Long before “EOD” existed as a military speciality, New Zealand’s military explosives experts were already being called to suspicious-device scenes. The Marton bus bombing of 2 June 1932 is one of the earliest clearly documented improvised explosive device (IED) cases in which the military’s technical authority, the Inspecting Ordnance Officer (IOO), was tasked to examine the scene and later give expert evidence in court. In an era without bomb suits, robots, X-ray technology, or a formal Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) trade, the IOO brought a disciplined method: identify the hazard, stabilise the scene, reconstruct what happened, and translate technical facts into plain-English findings for police and the judiciary.
This incident matters for three reasons.
First, it shows that New Zealand had a recognised explosives authority decades before specialist EOD units existed; the IOO’s independence and metrology-based practice gave courts and commanders confidence.
Second, it illustrates the civil–military interface in action: Army technical assurance working alongside police to resolve a criminal use of explosives.
Third, it foreshadows today’s Ammunition Technician, the same assurance logic, later reinforced by doctrine, training pipelines, protective equipment, and inter-agency protocols.
In short, Marton (1932) is a proto-EOD moment. It anchors the lineage from a single specialist inspector applying standards in support of civil law to the modern, team-based EOD capability that safeguards the public from both IEDs and conventional ordnance.
Context: The IOO before EOD
In 1932, the IOO was a single, independent appointment responsible for the safety, proof, and certification of arms, ammunition, and explosives. There were no dedicated bomb-disposal teams, render-safe procedures, or modern PPE. When police needed expertise in explosives, the State turned to the IOO—the most credible technical authority available.
MAJOR; W. IVORY,. Inspecting Ordnance Officer, who has. resigned and leaves for England tomorrow. (Evening Post, 11 January 1933). Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand. /records/17482265
In 1932, the IOO was Major William Ivory, RNZA (1896-1949), an ammunition specialist who served as IOO, Acting Inspector of Ordnance Machinery (IOM), and later as Ordnance Mechanical Engineer (OME). A Graduate of the Royal Military College (RMC) in Australia, Ivory was appointed IOO and Acting IOM on 1 May 1921 after UK training at Woolwich (Inspecting Ordnance Officers’ Course; 36th Advanced Ordnance Course). He served as Acting IOO until 18 June 1925, when he returned to the RNZA to undertake regimental duties. Returned as IOO on 2 January 1927 and retired on 6 April 1933 as IOO/OME. On leaving New Zealand, Ivory continued his career with the British Army.
Widely regarded as the post-WWI technical lead for ammunition and ordnance in New Zealand, Ivory is credited with designing, erecting, and organising the Trentham military workshops, implementing the Mount Cook Barracks demolition scheme, and coordinating NZ-wide military workshops for repair and maintenance, work that shaped the IOO/OME functions for years to come.[1]
The incident
On 2 June 1932, an explosive device damaged a rival bus operating on the Marton–Palmerston North route during a period of hard-fought commercial competition between private carriers. Police quickly focused on Charles William Hoffman, a local proprietor, who was charged with blowing up a rival’s vehicle and possessing an explosive device; he later pleaded guilty.
Surviving summaries indicate a deliberately placed, improvised charge rather than any legitimate blasting operation. The device fits today’s definition of an IED: a non-standard explosive assembly, fabricated from available materials and employed for a criminal purpose. Contemporary accounts emphasise targeted disruption of a competitor’s service rather than indiscriminate harm. While the record available here does not detail injuries, it does point to material damage consistent with a small, locally initiated charge positioned to maximise nuisance and mechanical effect (e.g., underbody or luggage area), rather than a high-yield attempt at mass casualties.
Police secured the scene, recovered fragments and residues, and requested the attendance of the Inspecting Ordnance Officer (IOO) to classify the device and interpret effects. That civil–military handover—police control, ordnance classification—frames the case as an early, well-documented example of New Zealand using independent technical assurance to translate a suspicious explosion into prosecutable facts.[2]
Buses, Wanganui. Tesla Studios :Negatives of Wanganui and district taken by Alfred Martin, Frank Denton and Mark Lampe (Tesla Studios). Ref: 1/1-021281-F. Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand. /records/23052810
The callout: IOO on scene
The IOOexamined the scene and later provided expert evidence. While equipment and doctrine were rudimentary by modern standards, his approach followed a logic that still reads as EOD:
Identify/classify: determine the nature of the explosive, initiation method, and improvised features.
Reconstruct: read fragmentation/sooting and container deformation to estimate charge size and placement.
Control safety: establish a cautious approach, prevent unsafe handling, and confirm no secondary hazards.
Record for court: translate technical findings into evidential facts.
What this tells us
The State already knew who to call. IOO = independent, methodical, court-credible.
Method before gear. The identify → isolate → examine → document sequence predates modern tooling.
Civil–military interface. Early instance of police–ordnance cooperation that later formalised into EOD arrangements.
Seed of later trades. Incidents like Marton helped define the problem space that produced ATO/AT and formal EOD capability.
The Marton case stands as a proto-EOD moment: the State’s inspection authority applying disciplined, independent standards to a live improvised-explosive incident in support of civil law. Decades before specialist teams, robots, or X-ray, the Inspecting Ordnance Officer brought hazard identification, scene stabilisation, reconstruction, and evidential reporting to bear—quietly proving that method can outrun technology when it has to.
What followed built on that foundation. As New Zealand formalised Ammunition Technician/ATO and EOD capabilities, it did not invent assurance from scratch; it codified habits already visible in 1932:
Independence from ownership and operational pressure;
Metrology and reference standards rather than guesswork;
Repeatable procedures that travel from bench to scene to courtroom; and
Evidential rigour that can withstand scrutiny.
The Marton callout, therefore, marks both an endpoint of the single-officer IOO era handling civil explosive crime and a beginning, foreshadowing the team-based, doctrine-driven EOD enterprise that would follow.
Seen in this light, Marton is more than an early IED prosecution. It is a hinge in the lineage of New Zealand’s military ammuntion profession: a case where technical assurance served public safety, strengthened the civil–military interface, and left a template for a small, durable, and recognisable approach to how the country would later confront both IEDs and conventional ordnance with confidence and care.
This Roll of Honour commemorates the soldiers of the Royal New Zealand Army Logistic Regiment, the Regiment that enables operations from camp to frontline through supply, transport, maintenance, movement control, catering, and ammunition, who died while in service.
On Thursday, 25 January 1975, a small Royal New Zealand Army Service Corps (RNZASC) air-despatch team and a Royal New Zealand Air Force (RNZAF) C-130 crew solved a very Pacific problem: how to get a tracked excavator onto a reef-bound island—fast. The solution was a heavyweight airdrop onto a marginal drop zone (DZ) on Atiu in the Cook Islands, executed without a ground Mobile Air Operations Team (MAOT), with release points computed from sea features and a tight timing window. It was logistics as an enabler, not an afterthought.
The task: Atiu needed an excavator—now
Royal New Zealand Engineers (RNZE) detachments were building Atiu’s new harbour—slipway, breakwater, seawall, and a blasted basin to about 8 ft (2.4 m)—to allow barges to work ships offshore.[1] With three detachments rotating and the schedule tightening, a tracked bucket excavator became critical. The machine was broken into three loads and parachuted in to keep the works moving. The consignment was valued at NZ$38,000 in 1975 (NZ$418,000 in 2025 terms) and was not Army property—focusing minds on a clean DZ outcome.[2]
New Zealand Army Atiu Harbour project, the building of a small harbour on Atiu Island, Cook Islands. Lighter with local people coming ashore from a supply ship just offshore. Crown Copyright 1975, New Zealand Defence Force
The unit behind the drop: 1 Army Air Supply Organisation
The airdrop rested on a decade of deliberate practice. From a 1960s nucleus (19 Air Supply Platoon), 1 AASO formed in 1966 and professionalised the Army’s air interface: rigging and restraint, DZ/LZ discipline, and a joint language with RNZAF crews. By the 1970s, 1 AASO was co-located with the RNZAF at RNZAF Base Hobsonville, working Bristol Freighters and C-130s as routine and running frequent live-drop serials. That air-minded stream later became 5 Terminal Squadron (1979) and then 5 Movements Squadron (1984), integrating aerial delivery, terminals, and movement control into one continuum.
At the same time, the RNZAF was procuring the dual-rail cargo-handling system for the C-130 fleet; in step, proposals were advancing to equip 1 AASO with 25,000-lb aircraft loaders and to uprate forklift capacity to 10,000 lb—shortening turns and creating headroom for awkward/heavy loads.[3]
Designing the load: platforms, parachutes, and a rethink
The initial design of the Atiu load split the excavator into two heavyweight platforms:
Platform A (chassis/engine): 11,500 lb (5,216.3 kg) with four G-11A parachutes.
Platform B (booms, buckets, cab, hook rams, tracks): 14,500 lb (6,577.1 kg) with five G-11A parachutes.
A test lift showed that Platform B was over-stressing the custom bearing platform. The fix was to strip the tracks into two A22 assemblies on a standard platform with two G-11As (5,000 lb), leaving the heavy platforms within safe margins.[4] The rigging and pack were completed at Hobsonville by 1 AASO. (As recorded in unit notes of the period.)
Movement from Hobsonville to Whenuapai was convoyed under Ministry of Transport escort because Platform A’s weight and high centre of gravity demanded it. Loading the Hercules was a squeeze: one 16-ft plus two 12-ft platforms (40 ft total) into a 41-ft cargo bay, extra freight on the ramp, and three 1 AASO riggers (Drivers Hirini, Baker, and Filmer) riding to supervise extractions.
Loading a pallet of supplies into No. 40 Squadron Hercules NZ7005 at Rarotonga airport, ready for dropping onto Atiu Island. Crown Copyright 1975, New Zealand Defence Force
The DZ problem: small, hemmed-in, and sea-referenced
Doctrine favoured roughly 1,000 × 500 m. Atiu offered 700 × 300 m, bounded by houses and plantations, with the extraction-parachute release point over the sea. There was no MAOT on the ground; the crew computed release from sea features. The answer: meticulous rigging, clustered G-11s, and precise, repeatable C-130 run-ins.
Air to air view, from No. 5 Squadron Orion NZ4204, of No. 40 Squadron Hercules NZ7005 preparing to drop supplies onto Atiu Island. Crown Copyright 1975, New Zealand Defence Force
On the run-in, a 15-ft release chute on a 54-ft line deploys; a knife bank severs the release gate; the pilot holds a slight nose-up attitude, and the load rolls cleanly. Elegant when the timing is right—unforgiving if it’s not.
An RNZAF Orion shadowed, and timings were relayed back to the engineers at Papakura, who in turn updated 1 AASO as each pass went in. By first light Friday, tracks were refitted, the machine drove to recover its remaining parts, and work began. A near-perfect result on a far-from-perfect DZ.
Pallet of supplies being dropped onto Atiu Island from No. 40 Squadron Hercules NZ7005. Crown Copyright 1975, New Zealand Defence Force
What the drop enabled
This wasn’t theatre. It kept a nationally significant aid project on schedule, on an island where a sealift wasn’t practical. The airdrop bridged a logistics gap for RNZE’s harbour build and showcased joint RNZAF–Army competence in heavyweight extraction, rigging, and island-scale problem-solving.
New Zealand Army Atiu Harbour project, the building of a small harbour on Atiu Island, Cook Islands. Digger taking out rock to deepen the new harbour.Crown Copyright 1975, New Zealand Defence Force
Lessons that still travel
Mission logic first. When sealift can’t meet the clock, airdrop is a tool—not an extravagance. Atiu is the case study.
Joint choreography. Small DZs, clustered G-11s, and extraction timing demand shared checklists and a common language between crews and riggers—the everyday habits 1 AASO lived.
Community interface. Pacific tasks succeed as much on relationships as on kit—RNZE’s Atiu teams integrated with the community while delivering heavy civil works, and the airdrop simply kept that momentum.
Invest in the ramp. Cargo-handling systems, loaders, and MHE are not luxuries; they’re what make precision routine rather than heroic.
Why 1 AASO matters in the bigger logistics picture
1 AASO embodied the principle that movements, terminals, and aerial delivery are one continuum. It trained with the Air Force, spoke airline and shipping fluently, and could turn a commander’s intent into assured movement when the infrastructure was thin and the timelines hard. Those habits—born in the 1960s–70s—flowed directly into the later Movements organisations and remain the template for contested logistics in the Pacific today.
[4] An A-22 container load (commonly called an “A22” load) is a standard U.S./NATO airdrop platform introduced in the Second World War and still widely used for smaller or modular cargo drops. Department of the Army, Airdrop of Supplies and Equipment: Rigging Containers. Technical Manual TM 4-48.03 (Fort Lee, VA: Headquarters, Department of the Army, 2016).
This study uses history as a method. Past campaigns are employed to stress-test contemporary concepts, illuminating options rather than prescribing outcomes. If the next Indo–Pacific contingencies feel “new” in technology—drones, satellites, cyber—the operating environment may still rhyme with an older pattern: frontier conditions marked by distance, broken terrain, dispersed outposts, ambiguous actors, and contests decided by who can keep small teams alive and supplied long enough to matter.
Two nineteenth-century cases—George Custer on the Northern Plains of the United States and Gustavus von Tempsky in New Zealand’s bush—are used here as analogues. Both led fast, bold forces. Both were defeated less by enemy mystique than by sustainment out of position. The purpose is analytical, not moral: to surface logistics truths that appear to travel across centuries even as technology changes.
Gustavus Ferdinand von Tempsky. Making New Zealand :Negatives and prints from the Making New Zealand Centennial collection. Ref: MNZ-0876-1/4-F. Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand. /records/22308963
Why Custer and von Tempsky?
These cases suggest that when sustainment follows intent rather than shaping it, operational risk increases. They illustrate three recurring demands that may be relevant to modern archipelagic operations:
Mass – Sufficient weight at the decisive point to absorb friction, deception, and surprise.
Depth – Stock holdings and mobility headroom to ride out irregular lift and contested corridors.
Extraction – A realistic way to break contact and reconstitute without cascading loss.
The historical inference is modest: logistics and combat power appear as co-determinants of viable options.
Two parables, modernised
Von Tempsky: a light, skilful raider who struck a fortified system without the weight to crack it or the depth to stay; élan could not replace fires and resupply.
Custer: a rapid cavalry commander who split his force and outran his packs; when the enemy massed, his firepower thinned as theirs grew—partly with captured ammunition.
George Armstrong Custer, courtesy of the Library of Congress
Contemporary relevance in the Indo–Pacific
Geography scales the problem. Jungles, reefs, mangroves, mountain ranges, and dense coastal cities can create a modern version of the visibility and mobility constraints seen in bush warfare.
Nodes are hard and defended. Assaulting prepared sites—missile positions, hardened beachheads, urban strongpoints—without assurance of weight, fires, and resupply tends to increase risk.
Coalitions and concentrations can outpace assumptions. Historical surprises about adversary massing suggest caution when splitting limited forces without assured mutual support.
Information cuts both ways. Ubiquitous sensors and open‑source tracking may compress decision time yet also expose logistics patterns to adversaries and criminal opportunists.
Grey‑zone interference is sticky. State, proxy, and criminal actors can complicate corridors without a formal declaration of hostilities.
Regional reality for New Zealand and Australia
Europe is at war; the Middle East is not a geopolitical sideshow; and the Indo–Pacific will be more than a sideshow for New Zealand and Australia. To suggest otherwise is, at best, out of touch with the evidence and, at worst, professionally negligent.
While headlines centre on Ukraine and the Middle East, small and middle powers such as New Zealand and Australia must maintain focus on the Indo–Pacific, where confrontation could emerge either from a peer military or via state and non-state proxies. Open-source indicators across capitals point to elevated risk in the mid-2020s—a planning window, not a prediction. The U.S. Department of Defence’s annual China report highlights a 2027 PLA capability milestone linked to improved joint operations; senior U.S. officials have referred to a “2027 window” in testimony; and Australia’s Defence Strategic Review (2023) warns of reduced warning time and a real prospect of regional conflict. Japan’s leadership has likewise cautioned that “Ukraine today may be East Asia tomorrow”.
In parallel, there is substantive evidence of non-state and criminal actors active in the region—UNODC reports the Pacific is increasingly a trans-shipment hub for organised crime (drugs, money-laundering, cyber-fraud); fisheries bodies and watchdogs continue to document Illegal, Unreported, and Unregulated (IUU) fishing pressures; Australian and New Zealand cyber authorities track high-impact cybercriminal activity; and joint law-enforcement reporting notes cartel-linked methamphetamine supply chains reaching Australia and New Zealand. Together, these factors mean New Zealand and Australia should be ready by 2026–27—a readiness target, not a prediction of war.
The historical analogues indicate that treating sustainment as an afterthought tends to increase operational risk. Contemporary forces might therefore approach planning assumptions with logistics and manoeuvre as co-determinants. In practical terms, this often means allowing weight, lift, protection, and extraction pathways to shape what is considered tactically acceptable.
Refresh, don’t reinvent
New Zealand’s wartime Pacific practice (1943–44) solved familiar archipelagic problems: stock depth sized for irregular lift and weather delay; protective infrastructure (shelter, dunnage, drainage) to preserve stores and ammunition; early priority on lifting and handling gear; disciplined packing/marking to accelerate clearance; and routine rear liaison to match replenishment to consumption. These techniques can be refreshed for an age of long-range ISR, drones, sanctions, and proxies rather than rediscovered from first principles.
New Zealand World War II soldiers loading stores into infantry landing craft, Vella Lavella, Solomon Islands. Ref: 1/2-044734-F. Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand. /records/22411372
Implications and suggested lines of effort
Force design: Treat logistics and manoeuvre as co-determinants in planning assumptions (assured stock depth, lift readiness, credible extraction pathways).
Readiness horizon: Use a mid-decade window (circa 2026–27) as an anchor for option maturation, adjusting as indicators evolve.
Measures of effectiveness: Privilege sustainment metrics—days of supply at node, re-arm/re-fuel cycle time, time to extract—alongside manoeuvre measures.
Signature management: Reduce logistics signature via packaging, routing, cadence variance, and deception options; test and iterate.
People and practice: Invest in practitioner skill (packing, rigging, node ops, repair) alongside technology for compounding gains.
Conclusion
Custer and von Tempsky remain useful warnings. The region does not require historical re-education so much as a refresh of hard-won Pacific practice. Many lessons are already doctrinally acknowledged; the shortfall lies in structures, depth, and resourcing that fail to make them real in training, force design, and operations. With open-source indicators signalling a higher-risk mid-decade window, forces should have options ready by 2026–27. Institutionalise frontier-minded logistics; give logisticians equal voice; and fund the enablers—afloat stocks, connectors, caches, medical and power resilience, and signature-managed networks—so endurance arrives with the punch. Do this, and small forces remain lethal after first contact; fail, and nineteenth-century mistakes risk repetition in an ocean where every mile punishes wishful thinking.
Sometimes the sharpest insights hide in plain sight. This cheeky two-page RNZASC newsletter from 1978—penned by Captain R. A. Armstrong—is cheeky by design, poking fun at mess pecking orders and flirting with the idea that the Soviets might feed their troops better. Still, it also captures a valuable moment in time. Read against what we now know, it lets us compare three things at once:
New Zealand’s still-serviceable but largely 1940s-era field kitchens and improvisation;
the Soviets’ purpose-built, highly mobile galley trucks and bakeries that promised hot meals at manoeuvre tempo; and
how both systems actually performed once reality set in—from NZ’s 1980s push to modernise ration science and packaging, to the Soviet experience in Afghanistan, where interdicted convoys turned elegant kitchen fleets back into tins, biscuits, and tea.
Crucially, this snapshot also foreshadows New Zealand’s hardware catch-up in the following decade, when the Army modernised its field kitchens with state-of-the-art German Kärcher TFK-250 field-kitchen trailers—a step-change from veteran cookers to modular, hygienic, road-mobile capability. In short, the article is satire with teeth: a Cold War snapshot that helps us separate platform glamour from supply-chain grit, and headline claims from what cooks could really deliver day after day.
SO YOU THINK OUR CATERING IS LOUSY?
By Capr D.A Armstrong
A recent article in the “Army Logistician”, the official magazine of the United States Army logistics, compared the Soviet Army’s catering services and attitudes to those of the US Army. Several interesting points were made which indicate some marked differences between Soviet and Allied thinking on the subject of feeding their respective armies. If you are thinking of defecting, but enjoy your “nosh”, perhaps you had better read on.
The first interesting point is that, despite the so-called classless attitudes of the USSR, better food is a privilege of rank in the Soviet military, with the conscripted rifleman being the lowest in the pecking order. (No prizes for guessing who gets the best food!) NCOs receive more meat than enlisted mem, while officers have a greater variety of meat, eggs, dairy foods, fruit, and vegetables. Some soldiers need to receive food or money from home to supplement their military diets. Many enlisted men suffer from vitamin and mineral deficiencies because of the lack of a variety of foods, especially vegetables, in their diets.
A typical daily menu for enlisted men is shown below.
Compare that to our rationing system, where generals and private soldiers receive exactly the same monetary allowance per day for the purchase of rations. Because of the different feeding patterns in officers’ and junior ranks’ messes, our soldiers often receive better food than the officers, although standards of service may differ between the two messes.
In combat, food supplies take the lowest priorities of all items supplied through the logistic channels. Ammunition and fuel supply priorities are not relaxed even if the troops have to forage for their rations. It must be very difficult to fire weapons or operate vehicles in the middle of a Russian winter when your stomach thinks your throat has been cut, and your navel keeps knocking on your backbone.
Within garrisons and camps, Soviet forces supplement their ration supplies by running farms for livestock, rabbits, vegetables, and poultry. Soldiers are detailed to work in the unit’s garden and to care for the animals. Where camps do not run their own farms, a unit commander may make an agreement with a neighbouring collective farm to provide soldiers on Sundays to assist with labour in exchange for foodstuffs. (And we complain about the odd maintenance days in camps).
The quantity and quality of food received by the Soviet soldier depend on a number of factors. The most important is the regimental or garrison commander’s concern for and understanding of the nutritional needs of the troops. Supplies of rations are the responsibility of the regimental mess officer. He procures the foodstuffs from division or area headquarters, and the local market.
SOVIET ARMY DAILY MENU FOR OTHER RANKS
Breakfast:
White bread
2 Slices
Black bread
1 Slice
Butter/Margarine
20g
Sugar
3 Cubes
Tea
Unlimited
Kasha*/Potatoes
300g
Fish/Meat
50g
Midday:
Soup
400g
Kasha with Meat
400g
White bread
1 Slice
Black bread
2 Slices
Fruit Compote
200g
Dinner:
Fish
100g
Potatoes/Kasha
300g
White bread
2 Slices
Black bread
2 Slice
Sugar
3 Cubes
Tea
Unlimited
Butter
20g
* Kasha is rice, buck wheat, wheat or oat porridge with salt, pepper, onion and fat.
Soviet military nutrition norms are similar to most Allied countries with a weight ratio of 1:1:5 for protein, fat and carbohydrates respectively. It is significant that no other nutrients are tabulated to ensure that all the nutrient requirements are met. By comparison, the New Zealand weight ratio of protein, fat and carbohydrate is roughly 2:0.5:4.5. (We have a far greater ratio of meat and dairy products.)
In normal feeding, the Soviets provide about 25 per cent of the calorie requirement at breakfast, 45 per cent at midday and 30 per cent for the evening meal. Usually, our meals reverse the midday and evening meal calorie contents.
As far as cooking in the field goes, the Russians are streets ahead of us in terms of equipment. The concept is that field kitchens and bakeries must keep pace with the troops they support while still providing meals on schedule. Since 1965, the Soviets have introduced four field kitchens and a field bakery which can cook on the move. With the exception of a West German kitchen truck, the Soviet Union is the only country with field kitchens mounted on trucks and tracked vehicles. These kitchens are better able to keep up with fast-moving combat forces and can cover a greater variety of rough ground than even the new US Army trailer-mounted kitchen. (Mind you, they haven’t seen the kitchens we mounted on the M818 semi-trailers for Ex Truppenant. Perhaps we are also unique?)
Two of the kitchens are known to provide physical protection in chemical, biological and radiological environments. The tracked vehicle-mounted kitchen (similar to an M113 Command Post vehicle) is hermetically sealed and is probably outfitted with a filtering ventilation system.
Makes the old sheet of canvas off the side of an RI Bedford seem pretty archaic, doesnt it?
The conclusions to be reached from reading this article are.
All RNZASC cooks should defect to the Soviets. They could no doubt use our knowledge, skills and comradeship, and we could certainly use their field cooking equipment.
Any soldier who enjoys even basic food should not even consider defecting to the Soviets. Officers, on the other hand, may be more persuaded. although the promotion and security of employment prospects are not as bright
RNZASC Newsletter No 8 July 1978
What NZ cooks actually worked with in 1978
Despite a professional corps of cooks, much NZ Army field catering kit in the late 1970s still traced its lineage to the Second World War and early 1950s:
Wiles trailer kitchens (1940s-era): still around in numbers into the late 1970s; robust but hardly “mobile ops” by modern standards.
US-pattern ranges (M-37 → M-59): the ABCA-standard M-37 (1950s) and its successor the M-59 (from the late-1960s) framed much Allied field cooking practice; NZ experience mirrored this long tail of legacy equipment.[1]
Armstrong’s quip about slinging a canvas off a Bedford tailgate wasn’t far off the mark: mobility came from trucks and improvisation, not from purpose-built kitchen vehicles. The upshot was sound, honest food—but with slower start-up, more weather exposure, and more manpower to erect, fuel, and run.
What the Soviets were advertising: mobility first
Armstrong contrasted our “Bedford and canvas” with Soviet kitchen trucks and tracked galley vehicles able to cook on the move, some even CBRN-protected. Contemporary Western handbooks and studies back him up:
Soviet materiel tables put kitchen trucks and mobile field bakeries inside divisional service units, not as bolt-ons—so hot food was designed to keep pace with manoeuvre.[2]
Cold-War analyses describe powered PAK-200 and KP-130 kitchens, with tracked/van variants and filtration for contaminated environments—exactly the “streets ahead” mobility Armstrong flagged.[3]
The kitchen of the family PAK-200 on the chassis ZIL-131ю Photo Russianarms.ru
Thermal kitchen unit PAK-200. At the top you can see the lids of the boilers, below – the firebox. Photo Dishmodels.ru
Bottom line (1978): on paper, the Soviet field-feeding platforms were more mobile, better integrated, and harder to knock off the timetable than our trailer-and-tent solutions.
Scales, menus, and who ate what
Armstrong summarised a Soviet conscript’s day heavy on bread and kasha, with small meat portions, tea “unlimited,” and rank privileges inflating the officers’ variety. He also cited a Soviet macro ratio of 1:1:5 (protein: fat: carbohydrate) versus a NZ pattern nearer 2:0.5:4.5—more meat/dairy in the Kiwi diet. (Those figures are his 1978 comparison, not a NZ regulation.) In Soviet doctrine, ration “norms” were calorie-based, bread was central, and a “dry ration” existed for when hot feeding wasn’t possible; a new one-meal combat ration appears in Soviet sources around 1978–80—again aligning with the article’s timeframe.[4]
By contrast, NZ was already edging toward modernisation on menu science—even if the pots were old. By 1985 the Army commissioned a formal redesign of the One-Man 24-hour ration, targeting ~3,678 kcal, adjusting for vitamin losses over shelf life, and—crucially—surveying soldiers about what they actually ate (and binned). High dissatisfaction with the then-current pack and heavy discard rates drove reform of menus, beverages, and packaging.[5]
Field reality check (1970s–80s NZ): long exercises in Singapore/Malaysia and NZ’s alpine winters meant weight on the back, wet/cold heat loss, sleep disruption—and the need for rations that were palatable, quick, and resilient. That lived experience shows up clearly in the Army’s 1980s ration-pack redesign work.[6]
Priorities in combat supply
Armstrong wrote that in Soviet practice, ammunition and fuel took precedence over food when push came to shove. The formal record shows why: Soviet Rear Services concepts after WW2 put huge emphasis on mobility and survivability of POL and ammunition flows, with kitchen/bakery assets nested inside that machine. In other words, feeding rode in the same convoy system dominated by POL and ammo.[7]
What the Soviet soldier actually carried (c. 1975–82)
Post-1945 Soviet feeding relied on:
Organised field kitchens.
group-feeding sets for squad cooking,
“mobile” individual rations when kitchens couldn’t keep up.
The “individual” ration wasn’t very individual. Early sets leaned on large tins—fine for crews to share, poor for dismounted troops. Specialist units often received ad-hoc mixes (e.g., East German E-Päckchen biscuits, emergency bars, malted milk and vitamin tablets, iodine water tabs, and condensed milk tubes—even commercial West European supplies), which were useful but never standardised.
A: tin of tushonka (fat-heavy), ~100 g crackers, small cheese tin, tea, sugar.
B: Two tins of kasha with meat plus crackers or plastic-sealed bread.
C: tin of stew/meat, tin of fish or vegetables/fruit, crackers, tea, sugar/drink mix.
Portable on paper, these packs were monotonous and underpowered for altitude, cold and hard marching.
The 1980 response: “Improved/Mountain” 24-hour pack + supplements. Spring 1980 introduced tins of meat dishes (e.g., chicken-and-dumplings, beef-and-vegetables), instant kasha (buckwheat/oatmeal, meat/fruit-flavoured), tea, and sugar—sometimes with early bar-coded labels. Critically, the basic pack hovered around ~1,200 kcal, so commanders were authorised supplements to scale intake:
Biscuits/wafers (~500 kcal), hard sweets and sugar (granulated or tablets).
“Army Loaves” high-nutrition crackers; extra tinned meat, jam/honey, condensed soup; a daily vitamin sweet.
Implementation varied—sometimes excellently, more often poorly—but the logic was sound: use supplements to tune calories to mission and climate.[8]
When Afghanistan stripped off the gloss (1979–89)
The Afghan war is where Armstrong’s wry “I wonder what it’s really like for the Russian soldier” meets evidence. Once the invasion forces surged past 100,000 men, convoy-based logistics over two treacherous mountain MSRs became a running battle of ambushes, mines, and blown bridges. Soviet responses included helicopter lift, pipelines down the Salang route, fixed security posts, and longer, better-armed convoys. Hot feeding kept pace when it could; when it couldn’t, soldiers fell back on dry rations and whatever reached them through interdiction. The system survived—but food variety, regularity, and morale inevitably rode the same roller-coaster as fuel, water, and spares.[9]
What’s for lunch? A typical Afghan outpost menu (c. 1979–89)
Afghanistan “eating out” ranged from canteens to mounted and dismounted operations. Outposts—typically 10–20 soldiers—sat at the hard end: weekly resupply, minimal refrigeration, soldiers doing the cooking. Long-life items dominated; variety was limited.
A day on an outpost looked like:
Breakfast: kasha with a little meat/fish, bread, and (rarely) butter—small-batch cooking could taste better than garrison fare.
Lunch: nominally soup + main (macaroni/potato/kasha) + “salad” (often sauerkraut). In practice, this collapsed to one hot main—mashed potato or pasta with tinned meat—because water, vegetables and time were scarce.
Dinner: much the same as lunch; repetition was regular.
Drinks: tea, coffee, and cocoa were standard.
Bread & extras: base bakeries supplied nearby posts; remote sites got crackers/biscuits and sometimes flour for flatbreads. Condensed milk was the near-universal dessert/morale item. Limited local purchasing occurred only when security allowed.[10]
Even excellent mobile kitchens cannot defeat interdiction and distance alone—once convoy tempo slips, menus shrink to what rides and stores well. It also explains the premium soldiers place on palatability and speed—the very factors NZ targeted in its 1980s ration redesign
Purpose-built kitchen trucks/vans; tracked variants; mobile field bakeries.
Mobility & protection
Vehicle-towed or improvised; weather-exposed; slower to set.
Cook-on-the-move; better cross-country; some CBRN-protected kitchens.
Feeding concept
Unit-level kitchens; hot meals when set up; heavy on improvisation.
Timed hot meals from integral kitchen assets; dry ration when needed.
Breadth of diet
More meat/dairy in practice; equality of ration money across ranks (per Armstrong).
Bread- and kasha-centric; rank-based variety favoured NCOs/officers (per Armstrong).
Doctrine & priorities
Practical but kit-limited; modernisation brewing (ration-pack science by mid-80s).
Rear Services designed for manoeuvre; POL/ammo priority shapes what food arrives, when.
What changed after 1978—for both sides
Soviet reality check: Afghanistan exposed just how hard it was to protect long, road-bound supply chains—even for food and water. The Soviets adapted (escorts, pipelines, more airlift), but “guerrilla-controlled logistics tempo” was a real thing.[11]
NZ step-change: Through the mid-1980s, the Army professionalised the ration—calories, vitamins over shelf life, soldier acceptability, packaging weight and noise—and began phasing in newer field cookers (Kärcher TFK-250 field-kitchen trailers) to replace Wiles trailers and M-37/M-59 ranges. The rollout was uneven, so for a time, menu science ran ahead of hardware, with many still cooking on veteran kit.[12]
So—how did the “Russian scale” compare to the NZ scale?
Using Armstrong’s 1978 snapshot: the Soviet scale he quotes (roughly 1:1:5) aimed for calories cheaply with bread/kasha and small meat portions, shading more variety up the rank ladder; the NZ pattern he cites (about 2:0.5:4.5) reflected a higher meat/dairy intake and, crucially, equal ration money across ranks—even if mess practice meant the plates sometimes looked different. Later Soviet sources note a late-1970s combat ration meal and a formal dry ration for when hot kitchens couldn’t keep up—consistent with Armstrong’s comparison.
Conclusion
On the 1978 scoreboard, the Soviets looked ahead on platforms: integrated kitchen trucks, some with CBRN protection, promised mobility NZ’s trailers and tent lines could not match. But that advantage was conditional. Once lines of communication were contested (as in Afghanistan), menus collapsed to what could ride and survive—just like fuel and spares—while NZ, for all its veteran cookers, spent the 1980s fixing the contents problem (calories, vitamins, soldier acceptability, weight/noise in the pack) and then closed the platform gap by introducing Kärcher TFK-250 field-kitchen trailers. The net effect: Soviet kitchens won on paper and on roads they controlled; NZ kitchens won fewer style points in the 1970s but fed reliably—and, by the late 1980s, paired modern rations with modern kitchen platforms, delivering a balanced, resilient feed system that travelled and performed at the tempo the Army required.
[2] US Army, “FM 100-2-3 the Soviet army: troops, organization and equipment,” Washington: GPO (1991).
[3] Gilbert H Edmondson, “Logistics: The Soviets’ Nemesis to Conventional War in Central Europe?” (1989).
[4] Edmondson, “Logistics: The Soviets’ Nemesis to Conventional War in Central Europe?”
[5] Bing David Soo, “Development of nutritionally balanced and acceptable army ration packs: a thesis presented in partial fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Technology in Product Development at Massey University” (Massey University, 1987).
[6] Soo, “Development of nutritionally balanced and acceptable army ration packs: a thesis presented in partial fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Technology in Product Development at Massey University.”
[7] Edmondson, “Logistics: The Soviets’ Nemesis to Conventional War in Central Europe?.”; Army, “FM 100-2-3 the Soviet army: troops, organization and equipment.”
[11] Edmondson, “Logistics: The Soviets’ Nemesis to Conventional War in Central Europe?”
[12] Soo, “Development of nutritionally balanced and acceptable army ration packs: a thesis presented in partial fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Technology in Product Development at Massey University.”
Too often in military writing, it looks as if logistics “just happens”: an army is raised, equipment appears, stocks refill, and movement unfolds as if by instinct. In truth, nothing “just happens”. Across history—from spear-carriers and baggage trains to War Establishments and to today’s financially risk-averse, resource-restricted ecosystem—the science and art of logistics have quietly driven everything. This study uses history as a working tool: we read past practice to extract durable principles so tomorrow’s logisticians can scale deliberately, not by habit. Scaling is the mechanism that turns intent into counted people, platforms, rations, ammunition, repair parts, and lift so units arrive equipped, stay maintained, and fight at tempo. Without scaling, logistics is only an aspiration.
This guide sets out that mechanism in plain English. Across the force, the same logic applies: decide who gets what, make equipment complete and auditable, package predictably for movement, size, repair, depth to reliability and lead time, and maintain theatre resilience. Peace and war establishments are simply the entitlement “switch”; in-scaling and out-scaling dial the system up and down; and sound master data keeps automation honest. We ground the method in British and Commonwealth doctrine and New Zealand practice, using short case studies to show what works, what doesn’t, and why—so logisticians can make the deliberate, evidence-based choices that turn plans into assured sustainment.
In- and Out-Scaling
Scaling is how the system is dialled up or down. In-scaling builds people, equipment, stocks and permissions to meet a new or larger task. Out-scaling winds the same back down, tidying books and kit so the force is ready for what follows. The levers are the same; they move in opposite directions.
When to scale up
New equipment or a role change.
Mounting for deployment/exercises.
Seasonal/theatre shifts or higher tempo.
When to scale down
End of operation/rotation.
Capability withdrawn or mothballed.
Restructure or budget-driven footprint reduction.
What actually changes
People & entitlements: switch Peace Entitlement →War Entitlement, or role, issue the correct allowance lists.
Equipment completeness: make kit complete; rectify shortages; test.
Consumables & ammunition: set straightforward block issues and first-line loads that match the plan.
Spares & repair: size unit/depot spares to likely failures and lead times; preserve kit for storage/return.
Movement & footprint: translate scales into real loads (pallets/containers/ULDs) and book lift.
Data, compliance & money: update masters, licences and registers; close work orders; reconcile ledgers.
Planned and evidence-based (not guesses)
Scaling is a scientific, planned discipline with explicit service levels. Holdings are set from demand, reliability and lead-time data. Rules of thumb—for example, “carry 10% spares”—are avoided in favour of sizing to the target service level.
Common Pitfalls (and the Scaling Fixes)
Scaling is part science, part art. Some of the traps are timeless:
Issuing too much– Forgetting to adjust entitlements to actual strength leads to waste.
Repair underestimates– Peacetime spares won’t cope with wartime tempo; you need to scale for climate, usage, and lead times.
Lift blindness– A plan that looks neat on paper may be impossible to move unless scales are mapped to pallets, containers, or aircraft loads.
Footprint risk– Piling too much stock too far forward makes units vulnerable. Balance depth with dispersion.
Deep Historical Context: From Hoplite to Legionary to Tümen
From antiquity to the steppe, Rome and—centuries later—the Mongol Empire show how standardised building blocks, fixed measures and modular kits turned formations into predictable logistics: the Romans through contubernia, rations and marching camps; the Mongols through decimal organisation, remounts and the yam relay.
Greek city-states (c. 6th–4th centuries BCE): The Phalanx as a Scale
Standard fighting load. The hoplite panoply (shield, spear, helmet, body armour) functioned as a personal equipment scale; city‑states enforced patterns so men fought as interchangeable blocks.
Rations and measures. Planning by standard measures (e.g., set grain issues per man per day) made food and water predictable, and hence movable.
Formation → sustainment. Dense heavy infantry implied slower roads and higher baggage/forage demand—an early proof that formation design fixes the sustainment scale (wagons, pack animals, camp followers).
Rome (c. 2nd century BCE – 3rd century CE): Scaling by Modular Blocks and Doctrine
Contubernium as the “unit set.” Eight soldiers shared a mule, tent, tools and cooking gear—a micro‑scale that multiplied cleanly to centuries, cohorts and legions.
“Marius’ mules.” Standardising the soldier’s carry (a first-line load) reduced trains forward, while heavier impedimenta marched to the rear—an ancestor of today’s 1st line vs 2nd line.
Daily ration and marching camp. Fixed grain allowances, routine camp layouts, ditch/stake quantities, and normalised road days enable staff to convert order of battle into tonnage, tools, time, and space—the essence of scaling.
State supply. The Annona, roads and depots added a strategic tier of standardised contracts, weights and distances—scaling endurance to seasons, not days.
The Roman Cohort Illustration by Peter Dennis. Credit: Warlord Games Ltd.
The Mongol Empire under Chinggis (Genghis) Khan (13th century): Decimal Organisation and Portable Sustainment
Decimal structure = instant multipliers. Arban (10), zuun (100), mingghan (1,000), tümen (10,000) created a universal grammar of scale: equip and feed an arban, and you can multiply to a tümen without changing the recipe.
Remounts as a ration of mobility. A scale of remount horses per warrior standardised range and resilience; spare mounts were the mobility equivalent of extra fuel cans.
Self-contained field kits. Common personal kits (bows in standard bundles, lariats, spare strings, tools, felt gear) and household tents/carts made each decimal block logistically modular.
The yam relay. A state courier/relay network with post‑stations and passes pre‑scaled communications and light logistics into predictable legs.
Task‑tailored attachments. Siege/engineering blocks bolted onto the cavalry core when required—early attachments on a standard base.
Genghis Khan’s empire and campaigns. Wikimedia
Throughline: A formation is a logistics equation. Standard measures enable standard issues. Modularity makes mass possible.
The Nineteenth‑Century Step Change — Britain’s Army Equipment System (1861–66)
In the reform decades after Crimea, the War Office published the seven‑part Army Equipment series (Artillery; Cavalry; Infantry; Royal Engineers; Military Train; Commissariat; Hospital).[1] Each volume tied official organisation to authorised equipment lists, weights, measures (often prices), transport tables, and packing/marking rules. Once you knew the unit—infantry battalion, artillery battery, engineer company, or Military Train echelon—you could multiply the lists and convert entitlements into lift and sustainment. Support arms were treated as modular blocks (e.g., Commissariat trades; Hospital sets) scaled to force size and role.
What changed: This turned scaling into a published operating system for logistics—standard nomenclature matched ledgers; weights and measures turned entitlement into tonnage; common patterns let staff scale issues, movement and maintenance simply by multiplying unit counts.
Example of a table from Army Equipment. Part V. Infantry 1865
Peace vs War Establishment — The Scaling “Switch”
Establishments are the authorised blueprints for people, vehicles, weapons, tools and key stores—held in two states:
Peace Establishment (PE): Cadre‑heavy and economical (training scales, minimal transport; many posts unfilled; war‑only items held centrally).
War Establishment (WE): Fully manned and fully equipped (complete Equipment and first/second‑line holdings; authorised transport and attachments—signals, medical, supply/transport, maintenance—baked in).
Mobilisation tops up PE to WE: fill personnel (Regulars/Reservists/Territorials), issues unit entitlement, builds lift and repair depth, loads first-line holdings, form attachments, and declares readiness. Because WEs link directly to scales, a unit can be multiplied and supported predictably. In service terms, the scaled package is then delivered through various types of support—integral, close, general, and mounting—each tailored to those entitlements and holdings.
Types of support.
Integral — organic, first-line support within the unit. (1st Line)
Close — formation troops forward, delivering time-sensitive commodities and quick repair/recovery. (2nd Line)
General — force-level support to the whole formation (bulk stocks, distribution, heavy repair). (3rd line; sometimes spans to 4th depending on the army)
Mounting — generating/equipping/marshalling the force before deployment. (a pre-deployment phase, not a “line”)
(Illustrative maxim) Alter one allowance, alter the lift: add a blanket per man, and you add wagons to the transport scale. Scaling is a system—inputs ripple into horses, drivers and wagons.
Late Victorian to 1914 — Scaling Rehearsed in Peace (NZ)
New Zealand did not drift into World War I. In the years following the war in South Africa and especially under the Territorial Force (from 1910), planners adapted British military establishments to practical peacetime scales and rehearsed them. Camp equipment was centralised and issued according to published scales for the 1913 brigade camps. Districts drew against these scales, and returns/refurbishment were managed according to plan. To ensure the issue/return machine functioned efficiently, temporary Ordnance Depots were established for the 1913 camps (and again for the 1914 divisional camps), staffed with clerks and issuers under regional storekeepers—so requisition, issue, receipt, and repair all followed a single process.[2]
Example of New Zealand Camp Equipment Scale 1913
In parallel, the Defence Stores professionalised: permanent District Storekeepers were appointed, and an intensive store management course produced Quartermaster Sergeants for every infantry and mounted regiment, tightening the link between unit ledgers and district depots. By early 1914, the force had been inspected and judged to be well-armed and well-equipped, and mobilisation regulations—adapted from British directives—were issued in March 1914, aligning establishments, ledgers, and stocks.[3] The result was a pre‑war system that treated scaling as a living routine, not an emergency improvisation.
World Wars & Interwar — Scaling at Industrial Tempo (UK & NZ), 1914–45
First World War (1914–18).
The British Army’s War Establishments and matching scales of equipment underwrote rapid expansion from Regulars to Territorials to Kitchener’s New Armies.[4] New formations could be raised and fitted out by template—weapons, tools, transport, ammunition, clothing, medical stores and repair parts, all mapped from the WE. For a smaller force such as New Zealand, alignment with British establishments and scales enabled swift mobilisation and five years of sustained operations.
Saddlers Toolkit – Handbook of Military Artificers 1915
Interwar (1919–39)
Rather than a pause, this period saw refinement and governance of scaling. G1098 (AFG1098) matured as the unit‑level ledger linking establishment to holdings; mobilisation store tables and Clothing/Equipment Regulations were revised; Dominion practice tightened accounting controls and depot procedures. From 1935, although New Zealand lacked a standing field army, planners tracked British developments closely—each new War Establishment, scale and entitlement as it was published—and adapted them to local conditions (manpower, industry, shipping distances and climate). Thus, when mobilisation began in 1939–40, New Zealand could raise, equip, and structure its forces on modern British templates, rather than through improvisation.
Second World War (1939–45)
Scaling went fully industrial. Theatre-specific clothing scales, bulk demand procedures for ordnance, formal first/second‑line holdings, and push vs pull replenishment methods were used to keep tempo while protecting scarce lift and stocks. Units continued to work to WE/scale templates, with depots, railheads and parks sized to the calculated flows.[5]
Ammunition Loads – Ordnance Manual (War) 1939
Case Study — Greece 1941: mis-scaled ordnance support
Context. In March 1941, the New Zealand Division deployed three Independent New Zealand Ordnance Corps (NZOC) Brigade Workshops and eleven LADs to Greece, with the attached British Royal Army Ordnance Corps (RAOC) 1 Ordnance Field Park (1 OFP) providing forward spares and stores.[6] Pre-deployment consultation was thin; scaling assumptions followed British fleet patterns rather than New Zealand holdings.
What went wrong (the scaling error).
Wrong spares mix. 1 OFP was scaled for Internationals and Crossleys; the NZ Division fielded neither in any number (only two Crossleys), so much of the forward lift didn’t match the fleet it had to support.
Assumptive, not analytical. Holdings mirrored generic expectations instead of the Division’s actual G1098s, failure rates, and service-level targets.
Coalition data gap. Equipment data and entitlement tables weren’t reconciled across national lines before movement.
Consequences in theatre.
Readiness lost at the point of need. Lift and time were consumed carrying low-utility spares forward.
Workarounds required. Support hinged on the subset that did match (e.g., Ford, 25-pdr, 2-pdr, spring steel, sheet/rod metals, compressed air, general items) plus local supplementation—enough to keep NZ Workshops going, but with friction and delay.
Campaign outcome. The Greek campaign collapsed into evacuation (and then Crete), compounding the cost of the initial scaling miss.
Fix and regeneration (the recovery).
Rebuild in Egypt. NZOC consolidated with RAOC/Maadi resources and formed the NZ Divisional OFP on 28 July 1941, explicitly scaled to NZ kits.
Deliberate scale-up. Through August–September the OFP built to scale, trained on ordnance accounting, and aligned data to reality.
Right-sized footprint. By late 1941 the OFP held 4 officers, 81 ORs and 27 three-ton lorries configured for OFP stores—turning scaling from assumption into a planned capability.
Practical fixes (what should have been done).
Make scaling scientific. Use master data, reliability/failure rates, demand and lead-time to size spares and blocks; set explicit service-level targets.
Don’t rely on rules of thumb. Ditch “10% spares” heuristics—scale to the actual fleet and mission.
Close coalition gaps early. Reconcile equipment and entitlement tables across partners before you book the lift.
Translate scales to footprint. Convert to pallets/containers/ULDs with correct packaging and documents; protect the lift.
Capture and apply lessons. After action, cleanse data, adjust, and rebuild to standard—exactly what the NZ Div OFP did after Greece/Crete.
Takeaway. Scaling only works when it’s fleet-true, data-driven and coalition-aligned. Get that right pre-deployment, and your forward park becomes a force multiplier rather than a passenger.
Post-War Evolution — From a Single List to an Integrated Entitlement System (NZ Focus)
Example of AFG1098 Accessories and Spares for Bren .303 M.G
Post-1945 fleets—communications, electrics, vehicles, and specialist plant—stretched the old, flat G1098 list. By the late 1950s–60s, practice matured into three coordinated instruments:[7]
Entitlement (Equipment) Tables— the core “who gets what” by unit role and establishment.
Complete Equipment Schedules (CES) — the “what is complete” list for each equipment set (every component, tool, accessory), doubling as the accounting document for that set.
Block Scales — pooled non-CES items and everyday consumables (stationery, training stores, domestic items) expressed as ready-to-issue blocks.
New Zealand’s tailored, Commonwealth-compatible model (1960s)
The New Zealand Entitlement Table (NZET) became the hub, explicitly incorporating New Zealand CES (NZCES) items (and their components), New Zealand Block Scales (NZBS) for non‑CES stores, and first‑line maintenance packs such as FAMTO (First Aid Mechanical Transport Outfit) and FATSO (First Aid Technical Stores Outfit) so operators could keep equipment serviceable between deeper repairs.[8]
By the early 1970s a further pillar emerged: New Zealand Repair Parts Scales (NZRPS). From the late 1960s, these began to replace earlier “spare parts lists,” folding FAMTO and FATSO in as first‑line modules of a wider repair‑chain planning scale—so unit Prescribed Load Lists (PLL) (days‑of‑cover + pipeline), formation Authorised Stockage Lists (ASLs) (service level over replenishment time) and theatre reserves were all sized from the same tempo/lead‑time/reliability factors. In short, repair provisioning became a single, scalable chain from operator kits through to depot depth.
Case Study — Malaysia & Vietnam (1965–1972): combined scaling to autonomy
Context. New Zealand kept a battalion in Malaysia/Singapore with 28 (Commonwealth) Brigade while rotating a rifle company into Vietnam under 1 ATF—three systems at once (British, Australian, NZ) with different entitlements, CES, paperwork and spares. The task was to turn them into one workable load for training in Malaysia and fighting in Phước Tuy.
What worked (the scaling approach).
One combined scale, three sources. Cross-walked UK/AUS entitlements to NZ holdings; set approved equivalents for non-matching items.
Climate-first. Tropical scales for clothing/boots/personal kit; higher replacement factors and wider size ranges.
CES by platform. Normalised vehicle/tool sets so workshops and lift could be planned regardless of source nation.
Local industrial equivalents. Qualified NZ-made clothing, boots, webbing and small stores to UK/AUS specs to cut lead-times and dependency.
Liaison & data discipline. NZ LOs embedded in 1 ATF/FARELF to keep demand, returns and credits clean; part codes aligned early.
People matched to plan. Increased NZ movements, supply and maintenance manning in Malaysia and in-theatre.
Results.
Seamless support in Vietnam. Routine sustainment via Australian pipelines; NZ-specific items flowed via Malaysia/Singapore with minimal friction.
Fewer workarounds, faster repair. Equivalence lists and aligned CES cut “near-miss” parts and sped turnarounds.
Why it mattered later.
As UK/AUS withdrew from Malaysia in the early 1970s, NZ’s habits—combined scales, clean data, boosted manning and a growing local supply base—left the battalion near-logistically independent.
NZ-made equivalents added depth and resilience, enabling New Zealand-led sustainment.
What to copy.
Build a cross-walk early and lock approved equivalents in SOPs.
Scale for climate and task (clothing, rations, POL, repair parts).
Embed liaison/data stewards with partners.
Man to the plan—grow workshops, supply and movements to match scale.
Qualify local industry to shorten lead-times and strengthen sovereignty.
Takeaway. Combine partner scales with NZ holdings, qualify local equivalents, and resource the logisticians—then a company can fight in Vietnam while a battalion trains in Malaysia, and the force is ready to stand on its own as partners draw down..
From Printed Tables to Digital Systems (1960s–today)
Until the 1980s, scaling was a manual staff drill: planners worked from printed tables, equipment series, mobilisation stores tables and unit instructions, doing the maths by hand—later with basic calculators—and re-checking totals across ledgers and load tables. With computer-based logistics, the arithmetic and cross-checks moved into software: entitlement look-ups, strength-based calculations, days-of-cover policies, lift planning from pack/weight data, and target-setting from demand history. The gains were speed, consistency, auditability and the ability to model scenarios.
Many forces—including New Zealand—progressed from electric accounting machines and mainframes to enterprise ERPs by the late twentieth century, with deployable tools to support entitlement planning. Automation expanded what staff could calculate quickly; it did not replace the need for clear, maintained scales.
Crucially, automation only works with sound data and governance. Organisations change, equipment is updated, and missions evolve; unless master data—organisational structures/establishments, item masters/part numbers, CES versions, block-scale definitions, repair parts scales and links to maintenance task lists—is kept current under change control, systems will produce inconsistent outputs. The principle is simple: keep entitlements, scales and planning factors aligned across supply, maintenance and movement. Contemporary doctrine reinforces this, emphasising information systems for visibility and decision-making, underpinned by disciplined data stewardship.
Case Study — Somalia 1993: when scaling wasn’t applied (and what changed)
Context. New Zealand contingents in Somalia (1992–94) deployed into extreme heat and vehicle-centred tasks, yet much of the kit reflected a temperate, barracks-oriented baseline—signs that entitlements and CES were not re-scaled for climate, role, or threat. To add insult to injury, the advance party deployed into an active conflict zone without weapons. Part of the reason it went wrong was that, at the time, the Army was not configured for rapid expeditionary operations.
What should have been scaled—but wasn’t. Hot-weather clothing and headgear; body armour matched to the threat; vehicle-friendly load carriage; and weapon accessories (e.g., pistol holsters) to match in-service weapons.
Consequences. Under-utilised scale (issued items set aside for improvised workarounds), inconsistent appearance/ID in theatre, and slower adaptation when the threat rose.
After-action learning—Bosnia as the correction. The Army was embarrassed by the Somalia experience and did learn. Subsequent Bosnia deployments were better resourced and equipped: theatre-specific clothing and boots were prioritised; body armour and load-carriage were selected for the task and climate; weapon ancillaries were matched before deployment; and theatre SOPs were clarified. In short, the levers of scaling were applied up-front instead of improvised in theatre.
Takeaway. Treat scaling as deliberate tradecraft before wheels-up: set climate-appropriate clothing scales, match armour and load-carriage to tasks, close ancillary gaps, and codify it all in SOPs. Do that, and the force arrives ready; skip it, and soldiers will improvise uneven fixes in contact.
Why Scaling Matters
Doctrinally, scaling underpins the core logistics principles—Responsiveness, Simplicity, Economy, Flexibility, Balance, Foresight, Sustainability, Survivability and Integration—by turning intent into standard, reusable units of effort.[9]
Budget reality. Scales translate limited resources into repeatable outputs. They allow commanders to make explicit trade-offs between cost, risk, and tempo, and they expose the carrying costs of options (people, stock, space, lift) before money is spent. In fiscally constrained settings, scales are the difference between a force that looks large and a force that lasts. (Then and Now)
Control. Replaces ad‑hoc estimates with standard, repeatable calculations.
Agility. Dial effort up for surge or down for economy without needing to rewrite plans.
Interoperability. Standard blocks and tables let allies plug in seamlessly.
Assurance. Creates an audit trail for readiness claims and expenditure.
Risk management. Ties stock depth and footprint to threat, distance and tempo.
Instruments of Scaling — Quick Guide
When logisticians talk about “scales,” they’re really talking about ways of turning entitlements on paper into real-world stocks, vehicles, or pallets. A few of the main ones are:
Tables of Entitlement – These are the official “allowance lists” for units. They can be adjusted depending on the number of people present, the role the unit is playing, or even the climate. They shape both the unit’s footprint and its initial kit issue.
CES (Complete Equipment Schedules) – Every vehicle or platform comes with a kit list. Multiply that by the number of platforms, add any mission-specific kits, and you get both the accounting baseline and a sense of what workshops and lift have to carry.
Block Scales – Think of these as pre-packed bundles: ammunition, rations, POL (petrol, oil, lubricants), water, consumables, even stationery. They’re designed in mission-length chunks that map directly onto pallets, containers, or sorties.
Ration Scales — Per-person, per-day entitlements (e.g., fresh, composite, MRE/24-hour packs). Sized by headcount and duration, with first-line holdings at unit level and theatre stocks behind them.
Fuel Scales (POL) — Daily fuel requirements derived from platform consumption and tempo (include generators/heaters). Planned as bulk and/or packaged supply with defined reserves.
Clothing & Personal Equipment Scales — Initial issue and replacement factors (boots, uniforms, cold-weather gear). Driven by climate and wear-rates; size ranges require buffer stock. Set climate-specific scales; use approved equivalents across NZ/Allied patterns
Repair Parts Scales – Units carry a few days’ worth of spares on hand, while second-line supply aims to hold enough to cover expected breakdowns over the lead time.
First-Line Ammunition – This is the starter load troops carry into action, balanced against how quickly resupply can arrive.
WMR/DOS (War Maintenance Reserve/Days of Supply) – Larger-theatre stockpiles held to cushion delays or enemy interdiction.
All of this contributes to the classic push versus pull distinction. Push works best when demand is predictable (e.g., food, water, combat supplies), while pull suits variable or diagnostic needs (e.g., spare parts, casualty evacuation). Each commodity sits somewhere on that spectrum, and stock policies need to reflect that.
Scaling in Practice — A Common Framework
The beauty of scaling is that it works at every level. The same levers—entitlements, CES, block scales, repair parts, first-line ammunition, and WMR/DOS—apply whether you’re supporting a corps or a rifle section. The only difference is the number of multiples and echelons involved.
In effect, the same logic sizes a divisional-level park to last a day and a platoon’s first-line to last an opening skirmish. A section’s water is just the smallest expression of the same logic. What matters is anchoring decisions to the wider continuum—tactical, operational, and strategic—so that what a company carries dovetails with what the theatre holds in depth.
Case Study – 3 NZ Div reverse logistics (out-scaling best practice)
Context & scale. When 3 New Zealand Division was withdrawn from the Pacific in 1944, New Zealand executed a full reverse lift and regeneration: over 50,000 line items, 3,274 vehicles (plus 25 tanks) and tonnes of ammunition and supplies were received, cleaned, repaired, repacked and re-issued or disposed of—without forklifts or computers. Mangere Crossing Camp (ex-US “Camp Euart”) became the hub, with 200,000 sq ft of warehousing and a rail siding that ran straight into the storage blocks, allowing trains to off-load directly under cover. Work parties manually handled 250,000 packages averaging 45 kg, and about 10,000 tonnes of mixed stores arrived in the first three months from August 1944; the whole evolution concluded by July 1945.[10]
Method—how it worked.
Pre-exit accounting. Quartermasters across 90 accounting units completed inventories and packing lists in New Caledonia before lift.
Reception & triage. On arrival at Mangere, loads were checked against documents, segregated by condition, and queued for cleaning/repair.
Restore for re-use. Items were cleaned, repaired and repacked to unit standard, then presented for inspection.
Audit & acceptance. Main Ordnance Depot staff and Defence auditors enforced exacting standards; discrepancies were explained and cleared before acceptance.
Disposition. Serviceable materiel moved to Trentham (Main Ordnance Depot) or Hopuhopu (Northern District); many vehicles to Sylvia Park for onward issue; surplus or damaged items were transferred to the War Assets Realisation Board for sale or disposal.
Constraints & workarounds. With no MHE or IT, the system relied on infrastructure (rail-to-warehouse flow), disciplined paperwork, and hard, organised labour. Quartermasters—often not career logisticians—proved adaptable under high audit pressure, demonstrating that well-designed processes can substitute for technology when needed.
Why this is out-scaling done right.
Treated dismantling as deliberately as build-up—planned reverse from theatre to home base.
Aligned supply, maintenance and movement tasks (clean/repair/repack embedded in the flow).
Used fixed infrastructure to compensate for missing tools (rail siding, large covered floors).
Kept data discipline central: inventories, packing lists and audits drove every hand-off.
Produced a regeneration effect—restored force elements, cleared accounts and returned value to the system—on a national scale.
Takeaway. Reverse logistics is not an afterthought. Plan the out-scaling from day one, resource the reception base, couple repair with receipt, and enforce documentation—then even a technology-light force can bring a division home cleanly and quickly.
3 NZ Division Tricks and Tanks parked at Main Ordnance Depot, Mangere Bulk Depot on their Return from the Pacific in 1944 (Colourised). Alexander Turnbull Library
Conclusion
From the hoplite’s panoply and Rome’s contubernium to the Mongol tümen; from the Victorian Army Equipment series to modern War Establishments and today’s Entitlement–CES–Block toolkit (including NZ’s FAMTO/FATSO), the lesson is constant: scaling is the lifeblood of logistics. It turns intent into counted people, platforms, ammunition, spares, and lift—precisely, repeatably, and at the tempo operations demand.
In practice, scaling provides a standard framework: entitlement tables specify who receives what; CES ensures equipment is complete and auditable; block scales package predictable consumables for movement; repair-parts scales establish first- and second-line resilience; and WMR/DOS provides theatre depth. The art is in balancing the push for predictability with the pull for diagnostic, variable demands.
This is not optional tradecraft. Every headquarters and every trade must treat scaling—and the data that underpins it—as core business. Keep establishments current, masters clean, and paper scales translated into real pallets, bookings and stocks so that automation amplifies judgment rather than propagating error. Do this and the force can surge, re-role and wind down cleanly; neglect it and you invite a modern reprise of the Crimean lesson—impressive on paper, unsustainable in contact. Scaling is how intent becomes assured movement and sustainment.
Notes
[1] The Secretary of State for War, “Part 2 – Artillery,” Manual of Army Equipment (1861), https://rnzaoc.files.wordpress.com/2018/08/army-equipment-part-2-artillery-1861.pdf; The Secretary of State for War, “Part 1 – Cavalry,” Manual of Army Equipment (1863); The Secretary of State for War, “Part 5 – Infantry,” Manual of Army Equipment (1865); The Secretary of State for War, “Part 6 – Commissariate Department,” Manual of Army Equipment (1865), https://rnzaoc.files.wordpress.com/2018/08/army-equipment-part-6-commissariat-department-1865-1.pdf; The Secretary of State for War, “Part 4 – Military Train,” Manual of Army Equipment (1865); The Secretary of State for War, “Part 7 – Hospital,” Manual of Army Equipment (1865); The Secretary of State for War, “Part 3 – Royal Engineers,” Manual of Army Equipment (1866).
[10] Francis Arthur Jarrett, “2NZEF – 2 NZ Divisional Ordnance Field Park – Report – F Jarret,” Archives New Zealand Item No R20109405 (1944); “QMG (Quartermaster-Generals) Branch – September 1939 to March 1944,” Archives New Zealand Item No R25541150 (1944); “HQ Army Tank Brigade Ordnance Units, June 1942 to January 1943,” Archives New Zealand Item No R20112168 (1943).
Over four decades, a plain, long-bodied semi-trailer underwrote the New Zealand Army’s freedom of movement. Correctly designated as the Trailer, Tanker, Fuel (TTF)—a 23,000-litre bulk-fuel “bank”—it allowed Petroleum Operators to disperse, manoeuvre, and sustain operations when pumps, pipes, and tidy infrastructure were nowhere to be found. From Kaitaia to Invercargill, it was a long, low tank on twin bogies, featuring five domed manways along its spine, and a fifth wheel that made a familiar silhouette.
Two now sit withdrawn at Linton—paint chalked, stencilling ghosted by the sun, hoses brittle, handrails speckled with surface rust, lichen colonising the seams and spiderwebs claiming the catwalks—a quiet reminder that unglamorous kit often does the heaviest lifting.
Awaiting their final fate
This article explains what the TTF was (and wasn’t), why it mattered, how soldiers operated and maintained it, how regulation changed its care, and what its service reveals about military logistics: mobility relies on fuel, and fuel relies on people, procedure, and dependable equipment. In short, when tempo was demanded, the TTF moved—and it delivered.
Terminology note — TTF vs BLFT: Within NZ Army usage, the 23,000-litre semi-trailer is formally designated Trailer, Tanker, Fuel (TTF). You will sometimes see “Bulk Liquid Fuel Tanker (BLFT)” used as a generic descriptor in unit shorthand or civilian contexts. That generic usage isn’t wrong in the everyday sense, but BLFT is not the NZDF equipment name. For clarity and consistency, this article uses TTF throughout.
Why it mattered
Fuel is mobility, and mobility is freedom of action. The 23,000 L TTF gave New Zealand’s Army a bulk, road-movable reservoir that could be staged, shuttled, or parked up as a dispensing point, feeding everything from generators to armour. It could work independently or in support of Unimog-mounted Unit Bulk Refuelling Equipment (UBREs) and Deployable Bulk Fuel Installations (DBFIs), scaling output from vehicle packs to company- and battalion-level demand. With five isolated compartments (4,600 L each) and gravity discharge, it was simple, robust, and forgiving—ideal traits for equipment that had to operate in all weather conditions, often far from perfect infrastructure.
Origins and the fleet it joined
The “TTF” arrived in 1982–83 as part of a broader modernisation of petroleum capability. Three Lowes-built, New Zealand–made 23,000 L TTFs were introduced in 1982, joining three 18,000 L M131 semi-trailers acquired earlier in the 1970s. Initially, the trailers were paired with M818 tractor units, later replaced by Mercedes-Benz 2228S/30 prime movers. The M131s—Vietnam-era workhorses with four compartments and a 200 GPM pump—could lift from an external source and issue through bulk hoses or reels; together, the two trailer types gave commanders options: pumped throughput when needed, gravity reliability everywhere. The M131s were quietly retired from service in the late 1990s. In peacetime disposition, one TTF was generally based at Burnham Camp (South Island), with the other two at Linton Camp (North Island).
M313 TTF with M818 Prime Mover
Although the Lowes TTFs and the older M131S were often required to work together, there were compatibility issues: each type used different-sized camlock fittings. Rather than retrofitting the M131 fleet to match the Lowes fittings, units relied on a set of adaptors and reducers to bridge the difference. This was not a serious concern in itself, but it could cause delays when pre-activity checks were not carried out correctly and the required adaptors were not stowed in the correct compartment.
Ownership was a perennial talking point: RNZCT transport squadrons regarded the TTFs as transport assets (they provided the prime movers and licensed drivers), while RNZAOC Supply Companies saw them as fuel-supply equipment (they provided the trained petroleum operators). It was rarely a show-stopping issue, but the blurred lines did affect servicing and governance; at times, neither party owned maintenance end-to-end, and trailers (and ancillary gear) could sit unserviceable for extended periods as a result.
People behind the steel
Equipment is only ever as good as the soldiers who run it. Petroleum Operators—first within the RNZAOC Supplier trade and later in RNZALR—were the specialists who made the TTF sing. They managed static and field fuel facilities, tested and accounted for product, refuelled vehicles and aircraft, and drove and operated TTFs as part of their everyday work.
TTF training sat within the RNZAOC Petroleum Operators Course, which covered end-to-end operation and first-line maintenance. Beyond driving and dispensing drills, the course emphasised product quality assurance (sampling, density/temperature correction, and contamination control), bonding and earthing, anti-static discipline, load planning and compartment sequencing, emergency shutdown and spill response, and documentation/accounting. A demanding component was the internal inspection and cleaning of the tank, which required candidates to conduct confined-space entry under a permit-to-work regime. They wore protective clothing and a compressed-air breathing apparatus, with gas testing, standby safety cover, a rescue plan, and strict decontamination procedures upon exit—hot, dirty, claustrophobic work—but essential to keep the equipment safe and serviceable.
Geared up for Tank Cleaning
To support operations where RNZCT drivers provided the prime movers and driving cadre, a shorter TTF familiarisation was run for RNZCT personnel. This focused on basic trailer operation—coupling/uncoupling, pre-use inspections, bonding, valve and manifold controls, gravity-fed procedures, emergency brakes and cut-offs, and immediate actions for spills or fires—so transport units could employ the trailers safely when teamed with PETOPs.
By the late 1990s, tightening health, safety, and environmental laws—along with evolving dangerous-goods transport rules—meant that the more technical and regulated aspects of TTF management were progressively contracted to specialised civilian providers. Statutory inspections, gas-free certifications, confined-space tank cleaning, pressure/vacuum testing, calibration, and servicing of overfill/vapour recovery systems are now performed by certified contractors. Units retained operator training, daily/first-line maintenance and operational control, but relied on industry specialists for periodic recertification and high-risk tasks.
Built for the job—and improved in service
As built, the New Zealand–made Lowes 23,000 L TTFs blended contemporary civilian tanker practice with military pragmatism. Fitted with a diesel engine, pump, and pneumatic system, each unit was self-contained. A tandem bogie with dual wheels spread the load, while a fifth-wheel coupling ensured compatibility with standard prime movers.
Service teaches, and the fleet evolved. In the mid-1990s, the TTFs were simplified: the diesel engine, pump and pneumatics were removed; modern manway hatches, bulk couplings and overfill protection were fitted—bringing the trailers squarely into line with contemporary civilian standards while reducing maintenance cost. In the mid-2000s, folding handrails were added along the tank top to meet rising health and safety expectations without compromising deployability.
On operations
The TTF’s finest quality was its adaptability. During exercises, it operated as a bulk dispenser, keeping field kitchens, plants, and vehicles operational, and was a familiar sight on both large and small exercises at Waiouru and Tekapo, as well as across New Zealand. On operations—most notably in East Timor—it proved its worth, an unshowy constant that helped keep a battalion group moving.
NZ TTF in East Timor
What soldiers remember
Ask any driver or PETOP and you’ll hear the same refrains. Gravity feed keeps you issuing when the pumps are down. Compartment sequencing has its own rhythm to keep axle and kingpin loads within limits. The standing rule: never fill the compartments—topping them off would put the unit over its weight limit. Then the ritual: bonding and sampling before the first drop; the smell of diesel at a dusty kerbside refuelling point; the end-of-shift satisfaction when the ledger matched the meter and the last hose was stowed.
But it was always a love–hate relationship. When maintenance slipped—expired hose-test dates, tired valves and seals, U/S meters, flat tyres, lighting faults, or, later, the overfill and vapour-recovery kit—the TTF took the blame. In truth, performance mirrors maintenance: where ownership of servicing was clear and inspections were kept up, the trailers were steady, predictable workhorses; where it wasn’t, ancillary failures bred frustration and long spells of unserviceability. More than most, the TTF reinforced two truths: product quality is non-negotiable, and safety is everyone’s business. Above all, it was a daily reminder that logistics is a profession.
Legacy
Today, as 47 Petroleum Platoon returns to the order of battle and the Army invests in resilient, modern fuel capabilities, it’s worth looking back at the trailer that quietly underpinned so much training and so many tasks. The 23,000 L TTF didn’t shout its achievements. It just showed up, trip after trip, compartment after compartment, and did what New Zealand soldiers have always valued in their kit: it worked.
