page 68

Chapter IX
Guerrilla Gazette

Weather conditions were becoming less bearable with the sun passing directly overhead and the rainy season setting in. The loneliness of the commando life was producing a few "Fiji happy" individuals; a state of mind in which the afflicted person gave up the struggle against the environment, became lazy, and lost interest in everything. The novelty had worn off with no fresh fields to conquer, and some of the men had to be transferred to units in Suva because they could not stand the mental depression. Combined with the monotony and physical hardships of commando life, there was the mental frustration brought on by the prospect of garrisoning Fiji for the duration, which seemed interminable.

The Southern commandos, however, did not reach the depths of despair evidenced by some of the other units in Fiji at this time, and other commanders frequently asked Captain Tripp how he managed to keep the spark of esprit de corps alive in his unit. One of the chief reasons was Charles' own attitude of optimism which he maintained in spite of bitter disappointments—as for instance when long promised equipment for the Fijians failed to arrive. But Charles himself modestly attributed the comparatively high morale of the commandos to the unit newspaper.

The New Zealanders produced a four-page magazine for themselves called "Guerrilla Gazette." Its sub-heading was "Unofficial Organ of Southern Independent Commando," and it was printed on the duplicating machine at Brigade Headquarters about every six weeks—depending on how busy the editor happened to be. The paper was designed as a link between the isolated platoons and the editorial policy was non-political, non-religious, and, in parts, nonsensical. The paper page 69fostered the sense of humour so necessary for civilised, active-minded, human beings, living under primitive conditions. Each platoon contributed notes of their own activities, and also some sarcastic comments on another's: successive editions were eagerly sought by the men to see what the paper had to say about them. The men soon learned to laugh at themselves and some of their unusual experiences; they became less insular in their outlook when they realised that others were putting up with the same conditions. Lack of social life was probably the most unbearable feature, and it was ironical to see Fijians with not a care in the world living happily about them. Week-end leave could be granted once a month, but few availed themselves of this privilege, as there were no longer any places of interest to go to. The "Guerrilla Gazette" was therefore an event in the New Zealanders' lives, and it became a tonic.

Apart from a few favoured outsiders, the circulation of the paper was limited to members of the unit and it reserved the right to poke fun at anybody, irrespective of rank. The OC had to grin and bear numerous insults—the editor's favourite jest was to hint that Charles was getting too old for the commandos. The joke was all the more pointed by its ridiculousness, because Charles could outclass anyone in the unit for endurance. Being in his late thirties, Charles had never allowed himself to become unfit: those who boxed with him could vouch for the strength of his sinewy arms. Since his rowing days at Cambridge University, he had done his "daily dozen," and these early morning exercises were often the subject of satirical comment.

Although it contained some risque stories—nevertheless concerning actual happenings—the Guerrilla Gazette was free from the crude profanity that sometimes appears in army magazines. Articles contained many references which only members of the unit could appreciate, but the following excerpts from the paper show something of the spirit and life of these men. Notable incidents were often recorded in poetical, or rather doggerel, form.

The background to the first poem was a moustache-growing craze that lasted several months. The reference to the OC has a story behind it too. A resident of Fiji, who was a page 70friend of Captain Tripp, had three young daughters who began painting their toenails with polish. Charles criticised them for it, and they in turn criticised his sprouting moustache—the result was an agreement by both parties to abandon these pursuits. The writer of the poem also makes fun of his own moustache in the last stanza.

Moustaches
What induces men to try and grow
A toothbrush like appendage called a mo?
Is the razor-blade position so acute,
That they can't procure enough for their hirsute.

Psychologists suggest with criticism,
That moustaches all result from egotism.
At times I've heard some pretty lame excuses
For these fungus-growing, upper-lip abuses.

The OC says, "If girls can paint their toes,
There's no reason why Commandos can't have mo's;"
Yet just below his nose he now shaves clean:
We hesitate to think what might have been.

Our unit has a mo at every stage,
From infancy to really ripe old age.
Some cross between a paint-brush and a mop,
With fraying ends and just about to drop.

Half-hearted men, afraid to have it known,
Shave off the hairs before the things's half grown;
While others, of the near-gorilla type,
Can make them come or go just over night.

But I'm certain they're no signs of manliness,
'Cos I've known would-be poets to possess.
Half a dozen hairs—not even in a row—
That they've had the bloody nerve to call a MO!

The Fijians were extremely keen on sport, and the platoon commanders cultivated this keenness to the limit; making page 71even the training as much of a game as possible to stimulate the natives to activity. When the sergeants had their platoons trained in some particular branch of sport, they issued a challenge to the other platoons through the Guerrilla Gazette. Komave wrote in one edition:—

"So far we have been unable to obtain a pill, so cannot display our prowess on the football field; but we've acquired a punch-bag and set of gloves, (not patriotic issue either). We are willing to meet all comers. We have a dozen "brown bombers" — ask the local Chinese and Indians."

In the next issue Ndeumba Platoon replied:—

"Calling Komave! Your challenge is formally accepted. The matter is being referred to Mike Jacobs for a decision as to the time. Suggest your platoon concentrate on slow marching so that you can farewell your erstwhile champions with full military honours."

The result was recorded in the next edition:—

"Bill Geddes had a real day out when he took his boxing team of 'Brown-Bombers' to meet the 'Heckler Hard-Hitters.'

"Sid had a first class ring constructed on a mound in the centre of the village, but his (river-crossing?) rope, plus his clothes line, went only half-way round, and the top rope was finished off with Walai vine, making a congruous setting for this greatly procrastinated event. "The mbuli generously lent his furniture to the Administrative Staff, who both acted as judges—and what an act! However, they must have guessed the winners alright 'cos their decisions were not booed, and the promoters even offered them a beer after the six matches were over.

"Charlie Tripp had a busy time as referee, and Vic. Harris produced some weird sounds with his gong beating. We think Rex could have modulated his voice a little in the counting out of K.O.'s Had the sun been shining less brightly, we should have thought we were in darkest Africa.

"The contestants looked a picture of health, and even page 72the first five bouts were worthy of a greater and more capably critical audience.

"The sixth bout was the big event, and the 'Hitters' fate weighed in the balance, having only two wins to three of the 'Bombers.' The Hitters' hopes were placed in the fists of Petero, twelve stone, who was billed against the man with the reputation—Saketa, also twelve stone. This bout opened very fast, with Petero going in like a whirlwind, and we were about to saddle up the old grey mare when Saketa pulled a 'fast one' by stalling time to take off his brand new, shiny, boxing boots, which, he protested, were causing him to slip on the dry grass. The second round cracked even, but it was obvious that Petero had missed his chance of beating this more experienced man. In the third round Saketa displayed his ability to such an extent that the game Petero lost interest in proceedings for quite some moments, bringing the results to: 'Bombers' four bouts; 'Hitters' two bouts."

A Fijian chief, Ratu Lala, presented Captain Tripp with a large pig. An elaborate structure had to be erected to hoist the pig into a bath to be scalded after killing. But when the apparently dead pig was scalded, it scrambled out of the bath and ran about twenty yards as a last dying effort. The following will be recognised as a parody of "The pig got up and slowly walked away."—

One morning in September, as you will all remember,
A pig was caught and killed at C.H.Q.
The company surrounded, were not the least astounded,
By the job they thought the boss could easily do.

A scaffold was erected, and the bath was soon collected—
The only time the bath's been ever used.
The pig had ceased its kicking, its eyelids were not flicking;
And from its throat the blood no longer oozed.

But our confidence was shattered, and our personnel soon scattered,
When in boiling water, pig we tried to lay.
(You can tell a kava boozer, by the method that he chooses,)
'Cos the pig got up and quickly ran. away.

page 73

The following shows that anything can happen in Fiji:—

"Tell us, men of the Island Sanctuary—Have the initials P.M.H. appeared on nappies yet?

"In fairness to the officer concerned, we would explain that once upon a time he received a parcel and carelessly tossed away the linen wrapping. Imagine his mortification when some time later he chanced to pass through the village again, and saw a little native boy wearing the linen as a pair of pants—the name and address of the lieutenant standing out boldly across the child's posterior."

The "Gazette" recorded this dialogue between the Fijian cook and the interpreter at Nuku:—

Cooka: " I mark you! I mark you!"
Rom: "You stop the swear !"
Cooka: "Can't do it, can't do it!"
(Rom attempts punishment.)
Cooka: "You stop or you get no breakfast for dinner!"

The Nuku Platoon acquired a dog which they called "Bula na Puppy," and they submitted the following:—

"If the Q.M. will look up his files he will observe that 'Bula na Puppy' was marched in R/O 304/42, and so far he has been omitted from the ration strength. It is hoped that the matter will be speedily rectified as lack of bullamakau and excessive night reconnaissance is undermining his morale.

Q.M. Please Note.—Either provide sufficient vitamins; or send up a collar and chain!"

The Guerrilla Gazette aped the conventional form of most newspapers, and besides the "Births," "Deaths," "Marriages," etc., there was always a "featured article" on the main event of the month. Some of the writers had a gift for satire, but apart from the one sore point of the commandos— lack of equipment—the sarcasm was not bitter, and the broad aim of the journal was to raise a laugh. The following appeared under the heading "More Wails!"—

page 74

"Our very active Colonel paid his first visit to the Commando during the month, but he seemed little impressed with our weapons??? Owing to this unenthusiastic attitude, our correspondent was too timid (ses you) to obtain, an interview. However, the visit inspired him to write this article on senior officers in general.

"After close association with many senior officers, I have noted some consistency in their many idiosyncrasies. "About once every three months, brigadiers and colonels become tired of poring over reports day and night, with the result that one fine (always fine) morning they sweep majestically out of their headquarters loudly proclaiming their intention of seeing the men at work. This is the cue for the 'louzy lance corporal' to get 'sigs,' to inform all units of the impending disaster.

"The victimised battalion turns out the guard, which hastily does up buttons and web equipment, and comes to the 'present' while still half asleep. The average man in the ranks doesn't realize how much it means to a brigadier, to have the exercise of a salute once in a while, as he shoots past in his luxurious car.

"Then there is the inevitable inspection, during which the brigadier will approach some private with a bandaged hand and patronisingly ask what happened to it; adding some unnecessary medical advice such as, 'You should visit the R.A.P. with that!' Later the brigadier will steal a lance-corporal's thunder by ordering some poor blighter to do up his top shirt button. The brigadier then tells the colonel that it's the best guard turn out he's seen, and the colonel pretends to believe him—they kid each other the same as we do.

"Finally the brigadier eases his rotundity into his limousine, and, with the very superior air of one who has really big issues under control, he remarks that fifty per cent. of the troops need a hair-cut.

"However, pay no attention to the writer; he's only jealous of the money the 'big heads' rake off."