301For another walk which wouldA strenuous three hours fillWe crossed the stream, through ti tree pushed,Then up a fern clad hill.Though scrambling through fern eight feet highOft seemed a hopeless plight,A gorgeous view of Lake TaupoWould make it worth the fight.302We've long since lost the privilegeOf going out that wayIn case we are like two more chapsWho lost themselves one day.Search parties could not locate themTill hours after darkBut why we all must pay for that,We thought it was a nark.303I'd say what did attract the most,Was going to the bushWhere wealth of nature's handiworkFulfills her lover's wish.A track leads there, over four milesThrough ti tree scrub and fern.Though rather long, it gave one allThe exercise he'd yearn.304From it came glimpses of the lakes,And Mounts with beauty true.And Ruapehu, Tongariro,Ngauruhoe too.Just at the entrance to the bushIs an old prison campWhich looked neglected for some years,The huts were green and damp.305But in those huts there now are campedTen conchies and a screw,Who bar weekends, must stop up there,Post splitting's what they do.There's one Screws' hut, one with six boys,The rest in two tents are.They dine and cook in an old shackWith just an open fire.306Camp oven cooking they declareHelps make a first class jobSo with good meals, and not caged in,They are a happy mob.They seem to love their little camp,Which now looks civilized.To see it, nice and homely now,Sure makes one quite surprised.307Some Saturdays, to sledge stores up,It has been my good luck'Cause they must spend wet weekends there,When bogs do block the truck.I'm always waiting for a chanceTo wangle such a stroll,'Cause it does seem a special treatNow that there's no parole.308Once in the bush, there's gorgeous sightsWhichever way you turn,From stately trees, some ten feet through,To the most fragile fem.Where the stream flows through a gorge,Beneath green foliageOne would for hours need to gaze,Its wealth of charm to gauge.309Another rarity up thereAre club-like flower roots.These, partially submerged in soilWe'd kick out with our bootsThen bring them home, boil for two hours,The rough outsides next trim.A wooden flower in the heart,With luck, was neat and prim.310On Anzac day we were obligedBy one, a Mr Whit(Who by the way, he walked so hard,His heart near took a fit).He kindly took some of us boysOut for a full day's hike.Enchanting sights all round we saw,From off a high-up spike.311Of bird life there, it never seemedA great varietyThough pretty pigeons, big and fat,We often used to see,And mockies, though not oft in sight,*Did whistle clear and sweet,Then once I had the luck to seeA native parakeet.312Though pigs and deer were plentiful,They never came in sightBut fresh hoof marks did clearly showThey'd been there over-night.Occasionally, deer's antlers, whichThey cast off every yearWe'd come across deep in the bush,But never in the clear.313So while such liberty was oursWe had a good old fling,But drastic rules came into forceFrom early in the Spring.The first knock was, we'd get no moreParole on Saturday,Because to clean and scrub our hutsThey said we had to stay.314Another rule they have brought inWhich seems just useless fussWas that as we passed out the gatePatrolmen must search us.As yet, in time off through the weekWe still could have a walkTill on October 25When came the final knock.315Once more, all had to sufferFor the misdeeds of two more'Cause they suspended all paroleWhen they broke from Strathmore.Though this was to be temporaryWe're still without parole,Except of course, as I have said,Down to the swimming hole.316I'll now recall some more eventsOf those first good old daysWhen leisure hours were so well spentIn many different ways.If free, when e'er the truck went out,We could go for a rideSo thus we had a royal chanceTo see the country-side.317Down to Turangi, five miles off,We could go for the mail,'Though a nice drive, we went so oft,It did get rather stale.At the 'Bridge Lodge' with luck we'd meetA conchie's friend or wifeSo thrills we'd get, to see and hearA bit of outside life.318For bread and milk, the truck would goDown to the jail each nightSo for a break we'd sometimes go,'Though it was no gay sight.Up to Tauranga-TaupoWas quite a pleasant ride,This would be six or seven milesNorthward, round the lakeside.319Down past Turangi, four more milesA few times I have been,To where there is the biggest townFor near ten miles I've seen.There must be nearly four shops there,A hall and an Hotel,Post-office, school, a kirk or two,And district nurse as well.320It's built right on the lake's south end,Tokaano is its nameAnd as an anglers' paradiseThey say it has won fame.Like other settlements round hereFew Pakeha are foundAnother thing is noticed, though,That nippers do abound.321The trip we prized the most of allWas to a timber mill,From Tokaano near seven milesUp and round a hill.As one looks on the lake from thereHe's struck dumb by that view.Steam jets and hot pools round those partsAre most unusual too.322So we enjoyed those good old daysTill one, a Mr Banks,The Super of the jail belowTook note of our pranks.To see us having such a time,It gave him quite a pain.So months ago, all joyrides ceased,'Cause he did thus complain.323While speaking of those good old days,I'll mention parcels next,About which too, authoritiesApparently got vexed.As I have said, Pete gave us allThat came for us those days.Although two shillings' worth a weekHad been the rule always.324So in most huts, while that prevailed,You'd see good stores laid upAnd one was sure of something good,Where e'er he went to sup.Of course in time, as this camp grew,And other things got worse,Restrictions on the parcels tooThey also did enforce.325In early August we were warnedMuch trouble would aboundIf in our huts, there ever wasMore than two bob's worth found.And sure enough, they made a raid,And found some had heaps more.All foodstuffs then, they said were banned,So we felt rather sore.326That drastic rule did not last longTill it was modified,Since then, they keep a thorough watchOn what we are supplied.All now above a half crown's worth,We must put in the mess.Of course the value of our goodsThey very roughly guess.327Of parcels I have said enough,To letters now I'll go.And as I've said, I've made a verseWhich does this clearly show.August it was I wrote this piece,It's called 'This changing scene'(Excuse the change of meter please,From what the rest has been).328When Strathmore first beganThey were for mail well set.Folk then could write to seven a week,And all in, they could get.This privilege, it meantUntold bliss to the boys,'Cause corresponding with their dearsWas greatest of their joys.329That we could write so much,It hurt head staff to see,So they declared that three a weekOur limit was to be.Two sheets could go in eachWith writing on each side,Addressed to different folks who mayIn the same house abide.330When to Hautu we came,We found they were more free,And in each envelope there couldThree both-side foolscaps be.So while it thus remainedIt suited very well,But they began to kick when thusOur mail began to swell.331So once again we wereCut back to foolscaps two,'Twas such a shame, the censors didHave too much work to do!But yet another changeConcerning this was made,It was an order from the 'Heads 'To which heed must be paid.332At first it sounded goodThat we could now write four,Containing still, two sheets a pieceBut then they added more."From henceforth, we must ceaseThis putting two in one".It seemed they'd set themselves to endOur slightest bit of fun!333'Twas now extremely hard,In fact, impossibleTo all who wrote and sent us thingsOur obligations fill.Though that was bad enoughWe managed fairly well,But what we think of rules now madeWith pen I could not tell.334Last night it was announced,We now can write just twoWith but one sheet in each of them,What can a fellow do?To make the matter worse,We can receive just four,It's got us beat, what will they doIf for us, there comes more.335It is ridiculous,That such laws should aboundI fail to see how there could be,For them, real justice found.So that concludes that piece,Now almost four months old.But now I'll number it with thisAs one long epic told.336Though then I could not write for sureOf just how things should go,If over four a week would comeI now do better know.First week or two we got a chanceTo get things rectified,Then after that, to our dismayMore than four were denied.337I think I did offend the mostAlong that certain line,'Cause I would get to ten a weekWhile four for most was fine.So week by week, in censor's room,Mine did accumulate,Till it developed to a mostUnsatisfactory state.338Ere I would get my mail from home,It was near three weeks old.,So then to give their pens a spellAll that I could, I told.The censor I would oft approachBut he'd not budge at all,Though I explained I'd not had timeTo all my pen friends stall.339The censor (Harvey) still stood firmSo I got desperate,Straight to the Super I did goAnd told him of my fate.So with us lads, so far from homeI won his sympathy.I spoke too, for all Southern boysAnd he did grant my plea.340Therefore, the mail stored up for me,I got right up to date,And so far managed to evadeRecurrence of that state.Of course, in time, most got to knowJust how we had been placed.I too, will know what course to takeNext time I'm with it faced.341Our outward mail was still bound downTo two a piece each week.Of course, of unofficial ones,It's not safe yet to speak!Newspapers, weeklies, and such likeThey always have let inBut strictly searching them for notes,They lately did begin.342I'll go on now, to progress makeWith camp facilitiesIn most ways now they please.They built a concrete reservoirNearby up on a hill,And with a petrol engine pump,Up from the stream they fill.343So from the old hand-pumping styleWhich was so obsolete,To get good pressure on the tapsIt was a special treat.Now, with the water problem solved,They've put it to good use.The wash-house, built near to our hutsIs well supplied with juice.344The part where we could have a washThey first have finished off.It has a row of taps aboveA wooden bench and trough.The wash-house and the bathroom too,They both adjoin this shed.But work on getting them complete,Most slowly went ahead.345Until the coppers got installed,Now three of which there are,By the stream we boiled our clothesIn tin and o'er a fire.Though most would use this place to bathThat was not so with me,'Cause we who round the kitchen workedTo bath in there were free.346But in due course, three tin baths came,Three showers too they made,So they're a boon, 'cause on them allBoth hot and cold are laid.An old four hundred gallon tank,A decent cistern makes,Although it serves the purpose wellSome heating up it takes!347Completion of our social hallWe all were glad to see,Round forty-five by twenty feetIts length and breadth would be.As winter came and nights got cold,Two open fires were made.They're decent ones, in which there canFive-foot back logs be laid.348Around these fires on winter nights,We crouched on backless formsSo they have helped us to surviveThrough bitter frosts and storms.This place, it takes some beating too,The way that it can freeze.To five from zero it would drop,That's twenty sev'n degrees.349With timber short, there's no floor boardsAnd none the walls to line.But it is homely, though so rough,And serves its purpose fine.Of furnishings, besides those forms,The place was very bare.But now, there are two reading desksAnd ping-pong table there.350From Quakers and some other friendsWho do support our causeA good piano which they gaveA welcome gesture was.Late in July it did arrive,So it was all the rage.It first was on a little standBut now they've built a stage!351This stage, an up-to-date affair,Takes one fourth of the hall.A roller curtain has been made,And sliding screens and all.The boys put on some concerts thereWhich brought good talent out.For staff and inmates craving such,It helps to break the drought.352The hospital block I think is next,Of interest on the list.A chance to sojourn there myselfI luckily have missedBetween the mess rooms and our hutsIts building has been placed.The wards are so arranged, that theyTowards the sun are faced.353Five singles wards, which once were hutsSo far have proved suffice,The nurses' home adjoining them,Though small, is very nice.About mid-May they opened it,All round was then rough groundBut rockeries, nice flower bedsAnd green lawns now abound.354The matron is Miss Fabian,The nurse Miss Butler Brown.Especially Miss FabianOn conchies does look down.But yet, these old dears treat us well,As if we were their sons.But woe betide if e'er you dareTo stick up for the Huns.355The subject I must tackle next,Is all about our hutsTo which, I said at first, we hadTo flounder over ruts.But many changes have been madeOf which I now must tell,Though to give you a clear outlineI may not do too well.356The first few weeks that I was here,With Doug I shared a hut,And even it was dragged aroundOut of its first old rut.But when they built more single hutsIn to them we did go.Vernon, Bob, Doug and myself,Were all in the front row.357This was the compound's eastern side,And northwards they did face.The distance in between each hutWould be round ten foot space.The huts, all built here by the boys,Are ten by seven feet,Each with one window and one door,Look uniform and neat.358Our stretcher goes across the end.,And in most, as a rule,There's what would be a wardrobe called,A table and a stool.The Sisal-kraft around the wallsAt first was all jet black,And though it made them dark and glumIt helped block up each crack359Yet, plenty of air holes were there,Where no protection was,So old Jack Frost and lazy windsHad soon found out these flaws.Some nights a mug of waterWhich I had inside my hutWould turn to ice, e 'en though I hadMy door and window shut.360Well, now about this Sisal-kraft,I'll write another line.Though once so black, now in contrastIt's white with calcimine.*It's like a hen-house, some declareWith walls all painted white,But anyway, if nothing else,It helped the candle light!361If for our books and toilet gearWe wanted any shelves,We had to scrounge around for woodAnd do the job ourselves.Just three plain shelves of two foot sixOur limit was to be,But though I overstepped that ruleNot much was said to me!362If for our wardrobe, and our windowCurtains we desired,For them, we could get sent to usMaterial required.Pictures of a decent sortAnd any snaps at allCould go on show, so this relievedBare studs, and white washed wall.363Around our huts, we were allowedTo dig a little plot.But doing mine, where I was thenNo satisfaction brought.I did not bother planting aught,Expecting that some dayOur huts and all, from that last siteWere to be dragged away.364Six rows, of six huts each, there wereIn that, the Eastern block.In time, another sixty hutsThey would together knock.A track, it ran from North to South,Dividing East from West.So in this Western block, in rowsLike ours they put the rest.365All along these rows of hutsNice little paths were made,So quite convenient it wasAs long as it thus stayed.But after all that good work done,They thought out a new scheme.Perhaps it would be best to sayThat someone had a dream!366So, disregarding all that workAll huts were shifted round.And on the west side of that trackThe whole lot now are found!In three blocks now, we are fenced offAs if an hostile band,because they said, it had to come,"To keep us all in hand".367About three rows of twelve there are,In each of the compounds.Conveniences are to beBuilt within each one's grounds.The huts are seven foot six apart,The rows about four yards.Some reckon locking doors at nightIs next thing on the cards!368Two rows in each now face the sun,And one does south-ward look.So those like me, who are thus faced,Now think it rather crook.'Cause whereas through our open doorsThe sun could shine all day,All now is through our window panesWhich towards the east do lay.369My hut is number forty-oneAnd in the centre block.It was a hollow where it isAnd filled with pumice rock.So, for a garden it's no goodOr I'd have one around.I envy those, who have nice shows,Where decent soil is found.370When we came down to here at firstWe did not see a tent,But in the course of months gone byRound thirty came and went.As different drafts from Strathmore came,More than there were huts for,They had to bring tents down from thereTill of huts we got more.371These tents were put beside our hutsIn that block where we were,But now the scene has greatly changed,There's not a tent left there!Much speculation has been causedRegarding what it's for,But though still doubtful of its end,Time sure will tell us more.372We're now fenced off with barbed-wireEnclosing sixty huts.All this barbed-wire's a nuisance too,It blocks all our short cuts.When to the wash-house we must goIt's quite a long way round.This narked some so, they cut the wires'Twixt it, and that compound.373In sight of the authorities,This was an awful sin.But yet, in time they weakened,And another gate put in.It seems the time is coming though,That all gates will be locked.At least along that certain line,An awful lot is talked.374The huts for that block weren't made here,But all in sections brought,And 'public worksmen' put them up,That gave much food for thought,Because to build jails for themselves,Most won't cooperate.So it appears they're for bad boys,Though 'Heads' won't tell us straight.375These new huts are all painted red,Whereas ours are tarred black.The flooring space is much the same'Though squarer type of shack.Windows are in front, by doors,But ours are on the side.At present over thirty chaps,In these new huts abide.376From down both sides, and the south end,All huts the centre face.Twelve more all face the rising sunFrom up the centre space.This subject now is up to dateExcept that yesterdayIn these new huts' doors, holes were bored,For 'fitting locks' they say.377So to comply with blackout rulesOur huts now all have 'blinds'But he deserves the 'iron cross'Who this remote place finds.Yet if Patrolmen on their roundsA streak of light would see,The one responsible for such,Sure of a blast could be.378Of subjects, which are getting less,The next to which I'll turn,Is our electric power plantWhich diesel oil does burn.That I'm a super optimist,I know a lot will say,If I declare that in our hutsWe will have power some day!379Although completion of this jobWould yet some distance seem,The N.S.D., they really mean*To carry out their scheme.Soon after we came to this place,Work on this did commence.It's built up on the eastern sideOutside the compound fence.380The way the motor's running now,One can't help but admire,But that's no earthly use to usWithout transmission wire!For weeks now, post-holes have been dug,On huts, power arms we see,But monuments these yet appearTo blund'rous N.S.D.381There is one thing brings evidence,That work has been done there,For meals and such, the whistles now,They blow by compressed air.A petrol engine and a pumpThis compressed air does make,Because to start the diesel plant,Such pressure it does take.382This diesel engine, I am sure,Could tell one many tales,Of how in South Pacific seasIt has been tossed in gales.'Cause in a Government owned ship,The Maui Pomare,This engine, and the Strathmore oneAt one time used to be.383This ship was used, for bringing fruit,From tropic isles to here.So they installed these diesel plantsTo work the Frigidaire.But as is quite the usual thingWith Governmental schemes,Expensive undertakings flop,Like castles built on dreams.384Just like a pig bought in a pokeThese motors seemed to be,And no one understanding them,They ne'er were trouble free.So oft the Frigidaire broke down,Much precious fruit was lost,So those two motors finallyWere to the scrap heap tossed.385They say they were left out to rustFor twelve or thirteen years,But now, in Strathmore and this camp,One plant in each appears.It seems a strange coincidenceThat conch camps are their fate.Just like us, who to service giveWould not cooperate.386But now they're asked to fill a place,With those of kindred heart,To meet our needs they seemed preparedTo play an active part.In hands of those who understandThey will run fairly true,For how they've persevered with themThere is much credit due.387Way back in nineteen twenty-sev'nThey tell me they were made,Yet, I think it will ne'er be saidThey for themselves have paid.Their rating at three hundred revsIs 109 horse power.Of diesel oil, each would consumeAbout three gall'ns an hour.388With light and pow'r for months past nowThe Strathmore camp's been set,And we still hope, ere winter comes,Our wiring we will get.On history of our power plant,I'll now no longer dwell,But trust it won't be long, till IOf its completion tell.389In passing, I must mention more,About old 'Babbling Brook'Of whom I said, I have grave doubtsIf he'd stop long as cook.Well sure enough, my words came true,He's something of the past.Till he did get his running shoes,He did just five weeks last.390It was like this, on his day off,He to Tokaano went.He came back stunned, and of this campHe gave his feelings vent.The Strathmore Super, Christenson,By chance was here that day,And of McQuillan's felonyHe gave the show away.391To Mr Greenberg, who alsoWas right here at that time,He did report this, which they seemedTo think an awful crime.Next day the Super called him inAnd sacked him on the spotSo he rejoiced that with such ease,He out of this place got.392It was December the eleventh,That he did take his hook.*Now, in disgust, the Heads won't tryTo get another cook.Instead, as Messing OfficerWe have a Mr Gray.Promotion from patrolman's job,Was for him, a good day.393He mainly had to keep the booksAnd share the rations out,And 'conchie' cooks, now do their best,With what there is about.The three weeks he has been in chargeThings have run very well,Bar scraps among those working there,(Of which I'd best not tell).394A baker and a pastry-cookIs Mr Gray by trade,So for the staff, sweets, scones and cakesAre mostly by him made.There's one good thing I'll mention too,He is from my home town,So of its beauty we agree,Though others run it down.395It now is nineteen forty-three,One day past New Year's day,So most of us, last week or soHave gone the festive way.Therefore, my brain has been too dense,For writing any verse,Still, Christmas comes but once a year,For better or for worse.396These celebrations still remainQuite clear within my mind.So, happenings I'd best rehearseWhile I feel thus inclined.A few days ere the big day cameOur parcels did roll in,And fearing we'd get overstockedOur feasting did begin.397A swag of parcels for us boysIn through the post did flow.How the half-crown restriction stoodWe anxious were to know.The Censors' sense of value, seemedConveniently lost,So all that came, they handed outAnd questioned not its cost.398Restrictions on incoming mails,Were all forgotten too,So we could have done well with that,If our friends only knew.The lucky lads with visitorsDid have their best time yet,‘Cause three days running, both weekendsThree hours they did get.399On Christmas Eve, the gay sparks hereDid put a concert on.'Though strange it seems, they say some chapsWith strong drink were far gone.Some of us C.A. boys did goRound to Jim Holdoway's,Where we did eat, and sing and play,And talked of good old days.400A little longer time we gotEre we to bed were sent,And it was sev'n on Christmas mornWhen the reveille went.A holiday it was for allBar us, who are 'key' men.But anyway, it helped wear offAll extras eaten then.401The Xmas dinner did consist,Of pork, spuds and green peas.With that, weighed down with Xmas duffI could have slept with ease.Peas from our garden, tender were,But not so was the pork.That old sow, from the jail next doorHad well done her life's work.402The standard of the Xmas duffAnd sauce with it was high.I too, had some the matron made,So I was busting nigh.A piece of un-iced Xmas cake,All hands did get for tea,Green salad, jelly and cold ham,Of real good quality.403Another special thrill I gotI must put down in verse,It was a gift of handkerchiefsFrom Matron and the Nurse.Their thought I valued, and I'll keepThem as a souvenirOf new acquaintances I've madeAnd service rendered here.404On New Year's Eve, the inmates didAnother show put on,And lights out whistle did not blowTill the old year was gone.With others at Jim Holdoway's,Most of the night I spent,We sang, played, and ate to the healthOf those who gifts had sent.405Most of the boys seemed well wound upAs that old year passed out.The whistle blew, then shouts and cheersWere heard from all about.A comet gave a lead to allFor singing Auld Land SyneThen later than I have for monthsIn bed I did recline.406New Year's Day passed, then at my hutThat night, we had a spreeAnd now the burning question isWhere next New Year we'd be.Well now the holidays have passed,I must get settled downTo tell of the Fraternity,Who've settled in this town.407The names of those who came with meI need not tell again,Of how our numbers then were fiveI elsewhere did explain.The first of April brought a batchWith three more of our crew,Gordon McCarthy, Ernie MonkAnd Alan Paton too.408Near three weeks later that same month,The twentieth was the day,Another boy from Blenheim came,His name, Jim Holdoway.Two days from then, Fred Philips came,A Taranaki lad,Then Eric Warner, and Dick Howe,The latter now a dad.409'Twas on the twenty-fourth they came,They're both from Auckland way.No more of ours had come untilJuly, the second day.Until then, just the twelve of usAll in Doug's hut did meet.But when five more came on that day'Twas too crushed all to seat.410Therefore in Doug's hut some still met,The rest in Alan's met.And I, with most of the new boysWas to the latter sent.These five, which made us seventeen,I now shall try to name.Bill Murphy, also Brian Wood.From Taranaki came.411Glen Laing from Christchurch, an old friend,I was real pleased to see.Then there's Ben Bruce, North Auckland bred,A daddy too is he.Lin Duffy, a South Auckland lad,Is the last to nameUntil in August, the eighteenth,His brother Colin came.412September twenty-eight it wasWhen Ben Brownrigg did come.His interest was the diesel plantThat sure did make things hum!Ben having fixed the Strathmore one,Could give a clue or two,So Arthur Wallbank helped by JackSoon had the job pushed through.413Ben's since gone back to Strathmore camp,Though we hoped he would stay.Eighth of December was the dateThat he went on his way.South Canterbury did produceThe next of ours that came.'Twas on October twenty-eight,George Taylor is his name.414Then on November, the ninth day,We saw three more arrive.To have more old friends, made me feel'Twas good to be alive.One, Ian Brown, is Auckland bredBut he has travelled roundIn USA, he 'Chiro' learnt,*And there a wife he found.415Bob Dohrman who I knew before,From near Balmoral came.Also, from Methven, an old friend,Frank Laming is his name.So that made twenty-three of us,Till Ben went back again.With no moves since, our numbers stillAt twenty-two remain.416So two huts still contain us allWhen we together meet,But the first Sunday every month,Doug' s hut the lot will seat.Thus all wedged in, his hut is packedTo full capacity.Though limbs get cramped, and air impure,The Spirit still is free.417Gordon, Brian, Colin, Lin,Eddie, Bill and Fred,With others are up splitting postsAnd camp there, as I've said.Therefore in one of their small tents,They meet on Wednesday nightBut at weekends they come back home,If weather is alright.418I've said the meeting I go toAt Alan Paton's was,But in Ben Bruce's now it isJust for this certain cause:By Alan's hut, some made a courtFor tenikoits to playWhich we feared would distract our thoughtsAs one would speak: or pray.419I must comment, how through the monthsOur populace does change.But why C.A. boys aren't disturbed,It does seem rather strange.For reasons oft to us obscure,Transfers seem to abound.In fact, some who have been sent on,In time are back here found.420The next few chaps to leave our ranksA different way did go.Because they would not work at all,Of else did go too slow.They stated here, before J.P.sThey'd not cooperate.To Rotorua next they went,Before the Magistrate.421The standard sentence for that crimeIs three months graft in jail.Although a number choose that course,To me, it's no avail.With that term up, they're tried againTo see if their mind's set.And if, like most, they still refuse'Duration' they would get.422Round three or four have been dischargedThrough failing health or mind,Yet, one's foot must be near the grave,Ere he release will findAnd still, the way two more broke outWas through a wire at night.'Though Bob was caught, and got three months,Jack Mac made good his flight.423The largest exodus at once,I think was thirty-two.'Though most were bound for Shannon campA few did go right through.They sailed back South, across Cook Strait,To which I forward look.Bush carpenters most of them were,Also a clerk and cook.424So for the first South Island campThey were the pioneers,And like all those who venture forth,They had their hopes and fears.So that North Canterbury camp'Way up Balmoral way,'Round mid September they commenced,I'm not sure to the day.425Of inmates there, 'round forty-fourIs all their personnel,And from what scraps of news we get,They're doing very well.While speaking of these transfers made,I s'ppose I'd better sayThat escorts went out with each draftTo watch they did not stray.426I now have outlined fairly wellHow inmates come and go,So next, on changes in our staff,A little light I'll throw.Of those statistics, it is hardTo keep a thorough check,Cause oft, for breach of discipline,One goes out on his neck.427Of staff which were here when we carneNow only three remain,And in between 'round twenty chapsHave come and gone again,For fraternising with inmates,And clashing with 'head' screws.Also, suspected pilferersSoon get their running shoes.428To us, they are a source of mirth,The childish way they act.That they give Greenberg more headaches,Than we do, that's a fact.Much jealousy is in their ranksTo get supremacy.Hence, of administration staff,Not one old hand we see.429Thus, bar the Matron, and the Nurse,My clientele is new,And those whom I now wait uponAre quite a different crew.Therefore, their different characters,I shall try to defineAnd briefly state why some were sackedOr rather did resign.430Mr Ballard, whom I've saidWe highly did respect,Too conscientious was for hereSo thus his health was wrecked.He took things far too seriouslyWhen misconduct he did find,And things quite insignificantWould prey upon his mind.431On dealing fairly with inmatesI'm sure he was intent,But did not seem to realise,Naught will make some content.Then when ungratefulness they showedHe put the pressure on.So sensitive he got at last,His mind was well nigh gone.432When his step quickened, and arms swungWe knew what to expect.That trouble such did signifyWe had learnt to detect.'Twould either mean that 'on the mat'Some chap he'd reprimand,Or else some threatening 'promises'The lot of us would land.433For that, straight lecturettes he gave,And always used to say"These are not threats" but woe to thoseWho dare to disobey.But mostly, when some would transgress,His repercussions wereImposing of harsh rules on all,Which did seem hardly fair.434For instance, 'cause a few hard shotsWere found to misbehave,A dormant ruling was enforcedThat we must daily shave.With razor blades so very scarceA hardship it would prove.Well-blunted safety razor bladesCould scarcely whiskers move.435We boys with time off through the dayWere very sorely vexed,‘Cause access to the social hallIn work hours was stopped next.It all occurred when one or two,Who should have been at work,Were caught there by the GestapoWho round these parts do lurk.436That meant we must freeze in our hutsThrough winter's snow and rain,For not till after he resignedDid access we regain.Piano practice some missed much,And swotting by the fire,And table tennis, then the rage,This also would debar.437There's one more thing I'll mention tooWhich caused him much concern,In fact, with curiosityThe lot of us did burn.The question did arise, aboutA hundred yard square blockOn which a few lads had commenced,The scrub from it to knock.438'Twas in a nice secluded spot,A mile or so from hereAnd no one seemed to know 'just what',Not e'en the overseer.So rumours soon got running rife,As to what it was for.A prison for recalcitrants?Or breeding nags for war?439Such like assumptions did hold sway,Making the job taboo.'Cause building jails, or aiding war,Are things most here won't do![Here the poem ends, "because I got busy"]
THIS HARMLESS FEWOne surely must admireThe faithful stand of thoseWho have bravely dared to say,"Like Christ I love my foes".No cowards could they beWho stand true to his word,Who once rebuked one dear to HimFor taking up the sword.
The throngs do surely rage,They hate their frame of mindYet, naught there is to justifyDestruction of mankind.Wars there have always been,Their horrors do increase;Strong is the evidence that theyCan bring no lasting peace.
The feeling does run high,Towards this harmless few,Whose one desire is man's welfareAnd useful work to do.But yet they are harassedWhate'er their calling be,Yea some by law are e'en interned,'Tis sure a strange decree.
Each one is surely markedWho does associateOr even sympathy doth show,T'wards those who hold this trait.Thereby some face much scorn,Some suffer loss of trade.'Twixt dearest friends and nearest kinSome breaches great are made.
In gloomy prison cellsMany a heart is sore,Through yearning for a glimpse of homeAnd those they do adore.'Though meals are very crudeTheir beds not made for ease,And limbs oft ache through overworkYet quenchless zeal have these.
Life in Detention CampsSome find extremely hard;'Tis sad they are through distance greatFrom seeing loved ones barred.Still, true companionshipEach saddened heart enjoys,The privilege of mail and giftsDelights these lonely boys.
The hearts which sorrow mostAnd shed the bitterest tearsAre those of loving kith and kin,Who miss their fondest dears.All who, though now oppressed,For right, not might have stoodRejoice in knowing "all doth workTogether for some good".
As author of this poem,'Twould grieve me to createImpressions that we pity selfFor trivial is our fateCompared to suffering hordesWhere wars and famine rage.Left homeless starving and bereavedNaught could their anguish gauge.
Wilson GordonHautu26 May 1942