War and escape

I’ve taken part in the Trans-Tasman Anzac Day Blog Challenge in the past, and thought I’d run out of things to say.   

How one search can change your perspective. 

When War is a preferred option to staying home – what is that home like? 

With the Centennial of WWI ahead, Archives New Zealand uploaded, and made publicly accessible, the records for WWI soldiers. 

Family stories said that two of my father’s father’s brothers served in the war. I have a rare surname, so chances were, I’d find them. And I did. But their records led to more questions and searches. 

A distant relative has done extensive family research, which she has shared with me, so I knew what their dates of birth were#. Thanks to research from the lovely Maureen, I know that volunteers had to be over 20, and fit and meet other criteria. 

And, now let me introduce my great-uncles, neither of whom were 20 when they enlisted: 

Robert William – Uncle Billy – was born 25 February 1896. He joined the Army on 15 June 1915, aged 19 years and three months; and was 19 years and seven months old when his 'foreign' service began. His stated DOB on the army records was 25 February 1895 (before his parents’ wedding). His listed next of kin was his brother Philip, aged 14 at this point (see below). 
His theatres of operation were:
Egyptian: 1915-1916 
Egyptian EF: 1916
Western Europe: 1916-17-18
His decorations were: 1914-15 Stars, and the Military Medal – for an ‘act of gallantry in the field’ 30 November 1918 (I do wonder if the charge of ‘drunkenness’ on 22 June 1918 was as a result). 
Trying to read the writing of the records is tricky, but I think he was wounded three times; once a gun shot wound to the back. He embarked for New Zealand, from Glasgow, on 10 March 1919. He was discharged 23 May 1919, aged 23 years and two months. 


Philip Alexander – Uncle Philip – was born 3 October 1900. When he joined the army on 19 September 1916, his stated date of birth was 3 October 1895. He was 15 years and 11 months old on enlistment, 16 years and three months old when his 'foreign' service began. His name was written as ‘Alexander’ which was corrected to ‘Alexanda’. He served in Western Europe in 1917. 
He left for France 28 May 1917. He was wounded, but stayed in the field, on 8 July 1917; wounded in action 14 July 1917, this time seriously. There is a list of transfers between wards and hospitals from this point – his condition varies between 'dangerously ill' and 'seriously ill'. On 10 November 1917, he is classified as unfit and placed on the NZ Roll. He embarked for New Zealand from Plymouth on 10 January 1918. He was discharged 28th May 1918, aged 17 years and seven months. 


These could be cases of boys’ derring-do: off to join the army for ‘fun’ or patriotism. To counter that, I offer some more facts:

• Their mother died in August 1909. 
• Their father’s mother died in October 1908. 
• Their grandfather (father’s father) died in 1913, aged 78 – making him 76 in 1911. Alas, I haven’t found their mother’s side for this information. Although, there is a strong likelihood that their maternal grandmother had died in 1885. (There are eight William Chappells to sort through…. I’m not up to that at the moment.) 
• Their father died in October 1911 in horrendous circumstances. Newspaper reports vary on the amount of dirt that landed on top of him – whatever the real amount was, it was over five tonnes. That he didn’t die immediately horrifies me. He left behind four young sons, the oldest was Billy (16), down to nearly-five-year-old Ray. My grandfather was number three. (Thanks to PapersPast and DigitalNZ for all those amazing records / articles.)

From fact to story. The boys were sent to an orphanage (or orphanages), and members of their mother’s family took their money. 

If this is true, it goes a long way to explain – at least to me – why Billy and Philip would fudge (or blatantly lie) about their ages, particularly Philip – who should have been aware of the realities of war by this point. Where else but the Front would you be assured of a steady income, and a chance to get away from hated / resented family? Maybe they were avoiding their family obligations, but the closeness of their four brothers after the war belies that. 


Sadly, the family tragedy doesn’t end there. The youngest, Ray, died of TB in 1928. Ray had spent time in work camps, helping build the roads down Clevedon-way (at least, that was what I was told – I thought it was during the Depression, but a death date of 1928 rules that out). 

Post-war? Uncle Billy died in 1968. Billy had two children, his daughter died at five weeks old. His son, known to my family as ‘The Professor’, went on to have two sons. 

Uncle Philip died in 1945. Phillip had two sons, one married, but neither had any children. And, scandal of scandal, was accused of murder in 1919... 

And my grandfather? Too young for WWI (even to lie about his age – 12 would have been a giveaway) he did his Compulsory Military Training. Which was a good thing, as his service records came in handy (according to family lore) while arguing his claim to compensation after losing an eye in a workplace accident*. He made it to 77, dying in 1981. The last of them all. He had two children, and eight grandchildren (the next generations are going strong and growing in number). 


#of course I’ve checked and requested their birth records myself. Always check any received information, right? 
*a history of serious workplace accidents, as my father also had a serious workplace accident, one very-close-to-fatal. Three in three generations is enough, thank you very much. 

Anzac Day memories

For the last two years, I have taken part in the Anzac Day Blog challenge. I've talked about the impact war has had on my family. I've shared my research into a war grave. What else is there to talk about?

When asked if I would take part this year, I heard the words 'I could do my family experience of Anzac Day' come out of my mouth. So... here is my impression of this day, and its relevance and importance to my family.

I haven't been a regular Anzac Day service attendees, but going to services is an important part of my family's collective memories.

It was my maternal grandfather who started it. His choral group performed at the Dawn Service, at the Cenotaph, in front of the Auckland War Memorial Museum. (In an aside: he'd seen the ground being levelled in preparation for the building of the Museum when he was laid-up in hospital as a child.)
If he went to the Service, so did my mother.

And, sometimes, years later, she'd take us, too. From that, it feels like the *real* service is this one. (Well, if you can't get to Gallipoli, that is. Oh, and you're from Auckland.)
If we went, the invitation was there for anyone interested. One of the most haunting sounds in the world is the marching feet approaching the Cenotaph in the near-dark of near-dawn. The near-absolute silence of the crowd makes it even more eerie. Alas, it is crowd that has scuppered our family attendance at this service.

I remember going with a couple of friends, in my late-teens. We followed through tradition, and stopped off at the White Lady (near Fort St at the time) for breakfast. One of my friends went with an ice-cream. We laughed at the look of shock on a policeman's face as we walked past him. Ice-cream at 7am. Hey, we'd been up for hours!

One year, my brother-in-law decided to come, and he brought along a couple of his kids. We shared out the passengers between the cars. On the way home, I went with him (his car was sealed and had a working heater, unlike my mother's. It's often VERY chilly on Dawn Service time.) That meant we had a chance to talk to the kids about what it all meant.

My half-brother came one year. It was the first time I'd heard 'The Lord's Prayer' in te reo. It was  funny watching him hide in the crowd (which, admittedly, isn't that hard. He's not that tall. And the crowd was quite large. But, we were right at the front.) so the Padre leading the service wouldn't see him. It was his Padre from his time in the navy.

Although I didn't see it - I heard about it - and was so proud of my niece acting as honour guard one year to the morning service in Helensville. Who knew you bled into your gloves, thanks to the force of the gun-handling manoeuvres. I always figured it would hurt, holding those positions, and doing the drill with precision, and my niece said it really did.

A couple of times recently, I've gone to Waikumete for their Dawn Service with a friend (aka The Boy) and his family. One year, I really wasn't inclined, but gave myself a pep talk. Honestly, all I was doing was getting up a 4am in the cold. Absolutely nothing in comparison to the hardships dealt with by the original Anzacs.

The Boy thought it was important for his baby girl to go to Anzac services, even though she was a baby - seven-months-old. She was one well-rugged-up button. And very well-behaved. And, she wasn't the only baby at the service.

One of my nephew-in-laws tries to take his family to a service each year. He believes they need to appreciate the Anzac story.

If I don't make a service, I will try and listen to the Auckland Dawn Service on the radio. I will watch documentaries and services on TV. I will think of the sacrifices made which Anzac Day commemorates. I will thank those who made them for their courage and contribution. And, I think of the words of The Boy's grandmother - 'none of the boys I knew came home from the war. Sometimes men with their names did.' How simply put, and how poignant and devastating.

What I won't - and refuse to do - is shop. I believe it is a disservice to the men and women - and the history - Anzac Day commemorates - to sully it with sales and shopping.

Anzac Day is sacred.

Finding a war grave

Last year, inspired by the Kintalk Anzac Day Blog Challenge, I blogged about the impact war had on my family.
 It’s heading to Anzac Day, and the challenge is on again. 

I want to support my colleagues, so I wondered what I could talk about this time around. Then I remembered discovering a war grave in the cemetery near my family’s bach.

Some of the graves used to be neglected. Because my father is buried there (the most recent addition) my family started clearing the weeds around other graves. Prompted, I like to think, by this action, somebodies did major weed clearing and tidying up of the graveyard. Once we could see the graves, we realised there was a war grave hidden amongst the very-small number of graves.


My librarian-senses kicked in and I wanted to find out more about Private A. E. Taylor, who died at Trentham on 1 January 1916, aged 24 years. We speculated about his death. Training accident? Drunken accident on New Year’s Eve?

The true story was much, much sadder. He was a victim of one of the many meningitis outbreaks that swept through Trentham camp, almost since its inception.


I found this out by searching the wonderful Papers Past database. Because I couldn’t remember his name, I searched for the name of the settlement, and narrowed the dates. His death was reported in three newspapers through Papers Past (Evening Post ‘Death from meningitis’, Ashburton Guardian ‘Death of a soldier’, and Wanganui Chronicle ‘Meningitis at Trentham’). All say much the same thing. This is from the Evening Post, 3 January 1916:

A private in E. Company, 9th Reinforcements, named Arthur Edward Taylor, died at Trentham Hospital on New Year’s Day, from cerebro-spinal meningitis. He was taken ill suddenly last week. Deceased, who was 24 years of age, was a son of Mr John Taylor, of Whakapirau, North Auckland. His body was sent north today for interment.

Move on a year… and I’m reading Nice Day for a War – written by Matt Elliott, illustrated by Chris Slane. It’s based on the experiences of Cyril Elliott, Matt’s grandfather. There, on page 18, I read:

In the first month at Trentham, bad weather plagued the development of the camp and the training of the men. This was an early introduction to the mean of being ‘on fatigue’, as drains and other amenities were dug to help prevent Trentham becoming nothing more than a bog. As thousands of men moved around the camp, the site became very muddy. The mud began to smell. As the rain continued to pour, it was impossible to properly dry out huts and tents. Illness became a problem, and in early July 1915 the camp was evacuated due to an outbreak of meningitis. The 1st and 2nd Battalions moved at very short notice to Rangiotu, between Palmerston North and Foxton. However, such was the rain that they sheltered at Awapuni Racecourse for several days before moving on.

This outbreak was subject to an inquiry, reported in newspapers I found on Papers Past. Searching it for meningitis and trentham, 1 January 1914 – 31 December 1919 I found over 600 entries. Even if many of them were pretty much identical – there was something bad going on. The Evening Post called it ‘Camp Mystery’, while The Marlborough Express was much more forthright: ‘The Trentham Scandal’. It contains such scathing lines as:

It is good to know, by the report read to the House last week, that there was no typhus at the camp; but reading between the lines of the report, and considering such evidence as has already been given before the Commission, it is quite clear that camp arrangements were very far indeed from what they might and ought to have been. It is all very well for the Hon. Mr Rhodes, who has, it appears, blossomed forth in a new role, that of “Assistant Minister for Defence,” to prate about the proceedings before the Commission being sub judice, and that consequently neither Members of Parliament nor the press should dare to say a word about what has taken place and is taking place at Trentham until the Commission reports, as it is expected to do, in about three weeks’ time. Neither Members of Parliament nor the newspaper are to muzzled in this way…

So sad that such illness continued to destroy our troops. To think that Florence Nightingale battled against deaths by disease in the 1850s. One of her methods to illustrate the extent of the problem was the famous Rose Diagram which highlighted that many, many more soldiers were dying from disease than from injury, or other causes.

So sad that this young soldier – and so many others, like Privates David Booth Doggett and Walter Ford, just to name two – died before leaving New Zealand to fulfil their duty to King and Country, as they saw it.

The Cenotaph database, from Auckland Museum, also has a record of Pte Taylor. I suppose, if I wanted more information, I could follow up with Archives New Zealand to see their records. But, maybe I’ve found enough. I know his name. I know who his father was. I know how he died.

Thoughts for a Thursday... family at war

Anzac Day is always a time of reflection. Time to think about war and its impact.

I’d always thought that The War (in this case World War II) didn’t have much of an impact on my immediate family. My dad was too young, and my grandads had long-standing injuries that meant they were unfit. Today I realised that The War really did have a major influence on my life – let alone others in my immediate family.

My grandfather in uniform, at a
family wedding.
October 1944.

The War changed people. It sent my biological maternal grandfather off to the Pacific (Air Force ground crew). Like many men, he left behind his wife and children (my mother and aunt). While operating as a solo mother, my grandmother had an independent life. Something she’d never had before. Her husband returned, I’m sure with mental trauma from his experiences, and things didn’t work out. As my nana said ‘he hit me once, and I forgave him. He hit me again, and I went out the window’. And she did. Never to return. (Gosh, I don’t mean he hit her, and the impetus pushed her out the window. I mean, she ran away.)

How did you get a divorce in 1944? You had to prove adultery. And that is why my aunt was born in July 1945. And my grandparents married in October 1945.

So – what impact did the war have on my family? It split it. It gave my mother a new dad, and a new name. It meant we ended up with a really amazing grandad. Maybe my biological grandfather would have been nice, but we’ll never know. (That said, his grandchildren from his second marriage cried at his funeral, so maybe they did get a good grandad.)

Mum with Uncle Jim.

What else? That Nana had three brothers: Jim and Ernie were in the army (Middle East), and Al in the navy (on the Achilles during the Battle of the River Plate). Uncle Jim was seriously injured at some point – got to meet Rommel while in a German hospital. At least, that’s the story – hard to know really. As his sister (Nana) admitted once, ‘I don’t know how sane I’d be if I’d had his war experiences’. Well, he wasn’t really insane, as much as paranoid.

A completely different story for his wife. How sane would you be, if one of your first ever jobs was helping repatriate Holocaust victims to Palestine? As with many of Uncle Jim’s stories, we were sceptical – but no, she really did. Diagnosis: paranoid schizophrenia, with a side-order of violence. Army training really helped with that.

Dad's intake.

Nearer to home, Dad could tell fun stories about his time in CMT in 1952. Seemed to involve a lot of drinking. Oh, and fun with the Korean soldiers. As a kid, I always thought he meant Korean Koreans, rather than New Zealand soldiers heading to the Korean WAR .

When I met my half-brother, we found out that he was a navy boy. Ex, at that point. He was based in South-East Asia when I was born – and it wasn’t that quiet a place in 1971. (Funny thing is, although he never met Uncle Al – they look alike and had the same rolling walk.)



This weekend my nephew* heads off to Singapore for three months. He’s in the navy. Go well. And come home safe to your wife and baby. May your relationship only strengthen during this time of separation. May your love grow deeper.

Arohanui.

*this nephew is a result of war. His mother is first-generation New Zealander of Dutch descendent. His Oma wanted to move somewhere that couldn’t be invaded. And there was this guy with glasshouse pieces ready to move to New Zealand.