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XV. There Are No Sheep On Our Farms​

Went to a doctor, said I look so hard
And with a smile on his face pointed me to a junkyard
Look for an answer in empty doorways,
Talk to a dancer, said it’s out on the highways…


Somewhere in South Otago
March 31, 1984

“…morrow, the Post Office will be able to guarantee phone services across the entirety of the South Island and the following…”

“Wid’ya turn ‘t over t’ somethin’ int’restin’, Bill?” Brian asked as the boy swept another load of crutchings over to the side of the woolshed. “Palmer dun’nt know whenna shuddup, does he?”

“Too right mate,” chipped in Sid as he hauled another ewe onto centre stage and Brian began snick-snick-snicking at her tail with the shears. “Je-sus, least Lange kept yer attention, eh?”

“I know this…not even begin…ease…losses of the last…only state my…all lost someone. Frie…lee members, those closest to…laces we once called ho…”

“’S no good,” said Bill as he skimmed the channels. “On every station.”

“Eh?”

“I said, ‘s on every station.”

“Ah, leave ‘er on, then; he’ll shut up in a bit.”

Bill nodded and headed outside to check on the feed, scratching the rough beginnings of a beard (he wished) as he rolled a bit more silage out for the ewes. Peripherally, he dimly registered the rumble of wheels on grit and the plume of dust making its way up the valley. As he finished up and dusted his hands off on his pants the truck stopped down at the main gate, and it was only when Brian and Sid came out of the shed to have a look that he bothered to pay the visitor any notice.

“Good morning!” called the man who stepped out of the cab with a wave. He wasn’t the usual stock agent; no doubt he was still up in Nelson with his family. No, this fellah…this one looked too fresh-faced to be a stock agent. Brian seemed to think so as well; he hesitated for a long second or two before he offered a hand to be shaken.

The stranger maintained steady eye contact during the brisk exchange, and his open, easy smile did not once waver. Brian stood silent for the briefest of moments after they let their hands fall to their sides, before nodding. The new man had passed the test, and so he offered the ritual greeting.

“G’day. Kim far?”

“You don’t mess around, do you Mister McKay?” A grunt in response. “But yep, I’ve come down from Dunedin; I’m with Federated Farmers.”

“Oh, yeah?” He might have walked and talked like a townie, but he was in the right tribe; Brian’s demeanour became imperceptibly more trusting.

“Whaddaya come out here fer?”

“Ah, you’ve…heard about the change in government, I guess?” A snort in response. “Yes, well, the Minister of Agriculture’s still in, so he’s been trying to work out a response to some of the snags in the rationing system.” An impassive stare. “So I’ve come here today to tell you about the plans; you’re close enough to the distribution hub they’ve set up in Balclutha that, ah, that even with the transit companies’ diesel ration being reduced they oughta be able to get out here when the time comes to send some of your flock off.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Ye-es…it’s, ah, quite lucky, actually; they’re possibly going to have to stop collecting milk over in some areas; the Ministry’s getting all the supply in it can, but there’s not the, not, ah, not the diesel to do it all all over, so places further from the towns are going to be passed over…”

“Huh.”

“…and so we – sorry? No, yes, we’re trying to establish who’s able to be included and not, and perhaps thinking of moving workers into some of them.”

“Aw, yeah?” asked Sid. “Whazzat mean fer us then, eh?”

“Well, ah, looking at the land here, I was meant to ask how much diesel fuel this farm’s operations required per week. Or month, if you could guess.”

“Well…” drawled Brian, scratching at his jaw with a lanolin-coated hand like a glazed ham “…Ah rrikkin maybe…oh, no more’n twenty gallons a month for the tractor when we need it; Lamber-geeny, and she’s been awright even since the old oil shock. Gotta Roverr‘s well, which ya use a bit more, but she’s not used too often ‘til spring. Call it another few gallons there. Oh, an’ the boy here’s got a Hondie bike, too, but that’s petrol, so I dunno if that’s a problem.”

And with that concerted effort of oratory, he lapsed back into silence as the fresh-faced Federated Farmers fellah furrowed his brow and pulled a notebook from his back pocket, tracing some figures with his finger as he murmured sums under his breath. After maybe half a minute, he looked back up at the three.

“Make it fifteen a month through September and I’ll be able to see you right.”
Brian thought again.

“Still on the ration?”

“Nope.”

“Eh?”

“New rules, Mister McKay. Nobody gets diesel, not unless they prove both need and effective use to the Ministry of Energy. Do you have any storage tanks on the property?”

“Ah…coupla old forty-fourr gallon drums.”

“Right, let’s think. Ah…you should be able to get fifteen gallons per month, call it three months’ supply at once to save you the trips and…yeah, yeah I can tell the station in Balclutha to get you one barrelful.”

“Balclutha?”

“Well, you see, most of the smaller local stations like your one just up the road” a thumb jabbed over the shoulder “have been sucked bone-dry since – since last month, and with diesel being restricted it’s been decided – so, uh, so I’m told – that it’s easier to store it all in one or two big tanks at places like Balclutha, Gore, Lumsden, places like that, and let the farmers come to them instead of spreading it all out. Makes it easier to guard.”

“Guard?” interjected Sid. “Take’nit all a bit seriously, ain’t’chez?”

“We-ell, did you hear about what’s been happening up in Canterbury lately? Gangs – or someone, buggered if I’d know – has been going around targeting petrol stations, holding the owners at gunpoint and pinching their diesel.”

“Jesus.”

“That’s not the half of it; Christchurch’s got a warrant out for them and apparently there are soldiers turning up at stations. With rifles.”

“Bloody hell. Hope they catch the ones playing sillybuggers up there, then.”

“Yeah. Well, if you can sign this requisition form I’ll send it on to Dunedin for you and get you an exemption sometime in the next fortnight.”

“Awright,” drawled Brian, marking the page in a surprisingly well-kept script and shaking the agent’s hand. “Be seein’ yez.”

“Yep, goodbye, Mister McKay,” said the agent as he got into the cab and rolled off. As the plume of dust made its way back to the main road, Brian spoke again.

“We still have that diesel we bought at the starta the year, right?”

“Aye, therr’re still five or six barrelsful out ‘round the back of the old shed,” replied Sid.

“Right, we’ll move ‘em ‘round aback’a the house t’nigh’,” said Brian, mopping his brow again. “Best fill up the tractor while we’re at it; may’s well ‘ave him thinking we’re desp’rit f’r every drop we can get.” A shake of the head as he moved back into the shed. “Forty-bloody-five gallons, I ask you. Whazza country comin’ to…”

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Well here I am in the big city
I got no heart and I got no pity…


Civil Defence Processing Centre AKL-04 [Mangere]
March 29, 1984

They were going to be moved soon, or so the rumour went. Teuila already had; they’d found some of her seemingly limitless extended family and shipped her to Matamata, where one of the bigger processing centres had been established. Grace hadn’t been sure how she felt about that. Still wasn’t.

It wasn’t that she was deluded enough to think that there might be something worth going home to which made her jealous, but more the idea of having some sort of purpose at all. Even the people who left the camp in the dead of night to wander north into the burnt-out heart of the city had something they were trying to achieve; the guards, if you could call them that, didn’t bother stopping them anymore. Why bother feeding people who were going to walk into certain death anyway?

It was also unpleasant to have a member of their group gone, and not only for the emotional reasons that had spilled out at the teary farewell. Now it was only pairs of them making their runs to the latrines or the cafeteria tent, which did little to help the sense of unease. In a nutshell, it had all gone to shit, it really all had.

Mel was somewhat more optimistic, probably because nuclear war made no real difference to her particularly bitter take on the world.

“You reckon you’re the worst off?” she said in an irritated snarl when Grace raised the matter. “Shit, we’re alive, we’re not dying in a ditch somewhere, and nobody’s dragged us off in the middle of the night. Call me crazy, but I’m kinda grateful for all that.”

“Ye-ah, but was pissing off those guys really the best move?”

“Oh, you’re still worried about that? Five dollars says they end up getting stabbed before we move out of here; they’re bound to piss off someone more threatening than us before long.”

“You’re on,” said Kathleen from outside the tent, where she was catching a little of the fitful light as the wind shifted around to the west. “I’ll let you pay me when we get moved.”

“We have witnesses, you know; I’m gonna hold you to that.” Like most sentences involving money these days, it was said with an implied lack of belief. Money was nice, but a) most people didn’t have any, having escaped with the clothes on their back or less, and b) being less than useful in the absence of shops to spend it in. Like most sentences involving pre-war normalities, it helped you convince yourself that things might get back to normal someday.

She wasn’t prepared to put five dollars on the chance, though.


Make the cancellation and I got numb
I haven’t the motivation to get myself a gun…

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New Plymouth, Taranaki
March 25, 1984

They’d been given a week’s leave. In New fucking Plymouth. The Lance-Corporal would almost have preferred being on deployment.

For one, their previous posting had been at the refugee camp at Featherston, probably one of the nicer Civil Defence facilities south of Levin. It wasn’t as rainy as in Wellington, you didn’t have the lurking shadow of a dead city hovering almost within sight, and the women around there were desperate enough for a root that you could get off, but not so desperate that it felt like you were taking advantage of it (you were, of course, but everyone lied to themselves to get to sleep these days; if two almost-completely-consenting adults wanted to forget their woes with ten faintly disappointing minutes in a tent in a field somewhere in the Wairarapa, well, who was to judge them? Certainly not the twenty year-old with a full ration pack and an empty itinerary).

But such decisions were not for mortal men to make: the Brass had called, and here they were.

It wasn’t the most bored he’d ever been; church he’d always found worse (being given the bash by someone who then marched you to prayers the next morning tended to do that). Watching the wharfies work was a pastime, at least. A convoy had made its way south from Auckland and whatever it had been carrying was important enough for a dozen armed guards for the eight trucks and a three-hour delay for the freighter due to move south (and much pissing and moaning on the part of the wharfies).

Eventually curiosity got the better of him and he asked Scott, a squadmate of his who’d gotten into the business of getting people what they needed (intel, razorblades, soap, condoms, you name it), what the fuss was. He smiled in response and pulled a hand out of his pocket, a purple rectangle in his palm. The Lance Corporal’s eyebrow jumped.

“Fruit and Nut?”

“Y’know how there’s that chocolate factory up Auckland?”

“Ah…”

“Yeah, well, apparently they’re having trouble getting people to work somewhere two kays downwind from what used to be the Harbour Bridge. And they want to keep morale up, and Easter’s coming…”

“…so they’re putting all this effort into moving a few boxes of chocolate to another island?”

Scott shook his head.

“Parts, mate. They’ve got space in the factory down in Dunners; looks like they’re gonna gear up production somewhere a little further from the shitstorm in Warkworth or wherever it was.”

“Huh. So why the rush?”

“Well…you know how they’ve had ships from abroad turning up now and then in Tauranga? Apparently there was enough left of Madagascar or some bongo-bongo country for a ship fulla cocoa to make its way to Invers.”

“Bullshit, mate.”

“Hey, I just say what I hear. Don’t ask me why they didn’t stop in Aussie; maybe they heard about Perth and Sydney and decided to give the rest a miss.”

The Lance Corporal chuckled. “Can’t fuckin’ blame ‘em. Ah, but will they play rugby with us?”

Scott gave a wincing grin. “Ouch. Bit soon, mate. Haven’t you heard about the Yarpies?”

“…oh shit, they copped it too, huh?”

“Let’s just say the ‘Boks aren’t gonna be touring anywhere this side of the Pearly Gates.”

“Man, the world’s gone to shit, hasn’t it?”

A frank shrug. “Could be worse. There’s still Dairy Milk. Better yet, some chocolate biscuits, if you know where to find ‘em.”

“Pity there’s no tea or coffee left to have them with,” said the Lance Corporal with an air of practiced indifference. “I hear some people’d trade a pack of razorblades, or even a day’s ration cards for that sorta thing.”

Scott grinned and nodded in the direction of the warehouse behind them.

“Come step into my office,” he said.

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Can’t you see I’m on the run?
Can’t you see I’m not having any fun?

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From Lange, David, My Life.

“…naturally always held Geoffrey in the highest regard during those dark days, when he had the wholly unenviable task of holding the country together as a sort of unknown quantity who could provide a unifying figure (this naturally being the reason for his appointment in a Parliamentary meeting-in-exile at Ohakea sometime during that first frantic fortnight) after the divisiveness of Muldoon’s last few weeks. Though I hesitate to spurn the dead, it would be dishonest to claim that Sir Robert was entirely in control of the situation as it unfolded – unravelled, one might say – towards the end of his tenure, something we all saw and were shocked by in his abrupt resignation.

So it was with my erstwhile second-in-command now at the helm that we all struggled together towards whatever goal it was we had in mind over the autumn of ’84, as primary production quotas gave way to rationing and logistics and the proposals for a nuclear-free zone (oh, how naïve we were in 1983!) became even more moot after Geoff got the call from a very harried Lindsay Watt that the Roanoke and the Merrill had just arrived in Suva to ask if they could they please get some information on Mr Muldoon and communicate with him to ask was there any point in sailing for New Zealand…

Christchurch, Canterbury
March 28, 1984

They’d dredged up a secretary. God alone knew why. Probably out of some reactive desire to stick to procedure; Palmer certainly couldn’t imagine who would want any of this on the record.

“I’m simply saying that we do not have the capacity at the present time to go gallivanting about the Pacific and rescuing a few stranded fishermen and paper-shufflers.”

“Those stranded paper-shufflers, if I might remind the Minister, are not only New Zealand citizens but also represent all that is left of our diplomatic corps to the known world.”

“Well, then, why not leave them in Suva and Apia? They’ve got jobs, haven’t they?”

“If I might interject –”

“Oh, Christ…”

“– they remain citizens of New Zealand and we are duty-bound to assist them as much as anyone else on our sovereign – ”

“Oh, for fuck’s sakes, Helen, they’re gadding about wreaking untold havoc on the gene pool of Polynesia; I can think of a few thousand people in the mud outside Wellington who’d quite enjoy being marooned up there.”

“Oi, simmer down, you two. We haven’t even got any boats in the area so we can send a civvie tub from Tauranga and see what happens; what we need to do right now is get onto the situation in Manukau…”

“If I might have a chance to speak?” asked Palmer, regarding the whole table as one with a sharp look. The three separate arguments which had erupted within the space of fifteen seconds sputtered to their respective halts as his thumbs pressed grooves into the ballpoint pen. “I believe we already covered a majority of these points in the other Other Business. To wit: Colin, the farms take precedence over the fisheries for now. Heavy fuel oil’s harder to come by than diesel, and the fuel needed to process the fish caught is just another expense which’d be better spent on trains or tractors or, or, ah, fertiliser." He raised a hand as Moyle began to object. “The farms produce more food per gallon of diesel than the fisheries, and we’re stretched beyond breaking point. We simply cannot afford wastage; I will not have the farms coming to a halt and people starving to death. Not in this country. Those machines are vital to the running of the farms; as much as sending refugees to work the land sounds good in principle, we can’t have people wandering about with sickles and scythes and expect a decent harvest; this isn’t eighteen-fifty. Like George said, it worked when we prioritised farmers with fuel rationing during the War; it behoves us to do so here as well.


“Secondly – Roger, the nationalisation and rationalisation plans will continue as discussed. The Reserve Bank and half of its staff were wiped out in Wellington; aside from what was trucked out of Wellington and Auckland to Palmerston before the attacks our assets depend on the goodwill of the private sector and the strength of state-owned assets until we can set up a new haitch-queue, as Anthony mentioned. The big banks will do as they’re told. We do not want to have to enforce policy at gunpoint, but they must be made to realise that there is no way the stability and reconstruction of this country can be jeopardised because their portfolios are no longer secure. The Justice Minister has given me his take on the applicability of the Emergency Powers Act, and I’d like to table some thoughts in next week’s meetings on how to apply it in this case. I’d prefer to avoid complete nationalisation of all financial assets, but…” he spread his hands. The survival of a nation took precedence.

“Third, and I know we’re out of time so we’ll make this the last point of order before we adjourn, but I would like to support the proposal to end the use of diesel generators where we can. We’ve got an optimistic forecast of forty percent of usual supply from Marsden Point, and that’s assuming we don’t have any tremendous blowouts. Yes,” he said, raising a hand “winter is on its way, but we have coal at Huntly and while the two percent total usage mightn’t seem much, that’s several thousand gallons of heavy oil we can put to freighter use – which, need I remind the Minister of Energy just as much as I already reminded the Minister of Fisheries, is still vital for getting things from island to island until we have some sort of rail terminus built at New Plymouth or Napier or wherever, and to Australia, too. The shortage of jet fuel, to address your point, Helen, is why we will not be sending anything to the Islands, either. We’ve got an Orion up at Whenuapai which we could send in case of emergency, but the Telex to Suva will suffice just fine until then.”

Palmer allowed himself a moment of respite after the effort of smacking down the hydra-like bombardment of requests from his (alleged) subordinates, before looking at the table once more with an easy smile which wasn’t reflected in the slightest in the gaze he fixed some of the dissenters with.

“All in accord? Very good; meeting adjourned and we’ll check back in in four days.”

As the Ministers filed out, Lange stood but did not follow. The Deputy Prime Minister looked quizzically at him. Lange just looked right on back as MacIntyre, ever the officer, gentleman, and composed elder statesman, shook his grizzled head imperceptibly and left.

Palmer laid down the pen he’d been wielding throughout the meeting. Well, this was clearly going to happen sooner or later so why put it off any longer…
“Something you’d like to talk about, David?” he asked wearily.

“Very perceptive of you, Geoff,” said David as he moved his still-considerable bulk around the room to loom over him better. Palmer stifled a sigh and neatened up the edges of the papers before placing them back in the folder, closing it and looking up at David. “I think it’s about time we had a little chat, don’t you?” It was the sort of tone that implied a bollocking was on the not-too-distant horizon. This should be interesting; he was after all the PM…

“Yes, take a seat, won’t you?” asked Palmer, deciding to play the geniality game as best he could. He swept a hand around the conference room. “You’ve got your pick of them.”

Lange gave a grim smile and sat at the corner of the table, close enough that Palmer could see the little screws in the corners of his glasses.

“You took your pick of them, didn’t you, Geoffrey? Saw your chance and crossed the aisle to grab it, too.” Palmer held Lange’s gaze and maintained a carefully not-quite-smug-but-still-confident half-smile as the Minister of Foreign Affairs kept speaking in his usual boisterous baritone. “You know the caucus isn’t happy with half of what you’re been doing, don’t you?”

“Well, seeing as it’s a unity government I’d’ve called a fifty-fifty hit rate rather good, under the circumstances.” Geoffrey’s eyes crinkled in a brief expression of genuine amusement. “So long as none of the Other Lot are leaving any less than half-angered, I do believe I’ve hit the compromise nail on the head.”

A mirthless smile from Lange. “Very droll, Geoffrey, very droll.”

“If you’re here to try and tell me to resign, David, it’s not going to happen.”

To his credit, Lange didn’t look at all surprised at the suddenness.

“Then it’s just as well I’m not here to do that, isn’t it?”

“Nice to know we’re in agreement, then.”

“Yes,” said Lange flatly. “On some things, if not others.”

Palmer held his gaze. This was going to be one of those discussions.

"Something else you'd care to say, David?"

"No-o," Lange said at length, eyes sharp behind his glasses. Geoffrey decided to just spill the beans and be done with the pussyfooting around.

"If you think I usurped you on purpose, you're wrong. I didn't - Jesus help me, I still don't want this bloody job. You know as well as I do where the last man to try and deal with this ended up." On two kinds of pain medication and enough gin to float a frigate, were the words he left unsaid. "But I'm apparently enough of a non-entity that I'm a useful compromise candidate that you all get to pretend to listen to me while pretending to get on with one another, so I might as well pretend to be doing something useful before we get the country back in shape and I can bugger off and have a decent sleep for once." He scowled (never mind that from him the expression was about as threatening as a somewhat cranky cocker spaniel). "Look, David, I backed you in every one of those damn votes; if the majority of Parliament decided they hated me less than you or McLay, well, that's democracy."

" 'The worst form of government, except for all the others', " quoted Lange with a glimmer of amusement in his eye. "Fine then, Geoff, you're King for a day even if you don't wanna be. Just remember that when that day ends - and it will - you have a responsibility that the Party and the country will expect you to fulfil."

"God, responsibilities," said Palmer with an exaggerated shake of the head, the tension breaking just before his nerve did. "If I ever get within spitting distance of the premiership again after this nightmare is over, it'll be too fucking soon."

Palmer, Geoffrey, All Hands To The Tiller: The Unity Government and the State of Emergency.

“…didn’t have to be a genius to tell that David still despised me for what he viewed as a calculated betrayal, but after a while he seemed to calm down after presumably reconciling himself to the fact that I didn’t want to be in that seat any more than he wanted me there…well, I liked to imagine he had, anyway. Our relationship following the elections, when they came after the State of Emergency was ended at my insistence, is well-documented; I leave it to the reader’s intelligence and unsullied point-of-view to tell if I was right or not…

…the reader will probably be aware to some extent, April began with a tremendous bang when Bob rang me from Melbourne in the middle of the night with a telex from Réunion …

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Well, anything could happen
And it could be right now
And the choice is yours
So make it worthwhile…

Bay of Biscay
March 29, 1984
1030 GMT

The Canberra of the RAF shot overhead at what would on land be treetop height so as to get a decent visual, the pilot confirming the identity of the vessel as it carved through the North Atlantic in the cold, grey dawn.
To the north, in Portsmouth, preparations began to be made for the arrival of HMAS Perth as through CHANTICLEER’s Corsham catacombs word began to spread.

The Aussies are here.