FIJI COMMANDOS

Wairarapa Times-Age, 28 April 1943, Page 4

FIJI COMMANDOS

DEATH WITH VELVET GLOVES UNCANNY INSTINCT. WHITE TROOPS OUTWITTED. SOUTH PACIFIC BASE. When the Fiji Commandos raid at night, death wears velvet gloves. Extra guards and extra watchfulness arc seldom a match for the uncanny instinct for danger, powers of night sight and concealment, and sense of humour which these native guerilla fighters bring to their aid. Some of’ them have already put their skill to a successful test against the Japanese in the Solomons. Here on their home territory the Commandos, who are trained and led by New Zealanders, are becoming almost legendary figures. The story is told, for instance, of a pre-arranged practice raid by Commandos on a camp occupied by white troops. The latter were given the advantage of being warned that the Commandos were coming that night, and additional precautions were taken to guard the camp. Yet the raiders entered without being detected, and played havoc with pieces of chalk — substitutes for lethal weapons. When the white soldiers realised that the raid had really happened, they found chalked crosses everywhere: on trucks, tents, stores, and even, it is said, on the seat of the trousers of the sergeant of the guard. A piece of card marked “Time Bomb” lay on the floor of the mess hall. GUERILLA FIGHTERS. A day with a Commando unit in its training area was the most interesting I have ever spent on army exercises. The average Fijian guerilla fighter is a fine physical specimen, darker than a Maori because of the mixture of Polynesian and Melanesian blood but not unlike him in his boyish enthusiasm and happy-go-lucky outlook. He speaks a little English and is the essence of disciplined politeness. He has cut his great bushy head of hair so that his steel helmet will fit him and he wears a specially designed drill battledress. In the jungle he often prefers bare feet to boots, and he is armed with cane and sheath knives, an American rifle or tommy-gun, and hand grenades. His New Zealand commissioned and non-commissioned officers were mainly selected from members of the N.Z.E.F. who were familiar with bush and rural life. But as the commanding officer of this unit, Captain C. W. H. Tripp, of Geraldine, South Canterbury, told me: “The Fijians have taught us a great deal about living off the land and understanding the bush, but we can never hope to learn their amazing sense of danger and direction and their powers of observation. Those things are born in them.”

STEALTH & CONCEALMENT. I learned a lesson in stealth and concealment by watching a threepronged mock attack up a swampy gully with bush on either side. Only by intense concentration from a much better position than the enemy would have had could I see anything at all of the preliminary phase. Even then the only sign of movement was the momentary waving of grass stalks a mere 20 yards away and well out of the enemy’s sight. One by one the men came slithering out like snakes on their wet and muddy stomachs. Of the other two prongs of the force, working through the bush, nothing could be seen beyond what looked like an occasional flitting shadow. Then with fixed bayonets and blood-curdling yells the attackers rose and converged on their objective.

I spoke with a native lance-corporal who spelled out his name for me: Avakuki Nakarasa. Many of them have Biblical names, like. Israeli and Josephus. Avakuki was 22 years old, a farmer by occupation, and had been in the army a year. He said he wanted a chance to fight the Japanese and thought he could beat them.

SNAP SHOOTING. Up in the jungle, other soldiers were practising snap shooting at hidden targets along a rough track. With a New Zealand sergeant I followed closely behind one of them and learned something about the Fijian’s extraordinary powers of observation. He had never been over the course before, and had no idea of the location of the targets, which were small white boards set in the trees off the track. Yet time after time, when I could see nothing, he raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired. He saw and hit seven out of the eight targets.

The explanation which the New Zealanders give of this skill is that the Fijian knows the bush so well that a strange sixth sense tells him of the presence of some unusual object. He can spot and read the tracks of animals and men where a white man sees nothing. At night, he has the eyes of a cat —or perhaps it is not so much sight as intuition. Some of the New Zealanders are developing this instinct, too.

I saw more burly natives and New Zealanders throwing one another about in unarmed combat, learning to creep up on sentries and disarm assailants. Then they followed one another through a toughening combat course, ploughing through mud, scaling a high wooden fence, leaping from a 10ft. bank into a shallow stream and clambering up muddy slopes. TONGA’S CONTRIBUTION. The Tongans want tp be in the war too, and they have sent a party to train with the Fijians. They look very much like our Maoris, and are sure that they can fight as well. Their young native second-lieutenant told me he had come from a family of mission workers, but he was the black sheep who wanted to become a soldier instead of a missionary. He was more expressively impatient to start fighting than anyone else to whom I spoke. “We want to fight the Japanese and fight them anywhere,” he said. “We are sick of being in camp. We know we can fight, because our ancestors were famous for the raids they used to make far over the ocean in their canoes. It is a pity we cannot go off in our canoes now and find some Japs.” New Zealanders, Tongans and Fijians alike in this Commando unit are ready and willing to go anywhere. Whether they are over-optimistic or not, they are confident of seeing action soon, and their morale is wonderfully high. In the meantime they continue with training courses that are nearly as tough as fighting itself. As I pondered this thought and remarked on the state of their clothing after the morn-

ing’s work, a New Zealander closed my visit to the Commandos with an amusing sidelight on these fierce but carefree warriors. “Muddy clothes don't worry them,” he said. “That’s a kind of war effort for their girl friends. When the maramas come out to visit the camp on Saturdays the first thing the boys do is to hand out their dirty clothes to be washed,