4. WAR YEARS: 1939 — 1945

In 1939, the Prime Minister of Australia spoke the melancholy words " …as England is at war, so we are at war." On 27 August 1940, Norman enlisted in the Royal Australian Air Force. In 1941, Japanese planes bombed Darwin and Broome in Australia's north; and in early 1942, Japan took Manila and Singapore. As his uncles in the First World War had done before him, he took the oath of allegiance, swearing that he would

" " well and truly serve our Sovereign Lord the King in the Air Force of the Commonwealth of Australia for the term of the duration of the war and twelve months thereafter — and that I will resist His Majesty's enemies and cause His Majesty's peace to be kept and maintained; and that I will, in all matters appertaining to my service, faithfully discharge my duty according to the law. So help me God."

Surprisingly, given his Methodist heritage, he gave his religious denominations as 'Church of England', the nominal church of my mother's.

Soon after enlistment, he was transferred to a training camp at Point Cook in Victoria to be trained as a signaller and Olive, Bob and I went to Melbourne to stay with my father's Aunt Topsy " one of Edie's sisters. His records show that he spent some time at the Marconi School in Southwest Melbourne, as well as at Laverton and Point Cook. In March 1942, he was transferred to 'Malvern'. Whether this is the suburb of Melbourne or one of the same name in Adelaide is not made clear. In May 1942, he was transferred to Victor Harbor. I have trace memories of visiting him at a training camp there. I recall Bob and some friends climbing pine trees and of wanting to be big enough to join them, but also being afraid to climb up.

From 1940 to 1943, Norman had moved steadily through the ranks from Corporal to Flight Sergeant. In May 1943 he undertook officer training and was appointed to the rank of Flight Lieutenant on 14 August 1943. On 28 January 1944, he embarked for New Guinea. Before he left, he dug an air-raid trench in our back yard at Byron Rd. I began to hear of the need to have blackout curtains in case Adelaide was the target of air attacks, and Air Raid Wardens with their tin helmets with ARP painted in white appeared.  Newspaper cartoons represented Japanese and German soldiers as loathsome, subhuman creatures and, to her dying day, Mum maintained an unswerving prejudice to anything Asian, derived from this time.

His papers show that Norman was posted to Port Moresby, Goodenough Island and Nadzab at various stages of his 12 month tour of duty, but they give no information on what his experiences might have been. By the time of his posting, the Japanese army was in retreat in New Guinea, but retained a significant air base in Rabaul on Bougainville Island. Goodenough Island, a small island in the D'Esterecaux Group off the southeastern end of New Guinea was established as an RAAF air base from which the Solomon Island straits could be controlled, and attacks on Japanese positions on New Guinea and Rabaul could be launched. The squadrons were composed of Boston and Beaufort bombers[1], Beaufighters and Kittyhawk fighter planes. The RAAF took control of the sea lanes west of the Solomon Islands and along the coast of New Britain. Norman's duties from 1 April to 14 November 1944 are shown as 'Command' and he was given the rank of Squadron Leader. On this latter date, his records show "keep rank", so I assume he completed his duties at that rank. He completed his 'tropical tour' on 23 February 1945, returned to Australia and was demobilised on 19 November 1945.

Why would he have volunteered for active service? He didn't need to — he was 39 years old and a married man with children by the time Japan entered the war. Certainly Olive didn't want him to go, and she recalls the war years as very difficult and lonely ones.[2] Was it a hangover from the stories of his older brother and his dead uncles in World War 1? Or were there nobler motives? The desire to serve, to do whatever necessary to protect his family, a sense of deep patriotism? Perhaps all of these things together.

I regret not listening to his stories of the time. I suspect that Mum didn't want to hear any more about the war, and so he was restricted to tales of the huge size of the insects, of having learned Pidgin, and of the friendliness of 'the natives'.

Among his service papers is a formal character summary that I read with some amusement, as much of its description could apply to my own character. The report is dated 17 November 1945, so it has been made just prior to his demobilisation. With the exception of the characteristics dependability', co-operation' and emotional stability' (where the assessor scores him as 4/4), he receives a 3 out of 4 rating.

By the time he had returned from New Guinea, an essential link in the chain of our relationship was missing, and I fear that I treated him as a kindly stranger — a sadness for him I am sure and retrospectively, for me also.

I have likened the immediate post-war period in Australia as one in which there was an acting out of repressed youth; as if the energy of young adulthood in so many men and women had been put on hold and could now be acted out. In A gathering of stones[3] I recount an incident that is drawn on my memories of dad returning from the war. In this account 'Alan' is myself at age 8, and the story is told through the eyes of Bob.

I remember my father coming home from the war. I was fourteen, and wore my first pair of long trousers with self—conscious pride, knowing that I had crossed some important bridge out of childhood to join my friends on a road that led to manhood and the revelation of mysteries hinted at by adults, but not accessible to children. My Uncle Sid had already come home from the war with an empty sleeve where his right arm had been. The doctors had been unable to save his arm, and he had to learn to be left-handed for the rest of his life. Aunt Belle alternated between blaming herself for allowing him to go to the war, and blaming Uncle Sid for going. She finally settled on the compromise of an unremitting racial prejudice against the Japanese people and all things Asian.

            I stood on the Adelaide railway station platform with my brother and mother, among many other similar family groups waiting for the train. It must have been early Spring, as it was not yet my birthday, but the day was warm and sunny, and we had seen blossoms out as we came into Adelaide to meet the train. My mother wore a wide-brimmed white hat and white gloves, and a brown woollen dress with a light fleck of white which she had recently made herself. At the collar was a brooch of amber stones which my father had given her as a birthday gift. As the war had progressed, she had become even thinner, and the new dress emphasised the slightness of her figure. Alan and I stood apart as we waited. It was obvious that she had abandoned us for the moment, and she stood looking down the platform, constantly checking and re-checking her gloves, her hat, her brooch, her dress.

            A thrill of excitement enlivened the crowd as the train steamed into view across the railway yards. The engine was one of the grand green and black Mountain types that my Gramp used to drive, and I had a sudden flash of loneliness for my dead Nanna, and for my Gramp whom I now seldom saw.  The train rolled slowly into the station, scattering smoke and steam as it came under the station roof, and came to a panting halt. Some men had leaped down from the train before it had come to a halt and, tossing their kits aside, were running down the station in search of their families. As soon as the train stopped, the carriages began to disgorge their load of khaki and blue—clad figures. The station was suddenly full of crying and of exclamations of delight. Couples were embracing and kissing; children were hoisted up in the arms of fathers they could hardly remember; one soldier knelt down and kissed the platform and burst into tears himself; and in the midst of the tears and laughter and steam and excitement, my mother and father were embracing and locked in a long kiss. Alan was clinging tightly to my hand and standing close against me.

            'It'll be OK,' I said. 'It's going to be OK. Our Dad's home.'

            He clung even more tightly, looking at our parents with wide and apprehensive eyes. Our parents came to us, our mother crying and dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. It was unusual to see our mother cry and if I was discomforted by the sight, Alan must have been more so. Our father bent down and greeted Alan with a hug. Alan accepted the embrace, but his eyes did not leave our mother's face.

            'And look at you. You're a man now,' he said to me. I knew that it was the right thing for my father to say, but I did not know what the right response was.

            'They're both struck dumb,' my father said. 'Well, there's going to be time now. The war is over and I won't be going away again.'

            We began the long walk back along the platform. There were also, I noticed, men in wheelchairs being unloaded from the train, and the noise around them was more muted. One young couple, oblivious to their surroundings, was continuing to kiss and embrace. A lone woman stood looking despairingly down the platform as the melee flowed around her, a baby in her arms, and a small child crying fractiously by her side.

            The domed concourse of the station was echoing with the release of six years of tension and anxiety, and the air was vibrant with every kind of expression of human pleasure—cries, exclamations, chatter, embraces, kisses, whispers, skips, dances, leaps, laughter, and shouts. As we came out onto North Terrace, the trees all green with new leaves, the happiness of the welcomes spilled out into the morning air, and the warmth of the sun and the blue of the sky embraced us. There was going to be time now for planting and reaping, for conceiving and rearing, for planning and creating, for building and crafting, for singing and dancing.

            The Spring was full of every kind of possibility for happiness.