News on the Home Front - October 1917

FROM THE WESTERN STAR AND WALLACE COUNTY GAZETTE – RIVERTON OCTOBER 25, 1917

·        The Happiest Part of the Day for a Woman is when she can sit down in peace and comfort and enjoy a cup of Tiger Tea

·        As soon as you feel that there is anything wrong with the stomach, the best course of action is to take a dose of Beecham’s Pills

·        Is dishwashing hateful, washday a dreaded undertaking, sweeping a mammoth task, and does the week’s ironing seem a pile miles high? The very best thing for you is a few weeks or months outdoors, among the song birds and roses. The next best thing to do is to get a bottle of Nyal Tonic.

·        On the western front the British are still hammering away, and the fifth battle on the slopes of Passchendaele Ridge resulted in fighting as determined as any in the war. Unfortunately, heavy rain fell throughout the progress of the advance, and very soon the whole area was a sea of mud... The opinion is held by some that General Haig could drive the Germans further back if he desired to do so, but as the object is to weaken the German forces, the killing process is the essential thing at present and not the winning of territory.

·        The greatest service America could render at this juncture would be to provide an air service of 5,000 units and carry out a great raid. Each machine would require to carry in its planes two torpedoes of one ton each, and have a speed of 120 miles an hour, a radius of 500 miles, and be fitted with a special recording apparatus. Raids by aeroplanes not in pairs but in thousands, would soon accomplish something and hasten the time of the end.

·        Tuesday afternoon was beautifully fine for the ladies to open the croquet season. The lawn has been greatly improved, and in addition there is now a comfortable little tea room and shelter on the grounds. Afternoon tea was served and the games went on merrily.

·        A striking instance of official cheese-paring was mentioned by a delegate to Friday’s meeting of the War Funds Council at Invercargill. A young Southlander enlisted. His teeth were not in very good order, and he was directed to have three or four of them out, the military authorities supplying him with an equal number of artificial molars. In camp the soldier contracted sciatica was eventually discharged and sent home. But he was not allowed to keep the false teeth, as the military demanded them. Now, although the young man can boast of no bullet marks or bayonet scars, he displays evidence of his services with the colours, sundry gaps in the otherwise unbroken ranks of his masticating agents.

·        The YMCA is a wonderful organization, and their good work baffles description; they are everywhere when needed. You cannot imagine the good work they are doing in the City of London where hidden dangers abound for the men, who, accustomed as they are to conditions in our precious homeland, are all too unprepared for the many pitfalls.

·        There is a high percentage of young lambs to be seen and the fine weather, together with an abundance of feed is greatly in their favour. Cheese factories are losing favour each year, the support going to butter factories, there being a great deal less labour and much more profit.

·        Thomas and Beattie, the Mail Order House offer Navy Serge Costumes 75/- to 147/-; White Pique Costumes 39/6 to 47/6; Poplin Costumes 47/6 to 57/6; Tussore Costumes 47/6 to 90/-; New Voile Blouses, hand-embroidered 9s 11d to 27s 6d.

·        “Colonel, can you loan me?” “No Sir, I can’t. And if I could, I wouldn’t. I have been loaning you money for a year and you make no effort to return it.” “But I wanted to know if you would loan me ...” “And I tell you beforehand, I won’t.”  “Well then do not. I wanted to borrow your fountain pen to make out a cheque for what I owe you, but if you’re in no hurry, I’m not.”

In Memory of George Kloogh

 

 

Miller's Flat War Memorial 1922

Family History - Remembering the New Zealand Expeditionary Force 1914-1918

THREE LADS FROM OTAGO

We have just come back from spending the Xmas-New Year break in Invercargill with the rellies. And I had great honour of being awarded an unusual keepsake by my wife’s parents – a collection of post cards and loose family photographs that date from the 1880-1920 era.

Some of the most interesting items relate to the participation of the family’s young men in the ‘Great War’ of 1914-1918. I have posted portraits of the soldiers above. From left: William Nils Peter [‘Bill’] Kloogh (1897-1979), George Frederick Oscar Kloogh (1885-1917), and John Edward [‘Jack’] Bodkin (1881-1952).

Brothers Bill and George Kloogh were the sons of Nils Peter Kloogh and his wife Tamar [nee Kitto]. Nils settled in New Zealand from Sweden, marrying into a Cornish family that shared a preoccupation with gold-mining along Central Otago’s Clutha River.  Nils started his family at Miller’s Flat, later moving upstream to Lowburn Ferry as he continued to operate gold dredges on the river. Both Bill and George were described as ‘Dredgemen’ when they joined the NZ Expeditionary Force.  

Bill survived being severely wounded in France and farmed a succession of orchards and dairy units across Otago. Reputedly fearsomely strong, even in old age, he lived to be 84 years old.

Jack Bodkin was the eldest son of James Bodkin and his wife Ellen [nee Black]. The Bodkins were Irish Protestants from ‘Dennygard’, Desertmartin, County Derry. James was a watch-maker and jeweller who found a natural vocation on the goldfields of Central Otago. Like Bill Kloogh, Jack was invalided out of the NZEF frontline, probably as a result of illness. But, following a spell at a military hospital in Torquay, England, he may have been called back to serve in Germany during the immediate post-war period.

We have a postcard from Jack to his mother after his recruitment which notes that he has been billeted in the ‘newest and best hut’ at Trentham. He served with the 23^rd Rifle Brigade.

We also have a couple of ‘humorous’ post cards sent on the 3^rd February 1918 from ‘Hill House’, Lyndhurst in Hampshire. These may have originated from either Bill Kloogh or Jack Bodkin but Bill seems the most likely candidate, writing to his sister Louisa. The text asks ‘Loy’ for her support in kidding Dad to buy him a motor cycle and side car ‘when I come home some of these years’ and mentions that a concert arranged by a deputation of local Hampshire ladies that had him singing a solo that was excruciating for a ‘such a shy boy’.

 

GEORGE KLOOGH

George Kloogh lost his life on the 12^th of October 1917 in what is recognized as New Zealand’s Darkest Day during the Battle of Passchendaele. The Battle resulted in more than 2,700 New Zealand casualties, with the day ending with 45 officers and 800 men were either dead or lying mortally wounded between the lines.

As the NZ History Online site records:

‘With visions of a strategic breakthrough fading fast, Haig now looked to General Herbert Charles Onslow Plumer’s Second Army (which included the New Zealand Division as part of II ANZAC Corps) to seize Passchendaele. Using the bite-and-hold tactics he had employed at Messines, Plumer launched his first attack on 20 September. He aimed to take the plateau in a series of short steps, each carefully prepared and well supported by artillery fire.

‘The New Zealand Division made its first attack on 4 October 1917. Its role was to provide flanking cover for an Australian assault on the Broodseinde Ridge. The New Zealanders’ objective was Gravenstafel Spur, the first of two spurs from the main ridge at Passchendaele (the other was Bellevue Spur). Once again artillery played a big part in the success of the attack, which was made by 1st and 4th brigades.

‘The bombardment, which began at 6 a.m., caught many Germans in the front lines, causing heavy casualties and disrupting the defence. Although the going was difficult – ‘The mud is a worse enemy than the German,’ divisional commander Sir Andrew Russell complained – the New Zealand troops advanced 1000 metres to secure the spur and consolidate their position. More than a thousand prisoners were taken, but the attack cost more than 320 New Zealand lives, including that of the former All Black captain Dave Gallaher.

‘The events of 4 October had a tragic aftermath. The British high command mistakenly concluded that the number of enemy casualties meant enemy resistance was faltering. It resolved to make another push immediately. An attack on 9 October by British and Australian troops was to open the way for II Anzac Corps to capture Passchendaele on the 12th.

‘In the rapidly deteriorating conditions, this timetable was a recipe for disaster. The plan failed at the first hurdle. Without proper preparation and in the face of strong German resistance, the 9 October attack collapsed with heavy casualties.

‘Preparations for the 12 October attack on Bellevue Spur, especially the positioning of the supporting artillery, could not be completed in time because of the mud. As a result, the creeping barrage was weak and ragged. Some of the shells dropped short, causing casualties among the New Zealanders waiting to advance. To make matters worse, the earlier artillery bombardment had failed to breach the obstacle presented by the German barbed wire. Another key target, the Germans' concrete pillboxes with their deadly machine-guns, were also left largely undamaged.

‘Troops from 2nd Brigade and 3rd (Rifle) Brigade advanced at 5.25 a.m. in drizzle that soon turned to driving rain. As they struggled towards the ridge in front of them, they found their way blocked by the uncut barbed wire. Exposed to raking German machine-gun fire from both the front and flank, the New Zealanders were pinned down in shell craters in front of the wire. A few determined individuals tried to get through the barrier, but they were quickly killed.

‘Orders came for another push at 3 p.m., but this was mercifully postponed and then cancelled. The troops eventually fell back to positions close to their start line. For badly wounded soldiers lying in the mud, the aftermath of the battle was a private hell; many died before they could be rescued.

‘On 18 October, II Anzac Corps was relieved by the Canadians. In a series of well-prepared, but costly, attacks in atrocious conditions, Canadian troops finally occupied the ruins of Passchendaele village on 6 November.’

We also have a photograph of Rifleman George Kloogh with his ‘mate’ Sydney [‘Sid’] George James, of the Otago Regiment. George is buried at Tyne Cot Cemetery, near Ypres, Belgium. Sid died 76 days later on 27^th December 1917. He is also commemorated at Tyne Cot.

 

The Particularity and the Dream

THE PARTICULARITY AND THE DREAM

 

The impressively monikered Karl du Fresne

Has just given ‘social scientist’ Camille Nakhid

A good wigging for expressing the view

That immigrants should be given longer shrift.

 

Karl grew up in a small Hawkes Bay town

And he walks across his lawn every day

In the Wairarapa to write in his shed

For the Pakeha Establishment in Wellington.

 

Actually, I’m amazed at how tolerant

Our new immigrants are about how stuck

Up and up themselves the Old Chums

Are about their tightly-held corners.

 

And I think Karl is missing something

When he snides that we can safely assume

That people immigrate to New Zealand

Because it’s infinitely better than the place they left.

 

...

 

And I get pissed off when the Oxford Companion

Makes a big point of the fact that Allen Curnow

Was a fourth generation New Zealander

Who lived in a succession of Anglican vicarages in Canterbury.

 

And that the keepers of New Zealand literature

Quibble about whether Greville Texidor or Eve Langley

Exhibited a sufficiently restrictive desideratum

In articulating a New Zealand particularity or ‘common problem’.

 

And that Kendrick Smithyman slags

Tanned, earnest Slavic Polynesian faces

Or that David McKee Wright assumes that

The native who is a brother is a Pakeha.

 

Or that my beloved Iris Wilkinson

Talks so casually - so disparagingly about Nigger Jack ...

Or that Tariana Turia cites an enormous public ignorance

That is starting to become actual hostility towards Maori.

 

...

 

 

Time to give some ground, time to move on

Time to open things up and make some space.

Let’s face it, a quarter of us were born abroad

And then there are the more and more mixed.

 

Maybe the New Chums from Cambodia, Tonga

China, India, Iraq, Somalia, Nepal and Kingdom Come

Really need a bit more slack so that we can all pull together

 

To bring up the future with a golden tether.

 

The young, the best, the intelligent, brave and beautiful,

Have made a long migration under compulsions they hardly understand -

New generations are homing from distant shores

Imprinted with this destination by their dreams.

 

And an extraordinary thing may be happening.

From the edge of the universe, New Zealand

May become not only the site of our own dreams

But a place where the world wakes refreshed.
 

Blue Remembrance

DARK IMACHINATIONS

Housman was born in Bromsgrove 13 miles from Birmingham

And Tolkien grew up at Sarehole between Billesley and Spark Hill

Some 4 miles from the city centre.

 

Turning away from the forging and fettling, they looked west

To the memory assembled spires and farms

Of Shropshire and the distant Welsh Mountains.

 

There where the sun rose and the clouds rolled in

Were mythic plough boys summoned by bugles

And hobbits awaiting a rat-a-tat-tat.

 

And now Peter Jackson, who was born in Pukerua Bay

Has scoped a partly polystyrene, partly animated

Hopefully-soon-forgotten substitute here in New Zealand.

 

After all, talking about places, Janet Frame warns:

‘I do not remember these things

-              they remember me.’
 

Everyone to whom much was given - of him or her much will be required

JACK WATERFORD REFLECTS ON ‘PROGRESS’ AND ‘RESPONSIBILITY’

I come here, in this 100th birthday year for the city of Canberra, arguably the 63rd of ANU, and the 53rd of that great afterthought – its undergraduate faculties – with both good news and bad news.

First what I suppose is, for the non-masochists among us at least, the good news. Some of you will have read that Australians enjoy the greatest median wealth per capita in the world.

I need hardly tell you that you can be sure that the median person in Canberra sits on the very top branches of the Australian tree. Average income here is about 25 per cent higher than the national average. There are small clusters of suburbs in other parts of Australia where the averages might exceed ours, but there is no conurbation – no whole community – where the average burgher is so rich and so comfortable as in Canberra.

But this is not the good news. Or even the bad news. The real news that I am inviting you to contemplate is the idea that this might be as good as it gets. That we here represent the absolute apotheosis of civilisation, good taste, creature comforts, learning, education, good health and culture.

This, my friends, is heaven upon earth – and, amazingly, this, my friends, is our little secret.

This agreeable state of affairs has its good and bad points, depending upon how one sees things. This place – this subset of the ACT which is ANU – may well represent nearly everything that is fabulous about this heaven.

There are people here whose memory of this university is longer than mine. This university and this city have grown and prospered since the 1950s, the 1960s and the 1970s. When I sometimes  think sadly that for Canberra or for ANU, for the people of Canberra, or for the people of Australia, the very best may be behind us, I remain reasonably sure that the evidence will appear to be against me for some time to come.

I say this not to criticise this institution, which has been for all of us in different ways both a mother and a father, because we can see that every year it teaches more students, produces more doctors, masters and mistresses, and bachelors, and helps place more and more Australians, from all parts of the nation, and from the rest of the world, in positions where they can exercise great influence over human affairs.

ANU sits high on international league tables not only as a university, but as a community and as a citizen. Fashions wax and wane, and the fashions of today are not necessarily those of the times when we were here. We can sometimes be too nostalgic for a past that others cannot remember. We were lucky – perhaps particularly those of us from the earliest days, particularly because the institution was then much younger, more flexible, and perhaps not so serious all of the time.

Increasingly one speaks to academics here and elsewhere who are grim, employed during one of the greatest expansions of the university system that Australia has ever known, but feeling besieged, lonely and worried. Worried not only about the prospects and their job security, but about their disciplines and their institutions. Not expansive, adventurous and daring to think outside the boundaries, but cautious, careful and with their heads down. Led to believe that in these particular times – just as we are triumphing the highest living standards we have ever known – that the economy and the circumstances are too straitened to make a gamble, to invest in the future, or to use one’s imagination.

My worries are by no means confined to ANU, or indeed to the university sector. One can say that all the more comfortably because many of the problems of universities, or of the community generally, are common to the sector, not confined to particular places. But it is ANU that I particularly love.

When I came here, ANU had a history faculty that was by a long distance the best in Australia, and any number of the scholars there were leaders in their areas. A good time later, it was alleged that the faculty led by Manning Clark was a Comintern conspiracy designed to addle our brains, but those of us who were here understand that it was, in fact, a secret redoubt of the Carlton Football Club, where Catholic and communist, Anglican and atheist, Grouper and groper, Marxist and monarchist, ratbag and revolutionary could meet good naturedly to discuss Saturday’s game.

A good many of us will say ruefully that we had all of the advantages in the world, and sometimes all the letters after our names that we could want. And that yet we failed to make much real difference, least of all to the heresy that happiness and human development, heaven and hell can be weighed, counted, measured or even identified by economists, accountants and statisticians.

At the very least we owe it to this womb which succoured us to support it as it seeks to hold the fort on things that actually matter.

[The address given by alumnus Jack Waterford, Editor at large at The Canberra Times to the 2013 Australian National University Golden Graduates’ Reunion in October of this year, published in the Summer 2013 edition of the ANU Reporter]

See also: http://www.canberratimes.com.au/federal-politics/how-i-lost-my-marbles-20121201-2anmz.html

 

Reflections on Island Bay

 

REFLECTIONS ON ISLAND BAY


I  live in a house with plenty of glass
So that vistas and perspectives and mirages
Are part of every day in plain sight -
Grandeur stretched across and beyond the little town.

I often rise early - as dawn‘s gold gloves

Finger the rims of the Rimutakas
And the stars start to fade,
Spilt like gemstones from the robber sun.

And Pencarrow and Baring Head,

Like jewels that have dropped to earth,
Sparkle on the steel grey cloths of the headlands
As fold after fold wraps back from shadow.

And the Bay below is still or wild or fierce

And though this may seem incongruous
And un-poetic, the blue frontage and night-long
Glare of the Fu Xian Takeaway retreats.

...

Skylines distorted and re-aligned by the windows -

A slice of the Orongorongo ridgeline matched
With the Oku Street Reserve; with the horizon
Levelled and the sea picking up the quilt.

The gap across to the Seaward Kaikouras

Shows no mountains, touches no new edges
But the reddening evening sky holds clouds
That hint of land, and I swear I see the sea beneath.

...

Rinsing glasses in the late evening at the sink

The lights of Island Bay are mirrored
In the windows that enfold my dreamtime
And the cars buzz across the glass and bolt.

 

Houses and streets spark against the hillside

A second world refracted in the panes -

Like a hobbit village, glowing with hearths,

Open to a visitation from the wizard.

 

...

 

And here lives an oakenshield with a grey beard

And his straw Stetson hat bannered 'New Zealand'

On the black band - set and ready to retake treasure

From the pendants that flicker on the dragon's back -

And feast a summer's eve on paua fritters,
Spring rolls, and fish and chips in Shorland Park.