Coral Carrier

James Norman Hall Tells How War Came to an Atoll

FOR some time now, it has not been quite the right thing to state that war, take it as vou like, is a damned fool business anyway—even when that war is hitched, willy nilly, to some in offensive, and formerly forgotten, speck in the Pacific.

James Norman Hall (in his latest story “Lost Island,” published by Collins, for 8/6 Australian) does not say so in so many words, either. What happened to his island and its inhabitants is presented as being the result of the overwhelming pro cesses of total global war, and quite in evitable. But it is doubtful if anyone with one particle of affection for the Pacific, can read this simple story and then burst into loud patriotic song.

Quietly, and without fuss or feathers, Hall tells the story through George Dodd, an American officer of Engineers, who, at a moment’s notice, is whisked off into the Pacific with a blueprint in his pocket and instructions to convert a remote atoll into a coral landing platform for Ameri can bombers, and its lagoon into a sea plane base.

The final leg of Dodd’s journey is by schooner, where he meets Pappa Viggo, Danish Resident Agent of the atoll. Viggo is his host on the island, and it is through him that Dodd must get across to the Polynesian inhabitants the idea that their traditional home is needed for more im portant things than mere living. That it is, in fact, to be used to further the efforts of the United Nations at war.

Neither Viggo nor Dodd has much suc cess in this direction. The islanders had never seen a Jap, nor, until Dodd’s arrival, an American. Both Japan and the United States were beyond their orbit of under standing, and they were superbly disin terested in blueprints, bases or wars.

They welcomed Dodd as the Polynesians welcome all visitors, and in two weeks that elapsed before the arrival of the 10,000 ton transport ‘ carrying the bull dozers, mechanised equipment and the Seabees to do the job of destruction and construction, Dodd met Father Vincent, the old priest who had spent 25 years there building up a garden on barren coral; the Lehmanns, refugees from Hitler; and the islanders themselves. He learned ‘something of their lives, their happiness and their peace. And because

he was not all engineer, he came to loathe the job which he had come to do, and which he must begin as soon as the trans port arrived. rpHE transport was a matter of great A awe and wonder to the islanders.

They were disposed to make a picnic of the visit, to sing songs of welcome and present coconuts to the .visitors. But there was little time for such niceties of Polynesian custom. Within hours, a wharf had been built, and hundreds of bulldozers, trench diggers, stores and Sea bees decanted on to the main islet.

Then the Army and Navy really went to work. Barracks and stores were built; the coral heads in the lagoon were blasted out—and what fish were not killed de parted for the open sea; and, to allow for still greater activity, the islanders were to be immediately shifted to a smaller islet on the other side of the lagoon.

But there was slightly more difficulty in getting rid of the people than in rid ding the sea of coral outcrops, “Give them a little time,” pleaded Viggo.

“Time! We’ve got no time to spare,” replied the general. “It’s a damned shame having to root them out of their homes like this ... Listen Viggo, tell ’em it’s not our fault. Tell ’em they’ve got the little yellow devils of Tokio to blame for this. Tell ’em that Uncle Sam is going to make the so-called Rising Sun set so hard they’ll feel the tidal wave from the splash right out here.”

“I couldn’t explain that, general,” said Viggo, “They don’t even know who the Japs are.”

“What!” said the general, “’Ain’t you told ’em?”

“Yes,” said Viggo, “Father Vincent and I have both spoken about the Japs, but they don’t really understand.”

But, finally, they were induced to dis mantle their houses. Everything, includ ing the dismembered church of Father Vincent, was swiftly carried across the lagoon by barge and launch to the small islet barely large enough to accommodate the hundred-odd men, women and children. There they were supplied with Army rations, 'and left temporarily to their own devices. They made no attempt to re-erect their dwellings or the church.

They put up temporary lean-tos, and

wandered around aimlessly, their hearts still back on the larger island where generations of their forebears had been bom, had lived and had died; they were uncomprehending of this strange new force that had so suddenly cut across the only existence they knew.

Meantime, the bulldozers were in full blast. In ten days the base was finished: a coral platform, nicely rounded to pro vide -perfect drainage, devoid of vegeta tion, a row of prefabricated huts where the old village had been; stores, mess houses, workshops.

Viggo’s 20 ft. hill had been smoothed fill a hollow; Father Vincent’s garden, built of soil painstakingly brought by schooner, from distant volcanic islands, had gone towards the same noble cause.

In ten, swift, incredible days, Dodd’s work was done. He went on to another job; this time Alaska. But he could not forget the atoll or its people. A year later, he tells two old friends the story—the narrative of this book. “And what of Viggo and the islanders’ relationship with the soldiers?” they asked at the end.

“As Tve read Viggo’s letters, I’ve felt tnat difficult position become more acute,”

Dodd answers. “He had given me just enough anxious hints, so that I was able to draw my own conclusions. But in his latest letter, without anything to prepare me for it, he announced, quite simply, that all three of his daughters are in the family way, by American soldiers ...

The island he loved so much is overrun by strangers and the life of its people hopelessly disorganised; his turtle refuge is gone, his birds are gone, and now all three of his daughters—far gone in preg nancy.

“And no one really to blame, least of all the general. He did his best, but he must have known in his heart what would happen. There are now 370 men on the atoll, all of them young fellows, lonely, homesick, and, most of them, bored to death. Is it to be wondered that they should seek consolation?”

“T OST Island” is a slim little book; the ±j story can be read in a few hours.

But it puts into fine prose the feel ings of most Islands folk. It finds no happy ending for the troubles brought to the Pacific bv war; it suggests for them no bright and glorious future; it simply gives form and shape to the stark reality of what we all knew must be happening to these last outposts of peace and free dom. The march of our sacred Euro pean civilisation, like one of George Dodd’s bulldozers, is ruthless. It tears down and thinks to compensate by hand ing out free some mass-produced sub stitute.

And, like George Dodd, we can do nothing about it, except weep a tear in private.—JUDY TUDOR.

Twins (a son and daughter) were born to Mrs. Harold Cooper (wife of Harold Cooper, of the Fiji Information Office), in Suva, Fiji, on April 27.

The Rev. S. H. Dewdney, of the LMS, Orokolo, Papua, is at present doing depu tation work in Victoria.

Bishop Baddeley, of Melanesia, was in Suva from his diocese on a short visit to Fiji in May.

Corporal Charles Stoebner, of Noumea, is mentioned in a Brigade citation, for evacuating wounded under fire in France.

A member of the second Caledonian con tingent, he had previously served in Tunisia and Italy. He also fought in World War I.

Mr. A. Habeeb Sahu Khan, of Suva, Fiji, has passed his medical degrees suc cessfully at Dunedin University He is the sixth son of Mr. Sahu Khan, of Wai manu Road, Suva. He has three brothers in the Fiji Civil Service. * Warrant-Officer V, Newmann, formerly a member of the Lutheran Mission staff

on Rooke Island, off New Guinea, reports that damage to mission property by the Japanese has not been so expensive as at first feared.

Miss Bessie Holder, of the LMS, re cently spoke to the Melbourne LMS Fellowship of her experiences as a mis sionary in Samoa.