From Noel Barber's "The Natives Were Friendly ..."

 

And this is how the same incident is described in Tom Neale's book "An Island to Oneself":

Without warning in November 1960 the silence which enveloped the island - broken only by the boom of the surf and the crying of birds - was suddenly shattered by a roar which made the old cat run for her life and sent the hens fluttering into the illusionary security of their coop. It was so unexpected that for one moment I too froze with fear, and I remember it flashed though my mind that another war must have started. I ran out of the shack in a panic as the roaring became louder and more ominous. From the cover of the coconut trees I looked up and saw two enormous shadows in the sky, as monstrous and as predatory as the frigate birds now flying away in protest. Then I realised - they were two helicopters. Until they hovered almost directly over the shack I thought perhaps they were going to leave me alone. I was still hidden in the trees, but now I ran down the coral path and waited in the shelter of the palms edging the beach by the old pier as the leading helicopter slowly came down in front of me with a flurry of wings which blew dust everywhere. When she finally settled - even more like a bird than before - the giant blades stopped rotating, a door was thrust open and two men in khaki drill stepped out. Almost immediately afterwards, the second helicopter landed a few yards farther along the beach. From their behaviour it was quite obvious to me that none of the men had the slightest suspicion there was anyone on this tiny island, and I hope I may be forgiven for introducing a touch of drama. As they stood there, one of them pushing back his peaked cap to wipe the sweat off his forehead, I stepped out of the trees, raised my battered old hat and said, "United States Navy, I presume?"

I have never seen two men so stunned with surprise. Both stood there gaping for fully ten seconds until one of them, recovering his wits, stepped back a pace, saluted smartly, then walked forward and shook hands. It was a signal to end the "formalities." "Well, I'll be damned!" he gasped. "What in hell's name are you doing here?"

"I live here!" I replied.

"Alone?"

"Yes, alone - and you're the first person I've spoken to for six months." They were all crowding around me, and one offered me a cigarette, looked at my skin the colour of mahogany and said rather doubtfully, "You don't look like a native, sir."

"I'm not," I replied simply, "I'm a New Zealander."

"Well, by God!" he cried. "It's lucky for you we've called. Now we can get you off." As yet they had no conception I was on the island because I wanted to be. One of them told me eagerly that their ship - which I could now see outside the lagoon - was going to New Zealand, and he was quite sure they could "rescue" me and give me a lift back to civilisation. "But I like it here!" I replied, almost unable to stop chuckling. The senior officer scratched his brown hair again, and muttered, "Well, I'll be darned! Robinson Crusoe come true." I took them on a tour of my shack, and discovered they belonged to an American icebreaker, the Glacier, on its way tot he Antarctic via New Zealand. She was still steaming ahead, so they could not stay, otherwise she would move outside flying range and they might become marooned with me! They had flown over "for a practice spin" and with the idea of collecting a few drinking nuts. I split some for them as they examined every detail of the shack, the garden, the fowl run, still finding it difficult to believe that such a state of affairs could exist in the twentieth century. "Are you sure you don't want to string along with us?" one asked. Very shortly they were ready to go. Our farewells were marked by much handshaking and delving into pockets which yielded up all the half-empty packets of cigarettes they happened to have with them.

"Gee," said one ruefully, "we could have brought you anything you wanted if we'd only known you were here." We talked a minute or so longer and they promised to contact my sister in New Zealand to let her know I was in good health. Then one said, almost awkwardly, "Sorry, Mr. Neale, we just gotta go. Orders are orders and half an hour was the limit. But it's been wonderful meeting you." They climbed aboard, waved farewell, and with a flurry of rotors and a cloud of dust, rose up back into the air bound for the twentieth century again. When I returned to the shack, the old cat had crept back and the fowls were already busy pecking in the run. Their entire visit had occupied half an hour - the briefest visit anybody has ever yet paid to Suvarov.

The landing of the helicopters was to have an interesting sequel. Though I knew nothing of it at the time, the U.S. Navy released a brief news item about their visit to Suvarov, and this was how Noel Barber, the author and journalist, first heard about me whilst recovering in hospital from a car crash. Apparently he decided he wanted to see the island - and me - and arrived about five months later in the Manua Tele, which he had chartered in Pago Pago. When he landed Noel was still only able to walk with the aid of sticks for he had been badly smashed up, but he stayed two days, and brought me a liberal supply of stores which included tea, flour, corned beef, together with whisky, rum and cigarettes. He also brought with him Chuck Smouse, an American photographer, and he and Noel took many of the photographs which appear in this book. I was so touched by the stores they had brought for me that when the Manua Tele had sailed, I sat down in the office and wrote Noel Barber a long letter of thanks.