LIFE OF DISCOMFORT

Dominion, Volume 37, Issue 17, 15 October 1943, Page 5

LIFE OF DISCOMFORT

Troops Endure The Jungle ADVANCED PACIFIC BASE, September 24,

Someone has brought a tiny radio to this forest home of ours. We lie in the darkened jungle after dusk with just a shaded candle that throws enough light to guide a pen unevenly on a pad of dank writing paper. We are thinking of the home country and of children being put to bed. We might be babies ourselves, so early do we cease all movement and douse all lamps on this island of New Zealand soldiers. We cannot always tell if a wily son of Tojo is not hovering unheard 30,000 feet ftp watching for a gleam of a target underneath. And as we wipe successive waves of the day’s perspiration from our bodies a voice comes over the air from the far south, the voice of New Zealand’s Prime Minister, more than 2000 miles away, making a last-minute'appeal for the people’s support on election day. The voice is clear now and then harsh and We wonder whether Mr. Fraser is suffering from a relaxed throat or whether distance and static are too much for this midget receiving set. when the voice speak’s of politics, of social security and of rehabilitation, we who have voted some days ago think of 'our families round the home radios and of their reaction to the storm of election propaganda. . And now we hear of the Dominion s war effort and we think somewhat woefully of ourselves, blinded by the tall trees of the jungle, moist with humidity, dirty with mud, laying odds on the likelihood of an hour or two in a foxhole this night, while our tin-helmeted gunners down the track belch anti-aircraft fire at the enemy. Eerie Jungle Home.

The jungle makes an eerie home. A rough jeep track leads in from the beach and we look to see if chains are fastened on the tyres, or else no jeep or vehicle of any sort will ever make the passage. As we churn the track into slime, we think of the author of the phrase “sea. of mud,” and know that none could improve on his description. Immediately the trees close over us, tall trees of 100 to 130 ft., broadening into an umbrella at. the top of 4ft. thick trunks and a denser canopy of foliage from the stumpier pandanus and broadleaf palms underneath. The twining vines and matted undergrowth usually associated with tropical jungles are not so thick as we expected. Inland, we understand, it is thinner still, though the absence of tracks,- the prevalence of mountain ridges and inadequate visibility ' make movement a hazardous business.

There are no cocifliuts here in the bush. Their soil is the flatter and swampy land at the water's edge. In a small clearing here and there only a few banana palms, their big leaves broadened and lengthened by abnormal heat, are limp in the sun's direct rays. We slush the unwilling mud on either side, sink to the axle in clinging ruts, get out and push or winch the truck from a nearby banyan tree that has a trunk strong enough to stand the strain. Our boots and anklets are heavy with mud, our trousers smeared with it, and our open shirts clinging wet to our backs. A triivk enable to negotiate the track has spilt its precious cargo of purified, water and lists like a torpedoed ship, blocking the only way in. A tractor v hauls it out and tlig driver turns .toyard.

the water point again. We ask him how he fares and he says what they ali say. We pass a camp of bearded Allied soldiers. With typical generosity they ask us in for a cup of coffee or tea for tlie American is developing a taste for tea that rivals even our own —and they lauga at our discomfort. Fortunately, we can raise a laugh, too. Saving Grace of Laughter. Laughter is our salvation in the jungle. We laugh at everything, at queuing up in the rain for meals, at puddles in the bottom of foxholes, at shrunken socks, at the weird cackle of the forest wild fowl in the evening, at the bark-like croaking of frogs, and the nagging perseverance of insect life. We follow with fascinating interest the flight of multi-coloured bulterflies, big bronze, cream and spotted ones. They are less timid than, the butterflies at home and settle sometimes on an outstretched arm. And bats Hit erratically in and out of the tents. I hey are doing it now. ... , . The jungle night life is awakening. The noise of its myriad gnomes will go on till daybreak, when fresh armies will chant new tunes for our ears. Teeming tireflies glow among the trees and tlie peculiar fuzzy bark of . some vine sends off a phosphorescent light. Mr. Fraser’s voice grows dim, and though the Pacific war time says only 7 o’clock. New Zealand soldiers drop tn sleep. We may be wakened soon by the blasts of an air alert. And we will laugh again in our drowsiness as we stumble to our warrens while the air jaid lasts.