Dust on My Feet: Thoughts, on the Way to War by Pvte J.E.J. Westbrook

I recently came across this hand-written memoir as I was sorting through family papers. It was written by my Uncle 'Winks', Pvte J.E.J. (John Edgerton Jury) Westbrook. He had entitled the paper simply 'Thoughts' and it describes his feelings as the Auckland Division of the First New Zealand Echelon leaves Papakura Military Camp in January 1940 to embark for, as they thought, war-torn Europe. The second section of this memoir was written on board the troopship Orion, as it steamed across the Indian Ocean. I find a passage in this second section particularly poignant and moving, as I know it refers to his mother, my maternal grandmother: "I’d never seen tears in her eyes before."

Private Westbrook was promoted to Lance-Corporal in Egypt after the Greek and Crete campaigns, but he never returned to New Zealand. He was killed on the 1st December 1941 during the furious Battle of Sidi Rezegh, during the relief of Tobruk, where he is buried. He was an aspiring writer, perceptive and emotional, as this short piece shows This memoir was returned to my grandparents along with his diary and other belongings.
Neil Rawlins

In the pre-wars years Pvte Westbrook spent holidays here at Sullivans Beach in Mahurani

Papakura Military Camp 1940 Thoughts

Volunteers marching to camp in October 1939.
Pvte Westbrook (insert) is in the 3rd row.

The afternoon sun beat down as we laid seakits on the ground and stood at ease. Here and there a shoulder hitched, manoeuvred, the heavy pack on his back into a more comfortable position. Here and there a handkerchief came out to mop a perspiring forehead. The faces around me were not the smiling, carefree faces of yesterday; they were set, more serious…. This was our final Battalion Parade on New Zealand soil.

The lines of khaki swayed, polished brass flashed in the sun. In the distance a bitumen road dividing them, stood more lines of khaki, more brass flashed. The green glass looked cool, inviting the men to rest, to run their hot hands over its soothing coldness. The band stood on the road, instruments gleaming brightly…. The Auckland section of the First Echelon was saying “Goodbye” to its camp.

“Battalion!” It was the Colonel. The lines of khaki were rigid. “Battalion will march in column of route ----“ The band was playing, orders were shouted, seakits were heaved onto shoulders, rifles were placed onto the other shoulders. Boots began to lift up and down to the steady beat of the music, faces began to crack into smiles, eyes began to gleam – “We’re going!”

“Goodbye, fellers, see you over there!” “Give my love to the French girls!” “H’ray Dick”, “So long, Tom”. “Leave a Hun for me!” And so, with a smile and a wave they passed through the few remaining soldiers of the camp and the nurses from the camp hospital.

The column of soldiers was long. It wound along the road to the entrance of the camp where the dust began to lift from under heavy, hobnailed boots as the bitumen terminated. It wound past cars and people who had gathered on a corner to bid them farewell. It wound along a rough country road – a huge khaki serpent, its flashing head breathing a stirring march. The three long white strips on its back waved as seakits were shifted to different positions.

The road was dusty. The sun still blazed down. The serge uniform was hot. Perspiration streamed down faces, trickled off chins. Some cursed and swore freely as the perspiration found its way into eyes.

The bulky seakit was an awkward thing to carry. Tuck it under the arm - that’s alright for a while, then it starts to slip down. Bring it back up again – it rolls, then starts slipping again. Darn that rifle, wish it had a sling, could use two hands for the seakit then. Try it on your shoulder, soldier. That’s where you had it before! Makes your arm ache, does it? Now let’s see, carry the rifle in both hands in front of you, now rest the seakit on the rifle. Ah! That better? Tramp, tramp, tramp… Whew! It’s hot. Wish you could have a spell? You’re dying for a smoke? Just keep tramping soldier, there’s an end to every road.

More dust, more sweat, more curses. “Hey! Where’s that blasted station? We’ve passed one a mile back. Why couldn’t they have had that train there?” Tramp, tramp, tramp… A seakit bobbed as it was heaved from one shoulder to the other, something fell on the road. “Look out, Joe! Your seakits come adrift. Why in ‘ell did you have to carry it upside down?” “Aw! It’s only a cake, Joe. Leave it for the sparrers. They like it with a bit of dirt.” The sparrows never had a chance. Joe had retrieved it and it was back in his bag. A girl had given that cake to Joe the afternoon before. Joe liked the girl, the girl liked Joe.

On and on…. Hullo! What’s this? Cement road, the main highway, the township! Ah, the station can’t be far away now! Past some garages, men in greasy overalls stood to watch and wave. “Poor devils!” maybe were their thoughts. Past the shops. Rifles lifted in acknowledgement of the waves and cheers of the girls. A smile and a cheery answer to the more serious “Goodbyes” from the older folk. “Goodbye, mother,” “Goodbye, Dad.” “So long, girlie.” “Look! That girl in blue, she’s crying.” “Hey, girlie, lift that chin up. Come on, smile.” She looked up, handkerchief to her mouth and smiled, a very wan smile. She’s the girl that brought the cake to Joe yesterday. Joe’s very quiet.

On they go. There’s the station. Look at the mob there! The band’s playing, the crowd’s shouting, cheering, waving. Joe’s girl is keeping pace with him, smiling with him, but the tears still run down her cheeks. They march into the station. A hasty kiss before Joe passes through the gates and the girl in blue… she stands there … her eyes …. God, there were thousands like her that day.

Khaki figures halted by the train. Seakits thumped to the ground with sighs of relief. Packs heaved as they were moved to ease tired shoulders. Handkerchiefs wiped moist faces. Eyes searched the crowd for friends or relatives, brightened as they found them. Eyes searched the overhead bridge which had its full share of humans. Khaki hats came together, something was said, there was a wink. The word spread, and khaki hats tilted as more eyes searched the bridge. Arms waved. Some of the boys shouted “Whoopee!” others “Yippee!” Some just looked. There’s something so very fascinating about a girl’s slender leg, especially if she is blissfully unconscious of just how much leg she is showing. At that moment there were several pairs of full length, sheer silk, hosiery getting scrutinized and criticized by the boys below.

A whistle shrilled the air. Khaki figures stiffened. “Troops will embark in the following order …” The colonel again. The band kept playing. Orders were barked, the ranks broke and melted into the carriages. Windows slammed, heads bobbed out, arms waved. Another whistle, deeper, louder, then the train moved. Cheers drowned the band. “Goodbye! Goodbye! Goodbye!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Steaming towards the setting sun & the battlefields of North Africa

Today, as I sit writing this, the boat rolls very, very gently as she plows her way through the calm waters of the Indian Ocean, her bows towards the setting sun.

The boys, some stripped to the waist and barefoot, are strolling, sitting and lying on the decks. The tropical warmth has made the ship’s swimming pools popular, so has the tropical warmth increased the popularity of the wet canteen. In the lounge a Housey Housey man raises his voice above the chatter and laughter so that he can be heard by his players. The piano is just audible, tinkling a modern tune. With their backs to all this, there are some, leaning on the rails, watching the waves and following the flights of the flying fish as they skim above the waves.

Thoughts of that march and the farewell from Papakura are far distant, but always appearing in their minds are visions of familiar faces. Visions, some young, some old, some with silver streaks in their hair. Now and then a voice will be heard – “I wonder what they’ll be doing in good old

New Zealand

now?”

“I wonder?” Maybe that is just what a grey headed lady is saying at this very moment. “I wonder?” Just two words, but what memories they will bring to one’s mind…. There is one lady, there were tears in her eyes when she said “Goodbye.” I’d never seen tears in her eyes before.

Portrait of Pvte Westbrook in uniform before
departure overseas

I have read this clipping many times, a clipping from an English paper several months old. It is just a humble piece of prose by a woman author, but what a wealth of meaning it holds…

“Mothers know the meaning of the evil thing called War. They know what heartaches lie behind the tumult and the roar. If German mothers had been asked – before the blood was shed, “Poland or your son?” … Is there a doubt they would have said – “My Son”. For what do women care for hate, revenge and gain… The women who must give their men. The women who remain – beside the hearth to pray for those to whom they’ve given birth. What is it to them if their great Fuehrer own the earth?

“What is that to them if far away ‘neath Polish skies – the lad they love lies staring at the stars with sightless eyes? The boys may march to battle in a patriotic glow – But Mothers know the price of glory. Yes, the mothers know.”

J.E.J. Westbrook 2928