THE LITTLE CRICKET SANG

Korero (AEWS), Volume 3, Issue 4, 26 March 1945, Page 31

THE LITTLE CRICKET SANG

This is a chapter from a book “ Gunner Inglorious,” by 24563 Gunner J. H. Henderson, 2 N.Z.E.F. Gunner Henderson was wounded at Sidi Rezegh and picked up by the Germans three days later. He spent a year in Bari Hospital, where one of his legs was amputated, was then sent to an Italian prisoner-of-war camp, and from there into another hospital. He was finally repatriated through Turkey, and has spent most of his time since his return in hospitals in New Zealand. His book will be reviewed in the next issue of Korero.

is the story of the little cricket, This is the story of as we lay cricket, which sang to us, as we lay captives in the land of a foe, in old Europe, far from our home beneath the Southern Cross.

We were lying on our rough wooden beds, and the evening shadows had slowly rippled together into the dark ocean of night, beaconed with strange unfamiliar stars, when the little cricket sang to us.

There was almost silence in the whitestone prison bungalow, and in our bay about sixty men lay on their thin grey blankets, tucked around the straw palliasses on the two-tiered, double-berthed wooden bed-frames.

For within thirty minutes the lightswould be out and we would be alone , alone in the dark with our preciousthoughts, our precious memories of homeand ones we love. No enemy could take that from us. Two dim electric-light bulbs hung from black cords down the narrow passageway between the rows of beds. To obtain the greatest benefit from this meagre illumination men were lying feet to the top of their beds, heads and books facing the light. Sounds of men breathing— —in — out — rustle and turn of pages of books, the harsh scrape of a match upon sandpaper ... a cough or two.

ic was then the cricket sang.

His spontaneous joyousness burst like Aomb upon us. One by one heads were rased from books and eyes slowly gazed tcthe corner where the little insect was tvcking his message of happiness. It semed his tiny frame was overflowing wih vibrant good will, and he, a welcome prphet of the happy days to come, deivering tidings of courage and good chter to the unfortunate prisoners.

!own in the corner from where the cri<|ket sang I saw the long, thin body of Bob Creighton move. I knew fro long experience Bob, in common with most descendants of the Irish, was a deeply sensitive man, sometimes emotional too, and at times eloquent.

As Bob moved, I thought of all the dainty poems, the touching tales, I had wept over in childhood, wherein little beasts of the field, birds, or even insects had comforted the distress of unhappy humans, deep in the day less gloom of dim dungeons.

I thought of the stories of prisoners who had shared with mice their humble fate of mildewed bread and cheese. How to them they had confided their hopeless hopes, fears ; consulted, confessed, and drawn comfort, as from a family priest.

iln particular I recalled a poem of ponderous thought and mighty moralizing fnom the awful pen of Byron, “ The Prisoner of Chilion,” wherein a little brightly plumaged bird daily visited a wjretched captive, how he grew to love it aqid wondered if it were an adored one disguised in different shape, how it flew avlvay and left him doubly alone.

And here was the little cricket singing to l us, who undoubtedly were genuine calptives, but by no means wretched. SiAging to us just as urgently, just as brightly, as Byron’s blessed bird.

And here was an emotional son of Ireland gazing fixedly towards the little cricket.

If the emotional poets of olden days were so perfectly attuned to the great heart of afflicted humanity, a profound, too - deep - for - tears utterance was inevitable.

I do not exaggerate when I say with parted lips and quickened heart-beat I awaited some classical and immortal remark.

It came all right.' “ What a blasted uproar,” said Bob. Oh, deeply sensitive man ! Oh, emotional, Irishman ! Oh, eloquence !

His gaze, which I in my sticky sentiment had interpreted as loving kindness intermingled with awe, was nothing more than annoyance, tempered with mild hatred.

But more was to come. Had Byron been there, he would have turned a back somersault and ’phoned an urgent call through to his publishers to delete “ The Prisoner of Chillon ” from the umpteenth edition of his works.

Failing to find the would-be altruistic cricket, Bob reached out a long, thin claw to lift up an empty powdered-milk tin. Crouched there was the little lad with his message of good cheer and what-ho to the imprisoned New -Zealanders.

Bob picked up a boot. He raised it aloft. There was a brief thud. The song of good cheer was abruptly and irrevocably terminated. Bob wiped the pathetic crushed remains of the little body from the heel of his Number Niners.

Looking up, he caught my reproving eye.

“ The darned thing was making so much row I couldn’t read my book,” he explained. Then, with a sigh of content, and with the comforting knowledge of having done a good turn to all, he returned to “ Vintage Murder,” by Ngaio Marsh.