Ace of war-torn skies a hero well worth remembering
Early this week, like so many others, I was moved by reports that Alan Peart, New Zealand’s last World War II fighter ace resident in the country, had died. First and foremost a sad loss for his family and friends, Peart’s passing is also a significant moment in the nation’s history.
Heroes are a rare enough phenomenon these days, let alone men who proved their mettle in combat, in a conflict whose morality was beyond question. In recent times Peart’s story has enjoyed publicity commensurate with its importance. Last year, under the Churchilian banner ‘‘Last of the Few’’, an interview with the ace was posted on the pages of Stuff. This year he features in the film Spitfire, a documentary on the iconic aircraft currently playing in theatres. Despite this, I had not heard of Peart until the news of his death. In fact, the first indication that he had lived in my home town was the announcement of a proposed spitfire flyover in Hamilton on Tuesday afternoon. If this was to be scheduled over St Peter’s Anglican Cathedral, it followed that that’s where the funeral was to be held.
The prospect of the flyover was enticing. I had never seen a spitfire in the air. Yet the man himself demanded equal respect. Why not attend in person?
Most weddings and funerals are undone by the sartorial inelegance of attendees. This was not the case on Tuesday. From the ecclesiastical finery of the clergy, to the pressed uniforms of the armed services, police and ATC cadets, an appropriate effort was made. Amid the sparkle of medals and the gleam of freshly polished boots, my illfitting suit and unkempt hair felt decidedly inadequate. Once the service got under way, the feeling subsided. Necessary formalities gave way to genuine warmth. Speakers had been well chosen. When the attendance of Jim Robinson, the last surviving member of Peart’s 81 Squadron, was announced, spontaneous applause broke out and the distinguished gentleman rose, humbly, to take a bow. Clapping in a cathedral is not something you see every day. A special moment.
Larry Hill, who read the eulogy on behalf of the family, struck a perfect balance between celebrating heroic exploits and gently deconstructing the mythology of war. Bringing an awareness of both the general facts of Peart’s service and specific detail, he singled out two stories. If it were not for the intelligence Hill brought to his task, you could easily mistake these for Boy’s Own or Commando comic fodder, tales of survival against impossible odds. As a relatively inexperienced pilot, Peart had attempted to take on 12 German aircraft by himself. Abandoned by his superior, who invented a cover story, claiming that Peart had been killed in action, he returned to base to discover his comrades dividing up his belongings. A reprimand for not following procedure swiftly became a commendation for courageous initiative. Later, against the oriental foe, the odds were even higher. When his squadron leader was killed, Peart alone faced 25 Japanese planes. Forty minutes in a spitfire, fighting for his life, ended in a crash landing in the Burmese jungle. Against these exhilarating anecdotes the story of Peart’s return home to Raglan was properly sobering. According to Hill, a sizeable portion of the town turned out to welcome the local boy made good, expecting a dapper hero in freshly pressed uniform, showing off his wings and medals. What they got instead was an emaciated figure, with sunken eyes, in borrowed, ill-fitting fatigues, betraying no trace of glory.
Embarrassed, the crowd quickly dissipated, leaving Peart to his family.
The war played its part in shaping the character of Alan Peart and he rightly felt it his duty to testify about his experience, a firsthand witness to events that retreat further into legend by the day. Yet, as Hill was at pains to point out, he was also a loving family man, a civil engineer who made huge contributions to the country, from Auckland airport to the hydro-electrics of the Waikato, as well as a man of faith given to acts of charity and enthusiastic choir singing. He was not defined by WWII. The spitfire that flew over Peart’s coffin, painted in the colours of his old squadron, was the same aircraft that he himself last flew in back in 2014. As it circled the cathedral I overheard his old comrade in arms remark on how distinctive the sound was. Fewer and fewer can speak with such authority.