Spitfire ace, civil engineer and family man
Spitfire pilot/engineer b July 25, 1922 d September 5, 2018
Those who knew Alan Peart knew he was three men rolled into one: the war hero, the family man and the public servant. Peart was well known as one of New Zealand’s last World War II fighter aces – he was only 19 when he became a qualified pilot, after 12 weeks’ training.
He served actively for 31⁄2 years, flying a Spitfire for the RNZAF and RAF over Europe, North Africa and against the Japanese over Burma. An ace pilot with seven confirmed kills, he was awarded a Distinguished Flying Cross.
After the war, Peart became a civil engineer for the Ministry of Works until he retired in 1982. Over his career he helped build the Maraetai power station, on the Waikato River, and was the senior designer for Auckland International Airport.
He and twin brother Roger had both made up their minds to fight in WWII, said friend and aviation historian Larry Hill, who spoke at Peart’s funeral. But their mother said she couldn’t bear to lose two sons and only one could go.
‘‘Alan jumped up as quick as he could and had decided that, because he was the oldest by five minutes, he should go,’’ Hill said. ‘‘And so it was.’’
The plane that Peart flew has become an emblem of the war and has been called ‘‘the most famous fighter plane ever made’’. Peart is also one of the subjects of the documentary movie Spitfire, now showing in theatres.
Twice, he was overwhelmed by the enemy during the war. The first time, in North Africa, he was a No 2 flying officer.
‘‘Alan saw the enemy, he saw these little specks in the distance, these 12 German fighters,’’ Hill said. ‘‘He called up and said I see the fighters, let’s go. So he peeled off and went after them. And his No 1 peeled off and went home.’’
The No 1 told the reporting officer that Peart had been killed. The rest of the squadron – growing scarce in supplies – began dividing his clothes and boots among them.
‘‘[Peart] turned up and his No 1 proceeded to tear strips off him, [saying] ‘if you ever break formation like that again I’m going to court-martial you’. And the squadron leader said, well, actually we need more people like Peart.’’
The second time, he fought 25 Japanese fighters for 40 minutes. Exhausted, he was eventually forced to land, and escaped being shot down once more.
Such stories fed into a romantic version of a fighter pilot, Hill said. ‘‘A dashingly fit young man in a well-fitted uniform with wings on his chest with his ribbons. The reality is quite different.’’
On days off in places like North Africa, pilots had to beg for food from locals, Hill said. Once an airman died, his clothes and boots were hastily divided up.
Towards the end of his active service, Peart contracted a tropical disease. The war was almost won, Hill said, so Peart began his journey home to Raglan.
Excited at the notion of their war hero returning, locals gathered at the bus stop waiting for him to arrive.
Peart was exhausted after weeks on a ship and hours on a bus. He had lost a lot of weight and wore a tattered and illfitting uniform after losing his own. His eyes were dark and sunken and the illness left him shuffling. He wore no medals, nor even his wings. Nobody said a word.
Slowly, locals slunk away, leaving him with his parents and siblings. His family were his favourite people to be around, anyway.
His engineering career was an exciting one. A lot of the infrastructure he helped design required a lot of future planning and psychological considerations.
And it was how he met his wife, Jennifer, with whom he would go on to have his three children, Robert, Judith and Alastair.
Jennifer can still see him entering the office, as a handsome bachelor in his 30s. Every woman’s neck cricked when he walked through those doors. But Peart wasn’t fussed by the attention.
One day, when he announced he was going deer-stalking that weekend, someone in the office suggested he take Jennifer. His expression was a little alarmed, but she proclaimed: ‘‘I would love to go!’’
Evidently, she won him over and they were married before long.
The family moved all around New Zealand for his work. His children recall a gorse-ridden property he bought in Lower Hutt, and transformed into a ‘‘Garden of Eden’’, son Robert said.
It was full of native plants and flowers, which went on to buffer vegetation fires on two separate occasions. The first fire destroyed the plants, which were still shrubs, but Peart simply went out and replanted them.
Both times, the vegetation protected the house, which became a gathering house for the Peart ‘‘clan’’.
Peart didn’t talk about the war with his children until he was in his 70s and 80s. He might have worried that talking about it would upset them, Jennifer said.
‘‘He was very private about the war,’’ daughter Judith said.
His own father had served in World War I and had never spoken of it, either. He never wore any of his medals.
Every Anzac Day, Alan would leave to attend the dawn service alone, and his family left him to do so. It was his time to grieve. It was only a few decades ago that his children decided to simply tag along anyway, which quickly became a family tradition.
Alastair remembers his dad first speaking about the war after Alastair himself had been in the Special Air Service. Alan had been worried that Alastair might have nightmares.
He was generous, pragmatic and kind, with a strong faith. He loved the choir and volunteered in a men’s group, which served meals to shelters. He wasn’t a strict man, but he had high standards.
He led by example, and his children were determined to live up to his standards. ‘‘He was a man who loved everyone, and everyone loved Dad,’’ Robert said.
It’s the simple memories, like games of poker and the stories of his boyhood, that his family treasure. Judith remembers hearing about the time he and his twin brother circled an owl to see if its head would unscrew after turning 360 degrees.
That was before he was fostered during the Great Depression of 1929 as a teenager, after his family had to sell their farm. Some families were caring and charitable. Others saw him as free labour.
‘‘He saw huge kindness and huge exploitation,’’ Robert said. ‘‘That was quite a defining time.’’
Robert remembers hearing a piece of advice his father bestowed upon another budding engineer: ‘‘Never take dignity away from someone.’’ It summed up his character, Robert said.
Hundreds, including Jim Robinson, a fellow WWII fighter pilot who had been Alan’s squadron mate, attended his funeral, at St Peter’s Anglican Cathedral in Hamilton. A Spitfire, bearing the colours of Peart’s squadron, circled the cathedral before the flower-adorned casket was driven away.
Everyone kept saying the same thing, his children said. They wished Alan could have been there to see the aircraft, to hear the things people said, to enjoy the day.
‘‘As far as I’m concerned, he was there,’’ Alastair said. – By Ruby Nyika