The centenary of the start of World War 1 has begun. Who knows what this year holds for us. Likewise, did Otago people enter 1914 with any inkling of the upheaval and horror that lay a few short months ahead? Bruce Munro takes a look through the eyes of a then-unknown local hero.
Donald Forrester Brown is killing a few minutes reading the engraved names of Otago soldiers who died in the Boer War. In two years, eight months and 14 days he, too, will be dead.
It is early evening on a warm Saturday in the middle of January, 1914, and Mr Brown, Don to his mates, is in Dunedin to enjoy himself.
The 23-year-old, beefy, dark-haired farmer from Totara, south of Oamaru, has given himself a weekend off - a belated New Year holiday. But things have not gone entirely to plan.
As usual, Mr Brown was up with the early summer light to milk his cows. But instead of then tucking into a hearty breakfast, he threw some scraps to the hens and jumped on his bike to hurriedly cycle the 10km to town.
He still had good speed from his descent down Severn St when he reached Oamaru's main thoroughfare Thames St and flung the handlebars sharply right towards his father's large department store, The Polytechnic. Leaning the bike against the shop doors for his father and two of his brothers to find when they turned up in the next hour or so, he scooped up his overnight bag and jogged towards the railway station, wishing as he went that he owned a watch.
With a couple of minutes to spare he burst into his assigned carriage aboard the 7.40am train to Dunedin, a large grin across his flushed face as he greeted startled fellow travellers.
Twenty minutes later the train was chugging south through countryside not far from Mr Brown's farm, Hollywell. This will always be home to me, he thought as he watched the rolling hills.
Born in Dunedin on February 23, 1890, the youngest of Robert and Jessie Brown's nine children, wee Donald had shifted north with his family when he was about 5. He attended Oamaru South School and completed two years at Waitaki Boys' High School. But town life was not for him. He worked on Maereweka Estate, in the Kakanui foothills, and then, when he was 21 years old, bought a 60 acre farm at Totara, near Round Hill, on the north side of Waiareka Stream.
It was a stiff ride into town to attend weekly practices and matches for his beloved Excelsior Rugby Football Club first XV team, but it was worth it for the rural life he so enjoyed. He had great neighbours, and between the cows and the potatoes he was doing all right, he reckoned.
Which reminded him, he wanted to get in touch with the newspaper about the McAlister Great Scot potatoes he had imported. For the past couple of seasons, while potato crops throughout the district had been struck with blight, he had been harvesting up to 10.5 tons per acre of the fine, flavoursome tubers. It was time to start selling the seed commercially.
The teenage Taylor brothers from a neighbouring property were looking after the farm during his two-day sojourn in the big smoke. Had he reminded them to ensure the hens had water, he wondered for a moment. Yes, he was sure he had, he told himself, then picked up the latest copy of the Otago Daily Times and settled back to read.
As always, the first few pages were devoted to advertising.
The Dunedin-founded Union Steamship Company of New Zealand could take you anywhere in the world, it seemed. A trip to Great Britain would be fantastic, but at anything from 17 to 75 for a one-way fare to London it was unlikely to happen for many years, he concluded.
Mr Brown browsed the columns. A ''woman left with young children'' wanted ''washing and cleaning by the day''. A young lady was looking for a ''young man (with means) . . . Must be tall, dark and musical''. Someone was offering a reward for the return of a gold watch lost between Dunedin Railway Station and the Stuart St cable car.
Flicking forward to the first news pages, he spotted a report that the Port of London was spending 400,000 to improve the handling of frozen meat imports. We colonials will do well from that, he thought.
Across the aisle and a little further forward in the carriage, two town labourers were animatedly discussing the Great Strike of the past few months. One was evidently a member of a trade union that had rejected the Government's employment arbitration system in favour of the right to strike. He was urging his companion to acknowledge the country's growing gap between rich and poor, and loudly complaining about the heavy-handed tactics used against the strikers in Auckland and Wellington.
Everyone had an opinion about the strike, Mr Brown thought. For his part, he sympathised with the police who had trouble containing the urban unrest until their numbers were bolstered by volunteers who included many young farmers. As small towns slipped past outside, Mr Brown read of preparations for the 1916 Olympics in Berlin, Ernest Shackleton's planned transantarctic expedition, the possibility of civil war over Irish calls for self-rule, and claims radium offered a promising treatment for cancer.
Enough of the serious stuff, Mr Brown thought as the train climbed Mihiwaka on its approach to Otago Harbour. What is on at Dunedin's picture theatres this evening?
Several cinemas were advertising their programmes. But the one that caught Mr Brown's eye was the Plaza Picture Theatre, 125 George St. The All Blacks in California, shouted the bold type.
''New Zealand (All Blacks) v America (All Stars). Result: New Zealand, 51; America, 3 . . . This football film is an expensive exclusive . . . You see the tries being scored and the successful kicks at goal . . . ''
Mr Brown had booked himself into the Leviathan Hotel, just south of Dunedin's ornate railway station. It was not the Grand Hotel, but it did boast an electric light in every bedroom, free hot baths at all hours, and fire escapes throughout the building. The train trip had taken five and a-half hours. That left just enough time for a late lunch before he was due to meet family friends, the Donalds, after whom he was named, for an afternoon exploring this city which he had not visited for five years.
But as he was wolfing down cold meats with bread and cheese, washed down with a cold beer - a welcome contrast to Oamaru's ''dry'' hotels - he was handed a note left by the Donalds the previous day. It stated that a death in the family had necessitated an urgent trip to Queenstown for the funeral, and would he please accept their sincere apology.
What was he now to do?
The man behind the desk at reception said the wreck of the large passenger steamer SS Tyrone, which had been stuck on rocks at Wahine Point south of Taiaroa Head for the past three months, was regularly attracting sightseers. Alternatively, the Esplanade at St Clair Beach, a recent handsome addition to the city's amenities, would afford a pleasant and picturesque stroll on such a warm summer's afternoon.
Righto, Mr Brown thought, the beach it is then. And perhaps the wreck tomorrow.
Marching up Stuart St in search of a tram to St Clair, Mr Brown was struck by how this city of 52,000 residents had changed. Most of the inner-city streets were now metalled. Electricity had revolutionised transport and life in general. Some new buildings had been added to the skyline, such as the impressive five-storey Hallenstein Brothers building on the corner of Princes St and the Octagon. He could also see at the top of the Octagon the weatherbeaten St Paul's church which was about to be demolished to make way for a new Anglican cathedral.
Behind him a motor-car horn honked a warning. There were many more motor cars here than in Oamaru. They were still outnumbered by horses and wagons, and trams, but provided ample evidence of Dunedin's wealthy businessmen and their families.
He had seen a Cooke Howlison advertisement in the paper for a three-seater Rover priced at 435. You could buy a five-roomed house for less than that.
It all seemed so modern and busy, Mr Brown announced to a fellow passenger on the crowded beach-bound tram.
Perhaps, but the city was quickly falling behind Auckland, Wellington and even Christchurch, replied the man in a three-piece suit, tie and Homburg hat. New industry was needed. Perhaps the coming war in Europe would boost demand, the businessman added.
Did he really think war was inevitable, Mr Brown wanted to know.
Without a doubt. Look at the race between Germany and Britain to build more battleships, the man said.
Likely, but not inevitable, countered another passenger. And Germany, Austria and Italy had just agreed to a British proposal designed to calm the troubles in the Balkans. That must be a good sign, the passenger said.
It was something to ponder.
Mr Brown was admiring the rebuilt Esplanade, with its strong, concrete sea walls and broad footpaths, and was just starting to wonder where he might slake his thirst, when he heard a commotion on the beach below.
Men and women were shouting and pointing towards some women bathers who had been caught in a rip.
A couple of men were trying to reach them but were hampered by their waterlogged trousers and boots.
Mr Brown ran down to the beach and, throwing modesty aside, stripped to his one-piece, red flannel undergarment and strode into the surf. An able swimmer, he helped the nearest bather towards shore until she could be grabbed by one of the other men, then turned around and swam for the next one.
By the time all four were rescued, he was a spent but celebrated figure.
It hasn't exactly been the day I planned, he muses. He is holding the wrung-out undergarment, and is sitting on the steps of a large Boer War memorial on the northern wedge of the Princes St Oval sports ground, just down the road from the Market Reserve tram depot.
At least it is still warm. And it has been quite an adventure. If the tram is on time I won't even miss the picture show. He grins.
Above him, atop the imposing memorial, a marble soldier stands over a fallen comrade, gun in hand, braced for action.
Mr Brown stands and reads the names of the 29 privates and 12 officers, all Otago men, including four from Oamaru, who died fighting in South Africa between 1899 and 1902.
He wonders how he would respond if called to take up arms. Would I stand firm? Could I kill another man? Will I ever have to find out? Ah, here comes the tram.
As he jogs across the road and disappears into the twilight, does he have any inkling of what the future holds? That in a little more than six months the assassination in the Balkans of the heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne will catapult the European powers and their far-flung colonies and allies in to the horrors of The Great War?
By March, 1915, 36 members of his Excelsior rugby club will have enlisted. By the end of that year he will have too.
He will sell his farm to the teenage brothers looking after it this weekend. And he will be given a gold watch by the good people of Totara before leaving for training in Trentham and then deployment to France with the 10th (North Otago) Company of the 2nd Otago Infantry Battalion. He will write regular letters to his father, signing them ''Your loving son, Don''.
Early letters will express sentiments such as ''I am well and trust to go from here to do my bit, hoping one day to return again to find you and the others there to welcome me home''.
Later letters will say ''I have seen some awful sights since being at this job'' and ''I am still alive and well, though I must admit I'm fairly well shaken up with the high explosive shells''.
For three months, because of the deaths of so many officers, Sergeant Brown will lead his platoon into battle time and again during the trench warfare of the Battle of the Somme, one of the bloodiest battles in history.
On September 15, 1916, a German machinegun post will have them pinned down. Sgt Brown and fellow Oamaruvian Lance Corporal Jesse Rodgers will crawl 27m towards the enemy, then rush the post, kill the crew and capture the gun.
On October 1, 1916, another machine gun will be causing heavy Allied casualties. Sgt Brown will order his men to stay put and will single-handedly rush the nest, killing the five-man crew with his pistol.
Later that day, he will be hit in the head by sniper or machinegun fire and die instantly.
His posthumously awarded Victoria Cross will be presented in Oamaru to his emotional father.
W.J. Baxter, a soldier who will have fought under Sgt Brown's command, will write ''He would never ask a man to go anywhere or do anything that he wouldn't do himself ... The men in our platoon would have followed him anywhere''.
Footnote
It is not known whether Don Brown visited Dunedin in January, 1914. But other details in this article, including the rescue of women at St Clair Beach in mid-January, 1914, reflect actual events and attitudes of the period. Research for this story involved interviews with historians and Brown family members. It has drawn on January 1914 editions of the Otago Daily Times and resources held by the Hocken Library, Toitu Otago Settlers Museum, Archives New Zealand, Waitaki District Libraries and Archive, and Dunedin City Council archives.
