at sea.

Two days passed, and on the afternoon of the third everyone managed to get out on deck at least some time to see a long misty bulk where the sky came down to the ocean. A pure white lighthouse set on a heap of coral sand grew taller and taller, and swept past with its attendant trees and the soft red patch of a roof top. Around the ship the hills grew high and barren, cut into a thousand sharp spurs. A few half-sunken ships lay in the harbour. Around the headland a wisp of smoke told of a town. Noumea; first port of call from Auckland. On what it offered depended how much the stay in this country could be enjoyed.

The harbour was full of ships—merchant and naval. Catalinas skimmed down to land beside the ship. Grummans roared close overhead. It was an impressive display of sea and air power. Everyone felt reassured. The difficulty of the Guadalcanal campaign had made many wonder. The rear party, not so long before, had travelled up on the Crescent City with the long range guns that played a large part in the final drive in Guadalcanal. It seemed possible that the war might come back down the Pacific at any time. But here was an American fleet—secure and confident. There was not even a blackout in the town.

In Noumea Harbour the battalion entered into 1943. There was no celebration. By day the troops stared at the bleak hills and the arid grass of the harbour shore. They watched people walking along the roads under a great white cross upon a hill. Those few who managed an hour ashore came back with a dismaying description. The battalion knew that it was not to be very happy in New Caledonia.

Then on the morning of 4 January the unit transferred into another smaller ship—a cosmopolitan craft if ever there was one. She page 36flew the Dutch and Free French flags, had notices aboard in French, Dutch and German, and an American crew. So out again through the creaming reef into the open sea for the trip up the coast. Hills, always hills. Some thought of the ranges below Cambridge, where the grass was green and soft and the dawn came up with a sparkle over the Waikato valley. The ship swung in through a narrow channel in the reef into the calm water of a deep and narrow bay. And there, across a dock of steel pontoons, the 29th Battalion again set foot on land as an unfriendly wind whisked away a few hats into the sea.

Red dust rose heavily from the brick red road and settled over the stunted undergrowth for 50 yards on either side. A few camps huddled beneath hills of rubble rock, desolate and lonely. The trees were shrivelled as though they had lost interest in life when they discovered where they were, and they grew wide apart as though they did not like the look of one another. To some of the New Zealanders, only a week away from the Waikato, it looked like a private entrance into Hell. Then the dust cleared and revealed real grass. A few cattle grazed beside a stream. And suddenly the convoy was in Nepoui Valley. After the first sights of the island it came as a relief. Broad river flats of tussocky grass stretched under waste hills of stone and lifeless brush. There were trees beside the broad stream, and under them the first tents, set up by the advanced party.

The companies stretched out along the stream, tents rose up like a circus, the smoke of cooking fires rose into the evening air. For the first meal in New Caledonia the cooks turned on the eternal bully, biscuits and tea, but everyone was so pleased to stretch his legs that there were no complaints. Camp stretchers, an unexpected luxury, came round with the dark. Even then some people were so tired that they did not bother to set them up. A cool night's sleep—that was the blessed thought. It was cold. Before the battalion moved on it found out how cold a New Caledonian night could be. There were many times in the winter months when it seemed that there should have been a frost.

The advanced party had reported that deer were prevalent, and on the first night B company made its first kill—in the camp area. A meal of venison went well and, as hunting parties went out, this found its way on to most company menus in the first few weeks. Days passed and the camp rose steadily, and then suddenly on 7 January collapsed again. With warning of a hurricane, everything was page 37bundled up and lashed down around large trees. As the wind howled down the valley, the battalion curled up in capes or blankets and waited for the worst. The wind kept down, but the rain came. It pelted down all night. Tempers were short in the morning.

Tropical ailments began to set in, and a large number of troops went down with dysentry—more or less serious. In spite of all that could be done for him, one man, Private R. E. Death, died before the outbreak was got under control, but slowly health began to re cover from the initial shock of the climate. The first mail arrived on 9 January, and thereafter came once a week by plane. A small beer issue was rationed out, and the men had their first pay (in dollars). But life in the valley was not to remain unbroken. C company soon found itself at Plaine des Gaiacs, a desolate area without water, without charm of any sort, but with an airfield. It was a great red cross of hard set iron ore, and the red dust drifted every where about it, caking into the perspiration of one's shirt, and flavouring, probably to good effect, the Vienna sausage which greeted the bilious eye at breakfast. Here, too, the New Caledonian mosquito was met in all its vigour.

Then the whole battalion went on the move, to a piece of rising ground overlooking the valley. As a camping area it was a step back, but a Frenchman—suspected of being concerned solely with getting the troops off his farm-land—had spread a story that a flood was likely. So again a frantic digging of holes and building of huts. Again a packing and unpacking of gear that seemed to take more and more room each time.

There were, of course, manoeuvres. Hot dusty days; cold, wet, muddy nights. Always the training to ensure that the battalion would be top-notch when it went into action. Men who had been doing tactical exercises for two years might have been excused for wondering if there was to be an action for them—ever.

One evening members of the rear party arrived, not very pleased with things. First, they did not like New Caledonia. Then they had tales of woe about their experiences in New Zealand. The train journey south to Wellington with all the heavy equipment had taken 50 hours. During the many halts the men had kept themselves amused by getting out to pick plums or make short service hits with the local blondes. At Trentham they were allotted a hut without beds, and had to appropriate them—against opposition—'from another hut. Al-page 38though little leave was granted, a few men had slipped away now and again, and two of the more enterprising went to the South Island for the weekend. But they did not come back. Instead a telegram arrived for the officer in charge:—Dear Sir. Unable to get on steamer. Will return when we can'. They were picked up three months later.

From Nepoui the men had their first sight of a New Caledonian-town. Pouembout lay about 18 miles to the north, in the centre of a valley where a large prison colony had formerly been situated. The maps described the place as pittoresque, and there may have been something almost rural about the approaches to the town. The difficulty was in knowing when one was there. The first parties to make the trip had to come back when they realized that they had passed through the town. And, once in the centre of the shopping area, further exploration did not take long. The leading store was in the nature of a house with a counter on the front porch. All shops in the smaller towns proved to be on this pattern—on account either of diminishing business or increasing families. The merchandise consisted mainly of canned inedibles and dark sausages of dubious ancestry. Apart from American cigarettes and Swan ink, the only items available were of use neither to man nor beast—or they would have been sold long before. Across the road was the post office,- a square, respectable looking white building. The postmaster spoke a peculiar gabbling dialect which meant very little to the most fluent New Zealand linguists, but a request for timbres postes accompanied by skilful pointing generally obtained a set of postage stamps.

Three houses, built in the early sixties and held together by occasional pieces of plaster, corrugated iron and a certain faith in providence, huddled around this commercial centre. One of these buildings was presumably also a restaurant, and some daring spirits even had a meal there. Up the road was a damp stone structure which was generally, if erroneously, taken to be the morgue. Pouenv bout was typical of many of the smaller French towns in its dilapidation, its appearance and odour of decay, and the outward impossibility of anyone making a livelihood there. In most towns, however, the schools were models of perfection. Clean, white, neat and airy, they equalled anything of the size that New Zealand has yet produced. But to say that the men were disappointed in their first contact with civilisation would be an understatement.

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Late on the night of 10 February, when the moon shone through the skeletons of half-finished mess halls and stores, came word that the battalion was on the move again. The many builders looked up at their work and groaned. So the tents tumbled down, the gear was packed, and once again the 29th hit the road. And a long, dusty, bumpy road it was, over the hills and down through the relative metropolis of Bourail, up over steep roads with magnificent views of that peculiarly colourless landscape that does not distinguish New Caledonia, and down through La Foa and Moindou—called towns by courtesy only. A very pleasant drive was had by all. The southern' most limit of progress was reached when the trucks piled up in Bouloupari—two tumbledown shops, a man and 20 dogs. Something was said about having come too far.

But camp was eventually reached a couple of miles back. It was marked by a picture screen which was used only once during the battalion's stay—to portray the love life of the mosquito. Underneath the niaoulis that tangled over the valley of the Ouameni River a new camp arose. It was to be the base of the 29th for seven long months. Within a fortnight, however, half the unit was out at various posts of duty.

The most isolated of the battalion outposts, Thio, was at the same time the most pretty, the most interesting and the most strange. All was not well in this little seaside town where the nickel rolled down from the hills in toy trains. The town itself was cleaner than most, the fields more green, the mosquitoes less savage. But a feeling of suspicion that hung over the narrow main street and its strange variety of hostelries was never entirely dispelled. Certainly the place was watched. Security officers would come through, a G-man made his appearance, radio detectors spent many uncomfortable hours down at the beach. The native mine workers might have been Javanese, Tonkinese—or Japanese.

However, the town was rich in characters. There was the elderly New Zealand dentist who had seen better days before the war and the tropics had caught up with him. And M. Santa Cruz in his dingy hotel, with a steel hook where his hand had been before the mine accident. M. Carpin with his weird and wonderful English— a third French and half signs—but as fluent as a cockney. That polite super-smart little gendarme, M. Darreau. Madame at the Bota Mere and the two pretty Japanese girls at the Soujioura Hotel. page 40Frail, beautiful children, especially those of M. Bozqueo, the kindly-young doctor and his charming Parisian wife—not at all happy in their exile. The Americans who preceded the 29th at Thio, and who had taken over from an Australian detachment, left behind them a native force of about 80 strong. They knew the most curious mixture of Australian and American drills—badly confused with that of New Zealand before many months had gone.

Mosquitoes dominated all the other stations to which the various companies were condemned at some time or other. The aerodromes at Tontouta and Ouatom were thick with them. When on duty the men wore two sets of clothing, heavy gloves and headnets—and still were bitten. Nor were the places inspiring from a scenic point of view. While at Ouatom the men became accustomed to working with American sentry dogs, which were a terror to reliefs but even more sleepy than the guards. The dogs would have been excellent had there been any danger, but the only enemies near were mosquitoes. The station at La Foa, where there was another native detachment, was nearly as bad, with the saving grace of being near the American 52nd Evacuation Hospital. Here one had the occasional thrill of seeing a nurse who spoke English—or almost.

Nearly everyone in the battalion managed to get to Noumea at least once—and there were many who did not try again. The thought of town life drew everyone. But apart from being able to get beer —iced at that—by standing in a tremendously long queue, and the pleasure of a swim at an excellent beach, the men found it hardly attractive enough to make up for the discomfort of the journey down. Not unnaturally, the people kept very much to themselves. In other places, of course, hospitality was warm and many of the New Zealanders made friendships which they continued by mail after they had left; but Noumea had seen plenty of soldiers.

What there was to see about the town, the battalion saw while on duty unloading ships at the Noumea docks. The men lived at Camp McCrae, which was pitched on a steep bare slope in the heat of the sun, and shared the night shift at the docks with the negroes. But while the New Zealanders put up a port record for handling cargo, the negroes gave a magnificent exhibition of sleeping on their feet— or anywhere else convenient.

With the passage of time Ouameni grew into a good camp. Companies were always coming and going, manoeuvres tore complete page 41
For seven months the battalion was stationed in the Ouameni area, with a holiday break at Thio on the attractive east coast.

For seven months the battalion was stationed in the Ouameni area, with a holiday break at Thio on the attractive east coast.

page 42weeks out of life. But whatever else might be said about New Caledonia, there was no doubt that the island had a fine climate. The winter, in particular, with its cold nights and sunny days was said by the French to be 'just like the Riviera'.

The command of the battalion changed three times after Colonel Moore went to hospital. First Major I. H. MacArthur and then Lieutenant-Colonel (temp.) J. M. Reidy (later commanding officer of the 34th Battalion) held the reins before Lieutenant-Colonel F. L. H. Davis came in, virtually from nowhere.

With Colonel Davis came the celebrated phrase 'over to you', which has dignified 'passing the buck' into a form of battle-drill. After the new CO's first premanoeuvre conference a company commander returned to his officers with a sad story of having to carry some terrific amount of gear up one of New Caledonia's more precipitous hills. 'When I asked the CO "How?"' complained the captain, 'he just smiled and said "Over to you" '. The company commander thought for a moment. Then he brightened and turned to his second-in-command. 'That's your department', he said. 'Get that stuff up the hill'. 'But —', said the second-in-command. 'Over to you', said the company commander.

On 17 March, as a result of misguided enthusiasm, The 29th, a fornightly journal of battalion happenings, burst upon the world. For five months it continued to abuse those in authority and record the misfortunes of the underdog. Then, to the relief of those who had kept it going by long days of labour and nights devoid of ease, it died suddenly when the battalion started to move northward. Efforts were made to revive it later, but these came from outsiders who had never read it.

Entertainment became better organised in the later months of the battalion's stay. Films were shown a couple of times at camp and later trucks carried parties several miles down the road to a brigade theatre near Bouloupari. The Kiwi and Tui concert parties paid the unit a number of visits. Memorable among concerts was the 'Command Performance' of the sergeants, which opened the battalion's theatre in June. Secret rehearsals and far-away looks in non-com eyes betold of something special. Throughout the unit, the concert was regarded as an 'opportunity', and everyone thronged to see the sergeants make the most of it. They were not disappointed. One of the most unsettling episodes, however, was an invasion by a page break
Officers of the original battalion in Fiji. Front row: Captains F. M. Price, J. V. M. Cauty, MM, Major G. H. Tomline, MC, Lieutenant-Colonel H. J. Thompson, MC, ED, Captains L. A. Joseph, J. C. Holmes, G. A. Spink. Second row-Lieutenants S. Wilson, A. M. T. Dickie, N. W. Steele, Captains H. A. McD. Mitchell, S. C. Reid, MC, L. R. Cutforth, Lieutenant E. S. Clarke, Captain E. G. Kedgley, Second-Lieutenants J. P. Hogan, E. P. Bunny. Third row: Second-Lieutenants I. M. Thomson, I. G. Howden, C. M. H. Gibson, J. M. Harcourt, A. T. Eady, G. S. Sainsbury. H. Bailey. Back row: Second-Lieutenants W. P. Hayes, B. A. Marris, A. H. Ramsey, H. R. Dix, C. R. McColl, J. Milne, R. H. Matthews

Officers of the original battalion in Fiji. Front row: Captains F. M. Price, J. V. M. Cauty, MM, Major G. H. Tomline, MC, Lieutenant-Colonel H. J. Thompson, MC, ED, Captains L. A. Joseph, J. C. Holmes, G. A. Spink. Second row-Lieutenants S. Wilson, A. M. T. Dickie, N. W. Steele, Captains H. A. McD. Mitchell, S. C. Reid, MC, L. R. Cutforth, Lieutenant E. S. Clarke, Captain E. G. Kedgley, Second-Lieutenants J. P. Hogan, E. P. Bunny. Third row: Second-Lieutenants I. M. Thomson, I. G. Howden, C. M. H. Gibson, J. M. Harcourt, A. T. Eady, G. S. Sainsbury. H. Bailey. Back row: Second-Lieutenants W. P. Hayes, B. A. Marris, A. H. Ramsey, H. R. Dix, C. R. McColl, J. Milne, R. H. Matthews

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Headquarters company taken in New Caledonia just before the battalion left for the solomons

Headquarters company taken in New Caledonia just before the battalion left for the solomons

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A company above and B company below photographed in New Caledonia before the battalion sailed for the Solomons via the Hebrides

A company above and B company below photographed in New Caledonia before the battalion sailed for the Solomons via the Hebrides

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C company above and D company below, taken before the battalion left New Caledonia to take part in the Solomons campaign

C company above and D company below, taken before the battalion left New Caledonia to take part in the Solomons campaign

page 43large party of WAACs who stopped at the camp for lunch on their way north to Bourail. The girls were fresh from New Zealand and the men gathered about the road and gazed at them. Any feeling of awe, however, disappeared when one of the WAACs said she thought the niaouli tree was pretty.

In the meantime major camp construction went on. A large recreation hut 120 feet by 30 feet, with wings 40 and 50 feet long, replaced the RAP as the social centre, and was opened by a Padre Baragwanath concert. Down by the stream a new officers-mess also rose up, and was later nearly burned down when a drum of petrol caught fire alongside. But hardly had the battalion begun to get really comfortable when things became unsettled again, significantly so. Rumours that something was in the wind came to a head when the CO announced that the brigade was going for a week's holiday at Thio. The story was that this was a spell from duty after what the battalions had done. But no-one quite believed it. So on Monday, 2 August, the battalion packed a holiday kit and most of its tents and took truck over the hills into the little green valley. The story there was: 'Don't get up early, don't do any work, in fact take your lunch and get to hell out of it'.

Some of the men made the most of their French contacts, others trekked up to the nickel mines. Boat trips were organised, films were shown nightly on a screen stretched between two towering palms. Swimming drew large crowds down on to the beach. The first two structures at the camp were a pair of rugby goal posts, and sports of all kinds took over. But for the most part people just rested. For when the caravan turned and set off back to camp everyone knew that rest was over for a long time.

So it proved. Things started to move fast. Long sought for equipment was handed out with abandon. Ammunition, previously hardest of all things to get, flooded the stores and was blazed away in noisy manoeuvres. Gear was packed, tents came down. Conferences were held. Officers disappeared to Noumea to watch the loading of the other brigade and spend spare hours at the bar of the officers' club at the Hotel Pacifique. And one morning when everything about the camp was desolate again the last trucks, filled with men, with arms, with portable baggage, rolled out on to the main road and turned south.

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For the last time—for a while anyway—the 29th Battalion saw New Caledonia slide past. Its desolate hills, its clear streams, the long wastes of niaouli. Through all this, rare glimpses of the really beautiful sea. Shattered dwellings and overgrown gardens where once a. little civilisation had struggled. Everywhere the reek of red dust that was iron ore. Such was the last impression of New Caledonia— even as the first.

The trucks rolled on to the docks early. The men stood around with their gear and examined an LST which was unloading transport from the United States. Many had a feeling they would see more of those craft. And then out on a barge to where the President Adams lay at anchor. She was a squat, sturdy ship. She did not look comfortable. But then the West Point had proved how deceptive looks could be. Up the sides of the other two ships troops swarmed slowly, clambering to the decks over large-meshed nets. The men thought of the load on their backs, the rifles and the brens in their hands, and cursed. But they went up the gangway and found that the ship, for a transport, was a good ship after all.