Chapter 1 Nöel in New Guinea; Nuts; All about coconuts; Missing; Airborne.....

NOËL IN NEW GUINEA

IT was Christmas Day, ten o'clock in the morning. Not a white Christmas, nor, better still, a sunny brown Christmas. No, it was all very green and very wet. Rain streamed in profuse cascades, and the rich jungle wallowed in it.

Sig. Britton felt the rain trickling down over the brim of his hat on to his soaking shirt while he and Cpl McTaggart trudged on and on in the mud. At the slimiest patches they jumped - and went slithering.

The joyous spirit of Christmas was not for Sig. Britton. He glared at the jungle in disgust, unaware of beauty in this lavish variety of decoration, green and intricate. The sound of the silver cables of rain drumming on the leaves and tinkling in the puddles made him screw up his mouth in a nausea of resentment.

"Merry Christmas to Roger listening-post," the O.C. had signalled yesterday on the W/Toc. "Two of you can come down tonight and have Christmas dinner with the unit."

So they had tossed up for it, and Whalan had to stay, and Mac and Britton got ready to push off on Christmas Eve. But there was a deluge of rain in the afternoon, and a signal came at 1855 hours that no transport could get through to the jeep-head. They would be picked up at 1130 hours on Christmas morning-"Come hell or high water," the O.C. had added sympathetically. And in reply to their ack, the operator at H.Q. had signalled, "McTaggart nominated for next leave draft. Merry Christmas! "

Whalan had to get some sleep before they left him and Britton had volunteered to do the extra shift on weather reports. The night had been wild with rain and he had watched the Yule dawn from a tent that leaked sadly. So, all things considered, you couldn't blame Sig. Britton for being in a filthy rage and snarling, "Merry Christmas! I don't think!"

The worst of it was that he couldn't be bothered talking to McTaggart. "You've got no mates in the Army!" Mac was a selfish swine, always putting himself down for the easy shifts on the duty roster; and while the others worked he would be fiddling away with his souvenirs-shell cases on which he engraved Jap characters, or filing a duralumin model of a Lockheed-Lightning. "He sells'em to Yanks as battle-souvenirs," Whalan commented, "or sends 'em to his girl-friend to show her what a hero he's been."

Worst of all, he didn't seem to realize that Britton hated him-or else he didn't care. He chattered even now when they could walk abreast on the track. "I finished that Lightning while you were bludging this morning." But Britton ignored him, and at every opportunity side-tracked so that they could only go single-file.

Ah, hell; why worry about McTaggart? He would be going on leave tomorrow anyhow. Thank God I'm not on the same draft. He would stick like a leech all the way down on the ship.

At Caboolture this morning, Mary would be getting the Christmas dinner and the kids would be playing with their new toys....

Sig. Britton was beginning to feel really sorry for himself....

He forgot Mac, and the mud, and the soaking rain, and tried to remember ...

The spots with the boys on Christmas Eve, and taking home a bottle of sherry for Mary, and playing Santa Claus for the kids. Christmas meant more to the kids than anybody, because they weren't worried about a headache and indigestion on Boxing Day.

His mind went back to when he was a kid himself-when Christmas really was "happy Christmas".

He and his brother and sister counted the days before Christmas, never doubting that then they would be happier than they had ever been before-and by Christmas Eve they were worn out with anticipation. Then the waking up on Christmas morning. New toys on the bed. How he had pounced on them his heart drunk with joy: a ship all shining white, with bright red funnels; and a bat and ball; and lucky stockings; and boxes of Turkish delight; and sherbet; and a little leather purse with some silver inside. Little things but what a lovely feeling they gave you!

Britton remembered how his heart had burned with happiness in the company of his little brother and sister.

Yet it wasn't only the toys and gifts, and the coloured streamers, nor even the plum-pudding and brandy sauce at dinner that made him happy. There was also that certain difference about Christmas: something that made it unlike any other time of festivity - even his birthday. When he was a kid, even the sound of the word, "Christmas", struck a magic chord of happiness.

He wondered if it might have something to do with religion. His mother with her soft, warm cheeks, what did she think about Christmas? He remembered: she would dress him for church in neat little pants and blouse, and brush his hair, so that he felt fresh and clean. He liked to stand up on the church seat while his mother prayed on her knees. She had a big, thick prayer-book, with endless holy pictures in it. One of the pictures was brightly painted with red and gold and frosty silver: a Christmas picture of coloured kings, in robes and crowns, kneeling before a Madonna in a blue cloak-, with the Divine Infant on her lap. The picture had a rich blue sky with gilded stars, and on the roof of the stable was a layer of frosty snow which sparkled. Little Tommy admired that masterpiece, and loved his gentle mother when she said he could keep it in his own book.

Sig. Britton snorted, or he tried to snort but could not, because there was a strange something in his throat, and he nearly bumped into a tree because of a mistiness in his eyes.

McTaggart, who was behind him, sang out, "Where ya goin', mate?" And when he veered back on the path Mac walked beside him. And now that the mood of Christmas had made him human again a voice inside Sig. Britton said, "Mac doesn't like this either."

"Turned out nice for Christmas," he ventured.

"Och aye," said Mac, mimicking the burred speech of his ancestors. "Yon mist kens o' the hielands o' Bonnie Scotland."

"Begorrah," said Britton, countering with his best brogue, "sure 'tis like the bogs of ould Ireland we're trampin' thru, and us gettin' no nearer the Mountains of Mourne at all, at all."

"Ah weel, mon, dinna greet aboot the rain. I've a wee bit giftie here for y'-for Auld Lang Syne."

He pulled out of his shirt the duralumin model of a Lightnig that he had made up at the sig. station. "I'm minded o' yeer puir wee bairn at hame, and ye may send it t' him wi' the guid wishes o' a braw Scots corporal."

"Now glory be to God," began Sig. Britton in the same vein, but something welled up from his heart and stifled his brogue.

He tried to push ahead again, but Mac kept on marching beside him, and laughed through his wet lips, "Hoots mon, 'tis a merry Christmas! "

"NX87470"

NUTS

IT'S hard to know what to send the folks for Christmas these days. I suppose it's hard for them, too, but they at least have shops to go to, whereas with us . . .

I could easily have sent my three friends expectant-looking brown-paper parcels with lots of string on them (the "Q" was a close cobber), but the idea of stamping and addressing those three naked coconuts took hold of me, firmly.

Yet even after I had etched postal directions on the varnish of their fibre husks, they still looked unwanted. Unfriendly somehow.

There was some marking-ink in the mess. Right-I dashed in and adorned each coconut with an object which, in these Disney days, I felt could reasonably be identified as a bird. Slightly mad, I suppose, but the tropics get you that way, don't they? And anyway, the coconuts didn't look quite so inhuman now. I thought they looked even Christmassy.

The postal corporal told me I had to get the censor's stamp on them. "They'll do them for you over at the Orderly Room."

That's all he knew. The Orderly-Room-sergeant, the R.S.M., the corporal, both clerks and the runner were all insistent that I had to get an officer's signature on them first.

Anywhere else but in the Army I'd have given it up there and then, and tossed them to the cookhouse. But loss of face is an unforgivable, a mortal sin. So I fronted an officer and apologetically made my plea. He at first thought I was having him on-but he eventually obliged. He succeeded in crossing his nib on the third coconut. I pretended not to notice and beat it back to the Orderly Room.

Three savage jabs with the stamp and the nuts were ready for mail. At least, that's what I thought.

"You're not going to send them like that, are your," Bill queried as I strode across to postal. "They'll never get home. I'd wrap them up."

Wrap them up! After what I'd been through! . . . I'd register them - that's what I'd do.

But the army postal couldn't register parcels more than a pound in weight, I found. The only alternative was the village post office, a sweltering mile away. Off I set - by now I'd have faced a dozen Japs rather than fail in posting my coconuts.

My appearance at the small post office coincided with the circulation round the village of news that mail had arrived. Within a minute or so the entire population of the village, all twenty of them, were clamouring behind me. But my first coconut was already receiving attention.

"You're sure you want to register this?" asked the postmistress.

"Yes, please."

"It'd go all right ordinary, you know."

"I'd sooner register, please."

"Would you? Are you certain? I don't think it's needed."

"Madam!" I'd almost had it-my shirt was sticking to my back-females, strident females, were clamouring for mail. "Madam: you can register it, can't you?"

"Well, that's just it - I'm not too sure. You see, according to postal regulations, all articles for registration must be well and securely packed ... and - and look at it!"

I looked at it. Never did coconut look so nude. But exasperation lent me inspiration.

"Yes, madam. Look at it - look closely. If you can suggest a better way of well and securely packing a coconut than that which Nature has designed, I'd suggest you patent it."

That floored her. Sulkily she took it, and began filling in forms and things.

She took the second one.

"Where's the censor's stamp on this one? "

"It's there, near the bird's tail."

The villagers were goggle-eyed. The postmistress filled in another form. Scratching of a nib. Buzzing of
flies. Silence from the villagers. "All right-give me the other one please." Sheepishly I passed it across. I had been surreptitiously examining it for the censor's stamp.

But the priceless purple insignia declaring to the whole world that this particular coconut contained nothing to hamper our war effort, was no longer there. It had gone. It had vanished.
"Where's the censor's st . . ." She stopped.
"Isn't it there?" I inquired innocently. "Show me."

I stretched my damp arm across the counter for the coconut. Two pairs of eyes focused on a purple smear on the inside of my forearm. Two pairs of eyes met. One pair of eyes dropped. Mine was the pair that dropped.

"I guess that was the-er-the censor's stamp."
Flies buzzed again. The villagers were awed. Their postmistress had accepted unwrapped parcels for registration; a soldier had posted an uncensored parcel at a civilian post office.

Pillars of Empire were tottering! The crowd parted as I turned from the counter. I felt like Moses
striding through the back-rolling Red Sea. At the door I looked back. Twenty pairs of stunned eyes and
one pair of baleful eyes were following me. The coconuts looked more dejected and homeless than ever.

I shook my head sympathetically at my Christmas presents. I couldn't resist it.

"So long, you poor nuts," I said.

"VX37791"

MISSING

On 30 August 1942, a party consisting of three officers and forty-three men of a Victorian infantry battalion, which had served in the Middle East, was cut off near Kokoda as a result of enemy action. During the forty-two days' march through enemy-occupied territory to rejoin Australian troops, eleven were killed and three wounded. This is the story of one of the survivors.

SLOWLY the rafts edged their way from the rapid waters in the middle of the stream towards a primitive landing stage, where willing hands quickly made the fragile craft fast.

He stepped ashore and after the long day on the raft his legs would barely support his weight. It was with a strange feeling of drowsiness that he lit a cigarette, and watched the Americans and natives help the sick and wounded ashore. There was Dick being helped out now, Dick who on a dark night in the jungle six weeks before had been wounded badly in the back when a Jap grenade had exploded alongside him. During that nightmare march back to civilization through the Jap lines, he'd uttered not a single word of complaint.

Resting on a groundsheet alongside him contentedly puffing away at a "Camel" was Nick. Nick had escaped Jap bullets, but had collected a very bad dose of dysentery and for days had been staggering along the trail bent double with pain.

He wondered how the sergeant was faring. He had been knocked in the wino, on the first night, and then a couple of days before reaching this pleasure resort had packed up ,with an injured knee, an old football injury of pre-war days. Harry, the Australian aborigine, had stayed with him, to care for him until it was possible to get carriers back to bring him in.

All the boys were now ashore and were being helped into the waiting trucks. Better be in on this, he thought. For weeks he had been dreaming of riding in a truck again.

Off on the last stage of the journey, a brief fast run to a Yank rest camp, a shave, a good wash with real soap, a rich meal of "hash" from the cookhouse and then a bed of warm dry blankets.

Strangely, when he did get into his warm bed, sleep did not come immediately, and as he lay there puffing away at his cigarette in the dark, his thoughts wandered back to the night weeks ago when the long trek had begun.

His platoon had been out on a standing patrol in front of the battalion position. All day they had been watching the track along which the Jap was expected to advance. For hours, from first light until about four o'clock in the afternoon they had strained their eyes for any signs of movement, but none had been seen. But about four o'clock, with the sky overcast and rain imminent, the uncanny silence of the jungle had been broken by the noisy chatter of many automatic weapons, and the muffled explosions of grenades.

His stomach had turned over then, and he had begun to wish that he had taken the corporal's advice and eaten his evening meal of bully and biscuits.

The fire, however, was behind their position, and almost on the flank of the battalion, and soon his stomach ceased its gyrations, and he began to regain his confidence.

He had watched the runner dispatched by the sergeant platoon-commander disappear over the hill, and settled back in his shallow foxhole to await his return with the news....

With a start he came back to reality. His cigarette had burned low and was scorching his fingers. He rolled over in his blankets and butted it on the floor of the tent. Gosh, he thought, a few days ago that smoke would have been worth a couple more puffs; it only goes to show.

Then his thoughts switched back again to that day, when, for the second time, the eerie stillness of the jungle had been broken by the sound of fierce fighting.

This time it had been from the Tommy-guns of the advance guard moving ahead of their party, which was now retiring down the track, carrying, the wounded on stretchers. It was all over in a couple of seconds. The only one to crawl back from that party was the sergeant, who had been hit in the shoulder, and just missed a bayonet in the stomach. The same old story, too many Japs.

It had been decided then to go back along the trail a few hundred yards and into the bush over a faint track someone had found.

Here his thoughts were interrupted by the snoring of Charlie in the corner of the tent. He was fairly rousing the dead with his resounding nasal solo. Different from that second night. No one had even been able to sleep, let alone snore. Who would have felt like it anyway with the Japs a matter of a hundred yards or so away?

They had pushed off very early next morning, about four o'clock as well as he could remember, with a couple of scouts in front, the walking wounded, and then the main body with the stretchers, just at first light they'd sneaked across a log bridge the Japs had been using the day before, and up the hill on the other side. It had been pretty tough going especially for poor old Johnny who had been shot In the ankle, but refused to be carried and was crawling along on hands and knees. What a game cove!

Dinner tonight in the mess had reminded him, by way of contrast of the meals we had eaten while they were lying up near the old Jap camp on the top of the hill; the top because it was always shrouded in clouds and safe from prying eyes. Then, a meal of sweet potatoes had been a sumptuous feast and as for a stick of sugar-cane, well it was better than asparagus out of season back-home in pre-war days.

They remained there six days to give the wounded a chance to recover a bit and had sent out Mocca and a party of two to try and reach the battalion, but on the fifth day the Skipper noticed Jap footprints around camp, and decided to beat it from there and on the sixth day they did.
Things were a bit stiff on the tucker side as there were no native gardens in the vicinity.

For several days all they had was a stew of the tops of a few sweet potatoes and a liberal amount of water to wash it down. Then one morning he was awakened early by the sound of a shot.

A number of thoughts flashed through his mind, but foremost was the thought that the Japs were among those present. Then there was a shout of joy from down the hill, and he raced down with the rest of the boys to find that Wally had bowled a wild pig over. It wasn't long before the pleasant task of butchering the lovely beast was well under way, and before midday they were sitting down to their first meal of fresh meat since disembarking at Moresby.

A few more days on the track found them at a pretty little village where the natives were very friendly and anxious to co-operate in feeding them. Though the food was only sweet potatoes, yams and taro, it was good to feel full, even if the tucker did not have a very high calorie content.

The roughness of the track was making it very tough for the stretcher cases, and for their own good it was decided that, as the track from there on crossed a number of swift mountain streams, it would be better to leave them in the care of these friendly natives, and push on to get carriers to bring them out.

Very early in the morning the whole party turned out to bid farewell to its cobbers, and the command was given for the party to fall in as a platoon. The order "Party! Present arms!" was given, and then the party moved off down the track.

A couple of days later they were walking down a well-defined track. They were surprised to find that so much level ground existed in New Guinea. The scouts in front stopped suddenly, and everyone dived into the scrub, only to find that the reason f or the halt was a couple of natives who had come on to the track from an indistinct "pad". Surprise was mutual, and it was some time before they were able to make the natives understand that they were friendly, and only wanted help.

The party was then led over faint tracks to the native village, a little haven nestling between two swift streams, where once again the natives showed their hospitality and fed the party with sweet corn, taro and bananas.

Now that cigarettes are so plentiful, another smoke wouldn't go astray, he thought, and he rummaged among his clothes, extracted one from the carton and lit up. The flare of the match showed his tent mates sleeping peacefully.

The smoke curling lazily from his nostrils carried his thoughts back to that small village where they had been shown by the natives how to make tobacco from the raw leaf. The boys were watching the natives cook their meals that night and one of them noticed a native named Peter drying over the fire a small bundle, similar in appearance to a corn-cob. He asked what it was. When the reply "Tabac" was given, the troops pricked up their ears, as they hadn't had a smoke for days.

Further interrogation revealed that tobacco leaf was growing wild in the area and was fairly easy to cure in a rough sort of way. There was a mad scramble for the nearest bush of the precious weed, and soon the non-smokers were afforded the curious sight of natives and troops squatting on their haunches round a roaring fire, holding large leaves impaled on long sticks towards the flames.
These smokes proved pretty strong; in fact, the boys had to sit down to smoke them, but anything was better than no smokes, and from that day on every smoker carried either a supply of smokes with him, or the wherewithal to make some.

The natives had sent into the hills for a native who had served as a police-boy under the white men, and about dusk he came into the camp.

Although it was some time since he had served the white men, he still spoke pidgin, and from him the party learned that whites had been in the area a few days before. This cheered them up and spirits were very high. This boy also volunteered to act as guide for a few days, until he could find another police boy to continue the good work.

Early next morning after a brisk swim in the river alongside the village, they set off along "pads" almost indiscernible to the untrained eye. Before very long a small village with an abundance of coconuts was reached, and the party was soon reclining on its packs quaffing milk which tasted better than a glass of bitter.

For a few days the tracks led them through little villages where tropical plants grew in profusion and highly coloured butterflies flitted about, totally unconcerned with the party of ragged bearded scarecrows who strode past them. The sun shone, and a few days of sunshine will do a world of good to a party of tired men.

How different my face feels now, he thought, as he ran his fingers over his now clean-shaven features. The best beard had been that of the Skipper, followed closely by the sergeant.

Thinking of the Skipper reminded him that at one village in the sunny belt, the Skipper, guiding influence as well as the life and soul of the party, had decided to push on ahead with a native guide in an endeavour to get through to send help back to the party, which was becoming shockingly emaciated by the lack of proper foods and the rigours of their arduous life.

Accordingly, he had wished them luck and had then struck on, leaving the party under the command of the Sheriff, another of the officers.

The track soon led them into high country again, the sun disappeared, and the mists and rain closed down on them.

The going was becoming very hard and the distances covered became progressively shorter daily. The majority of the men were suffering from diarrhoea or a mild form of dysentery, and it was with great difficulty that the cheerful spirits of the troops, present hitherto throughout the trek, were maintained.

One of the things that kept the party cheerful was a competition among its members to see who would first fall off the log bridges over the swift mountain streams at each crossing. A queer way to amuse oneself, he thought, as he snuggled down further into his warm bed.

Then came the day of days. After a long march, about eleven hours on the track, the party had stopped for the night at a village perched insecurely on the top of a fairly high peak. The usual evening meal of taro and similar roots was being prepared, when someone farther down the village called out: "A white man! "

Immediately there was a mad scramble of tired men suddenly given a new lease of vitality, toward the spot whence the cry came. It certainly was a white man, an Australian officer from a Commando Company. The Skipper had got through.

Soon a meal of bully-beef and biscuits was being prepared, and for once the troops welcomed that much abused food. A packet of civilized cigarettes each followed from the packs of the party that had accompanied the officer. After a smoke and a yam around the camp-fire, the party, now elated with the thought that it was a mere five days from safety, turned in for a sound night's rest.

The next few days took them over a ten thousand-odd footer but with the end in sight it didn't worry anyone much except the wounded sergeant whose knee cracked up properly. He had to be left behind with one of the troops to care for him, to await the return of bearers to carry him in on a litter.

The fifth night found the party on the banks or a fast-flowing river where there were signs of frenzied activity among the natives.

Early next morning the party was astir, and after a quick meal of bully and biscuits, went down to the river-bank. Here they said good-bye to the Commandos and were swiftly loaded on to the rafts the natives had built overnight.

Ah! well, he thought, time for a spot of shuteye, and butting his smoke he rolled over in his blankets and soon his hearty snores mingled with those of his cobber in the corner, making a cheerful if not melodious duet.

"VX22526"

AIRBORNE TO NADZAB

IT is 3 a.m. on the morning of 5th September 1943 and a big day looms ahead of us-we are on the move. The previous day we had been thrilled with the reports of the paratroop landing at Nadzab and the courage of the artillery boys who had participated in that momentous event, but today-well, today it is to be our turn and, naturally, we are on our toes. We are to be airborne to Nadzab, but, as our landing will be strictly orthodox, we, of course, will not require the use of parachutes-or so we fervently hope.

Our camp is a scene of purposeful activity. Hurricane lamps bob hither and thither as each man goes about his appointed task; steaming cups of coffee are dispensed and gratefully consumed; headlights pierce the gloom as vehicles continually arrive and are quickly loaded. Orders rattle out, rolls are called, and, as each man answers his name, he takes up a position in his allotted truck. Quickly then the convoy forms up, and we are ready for our great adventure.

Motors start, whistles blow, and, with a last farewell glance at our old camp site, we are on our way.

Winding and twisting our tortuous route through the undulating foothills of Moresby, we steal through sleeping camps, check through the marshalling point, and, as dawn comes yawning over the horizon, we lumber on to the drome where a guide attaches himself to our truck, and escorts us to the huge monster in which we must, of necessity pin our faith for the next few hours. It won't be long now!

With critical eyes we give the plane a thorough once-over, then, as a busy little jeep comes tearing along to skid to a stop and spill out our pilot and crew, we transfer our inspection to the new arrivals.

The pilot, I observe with some misgiving, appears to be little more than a mere boy thoughts of Zeros blot the serenity of my horizon.

With a shattering explosion the motors spring into life, splutter and cough, accelerate, back-fire a few times, then, gaining confidence, settle down to run deafeningly but reassuringly.

I breathe more freely. The motors having been warmed up, the crew busy themselves in testing all the gadgets. We back our truck to the gaping doors, transfer our load into the bowels of the waiting monster, and take our seats. The doors are slammed and well, here's hoping!

A climbing sun glares redly down on a hive of intense activity as we jolt our way towards the runway. Trucks laden with troops and gear roll constantly on to the strip; planes taxi in all directions.

All too soon we taxi into position at the head of the runway and manoeuvre ready for a take-off. The motors roar furiously, our monster vibrates alarmingly, then slowly, ever so slowly, we trundle forward, gradually picking up speed until, soon, we are literally hurtling along as though bent on destruction.

I look for something to hold to, shut my eyes, and, with a prayer in my heart, hope for the best though fearing the worst. . . .

Three times, gaining height on each circuit, we circled over Moresby and the harbour, while I gazed spellbound at the ever-changing wonder unfolding beneath me. I remember my surprise when, on opening my eyes, I found the earth dropping away from under us-we were in the air! What is more, I discovered that I thoroughly enjoyed the sensation.

Then Moresby! I saw Moresby from a new angle-dusty Moresby about which I'd always thought such unprintable things. Who could imagine that that marvellous patchwork-quilt of changing colours; those brown ribbons of roadways wriggling snake-like through the deep green carpet of dense foliage; those white tents of the countless camps dotting the earth like mushrooms; that orderly array of miniature buildings set doll-like in a vast expanse of nature's gardens; could possibly be Moresby?

Greater wonders were yet to come, however.

We saw the sea! I didn't know that any sea could be like that. Circling steadily onwards we looked down on a scene of breathtaking glory.

We saw the sugar-white beaches, saw the apple-green shallows and the tumbling foamy reefs, we saw colours that smote and blinded -colours that we didn't know existed-and farther distant, beyond the reefs, we saw the sparkling blue of the deeper waters. Far below, like little black beetles, we saw warships and transports riding peacefully on a background of green and blue while white feathers of flaky foam indicated the passage of numerous small craft busily fussing around the harbour. Opalescent patches of sunk reef made the scene one of extraordinary beauty. Forgotten were all thoughts of war-a war that seemed somehow remote as we gazed on the wonders revealed beneath our eyes.

Before long, however, the rest of our armada having taken to the air, we maneuvered into formation, and headed towards the unknown smoky regions of the ranges. White beaches faded behind us, the emerald of the sea turned to heat-hazed blue of unbroken forests.

Dark, murderous, the peaks of the Owen Stanleys, their shoulders scarved with cloud, loomed threateningly ahead.

Steadily we climbed, higher and higher, and just as steadily, the temperature fell lower and lower.

Far below, the earth was blanketed from sight by a dense sea of billowy clouds, while on either side, now a little above, now a little below, rode two sister ships-a comforting sight as we travelled in that enchanted world of our own.

Yet more comforting still was our complacent awareness of the terrier-like watchfulness of our restless fighter-escort-brought to our notice by numerous glimpses of darting midgets passing sometimes overhead, and sometimes beneath. Of the rest of our armada there was not a sight, though, of course, we knew they were there.

As we neared the mountain-tops our journey became uncomfortably bumpy, and expressions were strained as, unexpectedly, we dropped through space to regain our equilibrium almost immediately, and travel on in apparent unconcern.

Huge jagged peaks, seemingly within reach, thrust their sinister tops menacingly through the clouds as, to the tune of chattering teeth and humming motors, we bucked our way over the range. There was an extraordinary glory of highlights slanting down from those mountain tops like heavenly rays in old-fashioned Bible pictures. There was blackness and wickedness and beauty. There was, too, something about them that whispered of possible perils ahead for, with the crossing of the Owen Stanleys, we were travelling into dangerous territory.

However, with the heights safely negotiated, we gradually dropped through the clouds to a warmer level where, in addition to regaining some of our bodily comfort, we were able, once more, to view the country over which we were so swiftly passing. We saw little to our liking.

North, south, cast and, west we saw the never-changing blackness of impenetrable Jungle - a vast, primitive wilderness of which the only interesting features were the occasional glimpses of tiny native villages nestling picturesquely in their jungle solitude.

And so we came to the last stage of our flight, a mad, roaring procession of planes skimming the very leaves of the tree-tops a precaution taken, no doubt, to avoid possible enemy observation and thus to ensure safe arrival at our destination. Beneath us, the earth dipped by at an alarming rate-a particularly undesirable and uninviting land of jungle and steamy swamp. Muddy, sluggish rivers oozed untidily through the wilderness-little streams forming a vast network of water finally to merge into a larger stream which later we came to know as the Markham. That, then, was the type of country in which we were to be set down. The prospect was, to say the least, far from pleasing.

All eyes by now were eagerly searching for the landing strip. We saw it soon enough - and immediately wished that we hadn't.

We saw a rough-looking burnt clearing on which descending planes were playing a game of "follow my leader" as, in a whirlwind of black dust, they jolted down the short runway. We saw a litter of stores piled, on either side, in untidy heaps, and we saw long lines of troops, accompanied by native luggage porters, trekking, Indian file, into the jungle.

The sight, however, that gave us most food for thought was an uneasy glimpse of two transport planes piled up on their noses, not so good!

At that moment our interest was urgently transferred as, banking sharply, we became aware of a huge hill threatening to bring about our destruction -a hill which, fortunately, dissolved as we flattened out preparatory for our run-in.

We were later informed, to our sheepish amusement, that our "hill" had been nothing more than the flat surface of the earth viewed from an unusual angle.

Lower and lower we dipped until, feeling cautiously for the ground, we bumped and bounced, bumped and bounced, finally to land and stagger uncomfortably over the rough, uneven ground enveloped in a cloud of dust and soot.

Nadzab! A centre of confusing noise and bustling activity; of shouted orders and jabbering natives; a hell of dust and heat and roaring planes....

Well, we've travelled a great deal farther along the road to Tokyo in the intervening months since that, to me, memorable day, and the Nadzab of today is a far, far cry indeed from the primitive emergency clearing that first we knew. The battles for Lae and Finschhafen are now but memories; the lightning advance up the Ramu and the spectacular victory over the Jap on rugged Shaggy Ridge have hit the headlines, and, in their turn, given pride of place to more recent events.

But that, of course, is another story.

"VX23464"