The man behind the bayonet
Hans was himself a giant walking cliche, right down to an ugly scar down his right cheek.
His introductory belt to the head knocked Hinton off his chair, but in pain and fury – and in recollection of his boxing training as a youth – Hinton rose to let fly with a right cross, knocking the thug over.
The buzzer was pushed again and reinforcements arrived.
After the ensuing hiding, the Gestapo did check out his claims to prisoner-of-war status and found the freshly updated reference to his award.
Hinton and his companion were back before Greiner.
‘‘You, with the VC – you wouldn’t tell lies would you?’’ ‘‘I never told a lie in my life!’’ The pair were returned to their prison camp where, it turns out, they hadn’t even been missed.
For all the privations of prison life, those who ended up prisoners from the defeats at Greece and Crete had a better chance of surviving the war than those who went to future theatres. And, with a couple of exceptions – looking at you, Hans – he harboured no illwill towards his captors, even keeping in touch with one afterwards.
When the liberation came Hinton was taken to England and formally received his award from King George VI at Buckingham Palace.
Upon his return to New Zealand, and Colac Bay, he was widely feted but was distressed and embarrassed by the adulation. That sense of humbug tended to kick in. He struggled to convey his feelings to reporters, telling them of men whose names meant nothing much to them – like Alan Jones, Jim Hessan, Doug Patterson, Bob O’Rorke, Pat Rhind.
‘‘I had my war cut short. My mates went on to fight more battles. They are the heroes.’’
He found a post-war career that befitted a man of mettle: Dominion Breweries’ Sir Henry Kelliher made him the manager of the infamous Thistle Hotel, Auckland’s wildest. He sorted it out. Then he went on to manage several others, most of them rough and raw.
When strangers came in and wanted to talk to the famous Jack Hinton, he would point them in the direction of any one of his more hard-case patrons.
He married his prewar sweetheart Eunie and, following her death, his second wife Molly.
His biographer McDonald, later writing his 1997 obituary, disagreed with those who had called him a rough diamond.
‘‘A diamond, most certainly, but not rough. He was a gentle, generous and intelligent man who commanded respect wherever he went.
‘‘He had a humble manner and . . . a deep sense of humour – and of the ridiculous.
‘‘Dignitaries were praising his valour at one function and, although nearly everyone was standing to attention, he grinned wickedly at me and said quietly: ‘What a load of bull’.’’
Which is, if you like, another word for humbug.