Nicholas Reid
Our First Foreign War: The impact of the South African War 1899–1902 on New Zealand by Nigel Robson (Massey University Press, 2021), 416pp, $55; I Don’t Believe In Murder: Standing up for peace in World War 1 Canterbury by Margaret Lovell-Smith (Canterbury University Press, 2023), 336pp, $45; Defending Trinity College, Easter 1916: Anzacs and the Rising by Rory Sweetman (Four Courts Press, 2019), 172pp, 17.95 EUR; Who Disturbs the Kukupa? by Kayleen Hazlehurst (Blue Dragonfly Press, 2023), 398pp, $45
Seen from our early twenty-first century, the Second South African War (1899–1902)—the Boer War as it was called—was little more than a case of aggressive British Imperialism. Britain wanted the gold, diamonds and other minerals in areas controlled by Afrikaners. Britain made excuses for war. Neither Afrikaners nor the British respected the indigenous African peoples. There was nothing glorious about the war: it was a vicious, scorched earth conflict. But in New Zealand and other British colonies this inglorious war was feted as a great and worthy adventure. Young men rushed to enlist. There were bizarre accounts of well-connected politicians conniving to get their sons into khaki. Some underage boys stowed away in troopships. Nine New Zealand contingents were sent to South Africa. Six and a half thousand New Zealanders took part in the war … even if more died of typhoid fever than in battle.
In his very detailed and carefully researched book, Nigel Robson begins with the hysterical jubilation in New Zealand when the siege of Mafeking was relieved. But countering widespread jingoism, some church newspapers and some members of the National Council of Women questioned the righteousness of the war. They were quickly shouted down or ostracised. Yet, notes Robson, as the conflict dragged on over three years, enthusiasm for the war waned, even among the jingoists.
While Robson treats the mood of the time with respect, he does not conceal the sheer nastiness of the war. Newspapers often exaggerated the prowess of Kiwi soldiers fighting in the Transvaal. They were always ready to report what positive things British generals had to say about plucky New Zealand lads. There were cases of true heroism in battle. But Robson also spends a long chapter on the misbehaviour of New Zealand (and other imperial) soldiers, such as those who attacked Chinese in Wellington or who were part of a riot in South Africa, culminating in the burning-down of a Malay mosque.
There was much drunken larrikinism. Infinitely worse, of course, was the strategy, inaugurated by British top brass, of torching Boers’ houses and homesteads, slaughtering their livestock, rounding up their women and children and putting them in ‘concentration camps’ (the first use of the term). New Zealand soldiers were part of this campaign, and Robson reports many stories of Kiwis looting Boer homes before torching them.
There is one very ironic account in Our First Foreign War. Many Māori were eager to show their loyalty to the British Empire by joining the ranks. But they were firmly rebuffed. The war in South Africa was to be a ‘white man’s war’—even though Indians were accepted by the British. Robson notes that a small number of Māori did actually participate, thanks to having some Pakeha forebears.
Robson offers one sour conclusion. New Zealand profited marginally from the war, as farmers were able to export oats to feed the horses of the imperial cavalry. But that was about all that New Zealand gained.
In New Zealand during World War I, around 350 men were imprisoned or severely punished for refusing to take up arms. The best-known book about the conscientious objectors (COs) of that time is Archibald Baxter’s We Will Not Cease. But Baxter was an Otago man. Margaret Lovell-Smith’s study, I Don’t Believe In Murder: Standing up for peace in World War 1 Canterbury, is exclusively focused on Canterbury—and with good reason. Apparently, there were more active pacifists and conscientious objectors (COs) in Canterbury than in any other part of New Zealand.
Lovell-Smith’s title comes from 17-year-old Harry Cooke, who refused to register for military training, declaring: ‘I don’t believe in murder, and I won’t be trained to be a murderer.’ The first pacifists objected to New Zealand’s participation in the Boer War, and then their numbers grew when, in 1912, compulsory military training was imposed. A peace movement was formed. With the arrival of World War, some Socialists and some Christians objected. For Socialist COs the war was just a racket for the benefit of capitalists and treating the working classes as cannon fodder. Socialists sought to unite workers internationally in the class struggle, not divide them on behalf of the bosses. For Christian COs, war defied Jesus, who preached pacificism and asserted: ‘blessed are the peacemakers’. It was a matter of conscience.
Radical Socialists and committed Christians might seem strange bedfellows, but their causes were almost identical, especially after conscription was introduced in 1916. Both government and army were more zealously tracking down men who had dodged the draft.
Lovell-Smith makes it clear that the mainstream churches supported the war in the name of patriotism, and the Christian pacifists came mainly from smaller fringe denominations. It’s also apparent that most working class supported the war—at least until ‘war fatigue’ set in. In this context, one can only applaud the moral courage of the conscientious objectors who faced severe sanctions and were ridiculed or harassed by the general public. I Don’t Believe in Murder reproduces many newspaper cartoons representing COs as either cowards or ‘shirkers’ of their duty.
Once she has set out the circumstances, Lovell-Smith concentrates on individuals who led the pacifist cause. She points out that some people supported the war but also championed the right of pacifists to live according to their conscience. The poets Blanche Baughan and Jessie Mackay were of that kind.
There is one sad irony that is only briefly mentioned. Some of the most radical Socialist COs—such as Bob Semple—were part of the Labour government’s cabinet twenty years later when World War II was raging. In office, they imposed the same sanctions against COs as had been imposed in World War I. A different war meant a different conscience, it would seem.
As part of the Easter Rising in Dublin in 1916, Irish insurgents captured the Central Post Office to use as their headquarters and attempted to take over other prominent Dublin buildings. But they did not occupy Trinity College. It was the very symbol of Anglo culture and was described by one Irish patriot as ‘an English fort in Ireland’. In the five days of the uprising, Trinity College was, in effect, the British Imperialist counterbalance to the Irish Republican Post Office.
In his account of events, Rory Sweetman notes that the insurgents could have easily captured Trinity College on the first day of the uprising. Although it contained an armoury, which would have been a great asset to the insurgents, it was barely defended. But the insurgents missed a golden opportunity as their plans were focused on other targets. Consequently, Trinity College was hurriedly taken over by British soldiery and members of the Officers Training Corps. The outcome was four days of desultory sniping between the Imperial riflemen and the Irish fighters. Meanwhile, British artillery proceeded to smash up much of central Dublin, including the Central Post Office. Trinity College with all its priceless books and treasures was barely touched.
Sweetman gives a detailed account of the ‘colonial’ soldiers who helped defend the College. As a New Zealander of Irish descent, Sweetman focuses particularly on six Anzacs—five Kiwis and one Aussie—most of whom were seasoned soldiers who had learned their trade in the Gallipoli campaign. He also makes it clear how complicated Irish politics then were.
Defending Trinity College Dublin, Easter 1916 contains long and detailed appendices, mostly private letters and newspaper reportage by those who had witnessed or taken part in the Easter Rising. Well-illustrated with contemporary photos, this is a serious work of historical research drawing on many sources and with nearly every page crammed with footnotes. It may be a niche work for scholars, but it is still very readable.
One should never belittle how much skill it takes to write a good yarn. A yarn is a story that engages a readership without being too concerned with psychological subtlety or the development of complex characters. A yarn is concerned with events more than anything—plenty of them to incite the reader to keep turning the pages. In those terms, Kayleen Hazlehurst’s work of war fiction, Who Disturbs the Kupapa?, is a great yarn.
Sonny Wirima of Ngā Puhi signs up with the Māori Infantry Battalion when World War II breaks out. He finds himself in Greece, where he is separated from his company as the Germans break through the Olympus Pass. He manages to escape through Greece with the help of Greek peasants, partisans and assorted Aussies and Kiwis. He gets hold of a boat and makes it through the stormy seas around the Cyclades before he is ditched by a treacherous turn-coat. He is in Crete and witnesses the disaster at Maleme as German parachutists fall from the skies. He works with Cretan partisans. Then it’s on to Alexandria, and before you know it, he’s in Italy and involved in the pitiless battle around Monte Cassino. Many, many characters cross Sonny’s tracks in his fraught journeys, but they come and go too fleetingly to stay in the mind.
Meanwhile, back in Northland, Atarangi, the woman Sonny hopes to marry, prays for his safe return. The narrative goes back and forth between Sonny’s experience of war and Atarangi’s experience of desire. No spoilers here, but this longish novel has a bitter-sweet finale.
Hazlehurst has clearly done scrupulous research and perhaps has not wanted to delete any of it. Yes, Māori soldiers did fight in all the theatres of war that the novel follows—Greece, Crete, Italy. Yes, they certainly had a reputation for courage in battle and they did suffer many casualties. This is depicted truthfully, as is the vivid way locales and distant countries are presented. But sometimes Hazlehurst strains to inform us about Māori culture by inserting unlikely conversations between Atarangi and her elderly relatives about the traditional gods and the meaning of traditional ceremonies. Occasionally it reads as extracts of history and anthropology presented once over lightly.
It’s still a good yarn, though, and deserves a wide readership.
NICHOLAS REID is a writer, reviewer and historian. He holds a PhD in History from the University of Auckland.
Leave a Reply