Post by Dave Homewood on Oct 1, 2021 23:08:10 GMT 12
“THANK YOU, NEW ZEALAND”
A “ POMMY” REMEMBERS
FLEET AIR ARM DAYS
By L. F. Thompson
Five years ago, almost to the day, entering a dormitory in a naval establishment new to him, a proud veteran of some nine months’ service found himself swept unwillingly into a maelstrom of heaving, writhing figures. Strange oaths in a strange accent filled the air. Dimly the newcomer wondered what the navy was coming to.
That was my first contact with New Zealanders. It was a very physical contact. With traditional English insularity and a lamentable ignorance of the dominions, I knew little or nothing about their country. That there were two islands I knew, and that the capital was Wellington. Little more—except that the Maoris were a great fighting race and ferocious footballers. To my shame all that "Kia Ora” meant to me was an English mineral water.
After the somewhat brutal introduction to their company, I soon settled down with my new messmates. To them I was always “the Pommy,” nevertheless, so infectious was their zest for life and so vital their spirit that I became very nearly one of their number. It was impossible not to like them. For some time afterwards in the Fleet Air Arm it was firmly believed that I was a New Zealander.
Now, when I look back from my civvy viewpoint, nearly all my memories seem to touch a New Zealander somewhere. . . . The hakas they used to sing after the Rugger matches. They always won, of course. And all those lovely old Maori names so often on their tongues. Words like music— Rangitata, Wanganui, Timaru, Rangitiki, Whangaroa, Oamaru. “ It’s the only sensible language, mate,” they told me. “You pronounce it as you spell it.”
Two Pilots
A different memory, but equally enjoyable, is of that pilot, who-shall be nameless, who had celebrated too well at the wardroom party. The man in the next cabin heard him enter. The door opened and shut. Then came a terrific crash. When he got in there, with several others, attracted by the din, there was nothing to be seen. They could find nothing disturbed to explain the noise. Eventually, they ran him to ground sitting in the corner of his wardrobe. He had gone there, as he explained, “to be on my own for a bit.”
Your generosity, New Zealand, and your contribution to our national larder, we know from the statistics in the press. The facts could be more widely told. But what I remember with gratitude is the generosity of the individual New Zealander. Almost embarrassing were the foodstuffs given me from parcels, to take home to eke out my family’s rations.
Most of my memories though, concern one man. He was my pilot and friend, a big, lantern-jawed railwayman from the South Island. A brilliant pilot—he reckoned that he could smell his way back to the carrier, which more or less relieved me of my navigational headaches — l felt safer in the air with him than anyone else. He had inexhaustible patience and a genius for cribbage. We had to part, of course... He went on stooging backwards and forwards across the Atlantic on those dreary, uneventful U-boat patrols, which were yet so essential and did as much as anything to win the Battle of the Atlantic. During, our time together we once did get as near to his home as San Francisco.
“There you are, Tommy,” he said to me once, rather wistfully, “6000 miles away, the nearest I’ve been for two years, and I’m still as far away as you are from your home.” That made me realise how far away you are from us. Perhaps the distance also explains why I think, you live in perpetual sunshine. Or... maybe it’s the look of keen expectancy on someone’s face when, drafted to Scotland one winter.
“I hope it snows,” he said. "I've never seen any snow.” It did. It seldom fails in Scotland.
The Man from Otago
Then there was the chap who came from near Dunedin, who used to tell me how he went gold prospecting in the mountain behind his father’s farm. He would point out to me the fillings in his teeth. They were made, he said, from the gold he had found himself. Actually, I was never quite sure about that tale.
Despite these things, which seem so different from our experience over here, the sterling character and genuine friendliness of the men with the New Zealand flash gave them a living reality.
In the Fleet Air Arm, unlike some services, the New Zealanders were not a separate body with separate squadrons. They were members of the general body. To my mind it was the better way. For, although the individual may have missed his compatriots, the bonds and the understanding between the men from New Zealand and the men from the United Kingdom were deepened and strengthened.
When the war ended last August I was under sailing orders for the Pacific theatre. I never got there. To be quite frank, there were not many tears shed on my part. Nearly six years’ war service and a young family make it hard for any man to leave his home. But I should have liked to have had the opportunity to see New Zealand for myself. Perhaps now the chance will never come. So, as an individual to a nation, I say, “Thank you, New Zealand. . . . Thanks for everything, especially the memories. And, if it is not an impertinence, ‘ Kia Ora.’ I know what it means now! ”
OTAGO DAILY TIMES, 15 MARCH 1946
A “ POMMY” REMEMBERS
FLEET AIR ARM DAYS
By L. F. Thompson
Five years ago, almost to the day, entering a dormitory in a naval establishment new to him, a proud veteran of some nine months’ service found himself swept unwillingly into a maelstrom of heaving, writhing figures. Strange oaths in a strange accent filled the air. Dimly the newcomer wondered what the navy was coming to.
That was my first contact with New Zealanders. It was a very physical contact. With traditional English insularity and a lamentable ignorance of the dominions, I knew little or nothing about their country. That there were two islands I knew, and that the capital was Wellington. Little more—except that the Maoris were a great fighting race and ferocious footballers. To my shame all that "Kia Ora” meant to me was an English mineral water.
After the somewhat brutal introduction to their company, I soon settled down with my new messmates. To them I was always “the Pommy,” nevertheless, so infectious was their zest for life and so vital their spirit that I became very nearly one of their number. It was impossible not to like them. For some time afterwards in the Fleet Air Arm it was firmly believed that I was a New Zealander.
Now, when I look back from my civvy viewpoint, nearly all my memories seem to touch a New Zealander somewhere. . . . The hakas they used to sing after the Rugger matches. They always won, of course. And all those lovely old Maori names so often on their tongues. Words like music— Rangitata, Wanganui, Timaru, Rangitiki, Whangaroa, Oamaru. “ It’s the only sensible language, mate,” they told me. “You pronounce it as you spell it.”
Two Pilots
A different memory, but equally enjoyable, is of that pilot, who-shall be nameless, who had celebrated too well at the wardroom party. The man in the next cabin heard him enter. The door opened and shut. Then came a terrific crash. When he got in there, with several others, attracted by the din, there was nothing to be seen. They could find nothing disturbed to explain the noise. Eventually, they ran him to ground sitting in the corner of his wardrobe. He had gone there, as he explained, “to be on my own for a bit.”
Your generosity, New Zealand, and your contribution to our national larder, we know from the statistics in the press. The facts could be more widely told. But what I remember with gratitude is the generosity of the individual New Zealander. Almost embarrassing were the foodstuffs given me from parcels, to take home to eke out my family’s rations.
Most of my memories though, concern one man. He was my pilot and friend, a big, lantern-jawed railwayman from the South Island. A brilliant pilot—he reckoned that he could smell his way back to the carrier, which more or less relieved me of my navigational headaches — l felt safer in the air with him than anyone else. He had inexhaustible patience and a genius for cribbage. We had to part, of course... He went on stooging backwards and forwards across the Atlantic on those dreary, uneventful U-boat patrols, which were yet so essential and did as much as anything to win the Battle of the Atlantic. During, our time together we once did get as near to his home as San Francisco.
“There you are, Tommy,” he said to me once, rather wistfully, “6000 miles away, the nearest I’ve been for two years, and I’m still as far away as you are from your home.” That made me realise how far away you are from us. Perhaps the distance also explains why I think, you live in perpetual sunshine. Or... maybe it’s the look of keen expectancy on someone’s face when, drafted to Scotland one winter.
“I hope it snows,” he said. "I've never seen any snow.” It did. It seldom fails in Scotland.
The Man from Otago
Then there was the chap who came from near Dunedin, who used to tell me how he went gold prospecting in the mountain behind his father’s farm. He would point out to me the fillings in his teeth. They were made, he said, from the gold he had found himself. Actually, I was never quite sure about that tale.
Despite these things, which seem so different from our experience over here, the sterling character and genuine friendliness of the men with the New Zealand flash gave them a living reality.
In the Fleet Air Arm, unlike some services, the New Zealanders were not a separate body with separate squadrons. They were members of the general body. To my mind it was the better way. For, although the individual may have missed his compatriots, the bonds and the understanding between the men from New Zealand and the men from the United Kingdom were deepened and strengthened.
When the war ended last August I was under sailing orders for the Pacific theatre. I never got there. To be quite frank, there were not many tears shed on my part. Nearly six years’ war service and a young family make it hard for any man to leave his home. But I should have liked to have had the opportunity to see New Zealand for myself. Perhaps now the chance will never come. So, as an individual to a nation, I say, “Thank you, New Zealand. . . . Thanks for everything, especially the memories. And, if it is not an impertinence, ‘ Kia Ora.’ I know what it means now! ”
OTAGO DAILY TIMES, 15 MARCH 1946
