TALL TAILS OF THE SOUTH PACIFIC

I wonder if it was Polly” Harris our school geography teacher in England who first regaled us of far away places with strange sounding names, far away over the sea. Or maybe it was Bing Crosby who sang that haunting melody?

At the start of a new term, Polly Harris would encourage his students to draw a geographic motif of our choosing on the front of our geography exercise books. To those of us that lacked the necessary imagination for this task, Harris would suggest that we draw a picture of a compass rose and take it from there. My artistic attempt was gaudy, with olde English lettering for the cardinal points, and doodles of cherubs puffing the trade winds at full masted schooners. As I drew, I dreamed of one day visiting these places with strange sounding names.

As a child before the war I had lived with my parents in France, Italy, Malta and Sicily but except for Malta, I remembered little of these places. Stories of America, Europe or darkest Africa didn’t turn me on one bit. In fact all I recalled about Africa was reading about a chap called Stanley who met a bearded explorer deep in the African jungle, and said something about “Dr Livingstone, I presume?” Besides, the geography book said that there were big hairy spiders that lived in the jangle. So forget Africa.

During the war I had met gum-chewing American airmen who wore well cut uniforms. Their manners were impeccable, their accents fascinating, just like the actors in American films. But America didn’t interest me. And forget Europe, during those war torn days the place was full of goose stepping Nazi storm troopers. India had screaming natives who rioted and travelled on the top of trains. Definitely not for me. The geography book described a place called Australia that had good cricketers including Don Bradman, reputedly the best batsman in the world. Now I was getting warm.

Our English teacher, the motherly and much loved Miss Baker read us stories by Rudyard Kipling who described steam ships that sailed the oceans to Hamburg, Vancouver, and Melbourne. Scratch Hamburg — it still belonged to the Jerries. Vancouver was out as well - too dangerous crossing the Atlantic with German U- boats sinking ships. That left on the short list the port of Melbourne and watching Bradman play cricket. One morning Polly Harris drew a picture of a Solomon Island war canoe on the blackboard and asked us to copy it in our exercise book. I doodled and dreamed until Harris brought me back to earth with a question on the primary products of the South Pacific islands. “Copra”! shouted the class, as I mumbled about wood for war canoes. Harris forgave me, and let me dream of the South Seas. All this was in the 1940s, and overhead were the sounds of the Battle for Britain. Spitfires and Messerschmitts, Henkels and Hurricanes fought and died.

The BBC lauded the RAF fighter pilots, and denigrated the Germans who flew just as bravely. Flight Lieutenant Rockfist Rogan RAF was a hero in “Champion” comic. He was a Spitfire pilot who knocked down the Jerry pilots by the dozens, and was also the boxing champion of the RAF. Biggles and his mates were also favourites of mine, (and who can forget Battler Britton – tb) and I dreamt of flying Spits and travelling the South Seas in an outrigger canoe challenging cannibals to a scrap with boxing gloves.

After the war ended in 1945, my father left the Army and returned to journalism in London. Then, in 1947 my family migrated to Australia. In those years employment was plentiful, and my first job after school was with the Sydney Morning Herald Flying Services at Camden aerodrome near Sydney. There I worked as a general hand on war surplus DC3s and Lockheed Hudsons and took flying lessons on a Tiger Moth.

In 1950 the Korean war started, and the RAAF needed pilots so I joined up and became a Sergeant Pilot. After 18 years of RAAF flying and now with the rank of Squadron Leader, the spectre of desk jobs loomed, and the time had come to decide on a future of flying or pushing a pen. The decision was easy, and several years of flying with the Department of Civil Aviation was followed by the fulfilment of my dream of flying in the South Seas.

Air Nauru were expanding, and Captain Maurie Baston AFC an ex RAAF colleague, invited me to join the company. Thus began the best years of my career as I flew into the islands that I had read about at school thirty years earlier. The routes of this small airline lay high above the Pacific from Honolulu via all stops to Hong Kong. From Auckland to Port Vile and across the Coral Sea to Guadalcanal. From Manila to Nauru via Palau, Guam, Truk and Pohnpei.

This book is a record of those adventures of a lifetime.

John Laming

Melbourne Australia

April  2008