Post by Dave Homewood on Feb 14, 2021 12:17:00 GMT 12
ON BOUGAINVILLE
HEAT—DUST—RAIN
LIFE ON R.N.Z.A.F. BASE
R.N.Z.A.F. Official News Service SOUTH-WEST PACIFIC, Feb. 1.
"When I was on Bougainville in 1945. . . ." That is how many a New Zealander now serving with the R.N.Z.A.F. is going to preface his reminiscences in the years to come. He will remember the heat and the dust on the Piva airstrip and the roar of Corsairs overhead. He will remember how the Australians all looked alike at first—long and lean, slouched-hatted and bronzed. He will remember the occasional issue of beer, the swims on Torokina Beach, the way the smoke from the volcano rose straight and white on clear mornings.
And he will remember his feelings the morning when the aircraft he had serviced failed to return and the way the pilot had smiled and half-saluted before taxi-ing out on the strip.
But most vivid of all will be his memories of Bougainville nights—of the still freshness of the early evening and of gunfire and thunder a few hours later. These are Bougainville nights.
Tonette Trio
Sprawled on canvas chairs in the tent lines, two flying-officers and a squadron-leader try to play "Smile the While" with their tonettes. A tonette, it might be explained, is something like a sweet potato, only more so.
A flight-lieutenant pauses before the trio, takes in the doubtful harmony without enthusiasm, then thoughtfully places a tin basin on the ground before them. There is an intermittent tinkle of nickels into the basin.
A couple of Corsairs pass over on the dusk patrol. The air is very still, and the smoke from cigarettes curls up lazily, undisturbed. Then they start. Guns are speaking somewhere to the south. The effect is more of concussion than sound, of heavy thuds rather than explosion. A desultory argument breaks out over the origin of the gunfire. Opinion is evenly divided between 25-pounders and three-inch naval guns, with a small minority claiming mortar fire.
Oblivious of the argument and of the fact that someone has deposited a pair of ancient boots in their basin, the tonette players launch ambitiously into a round and talk hangs fire for a moment as three separate variations of "London's Burning" sound through the tent lines.
Rathbone and Rain
It's time for the movies. The sky is clear, but no one is without a rain cape. The short twilight gives up without a struggle, and fireflies apparently illuminated by some form of alternating current, switch their glow on and off at intervals of about a second. A bat flicks across the screen as the first reel of "The Spider Woman" starts rolling. The picture is a nominally blood-curdling affair, involving Sherlock Holmes, interpreted by Basil Rathbone, and a series of murders caused by the bite of a co-operative spider. Close-ups of the spider in action are well handled, but leave the audience unmoved. Any one of them could find half a dozen equally repulsive insects within five minutes.
An unexpected flash of lightning draws attention to the fact that the stars have gone, and the roll and crackle of thunder drown one of Dr Watson's amazed demands for an explanation. As the first big drops of rain splash down the audience rises automatically, and almost in a drill movement dons rain capes and reseats itself. The lightning becomes more vivid and the thunder becomes quicker in its response. With each flash the jungle fringe stands out in microscopic detail for an instant, clearer even than the light of day, and in the face of the illumination the picture momentarily disappears from the screen.
Foxholes Filled With Water
The rains come in earnest and the audience leans forward to take the belting on bent backs. A few miles out in the jungle Australians are huddling in foxholes which are slowly filling with water, or taking advantage of the natural noise and confusion to gain a few yards unobserved. And perhaps fifteen or twenty thousand Japs, who are holding the possession of the island in dispute, are being soaked by the same rain. But at the pictures, in Empress Augusta Bay, the war is a remote matter. The big question is whether to stick it out or make a dash back to the tents. With raincape pulled well over the head it is comparatively dry, so long as the wearer does not move. The question is answered by a flash more brilliant than usual, which causes the projector to break down.
Back in the mess, with the rain pelting solidly on the canvas roof, there is a cup of tea waiting. Customary tribute is paid to the "Nat. Pat." by the tea drinkers with the conventional invitation, "Have one on Herbert?"
And so to card-playing, letter-writing, a good book or bed.
Once "on the sack" beneath the mosquito net and with the light out, the gauze sides of the tent seem to disappear so that there seems nothing between the sleeper and the slanting sheets of rain shown in the lightning, now playing continuously as if giant photographers were taking serial flashlight photographs of the area at furious speed. The guns have started to thud again between the claps of thunder, but they are not nearly as arresting as the noise coming from the tent next door. It is a tonette player, last of the trio, mournfully and unsuccessfully trying to master the first bars of "The Beer Barrel Polka."
AUCKLAND STAR, 8 FEBRUARY 1945
HEAT—DUST—RAIN
LIFE ON R.N.Z.A.F. BASE
R.N.Z.A.F. Official News Service SOUTH-WEST PACIFIC, Feb. 1.
"When I was on Bougainville in 1945. . . ." That is how many a New Zealander now serving with the R.N.Z.A.F. is going to preface his reminiscences in the years to come. He will remember the heat and the dust on the Piva airstrip and the roar of Corsairs overhead. He will remember how the Australians all looked alike at first—long and lean, slouched-hatted and bronzed. He will remember the occasional issue of beer, the swims on Torokina Beach, the way the smoke from the volcano rose straight and white on clear mornings.
And he will remember his feelings the morning when the aircraft he had serviced failed to return and the way the pilot had smiled and half-saluted before taxi-ing out on the strip.
But most vivid of all will be his memories of Bougainville nights—of the still freshness of the early evening and of gunfire and thunder a few hours later. These are Bougainville nights.
Tonette Trio
Sprawled on canvas chairs in the tent lines, two flying-officers and a squadron-leader try to play "Smile the While" with their tonettes. A tonette, it might be explained, is something like a sweet potato, only more so.
A flight-lieutenant pauses before the trio, takes in the doubtful harmony without enthusiasm, then thoughtfully places a tin basin on the ground before them. There is an intermittent tinkle of nickels into the basin.
A couple of Corsairs pass over on the dusk patrol. The air is very still, and the smoke from cigarettes curls up lazily, undisturbed. Then they start. Guns are speaking somewhere to the south. The effect is more of concussion than sound, of heavy thuds rather than explosion. A desultory argument breaks out over the origin of the gunfire. Opinion is evenly divided between 25-pounders and three-inch naval guns, with a small minority claiming mortar fire.
Oblivious of the argument and of the fact that someone has deposited a pair of ancient boots in their basin, the tonette players launch ambitiously into a round and talk hangs fire for a moment as three separate variations of "London's Burning" sound through the tent lines.
Rathbone and Rain
It's time for the movies. The sky is clear, but no one is without a rain cape. The short twilight gives up without a struggle, and fireflies apparently illuminated by some form of alternating current, switch their glow on and off at intervals of about a second. A bat flicks across the screen as the first reel of "The Spider Woman" starts rolling. The picture is a nominally blood-curdling affair, involving Sherlock Holmes, interpreted by Basil Rathbone, and a series of murders caused by the bite of a co-operative spider. Close-ups of the spider in action are well handled, but leave the audience unmoved. Any one of them could find half a dozen equally repulsive insects within five minutes.
An unexpected flash of lightning draws attention to the fact that the stars have gone, and the roll and crackle of thunder drown one of Dr Watson's amazed demands for an explanation. As the first big drops of rain splash down the audience rises automatically, and almost in a drill movement dons rain capes and reseats itself. The lightning becomes more vivid and the thunder becomes quicker in its response. With each flash the jungle fringe stands out in microscopic detail for an instant, clearer even than the light of day, and in the face of the illumination the picture momentarily disappears from the screen.
Foxholes Filled With Water
The rains come in earnest and the audience leans forward to take the belting on bent backs. A few miles out in the jungle Australians are huddling in foxholes which are slowly filling with water, or taking advantage of the natural noise and confusion to gain a few yards unobserved. And perhaps fifteen or twenty thousand Japs, who are holding the possession of the island in dispute, are being soaked by the same rain. But at the pictures, in Empress Augusta Bay, the war is a remote matter. The big question is whether to stick it out or make a dash back to the tents. With raincape pulled well over the head it is comparatively dry, so long as the wearer does not move. The question is answered by a flash more brilliant than usual, which causes the projector to break down.
Back in the mess, with the rain pelting solidly on the canvas roof, there is a cup of tea waiting. Customary tribute is paid to the "Nat. Pat." by the tea drinkers with the conventional invitation, "Have one on Herbert?"
And so to card-playing, letter-writing, a good book or bed.
Once "on the sack" beneath the mosquito net and with the light out, the gauze sides of the tent seem to disappear so that there seems nothing between the sleeper and the slanting sheets of rain shown in the lightning, now playing continuously as if giant photographers were taking serial flashlight photographs of the area at furious speed. The guns have started to thud again between the claps of thunder, but they are not nearly as arresting as the noise coming from the tent next door. It is a tonette player, last of the trio, mournfully and unsuccessfully trying to master the first bars of "The Beer Barrel Polka."
AUCKLAND STAR, 8 FEBRUARY 1945