A man's country?: the image of the Pakeha male : a history 9780140256581

Table of contents :
Frontmatter
Preface (page vii)
1. The pioneer man—from experience to legend (page 1)
2. The boozer and the decent bloke—the New Zealand quest for respectability (page 43)
3. The hard man—rugby and the formation of character (page 81)
4. The man's man—the Kiwi at war (page 131)
5. The family man, 1920-50 (page 217)
6. The bloke under siege, 1950-95 (page 261)
Bibliographic essay (page 290)
References (page 294)
Index (page 315)

Citation preview

Penguin Books A MAN’S COUNTRY? Jock Phillips is the Chief Historian of the Historical Branch, Department of Internal Affairs. Born in Christchurch in 1947, Jock Phillips was

educated at Victoria University of Wellington and Harvard , University in USA. For 16 years he taught American and New Zealand History at Victoria University, where he was promoted to Reader in History before becoming the nation’s Chief Historian in 1989. While at Victoria University he also founded and was the first Director of the Stout Research Centre for the Study of New Zealand History, Society and Culture. A keen photographer, he has co-authored two illustrated books, one on domestic stained glass and one on war memorials. His other publications include a collection of diaries and letters by World War I New Zealand soldiers, a study of the ‘American invasion’ during World War II, and, most recently, Royal Summer: The Visit of Queen Ehzabeth II and Prince Philip to New Zealand 1953-4.

He 1s at present leading the conceptual team for the history exhibitions in the new Museum of New Zealand/ ‘Te Papa longarewa.

JOCK PHILLIPS

A Man’s Country? The Image of the Pakeha Male — A History Revised Edition

Penguin Books

PENGUIN BOOKS Penguin Books (NZ) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New Zealand Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane, London W8 5TZ, England Penguin USA, 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, United States Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 487 Maroondah Highway, Ringwood, Australia 3134 Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2 Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

First published by Penguin Books (NZ) Ltd in 1987 This revised edition published in 1996 Copyright © Jock Phillips, 1987, 1996

10 9 8 765 4 3 2 #1 .

The right of Jock Phillips to be identified as the author of this work in terms of clause 96 of the Copyright Act 1994 is hereby asserted. All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Printed in China

Contents

Preface Vil

1. The pioneer man—from experience to legend l 2. The boozer and the decent bloke—the New Zealand

quest for respectability 43

3. The hard man—rugby and the formation of character 81

4. The man’s man—the Kiwi at war 131 1. Sons of the Empire: 1840-1914 — 2. Flower of the world’s manhood: 1914-19 — 3. Dinkum Kiwts: 1920-45

5. ‘The family man, 1920-50 217 6. The bloke under siege, 1950-95 261

Bibliographic essay 290

References 294 Index 315

Acknowledgements

This book would never have appeared at all without the support and assistance of many people. The idea for a book on the New Zealand male stereotype was suggested initially by Phoebe Meikle, and then revived by Geoff Walker who has been gently but insistently encouraging all the way through. The argument was first presented in Continuing Education courses atVictoria University. The men and women who attended those courses were full of stimu-

lating suggestions and constantly forced me in new directions.

The manuscript received the searching criticism of Chris | Maclean, Peter McPhee and Nick Boyack, and Alison Gray commented on the earlier chapters. My colleagues at Victoria Univer-

sity — especially David Mackay, David Hamer, Malcolm McKinnon, Mary Boyd, Anna Gibbons and Tim Beaglehole — have been consistently encouraging, and Miles Fairburn’s ideas expressed forcibly in both conversation and writing have been a perpetual stimulus. Charles Crothers, Erik Olssen, Peter Lineham, Wayne Stagg and Paul Baker provided assistance on particular points. Robert Eaddy of the Defence Department compiled information about First World War enlistments. Katherine Coleridge in the Beaglehole Room ofVictoria University Library, the librarians at the General Assembly and Alexander Turnbull Libraries, and

the archivists at National Archives were always attentive to my requests. Gloria Biggs and Gwen Wright typed the work with speed and care. My parents, Pauline and Neville Phillips, have been sup-

portive and interested. In the preparation of the illustrations I owe special debts to Ismelda Anderson, John Casey, Joan McCracken and Antony

Murray-Oliver, and I received financial assistance from the Internal Research Committee at Victoria University. Phillip Ridge was a scrupulous editor who has done much to improve the text.

In revising the work, I am indebted to the advice and support of Kim Walker.

V1

Preface to the Revised Edition

The reissue of a book after almost a decade is bound to provoke two contrasting questions: what is the source of its continuing appeal, and how different does it look today? The continued appeal of A Man’s Country? may seem rather surprising given the tone of its initial public reception. There was a good deal of interest in the New Zealand media but some of the reviews were highly critical, even sarcastic and abusive. This was particularly the case among male reviewers, who felt that I was a traitor to the cause, a man who had welched on his mates. Other ‘real blokes’ scoffed at the book as ‘all old hat’ — which it was, of course, because the book was by inten-

tion a work of history. But the strident tone of such reviews suggested that the book’s content was perhaps more pertinent than the reviewers cared to admit; and this was confirmed for me by the many personal letters which flowed in. A major reason for a reprinting remains the painful legacy of miscommunication between men and women in this country.

Although addressed to a broad audience, A Man’s Country? was intended to have an effect on intellectual discourse. Here, too, the reception was not entirely positive. Some New Zealand historians found it too imprecise and sweeping; others did not like the predominance given to gender as an analytical category. Yet, again, even the sternest critics felt

a need to engage with the argument. Some took it further. There have been a half-dozen excellent theses which have extended the perspectives contained in this book, applying them to local community studies, to the gold-fields, to the study of war, to public debate since 1945. Yet many of the implications of A Man’s Country? remain to be explored in greater

depth. The serious study of rugby is still barely touched; and there needs to be a closer look at male sub-cultures and at the interactions of husbands and wives. The book was intended to be speculative, so it is hoped a reissue may encourage further investigation. Interestingly the impact of the book has perhaps been greater outside

the narrow discipline of New Zealand history. In universities it has been | most frequently prescribed in sociology and, to a lesser extent, literature courses. New Zealand social scientists quickly recognised the book’s use Vil

| Vill A MAN’S COUNTRY ? in foregrounding gender relations as a category for understanding New Zealand society. Students of New Zealand literature began to turn their focus upon popular culture and, under the influence of post-structuralism,

found much here that was useful. The book deals extensively with structures of discourse, for it was within such structures that masculinity came to be understood in New Zealand. The book thus offered material

that was amenable to a post-structuralist reading. In a wider sense the interest of literary critics and sociologists pointed to the book’s location as a text in the field of cultural studies. It is perhaps here, rather than in the field of New Zealand history, that it has its continuing life. Even within the field of history, reviewers outside New Zealand, and especially in Australia, were more enthusiastic than those at home. This was partly because the history of masculinity was already a more accepted

field of writing and debate across the Tasman; and partly because the Australians found the analysis closely fitted their own society. Students of masculinity generally welcomed the book. Two recent developments within the field overseas have aided its continued warm reception. One was an emphasis upon the links between male images and male power. A Man’s Country? was careful to make such links for it located changes in the stereotype within social and economic contexts. Second, recent studies in masculinity emphasise the need to look at the whole history of gender relations and argue that neither women’s history nor men’s history can be studied apart from their relational interactions. Again, this

book always attempts to correlate the history of men with changes in female experience.

In such ways A Man’s Country? has kept pace with intellectual changes and has made the book more, not less, relevant today than it was at first publication. Less gratifying are the ways in which it has been left behind as time has passed. As already noted, the last decade has seen a strengthening of theoretical perspectives in social science and it would

be difficult today to write a history of male stereotypes without being rather more explicit about a theoretical position. The response by international scholars also suggests that A Man’s Country? has more cosmopolitan meanings than I had initially perceived. The book was presented in 1987 as the history of masculinity in one particular society. As research has progressed overseas, it has become more obvious how

much New Zealand shared its definitions of masculinity with other western societies (especially new world communities). A book written today would perhaps be less concerned with nationality. Yet paradoxically

a book written with these theoretical and international emphases might be less successful in the public arena, for it was partly the accessibility

PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION 1X of its language and partly the explicit claims about New Zealand’s distinctiveness which accounted for the popular interest in the book. A Man’s

Country? set out to bridge the worlds of academia and public debate. Today the gap between them is wider — and perhaps unbridgeable. From the public arena have come two other perspectives which would make a different book if it were written today. The emergence of an open gay culture has made more problematic than was apparent to me in the mid-1980s the whole question of when, and why, the New Zealand male stereotype became so strongly heterosexual. The book did treat the effect of that heterosexuality on gay men, but it did not explore in great depth how that definition was established 1n the first place. There is some evidence from Britain that it was not until the last quarter of the

nineteenth century that gay men were typecast in terms which were deviant and unmanly. The second perspective is the heightened awareness of domestic violence perpetrated by New Zealand men. This issue too was mentioned in the first edition of this book, but it was not explored in the way that it might be today. Again, overseas research suggests that the last part of the nineteenth century was when ‘wife-beating’ became unacceptable as a characteristic of the true ‘man’. On both these matters extensive work is needed in New Zealand. It would have required a completely new book to answer all the questions which flow from them. What has been attempted in this new edition is an extension of the story through to 1995. In the last decade this society has undergone a series of major revolutions — our government and economy have been

restructured, in international circles we have taken on a role as antinuclear crusaders, and at home our sports have become big business. Such changes could not leave the image of the Kiwi male untouched, and the last chapter evaluates the extent of those changes. It concludes that for all the commercial brightness of our new world, the burden of history is not easily thrown off. We still cannot understand who we are as New

Zealand men unless we understand where we came from — and that remains the major message of, and justification for, this book.

7

THE PIONEER MAN — FROM EXPERIENCE TO LEGEND

| 9 A MAN’S COUNTRY?

Let me introduce Selby Miles Palmer — in his early seventies when I first remember him, hair thinning on top, his hearing so poor that every conversation was punctuated with the familar bark, ‘What say?’ He was not a tall man, solid rather, with immensely strong forearms.

His eyes were blue and his face hung in a serious and determined way, his mouth turned down at the corners protecting considerable reserve. He was a gentleman by birth and breeding. The thirteenth child of a leading Christchurch banker, he was educated at private schools. Later, he would treasure his membership in the Hawke’s Bay Club, and always travelled first class on his regular trips ‘Home’. Yet he never felt entirely comfortable in ‘society’. He was too lacking in social assurance to move easily among the gentry. He

_ was also a fine sportsman, and his greatest regret in life was his failure to fight in war. He owned and farmed 2,000 acres of land in Hawke’s Bay. Selby Palmer was my grandfather. He was one of my earliest models, and he came to represent for me one image of the pioneer male. Strictly speaking, Selby Palmer was not a pioneer. He had not been born until 1880 and had lived his childhood 1n the very proper and civilised society

of Christchurch, little more than 100 yards from Christchurch Cathedral. Yet like many colonial men he had left the town for the frontier. In the years

before the First World War, he had travelled over mud-tracks with his packhorses into the wild backblocks of Gisborne, and had there set about turning bush into grassland. Later, when he moved to sem1-arable land in Hawke’s Bay, there had still been much burning and scrub-cutting before a decent farm

emerged. Selby Palmer had experienced life in the raw. Early in life I realised that my grandfather was not wholly typical of the other males around that district of Hawke’s Bay, men who gave me other images of the pioneer. My grandfather, I came to see, was a wealthy property owner. He lived in a large house with a lady-like wife who had borne him four children. The other men were rather different. The shepherds earned a wage, and lived together in no great comfort down at the men’s quarters. I remember one in particular, an older man, always in a black singlet, tattoos

THE PIONEER MAN 3 down the length of his arm, his teeth dark with nicotine. There was a rabbiter, who earned money where and when he could and who lived alone in a bush hut. There were two mates who came to do the fencing and moved on. In the summer a gang of shearers arrived who worked at an astonishing pace in the heat and notse of the shed. I would watch them for hours. Though many of these workers were unmarried, there was also a married couple, the woman cooked for the ‘hands’ and the man looked after the cows and the garden, although hts real passion was betting on the horses. All of these men, including my grandfather, drank alcohol. But my grandfather preferred to drink whisky in the homestead after dressing for dinner or on his visits to the ‘club’. The shepherds, by contrast, had a beer together every night and visited the pub at the weekend. Others would disappear on sprees for days at a time. My grandfather was blunt and direct, yet his strongest oath was ‘Goddamut’. In the men’s quarters, or in the whare where the shearers stayed, I discovered a richer symphony of language. These differences seemed important and vaguely disturbing to me, and I preferred to think about the attributes which Selby Palmer shared with the males around him. They were all physically strong with that gentle economy of movement of men who know and trust their own bodies. They could each whistle through their teeth. All of them had an immense knowledge of practical objects and an impressive range of skills. They were full of gentle hints

on fixing a tractor, strengthening a fence, growing caultflowers, shooting rabbits. They were quick to notice sick or lame animals. At first hearing, neither my grandfather nor the men about him were very coherent — quiet and low-keyed. But when ‘smoko’ came along then they would relax. The stories and laughter would flow. And when the men all stood up again 1n their grubby shirts, greasy trousers and cracking boots, and got back to work crutching or shearing, then it was hard to distinguish one from the other. In later years other images of pioneers forced themselves upon my young consciousness. Travel to the high country of the South Island awoke imaginings of the explorers who had first survived the isolation and the cold, and who had given their names to the peaks around. In primary school I recall flickering films of another pioneer experience: the bush-dweller with his sleeves rolled

up hacking at mighty trees with an axe while his bonny wife protected the kids at the log hut in the background. Some years later there was a school social studies project on gold, and images of hard-hving men braving the fierce

cold of the Dunstan remained with me. By the time I entered adolescence a powerful legend of pioneering manhood had become established in my mind. Here was a model of courage and physical toughness; here was a standard against which I and my friends might be judged.

In many respects the legend that I learned from school and books and wisits

4 A MAN’S COUNTRY? to the museum, from the established literate culture, evoked an image rather

like the fondest memories of my grandfather. But there always remained certain doubts: was the boozing and the crude language, the footloose style and the contempt for women, which I had encountered among the shearers and rabbiters, also true of our heroic pioneers? Questions remained.

Truth by numbers Beginnings are always shrouded in mystery and our sources will never adequately reveal to us the attitudes and self-images of white men at their moment of arrival in nineteenth-century New Zealand. Victorian Britain, like all Western societies, sustained a belief in the subordination of women

to men, and much of the male stereotype in New Zealand was clearly an amplification of the ‘Home’ experience. But what was amplified and what was discarded depended very much on the particular conditions here so that a distinctive male stereotype, a regional variant of Victorian British attitudes, emerged in the colony. There is evidence that even before arriving here, migrants thought of New Zealand as distinctively a “man’s country’. In 1857 Charles Hursthouse published a two-volume guide for emigrants to New Zealand. Hursthouse was enthusiastic about the value of New Zealand as an emigration field and in his final peroration he addressed young men of the lower middle class: , Tastes differ, and it is well they do. But rather than be thus appraised, rather than grow up here wanderer of the earth with no better chance than

that of finding myself some day behind the counter with a bonnet on, measuring tape and bobbin to morning misses, or becoming the snubbed clerk with the pale wife and the seedy children, nailed to the dingy desk for life for £60 a year, I would turn and breast the current; pull off my coat, take six months at some manly handicraft, and then, spite the dark warnings of Aunt Tabitha, spite the twaddle of my male friends in petticoats, I would secure cheap passage to Australia or New Zealand and taking

ten pounds and my trade, common sense, common energy, common industry for my arms, would trust to God and myself to achieve a happy escape and a good deliverance from that grinding, social serfdom, those effeminate chains, my born and certain lot in England.

For Hursthouse to emigrate to New Zealand was to throw off effeminate chains and become a man. Hursthouse himself was not a typical

migrant. He was a gentleman of ‘a decaying family’, who had lived in New Zealand for five years in the 1840s before returning home. However, his views were not without influence. In the 1850s he lectured pro-

THE PIONEER MAN ) lifically on migration to New Zealand and his book was widely used and

extensively excerpted in a very popular handbook produced by one emigration agent.’ Hursthouse had recognised an important anxiety about sex roles in Victorian Britain. In village society before the advent of market specialisation both sexes were constantly involved in productive work and there was considerable partnership and co-operation between husband and wife.

Yet two marks of distinction, rarely made explicit and never absolute, underlay the sexual division of labour. While the men walked out to toil in the fields, the women, perhaps because of their child-rearing function, were more likely to be found around the home, spinning and weaving

or busy with the crucial task of preserving and processing food. Men also tended to carry out those jobs demanding great physical strength. Of course, much female work was arduous and back-breaking, and women

were to be seen in the fields especially at harvest time until the beginning of the twentieth century. However, few women were ever to be found wielding a scythe or ploughing behind a team of horses. In such muscular

jobs in the fields male pride and identity were affirmed. The rise of urban and sedentary occupations threatened such distinctions. Though heavy factory work may have reinforced an identification of masculinity and physical strength, the same was not true of the work of clerks or shop assistants. Women no less than men could push pens. The domestic setting of much urban work and life took men away from their traditional conflict with nature. Were men becoming soft? Was urban life necessarily effeminate, sapping men of vigour and strength? Such doubts became more widespread as Victorian Britain became more urbanised. Hursthouse offered a solution. Emigration provided a new confrontation with nature, a chance to face life in the raw, to show courage and physical strength. In the colonies a man could feel a man once more. ‘Emigration,’ Hursthouse wrote earlier in his book,

‘is a.career which calls up pluck, bottom, energy, enterprise, all the masculine virtues. The feeble-minded, the emasculate, the fastidious, the timid, do not emigrate; they bow their necks to the yoke, ply the distaff, and spin wealth for the great at home. It is the strong and the bold who

go forth to subdue the wilderness and conquer new lands.’ How many other men shared such views and came to New Zealand to reaffirm their masculinity we can never know. It seems likely that most came simply to better themselves and brought with them images of sexual identity inherited from a rural past. Yet at least for a few of lower middle-

class origin, such thoughts may have entered. In William Langton’s autobiographical novel, Mark Anderson, Mark, a copy clerk in Edinburgh,

6 A MAN’S COUNTRY? decides to move to New Zealand because copying ‘is the work.of a machine, and henceforth I mean to do something worthy of a man.”” Some men already possessed a vague image of the colonial male when

they stepped foot on the boat in Britain. Others began to fashion such an image only after they arrived. Myths and stereotypes of Pakeha manhood grew out of men’s experience here, and colonial conditions made

that experience quite different. The most important difference for our purposes was that more European men than women were attracted to the colony in the nineteenth century. It is this fact, the unusual social condition of a large surplus of men to women in the white population,

which turned Pakeha New Zealand into a man’s country, irrespective | of initial expectations.

At the first colony-wide census in 1851 New Zealand contained a : small number of Europeans — a mere 26,707. But already there was a considerable surplus of men to women: 15,035 males and only 11,672 _ European females, or in other terms there were only 776 Pakeha women for every 1,000 Pakeha men in the colony. This was to be expected in a frontier society. In earlier days no doubt the imbalance must have been even greater. Before annexation the groups of Europeans who stopped in New Zealand — first explorers, then traders, whalers and sealers — were overwhelmingly male communities. Only the missionaries were expected to bring their wives. The New Zealand Company had hoped

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‘PT RIFICA TION?

54 A MAN’S COUNTRY? : parliamentary debates does not reveal any great concern for natural rights

or the equality of the sexes. Rather, female suffrage was passed in the hope that it would ‘purify and improve the tone of our politics’. As in those other frontier regions which gave women the vote early — Wyoming, Colorado, Australia — the focus was on controlling men rather than giving

freedom to women. The female vote would add a moral influence to poli- , tics. As W. Montgomery explained in the Legislative Chamber: only men

‘with good character’ would henceforth be elected; they would be restrained ‘from immoderate language’ and ‘the moral tone’ of speeches would be elevated. Montgomery also touched on a theme that went to the heart of the matter. Female suffrage would in effect give married men two votes and so ‘counteract the influence of those men who have no abiding place in the colony’. We are back with the central distinction between the respectable married settler and the unmarried drifter. Time and time again in the discussion over female suffrage, this concern reveals

itself. H. S. Fish admitted, ‘I am perfectly certain a large number of honourable gentlemen have voted for this measure in the belief that something was necessary to check the votes of the numerous class of rouseabouts scattered throughout the country.’ Sir John Hall, the leading male proponent of the measure, argued that female suffrage ‘will increase the influence of the settler and family man, as against the loafing single

man’. And a correspondent wrote to him in support, ‘I hope you will stick to the female franchise for it seems the only possible set-off against the pot-house larrikin element.’ Even Kate Sheppard, the leading female

activist behind the bill, was prepared to argue that the measure would serve to reform men as well as giving rights to women. The Act, she said, would strengthen ‘the “‘Home-vote’’ — that is the vote of the more

settled and earnest minded part of the community’.? Although the proponents of female suffrage must have hoped that the public influence of women and the steadily increasing proportion of married men would gradually improve men’s moral standing, they realised that this would be a slow process. Anyway, the average age for marriage of men was about 30 in the 1890s, so almost all males had at least 10 years of unattached bachelorhood. In those years there was always

the danger that young men would fall into bad habits, becoming ‘rouseabouts’ in the country or ‘larrikins’ in the city. Society had to try and reform their behaviour in a more direct and compulsory way. The chief measure in this campaign was the attempted prohibition of alcoholic drink and it was partly the expectation that women’s suffrage would strengthen the dry vote which accounted for the early success

THE BOOZER & THE DECENT BLOKE 55 of suffrage. The fight against drink represented an attack on male dissipation that made earlier efforts seem weak and ineffective.

The evils of drink For 50 years from the first establishment of temperance societies in the 1870s, the campaign against alcoholic drink represented the most powerful and sustained public movement that has ever occurred in New Zealand. The drink question came to dominate politics from the 1890s. In Dunedin in 1908 firehoses had to be used to keep 1,000 people from forcing entry into a crowded hall where a debate between a wowser and a drinker was being held. The debate itself was abandoned because no one could be heard. In 1918 Massey, hoping to put a stop to the ‘unceasing unrest’ associated with liquor politics, commented, ‘Strange as it may seem, I believe it to be a fact that there is no subject in which members of Parlia-

ment take more interest, and no subject about which so much feeling is shown as is the case in anything connected with the licensing laws of the country.’*® The movement against drink extended far beyond the parliamentary

arena. Through books and pamphlets, songs and processions, lectures, the signing of pledges and the wearing of blue ribbons, prohibitionists attempted to communicate directly to people. Recently, Stevan EldredGrigg has questioned the scale and impact of this movement. He argues that the ardent prohibitionists were a small minority of Pakeha New Zealanders, a group of non-conformists largely lower middle class in background and heavily influenced by American revivalism. They were not members of the ruling elite and their influence upon the behaviour

of most Pakehas was decidedly limited. One cannot deny that the dedicated social puritans were a relatively small group but this is true of any reforming movement. Most people are not activists. Yet this does not explain why they provoked such widespread debate and why for about

, 30 years after 1900 some 50 per cent of the electorate voted steadily for national prohibition. The fact that the campaign did not entirely reform the behaviour of all New Zealand men should not obscure the fact that the prohibition movement had a major impact upon moral codes and ideals. Although prohibition did not triumph in law, the language and terms of the anti-drink campaign came to be widely accepted. In particular, the movement established a new model of manhood, and sent underground the culture and values of the frontier male community." Drinking had always been a central ritual, with the pub the main

56 A MAN’S COUNTRY? institution of colonial male culture. Drinking defined the bounds of the male community and facilitated contacts within that community. George Chamier tells us:

For in those early days of universal boom companionship and unsophisticated manners, all good men and true drank together. It was considered a mean thing to drink alone; it was considered meaner still not to drink at all. To drink was the common lot of all; it was also the common bond, the great leveller. .. . Every bargain had to be sealed with a ‘nobbler’.

A travelling Scotsman, David Kennedy, backed up Chamier’s claims and

revealed that this was as true of city-dwellers as of frontier men: Colonial Bill, when he beckons his chum Tom to have a ‘nobbler’ over the way, is only increasing his long-established fame for good fellowship. ... No company of average men assembles, but some one ‘shouts’ or ‘stands’ drinks all round. Mr Black meets Mr White, whom he has not seen for

a whole week and the consequence is a couple of ‘drinks’. Jones has something particular to say to Robinson about the weather — they step ‘across the road’. Smith settles an account with Brown and two ‘nips of brandy’ are immediately called for. ‘Nobblers’ act in many cases as the receipt stamps of business.’”

If drink was the common currency of the male community then the temperance crusade involved a direct attack upon that community and its values. Drinking was the most visible expression of all that some New Zealanders found objectionable in the male culture. Drinking seemed responsible for the most anarchic and disorderly aspects of that culture. Violence and noisy buffoonery appeared the inevitable accompaniment of drinking and offended the middle class. If they wanted a civilised

ordered environment, streets safe for their wives and children, then something had to be done to control drinking. ‘There can be no doubt that there was a lot of drunkenness in nineteenth-century New Zealand. The attractions of the pub were strong where so many men were unmarried and far from friends or relatives. Men came to the pub for company — this was as true of lodgers paying rent for a room in town, as it was of stock-drivers or shepherds enduring lives of extreme solitude. Research tells us that morbid drunkenness is common in those societies where men are expected to be self-reliant. When men here wanted a psychological prop or an antidote to oppressive loneliness, they turned to the bottle. In addition, in a world where organised amusements were few, books expensive, and men thirsty for news, the pub provided a focus for enter-

THE BOOZER & THE DECENT BLOKE 57 tainment and information. This again was as true for the town dweller as for the frontier man. P. W. Barlow described Auckland in 1883: Of places of public amusement, with the exception of a dingy little theatre very seldom used, and a so-called opera house where occasional performances take place, it has virtually none and to this fact is undoubtedly to be ascribed the large amount of drunkenness that exists. .. . Gumdiggers, farmers, bushmen, fishermen, and all sorts of conditions of men frequent Auckland town when flush of money and they wz// have some amusement! There are no music halls, concert-rooms or other places where they can go and smoke their pipes and enjoy themselves, therefore they fall back on the hotels.**

For some men, living in tents or backblock huts, the pub was a place of warmth; for others lodging in cramped quarters, it may have been a place of relative comfort. Houses then were small and families large — in 1891 53 per cent of dwellings had four rooms or less. Dietary needs may also explain the attraction of alcohol. In any settlement of reasonable size, the water was not likely to be especially clean because drainage and sewerage systems were still primitive. Milk was a known carrier of disease and was relatively expensive. Alcohol was a cheap clean drink that provided a concentrated source of energy and vitamins for men involved in physical work. Whisky was an excellent astringent for endless meals of fatty mutton. There were many reasons why colonial men drank, but

drink they did, and to excess. From the beginning legal restrictions on liquor outlets were few and pubs spread fast. By 1879 there was one pub for every 287 people. Christchurch in 1870 had 44 pubs for a population of 12,500. Twenty years later Westland’s six main towns still had 134 hotels for 14,000 people. ‘Hotels’ is a misnomer since most of these were not, as one observer noted, ‘first-class family hotels’. They were drinking houses, little more than shacks, and in addition there was a considerable number of beer shops. The consumption of alcohol was high. Exact figures are impossible to

obtain because there was always much smuggling and some homebrewing. Eldred-Grigg claims that during the 1840s the average Pakeha male drank about 45 litres of commercial spirits a year and 14 litres of beer. By the 1860s the spirit consumption had fallen to 24 litres a year and by the 1870s an average of 167 litres of beer were being drunk by each Pakeha man each year. On a per capita basis the beer consumption was under half that of Britain and significantly less than that consumed

today. But that is only part of the story. Until the 1880s considerably more spirits and wine were drunk here than in Britain. This followed

58 A MAN’S COUNTRY? from the difficulty of transporting such a bulky cargo as beer across the sea and inland to the frontier. It was cheaper to transport more potent liquors. When colonial men drank, they were more likely to consume rum or brandy and increasingly whisky or gin, rather than beer, so that consumption in terms of pure alcohol was exceedingly high. The results

were often devastating. On vile liquor men’s behaviour quickly deteriorated. Even the beer was stronger than the lighter Germanic ales which became popular later.'* New Zealand colonials were also distinguished from their British counterparts by their drinking habits. On the frontier men would work hard for long periods of sobriety, and then come into town for a spree. When they drank they drank to excess — a complete ‘blow out’ — and the effects were, therefore, far more socially disruptive than the per capita consumption might suggest. Drinking conditions in colonial New Zealand were often genuinely disgusting — men staggering or even collapsed, others swearing or violent. Such a ‘repellent and disgusting sight’ was met by Richard Raleigh when he arrived at a roadside pub in Philosopher

Dick: Before the front-door a fight was going on between two half-naked and infuriated ruffians, surrounded by a gesticulating and yelling crowd of onlookers. A few steps off a man was lying dead-drunk across the road, with his head bare and half-buried in the mud. Close by two fuddled sots, with faces flushed crimson and besmeared with blood, were effecting a reconciliation after a tussle, as they hugged and beslobbered one another with tipsy effusion. Others, lying about the place in various stages of intoxication, greeted the new arrivals with a stare of brutal indifference, or else howled forth discordant yells of welcome. From inside came forth a deafening clamour, in which snatches of song,

shrieked forth with stentorian vigour and frequent outbursts of horrible blasphemy, predominated. A stench of stale beer and other foul odours emanated from the bar premises, dust and dirt covered all, while swarms of flies filled the air and blackened the ceilings.

The effects of drink were also nearly always publicly visible in New

Zealand. Men tended not to drink at home but in the pub and when their revels were over they had to stagger back along the street, or ride in a streetcar, or be carried home in a dray. The violence and dissolute behaviour that went with drink was never hidden from the sight of the

respectable and temperate. The effects of alcohol do not seem to be universal in all cultures, but in the West the effect of alcohol has

THE BOOZER & THE DECENT BLOKE 99 characteristically been to release inhibitions and give free reign to violent and aggressive impulses. This certainly appears to have been the pattern

in colonial New Zealand.*° |

There can be no question, then, that drunkenness was a serious social

problem in nineteenth-century New Zealand, and convictions for drunkenness were high. Until the 1890s convictions per head were considerably greater than in Britain — over five times greater in 1858. At times and in certain places the level of convictions for drunkenness was extraordinarily high — 111 per 1,000 people in Auckland in 1847, 87 per 1,000 people in Greymouth and Hokitika in 1867. These figures were

exceptional but between 1870 and 1920 crimes associated with drunkenness bulk very large indeed in the national crime statistics. In 1870 there were 12,104 total convictions in the magistrates’ courts; 4,660 were for drunkenness. In 1910 arrests had risen to 23,949, but still 11,718 (just under 50 per cent) were for drunkenness. Nor does this tell the whole

story for there were other offences which may well have arisen from drinking. In 1910, for example, there were 982 arrests for obscene language, 203 for abusive language, 745 for vagrancy, 579 for breaches of the peace, 200 for sly-grog selling, 157 for refusing to quit licensed premises, and 278 for disorderly conduct. By comparison there was a total of 461 people arrested for burglary, 2,191 for theft and only six for murder and seven for rape. Although these figures represented police actions as opposed to public behaviour (especially important with rape), New Zealanders were justified in seeing alcohol as a major contributor to crime and social disorder. The abolition of alcohol would bring new standards of public propriety. Civilised society would be preserved from the dissolute life and anarchy of the frontier and from the moral corruptions of European urban decadence. The temperance campaign implicitly carried high expectations about the male’s public behaviour.*® In addition, temperance agitation served to reinforce the image of the family man. Wowsers recognised that the male camaraderie of the pub was indeed a source of emotional support and friendship that worked as an alternative to the family. Drinking habits dissuaded men from marriage and took them away from their family once they were married. The images of the bar circle and the family circle, the public house and the private home, were played off against one another. The brightly lit pub was contrasted with the cold cramped hovel, the affluent publican with the long-suffering dependants. Women and children were seen as the ultimate victims of a man’s drinking habits. They suffered from physical abuse when the husband or father returned drunk; they had to endure

60 A MAN’S COUNTRY? starvation and penury when his earnings went on liquor. Temperance advocates repeatedly drew on sentimental images of the family in their attack on drink: Rescue the drunkards’ wives, so broken-hearted; Hark to their children, how loudly they call; Into their wretched homes bring back the sunshine; God’s their father dear, Christ loves them ail.

This is the chief message of the temperance novels. The same image recurs

in G. M. Reed’s 1896 novel The Angel Isafrel: The three little children were crying with hunger. One of them was in her arms, sick. She had hardly clothing enough for decency and she had not tasted food

that day. The husband was out drunk... when he was sick and off the drink, the old kindness returned . . . when he got well he was drunk again and he nearly killed her.

Some temperance advocates believed that the effects of a drinking father upon the family were even more permanent and devastating. His sins would be visited upon his innocent children through the inheritance of alcoholic poisoning. Others pointed out that the close association of alcohol and prostitution was a threat to sound family life. By the end of the prohibitionist campaign the division of spheres between pub and home had been accepted even by those hostile to the campaign itself. In the debate in 1917 on early closing, several opponents of the measure warned about the ‘degrading’ prospect of drink being brought into the sacred circle of the home and being consumed before women and children.

Critics of the measure also argued that the one person who should not be advantaged by early closing was the unattached drifter, ‘the loafer, who does nothing but stroll about from bar to bar’. In other words,

although they might differ on particular measures, nearly all New Zealanders in positions of authority came to accept the wowser’s moral framework.’’ The prohibition campaign, then, was a central element in the late nineteenth-century attempt to civilise the Pakeha male and to give him a respectable model of behaviour. The campaign renounced firmly the violence and the disorder associated with the frontier male community and established the claims of the sound responsible family man. There was a third important ingredient in the campaign. Implicit in the rhetoric of the prohibitionists was a rejection of the spendthrift habits of frontier male culture and the projection of a rather different male — the careful

THE BOOZER & THE DECENT BLOKE 61 hard-working capitalist who has learnt to save and to delay his gratifications. It will be recalled that an important pattern of behaviour on the col-

onial frontier was the drinking spree. Shepherds or labourers, having earned a nice sum of money, would come to town for recreation. This would traditionally consist of ‘melting’ the cheque at the nearest pub. L. J. Kennaway described one bullock-driver: Once or twice a year, he went the through journey to Christchurch — or to town, as it was more emphatically called, — and, like hundreds of his class, he went down with the set resolution ‘to have a burst’. This process he commenced by hiring at the first up-country way-side inn, a day or two from town, a man to drive his dray for the rest of the route; and then got altogether intoxicated, and was taken down to town on the top of the wool-bale on his dray. While there he would spend every farthing of his year’s wages and meet us to take the dray up-country again, as poor as he was ten years before.

A female observer, ‘Hopeful’, shared the view that such was the inevitable result of this pattern. Up-country men would come to town and give the landlord their cheque for fear of being robbed by pub loafers. But ‘all too soon they are informed the cheque is out, and then they are left pretty destitute’. Given such habits, it was natural that many Pakeha New Zealanders blamed drink above all things for turning decent wage-

earners into paupers. This was seen to be even more true in the city. Not surprisingly, the view that drinking caused poverty became the most common refrain of the prohibition campaign. The argument ran that the money individuals spent on drink prevented them saving for long-term

investment and progress. It left their families bereft of necessities. In addition, drink was blamed for undermining good work habits. On the frontier the man who came to town for periodic ‘bursts’ would have time to dry out before returning to his labour. But in the city pubs were more accessible, and the impact of drinking upon work was potentially more devastating. Prohibitionists began to argue that men who drink ‘neglect the work they are called upon to do’; they lacked accuracy and reliability — in sum, in the word of prohibitionists, they lacked ‘efficiency’. What was involved here, obviously, was an attempt to discipline a work force with pre-industrial and frontier habits to the routine of a more organised society. It is not surprising then that employers were particularly attracted by this argument. In Parliament in 1916 J. Craigie was quite frank: ‘I have been an employer of labour, and I know the difference between the man who drinks overnight and the man who does not do so. I know that

62 A MAN’S COUNTRY? the man who drinks over night is not so efficient as the man who does not.’*®

The connection between drink and economic success was an argument pushed not only by employers, for whom it was obviously a convenient explanation for poverty. The activists of the movement came from

the lower middle class, people more concerned with self-help and individual improvement than with controlling labour. A consistent class analysis of prohibition is difficult to sustain and there are considerable numbers of men in the labour movement, people who might have been expected to have a more radical explanation for poverty, who believed sobriety to be the first step of upward mobility. It is noticeable too that the movement attracted considerable support from ministers, especially those in the non-conformist churches. It was a movement concerned not simply with the practical effects of drink in undermining labour efficiency but with a broader more amorphous aim (although one still functional for the economic system) of promoting a personality model of self-restraint and delayed gratification. The campaign was about spreading the Protestant ethic. Obviously a person governed by such an ethic would do well

in the bureaucratic capitalist society of early twentieth-century New Zealand. The man who could withhold his spending impulses and who could discipline himself to arrive at work on time would prove a better worker and a more successful earner than the male who had developed habits of going on reckless sprees. An ethic of self-restraint would serve in other ways to make New Zealand a moral society. The self-restrained would honour his obligations to his family, the self-restrained man would not bring violence and disorder to city streets. Men who could control their own impulses guaranteed a secure family-oriented capitalist society. It was this wider message, the portrayal of a moral personality, that represented the long-term legacy of the prohibition crusade. This message

ran through much of the movement’s rhetoric. From the 1870s through | to the Royal Commission on Licensing in 1946 the chief effect of alcohol was seen as the ‘loss of self-control’. Alcohol was condemned for releasing inhibitions and for undermining that precarious hold that the conscience

or ‘a man’s reasoning faculties’ had over the baser instincts. W. A. Chapple, leading eugenist and doctor, even wrote a book entitled Alcohol and Self-Control to show in medical terms how alcohol created this moral

disequilibrium. As Robert Stout said in Parliament in 1893, ‘drinking means a self-indulgence that is a curse.’ The drinking man chased after instant gratification and enjoyment. He did not plan carefully for a longterm future. Temperance, the quality of restraint in all things, was the highest ideal of the campaign against drink. The overindulgence of the

THE BOOZER & THE DECENT BLOKE 63 spree was the greatest crime. As late as 1946 the Royal Commission on Licensing commented in connection with the school’s role in combating drunkenness: ‘The teaching of temperance in the wider sense of moderation in all things is an essential part of true education.’ Here, then, was a model of behaviour which could apply to much else in life besides drink.

Indeed, the 1946 commission recommended that it be applied initially to ‘overindulgence in sweets or moving pictures, or comics, or sports’.*? This moderate personality — controlled and far-sighted in all things, suspicious of pleasure — was the perfect character-type for a colonial capitalist society. Problems of social control created by the weakness of traditional institutions like the church, the community, and the class hierarchy could be met by self-control. Internalised discipline would guarantee both

social order and economic productivity. The task remained, of course, to convert all men to such patterns of behaviour although it was not altogether obvious that colonial males would accept moderation and restraint as distinctively masculine attributes. In the male community of the frontier, masculine pride had been attached to feats of excessdrinking sprees or acts of physical strength. How could such a tamed and civilised individual as the temperance ideal be a real man? The antidrink campaign answer was to present the act of self-control itself as a feat of inner strength. Appeals to masculine pride ran through the whole

movement. The man who gave in to the temptations of drink was presented as an effeminate weakling. The young man who lost the balance of his judgement under the influence of drink was described as losing his ‘manhood’; the disreputable characters who ‘loaf around public houses and street corners while their wives and daughters slave to support them’ were described as ‘devoid of manliness’. On the other hand temperance was presented as a masculine virtue. The Presbyterian Bible Class move-

ment established in 1888 to encourage sober behaviour among young men took as its motto the words, ‘Be strong and show thyself a man.’ An Army pamphlet on the evils of drink concluded with this poetic appeal: Give us men, Strong and stalwart ones, Men whom highest hope inspires, Men whom purest honour fires, Men who trample self beneath them, Men who make their country wreathe them, As her noble sons Worthy of their stres; Give us men.*°

Ironically within the New Zealand Parliament some of the strongest

64 A MAN’S COUNTRY? expressions of the view that resisting the temptations of drink was a supremely masculine virtue came from those opposed to the complete prohibition of drink. In 1916, for example, C. E. Statham opposed six o’clock closing on the grounds that soldiers must learn to resist temptation. ‘We should remember,’ he said, ‘that as Kipling has put it, they are neither children nor gods, but men in a world of men. I believe we should do all we can to upbuild character and encourage and foster in the men strength to resist temptations.’ The Attorney-General, A. L.

, Herdman, made the same point. He opposed prohibition because any young man had to become morally self-reliant, ‘be a man strong enough

to resist temptation’. Only then, claimed Herdman, ‘will you have a country of strong, virile people’.?’ That the opponents of complete prohibition should have made such arguments by 1917 suggests how successfully the anti-drink campaigners

had established their moral code. However, it also reveals the limits of their success. The ultimate goal of the prohibitionists was a society in

which men were strong enough to control their own appetites for themselves. They looked forward to the day when all men would have the moral character to resist drink voluntarily. This is apparent in the methods of the Temperance Movement — its use of pledges, ribbons, songs and parades. Such acts were intended to bear witness to one’s moral virtue as much as to pressure politicians. Converting all New Zealanders to the temperate life was the long-term goal. But that was very much a long-term goal. The fact was that although support for temperance grew in New Zealand from the 1880s, the consumption of alcohol was hardly reduced. Although the per capita consumption of spirits and wine fell by a half between 1881 and 1919, beer consumption actually increased and this was at a time when the proportion of males in the population was falling rapidly. Beer consumption among adult males, therefore, rose considerably. In other words, the temperance crusade simply had not converted large numbers of New Zealand males to a fully temperate life. Alongside the new ideal of masculinity with its implied self-control, moderation and discipline, the older masculine ideal with its feats of alcoholic consumption continued to exist. This older culture increasingly went underground, leaving few records beyond the bald statement of liquor consumption. Occasionally it can be found. We find it represented even in Parliament. In 1916, for example, G. Witty spoke for another model of masculinity: ‘First of all, we ask the man to become a soldier. We ask him to enlist. We say, “‘Prove yourself a man and you can go and fight for your country and for the people you are leaving behind you.”’ But immediately he enlists we say to him, “You are only a child

THE BOOZER & THE DECENT BLOKE 65 and you have to be fed on milk!’ Is that not taking the manhood out of a man?’ The real man, for Witty, still fed on beer.?? The persistence of the older male culture and its refusal to change its drinking habits meant that the temperance advocates were forced to become prohibitionists. Not prepared to wait until all men voluntarily gave up liquor, they now demanded that the state should intercede. Men should be made respectable even against their will. From the 1890s prohibitionists entered the field of politics and law. Although they failed,

if only just, in their ultimate aim of prohibition, they did succeed in imposing a tight set of restrictions around drinking in New Zealand that have since determined our habits and attitudes.

The campaign against drink Until 1873 legal controls over drink in New Zealand were weak and essentially permissive. Justices of the Peace were free to issue licences to anyone

of good character and the hours of drinking were long and, until some provinces made changes in the 1860s, included Sundays. In 1873 a licensing authority was established and provision was made for the possibility of local prohibition. This principle of local control was extended in the country’s first comprehensive licensing act in 1881. Under this measure local licensing committees, elected by ratepayers, were given the power

to renew or refuse existing licences. In practice these powers proved unworkable and 12 years later in 1893 the effectiveness of the prohibition lobby was shown in a new licensing law which extended the local option

poll to the possibilities of reduction and prohibition. The poll was to be held every three years, with the electoral districts comprising the new licensing districts. The majority required to carry prohibitior was 60 per

cent. Under this Act the lines for a triennial battle in every electorate were now drawn, and the fight became hot. By 1910, 12 of the 76 European electorates had become dry. They were a revealing group. They were neither those electorates on the frontier nor those in the inner city, but rather the electorates of ‘the middle landscape’ — settled farming areas and the suburbs of the big cities, places where the proportion of women was highest and the concern for family propriety most intense. In 1910 the popular vote was extended yet again. The issue of reduction was dropped from the local poll and a national poll for continuance or prohibition was introduced. Again a three-fifths majority for prohibition

was laid down. In the first vote in 191] more than 55 per cent of the electors favoured prohibition. While certain areas were voting themselves dry, all drinkers now faced

66 A MAN’S COUNTRY? other restrictions. In 1881 Sunday opening was abolished. Late night drinking hours were reduced from midnight to 11 p.m. in 1893 and then | to 10 p.m. in 1910. In the same year the minimum age for drinking was raised from 18 to 21. Bottle licences were abolished and by a law in 1912

barmaids were made illegal. If drinking was to continue, then the prohibitionists would guarantee that it would be increasingly under siege — for shorter times, in fewer pubs and there would be no added attractions such as dancing girls or attractive barmaids to entice men within the pub doors. In another provision which revealed much about the prohibitionists’ concern that drink might unleash wilderness savagery, the 1910 Act prohibited the supply of liquor to an ‘intoxicated male Native’ or to ‘any female Native, not being the wife of a person other than a Native’. In the North Island Maori people could buy liquor only for consumption within a pub — unless, of course, they were a Maori woman

. married to a Pakeha.”’ During this period up to the First World War the drive for compulsory respectability extended also to the closely associated sin of gambling. In the male culture of the frontier the two customs grew up together. When men drank they tended to play cards or billiards and their drinking sprees were often also gambling sprees. The middle class, concerned about moral

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THE BOOZER & THE DECENT BLOKE 67 degeneracy on the frontier, found each sin equally abhorrent. Gambling was seen as producing a raging thirst that destroyed men’s self-control just as drinking did. William Langton described gambling in a frontier pub: At first the stakes consisted of ‘drinks’, but after some rounds of these had been swallowed and had taken effect, money was freely thrown upon the table — and then the eager eyes, the bated breath, the tremulous hands, and the ominous silence of the player showed that the real gambling spirit had been aroused.

Gambling was viewed as an affliction almost physiological in its effects, which served like drink to undermine reason and conscience and leave men prey to their greedy appetities. By promising instant wealth gambling perpetuated the speculative traditions of the frontier and threatened the Protestant ethic of hard work and saving which the settled parts of New Zealand were trying to establish. In Parliament in March 1894

W. Hutchison claimed that gambling was the national vice which ‘got hold’ of young lads before they left school and penetrated even to the ranks of bank clerks. Satan’s presence in the temples of God, no less. Gambling, in encouraging habits of reckless spending, was like drinking, a favourite explanation for unemployment and poverty.”*

Like drinking, gambling was seen as enticing men away from the settled responsibilities of family life and into the world of male drifters.

This was the case as much in the city as in the country. In 1901, for example, the Police Commissioner complained about billiard rooms which were still under no closing restrictions ‘with the result,’ he alleged, ‘that many young men, much to their detriment, are inveigled into these rooms

and kept there until the small hours of the morning associating with | spielers and other undesirable habitués, who subsist on following race meetings during the daytime and frequenting billiard rooms at night.’ The great moral distinction between the settled family man and the far more dangerous community of the unattached males was now increasingly used in the 1890s to discredit horseracing. Once, it was repeatedly

, said, the horseraces were safe and respectable family institutions. A. Morrison told Parliament in 1894: ‘It was then quite the custom for people

to form what may be termed family picnics and to take their luncheonbaskets with them.’ But the advent of the totalisator changed all this.

‘Now, it was alleged, few women went to the races and betting on horses had entered the disreputable culture of single men. ‘In the larger centres,’ Morrison claimed, ‘you see these men standing at the street corner and

68 A MAN’S COUNTRY? in public houses, or in certain offices, where they are prepared to lay what may be called totalisator-odds.’”* The social puritans sought to deal with gambling as they had dealt with drink: in the long term a hope for moral reform; in the short term prohibit the vice where possible and where that was politically unviable confine the habit to certain places and conditions where it could be rigidly controlled. The first effective legislative measure to this end came in 1881 with the Gaming and Lotteries Act. This made betting and gaming houses illegal and made all players of games with coins, cards or tables liable for prosecution. Lotteries and other games of chance were also made illegal, although art unions and lotteries with a prescribed list of worthy prizes (literature, mineral specimens, mechanical models and art objects) could be licensed. The Act effectively put an end to gambling joints and

channelled the betting instinct in the direction of horses. With horseracing controls took longer to establish. There was virtually no one in New Zealand who seriously suggested the complete abolition of horseracing or betting. Horseraces were one of the earliest colonial institutions. They were very much public events, commonly held in the early years on anniversary days. Racedays were a time when the community as a whole celebrated progress and people displayed them-

selves. The racecourse and grandstand were traditionally among the town’s most important symbols of permanence, monuments to the civilising process. The rural elite always supported horseracing but attendance at the races included all level of the society. Betting on the horses,

then, had certainly not emerged out of the frontier male culture. Even J. W. Isitt, for years the most radical wowser in Parliament and someone who believed racing to be ‘a miserable sport’ in which he could ‘never see anything admirable’, did not demand that it should be stopped. The problem with horseracing emerged with the spread of offcourse bookmaking and the increased number of race meetings. It came to be believed that men ‘less respectable than the old class of ““bookie’’’ were taking over the business — a reference to ‘the spieler, the card-sharper, and to

other classes who gained a living by the frequency with which race meetings took place’. Concern mounted with the introduction of the totalisator. This device was in use in New Zealand by 1879 or 1880, very soon after its invention overseas, and it seemed to attract an uncommon amount of interest and ingenuity here. In the early years of the century Sir George Julius pioneered the automatic electric machine. The critics of the tote were from two groups: the bookmakers who foresaw a strong competitor, and the anti-gambling faction who believed that it transformed betting on horseraces from a polite family amusement into a cold-blooded

THE BOOZER & THE DECENT BLOKE 69 business which threatened the nation’s morals. The chief promoters of the tote were the racing clubs who saw it as a way of controlling betting. Under these pressures emerged the 1881 Act which banned the totalisator off the course and restricted its use to racing clubs. Licences were reduced by one third in 1894, and two years later a bill to abolish the totalisator

was actually given a second reading. In 1907 feelings still ran so high

on the subject that there were some 36,000 signatures on petitions opposing the tote and 36,000 supporting its use.”° In the Act of that year, introduced by Sir Joseph Ward, bookmaking in the street was made illegal, but bookmakers on the racecourse were to be officially licensed. The racing clubs’ totalisator was accepted but there were to be no telephoned or telegraphed bets, no advertisements,

and no publications of tips or dividends. The intention seems to have | been to seal off betting from public gaze and confine it to the racecourse.

The city would be clean of the gambling spirit. Three years later this process reached a logical conclusion. The licensing of bookmakers had not been judged a success and in 1910 bookmaking, both on the course as well as off, became illegal. The following year the official police report was pleased to note that the 1910 Act had ‘already had a good effect in reducing the number of undesirable semi-vagrants who are to be found

idling about towns, living on what they can pick up at race meetings’. Officially, at least, betting in New Zealand became restricted to the totalisator and to the racecourse. Furthermore, the 1910 Act determined that racing was to occur on only 250 days a year and there were to be only eight on any one day. Just as drinking had become a segregated activity, restricted to certain times and places and conditions, the same process had happened with gambling.’’ What of that other traditional male vice — consorting with prostitutes? Here the history is more quickly told. Public concern about prostitution in New Zealand was first expressed in Christchurch in November 1867 when a public meeting was held to discuss the evils of prostitution. From that meeting a committee was established — consisting of the dean, three clergymen, the resident magistrate, several doctors and a lawyer — to draft remedies. Following their suggestions and study by a Committee on the Social Evil, the New Zealand Parliament then passed in 1869 two Acts: a Contagious Diseases Act modelled on the British Act of the same name, and a Vagrant Act making it an offence for any prostitute to loiter or solicit in the street, for publicans to allow prostitutes to congregate on their premises, and for any person to sing an obscene song in a public place. The story seems simple enough: the proper citizens of Christchurch

70 A MAN’S COUNTRY? rousing themselves to protect their morals from the male vices of goldminers. This 1s at best a partial truth. The British Contagious Diseases

| Act applied to garrison towns. It provided for the periodic medical inspection of prostitutes who could be compulsorily detained if they had

venereal disease. Critics of the Act argued, quite correctly, that its intention was less to reform vice than to cure VD and that it was grossly discriminatory against women who alone paid any penalty for prostitution. The New Zealand Act was also apparently motivated partly by public health concerns, and its movers wished to keep prostitution out of public gaze for social control reasons rather than to suppress it entirely. There

was no great anxiety about the immorality of men. When during the passage of the Act, its Christchurch mover, William Rolleston, was asked

why it should not apply to both sexes, he replied, “The one sex made a trade of the matter and spread the disease, but it was quite a different thing with the other sex.’ The Anglican elite of Canterbury were not opponents of the double standard. They wished merely to indulge with discretion and in safety. The measure was opposed by the non-conformist churches, and in later years the most vehement critics of the Contagious

Diseases Act were. those very groups, particularly the Christian Temperance Union, which led the fight against the immorality of the male culture. In their view the Act simply allowed men to practise their vice with impunity. The forces of puritan respectability in late nineteenthcentury New Zealand believed that venereal disease was one of the best sanctions against consorting with prostitutes and, therefore, they campaigned for the repeal of the Act, which was eventually repealed in 1910. Although the Criminal Code of 1893 made brothel-keeping a prisonable offence, and a Police Offences Amendment Act of 1901 sought to punish pimps and procurers, the chief remedy for male sexual vice in the opinion of the respectable was a heightened regard for family obligations and a moral code of self-control. Men had to learn to curb their appetites. As such, the campaign against sexual vice became virtually identical with the campaign against drink — for it was liquor, above all, that threatened men’s self-control. It is this which provides the rationale for the campaign to prohibit barmaids. The presence of alluring women within the bar might release the libido when men were least capable of controlling it.7° The close association of the campaigns against drink and male sexual vice was best revealed during the First World War. It was then that the attempt to impose an ideal of moral cleanliness upon the male reached its apogee. The reasons for this are clear enough. The war made the search for economy and efficiency a far more pressing and patriotic task, and

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eS & = HOW HE KNEW

Bill: *' There’s goin’ to be a ’ell of a battle soon.”’

Joe: “’Ow do you Know ?”

Bill: ‘‘ The Colonel’s gone on leave again.”’

THE MAN’S MAN 175 and endeavoured to hedge their obvious superiority with a certain divinity.’ But in choosing its officers the Army did not recognise such distinctions, and when the 7th, 8th and 9th Reinforcements joined the Gallipoli veterans to form the New Zealand Division, they brought their own officers. There was considerable soreness that those who had proved their mettle in battle missed out on promotion to those new chums and ‘leadswingers’.*?

A third theme which emerges is that while all officers were suspect, — British officers were indubitably worse, a despicable cast. At Gallipoli the idiocy of the British officers was blamed by New Zealanders, officers and men alike, for the bungling of the enterprise. Even Colonel Malone, loyal as he was, fulminates in his diary against the suicidal mismanage-

ment of the British headquarters. These feelings did not disappear in France. New Zealand at the Front contains a delightful short story about

an English colonel whose ‘aristocratic intonation caused us no small amusement’. He instructed two orderlies to erect a cookhouse but the two men reported they could not do it for lack of material. Seeing some Anzacs nearby, he asked them to do the job and within an hour a New Zealand carpenter had set up a ‘very creditable little erection of timber’. The colonel, ordering a bottle of rum for the Anzac, turned to his men. “These Anzacs are fine fellows,’ he proclaimed. ‘They’re devils to swear, they’re devils to drink, but they’re devils to work also.’ The story concludes: “Had he only known he might have added another tribute. The material for the cookhouse had been pinched from off his own dug-out.’*? If British officers were judged to be aristocratic idiots, their NCOs were regarded as unreasonably harsh disciplinarians. Eric Miller noticed immediately he arrived in France a Tommy NCO brutually kicking and

cuffing a man. ‘Not one of our NCOs would risk handling a man like that, or only once.’ That, of course, was the point. Although the New

Zealanders expressed ironical contempt for the book-learning and privileges of their own officers, the officers were at least kept in check by their men. Eric Miller reported some days later that there were cheers

among the New Zealand troops when, during a lecture on discipline, the British lieutenant declared, ‘You damned colonials who think you can do just whatever you damn well like.’** Saluting of officers was also a sore point among the Imperial Army. Despite Godley’s complaint at Gallipoli that saluting was conspicuous by its absence, regular saluting of Imperial officers by New Zealand soldiers remained haphazard. The New Zealand soldier, whatever the reality, liked to think of himself as above subservient tributes. Inthe 1918 edition of New Zealand at the Front there was a report of a new type of

176 A MAN’S COUNTRY? digger on the Western Front who actually saluted officers. ‘Confirmation of this is required,’ the article continued, ‘as no previous report of this nature has been received.’*® If the writings of the men themselves give little credence to the official legend of a classless camaraderie between officer and men, they do confirm instead a resentment of officers’ privileges and a sense that paradeground discipline was not a source of respect. The contrast between public rhetoric and the soldiers’ own views is even greater when one looks at

the soldiers’ attitude to war itself. In the early pages of the diaries, the legend of the Anzacs’ enthusiasm for battle is still valid. While training in Egypt, the soldiers find any prospect of action alluring. When the troops were asked to march through Cairo in December 1914, George Bollinger penned in his diary, “Trouble is evidently expected. . . . I hope we get a brush up.’ A month later word came that the New Zealand troops

would move to the canal to face the advancing Turks, and Lieutenant Algie noted that ‘the men were delighted . . . and everybody was singing patriotic songs’. The joy was even greater in April when the infantry finally left camp for larger events across the sea. Private Colbran observed:

‘The 11 p.m. train lot went away singing and bands playing Tipperary. I think every man must have been singing at the top of his voice.’ For some New Zealand soldiers the excitement of war and the prospect of heroism remained alive despite the horrific reality of the front. Benjamin Colbran himself was late reaching Gallipoli, and when he did he found himself in charge of sanitary arrangements — ‘so I haven’t the luck to see much fun,’ he wrote. Even for those later recruits who voyaged straight

to England and France, a thirst for action remained intact despite the high casualties and the snail-like movement of the European front, which made the possibility of individual acts of heroism seem almost ludicrous. In October 1916, for example, Leslie Quartermain landed in France. He wrote back home: “The Prologue is finished, and the Great Play is about

to begin.’ Three days later, he noted: The real thing lies just ahead now. We have been fortunate in getting to the work we wanted so soon. We know — now better than ever, perhaps — that it will be a great trial of our endurance and courage, but we would have been bitterly disappointed if we could not have gone right through with the great job to which we have put our heads.*°

Men arriving in France did not have the gung-ho sabre-rattling spirit of 1914, but they continued to accept war as the great test of their life as a man. As the diaries proceed, however, the common pattern is the

THE MAN’S MAN 177 disintegration of the heroic image of war. Schoolboy dreams evaporate before horrifying realities. For some at Gallipoli disillusionment came early. George Bollinger wrote in his diary in June 1915: We moved into Quinn’s Post at 8 o’clock this morning. In places our trenches touch the Turks and consequently all trenches are made sound proof. One would never credit miles of enemy divided only by a narrow bank of earth; is it a wonder men break down? The heat is intense; flies swarm the trenches in millions. The stench from the bodies of men lying in trenches in front is choking and really unbearable. The world outside

has great confidence in their men but I often wonder if they realise or try to realise what a hell the firing line is and know that every man desires and cannot help desiring immediate peace.

Six days later he was back in the trenches among the flies. The stench from our own dead lying out in front is terrific. It is hard to think that each of these men is some Mother’s son. We see such scenes as this and still some newspapers have the audacity to suggest we like this life.°’

Bollinger was realising that the reality of war was very different from

the public image of it. He became bitter and angry at the naive views still intact at home. He was not alone. In May Sapper E. C. Clifton received a letter from home containing the warning, ‘Wherever you go, son, take care of yourself’. He commented bitterly in his diary: ‘It would be laughable did it not seem so utterly thoughtless.’ War was no longer fun, the thought of action no longer exciting. Visions of glory had faded. At the end of June George Bollinger was taken off Gallipoli with acute gastritis, and when he set off for the front again a month later there was no patriotic singing — ‘Those of us who had been there before were very

quiet’. As Bollinger implied, it was the monotonous struggle with unpleasant physical conditions rather than the danger from gunfire which was disillusioning. This was not a war of dramatic death or glory; it was an incessant battle against heat and flies and lice, against a monotonous

diet of bully beef and biscuits, against dysentery, against the smell of latrines and the constant stench of fly-blown bodies. After the failure of one final effort, the attack on Chunuk Bair in early August, a sad mel-

ancholy descended upon the men, according to all who were there. November brought snow and freezing winds. By the time that the orders for evacuation came in mid-December men were bitter. ‘We will not be

178 A MAN’S COUNTRY? terribly proud of our Gallipoli ‘“‘Bar’’,’ Bollinger wrote. “Ours is not to

reason why, but just to do and die; but who has blundered?’*® , The Gallipoli campaign, for all its monotony, had at least been comprehensible. The fighting, although horrendous, was on a human scale. The war in Flanders and France was for most men utterly meaningless — their individual efforts swamped by the sheer scale of the destruction, and the desperately slow and long-drawn out nature of the front-line advance. Here too the physical torments overwhelmed the danger of gunfire and brought quick disillusionment. War now came to mean stench and mud and slush and death — dead men and a dead cratered landscape. Men’s diaries record their sense of futility. Eric Morgan wrote, Remained in bed all day. A sore throat overcame me. . . . Read magazines all day and was miserable. No letters to cheer me. A cold war, this, in more ways than one.

When George Cain reached the Western Front in 1916, he ruefully noted:

I saw little evidence that anyone wanted the posthumous award of ‘sweetness’ so neatly chizelled in stone by the living. . . . [instead I saw] those lucky enough to have copped a ‘good one’ — no more than a broken arm perhaps — grinning broadly and cheerfully as they marched in the opposite direction.*?

It is in New Zealand at the Front that this sense of utter disillusionment with war is best expressed. War is hell and the public perception of it a travesty. There are no Wilfred Owens among the poets represented, but the message is similar. In K. L. Trent’s ‘A Digger’s Disillusion’ the tone is one of despair: When I first thought of enlisting,

And courageously assisting , In this game the poet calls the sport of Kings, I had dreams of martial glory, Dashing charge with bayonet gory, And a host of other brave and stirring things: But, alas! for dreams deceiving, And imagination weaving Such a web of utter falsehood in my brain! For my wisions all are shattered, And I’ve just become a tattered, Weary digger, working knee-deep in a drain.

THE MAN’S MAN 179 The public legend was of courage and glorious death, the rea‘ity was of arbitrary destruction and soldiers yearning to be home. J. O’Grady even challenges the view of the soldier as the essence of independent masculinity and turns him into a domesticated slave: The modern infantryman is a product, or rather a phenomenon, of the present world conflict. He has been well described as a thing to hang other

things on. . . . He walks long distances, carries heavy weights without fatigue, submits to impositions without complaint, thrives on bad weather, and generally can exist under any possible or impossible conditions without

deterioration. He is truthful, virtuous, and decidedly docile. He is even

obedient. In short, he is a treasure of general utility, goodness, and domesticity, and, at the conclusion of the war, should be a very useful person for a woman to have about the house.

This soldier had gone to war believing it to be the highest test of his manhood; he discovered that it turned him into a drudge.*°

Soldier mates For some New Zealand soldiers the war became a very lonely battle for personal survival. Others found that the only consolation for the desolation and daily tragedy was to be found in mateship. For Malthus comradeship was ‘the finest thing war has to offer’. For Weston the bonds formed on active service were ‘as strong as any in history’. Eric Taylor remembered that ‘when we returned home we really missed our mates, and feit as if we were living in a vacuum’. This was not just romantic nostalgia. Even in the midst of the conflict New Zealand men wrote of their friendships. There were several such pieces, written without any sense of embarrassment at all, in New Zealand at the Front in 1917. One was a poem, ‘“‘Old Sunshine’: A Loving Tribute to my “Mate” wounded

on the Somme, Sept. 1916’. Form lke Hercules of old, Mighty limbs in shapely mould, Manly strength 1n beauty rolled — ‘Old Sunshine’.“

Sometimes the diaries and letters display a reticence in describing the friendships formed, in others the descriptions are abundant and glowing. Leslie Quartermain noted this in a letter home in which he spelled out his own sentiments:

180 A MAN’S COUNTRY? Some chaps, I know, don’t talk much in letters about their cobbers, but I like you to know my friends. . . . I have never ceased to wonder at the greatness of my war comradeship — especially as I never had a real cobber before the war. Nel, Harold, Wal and I will be close friends for life, of course.”

_ At times a group of three or four chums would ‘stick together’, at other times men would form a special relationship with a particular mate.

At Gallipoli, Burton recalled, men paired off to share a bivvy. Other writers suggested a broader sense of mateship — the relationship binding a platoon, or even the accidental meetings of old acquaintances. Eric Miller described such a meeting: Hearing that Frazer Barton was also camped nearby and that they were all pulling out next morning, I went over to visit him. Imagine my surprise, when on being shown into his hut in the gloom, I encountered instead

Jack Bathgate and Maurice Claris. . . . Shortly afterwards Frazer came

in. We sang all our favourite quartettes and made much noise. .. . Accidental meetings are very enjoyable.*

Despite the efforts Miller made to find his friends Army mateship was generally one of circumstance, not choice. In the Army, many soldiers

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THE MAN’S MAN 181 believed the distinctions of civilian life were left behind. In ‘Cobbers’, the author claims that he and his mate Bill would never normally have met. ‘Society would say we belonged to different circles with no point of contact.’ That is why, as both John A. Lee and Eric Taylor recalled, a soldier mate was often diffident about the details of his past life and you would certainly never press him on the facts. Taylor commented that his friend ‘told me what he wanted me to know. With that I was content. He was a great mate’. Entry into the world of mates was often signalled by the bestowal of a nickname. Past status was forgotten and the individual took on a new identity as ‘Flashy’ McLeod, ‘Groper’ Smith, ‘Goliath’ Silver, or ‘Stuttering Bob’ Batts — all names which emphasised

physical attributes, not class or occupation.** As a separate world, the community of mates had its own moral code and set of loyalties. One was the principle that there should be ‘no stealing among ourselves, only from Army stores or officers’ — a law that appears

to have been obeyed only spasmodically, especially behind the lines. Another was the principle that men should shield their mates if possible from the wrath of officers. A good example of this code in action occurred

during the massive mutiny at Etaples Camp in September 1917 on the eve of Passchendaele. The mutiny involved thousands of troops of many nations and there were a host of underlying factors, but the incident which

sparked off the uprising was the arrest of a New Zealand gunner, who denied any offence. The New Zealanders gathered to demand his release.

Before long there was shooting and soon anarchy reigned.* Another dramatic incident displaying the strength of these bonds of loyalty occurred after the Armistice among a small and forgotten group of New Zealand troopers in the East. One night in December 1918 Trooper Lowry awoke to find an Arab stealing his equipment. The New Zealand soldier shouted at him to stop and followed the thief. A fight broke out, Lowry was shot and died as his friends reached him. The dead

man’s mates traced footprints to Surafend Village, surrounded it and

demanded the killer. There was no response. That night the New Zealanders passed out the women and children, fell upon the Arab men, and set fire to the village. The officers by all account were most dilatory in their response.*° This was a more brutal manifestation of mateship than the public legend generally allowed. Obviously the incident contained many elements — frustration at a series of thievings, contemptuous racism towards the Arabs — but it does emphasise the loyalty that existed between men and its potential for disruption. Not that mateship was necessarily regarded by the officers as anti-authoritarian — mateship exerted its own discipline.

182 A MAN’S COUNTRY? Sometimes officers would exploit this directly and appeal to the conscience of a soldier that in being lazy or cowardly he was letting down his mates.

In a world in which it was never possible to be alone and private, friendlessness was torment indeed. Peer pressure imposed an enormous

force on individuals. As we have noted, the fear of showing fear and gaining the contempt of one’s mates was one explanation for war bravery. If you did not live up to appropriate standards, then life could be a misery. A man who deserted the Main Body before its final departure from New Zealand explained that one day on the 25-yard range the company commander had said he ought to leave the force because he couldn’t shoot straight. From that day forward my comrades began to take a set on me, making insulting remarks on the subject. About the same time it was spread about that I had served two sentences of imprisonment 8 years ago [a fact] in connection with forgery. Hence forward I was continually subjected to further insults from my comrades with regard to this. I did not complain to my O.C. I gradually lost heart in all my work though intending to carry on.*”

The Army itself recognisd the disciplinary control of mateship. In explaining the poor discipline on board the troopships returning to New Zealand in 1919, a number of officers noted that, among other factors, the drafts were composed of many units and so there was no ‘feeling of comradeship’ and that a good number of the soldiers had their wives with them which disrupted the normal bonds between men.*® _ From reading the soldiers’ writings, it is obvious that their attitudes resembled those found in the male community of pioneer New Zealand.

Once more, there was a respect for physical strength, and a habit of emotional repression, even nonchalance. Once more, there was contempt for book-learning and red tape and gentlemanly graces. And within the

community of mates old values resurfaced. Distinctions of class and occupation were left behind and the contrast of new chums and old appeared once more. The traditions of pioneering masculinity seem to have been given a new life by a new generation’s experience in a world without women. The intriguing issue is whether the Army experience revived those other facets of the pioneer male culture — the swearing and drinking, the gambling and fighting — which had been expunged from the pioneer legend. There can be no doubt that many people at home were anxious lest the ugly side of the male culture should reappear. The correspondence columns of newspapers and the files of letters to the Minister of Defence,

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Above: The reality of war for soldiers in France and Flanders — not instant glory but mud and death and despair. This photograph was taken by an official Australian her. er, Th€ SULVIVING ving ph hs he official NewewZealand ph oltograp yy) f: Otograp § from the officia Zealian photographers present a ‘clean’ view of war. No signs of dead bodies remain. Right above: A tug-of-war team from the New Zealand Division which beat all others at Etaples Camp in August 1918. The stance with forearms crossed has been a characteristic New Zealand pose of assertive muscularity. (Alexander Turnbull Library) 4

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THE MAN’S MAN 183 Mr Allen, make it obvious that the concern of the respectable was wide-

| spread; and as we have seen the special circumstances of the war intensified the campaign against drink. In the Army efforts were made to keep home ties and moral obligations alive by encouraging the writing of letters back to mothers and wives. The YMCA provided canteens and rest areas in which could be found stacks of notepaper headed ‘Write Home First’.

Everything was done to foster the myth that the New Zealand soldier, unlike the Australian, was true to the virtues of the gentleman. What was the private perception? How did the men themselves and those who had close contact with them perceive their behaviour? When men got together there was obviously a good deal of yarning among the troops. In the long monotonous period in the trenches, the man who could

spin a long yarn was a social asset. Eric Miller noted that on Saturday nights the boys would indulge in reminiscences about Saturday nights at home. Singing was another frequent form of entertainment. Sometimes this took the form of organised concerts, more often it was spontaneous. In the evenings aboard transport ships, during rest periods from Gallipoli

at Mudros or from the Western Front in French estaminets, there was singing. When such musical entertainments were held in YMCA camps they must have been fairly sober and genteel affairs with nothing more rowdy than the inevitable ‘On the Ball, On the Ball’. There were other occasions when singing was less acceptable to the authorities. Sapper Clifton on the Western Front noted in his diary on 1 January 1917 that he had experienced a “bon time’ bringing in the New Year — ‘Roused the major singing and tincanning’.*? Similarly, swearing was widespread among the New Zealand troops and was a source of some pride. Most soldiers considered their fellows extremely proficient swearers. The efforts of padres and even General

Godley to curb swearing were said to be little use. ‘The Peninsula vocabulary was notorious,’ one veteran wrote in New Zealand at the Front.

‘Pre-eminently the word “‘bastard’’ passed into common use.’ The language of the men appears to have had that earthiness that characterised the language of the pioneer male community — going over the top became ‘hopping the bags’. Its violent expressiveness and crudity was one way of relieving tension. The New Zealanders thought of themselves as ‘hard cases’ — the implication being that they were both hard in their emotions

and violent in their language.°° The frequent brawling may also be partly explained in this way. Sometimes the fights were in earnest — the anger of drunken men, or the fury of innocent soldiers at getting ‘gypped’ in a Cairo market. In the early months in Egypt there were a number of big brawls. More

184 A MAN’S COUNTRY? frequent were the ‘rough houses’, the ‘free-for-alls’, the ‘dust-ups’ that took place among the troops themselves and often followed the playing of pranks. They were usually friendly and harmless affairs. Eric Miller tells of meeting two mates — “They quickly had me bumped down hard on the floor and sat on me’ — an odd greeting perhaps, but one explicable in terms of the accepted stereotype of the New Zealand soldier. He was not meant to show his feelings, certainly not expected to express his affection for his friends in a gentle and loving way — for the prohibition against homosexuality was an absolute one in the Army. Instead, men interacted with a boisterous shove or a hilarious rough-up, behaviour that

was acceptably virile.*! |

There were other more organised forms of physical relaxation which perhaps served the same function. Rugby appears to have been played incessantly — in Egypt, when on leave from Gallipoli, at Mudros and during the long hard winters in France. The games between units, in particular, were an important part of some soldiers’ lives. There were also competitive tugs-of-war, especially when the men were at sea. The Army encouraged such diversions since, presumably, they were an alternative to brawling. The Army was unsuccessful, however, in finding alternatives to gambling. New Zealand soldiers were regarded as inveterate gamblers and the practice seems to have begun on the transport ships leaving New Zealand. On one ship in 1916 a private, known among the men as ‘Yank’,

controlled a crown and anchor board and with the protection of scouts was alleged to have sent back £500 from his profits. Nor was this an isolated incident, according to ship-board officers. Once the troops were overseas, the practice spread. George Bollinger reported that while resting on Lemnos during the Gallipoli campaign, he saw ‘schools’ being broken up ‘right out in the open’, but concluded that the practice was impossible

to stop. At camp in France Benjamin Colbran noted in his diary that he had seen hundreds of pounds being won and lost at crown and anchor. Two-up, a game unknown to the British, seems to have been even more

popular, and both Ormond Burton and C. H. Weston recalled huge schools organised by the ‘two-up kings’. By the time the soldiers came to write about themselves in New Zealand at the Front, gambling was an accepted part of their identity. In the ‘Digger’s Dictionary’ the digger was defined as ‘of a sporting nature, his favourite athletic pastimes being ‘“‘two-up’’, football, lead-swinging, crown and anchor, and hunting the wily louse.’ On board ship returning to New Zealand the habit appears to have been condoned by the officers.*? Drinking was a more difficult problem. The camps themselves were

THE MAN’S MAN 185 dry, offering only a soft drinks canteen, and regulations were adopted making it illegal to sell liquor to any soldier except for consumption on the premises and later outlawing the bringing of liquor into camp or on to a troop train. Eventually, as we have noted previously, six o’clock

closing was adopted with the hope of preventing the troops from Trentham having access to the Wellington pubs. Despite these efforts, there was undoubtedly some drunkenness among the soldiers while in New Zealand. Between December 1915 and February 1916 there were 265 charges for drunkenness in the four training camps in New Zealand and another 106 soldiers appeared before the civilian courts. The Army Department also received a number of complaints from people observing the behaviour of soldiers in troop trains. However, the consistent conclusion of the Army authorities, both to the complainants and in confidential memoranda, was that generally the incidence of drunkenness was slight.*°

Similarly, the troopships were officially dry and drinking had to be confined to the port stops. There were regularly a few men too drunk to make it back to the ship on such calls. Ten of the 3rd Reinforcement, for example, went ashore at Albany in March 1915, got drunk and missed

the boat. There were even such problems when the men were leaving

New Zealand. Five of the Main Body missed the ship through drunkenness — out of some 7,000 soldiers. For one soldier the last rollcall in New Zealand was memorable for the fact that a ‘majority’ of the men were ‘drunk and disorderly’. But this was, naturally, a special occasion. Once the troops were overseas and beyond the prying eyes of their com-

patriots, drunkenness became more common. The small body of men who took over German Samoa in 1914, the first troops to leave New Zealand, won wide notoriety for their behaviour. On Christmas Eve 1914

they broke out of camp and entered three hotels. When the proprietor of one refused to sell them drinks, they took bottles and subsequently ransacked a warehouse of whisky and brandy. At Cairo the troops regularly

had the afternoons off — from 2 p.m. to 10 p.m. — and they began to visit the dens of Cairo in search of alcohol. It was vile stuff; and largely for health reasons the authorities opened a wet canteen. To mark the occasion Bollinger wrote in his diary: ‘Won’t New Zealand be shocked when they hear that Massey’s Sunday School picnic party (as we are called), have at last got their rights according to King’s regulations.’ In fact, the canteens could only sell more than the regulation bottle if an officer issued an order, and although this regulation was widely abused men continued to go to Cairo to return ‘drunk as usual’. When the canteen raised its prices the beer tent was pulled down, the beer taken and

186 A MAN’S COUNTRY? the canteen destroyed ‘to pay off old wrongs’. Despite the level of drunkenness in Egypt, the New Zealanders, nevertheless, thought of themselves as a more sober bunch than the Australians. Colvin Algie, for example, described how in December 1914 some drunken Australians ruined his visit to a Cairo skating rink: “These gentry as in South Africa have earned none too good a name. . . . I cannot help making comparisons

although they are odious, but our own boys are doing remarkably well | here and are quite a credit to everybody they belong to.’ Colonel Malone agreed that by comparison with his troops, the Australians were ‘a loose beery lot’ at the bottom of all disturbances in Cairo. Whether these allegations were true or not, a stereotype of the New Zealand soldier was implicit — he was a drinker, yes, but a moderate responsible drinker.**

In France the situation was different. Behind the front-line were villages with their famous estaminets, serving drink and good times to the soldiers. Virtually all the diaries from the French front describe how when the troops withdrew from the battle-line the wine began to flow, things began to ‘hum’ and become ‘lively’. On special occasions the quantities drunk could be quite considerable. On 30 December 1916 Sergeant Parmenter was asked to arrange the New Year’s Eve celebrations for about 60 men. He bought 22 gallons of beer, a case of whisky and an unspecified quantity of wine. The next day, just to make sure, he purchased another 10 gallons of beer. Not surprisingly, he was able to report on New Year’s Day, ‘All had a very merry time’. Drinking did not take place only behind the lines. Writing in a dug-out with ‘dead Fritzs’ lying all around, Eric Morgan described a pleasant evening of ‘cards, whiskey and smokes’. So strong was the temptation to drink that even soldiers from prohibitionist backgrounds relented. George Nuttall, from a Methodist teetotal family, confessed on 7 February, 1917: ‘The morning after the night before. .. .

Last night under the influence of little light wine. The sergeants had

a bet and the result was Sergeant Robertson put a stone through the Colonel’s window and then rolled into the billet.’ This kind of drunken high-spirits obviously became quite common. George Cain tells a story of sleeping in a loft in France. After evenings spent in the local estaminets men regularly woke up to urinate, and one soldier kept a jar in the middle of the room so that he would not have to descend the rickety ladder to relieve himself. One night he discovered the jar already full. He promptly emptied the contents upon the alleged offender. Cain comments,

| Not a very sweet story, I know, but men do tend to let slip the standards of civilised behaviour in the conditions in which we lived; especially since we were denied the moderating influence of feminine companionship. It was not an isolated instance of offensive behaviour.*

THE MAN’S MAN 187 The camps used by the New Zealand troops in England, of which the largest was Sling in Wiltshire, had wet canteens. Although some of the wowsers among the men were shocked by their presence, official sources suggest that their effects were minimal during the first part of the war. Only light beers and stouts were served at the canteen, not spirits, and in 1917 there were only 16 cases of drunkenness at Sling, which had an average daily strength of 1,200 men.*° Once the war was over and the pressures of training and discipline were relaxed, however, drunkenness in the camps became more evident. With peace came a number of riots in the English camps in which alcohol

was seen to be a significant factor. On Armistice Day itself there was £800 damage done at Bulford Camp because beer was not being served fast enough at a dance. The official inquiry showed that New Zealanders took a leading role in the drunken rioting. Similar conclusions were reached by the enquiry following the even larger riots at Sling and Bulford

Camps in March 1919. At Sling there was looting and destruction of the Quartermaster’s stores, the officers’ mess, the sergeants’ mess and canteen to the total damage of £12,440. Allegedly the disturbances were led by 20 or 30 drunken New Zealanders. In short, the sober reputation of the troops in the camps in 1917-18 was a reflection of the tough restraints placed upon the soldiers during the war, not of their temperate traditions. Once those controls were relaxed

the drinking habits developed outside the camps became obvious. On the ships and troop trains returning home, there were frequent official reports of intoxicated soldiers. When one train of returning soldiers stopped at Palmerston North for an hour, the sober went to lunch at the show grounds, but about 50 troops, ‘fighting drunk’, attacked the police and a general melee followed. By the end of the war the troops themselves were making no effort to maintain the ideal of the New Zealand

warrior as a sober gentleman. Instead, they liked to be thought of as lovable rascals, as men who were rough in their personal habits, who had ‘to be put to bed’ every so often by their mates, but in the moral issues that really mattered, especially loyalty to their cobbers, were virtuous to the core.°’ If society was prepared to forgive men for these lapses, the same cannot be said for that more serious vice, consorting with prostitutes. Whether the soldiers themselves shared this view or whether they bragged

about sexual conquests and returned home with a view of themselves as notorious ‘roots’ is less easy to say. The diarists say little — the written word, even in a private diary, imposes its own censorship. However, the

soldiers’ own behaviour suggests an element of sexual bravado. Even

188 A MAN’S COUNTRY? before the men left New Zealand the Army authorities were told of onewoman brothels open to soldiers in Wellington and allegations that prostitutes travelled to Carterton and Masterton on the days when soldiers at Featherston were on leave. Up to 30 cases of VD were reported under treatment at Trentham in 1915. The incidence increased dramatically once the men touched foreign shores. In Egypt by 23 January 1915, some

two months after the Main Body had landed, there were 243 cases or 2.8 per cent of the NZEF and some prostitutes were allegedly accommodating 20 to 30 men a night. After Gallipoli the men were stationed as far as possible from Cairo, but the problem continued. By 1917 the problem had reached epidemic proportions. In the first six months of 1917, for example, the hospital admission rate for VD for all troops in England was 34 per 1,000. For the New Zealand troops the level was 134 per 1,000. Those who observed the behaviour of the New Zealanders at close quarters had no illusions about the extent of the problem. Ettie

} Rout, after working closely with the men in Egypt and London, concluded that chastity was ‘quite impracticable’ for most of the Anzacs; by the end of the war even the Minister of Defence, James Allen, had in private reluctantly reached the same conclusion.°® Publicly the legend of the New Zealand soldiers as honourable gentlemen was maintained. Allegations of high VD rates were denied. Cabinet agreed to prohibit publication of Ettie Rout’s letters about VD. The New Zealanders were the only troops stationed in England not to be officially issued prophylactics when they went on leave. Yet behind the closed doors of the Imperial War Conference in April 1917 Prime Minister Massey and Joseph Ward expressed a slightly different viewpoint. Unwilling to concede that the VD problem might be alleviated through the use of prophylactics — that would be to admit publicly that our boys were not gentlemen — they also admitted that complete chastity was an unreasonable expectation. Instead, they sought to pass the blame on to the women and asked that the activities of the prostitutes be more

stringently regulated. ‘As a man of the world’ Massey believed it impossible to stop immoral behaviour by the troops but demanded that ‘the most objectionable types of women’ should be cleared from the streets.

Also using the phrase ‘As men of the world’, Ward claimed, ‘We have to take the world as it is, as far as human nature’s concerned’. He then

proceeded to blame the women. New Zealand men of the world, apparently, were happy enough to concede that ‘our boys’ after all were ‘boys’. A suggestion by the Auckland Patriotic League that benefits’be

excluded from returned soldiers discharged for contracting VD was

refused by James Allen.>»? |

THE MAN’S MAN 189 The same private tolerance of sexual vice is apparent in those diaries and memoirs which reveal anything on the subject. Few soldiers admitted

to entering brothels themselves, but rarely did they get upset by those who did. They simply conceded that for men expecting to die, sexual gratification had a ready appeal. Alternatively, they dismissed their friends’ adventures with some laconic comment such as ‘a bird in the strand is worth two in the bush’. The VD figures suggest that a rather more brazen culture must have flourished among the men themselves. The soldiers’ writings do give us, however, some rather interesting perceptions about women. The Army was an exclusively male community and the men became uncomfortable when this was challenged. Colonel

Malone wrote regularly to his wife and missed her sorely, yet concluded, ‘In war it is no time for a man’s wife to be about. Not fair to her and too distracting for him’. When wives were allowed to accompany their husbands on the return voyages there was much dissatisfaction

at the consequences. So strong was the male character of the war experience that F. A. Hornibrook decided even on leave soldiers would not find it comfortable to be in female company. Instead, he proposed

clubs in London: |

. . . where the men can do pretty well as they like — have billiard and smoking rooms etc., and plenty of spittoons, and nobody to growl or look askance if they occasionally miss the article. . . . Above all, let it be a MAN’s

Show, with a clean healthy moral atmosphere, and women helpers — if you must — but not too many, and of the right sort and mature age.°’

For those in the Army women became distant figures, almost strangers. Leslie Quartermain claimed in one letter that during 12 months in France he had not once heard an English woman’s voice. As strangers, women became highly stereotyped to the soldier. On the one hand, women were sensual temptresses, alluring, possibly dangerous, ever ready to trap the unwary soldier. On the other hand, they were the pure angelic mothers and sweethearts in that heavenly home across the other side of the globe. In New Zealand at the Front various stories play off the temptations of

the prostitute against the image of domestic faithfulness. In ‘A Corner of Blighty’ the King Country soldier, who had not heard recently from his girlfriend at home, goes to Paris and the music hall. He meets a French woman and decides to delay his departure and see once more ‘the woman whose kisses could make him forget everything: his duty — his girl’. He is saved when a mate takes him off to ‘Blighty’, an English tea-house, where he sees a waitress — ‘somehow she reminded him of his Mother’. He returns on the early train. Another poem concerns ‘A Dangerous Girl’:

190 A MAN’S COUNTRY? On the day I first met her my cheeks fairly burned She was then quite a stranger to me; But I’d heard of her powers where men were concerned — What a dangerous girl she could be!

That ‘girl’ turns out, with evident relief and humour, to be ‘my old Lewis gun’. Guns were evidently less treacherous and more accustomed com-

panions than women.* Admittedly, some soldiers described the New Zealanders as distinctively courteous and protective of the women they met, and kind to the local children. However, this was partly a self-protective front, because

there was also much anger and contempt directed at the locals whom the New Zealanders met, especially in Egypt. Benjamin Colbran, for example, was quite frank in his attitude: ‘One can hardly help regarding the nigger as animals when you see them lying about.’ George Bollinger, in expressing his joy at leaving Egypt, that ‘Nigger’s Paradise’, in April

1915, described what he felt to be ‘an amusing incident’ as they left. ‘A barge of niggers came a little too close to our propellers and got swamped. One poor devil was drowning, and the remainder were yelling and screaming and arguing who was responsible. Farewell Egypt.’ In

Passport to Hell James Stark remembered an incident when the train stopped on a trip between Ismalia and Alexandria. Most of the boys were

drunk and one of them handed ‘a Gippo’ a note to buy some oranges. The Egyptian ducked away without bringing back the change. Suddenly there was a rifle crack and the orange-seller crumpled to the dust. When the officers rushed up to deal with the culprit, no one would give the show away.” The most infamous incident of the New Zealanders’ time in Egypt, the Wasser riot on Good Friday in 1915, originated in part from the soldiers’ pent-up dislike of the Egyptians and Egyptian women in par-

ticular. The riot began about 4 p.m. when four or five men, New Zealanders or Australians, entered a brothel and threw bedding and furniture into the street. Other Anzacs followed suit, entering brothels and

over the next few hours a huge bonfire burned which spread to some of the buildings and sent the women screaming outside. Mounted police who came to restore order were showered with missiles and abuse. The fire brigade arrived and their hoses were cut. When a hose was finally connected and turned on the crowd, the soldiers attacked the natives with batons and bottles and the fire engine was pushed on the bonfire. There were obviously many reasons for the riot — drunkenness after a day’s leave, frustration and boredom after months of waiting for action. But

THE MAN’S MAN 191 the diary records and the official report make clear there was behind it accumulated contempt for the Egyptians themselves. The brothels were attacked not to rid the place of vice but rather, as the official report concluded, “to take revenge for venereal disease contracted in the quarter’. Once more, it was women who were to be punished for the consequences of male lust. In the end it was the experiences away from the front that remained for many men the most enduring and legitimate consequence of the war. The battlefield was always far more horrifying than the men had ever expected. Quickly their childish dreams of fun and heroism evaporated as the enormous wastage of life and injury became evident. For those few who emerged physically unscathed there had been years of boredom and fear and cold and hunger. War was indeed hell. Yet the community of men redeemed it. One story in New Zealand at the Front which contrasted the reality of war with the civilian image tells of a convalescent veteran going to the theatre. The show was the normal patriotic revue: ‘a crowd of chorus girls in travesties of the full-dress uniforms of some of our best regiments minced across the stage in a style that was about as unmilitary as could possibly be imagined’. The veteran began to reflect on the reality of war and when the pianist on stage started playing “The gallant boys of the old Brigade, They live in Old England’s heart’, he jumped up and screamed, ‘For God’s sake, stop that damned tune!’ The public images of war contrasted intolerably with the soldier’s gruesome memories. Then the veteran reflected: ‘Yet with it all there had been some good times. ... Could any performer... make him laugh as Brown used to do in the old days? Would any club ever furnish him with such a circle as when Williams, Smith, Johnston and himself used to foregather in the estaminet in the rest area, and talk and talk over a bottle of Vin Rouge?’ Despite the horrors of the war which made the public myths of heroism and patriotic chivalry seem utterly naive, the war still held a central place in the affections and legends of the men who fought in it. Partly, soldiers felt a satisfaction that they had for a brief period thrown off their civilised existence and lived a hard physical life in a way that, they had been taught, helped test and validate their virility. Leslie Quarter-

main wrote home in August 1917: Although we do long for Home and our Homeland with such a deep desire that it overshadows everything else, sometimes, although we have grown to hate war in all its vile monotonous inglorious gruesomeness, with a hate such as we have never felt a semblance of before, yet somehow, we ‘wouldn’t have missed it’, for it has been the great Adventure that has shown us life.®

192 A MAN’S COUNTRY? Even more significant in validating the war experience were the mem-

ories of time behind the battle-lines, the legends kept alive in oral form of good fun with the mates. Five days after the Armistice in 1918 Quarter-

main had another judgement about the impact of the war upon him: And you must not think it strange, some day, in Worcester Street or High Street, or Old Cathedral Square, if busy Mr L. B. Quartermain, M.A.(?) forgets his grave appointments, and neglects his duty shamelessly to wander off to some quiet spot and talk for hours with some old labourer, maybe, or farmer, or prosperous businessman, whom he has met in the street, and hailed as some old cobber.®

! Despite its appalling costs the Great War did not destroy the importance of war to New Zealand males. The public myth kept alive an image of outstanding heroism and courage, an achievement in battle which was

promoted as the essence of nationhood; the private memories of the soldiers themselves kept alive a legend of the mateship and the good times

behind the lines, the superior enjoyment of the exclusively male community. The effect of the war was to re-emphasise a sense of New Zealand

, as a man’s country.

3

Dinkum Kiwis — 1920-45

Between the wars In the years which followed the Great War the idea of war as a test of manhood and a proof of nationhood continued to retain its hold in New Zealand. The appalling slaughter and mindless chaos of the war turned only a few New Zealand men into pacifists. In the four official histories of the war and in the sentiments written in stone upon the war memorials

that began to appear at crossroads throughout the country, the view of war as a glorious and heroic enterprise remained. Admittedly, war had now a more sober ring than in the Edwardian years. No one thought of it as ‘fun’. The long lists of dead upon the memorials, the constant

. physical evidence of men on crutches or minus limbs were a guarantee of that. Occasionally, a local sculptor did capture the horror of war in stone as in the magnificent statue at Te Aroha; occasionally, the wasted innocence and youth of the fallen was suggested as on the memorial at Inglewood; and it must be admitted that at least the memorials to the

THE MAN’S MAN 193 Great War, unlike those to the Boer War, commemorated the dead rather

than the nation’s participation. Yet much of the language and imagery of the memorials remained heroic and chivalric. There were images of the New Zealand soldier as St George fighting the German dragon; there were knights on horseback; and most of the memorials whether obelisks, cenotaphs or columns soared into the air with a suggestion of virile triumph. Roaring lions remained prominent. Utilitarian memorials were not considered acceptable (unless it be to house high culture) because war had to be presented as a spiritual enter-

prise, which rose above the commercial and the earthy, expressing the pre-eminence of service over self. War, in other words, became invested with a religious grandeur. Anzac Day became under laws of 1920 and 1921 a day when hotels, race meetings and businesses were all closed. War had to be preserved in memory as something that was noble and pure. There should be no reminders of the boozing and gambling and profiteering which had also been part of that war. Furthermore, Anzac Day had different connotations from Armistice Day, the day chosen in England to remember the war. The latter was a day of peace; Anzac Day

was the moment when shots were fired first. It represented, in men’s minds, the entry of New Zealand into national manhood. It was more a day of triumph than of sorrow.’ The young men growing up in New Zealand between the wars continued to see war as the test of their, and their country’s, virility. In the

schools cadets flourished on the parade ground and in the classroom children still read about the Empire’s military triumphs. The school textbook The Story of the British Nation, reprinted repeatedly during the 1920s, contained numerous military photographs, and 80 of the 137 pages were about war or its results. A Young Citizens League was set up in 1919 to foster character and manhood in the nation’s youth and by 1926 its Magazine was printing 15,000 copies. The effectiveness of this continued indoctrination in imperial militarism was vividly displayed in 1922. The Cabinet took only three minutes to decide that the country would go to war if necessary and over 13,000 men enlisted instantly for ser-

vice. The Gallipoli spirit still called. In the 1930s there was a growing reaction against war in the western world, reflected in part in such books and films as All Quiet on the Western Front. In New Zealand works which emphasised war’s horrors rather than the soldiers’ courage and self-sacrifice were criticised as libelling the soldiers. Yet here too the ugly truth about war could not forever be Kept out of the public eye. Between 1936 and 1939 there occurred a breakthrough with the publication of three books by New Zealand authors.

194 A MAN’S COUNTRY? The first, Passport to Hell, was written by a woman journalist, Robin Hyde, and was the true story of one veteran, James Douglas Stark. It was a pioneering piece of oral history. Robin Hyde wanted to cut through

the official legend and to tell of ‘that most unknown of soldiers, the ordinary man’. She described the farewell of the troops from Wellington: They were lined up and told they were the finest body of men that had ever left New Zealand. This was not a new experience for most of them. On the Invercargill station a fat man had told them the same thing. . . . Once again on the Wellington wharves they were informed of their own fineness; and as with one voice the troops replied: ‘Aw, go wipe your chin’.

Robin Hyde proceeded, in effect, to wipe the nation’s chin in the reality of war. James Douglas Stark was in one sense a war hero. Once recom-

mended for the VC, he was repeatedly called upon to perform extraordinary acts of courage, and ‘the world hereafter could not be too martial

for his liking’. Yet who was this New Zealand war hero? Was he the modest Anglo-Saxon gentleman of legend? Far from it. Born of a Delaware

Indian father and a Spanish mother, he was from earliest days a drifter

, and a thug, a delinquent whose hot temper and pugilistic habits early put him into conflict with authority. He was not a settled pioneer farmer but a boy schooled in violence and the habits of the bush, a world ‘as disorderly as himself’. Yet in the chaos and violence of war Starkie thrived

while the more respectable types did not. Years of penal servitude in military sentences were dramatically cancelled as Army officers called upon his services in battle. The man who flourished on the battlefield was the male who represented all that the official culture of New Zealand

had found most objectionable: the drifting fighting criminal. Robin Hyde told of how when battle was over, there would be illicit boozing and visits to brothels, swearing and gambling. War was not a pursuit of gentlemen but of crude untrained wild men. It was moral chaos, a revival of frontier disorder.’ The second book, published one year later in 1937, was John A. Lee’s autobiographical novel, Czvilian into Soldier. As in Passport to Hell, the

hero of the novel, John Guy, was a man who in civilian life had been a drifter and a vagabond and who early on in training was thrown into military prison. Yet once at war he found that his ‘experience of vagabondage . . . his very lack of social respectability [was] a title to considerable appreciation’. In battle he found to his astonishment that he was regarded as a success — ‘He was more out of harmony with the

THE MAN’S MAN 195 military machine than any man in his Battalion, and yet of all he got a decoration’. Guy discovered what Robin Hyde had made explicit, that the heroic are often the most brutish. Battlefield courage is not heroic self-control but an animalistic frenzy. In learning to kill, a soldier had to ‘become a beast’. When he left the trench and raced forward into battle, he ‘sloughed off a million years of social repression. He had freed the beast and atavism came shambling out of humanity. .. . In those hours he had gone from civilisation to slime’. War, in other words, released all those male passions that society had struggled so hard to repress. It

was a reversal of accepted moral pieties. There was no gentlemanly chivalry at war — ‘All was atrocity, and the game was to survive’. Before

battle Guy discovered that drinking and gambling and swearing, and above all whoring, increased dramatically. War corroded not only the gentlemanly virtues but the established male ways of coping with war. Self-control and the repression of feeling turn out in the experience of John Guy, Lee’s hero, to be counter-productive: To be a man. To be a man. To be a man. How important that was. How much more important than winning the war. To steel himself not to quake, that was a campaign to fight, alas, a losing battle.

Guy sensed himself more afraid of showing fear before his mates than of the falling shells themselves. He began to observe his own reactions and felt himself going mad under the strain. Terrified of being thought a ‘weakling’, he competed unnecessarily to the point of exhaustion in physical tasks. And when the desire to pour out these anxieties in tears welled up, he fought back the urge — crying was the greatest tabu of

all, a sure sign of ‘cracking up’.

An army could perish but only civilians might shed tears. Soldiers’ tears were only applauded when outlaws cried behind the granite of military jails. Tears were not only unmilitary, they were uncomradely.

Guy found himself drawing aside to sob in secret and discovered that ‘the tears indeed seemed to ease an inward pressure’, providing a perverted pleasure. Yet Guy to his cost continued to cry secretively: “His ignorance

of nervous trouble, his hatred of admitting that he wept like a baby without being conscious of the weeping’s cause, drove him to concealment, and nearer and nearer to the edge of a complete breakdown.’ Instead of weeping openly, the New Zealand soldier released the tension, accord-

ing to Guy, in obscenity. To swear was to express feeling and pain in a perverted but acceptably male way:

196 A MAN’S COUNTRY? Obscenity was really a veneer, a protective coloration to tenderness. Guy’s companions, hating to be caught out as humans, as fathers, as lovers, or sons, pretended to be bad men. They swaggered valiantly down the roads, keeping heart-burnings obscured. Thus it was that some of the most sentimental let their voices yell what was most crude and vile. They had most to hide.

In the end John Guy found relief in the arms of a prostitute. This was perhaps the major significance of Czvilian into Soldier. It was the first New Zealand book to strip away the hypocrisy about sex in war. The reader learns early on that the fear of catching VD and ending one’s days rotting behind barbed wire as a disgraced and imprisoned victim was an ever-present concern to the soldier, a fate as feared as death in battle. The compulsory lectures on VD in Army camp and the instant attention of prostitutes once the soldier was given leave are described. The soldier’s talk is constantly about the brothels of Cairo or Paris. Sex is at the forefront of the soldier’s consciousness. Guy at first resisted tempt-

ation, giving as his excuse poverty ‘so as not to seem puritanical’. Gradually in the heat of battle he realised its importance to his comrades: For lust expressed induced a moment wherein one attained forgetfulness, even if forgetfulness was succeeded by shame. Just for one instant before the crashing thunder men wanted to be nearly men. The disintegrating shell would obliterate the shame of all contacts.

He began to accept the psychic value to men of prostitution. On leave in London he decided that the women who ministered to the appetities of soldiers were not after all so vicious. In a world of moral chaos ‘a whore

was at least a step on the road to normality. Excess profits were good business, murder was nobility, bungling was generalship, getting drunk or sleeping with a girl were a sin.’ Eventually Guy searched out a prostitute. The first night was largely spent in ‘innocent, life-restoring sleep’, and the relationship ended in mental, physical and economic exhaustion. Yet Guy had found relief from the repressed fears and pains of the war which he had been unable to find in any other way. He did not crack up; instead, he left the prostitute and ‘radiated happiness’. He swaggered down the street.? In his honesty about the significance of prostitutes to the life of the New Zealand soldier and in his attempt to provide a justification, albeit a rather sentimental one, John A. Lee broke one tabu that had been central to the public mythology of war in New Zealand. The New Zealand soldier, Lee was ready to admit, had not been a gentleman. In the third

THE MAN’S MAN 197 book, We Will Not Cease, Archibald Baxter challenged other myths. The

book was an extraordinarily accurate and detailed account of Baxter’s own experiences as a conscientious objector during the Great War. It was a horrific story of abusive physical treatment while Baxter was imprisoned in New Zealand and then when he was sent overseas on a troopship to the front in France, a tale of starvation diets, gross beatings, a field punishment known as the crucifixion and a terrifying incident

when Baxter was tied up under heavy shelling. With the strain of upholding his principles under these pressures, he collapsed and was transferred to a mental hospital which became the ultimate torture. Two conclusions can be drawn from Baxter’s story. First, no reader can fail to be impressed by the astonishing moral and physical courage of Baxter

in his refusal to take part in war. The book was a powerful refutation of the view that pacifists were cowards and that the only true test of a man’s bravery was his participation in war. Baxter in his own way fulfilled

the male aspirations of physical toughness and courage as much as any war hero. Baxter also claimed repeatedly throughout the book that he was not alone in his attitude towards war. Ordinary New Zealand soldiers whom he met during his ordeal expressed their understanding for his position and some admiration for his stand. At times these incidents were portrayed by Baxter as a logical expression of the traditional stereotype

— the democratic humane New Zealander resisting the class-based discipline of British officers. But there was more to it than that. Baxter implied that many of the New Zealand soldiers were genuinely sympathetic to his cause and that a considerable number of them were as dubious about the legitimacy of war as he was. Far from heroic participants in a glorious crusade, some of the New Zealand soldiers emerge from Baxter’s account as unwilling victims of a bureaucratic machine, men who lacked the high moral courage of Baxter himself.’ In challenging the idea of war as the supreme test of New Zealand manhood Baxter’s book posed the most direct attack on the war mythology

in New Zealand. It was to have little impact. Although written in 1937 the book was not published until 1939 and only a few copies reached New Zealand before the outbreak of World War II. The unsold books were destroyed in the London Biitz of 1941. If Baxter’s volume had little public impact, the same was largely true of the accounts by Lee and Hyde. Both were published in England and although they sold well in that country, they do not appear to have created great waves in New Zealand itself. Admittedly, by the late thirties there was a body of committed pacifists among Christian groups and among

some left-wing students and intellectuals. But the majority of New

198 A MAN’S COUNTRY? Zealanders still believed in the mythology of a Gallipoli spirit and young boys still found themselves undergoing school cadets and martial exercises. When war broke out once more in September 1939 there was little rejoicing, no one now believed that war was fun, but there was a readiness among men to do their masculine duty. Those who questioned suffered social ostracism, white feathers, and eventually imprisonment without right of appeal. Once more, New Zealand men went off to die in Europe’s war and once more conscription was introduced, this time by the very men who had opposed it 25 years earlier.

The mythology of the Second World War As in the First War the New Zealand troops of the Second World War were transferred on Winston Churchill’s initiative to a second southern

front where, hamstrung by lack of material support, they suffered traumatic defeats. Greece and Crete were the Gallipoli campaign of the ,

, Second World War — impossible missions in which New Zealand men died on behalf of British dreams. Thereafter, as in the Great War, New Zealand soldiers were used as an elite force at difficult and demanding battles in North Africa and Italy. The inevitable result was high casualties but also a strengthened sense of national achievement, especially since they now fought together as one New Zealand Division under their own commander, General Freyberg. Once again, war became a way in which New Zealand men tested themselves in an international setting and drew out of the experience a definition of the New Zealand male. The mythology of the war was carried in a multitude of forms — in the personal memoirs and letters of the soldiers themselves, in the newspaper accounts of battles, in the tributes of allied leaders and New Zealand politicians, in the speeches at war memorial dedications. Unlike the First World War, the Second World War produced a considerable number of New Zealand books. There was an outstanding series of official

histories, but, in addition, there were novels, memoirs and biographies of soldiers. In general, these novels and memoirs sold well. The most famous, Gunner Inglorious, Jim Henderson’s autobiographical account, has sold over 90,000 copies. Even a novel as little known today as Francis Jackson’s Passage to Tobruk saw over 12,000 printed in 1943, its year of publication. Such printed sources allow us a reasonable handle on the public mythology of the New Zealand male as it emerged from the second

war. Few of the books glorify war in a heroic manner and some — especially Guthrie Wilson’s Brave Company, Gordon Slatter’s A Gun in

My Hand and Henderson’s memoirs — emphasise the senseless waste |

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THE MAN’S MAN 199 of honest lives. Yet all find redeeming elements in the war experience and see it as a revealing test of manhood. Francis Jackson began his novel with a description of two soldiers joining up: ‘The Major waited for us to finish signing this and that, and congratulated us on our MANHOOD’. The importance of this can be gauged also from Les Hobbs’s claim that there was not one troopship ‘in which the story did not sweep like wildfire that among the privates lined up for medical inspection after sailing from New Zealand shores, one private, from the infantry, too, was discovered

to be a woman masquerading as a man’. War remained a defining experience for New Zealand males.° The traditions built up from the Boer and Great Wars were by now well entrenched. The men knew what New Zealanders at war were supposed to be like and these expectations must have coloured both their perceptions and their behaviour. Much of the mythology from the war merely represents an updating in a new setting. Traditions are developed and enriched, rather than transformed. The New Zealand male at war continued to be seen as physically superior. The most famous statement came from the expatriate John Mulgan in his Report on Experience. He met the New Zealanders below Ruweisat Ridge in the summer of 1942: It seemed to me, meeting them again, friends grown a little older, more self-assured, hearing again those soft inflected voices, the repetitions of slow, drawling slang, that perhaps to have produced these men for this one time would be New Zealand’s destiny. Everything that was good from that small, remote country had gone into them — sunshine and strength, good sense, patience, the versatility of practical men. And they marched into history.°

The idea that the New Zealanders were fitter, stronger and hardier than both their enemy and their allies emerged very early in the war — derived partly from earlier traditions and partly from the flattery of their leaders, especially Freyberg who before leaving Egypt for the battlefield of Greece paid tribute to their physical powers in a special order. The physical image is, however, slightly different from that of the past. The New Zealanders are no longer perceived to be unusually tall as had been so in the Boer and Great Wars. Instead, it is their strength and fitness that is noted. Indeed, some writers actually see the New Zealanders as more typically short than tall, When Keith Elliott was awarded a VC

in the desert, the NZEF Times reported: ‘Sergeant Elliott is a very representative New Zealand type, short and thickset’. Dan Davin in For the Rest of Our Lives described his countrymen at the station in Egypt:

200 A MAN’S COUNTRY? “Typical, they lounged there in unconscious physical pride, tending to be short, but broad in the shoulder and deep-chested’.’ As explanation for this broad-shouldered strength, there was a con-

tinued emphasis upon the rural origins of the New Zealand men. Goebels’s curt dismissal of the New Zealanders as mere ‘country lads’ was turned into a term of pride in a famous propaganda film of that name

produced by the new national film unit in 1940. Sergeant Elliott, our ‘representative New Zealand type’, was revealed in the N.Z.E.F. Times

to have been born ‘perhaps significantly’ on Anzac Day 1916, and educated at Agricultural High School. He had then taken up a farm in the bush district near Pahiatua, where he was a rugby player for the Bush Union — ‘a district which has produced some of New Zealand’s hardest battling Rugby forwards’. A more famous VC winner (he also won a bar),

Charles Upham, was eulogised after the war in a biography, Mark of the Lion. On the dustcover of the book his attributes were said to represent ‘the qualities of the typical New Zealand soldier’. We discover early in the book that the secret to his later prowess in battle was to be found

in his life as a shepherd and musterer in the high country of inland Canterbury. [This was a place] where men have to match the ruggedness of nature with

their own ruggedness of physique and temperament... . It was a life for men of only the tough variety. It built Upham into a man of wiry strength,

of great physical endurance. He gained an eye for country, a complete indifference to personal comfort, and he came to judge men by what they did and not by the clothes they wore or the titles they carried.

It is the back-country, the untamed frontier of bush and mountains and single men, which is claimed to be responsible for the typical New Zealand

man. This was the frontier which at the turn of the century literate New Zealanders wished to suppress not elevate in mythic terms. But by World War II the frontier had become a myth; a majority of New Zealand soldiers

were from towns and cities not the backblocks — and so the untamed frontier, in exaggerated virile form, became acceptable as myth. The same phenomenon, we have seen, occurred in rugby mythology where in the 1950s and 60s it was Colin Meads, the giant of the King Country, who became accepted as a ‘typical’ New Zealand man. In his war novel For the Rest of our Lives Dan Davin is even prepared to compare in approving

terms the behaviour of the New Zealand men on a ‘blow-out’ at Cairo or Alexandria with the bushwhackers’ tradition of ‘melting’ their cheque.

It was the same scene, wrote Davin: “The room at the pub, the whisky

THE MAN’S MAN 201 that lasted as long as the payroll, the terrible hangovers cured before

breakfast with tomorrow’s renewal, the terrible trulls’.® Strong and wiry, the New Zealand soldier of the Second World War was widely described as courageous and good at fighting. The early and, on the face of it, humiliating defeats in Greece, Crete and in the desert did not disturb the image of the New Zealand Division as a tough unit. Certain incidents took on a mythic quality: the 10-minute and ultimately pointless advance under fire into the town of Galatas in Crete; the night breakout from encirclement and probable capture of the whole division at Mingar Qaim; the triumph of El Alamein; the tense fight at Tebaga Gap where Second Lieutenant Ngarimu won a posthumous VC; the tough house-to-house fighting in the village of Cassino in Italy. These moments became legends. Because of the unusual fact that all the nation’s soldiers were together in one military division, the exploits of that division easily became a focus for national pride. Although some historians have begun to question the leadership decisions of the division, even now the per-

sonal courage of the men has remained without doubt. Certainly, the memoirs and novels of the war establish an image of the New Zealanders as men who found a deep personal satisfaction in battle. C. M. Wheeler,

recalling the situation in 1941, wrote: Yes, our boys were straining at the leash to join in. . . your colonial soldier doesn’t feel that the war is getting along and he’s getting nearerhome — unless he has a rifle in his hand and the trigger finger working.

Several novels express vividly the passionate release which the men experienced in battle itself. From Guthrie Wilson’s Brave Company. We run and run, leaping over the enemy’s trenches. We overtake a Hun who has been reluctant to flee, and flame leaps from Harris’s hip as his Bren gun chatters vindictively. The Hun spins at our feet, clutching at my legs in agony as I leap over him. I kick myself free savagely. Another Hun springs from the ground and gibbers something at us. It may be Kamerad, we do not know. Hadfield swings his tommy-gun by the barrel, smashing the Hun’s face to pulp. He falls and Hadfield jabs his great boot again and again into the prostrate body, roaring obscenities, drunk and demented. Quivering with passion, we drop at the foot of the next line of grapes. Dead and wounded bodies have littered our path and they are not ours.. . We are tense for slaughter, baying for blood... Two things and two only are vital. Love and war. And the greater is war.

If for Wilson war was a form of dementia, for Dan Davin it was more like orgasm:

202 A MAN’S COUNTRY? He began to run forward. He could hear himself shouting in a killing rage against those enemies in the dark. And on both sides of him and in front the night was full of men charging, like him exalted and raging, their mouths open and through them coming the cries of remote ancestors, the angers and passions that without a war might have lived out whole lives buried

and mute. This was the orgasm of battle, the rare climax to the long boredoms, the mere endurances. Men transfixed in their bayonets not only an overwhelmed enemy, but all the enemies of their secret life, the army,

the war itself, life even with its torment of hatred, fear and anxiety, the eternal foes whom now they struck at as a drunken man beats his wife on Saturday night, beating in her the impotence and futility and betrayal of life.’

In this both Wilson and Davin echoed the sentiments of John A. Lee in Civilian into Soldier. However, they failed to develop the insight Lee had shown in his novel — that the release of battle was the counterpoint of a constant repression of emotion, a fear of showing fear, that in the end was psychologically crippling. In both Davin’s and Wilson’s

novels, as in the other memoirs, it was argued that the New Zealand soldier struggled to stifle feelings and especially he tried not to show fear

before his mates. As Davin expressed it: Yes, they all had two fears. One of being a coward and all its certain consequences, a social death. The other of being killed. A certainty against a gamble. So they picked the gamble.

Wilson also pointed to this social death when he described one officer diving beneath a table at the sound of a bomb. There was an embarrassed laugh from his comrades: We are all thinking similarly and our thoughts may be summarised in the pithy army expression ‘he has had it’, implying that the individual concerned has lost his power to conceal his fears. . . . It may be reflected in

tears or in adamantine dourness.?°

Those tears which Lee had found such a relief seem to be interpreted as a sure sign of ‘cracking up’. Indeed, although this repression of feeling

was judged to be a characteristic of the New Zealand male in each of the earlier wars, it became the essence of manhood in World War II. Howard Kippenberger was an intelligent and humane lawyer who as a brigadier in World War II worked to prevent excessive casualties among his men. Yet to read his memoir, Infantry Brigadier, is to be struck by his apparently callous lack of sympathy for the men, especially the officer, who showed any signs of cracking up or who became in any situation

THE MAN’S MAN 203 flustered or ‘het-up’. To be cool remained the model. To be accused of ‘flapping’ was, as Les Hobbs recalled, ‘a damning charge’."? Fearful of showing fear, the New Zealand soldier was seen as having difficulty in coping with moments of high feeling. C. M. Wheeler claimed that one form of repression was humour. ‘In army life,’ he wrote, ‘the

local jesters always tide over with some idle and noisy patter those moments charged with the dangerous luxury of emotion.’ Death itself brought the strongest challenge to the prohibition on tears. In the memoirs, especially those of Kippenberger and Jim Burrows, the accepted response to the death of close friends was a controlled nonchalance. There was no luxuriating in the sorrow. In his novel Passage to Tobruk, Francis

Jackson describes the inability of the New Zealand male to show sympathy. One of the men had just heard of the death of his wife from double pneumonia: ‘Cheer up, cobber, she wouldn’t want you to feel bad — time will help a lot.’ It was Harold O’Connell who spoke. The stinker personality of the gang had left him as if it had been torn from him like a mask. We were clumsy in our efforts to cheer him up, and tried to show our sympathy by such small things as a hand on his shoulder.

Denial and a hand on the shoulder was the extent of emotional sympathy allowed. ’?

The fear of showing fear was reflected in other attitudes recognisable from earlier wars. There was slight suspicion of cowardice attached to

the conscripts by those who had volunteered for the war prior to the introduction of conscription in 1940. A sharper suspicion was attached to the base bludger, the pampered softie behind the lines, and even more to the civilian who stayed at home. In Dan Davin’s novel a major turning point comes when Frank leaves a comfortable desk job at Cairo and rejoins the division at the front. “Today was the day, then,’ Davin writes, ‘and he was a man again’. In Brave Company one of the characters, Corry, returns to his platoon from a period of recuperation at the base. Then follows several pages of invective against the base wallahs: ‘Ha! Ha!’ he barks sardonically. ‘I tell you they live in palaces, bloody palaces, with wops to ciean their boots and women to wait on them... It hurts. It hurts like hell. But,’ his voice rises, ‘Pll tell you what hurts most of all — they call themselves soldiers!’

To be a proper man, to be a genuine soldier, you had to be at the front. The base bludger may have creases in his trousers and be good at parade-

204 A MAN’S COUNTRY? ground drill, but he had no status in the only hierarchy that really mattered — the hierarchy of courage.’” This gave rise to other attitudes which we have encountered in earlier wars and in the pioneer male community. There was an unofficial system of seniority based on length of service — the ‘new chum’ was not accepted

until he had proved himself under fire. A snobbishness existed among the units. The infantry, because of its higher casualty rate and tougher life, was ‘king of the outfit’. Officers, in particular, seem to have felt an urgent need to establish their personal courage in the eyes of the men. Indeed, it was a prerequisite of popular respect. A good example is General

Freyberg himself. Although a New Zealander by education, Freyberg initially evoked considerable suspicion. Despite his VC and his wellknown swimming feat at the Dardanelles in 1915, Freyburg had been a regular officer in the British Army and so provoked all the traditional hostility to that privileged caste. What appears to have won men’s loyalty and made him a legend was his increasing nationalism and determination

to stay with the New Zealanders when higher posts might have been offered, and his disregard for personal safety. Les Hobbs wrote: ‘It was common knowledge that he possessed more than his share of that quality

which all men admire — courage.’ There were other officers in the New Zealand Army who also won hero status. One was Howard Kippenberger, or ‘Kipp’. Unlike Freyberg, he was a civilian and far more down-to-earth and pragmatic. Yet in his

autobiography he suggested that his leadership would have been imperilled if he had flinched under fire before his men. Another officer hero was Charles Upham who illustrates better than any the mythology

of the New Zealand officer in the Second World War. Upham rose through the ranks largely through his specatacular, some would say crazy,

acts of courage. Under heavy fire he would rush ahead of his men and coolly lob grenades at enemy snipers. Twice he was awarded the Victoria Cross for such acts, and his horrifying disregard for his own safety and his complete denial of pain became legendary. Throughout the 10 days

of the Crete campaign when some of his most terrifying feats were accomplished he was constantly sick with dysentery, not to mention the

wounds in his shoulder and foot. Once when he was suffering from pneumonia and jaundice he refused to be evacuated by ambulance, lest that be seen as a sign of weakness. This was an alienation from the body that was pathological yet it was the basis of his men’s respect. Upham was seen as leading from the front, a ‘natural leader’ as distinct from the ‘artificial’ class-based leadership of the British Army where men led from behind. This was, of course, an old distinction that went back to

THE MAN’S MAN 205 Lieutenant Madocks in the South African War. Like Madocks, Upham was noted for his extreme almost obsessive modesty and his insistence on transferring credit from himself to his men. Apart from his exemplary courage, he wished for no special distinctions, nothing that would provide privileges above the ordinary soldier.*°

In this respect Upham was regarded as typical of New Zealand officers. There is barely a World War II memoir which does not draw attention to the alleged egalitarian democratic quality of the New Zealand officers. Kippenberger writes of the astonishment of an American com-

mander, Wyatt, at the responsibility and initiative left in the hands of lower officers and men in the New Zealand forces. Les Hobbs argues that other armies ‘were openly incredulous at the officer-rank relationship in the forward units’. Such claims, whether true or not, represented a well-established mythology, but there was now a new element. Although the New Zealand officer in the previous wars was described as a man who led from the front, as a ‘natural’ leader, he remained a gentleman in his personal habits. Even if he did not regard parade-ground discipline as of great significance, he could at least supervise it. Upham, however, was known as a man who forgot the correct parade-ground commands and wore yellow socks to the presentation of his VC. He lacked all pretence

at spit and polish. Furthermore, he called his men by their Christian names, he swore with them, he even got drunk with them. He was, in short, ‘one of the boys’.’° To read the novels is to be struck by the same image. Nearly all feature heroic officers — men who refuse to give themselves ‘airs’ and are leaders

by personality, not the power of their stripes. “What’s the difference between officer and man?’ asks a character in J. H. Fullarton’s novel, Troop Target. ‘They both use a shovel for a latrine and they both look bloody horrible unshaven.’ The officers make a point of mixing it with the men. There is Mick Donovan in A Gun in My Hand: ‘One of those natural soldiers that all the rest of us mugs in the platoon instinctively followed’. Mick has no scruples about giving away the symbols of authority and drinking with his mates as equals. Mick in the middle of the circle, his battledress rumpled and his sergeant’s

stripes still in the Q.M. Store. Nobody put up stripes in our outfit, that was for base bludgers. Mick wearing the things that counted, the red triangle patch of an infantry brigade on his arm and the white on black New Zealand

flash on his epaulette.

There is Lieutenant Brent in Brave Company:

206 A MAN’S COUNTRY? In action, where danger is most constant, there Brent will be — quiet, not easily perturbed, reliable, trusted by those who follow him, dominant come the worst horrors of the Hun. He knows most of us by our Christian names, winks at our small pilferings. ... He is quiet spoken, equable of temperament... . But he is also a hard drinker and, in the mood, a lover of laughter and company.

Officers are portrayed as modest natural leaders, brave, unflappable, not concerned with finicky discipline, but also hard drinkers. In one scene Brent is handed a huge tumblerful of cognac, half of which he “deals with’ in two swallows. ‘We all admire this performance, appreciating from vivid experience the stability of Brent’s stomach and head.’ Coolness in battle and the ability to hold one’s alcohol become related qualities. *’ Mateship emerges as a dominant theme in the war literature. Even in those books which are most critical of the idiocy of war, such as Jim Henderson’s Gunner Inglorious or Guthrie Wilson’s Brave Company, the one compensation is seen to be the close friendship of man with man. Henderson’s account is a prolonged tribute to Kiwi mateship. He claims that the New Zealanders survived the ordeals of an Italian prison and hospital by Keeping together. Some soldiers, he wrote, lost control and self-respect and became covered in lice. ‘But these men were not New

Zealanders. We were proud of that fact. We helped one another. We wouldn’t let a fellow-countryman get that way.’ Brave Company focuses

on the intimate and intense relationship of the men in one platoon. An important moment in the book occurs when the main character, Lawyer, is offered a job with intelligence. The promotion will get him safely away

from the front-line, but it also means leaving his mates: I would be reluctant to leave them, abashed to announce my departure from their ranks, distressed to think that some other would be carrying my Bren magazines, sharing my corporal’s slit trench, frying oysters over our Primus.

Eventually, although Lawyer leaves the platoon, he finds himself going

into the final battle alongside them: | Hadfield on my right, Burton on my left. I have a feeling that I have returned home and that there is indeed no place like home. Amid the Gargantuan throbbing of the guns, the rocking of the earth, the end of the world, I feel, as we press deeper into Hun territory behind the barrage, that I have come home. It is good to be home.’®

Wilson was not the only novelist to describe returning to the circle of mates as coming ‘home’. In Davin’s novel, For the Rest of Our Lives,

THE MAN’S MAN 207 a central incident is the return from base of a leading character, Frank, to his division in the desert. He meets up with his old mates and thinks: ‘Home for them was wherever the battalion was’. In Davin’s novel the circle of mates is as broad as the battalion; in Wilson’s it consists of a platoon; in Francis Jackson’s Passage to Tobruk it is a ‘gang’; and in Gordon Slatter’s novel A Gun in My Hand the central relationship consists of the wartime friendship of two men.’? Whatever the size of the circle, the mateship of these novels possessed

characteristics reminiscent of the World War I diaries and the pioneer male community. It was a mateship of circumstance — one created by the accidental grouping of men in platoons and forged by common exper1-

ences rather than sustained by individual effort and volition. This perhaps explains the extraordinary nostalgia that surrounded mateship after the war — never again would circumstance create such tight bonds between men. Similarly, as in both the Great War and the frontier, there were almost no open declarations of friendship between men. That would

be too emotional, too close to the homosexual tabu. Jim Henderson described the repressed unspoken nature of this mateship: No man can tell his cobber he loves him. There’s just an unspoken understanding, and the way they walk and eat and smoke and yarn and shoulder jointly good and evil times. And the way one man will suddenly look up

at his pal and give a slow, broad grin — oh, you can tell all right. It’s a friendship beyond the ken of man and woman, a friendship that is utterly

unselfish, a friendship beyond all understanding.

The closest men came to a declaration of friendship was a swearing offhand comment such as Corry’s remark when he returned to his platoon in Brave Company: ‘Pack of bastards,’ he declared. ‘But I’m glad to be back!’ The expletive at the start was necessary, a public renunciation of anything caring or self-revealing, to preface the softer admission which followed.”°

Even less acceptable was any display of physical affection between men. In several novels there are lyrical descriptions of men’s bodies, especially in Brave Company and Michael Joseph’s J7// Soldier No More, yet not a hug of affection can be found. The homosexual in Davin’s novel commits suicide. This is not to imply that there is no physical contact between men — what contact there is is of an acceptably virile and violent kind. When Corry arrives back to his platoon, he is promptly jumped upon, sent sprawling on his bed, and generally thumped until all his mates are exhausted. Only then 1s he allowed to sit up. The ‘rough house’, in other words, becomes the legitimate outlet of men’s need for physical

208 A MAN’S COUNTRY? contact. Several of the memoirs described how when on leave in Cairo or on Italian dance floors, New Zealanders would pack down into surging

rugby scrums, especially if there were South Africans present. The memoirs tell too that from the Division’s arrival in Egypt, there were organised rugby competitions among the troops and quite a number less organised but no less enthusiastic.”'

In the literature of the period, the world of mates has its own language. Men are given nicknames, local Arabic or Italian slang words are picked up, and swearing is openly recognised as a source of pride. Jim Henderson speaks of a digger’s envy when confronted by a swearing

Hindu; Kenneth Sandford in his tribute to Charles Upham makes no attempt to disguise the fact that ‘profanity just poured out of him naturally’; and in Brave Company there 1s a story of a drunk Corporal Hadfield

noticing the chaplain arriving and commenting, ‘Mind your language, you foul-mouthed bastards. He’s not a bad bloke, the f—— padre’.?? Hadfield was drunk. Here again, the literature admits an element of the male culture that had not been publicly accepted previously. Les Hobbs, for example, concedes that the real problem with alcohol among the troops in Italy was the abundance of wine and the absence of their favoured drink, beer. In the novels the hard-drinking man 1s seen as the archetypal Kiwi bloke. In Passage to Tobruk, for example, one soldier is admitted to ‘the crazy gang’ and given the nickname ‘Hoppy’ because he ‘had proven himself to be one of the boys . . .[who] could drink many a good man under the table in one sitting’. The novels show no tone of apology or shame at all about such values. In Fullarton’s Troop Target

the wowsers are openly mocked; in Brave Company drunkenness is actually praised. As one character says, ‘Liquor is given to man... how do I put it? To — er — aid conversation. To lift him above himself.’ The good ‘piss-up’, according to Wilson, was what allowed the soldier in the end to become more than human. After the banter, the singing and the brawling, came the philosophising of early morning when the

hidden fears, the ‘Fear of Fear’ no less, could enter the circle of discourse.”° If these books were prepared to accept the drunkenness of the Kiwi

soldier, they were also more explicit on his sexual adventures. Admittedly, such matters are not usually found in the memoirs — not a word in the reminiscences of Kippenberger, Jim Burrows or the biography

of Charles Upham. Les Hobbs in Kiwi Down the Strada, which specifically concerned the life of the soldier away from the front, prefaced

his account with a disclaimer: If anyone, however, has bought this book in the hope that it will be an

THE MAN’S MAN , 209 exposure of carrying ons as between the New Zealanders and the signorinas | he — although it may be she — should get their money back. Nothing is written here, it is hoped, which a former soldier’s wife could not know about.”*

Not all, however, were quite so coy. In his memoir C. M. Wheeler vividly described the bragging competition between Kiwi soldiers to gain the favours of a particularly attractive prostitute, and he recalled one conversation in which warnings about VD were openly scoffed at: “The M.O.’s Union get a bonus from the society of Grass Widows back in New Zealand to spread yarns like that, just to keep the Kiwis faithful’. As for the novels, few of them dwell on the issue to the extent that Lee

did in Civilian into Soldier, but most of them accept visits to the whorehouse as part of the soldier’s life, even if this practice at first shocks the colonial innocent. Dan Davin in For the Rest of Our Lives is the most explicit of the writers on this subject. One soldier was scoffed at as ‘the married virgin’ because he wrote to his wife each week and refused to

enter Sadie’s in Alexandria or Fifi’s in Cairo; another character tells a horrifying story of three soldiers on leave in Cairo who after persuading a prostitute to ‘give us a shufty at her kish’ take her one at a time in a lavatory. But Davin also defends visits to the brothel as the natural response of men who believe they are about to die and with whom no respectable women would risk building up a relationship.” Finally, the literature also portrays soldiers as inveterate thieves and players of the blackmarket. The informal memories and novels make no attempt to hide men’s pride in their stealing abilities. In Troop Target Tom Fraser becomes a legend for his thieving skill: “His crime sheet was a thing of beauty for it sported as many entries as a money-lender’s ledger’. Jim Henderson tells in admiring terms of one comrade who stole a trainload of Army coal and pocketed the proceeds; and C. M. Wheeler shows no shame at all in recounting how he and his mates stole a chicken from

a Greek peasant who refused to sell it. The code which emerges from these books is that pilfering from the Army and from the natives was acceptable — only stealing from one’s mates was a basic tabu. Les Hobbs

emphasises the power of this code when he describes the blackmarket activities of the New Zealand Division in Italy — ‘Freyberg’s Forty Thou-

sand Thieves’ he happily calls them. ‘New Zealanders,’ Hobbs says, ‘mostly honestly but certainly illegally’ bought goods at the Army canteen and then went round the corner to sell them at a profit. The distinction between the artificial code of the law and the natural ‘honesty’ of the soldier is here perfectly drawn.’°

That petty pilfering could be openly trumpeted as a characteristic

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,eeif qe .Yee ras as Cee eee : caeees " nye , wey Co, .. af aon 9 Dad's Home. ° Of YE ‘Mornin’, Mrs. Hogan—I notice your | “HM, MY WIFE IS OUT IN THE CAR.” good man’s ’ome again. He hits her, she only hits the car — marriage in New Zealand as seen in cartoons from the Artists’ Annual (1932) and the New Zealand Observer (1926).

the main staple of anti-woman humour in New Zealand journals of the interwar period. They portray wives as having three main characteristics: they are materialistic spendthrifts; they are talkative nags; and they are moralistic prudes. These descriptions were, of course, grossly unfair. All the evidence suggests that women skimped and saved during the period rather than spent wildly — ‘making do’ was a central virtue. If they wished

to talk to their husbands at home that is only what one might expect of the most important relationship of their lives; and if they expressed some disapproval of their husbands’ drinking, this is understandable given

the waste of money and the violence which it often involved. The truth of these humorous images is not, however, our main concern. More importantly, they reveal in an indirect way the self-concept that men held about their role as family men. Beyond his undoubted st~us as household provider and driver of the car (there were occasional jokes, even then, about women drivers), the man was expected when in exclusive male company, to express resentment of the obligations of family life. The man did not try to understand his wife’s problems, he instead com-

plained that her demands disturbed his domestic peace. Although he expected efficient housekeeping, he felt entitled to complain about his wife’s supposedly spendthrift habits; although he asked for the emotional

252 A MAN’S COUNTRY? support of his wife, he was encouraged to laugh at her desire for communication or her eagerness to improve the house; and although her

, loyalty was to remain unquestioned, he liked to play the role of the naughty boy. Whether this was actually the behaviour of New Zealand husbands during this period is not the point. This is what men expected of themselves. Within the male culture the family man was portrayed as an unwilling participant, nostalgically yearning for his unattached days. Occasionally, in the jokes there is the suggestion of cold hostility or even

violence. More often, the jokes simply play upon the husband’s desire to escape the demands of home life. ‘Visitor: ‘I hear your husband invents things — how thrilling — tell me, what does he invent?’ Wife: ‘Well, mostly excuses for stopping late at the office.’

The jokes represented an attempt to resolve the contradictory stereotypes

of the man’s man and the family man.**

Man alone -_ Humour is not our only way of getting beyond the public trumpetings about family life and hearing the attitudes of men among themselves. During the interwar period, for the first time in New Zealand literary history, a number of novels appeared which instead of aping English literary models or attempting to establish a colonial gentility tried to represent realistically the character of New Zealand life. Inevitably, the male

culture was documented in these novels. Although this literary movement encompassed a range of figures, including Robin Hyde and John A. Lee, we will look principally at three works: Jane Mander’s Allen Adair,

John Mulgan’s Man Alone, and the short stories of Frank Sargeson. Jane Mander’s novel is the earliest of these, published in 1925. Astonishingly it was written by a woman, a committed feminist and a person who had been educated in the literary crucible of Greenwich Village, New York. Yet out of the memories of her childhood, Jane Mander was able to write a book focused upon a New Zealand male and } describing from his perspective the transition from single male to family man. When the novel begins Allen Adair decides to leave Auckland, leave

his family home, and go north to ‘the land of lost men. . . peopled with nomads and wasters’. He becomes a boatman on the Kaipara Harbour. A free unattached male, he nevertheless encounters women on his job and is not flattering about them: ‘Women talked because they liked to

hear the sound of their own voices, not because they expected to be

THE FAMILY MAN, 1920-50 253 answered.’ At one point he ends up kissing a married woman, Mrs Arden, and immediately projects all his distaste on to her. “He was a beastly rotter.

No. He was not. He had been trapped into it. Damn that little viper!’ He escapes from her bedroom, ‘that sweetly pretty chintz room, a womanish room,’ and finds relief in a storm, in cleansing nature. Despite these feelings of hostility to women, Allen gets the urge to leave his itinerant life and settle down. He opens a store on the gum-

fields and decides to marry Marion, a woman he met in Auckland. But | even as he does so, he has doubts. He considers asking a male friend about marriage but realises that men don’t talk about such serious matters. ‘He could never ask him the things he would most have liked to know.’

Even at the wedding he is ambivalent: Had he been too hasty about all this? He was giving up youth and freedom.

He grew horribly afraid of Marion. ... He had a desperate notion to run away. For this business would fix him, impale him upon the relentless spike of conventional living, take adventure from his life... . He would become a father, a breadwinner, a citizen, a member of the school committee, an orderly procession of prosaic things, the last thing he had ever meant to become.

The attitudes are reminiscent of those we found in the humour pages — the male fearing marriage, desiring to escape, and nostalgic for his lost youth. As the marriage unfolds, so the pattern is even more recognisable. Allen comes home at night expecting domestic tranquillity and

finds instead that Marion wishes to talk. Allen ‘had never thought of a wife as a person with whom one discussed things. He did not expect her to share his thoughts.’ He buries himself 1n a book rather than discuss the forthcoming pregnancy. When a daughter 1s born Allen goes outside

— unable to stand ‘his utter eclipse in the welter of feminine fuss’. There are other problems. Although his socks were always darned and his slippers warmed, ‘in his own house he felt as if he were being continually prepared for an examination in housekeeping’. Nor did he like the way Marion nagged at his daughter; and inevitably he found her material demands unnecessarily extravagant. She was disappointed at the lack of a silver tea service; she continually fretted to return to the city, and like his own sisters she hoped for part of his father’s estate. ‘Caring

nothing for possessions Allen was a little sickened at the feminine scrambling for things.’ Wife as spendthrift, wife as talkative nag, wife as houseproud — the images are all there. Jane Mander has an explanation: ‘There were two Allen Adairs, that was the trouble.’ There was Allen the family man, who wished to be mothered and cared for. He admitted that ‘life was more comfortable in its outward aspects with her

294 A MAN’S COUNTRY? than without her.’ But there was also the Allen who was nostalgic for the free days of youth and who aspired to the uncomplicated companionship of other men. His ambivalence and inner division become focused

in hostility towards his wife. How then does he resolve the tension of his marriage? Initially he retreats into his work, to the store, ‘a kind of sanctuary to his mind, rough and strong, with no sign of female cantankerousness about it’. Later, he discovers a mate, Dick Rossiter, a lone fossicker on the gumfield. Allen visits him regularly in his gumfields hut.

The friendship of mates compensates for the deficiencies of marriage: Dick knew that at last he had found a man who would never ask him any question, or even look as if he needed explanations. And Allen felt that at last he could give some human being what it really wanted of him, and by so doing feed some starved emotion in himself. After all, men did not demand confessions of each other. It was women who talked themselves out, and often found the residue the palest of ashes. Men preferred the abstraction of imagination, always more interesting than that of fact.*

If Jane Mander in Allen Adair tells the story of how a Kiwi male deals with marriage, John Mulgan in Man Alone never gets his protagonist

to the altar. Instead he remains within the male culture of the unmarried and looks at women and the prospect of becoming a family man from

the perspective of that culture. The attitudes towards family responsibilities are established in the opening chapters. Johnson is an assisted immigrant who arrives in Auckland looking for work. Among his shipboard companions is a returning soldier: ‘It’s home again now for me, mate,’ he said, ‘and there’ll be the wife and kids and all there waiting to meet us.’ He spoke without enthusiasm.

Johnson quickly finds a place within the itinerant unattached male com-

munity. With a mate, Scotty, he drifts from one rural job to another, making money when he needs it, taking a holiday when he feels ready for one, a system of ‘hard work for the good time and never stay long anywhere’. He is soon socialised into New Zealand male culture: He talked as they all talked. He got to know the dates of the race meetings

and where to get beer in town at most times, and the story of the 1905 match when Wales beat the All Blacks by one try to nil, and why it was necessary to have a farmers’ government to protect the real interests of the country.

THE FAMILY MAN, 1920-50 255 From the perspective of this culture women are unwilling interlopers.

The first woman who appears in the book is a prostitute and ‘she’s no good to touch’. The next is a young woman, Mabel, to whom Johnson has a brief attraction, but when he later visits her, now married, his mate is reassuring: ‘You’re well out of that, Johnnie,’ Scotty said afterwards, while they waited by the road to pick up a lift. ‘She’s a mean woman, you can tell it by the way she watches her husband while he eats.’

Johnson, having fled a relief camp and the Auckland riots, finds a job in the King Country with Stenning. Stenning, married himself, urges Johnson to settle down and get married. ‘You ought to get married you know, Johnson, if you’re settling here. You’ll want someone to keep your house if you get settled in across the river there.’ Stenning’s wife, Rua,

is a Maori and Johnson does not approach her with good recommendations. ‘She’s a bitch, that’s all,’ the lorry driver had told him when he arrived. Eventually Rua entices Johnson into a physical relationship. Johnson is not comfortable — ‘he did not want to be disturbed by Rua’. He preferred to return to the undemanding man-to-man relationship with Stenning: Johnson and he had never talked more than was necessary; but they had talked about the farm and the stock and the work that was to do, and had discussed and argued with equality.

Now that a woman has disrupted this mateship, Johnson decides to leave.

On the last night Stenning catches Rua visiting him. In the resulting fight Stenning is shot. Johnson decides to flee into the sanctuary of the bush, and in his subsequent adventures the message, if it is not already clear, is hammered home — women and especially wives threaten his safety, and mates protect him. After weeks of starved wandering in the bush, he encounters an old man. ‘Howdy, mate,’ the old man said. “Come

on in. Shut the door.’ He is fed and clothed by the old man. Next he is betrayed by Rua and her sister-in-law who catch sight of him in Hamilton. He is saved once more by an old mate, Peterson, who smuggles

him aboard an oil tanker. Even back in England, the pattern does not cease. Jim, Johnson’s brother, influenced by a wife who was ‘pale and mean with dislike’ of Johnson, asks him to leave the country: ‘It’s the kids we’re thinking of,’ he explains. Johnson is happy to leave. He has become nostalgic for the companionship of his mates.

256 A MAN’S COUNTRY? There were memories of men he had known and liked, men, black and clay-stained on New Zealand roads, sweating on steamer decks, paintblistered, dirty, and lice-ridden in the seamen’s camp at Panama, tough, sceptical on New York docks. There was a desire in him now for a life that would give warmth and meaning to these memories before he grew too old, for a life active, but with good food and good drink, and men moving, making something together.

And so Johnson goes off to join the companionship of males fighting in the Spanish Civil War, and there is a quite extraordinary identification of mateship with international socialism, a link suggested earlier in the

book when Johnson had marched with unemployed men.*° One should not dismiss the appalling chauvinism of this book, so often regarded as New Zealand’s first great novel, as the observations of one man. John Mulgan was regarded as one of the hopes of his generation. He was an alienated intellectual, especially bitter for personal reasons against his own society. This led him to an identification with the unattached drifters of society, whom respectable New Zealanders con-

tinued to fear and condemn. The book is written, therefore, from out- | side the perspective of the established family man. Yet the attitudes towards women in the book are very similar to those found in Allen Adair,

and are not very different from those expressed in the popular humour of the day. What Man Alone suggests is how far those ambivalent feelings

of the family man towards his wife and his family duties grew out of his long involvement in the male culture, and the values and loyalties

bred by that culture. ,

The stories of Frank Sargeson also received the consistent applause of the critics. Many of these stories are short, designed for the pages of Tomorrow magazine. Although varying in subject-matter, certain themes emerge. One is the devotion of mothers for sons; another is the perfidious nature of women (mothers excepted). Girls play men false, wives nag,

women are hysterical and avaricious. The most common theme ts a sadness at the breaking of friendships between men. Usually the heroes are drifters in shearing gangs or other rural jobs, and the stories tell of how the relationship between cobbers is dissolved, leaving one with a nostalgia for lost mateship. In ‘A Pair of Socks’ the blokes working for a horse trainer split up because one gets jealous when the narrator gives the trainer a pair of socks. The story concludes: I’ve got a job in a grocer’s shop and I’m trotting a sheila. She’s a pearl of a sheila too. But when I think of the life Fred and me used to have,

THE FAMILY MAN, 1920-50 297 gee, if I don’t kick myself and wish I’d never gone and bought that damn pair of socks.

Trotting a sheila bears no comparison with mateship. In ‘A Man and His Wife’ the narrator is living in a relief camp with a man who has left his wife. ‘He never told me anything about the trouble he’d had with his wife.’ The man owned a dog and one day the dog died.

He bought a canary instead, and then the canary escaped. Later on we talked it over and I said he’d better try another dog, but he said no. I’ve still got the wife he said. Yes, I said. The wife never let me down, he said. No, I said. It was all I could think of to say. He put his things together and went right away, and it wasn’t long before I was going round regularly twice a week for a game of cards with the pair of them.

But right until the finish of the slump I was living on my own, and occasionally I’d sort of wish that Ted hadn’t been so careless with his canary.

Once more a story ends with the hero’s nostalgic memory of uncomplicated mateship, and once more it is broken by a woman.*? One cannot pretend that these books were wholly representative of New Zealand opinion. None of them were popular at the time, and their authors all felt distinctly at odds with their society. The itinerant unmarried drifters, who were the heroes of both Mulgan’s novel and so many of Sargeson’s stories, remained figures to be despised and controlled in the eyes of respectable middle-class New Zealanders. The authors identified with these men precisely because, like themselves, they were outcasts from society. Yet these works cannot easily be dismissed as evidence of male attitudes. The writers were consciously attempting to portray realistically the attitudes of ordinary people. They were not interested in hypocritical ideals and in their exposure of men’s attitudes towards women they may

have uncovered the other side of the pious moralising about the family. _ Mander, Mulgan, and Sargeson had captured a definite sense of the ordinary Pakeha New Zealand male. Certainly, Sargeson in particular spawned a considerable number of admiring imitators. A major theme in the novels and short stories of the late forties 1s the polarity that exists between the sexes and the difficulty faced when men and women came together in marriage. Almost none portray happy marriages. The wives feel isolated and abused, the men prefer their friendship with their mates.*” A. P. Gaskell was one of the finest of Sargeson’s followers. Many of his stories concern male culture — rugby in “The Big Game’, war in ‘No Sound of Battle’ — but one is of special interest to us. It concerns

258 A MAN’S COUNTRY? a schoolmaster, Mr Pinckney, invited back to a colleague’s home for dinner. The colleague’s sister, Miss Payton, has obvious marital designs upon him: A vision of having Miss Payton in his house, mightily occupied with it

and with him, crossed Mr Pinckney’s mind. A stifling thought. Claustrophobia. He recalled at home, years ago, entering the sitting-room just after his mother’s guests had left. The windows were all closed, and the air held a soft thick feminine smell. Stuffy.

Mr Pinckney panics and flees outside for some fresh air. On the way home he catches sight of a young couple kissing in the shadows, and the story concludes: ‘“‘Bloody women,”’ he muttered. ‘““Bloody women.”’’** It is not often that the hatred of New Zealand men for women was expressed in quite such a direct or pathological way. Yet it is not difficult to see that the image of Mr Pinckney fleeing from domestic claustrophobia, no less than the image of Johnson in Man Alone deciding that all women were untrustworthy or the image of Allen Adair asserting that women were materialistic nags, bore a close resemblance to the images implicit in the humour columns of the interwar period. Alongside the much-vaunted ideal of the respectable family man lay another ideal of the man who preferred his mates to his wife. What the novels and stories make evident is that this ambivalence towards women was derived from

the continued strength of the male culture. From the time when they left their mother’s care and entered school, males were encouraged to repress their more sensitive feelings lest they be thought of as effeminate;

they were instilled with admiration for men of physical toughness and indifference to pain such as soldiers and rugby players; they enjoyed good times drinking and skylarking with their mates and regarded friendship

as an undemanding carefree matter. Bred by the male culture in such values, they were ill-prepared for the obligations and values of a family. | They were incapable of dealing with the traumas of marriage and childbirth; they were unable to appreciate the costs in time and money of running a household. The world of men was quite different from the needs and expectations of women and young children. Little wonder that communication became difficult. In Robin Hyde’s portrait of a marriage in The Goduwits Fly, the disreputable father and the prudish respectable mother simply cease communicating at all. When James Baxter came to describe a New Zealand marriage he painted a picture of men and women travelling down entirely separate tracks. While National Mum takes down

the family photos, Labour Dad in Grunt Grotto ‘sits and reads the sporting page’.

THE FAMILY MAN, 1920-50 299 And so these two old fools are left, A rosy pair in evening light, To question Heaven’s dubious gift, To hag and grumble, growl and fight: The love they kill won’t let them rest, Two birds that peck in one fouled nest. Why hammer nails? Why give no change? Habit, habit clogs them dumb. The Sacred Heart above the range Will bleed and burn till Kingdom Come, But Yin and Yang won’t ever meet

In Calvary Street, in Calvary Street.*

Two cultures and two value systems: the world of men and the world of women. The problem was that the male had to straddle both worlds. He was socialised into the exclusive culture of men; but his own inner needs and society’s demand for social order encouraged him to become

a loyal family man. At its most benign the conflict between these two cultures was resolved in humour; more likely it produced resentment among men and resignation among women. At its worst it led to violence.

’ : ] Lae”

National Mum and Labour Dad

in their younger days. An digg _ illustration by Nicholas Turner Cait . iia from Barry Crump’s Hang on a 1h, fan SS

Minute Mate, 1961. ! ba | OO — A, i gm 46 sy IY pois _@ Ti yy pS A&E Ye} vf ~ ih

} — i yy; OM i IS 4 i, \,* ’ :

‘| AN ( MUM A (ce _ ET 7 xen oeJt. 7ra0

| AUER ee A oS EY

\SCRE \ Wl KH: ZI ova \y -SN JN J OELEEXO = ¥mE

ae rd RZa4 on ? toughness of their ancestors by soldierly life. They were always smiling — and we thought them the world’s best fighters. “You fight Nazis, too, eh Hori?’ ‘By Corrie, yes. When they see Hori coming they go for their lives pretty quick!’??

Successful and apparently eager participants in war and rugby, those

testing grounds of New Zealand masculinity and foci of national definition, the Maori people were assumed to be fully assimilated as honourable members of the New Zealand community. They had proved themselves in these crucial areas of male achievement and, of course, they had long participated freely in the yarning and drinking of the male pub.

Yet this participation in the male culture simply obscured the extent of cultural and economic difference between the races which remained. Particularly in the years to World War II and before the urban drift of the Maori population, Pakeha smugly assumed that a people who fought and played rugby together was necessarily one people. The continued existence of Maori traditions on the marae and the growing disparities of wealth and power remained hidden. The concentration upon male achievement in leisure-time, not work, deflected attention from the absence of Maori in positions of economic and political power. It has only

been since the male mythology has begun to crack and new forms of Maori male assertion have become evident — from motorcycle gangs to radical political leaders — that the old fictions of a racially harmonious society have begun to disintegrate. The third fiction maintained by the mythology was the perception of New Zealand as a rural, even frontier society. The male stereotype in

New Zealand was based initially upon pioneer traditions, and later versions — whether personified by Colin Meads, Charles Upham or even Barry Crump — continued to view backblocks experience and outdoor strength as the most distinctive element of Kiwi manhood. Yet for most of this century the majority of men have lived and worked in the city.

Although they attempted to maintain their outdoor identity through suburban gardening or deer-hunting trips at the weekend, few really were giants of the backblocks and even fewer used pioneering skills in daily tasks. Indeed, the outdoor image was decidedly unsuited to the sophis-

ticated urban world that had increasingly come to dominate the New Zealand economy. The male stereotype proved incapable of preparing the country for the new economic climate when in the 1970s New Zealand lost access to its traditional markets for agricultural products. Imaginative entrepreneurship, the ability to conceive new products and market them

THE BLOKE UNDER SIEGE, 1950-95 289 effectively — these were not qualities which were part of the traditional male stereotype. Economic truths were hidden by a continued pride in our backblocks heroes.

Finally we must consider the personal cost of the male stereotype to thousands of New Zealand men afraid to leave the role which they had been trained for since the cradle and lacking other models that might have ‘been more fulfilling. Some paid for their acceptance of the stereotype in physical pain or death. Where once young men fell on foreign battlefields, now their displays of male bravado bring injury and death on the rugby

field, or, more often, behind a steering wheel. In 1992 over 70 per cent of New Zealand’s deaths in traffic accidents were male. The pressure to prove manhood through alcohol, an important cause of the road toll, was also likely to produce liver or heart disease. Since the Second World War males have consistently died earlier than women. In 1991 the difference in the life expectancy was about six years.** The psychological injuries were perhaps as serious as the physical.

Men afraid to admit weakness, fear or defeat suffered in silence or - channelled their feelings into bitterness and self-contempt. Men, thinking it a weakness to express emotion, found it difficult to communicate and were locked into a lonely isolation. Once their rugby days were over they were left with acquaintances, but few friends. Men’s frustration at their inability to communicate effectively poisoned their sexual relations or else found an outlet in violence. Then there were the innumerable men who were forced to do things for which they were not individually suited — play rugby rather than the

piano, lay concrete rather than cook interesting meals, slave on an assembly line when they might have preferred looking after children. ‘Talents have been squandered, interests forestalled. No one can deny that many males in New Zealand have enjoyed following the line which society

prescribed for them — the rugby trips, the nights ‘on the piss with the boys’, the trust of mates 1n a crisis — but what is equally certain is that this has not suited all men. Stereotypes by their very nature are shackles upon individuals. If the traditional male stereotype is now weakening in

New Zealand, we must hope not that it will be replaced by a new stereotype, however ‘liberated’ that might be, but that we can look forward to a society in which males, no less than females, are able to fulfil their potential.

Bibliographic essay

The detailed sources for this book can be found in the footnotes. However, certain writings have been especially helpful to me and might interest

others who wish to pursue the topic. The intellectual framework was set by feminist scholarship, especially: Shulamith Firestone, The Dialectic of Sex (New York, 1970); Kate Millett, Sexual Politics (New York, 1970); Nancy Chodorow, The Reproduction of Mothering (Berkeley, 1978); Ann Douglas, The Feminization of American

Culture (New York, 1977); a collection of essays edited by Nancy Cott and Elizabeth H. Pleck, A Heritage of Her Own (New York, 1979); and a highly influential essay by Carol Smith-Rosenberg, ‘The Female World of Love and Ritual’, Signs, vol. 1 (Autumn, 1975), pp. 1-27. The books on male roles remain disappointing, too narrowly focused on issues of personal growth rather than politics. The most useful is A. Tolson, The Limits of Masculinity (London, 1977). The best historical treatments are J. L. Dubbert, A Man’s Place (Englewood Cliffs, 1979) and P. N. Stearns, Be a Man (New York, 1979). There is an excellent survey of men’s literature by Tim Corrigan, Bob Connell, and John Lee, “Toward a new Sociology of Masculinity’ in Theory and Society, vol. 14 (Sept. 1985), p. 551-603. For New Zealand Felix Donnelly, Big Boys

, Don’t Cry (Auckland, 1978) remains a thoughtful work. A good understanding of male culture in colonial New Zealand came from two novels, G. Chamier, Philosopher Dick (London, 1891) and A. Bathgate, Waztaruna: A Story of New Zealand Life (London, 1881) and

two autobiographies, C. L. Money, Knocking About in New Zealand

(Melbourne, 1871) and E. Way Elkington, Adrift in New Zealand (London, 1906). Of recent writing I drew upon Rollo Arnold, The Farthest Promised Land (Wellington, 1981) and the series of essays by Miles Fairburn, “The

Rural Myth and the New Urban Frontier’, New Zealand fournal of History, vol. 9 (April, 1975), pp. 3-21 and ‘Local Community or Atomised

BIBLIOGRAPHIC ESSAY 291 Society? The Social Structure of Nineteenth-Century New Zealand’, New

Zealand Journal of History, vol. 16 (Oct. 1982), pp. 146-67. Stevan Eldred-Grigg, Pleasures of the Flesh: Sex and Drugs in Colonial New Zealand (Wellington, 1984) is a good coverage of the temperance

movement and can be supplemented by two excellent theses: P. J. McKimmey, “The Temperance Movement in New Zealand, 1835-94’, M.A., Auckland, 1968; and A. R. Grigg, “The Attack on the Citadels of Liquordom’, Ph.D., Otago, 1977. Conrad Bollinger, Grog’s Own Country (Wellington, 1959) is still a lively argument. J. R. Gusfield, Sym-

bolic Crusade: Status Politics in the American Temperance Movement (Urbaria, 1963), Norman H. Clark, Deliver Us from Evil (New York, 1976), and Brian Harrison, Drink and the Victorians (London, 1971) provide the international context. Patricia Grimshaw, Women’s Suffrage in New Zealand (Auckland, 1972) is the standard work on the subject, but I found A. P. Grimes, The Puritan Ethic and Woman Suffrage (New York, 1967) and Anne Summers, Damned Whores and God’s Police: The Colonization of Women in Austraha (Harmondsworth, 1975) useful comparison.

There is as yet no interpretative social history of rugby in New Zealand although there are a series of provocative essays, especially Geoff Fougere, ‘Barbed Wire and Riot Squads’, New Zealand Cultural Studies Working Group Newsletter, no. 2 (1981), and Piet de Jong, ‘Kicking and Struggling into the Twentieth Century’, Sztes, no. 12 (1986), pp. 29-42. See also my own article, ‘Rugby, War, and the Mythology of the New Zealand Male’, New Zealand fournal of History, vol. 18 (Oct. 1984), pp. 83-103. The best collection of information on the game remains Arthur C. Swan, History of New Zealand Rugby Football 1870-1945 (Wellington, 1948). Rugby biographies from G. Nepia, J, George Nepia: The Golden Years of Rugby (Wellington, 1963) to Alex Veysey’s two classics, Colin Meads, All Black (Wellington, 1974) and Fergie (Christchurch, 1976) provide the best expression of the established rugby mythology. The British origins of the game is well analysed in Erik Dunning and Kenneth Sheard, Barbarians, Gentlemen and Players: A Soctological Study of the Development of Rugby Football (Oxford, 1979), and the cult of Imperial virility which lay behind the growing acceptance of rugby has received extensive treatment in a number of excellent books: David Newsome, Godliness and Good Learning (London, 1961); Bruce Haley, The Healthy Body and Victorian Culture (Harvard, 1978); and J. A. Mangan, Athleticism in the Victorian and Edwardian Public School (Cambridge, 1981). Clifford Geertz,

‘Deep Play: Notes on the Balinese Cockfight’ in The Interpretation of Cultures (New York, 1973) provides a valuable cross-cultural comparison.

292 A MAN’S COUNTRY? My ideas about men at war were particularly shaped by John Keegan, The Face of Battle (Harmondsworth, 1978) and Paul Fussell, The Great

| War and Modern Memory (Oxford, 1975). The standard treatment of the New Zealand wars is James Cowan, The New Zealand Wars (Wellington,

1922) which is now considerably updated by James Belich, The New Zealand Wars and the Victorian Interpretation of Racial Conflict (Auckland, 1986). New Zealand participation in the Boer War has not yet received satisfactory treatment, although the outlines of the story are contained in D. O. W. Hall, The New Zealanders in South Africa 1899-1902 (Wellington, 1949). The rise of the militarist culture in the Anglo-Saxon } world is covered in Mark Girouard, The Return to Camelot: Chivalry and the English Gentleman (New Haven, 1981) and John Springhall, Youth, Empire and Society (London, 1977). There is an excellent series of official histories covering New Zealand military activities in both world wars, and for the First World War Ormond Burton’s account, The Silent Divtision: New Zealanders at the Front (Sydney, 1935) is compelling reading but, apart from the unpublished diaries, novels and memoirs remain the best source for the soldier’s experience. Robin Hyde, Passport to Hell (London, 1937) and John A. Lee, Civilian into Soldier (London, 1937) are the classic First World War accounts, and the most evocative novels of 1939-45 are Guthrie Wilson, Brave Company (London, 1951) and Dan Davin, For the Rest of Our Lives (London, 1947). The most revealing autobiographies are Jim Henderson, Gunner Inglorious (Wellington, 1945), Howard Kippenberger, Infantry Brigadier (Oxford, 1949), Noel Gardiner, Freyberg’s Circus (Auckland, 1981), and Jim Burrows, Pathway Among Men (Christchurch, 1974) which moves from a boy’s school to a rugby career to the New Zealand Division and back to a boy’s school with barely

: a mention of Mum and the kids. Recently two excellent historical studies have appeared: Christopher Pugsley, Gallipoli. The New Zealand Story (Auckland, 1984) and John McLeod, Myth and Reality: The New Zealand Soldier in World War II (Auckland, 1986). Bill Gammage, The Broken Years: Australian Soldiers in The Great War (Canberra, 1974) provides a valuable comparison with the Australian experience in the First World

War. .

My views on the history of the family have been shaped by Laurence Stone, The Family, Sex and Marriage in England 1500-1800 (London, 1977), Martine Segalen, Love and Power in the Peasant Family (Oxford, 1983), Mary P. Ryan, Cradle of the Middle Class: The Family in Oneida

County, New York, 1790-1865 (Cambridge, 1981), and the powerful analysis of the Australian family by Jill Julius Matthews, Good and Mad Women (Sydney, 1984). For New Zealand Miriam Vosburgh, “The New

, BIBLIOGRAPHIC ESSAY 293 Zealand Family and Social Change: A Trend Analysis’, Occasional Papers in Sociology and Social Welfare (Wellington, 1978) and Erik Olssen and

Andree Levesque, “Towards a History of the European Family in New Zealand’ in Peggy Koopman-Boyden (ed.) Famulies in New Zealand Society

(Wellington, 1978) are helpful, as are the essays in Phillida Bunkle and Beryl Hughes, Women in New Zealand Society (Auckland, 1980). No one

who studies the New Zealand family can ignore Robert Chapman’s pathbreaking essay, ‘Fiction and the Social Pattern’, Landfall (1953), pp.

26-58. H. C. D. Somerset, Littledene (Christchurch, 1938) remains an exciting study of a New Zealand community in the Depression. On the contemporary situation the two books of interviews by Alison Gray, The Smith Women (Wellington, 1981), which was co-authored with Rosemary

Barrington, and The Fones Men (Wellington, 1983) make revealing reading. Christine Dann’s Up From Under (Wellington, 1985) is a brilliant summary of the women’s movement since 1970.

References

List of Abbreviations AFHR — Appendices to the Fournals of the House of Representatives

ATL — Alexander Turnbull Library

EP — The Evening Post NZPD — New Zealand Parliamentary Debates ODT — The Otago Daily Times

1. THE PIONEER MAN — FROM EXPERIENCE TO LEGEND I. Charles Hursthouse, New Zealand or Zealandia, The Britain of the South (London, 1857), vol. 2, pp. 659-60; The New Zealand Handbook, or, Emtgrant’s Bradshaw (2nd ed., London, 1859), 2. Hursthouse, New Zealand, p. 637; William Langton, Mark Anderson: A Tale of Station Life in New Zealand (Dunedin, 1889), p. 7. On rural sex roles in Europe see Martine Segalen, Love and Power in the Peasant Family (Oxford, 1983); Ian Carter, The Poor Man’s Country: Farm Life in North East Scotland

1840-1914 (Edinburgh, 1979). On urban roles see Peter N. Stearns, Be A Man: Males in Modern Society (New York, 1979). 3. Alexander Bathgate, Colonial Experiences (Glasgow, 1874), p. 63.

4. ‘Hopeful’, Taken In (London, 1887), p. 71. 5. E. Dieffenbach, Travels in New Zealand (London, 1843), vol. 1, pp. 38-55; Edward Jerningham Wakefield, Adventure in New Zealand (London, 1845),

pp. 225-44. 6. Edward Wakefield, New Zealand After Fifty Years (New York, 1889), pp. 152-9; John Bradshaw, New Zealand As It Is (London, 1883), p. 26; Peter Gibbons, “Turning Tramps into Taxpayers — The Department of Labour and the Casual Labourer in the 1890s’, M.A. thesis, Massey University, 1970,

p. 78; G. Chamier, Philosopher Dick (London, 1891), p. 5. 7. S. H. Franklin, “The Village and the Bush: The Evolution of the Village Community, Wellington Province, New Zealand’, Pacific Viewpoint, vol. 1,

no. 2 (1960), pp. 143-81. 8. ‘Report of the Kauri Gum Industry Inquiry Commission’, A#HR, 1893, H-24. 9. Wakefield, After Fifty Years, p. 145; L. J. Kennaway, Crusts, A Settler’s Fare

REFERENCES 295 Due South, (London, 1874), p. 16; E. Way Elkington, Adrift in New Zealand (London, 1906), p. 145; William Langton, Mark Anderson: A Tale of Station

Life in New Zealand (Dunedin, 1889), p. 7. 10. Bradshaw, New Zealand, p. 26; Elkington, Adrift, p. 13; P. W. Barlow, Kaipara or Experiences of a Settler in North New Zealand (London, 1888), p. 119; Wakefield, After Fifty Years, p. 46; Miles Fairburn, ‘Vagrants, “‘folk devils” and nineteenth-century New Zealand as a bondless society , Historical Studies, vol. 21, no. 85 (Oct. 1985), pp. 495-514. 11. Bathgate, Colonial Experiences, p. 45. 12. Elkington, Adrift, p. 262.

13. W. K. Howitt, A Pioneer Looks Back: Days of Trials, Hardships and Achievements (Auckland, 1945), p. 12. 14. Hursthouse, New Zealand, vol. 2, p. 617. 15. Kauri Gum Commission, p. 4; Wakefield, After Fifty Years, p. 154; John Bradshaw, New Zealand of Today (London, 1888), p. 192. 16. John Bell, In the Shadow of the Bush (London, 1899), p. 85; Kennaway, Crusts, p. 29; Bradshaw, New Zealand, pp. 100-101. 17. Bathgate, Colonial Experiences, pp. 3-4; Miles Fairburn, ‘Local Community

or Atomised Society? The Social Structure of Nineteenth-Century New Zealand’, New Zealand Journal of History, vol. 16 (Oct. 1982), pp. 146-67. 18. Helen Brownlie, “Without Work, Nothing’, B.A. Hons. essay, Otago University, 1980; W. P. Reeves, State Experiments in Australia and New Zealand

(London, 1902), vol. 1, pp. 31-2. 19. Kennaway, Crusts, p. 48. 20. Ibid., pp. 66-70. 21. Robert Gilkison, Early Days in Central Otago (Dunedin, 1930), p. 15;

Chamier, Philosopher Dick, p. 152.

22. Alexander Bathgate, Waztaruna: A Story of New Zealand Life (London, 1881), pp. 77, 151; Chamier, Philospher Dick, p. 151; Bradshaw, New Zealand, p. 80.

23. Hursthouse, New Zealand, vol. 2, p. 617; Samuel Butler, A First Year in Canterbury Settlement (London, 1868), p. 50; Chamier, Philospher Dick, p. 34.

24. Bathgate, Waitaruna, p. 88. 25. C. L. Money, Knocking About in New Zealand (Melbourne, 1871), p. 35. 26. Chamier, Philosopher Dick, p. 40. 27. Wakefield, Adventure, p. 229; Dieffenbach, Travels, vol. 1, p. 38. 28. Bathgate, Colonial Experiences, p. 164; Philip Ross May, The West Coast Gold

Rushes (Christchurch, 1962), p. 283; Barlow, Kaipara, p. 157. 29. May, Gold Rushes, pp. 283-6; Gilkison, Early Days, p. 81. 30. Wakefield, New Zealand, p. 167. 31. David Kennedy, Kennedy’s Colonial Travel: A Narrative of a Few Years’ Tour Through Australia, New Zealand, Canada (Edinburgh, 1876), p. 173; Barlow,

Kaipara, pp. 37, 120; Wakefield, After Fifty Years, p. 50; Stevan EldredGrigg, The Southern Gentry (Wellington, 1980). 32. See Brownlie, ‘Without Work, Nothing’, p. 15. 33. Thomas Cottle, Frank Melton’s Luck (Auckland, 1891); Wakefield, After Fifty

296 A MAN’S COUNTRY? Years, p. 155; Henry Lawson, ‘The Ballad of the Rouseabout’ in Henry Lawson: Collected Verse (Sydney, NSW, 1967), vol. 1, p. 360; Bell, Jn the Shadow of the Bush, p. 10. 34. Bradshaw, New Zealand, pp. 23, 80; Kennaway, Crusts, p. 209. 35. Wakefield, Adventure, p. 230; Bathgate, Waitaruna, pp. 175, 151. 36. Wakefield, After Fifty Years, p. 156. 37. Money, Knocking About, p. 34; Elkington, Adrift, p. 149; Bradshaw, New Zealand, p. 104. 38. Wakefield, After Fifty Years, pp. 156-7; Bell, In the Shadow of the Bush, p. 14.

39. Chamier, Philosopher Dick, p. 166. A0. Ibid., pp. 31, 517; Bathgate, Waztaruna, p. 134; May, Gold Rushes, p. 289; Stevan Eldred-Grigg, Pleasures of the Flesh (Wellington, 1984), p. 39. 41. Chamier, Philosopher Dick, p. 8; North Otago Times, 19 February 1890; for example, Bathgate, Waitaruna, p. 143; Elkington, Adrift, pp. 150, 155; Bell, In the Shadow of the Bush, p. 84, 75. 42. Elkington, Adrift, p. 149; Bathgate, Waitaruna, p. 253; Dugald Fergusson, Vicissitudes of Bush Life in Australia and New Zealand (London, 1891), p. 142;

Wakefield, After Fifty Years, p. 52; Chamier, Philosopher Dick, p. 432. 43. Gilkison, Early Days, p. 179; Howitt, A Pioneer Looks Back, p. 117; quoted in E. A. B. Hewett, Looking Back or Personal Reminiscences (New Piymouth, 1910) p. 97; the phrase was coined by J. B. Hirst in “The Pioneer Legend’, Historical Studies, fol. 14 (Oct. 1978), pp. 316-37. 44. For example, ‘Genus’, Thomas Ayson (Dunedin and Wellington, 1937), p. vii; Bell, In the Shadow of the Bush, p. 9; Howitt, A Pioneer Looks Back, p.35; J. R. Elder, Gold-seekers and Bush-rangers in New Zealand (London and Glasgow, 1930), p. 167; Anna Gibbons, ‘New Zealand Biography in the

1930s’, V.U.W. history essay, 1980. |

45. David McKee Wright, Station Ballads and Other Verses (Ast ed., 1897, republished Auckland, 1945), p. 24.

2. THE BOOZER AND THE DECENT BLOKE 1. Wakefield, Adventure in New Zealand, p. 244; Charlotte Godiey, Letters from

Early New Zealand (Christchurch, 1951), p. 180. 2. Kennaway, Crusts p. 226. 3. Howitt, A Pioneer Looks Back, pp. 121, 165. 4. P. W. Barlow, Kazpara or Experiences of a Settler in North New Zealand (London, 1888), p. 145; John Bradshaw, New Zealand of Today (London, 1888), p. 180. 5. AFHR, 1869, D-6. pp. 3, 14, 4. 6. Wakefield, After Fifty Years, p. 126; Gibbons, ‘Turning Tramps into Taxpayers’, p. 89; Bell, In the Shadow of the Bush, p. 18. 7. Bathgate, Colonial Experiences, p. 166.

REFERENCES , 297 8. Godley, Letters, p. 269; Howitt, A Pioneer Looks Back, pp. 166-7; E. S. Grossman, The Heart of the Bush (London, 1910) passim; Chamier, Philosopher

Dick, p. 291. See also Raewyn Dalziel, ‘The Colonial Helpmeet: Women’s Role and the Vote in 19th Century New Zealand’, NZ7H, vol. 11 (Oct. 1977), p. 119.

9. NZPD, vol. 80 (1893), pp. 542, 544; ibid., vol. 81 (1893), p. 271; A. P. Grimes, The Puritan Ethic and Woman Suffrage (New York, 1967); Patricia Grimshaw, Women’s Suffrage in New Zealand (Auckland, 1972), pp. 65, 64; The Prohibitionist, no. 88 (Oct. 7, 1893). 10. Anthony Ronald Grigg ‘The Attack on the Citadels of Liquordom’, Ph.D. thesis, Otago University, 1977, p. 261; NZPD, vol. 183 (1918), p. 667. 11. Eldred-Grigg, Pleasures of the Flesh, passim. 12. Chamier, Philosopher Dick, p. 517; Kennedy, Kennedy’s Colonial Travel, p. 195. 13. Barlow, Kaipara, p. 23. On the association of drunkenness and self-reliance, see Norman H. Clark, Deliver Us from Evil (New York, 1976), p. 34. 14. P. F. McKimmey, ‘The Temperance Movement in New Zealand, 1835-94’, M.A. thesis, University of Auckland, 1968, p. 13; J. Inglis, Our New Zealand Cousins (London, 1887), p. 12; Eldred-Grigg, Pleasures of the Flesh, p. 77; These figures are derived from Statistics of New Zealand and M. Carter, The English Temperance Movement: A Study 1n Objectives (London, 1933), pp. 226-7. 15. Chamier, Philosopher Dick, pp. 422-3. 16. McKimmey, ‘Temperance Movement’, pp. 7, 9; Statistics of New Zealand; AJHAR (1891), H-28, pp. 4-9; AJHR (1911), H-16, pp. 14-15. 17. McKimmey ‘Temperance Movement’, p. 64; G. M. Reed, The Angel Isafrel (Auckland, 1896), pp. 17-8; NZPD, vol. 180 (1917), pp. 247, 287. 18. Kennaway, Crusts, p. 167; ‘Hopeful’, Taken In, p. 10; NZPD, vol. 180 (1917),

p. 290; ibid., vol. 177 (1916), p. 227. 19. Report of the Royal Commission on Licensing (Wellington, 1946), p. 19, 353; NZPD, vol. 178 (1917) p. 628; ibid., vol. 80 (1893), p. 380; W. A. Chapple, Alcohol and Self-Control (London, 1925). 20. NZPD, vol. 180 (1917), pp. 281, 232; McKimmey, “Temperance Movement’,

p. 98. 21. NZPD, vol. 176 (1916), p. 535; ibid., vol. 177 (1916), p. 308. 22. NZPD, vol. 176 (1916), p. 529. 23. Information on these legislative changes is derived from The Statutes of New Zealand (Wellington, 1854-); McKimmey, “Temperance Movement’, p.30; Conrad Bollinger, Grog’s Own Country (Wellington, 1959); Royal Commission (1946), p. 39; Report of the Royal Commission, The Sale of Liquor in New

Zealand (Wellington, 1974), pp. 21-8. |

24. William Langton, Mark Anderson: A Tale of Station Life in New Zealand (Dunedin, 1889), p. 31; NZPD, vol. 83 (1894), pp. 280, 283.

25. AHR, 1901, H-16, p. 3; NZPD, vol. 83 (1894), p. 296.

298 A MAN’S COUNTRY? 26. NZPD, vol. 183 (1918), p. 210; ibid., vol. 83 (1894), p. 282; Making New Zealand vol. 2, no. 28 (1940); A. H. McLintock (ed.), An Encyclopaedia of New Zealand (Wellington, 1966), vol. 3, p. 19. 27. AYHR, 1911, H-16, p.11. 28. NZPD, vol. 6 (1869), p. 500; Charlotte J. Macdonald, “The ‘Social Evii”’ — Prostitution, Prostitutes and the Passage of the Contagious Diseases Act in New Zealand’, Women’s Studies Conference Papers ’83, pp. 42-61. 29. NZPD, vol. 178 (1917), p. 442; ibid., vol. 180 (1917), p. 225; ibid., vol. 176 (1916), p. 533; ibid., vol. 177 (1916), p. 279. 30. NZPD, vol. 180 (1917), p. 248. 31. NZPD, vol. 177 (1916), pp. 208-33; ibid., pp. 274-308. 32. AFHR, 1917, H-43, p. 12; ibid., H-43A, p. 2; NZPD vol. 177 (1916), p. 305. 33. NZPD, vol. 178 (1917), p. 407; ibid., vol. 177 (1916), p. 233; ibid., vol. 180 (1917), p. 281; ibid., vol. 176 (1916), p. 532. 34. NZPD, vol. 180 (1917), pp. 636, 638. 35. ‘Report of the Committee of Board of Health into Venereal Diseases in New

Zealand’, AHR, 1922, H-31A, pp. 12, 21. 36. Royal Commission (1946), pp. 27, 92-3. 37. Report of the Royal Commission, The Sale of Liquor, p. 257.

3. THE HARD MAN — RUGBY AND THE FORMATION OF CHARACTER 1. Erik Dunning and Kenneth Sheard, Barbarians, Gentlemen and Players: A Sociological Study of the Development of Rugby Football (Oxford, 1979), p. 85. 2. Bruce Haley, The Healthy Body and Victorian Culture (Harvard, 1978), p. 119. See also J. A. Mangan, Athleticism in the Victorian and Edwardian Public School

(Cambridge, 1981); David Newsome, Godliness and Good Learning: Four Studies in a Victorian Ideal, (London, 1961); Norman Vance, The Sinews of the Spirit; The Ideal of Christian Manliness in Victorian Literature and Religious

Thought (Cambridge, 1985). 3. J. R. Barclay, ‘An Analysis of Trends in New Zealand Sport from 1840 to 1900’, B.A. Hons. essay, Massey University, 1979; Making New Zealand, vol. 2, no. 26 (1940), pp. 2, 4; Arthur C. Swan, History of New Zealand Rugby

Football 1870-1945 (Wellington, 1948), pp. 38, 48. 4. Swan, History, pp. 5, 11, 41, 90, 710; Barclay, ‘Trends’, p. 21; D. McKenzie, Rugby Football in Wellington and Wairarapa 1868-1910 (Wellington, 1911), p. 85; Sean O’Hagan, The Pride of Southern Rebels (Dunedin, 1981), p. 14; Irwin Hunter, New Zealand Rugby Football: Some Hints and Criticisms (Auck-

land, 1929), p. 11; Ben Iveson, ‘A History of Wairarapa Football’ in McKenzie, Rugby Football, p. 121. 5. Swan, History, pp. 37-42; The Wellington Rugby Football Annual, 1888, p. 73; O’Hagan, Southern Rebels, p. 17. 6. Swan, History, passim; L. F. Watkins (ed.), The Triumphant Tour of the All

REFERENCES 299 Blacks in England, Ireland and Wales (Wellington, 1925), p. 5; T. Eyton, Rugby Football Past and Present: The Tour of the Native Team (Palmerston North, 1896), p. 5; M. J. Greathead and H. A. McPhee, The Golden Years of Rugby (Palmerston North, 1976), p. 3; Hunter, New Zealand Rugby Football, p. 11; Bulls Rugby Football Club Centennial Almanac (Wanganui, 1976); N. Swindells, ‘Social Aspects of Rugby Football in Manawatu from 1878 to 1910’, B.A. Hons. essay, Massey University, 1978; McKenzie, Rugby Football, p. 23; The composition of Auckland Club teams is derived from The Auckland Rugby Union Annual, 1890, 1893, as follows:

%%

Auckland Electoral Rolls 1890-3 Rugby Teams

Status I (White collar & gentlemen) 14.41 16.44

(clerk) 6.01 15.07

Status II (Low white collar) 19.52 25.34 Status III (Skilled Manual) 36.34 34.93

Status 18.32 15.75 StatusIVV(Semi-skilled) (Unskiiied) 11.4] 6.85

(1 in 10 sample) nos. 146 (102 not identified)

7. Donald S. Kelman, A Century of Rugby in Temuka (Timaru, 1975), p. 12. 8. Dunning and Sheard, Barbarians, p. 137; Swan, History, p. 109; Kelman, Century of Rugby, pp. 19, 23. 9. Swan, History, p. 721; Eyton, Rugby Football Past and Present, p. 76. 10. McKenzie, Rugby Football, p. 94; A. R. Lawry, From Inauguration to Premiers:

A Souvenir to the Southern Football Club (Dunedin, 1905), pp. 32, 41; G. C. Haywood, One Hundred Years of Riverton Rugby (Invercargill, 1974), pp. 6-7. 11. Swan, History, pp. 38, 722, 70, 717, 76; Wellington Rugby Football Annual, 1888, p. 59; Kelman, Century of Rugby, p. 23. 12. Eyton, Rugby Football Past and Present, p. 5; Swan, History, pp. 63, 24. 13. Thomas R. Ellison, The Art of Rugby Football (Wellington, 1902), p. 63; Wellington Rugby Football Annual, 1888, pp. 73, 78; Leo Fanning, Players and Slayers (Wellington, 1910), p. 61; for a more limited view of the British contribution, see O’Hagan, Southern Rebels, pp. 42-45. 14. Swan, History, pp. 113, 117, 126. 15. Joseph Ormond, ‘Education in New Zealand’, New Zealand Illustrated Magazine, 1 Nov. 1899, p. 116; F. Truby King, ‘Address to the Second Annual Meeting of the Plunket Society, 1909’ in From the Pen of Truby King (n.d.), p. 39; Philip Fleming, ‘Eugenics in New Zealand 1900-1940’, M.A. thesis,

| Massey University, 1982, p. 231; EP, 10 March, 1906. , 16. EP, 22 Jan. 1906; W. K. Howitt, A Pioneer Looks Back (Auckland, 1945), p. 119; Mahara, ‘The Pioneers’, in Auckland Weekly News, 25 Dec. 1901, p. 32; Elsdon Best, ‘The Pioneer Home-makers’, New Zealand Life (1922), p. 22. 17. EP, 27 May 1905; ibid., 18 May 1905. 18. AZHR, 1906, E-3B, p. 7; F. Truby King, The Evils of Cram (Dunedin, 1906),

p. 27; Lawry, From Inauguration to Premiers, p. 155. For the social control |

300 A MAN’S COUNTRY? argument overseas see William J. Baker, “The Making of a Working-class Football Culture’, fournal of Social History (1979), pp. 244-9; Peter Bailey, Leisure and Class in Victorian England: Rational Recreation and the Contest for Control, 1830-1885 (London, 1978); Tony Mason, Association Football and English Society 1863-1915 (Brighton, 1979). 19. Wellington Rugby Football Annual, 1888, p. 8; Why the ‘All Blacks’ Triumphed

(London, 1906), p. 57; Larry Saunders, The Canterbury Rugby History, 1879-1979 (Christchurch, 1979), p. 2. 20. ‘Hints on the Rugby Game’ in Wellington Rugby Football Annual, 1888, p. 110; H. J. Wynyard, ‘Comments’, in Eyton, Rugby Football Past and Present,

p. 116; EP, 13 May 1905.

| p. 6.

21. Ellison, Art of Rugby Football, p. 80; Lawry, From Inauguration to Premiers,

22. Swan, History, p. 86; J. H. Murdoch, The High Schools of New Zealand (Wellington, 1943), passim.

23. School Journal, March 1908, p. 59; ibid., May 1907, p. 12; ibid., April

1908, p. 93; ibid., Sept. 1908, p. 236. |

24. Murdoch, High Schools, pp. 229, 215; King, Evils of Cram, p. 27. 25. Sir James Elliott, Firth of Wellington (Wellington, 1937), passim. 26. Charles Crothers, ‘The Features and Effects of Hard-core and Soft-core Disciplinary Regimes’, unpublished ms., 1979; Elliott, Firth of Wellington, p. 108.

27. Kelman, Century of Rugby p. 86; Lawry, From Inauguration to Premiers, p. 6. 28. Eyton, Rugby Football Past and Present, p. 2; Fanning, Players and Slayers,

p. 80. 29. EP, 18 Sept. 1905; ibid., 16 Dec. 1905. 30. Why the ‘All Blacks’ Triumphed, p. 33; EP, 7 Feb. 1906; ibid., 6 Feb. 1905;

ibid., 30 Dec. 1905. .

31. EP, 7 March 1906; ibid., 9 March 1906; ibid., 23 Feb. 1906. 32. Why the ‘All Blacks’ Triumphed, pp. 96, 36.

33. EP, 17 March 1925. 34. Why the ‘All Blacks’ Triumphed, p. 96; EP, 18 Nov. 1905; ibid., 20 Jan. 1906; Roger Dansey (ed.), Special Souvenir, All Blacks in England, Ireland and Wales (n.p., 1924), p. 34; L. F. Watkins, The Triumphant Tour of the All Blacks in England, Ireland and Wales (Wellington, 1925), p. 12. 35. EP, 30 Dec. 1905; Why the ‘All Blacks’ Triumphed, p. 33; Swan, History, p. 140.

36. EP, 24 Nov. 1905; ibid., 8 Dec. 1905; ibid., 25 Nov. 1905; Why the ‘All Blacks’ Triumphed, p. 25. 37. Why the ‘All Blacks’ Triumphed, pp. 41, 37; ibid., p. 80; Eyton, Rugby Foot-

ball Past and Present, p. 116. 38. Why the ‘All Blacks’ Triumphed, p. 35; EP, 10 March 1906; ibid., 17 March 1925; Read Masters, With the All Blacks in Great Britain (Wellington, 1928), p. 158.

REFERENCES 301 39. Why the ‘All Blacks’ Triumphed, p. 35; McKenzie, Rugby Football, p.22. 40. Why the ‘All Blacks’ Triumphed, p. 35. 41. Dansey, Special Souvenir, p. 22; Why the ‘All Blacks’ Triumphed, p. 36; EP, 16 Dec. 1905; ibid., 9 March 1906. 42. EP, 17 March 1925; Alex Veysey, Colin Meads, All Black (Wellington, 1974),

p. 18. 43. Dansey, Special Souvenir, pp. 9, 22; Masters, With the All Blacks, p. 129; EP, 2 Jan. 1925; EP, 17 March 1925. 44. EP, 2 Jan. 1925; ibid., 7 Jan. 1925; ibid., 9 Jan. 1925; ibid., 17 March 1925; Dansey, Special Souvenir, p. 14. 45. EP, 26 Jan. 1926; Fanning, Players and Slayers, p. 20. 46. Veysey, Colin Meads, pp. 17, 18. 47. Kelman, Century of Rugby, p. 87. 48. Alex Veysey, Fergie (Christchurch, 1976), p. 64; McKenzie, Rugby Football, p. 115.

49. EP, 7 March 1906. 50. EP, 5 June 1905; ibid., 18 Dec. 1905; ibid., 20 Dec. 1905; ibid., 22 Dec. 1905; ibid., 29 Dec. 1905; ibid., 25 Jan. 1906; ibid., 7 March 1906. 51. Why the ‘All Blacks’ Triumphed, p. 8; EP, 9 March 1906. 52. Haywood, One Hundred Years, p. 13; Hunter, New Zealand Rugby Football,

p. 8; EP, 12 April 1905; ibid., 9 June 1905; ibid., 10 June 1905; Eyton, Rugby Football Past and Present, p. 77. 53. Masters, With the All Blacks, p. 112; EP, 6 Jan. 1925; ibid., 9 Jan. 1925. 54. Veysey, Fergie, pp. 59, 35, 157. 55. EP, 7 March 1906; ibid., 1 Dec. 1905; Fanning, Players and Slayers, p. 18; Eyton, Rugby Football Past and Present, p. 73; Haywood, One Hundred Years, p. 15; Eyton, Rugby Football Past and Present, p. 91; Swan, History, p. 711;

EP, 3 Nov. 1905. 56. EP, 6 Jan. 1925; ibid., 28 Aug. 1928. 57. Chris Laidlaw, Mud in Your Eye (Wellington, 1973), passim; Veysey, Fergie,

pp. 56, 176. 58. Veysey, Fergie, p. 58; Veysey, Colin Meads, p. 102. 59. Haywood, One Hundred Years, p. 6; EP, 9 June 1905; Phil Gifford, ‘The Shield: No Easy Games’, New Zealand Listener, 9 Aug. 1980, p. 16. 60. EP, 17 March 1925; Eyton, Rugby Football Past and Present, p. 12. 61. Veysey, Fergie, p. 176. 62. Veysey, Fergie, p. 9. 63. Eyton, Rugby Football Past and Present. 64. Fanning, Players and Slayers, p. 80.

302 A MAN’S COUNTRY? 4. THE MAN’S MAN — THE KIWI AT WAR 1.

Sons of the Empire: 1840-1914 1. James Belich, The New Zealand Wars and The Victorian Interpretation of Racial Conflict (Auckland, 1986), passim.

2. T. W. Gudgeon, The Defenders of New Zealand being a short Biography of Colonists who distinguished themselves in Upholding Her Majesty’s Supremacy

in These Islands (Auckland, 1887), n.p. 3. James Cowan, The New Zealand Wars (Wellington, 1922), vol. 1, pp. 125, 266-8; Gudgeon, Defenders, p. 45. 4. A New Zealander [Sarah E. Hawden], New Zealanders and the Boer War, or, Soldiers from the Land of the Moa (Christchurch, 1907), p. 4. 5. E. M. Fraser, ‘New Zealand Military Policy: From the Boer War to the Great

War, 1900-1914’, M.A. thesis, Auckland University, 1938, p. 5; H. Slater, | Fifty Years of Volunteering (Christchurch, 1910), pp. 35, 57; AFJHR, 1898, H-19. 6. Slater, Fifty Years, pp. 103, 120; New Zealand Herald, 28 Oct. 1898, quoted in Fraser, ‘Military Policy’, p. 16. 7. New Zealand Herald, 14 Oct. 1899, quoted in Simon Johnson, ‘Sons of the Empire: A Study of New Zealand Ideas and Public Opinion During the Boer War’, B.A. Hons. thesis, Massey University, 1974, p. 23; see also Gerald L. Peacocke, ‘War in its Moral Aspect’, New Zealand Illustrated Magazine,

June 1900, p. 669. 8. Ernest R. May, American Imperialism (New York, 1968), passim; New Zealand Times, 23 Oct. 1899; Marshall Nalder, Battle-Smoke Ballads or Rhymes of

the Transvaal War (Christchurch, 1902), p. 8. 9. In Memory of New Zealand’s Sons Fallen in South Africa (Wellington, 1902),

p. 5. 10. Malcolm Ross, Souvenir of New Zealand’s Response to the Emptre’s Call (Wellington, 1900), p. 1; Tu Quoque, ‘Rough Rider’ in [Hawden], New Zealanders

and the Boer War, p. 100; New Zealand Observer, 7 Oct. 1899, quoted in Ian McIver, ‘New Zealand and the South African War of 1899-1902’, M.A. thesis, Otago University, 1972, p. 23. 11. Nalder, Battle-Smoke Ballads p. 10. 12. Johnson, ‘Sons of the Empire’, pp. 37-48; Pat Lawlor, More Wellington Days (Wellington, 1962), p. 32.

13. New Zealand Illustrated Magazine, March 1900, pp. 435-44, 469-70, 474-5; ibid., April 1900, p. 501; ibid., June 1900, p. 669; New Zealand Times,

23 Oct. 1899; Ross, Souvenir, p. 10. The words ‘men in a world of men’

| were a quotation from Rudyard Kipling’s 1893 poem about the Empire, ‘England’s Answer’.

14. ODT, 14 March 1900; ibid., 26 March 1900. | 15. ODT, 21 Feb. 1900; ibid., 23 Feb. 1900.

REFERENCES 303

1900. :

16. ODT, 21 Feb. 1900; ibid., 23 Feb. 1900; ibid., 24 Feb. 1900. It should be noted that Captain Madocks was in fact of English birth, having arrived in New Zealand in 1896. Lieutenant Hughes, awarded a D.S.O. for this action,

later commanded the Canterbury Battalion at Gallipoll. :

17. ODT, 26 March 1900; ibid., 3 Jan. 1900; EP, 27 Nov. 1900; ibid., 21 Feb.

18. ODT, 26 March 1900; ibid., 4 Jan. 1900; James H. Birch and Henry D. Northrop, History of the War in South Africa (Wellington, 1899), p. 26; K. G. Malcolm, The Seventh New Zealand Contingent: Its Record 1n the Field

(Wellington, 1903), p. 21. 19. Occupational Composition of New Zealand Troopers Census 1901

, (percentages) 1 in 10 sample — percentages Commissioned

Men Men Men Officers Age Age 1&2 3-7 8-10 (total 1-10

Occupational Group 20-24 25-44 Contingent Contingent Contingent Contingent) I Professional (civil servants, lawyers,

doctors, teachers) 5.75 6.05 7.42 3.27 2.48 31.5

II Hotelkeepers, servants 2.09 2.55 1.06 4,21 1.77 0 IT] Commercial (bankers, agents, clerks, merchants, grocers,

storemen) 12.15 12.91 13.79 13.08 14.89 28.73

IV Transport 7.81 9.11 2.91 6.54 4.61 0.78 V Industrial

(skilled craftsmen) 27.94 25.43 19.36 15.42 20.57 7.47

Labourers 6.57 5.98 11.93 15.88 19.15 0.79

VI Primary Production (agricultural, pastoral,

mining) 36.57 36.68 42,97 42.52 36.5 29.13

Source: New Zealand Census, 1901; AFHR, 1900, 1901, 1902, H-6.

! 20. [Hawden], New Zealanders and the Boer War, pp. 59, 61; Ross, Souvenir, p. 26. 21. ODT, 9 April 1900; ibid., 11 Jan. 1901; ibid., 23 Feb. 1900; ibid., 20Jan. 1900; [Hawden], New Zealanders and the Boer War, p. 87. 22. [Hawden], New Zealanders and the Boer War, pp. 210, 212, 127; EP, 30 Nov.

1900; ODT, 26 March 1900; ibid., 3 March 1900; ibid., 4 Jan. 1900. 23. [Hawden], New Zealanders and the Boer War, pp. 132, 20; AFHR, 1902, vol.

3, p. 127; EP, 30 Nov. 1900. 24. Malcolm, Seventh Contingent, p. 2; Corporal F. Twistleton, With the New Zealanders, p. 94; ODT, 24 Sept. 1900. Banjo Paterson believed that this was why the New Zealand troops were the best soldiers the Australians sent! 25. [Hawden], New Zealanders and the Boer War, p. 19. 26. ODT, 23 Feb. 1900; Twistleton, With the New Zealanders, p. 158. 27. New Zealand Illustrated Magazine, March 1900, p. 474; ODT, 9 April 1900;

304 A MAN’S COUNTRY? ibid., 23 April 1900; ibid., 8 Feb. 1901; Christchurch Press, 25 Jan. 1900; ibid., 28 July 1900; In Memory of New Zealand’s Sons, p. 8. 28. New Zealand Illustrated Magazine, April 1900, p. 501; Malcolm, Seventh Con-

tingent, p. 21; ODT, 4 Jan. 1900. 29. ODT, 23 Jan. 1900; ibid., 30 March 1900. 30. ODT, 27 Dec. 1900; ibid., 9 May 1901. 31. AFHR, 1902, H-6c. 32. John Springhall, Youth, Empire and Society (London, 1977), pp. 53-64; Anna

Davin, “Imperialism and Motherhood’, History Workshop fournal, no. 5 (1978), pp. 9-65. 33. Fraser, ‘New Zealand Military Policy’, pp. 23, 13; E. P. Malone, “The New , Zealand School Journal and the Imperial Ideology’, New Zealand Journal of History, vol. 7 (April 1973), pp. 12-27; Roger Openshaw, ‘The Patriot Band’, M.A. thesis, Massey University, 1973; John L. Ewing, Development of the New Zealand Primary School Curriculum 1877-1970 (Wellington, 1970).

34. Fraser, ‘New Zealand Military Policy’, pp. 54, 80-111. 35. AFHR, 1904, H-19; Fraser, ‘New Zealand Military Policy’, p. 117; New Zealand Herald, 15 Dec. 1900. 36. School fournal, May 1909; ibid., June 1914. 37. School Fournal, October 1908. 38. Springhall, Youth, Empire and Society, pp. 53-64; The Kelburn Scout — ‘B.P.’

Souvenir Number (Wellington, 1912), p. 13; J. A. Kyle, Tramp Camps and Standing Camps for Boy Scouts (Glasgow, 1919). 39. Mark Girouard, The Return to Camelot: Chivalry and the English Gentleman (New Haven, 1981), pp. 233-60. 40. Malcolm Ross (ed.), Noel Ross and His Work (London, 1919), pp. 42-4. 2.

Flower of the World’s Manhood: 1914-19 1. C. G. Nicol, The Story of Two Campaigns (Auckland, 1921), p. 1; Major Fred Waite, The New Zealanders at Gallipoli (Christchurch, 1921), p. 2. 2. Paul Baker, ‘New Zealanders, The Great War and Conscription’, Ph.D. thesis, Auckland University, 1986, p. 5; William Taylor, The Twilight Hour: A Personal Account of World War I (Morrinsville, 1978), p. 16; William George

Malone, Diary, 25 Aug. 1914 (ATL). 3. H. T. B. Drew, The War Effort of New Zealand (Christchurch, 1923), pp. 11, 50; John McK. Graham, ‘The Voluntary System: Recruiting 1914-16’, M.A. thesis, Auckland University, 1971, p. 84; Baker, ‘New Zealanders and Conscription’, pp. 26, 27; Christchurch Press, 6 Aug. 1915; J. C. Collins, Bugle Notes (Gisborne, 1914). In fact the number of volunteers was set by the quota of troops requested by Britain. However, that quota was based on a judge-

: ment about the possibility of raising such numbers, and the growing difficulty in filling the quota in the last months of 1915 suggests that the figure

REFERENCES 309 does represent a good indication of those prepared to enlist during the first year of the war. 4. Graham, ‘The Voluntary System’, p. 19; Simon Johnson, “The Home Front: Aspects of Civilian Patriotism in New Zealand During the First World War’, M.A. thesis, Massey University, 1975, p. 105; George Bollinger, ms. (ATL). 5. Official History of Australia in the War, vol. XI (Sydney, 1936), pp. 871-2. 6. AFHR, 1919, H-19a; Graham, ‘The Voluntary System’, p. 30; The one in 10 sample of the Main Body from Army base records was obtained with the considerable assistance of Robert Eady, New Zealand Defence Department. 7. Christopher Pugsley, Gallipoli: The New Zealand Story (Auckland, 1984), p. 360. 8. Archibald Baxter, We Will Not Cease (London, 1939); Graham, “The Voluntary System’, pp. 142-3. 9. P. O. O'Connor, ‘The Awkward Ones — Dealing with Conscience 19161918’, New Zealand Fournal of History, vol. 8 (April 1974), pp. 118-36; Baker,

‘New Zealanders and Conscription’, p. 279. 10. Religious Affiliations of New Zealand Soldiers in the Great War: (All figures are percentages)

Census 1911 Volunteers’ Main Body Conscripts

Males 21 (all Reinforce- (1 in 20 (first seven and over ments up to 25th) sample) ballots)

Church of England 46.61.3 39.2 Baptist 1.71 40.26 1.2546.5 0.25

Methodists 7.9423.3 5.2 24.0 6.6 26.8 5.1 Presbyterians 22.92

Roman Catholics 13.53 12.4 12.9 17.0

Sources: AJHR 1917, H-19b; H-19c. Defence Department Records 1. A few conscripts were included in 24th and 25th Reinforcements.

Occupations of New Zealand Soldiers (All figures are percentages) Volunteers’ Main Body Conscripts

Census Class Census 1911 (to 28th Rein- (1 in 20 (first seven

Age 25-44 forcement) sample) ballots)

li Professional —

Government 1.69 1.52 3.3 1.34 non-Government 4.0 3.92.79 3.81 3.66 3.08 IIT Domestic 3.05 1,29 III Commercial 14.18 16.95 21.83 15.1 Iii Professional —

IV Transport 11.1 11.33 11.42 10.34 V (18-20) Skilled

craftspeople 17.73 12.08 10.91 11.32

etc. 10.92 7.07 6.85 6.42

V (21-22) Builders,

V (23) Labourers 4.59 14.35 12.69 10.16 VI Agricultural/ Pastoral/Mining 31.23 29.35 24.11 35.7] Sources: New Zealand Census 1911; AJHR 1917; H-19u; H-19v; Defence Department Records 1. The vast majority of these were volunteers. There were some conscripts in 24th-28th Reinforcements.

306 A MAN’S COUNTRY? Status Groupings of New Zealand Soldiers (All figures are percentages)

Volunteers Main Body — Conscripts

(to 28th (1 in 20 (first seven

Reinforcement) Sample) ballots)

Highwhite whitecollar collar 4.0521.12 4.8313.33 2.91 Low 14.54 Blue skilled 23.33 21.88 Blue semi-skilled 16.37 17.8122.93 14.41

Unskilled 16.69 20.1 14.2533.77 12.66 Farmer 25.00 Source: AFHR, 1917, H-19u; H-19v.

11. Drew, The War Effort, p. 50. 12. L. S. Fanning (ed.), The Call of the Camps: The Only Way, A Man’s Way

to Save the State (Wellington, 1916), p. 7. |

13. EP, 29 April 1915; ODT, 7 May 1915; Dominion, 25 June 1915. 14. Malcolm Ross (ed.), Noel Ross and His Work (London, 1919), p. 63; Betty Rhind (ed.), He Maharatanga: The New Zealanders who Fought and Died in the Gallipoli Campaign (London, 1916), p. 24; School fournal, June 1916, p. 129; Fanning, Call of the Camps, p. 7.

15. For example, ODT, 13 May 1915; EP, 23 April 1983; Maureen Sharpe, ‘Anzac Day in New Zealand 1916-1939: Attitudes to Peace and War’, M.A. thesis, Auckland University, 1981, p. 21. 16. Sir Alexander Godley writing in Leo Fanning, Gallipoli Recalled (Wellington, 1955), p. 4. 17, Waite, New Zealanders at Gallipoli, p. 1. See also Wilkie, Wellington Mounted, p. 4; C. H. Weston, Three Years with the New Zealanders (London, n.d.), p. 246; Robert Gilkinson, Early Days in Central Otago (Dunedin, 1930), p. 180; New Zealand at the Front: Written and Illustrated in France by Men of the New Zealand Division, 1918, p. 32; AFHR, 1916, H-6; A. St. John Adcock, Australasia Triumphant (London, 1916), p. 77; Weston, Three Years, p. 249;

New Zealand at the Front, 1918, p. 15. 18. Ormond Burton, The Silent Division: New Zealanders at the Front 1914-19

(Sydney, 1935), p. 116. , 19. Weston, With the New Zealanders, p. 19. Information on Malone from Malone

Ms. (ATL); Waite, New Zealanders at Gallipoli, passim. 20. James Gasson, Travis, V.C. (Wellington, 1966); H. Stewart, The New.Zealand Division 1916-1919 (Wellington, 1921), pp. 39, 399, 405. 21. EP, 1 May 1915; C. A. L. Treadwell, Recollections of an Amateur Soldier (New Plymouth, 1936), pp. 46-9; Sharpe, “Anzac Day’, p. 24; Waite, New

Zealanders at Gallipoli, p. 62. 22. P.S. O’Connor, ‘Venus and the Lonely Kiwi: The War Effort of Miss Ettie A. Rout’, New Zealand Journal of History, vol. 1 (April 1967), pp. 29-30. 23. George Bollinger, Diary (ATL), 19 Dec. 1914; Eric Miller, Camps, Tramps and Trenches: The Diary of a New Zealand Sapper 1917 (Dunedin, 1939), p. 84;

Allan Watkins, Diary (ATL), 23 Feb. 1916; Malone, Diary, 13 Oct. 1914. 24. Lieutenant Colvin S. Algie, Diary (ATL), 25 April 1915; Bollinger, Ms.,

REFERENCES 307 7 May 1915; Malone, Diary, 25 April 1915; ibid., 5, 11, 12 May 1915. 25. E. C. Clifton, Diary (ATL), 4 May 1915; H. E. Parmenter, Diary (ATL),

15 Sept. 1916. |

26. Taylor, The Twilight Hour, p. 56; Cyril R. G. Bassett, “Gallipoli of 1915 and 1948’ in Fanning, Gallipoli Recalled, p. 13; Bollinger, Diary, 25 April 1915; Malone, Diary, 29 April 1915. 27. Weston, With the New Zealanders, p. 248; Cecil Malthus, Anzac: A Retrospect (Christchurch, 1965), p. 83; Clifton, Diary, 1 May 1915; Benjamin Colbran, Diary (ATL), 7 Aug. 1915. 28. Leslie B. Quartermain, Letters (ATL), 10, 23 June 1917; ibid., 28 March 1917.

29. Nicol, Two Campaigns, p. 5; Ross and his Work, p. 46; Clifton, Diary, 4, 9 May 1915; ibid., 26 Dec. 1915; ibid., 1 Jan. 1916; Burton, Silent Division, p. 134. 30. Colbran, Diary, 22 July 1916; Parmenter, Diary, 1 Sept. 1916; New Zealand at the Front, 1917, pp. 20, 101-4, 108. 31. New Zealand at the Front, 1917, pp. 154, 121; Burton, Silent Division, p. 277;

Taylor, Twilight Hour, p. 78. 32. Bollinger, Diary, 14 Dec. 1915; Burton, Silent Division, p. 129. 33. Malone, Diary, 19, 20 May 1915; New Zealand at the Front, 1917, p. 175. 34. Miller, Camps, Tramps and Trenches, pp. 86, 92. 35: New Zealand at the Front, 1918, p. 32. 36. Bollinger, Diary, 19 Dec. 1914; Algie, Diary, 26 Jan. 1915; Colbran, Diary, 10 April, 30 May 1915; Malone, Diary, 4 Aug. 1915; Quartermain, Letters, 9, 12 Oct. 1916. 37. Bollinger, Diary, 9, 15, 22 June 1915. 38. Clifton, Diary, 16 May 1915; Bollinger, Diary, 28 July, 15 Dec. 1915. 39. Eric Morgan, Diary (ATL), 6 Nov. 1917; George Cain, Packsaddle to RollsRoyce (Penrose, 1976), p. 62. 40. New Zealand at the Front, 1918, pp. 112-3, 6. 41. Malthus, Anzac, p. 16; Weston, With the New Zealanders, p. 253; Taylor, Twilight Hour, p. 110; New Zealand at the Front, 1917, p. 32. 42. Quartermain, Letters, 18 July 1918. 43. Burton, Silent Division, p. 80; Miller, Camps, Tramps and Trenches, p. 122. 44. New Zealand at the Front, 1917, p. 171; Taylor, Twilight Hour, p. 16; John A. Lee, Civilian into Soldier (London, 1937), p. 69; Robin Hyde, Passport to Hell (London, 1937), p. 77.

, 45. Malthus, Anzac, pp. 100, 20; Taylor, Twilght Hour, p. 19; Douglas Gill and Gloden Dallas, ‘Mutiny at Etaples Base in 1917’, Past and Present, November 1975, pp. 88-91, 98-101; William Allison and John Fairley, The Monocled Mutineer (London, 1978), pp. 94-6. 46. WA 2/1/3/90/60A (National Archives). 47. AD 22/19 (National Archives). 48. AD 24/297. 49. Miller, Camps, Tramps and Trenches, p. 16; Parmenter, Diary, 30 Aug. 1916;

308 A MAN’S COUNTRY?

1 Jan. 1917. :

Malthus, Anzac, pp. 132-3; Taylor, Twilight Hour, p. 26; Clifton, Diary,

50. New Zealand at the Front, 1918, pp. 15-6; see also Burton, Silent Division, p. 284. 51. Bollinger, Diary, 3 Jan. 1915; Colbran, Diary, 1 March 1915; Miller, Camps, Tramps and Trenches, p. 122. See also Parmenter, Diary, 7 Sept. 1916; ibid., 7 May 1916. 52. AD 32/117; Bollinger, Diary, 10 Oct. 1915; Colbran, Diary, 22 July 1916; Burton, Silent Division, p. 190; Weston, With the New Zealanders, p. 252; New Zealand at the Front, 1918, p. 32; AD 24/297. 53. AD 24/120; AD 32/20/1.. 54. AD 1/24/18; AD 22/19; Bollinger, Diary, 14 Oct. 1914; AD 1/22/48; Bollinger,

Diary, 19 Dec. 1914; Colbran, Diary, 15 Jan. 1915; ibid., 4 April 1915; Burton, Silent Division, p. 29; Algie, Diary, 27 Dec. 1914; Malone, Diary, 26 Dec. 1914. 55. Colbran, Diary, 31 May 1916; ibid., 7 Sept. 1916; Parmenter, Diary, 30 Dec. 1916; ibid., 31 Dec. 1916; ibid., 1 Jan. 1917; Morgan, Diary, 15-17 Oct. 1917; George W. Nuttall, Diary, 7 Feb. 1917 (ATL); Cain, Packsaddle to Rolls-Royce, p. 111. 56. Quartermain, Letters, 23 Aug. 1916; AD 32/47. 57. WA 10/65; AD 32/20/2; Taylor, Twilight Hour, p.19; New Zealand at the

Front, 1917, p. 172. 58. AD 24/219; AD 24/46/11. See O’Connor, ‘Venus and the Lonely Kiwt’, pp.

12-3; Ettie Rout to Justice Higgens, 29 June 1917; James Allen to Col.

Gibson, 27 March 1918 (WA 10/3/2 ZMA/1/1/40). | 59. AD 24/260; Proceedings of the Imperial War Conference, 1917 (London, 1917),

p. 241; AD 24/66. 60. Miller, Camps, Tramps and Trenches, p. 61; Burton, Silent Division, pp. 23, 230. —.

61. Malone, Diary, 8 Feb. 1915; F. A. Hornibrook to Ettie Rout, 3 Feb. 1917 (WA 10/3/2 ZMA1/1/40). 62. Quartermain, Letters, 11 Oct. 1917; New Zealand at the Front, 1917, pp. 39-44, 107. 63. Colbran, Diary, 7 Dec. 1914; Bollinger, Diary, 10 April 1915; Hyde, Passport

to Hell, p. 135. 64. Burton, Silent Division, p. 30; Bollinger, Diary, 2 April 1915; Colbran, Diary, 2 April 1915; Waite, New Zealanders at Gallipoli, p. 62; the official report

is in ADI — 24/68. 65. New Zealand at the Front, 1917, p. 125; Quartermain, Letters, 11 Aug. 1917.

66. Quartermain, Letters, 16 Nov. 1918. , 3.

Dinkum Kiwis: 1920-45 , 1. Maureen Sharpe, ‘Anzac Day in New Zealand 1916-1939: Attitudes to Peace

and War’, M.A. thesis, Auckland University, 1981, p. 145.

REFERENCES 309 2. Hyde, Passport to Hell, pp. 21, 85, 31. 3. John A. Lee, Civilian into Soldier (London, 1937), pp. 70, 205, 65, 155, 168,

48, 208, 51, 207, 103, 247, 117, 119, 15, 264, 283, 291, 294. 4. Baxter, We Will Not Cease, passim. 5. Francis Jackson, Passage to Tobruk (Wellington, 1943), p. 12; Les Hobbs, Kiwi Down the Strada (Christchurch, 1963), p. 28. 6. John Mulgan, Report on Experience (London, 1947), p. 15. 7. C. M. Wheeler, Kalimera Kiwi: To Olympus with the New Zealand Engineers (Wellington, 1946), p. 59; NZEF Times, 28 Sept. 1942; Dan Davin, For the Rest of Our Lives (London, 1947), p. 53. 8. Kenneth Sandford, Mark of the Lion: The Story of Charles Upham, V.C. and Bar (London, 1962), p. 20; Davin, For the Rest of Our Lives, p. 361; Simpson, Operation Mercury.

9. Wheeler, Kalimera Kiwi, p. 18; Guthrie Wilson, Brave Company (London, 1951), p. 162; Davin, For the Rest of Our Lives, p. 340. The questioning historians include Tony Simpson, Operation Mercury: The Battle for Crete (London, 1981) and John McLeod, Myth and Reality: The New Zealand Soldier in World War Two, (Auckland, 1986). 10. Davin, For the Rest of Our Lives, p. 385; Wilson, Brave Company, p. 90. 11. H. Kippenberger, Infantry Brigadier (Oxford, 1949); Hobbs, Kiwi Down the Strada, p. 103. 12. Wheeler, Kalimera Kiwi, p. 60; Jackson, Passage to Tobruk, p. 92. 13. Hobbs, Kiwi: Down the Strada, p. 11; Davin, For the Rest of Our Lives, p. 269;

Wilson, Brave Company, p. 202. 14. Hobbs, Kiwi Down the Strada, pp. 92, 45. On Freyberg’s image, see W. G. Stevens, Freyberg V.C.: The Man, 1939-1945 (London, 1965) and Dan Davin,

‘The General and the Nightingale’ in Selected Stories (Wellington, 1981). 15. Sandford, Mark of the Lion, pp. 110, 125; J. T. Burrows, Pathway Among Men (Christchurch, 1974), pp. 114, 92. 16. Kippenberger, Infantry Brigadter, p. 349; Hobbs, Kiw: Down the Strada, p. 97. 17. J. H. Fullarton, Troop Target (London, 1943), p. 86; Gordon Slatter; A Gun

7 in My Hand (Christchurch, 1959), pp. 114, 92; Wilson Brave Company, pp. 38, 39. 18. Jim Henderson, Gunner Inglorious (Wellington, 1945), p. 163; Wilson, Brave Company, pp. 77, 266.

19. Davin, For the Rest of Our Lives, p. 206. 20. Henderson, Gunner Inglorious, p. 174; Wilson, Brave Company, p. 197. 21. M. K. Joseph, [’/] Soldier No More (London, 1958) (although written by a New Zealander all but one of the characters in this novel are English); Wilson,

Brave Company, p. 197; Burrows, Pathway Among Men, p. 196; Hobbs, Kiwi Down the Strada, pp. 53, 110. 22. Henderson, Gunner Inglorious, p. 133; Sandford, Mark of the Lion, p. 37; Wilson, Brave Company, p. 23. 23. Hobbs, Kiwi Down the Strada, p. 100; Jackson, Passage to Tobruk, p. 90; Fullarton, Troop Target, p. 56; Wilson, Brave Company, pp. 34, 214-5.

310 A MAN’S COUNTRY? 24. Hobbs, Kiw: Down the Strada, p. 12. 25. Wheeler, Kalimera Kiw1, pp. 76, 67; Davin, For the Rest of Our Lives, pp. 110, 361, 43, 167. 26. Fullarton, Troop Target, p. 47; Henderson, Gunner Inglorious, p. 165; Wheeler,

Kalimera Kiwi, p. 98; Hobbs, Kiw: Down the Strada, p. 16. 27. Wheeler, Kalimera Kiwi, p. 19; Davin, For the Rest of Our Lives, p. 56. 28. Burrows, Pathway Among Men, p. 102; Sandford, Mark of the Lion, p. 102.

29. Hyde, Passport to Hell, p. 255.

30. Wilson, Brave Company, pp. 31, 108. 31. Jackson, Passage to Tobruk, pp. 18-9. 32. Davin, For the Rest of Our Lives, pp. 133, 242, 382. 33. Wilson, Brave Company, pp. 69, 101, 206, 218. 34. Slatter, A Gun In My Hand, p. 54. 35. Jackson, Passage to Tobruk, p. 142. 36. Slatter, A Gun in My Hand, pp. 173-4; Wilson, Brave Company, p. 30.

5. THE FAMILY MAN, 1920-50 1. Edward Shorter, The Making of the Modern Family (London, 1976); Laurence Stone, The Family, Sex and Marriage in England 1500-1800 (London, 1977); and Martine Segalen, Love and Power in the Peasant Family (Oxford, 1983) -

‘ provide the international context. 2. See Barbara Welter, ‘The Cult of True Womanhood’, America Quarterly, 1966, pp. 151-74; Mary P. Ryan, Cradle of the Middle Class: The Family in Onetda County, New Yo~k, 1790-1865 (Cambridge, 1981). 3. NZPD, vol. 103 (1898), p. 138; ibid., vol. 104 (1898), p. 576; ibid., vol. 135 (1905), p. 84. 4. Mary King, Truby King the Man: A Biography (London, 1948); F. Truby King, Feeding and Care of Baby (Dunedin, 1910); From the Pen of F. Truby King (Auckland, 1951); Erik Olssen, “Truby King and the Plunket Society’,

New Zealand Fournal of History, (April 1981), pp. 3-23. , 5. M. Vosburgh, ‘The New Zealand Family and Social Change: A Trend

p. 123. °

Analysis’, Occasional Papers in Sociology and Social Welfare (Wellington, 1978),

1909, — | ,

6. W.J. Gardner, Colonial Cap and Gown (Christchurch, 1975); ODT, 20 May

7. Herbert Roth, George Hogben, A Biography (Wellington, 1952), pp. 92-3, 133-4; Margaret Tennant, ‘National Directions: The New Zealand Movement for Sexual Differentiation in Education During the Twentieth Century’, New Zealand Fournal of Education Studies, 12 (1977), pp. 142-53; Erik Olssen, ‘Women, Work and Family: 1880-1926’ in Phillida Bunkle and Beryl

Hughes, Women in New Zealand Society (Auckland, 1980), p. 179. 8. New Zealand Census, 1926, 1936; Carl Degler, At Odds: Women and the Family from the Revolution to the Present (New York, 1980), p. 415; George Joseph,

Women at Work (Oxford, 1983), p. 126.

REFERENCES 311 9. New Zealand Census, 1921, 1926, 1936. 10. H. C. D. Somerset, Littledene (Christchurch, 1938), pp. 21, 22. 11. See Truth’s battle for equal pay, Truth, 2, 16 Jan. 1935; Eve Ebbert, Victoria’s Daughters (Wellington, 1983), passim; Ruth Milkman ‘Women’s Work and the Economic Crisis’, in Nancy Cott and Elizabeth H. Pleck (ed.), A Hertage of Her Own (New York, 1979), pp. 507-41.

12. New Zealand Observer, 23 Jan. 1936; ibid. 6 Feb. 1936. . 13. New Zealand Free Lance, 11, 18 July 1934.

14. Roderick Phillips, Divorce in New Zealand (Auckland, 1982). , 15. New Zealand Woman’s Weekly, 7 Jan. 1937; Robert Sklar, Movie-made America:

A Cultural History of American Movies (New York, 1975). 16. Rosemary Rees, Life’s What You Make It (London, 1926), p. 26; New Zealand

Observer, 7 July 1926; ibid., 23 Jan. 1936; ibid., 14 July 1926. 17. New Zealand Woman’s Weekly, 4 March 1937. 18. Jane Mander, Allen Adair (Auckland, 1971, Ist ed., 1925), p. 61; New Zealand

Artsts’ Annual, no. 3 (1928), p. 61; ibid., no. 7 (1932), p. 54; Nelle M. Scanlan, Pencarrow (London, 1932), pp. 104, 48, 64, 96; Nelle M. Scanlan Tides of Youth (London, 1933). 19. John A. Lee, Soctalism in New Zealand (London, 1938), p. 178; Walter Nash, New Zealand: A Working Democracy (New York, 1943), p. 27; John A. Lee, Four Years of Failure (Wellington, 1935), p. 5. 20. New Zealand Railways Magazine, | Jan. 1938; New Zealand Observer, 1 Feb. 1926; Auckland Weekly News, 4 March 1936; New Zealand Woman’s Weekly,

14 Jan. 1937; Truth, 2 Jan. 1935. 21. New Zealand Woman’s Weekly, 14 Jan. 1936; ibid., 7 Jan. 1937; Auckland Weekly News, 5 Feb. 1936.

22. NZPD, vol. 210 (1926), p. 602; Nash, Working Democracy, p. 64; Lee, Socialism, p. 173; H. Bolitho, The New Zealanders (London and Toronto, 1928), p. 55. 23. Ken Alexander, ‘Life’s Little Loads’, New Zealand Railways Magazine, | April 1937; Robin Hyde, Nor the Years Condemn (London, 1938), p. 125. 24. Auckland Weekly News, 8 Jan. 1936; New Zealand Railways Magazine, | April 1927.

25. Auckland Weekly News, 1 Jan. 1936. 26. New Zealand Illustrated Magazine, 1 Dec. 1899, p. 221. 27. New Zealand Observer, 7 July 1926.

28. EP, 27, 28 March 1940. 29. For example, New Zealand Woman’s Weekly, 7 Jan. 1937. [Susan McKearney], Just Me: The Life Story of a Nobody (Auckland, 1938); see also Mary Findlay, Tooth and Nail: The Story of a Daughter of the Depression (Wellington, 1974).

30. Hyde, Nor the Years Condemn, p. 179. 31. Vosburgh, ‘New Zealand Family’, pp. 32, 33, 87a; New Zealand Official Year-

book, 1929, pp. 122-3. 32. New Zealand Observer, 8 Sept. 1926; New Zealand Railways Magazine, 1 June

1937; see also the poem ‘Mother’ in New Zealand Observer, 4 Aug. 1926;

312 A MAN’S COUNTRY? the play ‘Reunion’ by John Deane in Seven One-Act Plays (Wellington, 1933). The number of Frank Sargeson stories about the love of mother and son should

also be noted, although the personal dimension here is. self-evident. 33. New Zealand Woman’s Weekly, 14 Jan. 1937; Hector Bolitho, Solemn Boy (London, 1927) pp. 17, 19, 22; R. A. K. Mason, Collected Poems (Christchurch, 1962), p. 58. 34. For a full exploration of the psychological effects of boys’ attachment to mothers, see Nancy Chodorow, The Reproduction of Mothering (Berkeley, 1978).

35. Olssen, ‘Women, Work and Family’, p. 180; Peter N. Stearns, Be A Man: Males in Modern Society (New York, 1979); New Zealand Census, 1921, p. 143;

New Zealand Observer, 30 Jan. 1936. 36. Somerset, Littledene, p. 58. 37. Ken Alexander, ‘Sun Soaked’, New Zealand Railways Magazine, | Feb. 1938. 38. New Zealand Observer, 27 Feb. 1936. 39. Mervyn.Thompson, All My Lives (Christchurch, 1980), p. 65; New Zealand Observer, 18 Aug. 1926; Auckland Weekly News, 1 Jan. 1936; ibid., 22 April 1936; ibid., 29 April 1936. 40. New Zealand Observer, 23 Jan. 1936; Auckland Weekly News, 8 Jan. 1936. 41. Pat Lawlor, Confessions of a Fournahst, (Auckland, 1935), passim; New Zealand

Observer, 24 April 1926; ibid., 7 July 1926; ibid., 14 July 1926; ibid., 30 Jan. 1936. 42. New Zealand Observer, 19 March 1936; ibid., 27 Feb. 1936; ibid., 16 April 1936; Auckland Weekly News, 1 April 1936; ibid., 22 April 1936; ibid., 21 Jan. 1936; New Zealand Woman’s Weekly, 28 Jan. 1937; New Zealand Railways

Magazine, 1 April 1928. 43. Auckland Weekly News, 7 Jan. 1926; ibid., 1 Jan. 1936.

, 44. New Zealand Observer, 17 April 1926; ibid., 30 Jan. 1936; Auckland Weekly News, 1 April 1936. 45. New Zealand Ratlways Magazine, 1 June 1937. 46. Dick Harris, ‘A Policeman’s Life’, New Zealand Artists’ Annual, no. 1 (1926) p. 14; Auckland Weekly News, 7 Jan. 1926; New Zealand Railways Magazine,

1 Feb. 1938. 47. ‘Pouritana’, ‘High and Low Lights of Life’, Quick March, 10 March 1922; New Zealand Observer, 9 Jan. 1936; ibid., 27 Feb. 1936. 48. New Zealand Artists’ Annual, no. 4 (1929), p. 80; New Zealand Observer, 28 July 1926. 49. Jane Mander, Allen Adair, passim. 50. John Mulgan, Man Alone (Hamilton, 1960, Ist ed. 1939) passim. 51. Frank Sargeson, Collected Stories 1935-63 (Auckland, 1964), passim. See especially ‘An Affair of the Heart’, ‘An Attempt at an Explanation’, ‘A Good Boy’, “They Gave Her a Raise’, ‘I’ve Lost My Pal’, “The Making of a New Zealander’. 52. Heather Roberts, ‘Mother, Wife and Mistress’, Landfall, 115 (1975), pp.

REFERENCES 313 233-247; Robert Chapman, ‘Fiction and the Social Pattern’, Landfall (1953), pp. 26-58. 53, A. P. Gaskell, “The Fire of Life’ in All Parts of the Game: The Stories of A. P Gaskell (Auckland, 1978), pp. 66, 68. 54. Robin Hyde, The Godwits Fly (London, 1938); James K. Baxter, ‘Ballad of Calvary Street’ in Selected Poems (Auckland, 1982), p. 42.

6. THE BLOKE UNDER SEIGE, 1950-95 1. New Zealand Official Yearbook, 1961, pp. 740, 824. 2. [bid., 1961, pp. 82, 72; New Zealand Census, 1956. 3. Les Hobbs, The Wild West Coast (Christchurch, 1959); Man Alone was first published in England in 1939, first published in New Zealand in 1949, and reprinted four times between 1960 and 1965. 4. New Zealand Official Yearbook, 1982, p. 646; 1993, p. 151. 5. Ibid., 1995, p. 106. 6. New Zealand Census, 1971, 1981, 1991; New Zealand Official Yearbook, 1993,

| p. 277; Statistics New Zealand, All About Women (Wellington, 1993), pp. 81, 107, 218.

7. Ibid., p. 82; Rosemary Novitz, ‘“Domestic Labour” and the “Informal Economy”’, unpublished paper, 1983. 8. Christine Dann, Up From Under (Wellington, 1985); Sandra Coney, Standing in the Sunshine (Auckland, 1993). 9, Arts Council of New Zealand, the arts. Wellington, 1995. 10. Julie Liebrich, Judy Paulin, Robin Ransom, Hitting Home: Men speak about abuse of women partners (Wellington, 1995), pp. 43, 60, 84; Alison Gray, The Jones Men (Wellington, 1983), p. 159. 11. Liebrich et al, Hitting Home, pp. 114, 116, 117, 119. 12. Ibid., p. 151. 13. [Leslie M. Hall] “Women and Men in New Zealand’, Landfall, 45 (1958), — pp. 47, 49, 51. 14. Ilan Breward, ‘Hagley Park Treatment’, Landfall, 74 (1965), p. 155; The New Zealand Listener, 5 June 1964, p. 8. 15. NZPD, vol. 399 (1975), pp. 2818, 2826, 2809; R. Bowman, ‘Public Attitudes

Towards Homosexuality in New Zealand’ in Joseph Harry and Man Singh Das (eds), Homosexuality in International Perspective (New Delhi, 1980),

pp. 92-101. The Heylen poll of March 1974 showed that 64.8 per cent of men under 40 supported reform; but only 39.8 per cent of those over 40. 16. NZPD, vol. 399 (1975), pp. 2776, 2790; Dan Davin, For the Rest of Our Lives

(London, 1947). :

17. [Hall], ‘Women and Men’, p. 56. 18. Samuel Butler, A First Year in Canterbury Settlement (1st ed. 1863, London, 1964), p. 50; [Hall], “Women and Men’, p. 52; Hector Bolitho, Solemn Boy (London, 1927), p. 80; Frank Sargeson, Collected Stories (Auckland, 1964),

314 A MAN’S COUNTRY ? p. 26; A. R. D. Fairburn, ‘Katherine Mansfield’, New Zealand Artists’ Annual, no. 3 (1928), p. 69. 19. A.R. D. Fairburn, The Woman Problem and other Prose (Auckland, 1967), pp. 38, 25, 24. 20. Eldred-Grigg, The Southern Gentry, passim; Pearson and Thorns, Eclipse of Equality, p. 75; John Gould, The Rake’s Progress (Auckland, 1983), pp. 33-4; Leslie Lipton, The Politics of Equality (Chicago, 1948), p. 8; Keith Sinclair, A History of New Zealand (Harmondsworth, 1959), p. 276; Bill Pearson, ‘Fretful Sleepers’, Landfall, 23 (1952), pp. 201-30; P. A. Vogt, ‘Ohakune: a Study of Community in a New Zealand Small Town’, M.A. thesis, Victoria University, 1966, quoted in Pearson and Thorns, Eclipse of Equality, p. 242. 21. For example, Pearson and Thorns, Eclipse of Equality; David Bedggood, Rich and Poor in New Zealand (Auckland, 1980); Tony Simpson, A Vision Betrayed (Auckland, 1984); Brian Easton, Social Policy and the Welfare State in New Zealand (Sydney, 1980); Bruce Jesson, The Fletcher Challenge (South Auckland, 1980).

22. Swan, History of New Zealand Rugby Football, pp. 52, 77; Greg Ryan, Forerunners of the All Blacks (Christchurch, 1993); EP, 18 March 1925. 23. Cowan, The New Zealand Wars, vol. 1, p. 2; NZPD, vol. 177 (1916), p. 942; NZEF Times, 13 Nov., 1944; Miller, Camps, Tramps and Trenches, p. 52; New Zealand at the Front, 1917, p.161; Francis Jackson, Passage to Tobruk, p. 23. 24. New Zealand Official Yearbook, 1993, pp. 74, 174.

Index

A Gun in My Hand, 198, 205, 207, Anzacs, the, 165, 166, 176

215, 283 Anzac Cove, 172

Accident Compensation Corporation, Anzac Day, 132, 193, 263

272 Anzac landing, 173

A Pioneer Looks Back, 99 ANZUS, 269

AIDS, 275 Arnold, Thomas, 87

Alcohol and Self-Control, 62 Athletic News, 114

alcohol, consumption of, Atkinson, Harry, 135, 136 by pioneers, 34—6, 40, 55-9, 60, Auckland Warriors, 272

61-5 Auckland Patriotic League, 188

during WWI, 70-3, 182, 183, Australia, 12, 54, 280

184-7 and WWI, 160, 162, 168, 186, during WWII, 208 190 effect of state legislation upon,

75-80 Baden-Powell, 156 and rugby, 125-7 Barlow, P. W., 49, 57

Alexander, Ken, 244, 248 Barrington, Rosemary, 276

Algie, Colvin, 186 Bassett, Cyril, 171

Algie, Lieutenant, 176 Bathgate, Alexander, 17, 20, 36, 51

All Blacks, 264, 286 Baxter, Archibald, 162, 197 Invincibles, 112, 115, 117, 119, Baxter, James K., 258-9

128 Belich, James, 134

play Springboks, 82, 83, 84, 85, Bell, Sir Francis, 118

113 Bell, John, 19, 30, 33, 37, 50

tours, of 1905 (importance of) Blake, Peter, 277

108-11, (representing manhood) Black Magic, 277 111-8, (establishing stereotypes) Boer War, 114, 132, 136, 137, 286 118-22, 151, 153, 156, (conduct and behaviour of New Zealanders

of players) 122-30; of 1924, 118, at, 149-52 124; of 1960, 129; of 1967, 124; compared toWW/I, 165, 166, 168,

of 1976, 129, 270-1 169, 186

see also rugby and male identity, 152, 210

All Quiet on the Western Front, 192 and military training, 153-5

Allen Adair, 252-4, 256, 257 and military virtues, 144—9 Allen, James, 90, 154, 183, 188 and New Zealand’s loyalty to

America’s Cup, 272 Britain, 139-49 Amery, L. S., 119 and patriotism, 141-4

Angel Izafrel, The, 60 and school education, 155-8 anti-nuclear stand, 269 Bolger, Jim, 269

316 A MAN’S COUNTRY ? Bolitho, Hector, 236, 241, 283 Coventry, R. G. T., 114 , Bollinger, George, 160, 170, 171, 174, Cowan, James, 286

176, 177, 178, 184, 185 Craigie, J., 61

Boy Scouts, 156, 157 cricket, 88, 264 | Boys Own Paper, 156 Crimes Act, 280 Bradshaw, John, 16, 19, 49 Criminal Code, 70 on mateship, 31 Crump, Barry, 266, 288 Brave Company, 198, 201, 203-4,

205-6, 207-8, 209, 213, 214, Dagg, Fred, 276

215 Daily Mail, 110, 112, 114, 115, 117 Britain Davin, Dan, 199, 200, 201-2, 203, Breward, Ian, 279 Daisy, Aunt, 227-8

and the family, 221, 222 206, 209, 211, 213, 214, 282 and rugby, 86-9 Defenders of New Zealand, The, 135

Victorian emigrants from, 4—6, 9, Dixon, George, 117 | 10, 11, 12, 13, 18, 19, 30-1, 38, Dixon, Morrie, 82, 122 49, 58, 140-1, 270 domestic violence, 274 British Army, 148-9, 151, 152 Dominion, 164

Brittania, 152 Drew, A., 89

Brownlie, Cyril, 124, 125 Duff, Bob, 84, 117 Brownie,. Maurice, 120

Burrows, Jim, 211 Education Act (1877), 153, 227

Burton, O., 166, 174 Elder, J. R., 39

Butler, Samuel, 25, 282 Eldred-Grigg, Stevan, 55, 57 Buttery, J. A., 115, 116 Elkington, E. W., 15, 16, 17, 37

Byer-Barr, R. A., 119 Elliot, Sir James, 105, 106 Elliot, Keith, 199, 200

Cain, George, 178, 186 Ellis, William Webb, 88

California, 12 Ellison, Thomas, 103 Cameron, General Duncan, 135 Evening Post, 99, 102, 109, 112, 114, Canada, 163, 281 117, 118, 122, 123, 125, 144, Carlile, Rev. W., 125 147, 164, 168 Chamier, G., 24, 25 Eyton, T., 94, 109, 126, 128, 130

Chums, 155 family Christ’s College, Christchurch, 157 and cult of domesticity, 223-5, | Chapple, W. A., 62

Christian Temperance Union, 70 226, 227, 265-6

Civilian into Soldier, 194-7, 202, 209 and employment patterns, 242-3,

Clarke, Don, 85, 121, 264 272-3, 278

Clarke, John, 275 images of, 228-31, 238-40 Clifton, Sapper, 172, 173, 177, 183 male ambivalence toward, Coates, Hon. J. G., 286 244-51, 252-60

Colbran, Benjamin, 173, 184 as mother-dominated, 222-5,

Connell, Trooper, 143 241-3

Council of Defence, 153 notion of ideal, 221 Contagious Diseases Act, 69-70, 72, as patriarchal institution, 221—2

74 portrayal of, 231, 244-52; in

Cooke, 120 literature, 252—60

Coutts, Captain, 114 ; and sexual segregation, 243-4

|

INDEX 317 Fanning, Leo, 96, 109, 120, 126, 163 Graham, Stanley, 266-7

Fay, Michael, 277 Grey, Sir George, 135

Federation of Labour, 285 Grey River Argus, 88

female suffrage, 52-5, 98 Grossman, E. S., 51

feminism, 273—4 Gudgeon, Thomas, 135

Fairburn, A. R. D., 284 Gunner Inglorious, 198, 206 Fairburn, Geoffrey, 284

Fergusson, Dugald, 37 Halberg, Murray, 265 films, New Zealand, 277 Hall, Sir John, 54

Findlay, S. G., 98 Hall-Jones, William, 115

Firth, J. P., 105, 106-7 Hammersley, A. St G., 89 For the Rest of Our Lives, 199, 200, Hardham, Lieutenant, 114, 149, 151

206-7, 209, 214, 282 Hawden, Sarah, 136, 146-7, 148 Foreskin’s Lament, 271 Hawke’s Bay Club, 2 Fraser, Peter, 264, 287 Haywood, Rudall, 286 Freyberg, Lieutenant-General Bernard, Hazlett, Sergeant, 144, 149

198, 199, 204, 264 Heart of the Bush, The, 51

Fullerton, J. H., 205, 208 Henderson, Jim, 198, 206, 208, 283 Henderson, S. K., 82

Gallaher, David, 117, 119, 123, 124 Herdman, A. L., 64

Gallipoli, 160, 193, 198 Hillary, Sir Edmund, 82, 264, 266 and Army hierarchy, 174, 175 Hislop, T. W., 98 casualties at, 159, 161-2, 178 Hitting Home report, 278, 279

Chunuk Bair, 167, 177 Hockley Committee, 76

commemoration of, 165 Hobbs, Les, 204, 205, 208, 209, 266,

and male culture, 183, 184 283

Maori! participation at, 287 Hodgkins, Frances, 283 and national identity, 163—4, 170 Hogburn, George, 153, 224

see also Anzacs, World War I Homosexual Law Reform Act, 279 gambling, 36, 66-9, 75-6, 182, 184 Hornibrook, F. A., 189 Gaming and Lotteries Act, 68-9 Howitt, W. K., 17-8, 39, 48, 51

Gaskell, A. P., 257-8 Hudson, R. P., 71 gay movement, 275 Hughes, Lieutenant, 149

Germany, 153, 264 Hursthouse, Charles, 4-5, 11, 17, 18,

Gifford, Phil, 128 24, 97 Gilkinson, Robert, 29, 39 Hutchison, W., 67 Gill, Air Commodore Frank, 270, Hyde, Robin, 194, 195, 197, 210, 211, 282 212, 236, 240, 252, 258, 266 Glover, Denis, 266, 284 I?ll Soldier No More, 207 Godley, Charlotte, 47-8, 51 In the Shadow of the Bush, 19, 30, 33,

Godley, General, 173, 175, 183 37, 50

Godley, Robert, 47 Infantry Brigadier, 202 Goduits Fly, The, 258 Ireland, 11, 12

Gordon, J. B., 270 Irwin, Mark, 84, 85 Gore, G. G. R., 89 Isitt, J. W., 68

150 213

Gould, John, 285

Gourley, Sergeant, 143-4, 147, 149, Jackson, Francis, 198, 199, 203, 207,

Gow, Rev. Alexander, 168 Japan, 153

-318 A MAN’S COUNTRY? Jarden, Ron, 85 McNeish, James, 283

Jones, Peter, 266 Maddocks, Captain, 143-4, 146, 147,

Joseph, Michael, 207 151, 205

Julius, Sir George, 68 Malone, Colonel W. G., 159, 167, 170, Just Me: The Life Story of a Nobody, 175, 186, 189

239 Man Alone, 252, 254-6, 258, 266, 283 Man to Man, 285

Kennaway, L. J., 15, 21-2, 48, 61 Mander, Jane, 252-4, 257

Kennedy, David, 56 Mansfield, Katherine, 283 . King, Frederick Truby, 98, 100, 105, Mark Anderson, 5-6

223-4 Mark of the Lion, 200

King, Michael, 269 Marshall, Sir John, 281 Kingsley, Charles, 87 Masefield, John, 165 Kippenberger, Howard, 202-3, 204, Mason, R. A. K., 241-2

205, 208 Massey, Bill, 111, 128, 164, 232-3,

Kirk, Norman, 270 237 Kirwin, John, 272 Meads, Colin, 118, 120, 121, 125,

Kiwi Down the Strada, 208 127, 200, 266, 267, 282, 288 Meikle, Phoebe, 280, 282

Labour Government, 269, 276 Mercer, C. B., 89

Laidlaw, Chris, 126, 129 Militia Ordinance, 137

Laney, W. R., 281 Miller, Eric, 170, 175, 180, 183, 184 Lange, David, 269 Ministry of Women’s Affairs, 274 Langton, William, 5-6, 67 Money, Charles, 27, 31, 32

Lawry, A. R., 94, 103 Monron, Charles, 88, 89

Lawson, Henry, 16, 40, 238 Montgomery, W., 54

Lee, John A., 181, 194-5, 196, 197, Morgan, Eric, 178, 186

202, 210, 233, 252, 266 Mourie, Graeme, 117

Life’s What You Make It, 230 Mud 1n Your Eyes, 126

Liston, Bishop, 238 Muldoon, Robert, 269

Lochore, Brian, 117 Mulgan, John, 199, 252, 254, 256,

Loe, Richard, 272 257, 266, 283 Lomu, Jonah, 272

Long White Cloud, The, 136 Nalder, Marshall, 139

Lowry, Trooper, 181 Nash, Walter, 233

Lyttelton Times, 139 National Defence League, 153 National Efficiency Board, 72

McAtamney, Frank, 85 National Government, 269 McCarthy, Winston, 264 Neill, Sam, 277

McCormick, Fergie, 121, 125, 127, Nepia, George, 120, 122, 286

129 New Zealand Company, The, 6

MacDonald, Fraser, 79-80 New Zealand at the Front, 169, 173,

McGee, Greg, 271 175, 178, 179, 183, 184, 189, McIntyre, Duncan, 269 190, 287 McKee Wright, David, 40 New Zealand Herald, 95, 137, 139, 154 McKearney, Susan, 239 New Zealand Illustrated Magazine, 98,

McKenzie, 283 149

, McKenzie, Daniel, 116 New Zealand Native Team, 109, 124, McLennan, Constable, 29 126, 128, 286

INDEX 319 New Zealand Observer, 231, 244, 246 Presbyterian Bible Class movement, 63

New Zealand Press, 151 prohibition, see temperance

New Zealand Times, 142 prostitution

New Zealand Railways Magazine, 236, and pioneer communities, 36, 69

248, 249 during WWI, 70-6, 187-91, 196; Nichol, C. G., 158 during WWII, 208 New Zealand Wars, 132, 134-7 and Social Hygiene Bull, 74—5

Nicholls, Sid, 91, 120

Nor the Years Condemn, 236, 240 Quartermain, Leslie, 172, 176, 179,

Northern Rugby League, 117, 118 189, 191, 192 Nuttall, George, 186 Ranfurly Shield, 82

O’Grady, J., 179 Read, Gabriel, 12, 28

Old Age Pension Bill, 223 Reed, G. M., 60

open-air concerts, 275 Rees, Rosemary, 230

Outlook, 142 136

Otago Daily Times, 145, 146, 151, 164 Reeves, Pember, 20, 109, 122, 123, Report on Experience, 199

pacifism, 192, 197 Returned Services Association, 263 Palmer, Selby Miles, 2-4 Richardson, General, 168 Parmenter, Sergeant, 171, 173 Richardson, H., 155

Passage to Tobruk, 198, 203, 207, 208, Rolleston, William, 70

213, 215, 287 Ross, Malcolm, 166 }

Passport to Hell, 190, 194, 211, 240, Ross, Noel, 157, 173

Pearson, Bill, 285 Rout, Ettie, 188

Pencarrow, 236 Royal Commission on Licensing,

56, 58 rugby

Philosopher Dick, 23, 28, 35, 36, 38, 52, 62-3

Pilling, Frederick, 95 British influence on, 86-9

pioneers clubs, Auckland Football Club, conditions for, 20-3 89; Southern Club, 101, 108

emerging stereotypes of, 24—5; decline in public’s attention, 269,

criticised, 48-50 270, 271, 272, 275, 276, 287

from Britain, 4—6, 11, 12, 18, 19, first games in New Zealand,

30-1; age distribution of, 10-11; 88-97 sex ratios of, 6—10; values of, 11 impact of WWI on, 118-9

and work, attitudes toward, players as heroes, 266

15-8; hours of, 15-6; itineracy, played by soldiers, 184 20-31, 50; nature of, 17—9; types social value of, 97-103; in

of, 11-4 schools, 103-7 and marriage, 50~2 unions, Auckland Rugby Union,

myths of, 38-42 , 160; Canterbury Rugby Union, and colonial mateship, 28-30, 102; New Zealand Rugby Union,

31-3, 33-7, 38, 39, 40 96, 109, 114, 127; Wellington Players and Slayers, 130 Rugby Football Union, 95, 128, Plunket Society, 98, 234 151; Rugby Union, 88, 114, 126 Police Offenders Amendment Act, 70 see also All Blacks, New Zealand

Pomare, Maui, 287 Native Team, Northern Rugby Porter, Cliff, 117, 128 League, Ranfurly Shield

320 A MAN’S COUNTRY? Russell, G. W., 72 (1921), 83; (1937), 83, 84, 85

Rutherford, Lord, 283 Station Ballads and Other Verses, 40 Stark, James, 190, 194

Sale, Professor George, 89 Statham, C. E., 64 Sandford, Kenneth, 208 suffrage, see female suffrage Sargeson, Frank, 252, 256—7, 266, 283 The Story of the British Nation, 193 _

Savage, Michael Joseph, 238, 239 Stout, Robert, 62

Scanlon, Nellie, 232, 233, 236 Stuart, Kevin, 84

School Fournal, 104, 154, 155, 164 Sullivan, Joseph Thomas, 29

Scotland, 11 swaggers, 13, 16, 20

Scouting for Boys, 156 | Sydney Morning Herald, 14 Seddon, Richard, 109, 110, 111, 112,

117, 122, 123, 139, 141, 142, Tablet, 142

144, 145, 150 Taiaroa, J., 90

introducing the Workers’ Dwell- Tamahori, Lee, 277

ing Bill, 223, 224, 226 Taylor, E. W., 114

as political hero, 237, 238 Taylor, Eric, 179, 181

Sheard, 92 Taylor, William, 159, 171, 174 Sheppard, Kate, 54 temperance

Shining with the Shiner, 266 and the family, 59-60, 222-3 Shops and Shop Assistants Act (1894), and the licensing laws, 65-6

9} and male culture, 55-9, 61-2, 64,

The Silent Division, 166 65, 75

Sinclair, Keith, 285 and prohibition campaign, 54, 60,

Skinner, Kevin, 85 64 Slatter, Gordon, 198, 207, 215, 283 and Protestant ethic, 62-4

Slattery, Ed, 16 and state legislation, 75-9 Smith, Captain, 145 Temuka Leader, 92, 95 SNAG, 274, 275 Territorials, 154 Snell, Peter, 265, 267 Thacker, Dr, 72 Soccer, 265 Thompson, Mervyn, 245 Social Hygiene Bill, 74 Thomson, David, 269, 282 Social Security Act, 238 Tides of Youth, 232

Society for Promoting the Health of Tomorrow, 256

Women and Children, 223 Travis, Sergeant R. C., 167

Solemn Boy, 241, 282 Treagar, Edward, 50

Somerset, H. C. D., 227, 243 Trent, K. L., 178 Somme see World War I Troop Target, 205, 208, 209

Sommerville, Colonel, 147 Truth, 233-4

South Africa, 83, 113, 114, 270 Twistleton, Corporal, 147, 149 see also Boer War, Springboks

‘Southern Man’, 268 United States of America, 264, 280

Soviet Union, 264 Upham, Charles, 133, 200, 204-5,

Speights beer, 268 208, 211-2, 264, 288 Springboks

Bekker, 85 Vagrancy Act, 69, 74 Koch, 85 Veysey, Alex, 118, 121, 129

protests about, 270-1 Victssitudes of Bush Life in Australia and

tours (1956), 82, 262-3, 264; New Zealand, 37

INDEX 32) Vietnam War, 134, 269 Workers’ Dwelling Bill (1905), 223

Vincent, Pat, 84 working women, 272, 273

Vogel, Julius, 7 World Cup, 271 Vogt, P. A., 285 World War I

Vosburgh, Miriam, 240-1 and mateship, 179-83 martial virtues, importance of in,

Wairarapa Star, 95 163-9 Waitaruna, 24, 37 myths arising from, 165-—9

Waite, Fred, 158 New Zealand troops, in Egypt, Wakefield, E. G., 15, 19 168, 176, 183, 185, 188, 190,

colonising schemes of, 47 196; in England, 187, 188; 1n

on mateship 28, 29, 30, 31, 38 Flanders, 163, 178; in France, Wakefield, Edward Jerningham, 47 171, 172, 175, 176, 178, 186,

Wallace, W. J., 91, 114, 121 189, 196; at Messines, 165; at Le Wanganui Collegiate, 157 Quesnoy, 165; at Passchendaele,

war, 192-8, 264, 269, 287 181; at the Somme, 159, 162, see also New Zealand Wars, Boer 165; at the Western Front, 165, War, World War I, World War II 171, 176, 178, 183

War Regulation Amendment Act, observations of, by troops, 169;

71-2 Army hierarchy, 172-6; bravery,

Ward, Sir Joseph, 69 170-2; conditions, 177-9 Waterfront Strike, 82 participants in, 158-63, 286

Watkins, Allen, 170 and pioneer male culture, 182—4 We Will Not Cease, 197 and prostitution, 70, 72~3, 74-5,

Webb, Paddy, 238 187-91

Weekly News, 99, 234, 244 and use of alcohol by soldiers, Wellington Rugby Football Annual, The, 70-4, 184-7

1988, 96 see also Gallipoli, Anzacs

Wellington Trades and Labour World War II, 101, 128, 132, 165

Council, 142 literature on, describing use of

West-Watson, Archbishop, 238 alcohol at, 208; defining the

Western Star, 94 New Zealand male, 198-9, 206,

Weston, Lieutenant-Colonial, 167 210-1, 212-5, miateship at, Wheeler, C. M., 201, 203, 209, 211] 206-8;

Whineray, Wilson, 117 prostitution at, 208-9

Why the ‘All Blacks’ Triumphed, 111 Maori Battalion at, 287-8 Woman’s Weekly, 229, 234, 239 Wylie, Alex, 126

Wild West Coast, The, 266 Wynyard, H. J., 102, 115

Wilder, George, 266

Wilson, Guthrie, 198, 201-2, 206 Young Citizens League, 193 Witty, G., 64