Chapter 10 Joe was an expert; Don R; Assault on Shaggy Ridge; Operational Drop.....

JOE WAS AN EXPERT

JOE had just arrived back from school!

His report was excellent: "Qualified, Distinguished. Recommend future employment as Unit D. & M. Instructor."

Joe was an enthusiastic lad, and when called up for interview with the major, had a scheme all cut and dried for presentation.

"if you don't mind me saying so, sir," he said, "there's room for improvement in the standard of driving and maintenance in the company - not," he hastened to add, "that it is bad, but a course of schooling would brush up the finer points of vehicle mastership and would also make the fellows au fait"-he liked the sound of that-"with the very latest in maintenance."

The major was impressed.

The standard of maintenance of his vehicles was not bad but periodically he had to go on the rampage over some example of neglect usually when D.D.S.T. was inspecting the show. The accident-rate also was not high but was maintained at its level chiefly by minor bumps, which, with ordinary care, should be avoided.

Yes, the idea had much to commend it. Cancel all leave for a couple of weeks and give the troops some schooling. Practical during the day and theory at night.

The following morning Joe was called to H.Q.

The major shuffled his papers and patted them carefully with his cane. He looked up as Joe slung that snappy salute he was noted for, and coughed.

"Oh yes, sergeant," he said. "I've been thinking over your suggestions and I've decided to let you make a start. With the assistance of a couple of corporals you can handle a platoon, can't you? Good! Then a week each, that'll keep you going for a month, including the drivers from the headquarters and composite lumped together at the end. Get organized today and be ready to start in the morning. I'll have the sergeant-major notify you later of the men to be put through. Oh, yes. Down in the workshop area will be a good place. I'll fix it with the workshop officer. Carry on, sergeant!"

Joe saluted and retired to "carry on".

The major called for his car and went out. An hour later he was back again, calling for Joe.

"Sergeant," he said. "I think I've found just the thing you're looking for. An old chassis and engine you can use for demonstrating first-line repairs and maintenance. Take a truck and a dozen men and get it right away. Now this is where you go . . ."

And prodding the map on the wall with his finger he proceeded to give Joe all necessary directions for recovering the derelict.

Joe lost no time in rounding up a team, requisitioning a vehicle and getting out to his job. There she was, jacked up on blocks, gaunt and bare, an ideal mechanical cadaver. The chassis and engine were rapidly reduced to so many spare parts and loaded on the vehicle. The lads seated on the heap of junk waved a friendly farewell to the woman on the veranda who had watched in silence for a quarter of an hour.

Back on the location the lads found a reception committee of three, the major, a constable, and a belligerent gentleman wielding an axe. The latter pointed with his axe.

"There they are," he howled, "that's them. The missus got the truck number. They've busted up me saw-bench."

He turned to the policeman. "Hi, you, pinch 'em. I'm laying a charge. Don't let 'em get away."

"All right, Mr. Morgan, all right. Just a minute. We'll hear what they have to say about it." The constable glanced at his watch and followed the major who was advancing slowly towards the vehicle.

Joe alighted, marched up to the major saluted and reported. "We found the chassis O.K., sir. Have it with us in the vehicle."

The major returned the salute and stood regarding Joe, tapping his leg with his cane. Joe became uneasy. When the major did that he usually was not pleased. And when he was put out he was a difficult man to deal with.

His voice was low and sugary. "Oh, you have, have you, sergeant! In the vehicle, eh? Very nice, very nice indeed!"

He turned and indicated the man with the axe. "Sergeant! Meet Mr. Morgan. He wants to talk to you about a few things. Trespass, illegal entry, willful damage, theft. Nothing else I can think of at the moment."

Joe gulped.

"Sergeant! " The major's voice was loud, penetrating, with a snap like a rat-trap.

"Y-yes, sir."'

"Were you ever taught to read a map-or did you just pick it up?"

"But, sir, I went where you directed. You pointed out the place on the map itself, you know, sir."

The fellows on the truck sat tight, eager spectators, anticipating fireworks to come. They knew the major.

The policeman stepped forward. "What have you got on the truck, sergeant?" he asked.

Joe glared at him. He was on his dignity now. "That is military property officer. Any information you may require can be obtained from my O.C. I take all my orders from him."

"I see," said the policeman. "And you were instructed to enter Mr. Morgan's premises, dismantle his property and bring it back to this camp. They were your orders?"

Joe hesitated.

"Not in so many words," he replied. "I was given a map reference and instructed to recover a derelict chassis and engine I would find at that spot. It amounted to the same thing."

The belligerent Mr. Morgan snorted. "I'll say it does. What's it matter who gave the orders. My engine is all busted up and in this army truck and here's the fellows that done it. Ain't that good enough for the police?"

The major shifted his cane from his left hand to his right.

"I think the sergeant had better come along and show me where he found the truck. He can be getting my car while we adjourn to the mess and have a little something."

He turned to Joe.

"Get that map off the wall of my room. We'll need that, sergeant."

The car halted by the farmhouse. Joe pointed triumphantly to the map.

"Here you are, sir, right on the spot"

The major grabbed the map. "Spot, my foot," he snorted. "What spot?"

"There, sir," said Joe. "There's the house, that spot beside the road, right beside your pencil mark."

"Oh! And the pencil mark! Why do you suppose I put it there on the green, and not on the house or behind the house? Have you had a look to see what it actually covers!"

No, Joe hadn't looked anywhere else. The chassis behind the house had been clearly visible as they approached the place.

The major sat in stony silence while Joe wandered dejectedly into the scrub.

The following morning a squad of greasy mechanics worked feverishly to reassemble a dismantled vehicle under the watchful eye of a man with an axe.

Across the road another party whistled and sang as it hacked at grass and bushes and dragged into the light of day the remains of a long-forgotten motor-truck.

Back in camp a corporal lately returned from a course of M.R. & F.S. was engaged, under instruction from an unapproachable major, in coaching a sergeant in the finer points of map-reading and location of map references by means of signs.

"NX103126"

ASSAULT ON SHAGGY RIDGE

You wind up the tracks leading above the Faria River. The twenty-fives are pounding, and high in the air there's the stutter of strafing planes. Up and up towards the clouds you trudge until you come to the foot of Shaggy Ridge. Below, the Ramu Valley is spread like a terrain study in a divisional battle-room; above are the saw-toothed peaks on which the artillery and planes are registering.

You crawl along zig-zag paths cut into the sides of incredible mountains. You break into the eternally weeping jungle where lichen and moss hang from the trees like a woman's hair. You climb and climb and climb . . . till suddenly, you are at the top and ahead is the jagged finger of The Pimple stabbing the sky.

This is the field of battle. For-ward of you is the Command Post and beyond that only No Man's Land.

For days on end men have lain in shallow dugouts listening to, but not seeing bombs dropping 200 yards ahead. Occasional mortar shells have come their way, and at night shells crashing from a Japanese mountain-gun. On 27th December 1943 another infantry company had taken the lip of Shaggy Ridge and The Pimple. Now the battalion of Queenslanders has come in and the day of the advance to Kankiryo Saddle is almost here.

You settle in with your company on the razorback leading to the two forward pimples. The ridge falls away in sheer declivities and the top is, in places, no more than a few inches wide. The forward platoon holds a sand-bagged sniper's post and beyond that the Japs hold Intermediate Pimple and Green Sniper Pimple. There is no way of advance along the top. Men can move only in single file where the path is so narrow. You must he under the drizzling sky and the thin whine of shells, cursing the enemy and finding bitter joy in the dull detonations you can hear.

And then the morning of 21st January 1944. The time of waiting has been so long...yet in retrospect you can see that the days have flown. Tonight-tonight some of us will be dead; some will be carried down on stretchers by natives who call them "two big pella poles two lil lik"; some will be ... missing, they call it. It's an evil word. You hadn't thought that before, but you see it now.

Yesterday the move along the right flank had begun. You'd heard the firing thousands of feet below you, and wondered how that battalion was going. Today it's your turn; tomorrow the last battalion of the brigade climbs the mountain from the left flank to join you where you'll have won through to Prothero.

Now you've had your conference and instructions. You're crouched near the white target which marks the area to be bombed. You've clambered along the side of the ridge and high above you are the heights to be scaled - and the Japs.

Ten o'clock ... there's a whine in the sky and the dive bombers, right on time, appear above the river. A Boomerang peels off, and, as though drawn on a string, makes for Green Sniper Pimple, leading the Kittyhawks in. They follow ... and the ridge rings with the crash of bombs. Gouts of flame and rising smoke mark the fall: distantly you hear a scream as a Jap gets his.

The last bomber comes over and you watch it. He's making straight for you ... you go flat ... and detachedly you think, "This is going to be fun." The black cylinder drops, drops . . . you bury your head and there's a blast of concussion and sound that fills the world right behind you. That was close-you're glad there are no more bombs to be dropped.

And then you advance. You wouldn't expect the Nips to have much fight in them after the pounding they've just received. But they've got it all right.

Guns break into red laughter and slugs chum around you. You've got to climb; climb where there are no holds and the slopes fall down like a leaning wall.

You're flat-you're upright-you're slipping. Your chest bums with the pain of effort and you fight for gulps of air. The climbing is worse than the firing. You don't care about the bullets much. You only want to reach the peak where you can lie and rest....

Below you a man is killed. His hat leaps into the air, he drops his rifle and rolls over and over, down and down towards the river until he comes to rest on a thin track barely visible. A stretcher-bearer clambers down to him, hatless, too, in the excitement of the assault. There is no aid for the sprawling man.

Ahead you see another man fall, clutching a shattered arm. You shut your mind tight against these sights. You daren't think in battle.

Up, up, hand over hand. The crest is immediately above you now, and to your right and your left you can see the holes from which comes the Japanese cross-fire. There is a small cliff, also on the right, which will give you some protection. You scurry to it and huddle for a minute. A grenade rolls toward you. . . . You cower away from it and the burst, quaintly, seems as loud as the bomb which landed near you before.

You start to scrabble up the cliff. You reach the top ... and, as you tense yourself for the levering over the rim, a burst of fire chews the earth within inches of your hands. Panic-stricken, you drop. And the crash as you hit the base knocks the wind from you. You've dropped at least 20 feet ... and you lie while your body is a welter of pain.

You haven't seen a Jap yet, and you haven't fired a shot. There is only the momentary expectation of another grenade or another burst stitching you into oblivion. Beside you a cicada sings in the kunai and above you the firing continues.

You have a clear view of Intermediate Pimple from where you lie. The head of an Australian appears above it ... the man throws a grenade . . . and a foxhole explodes in a blur of smoke. He appears again ... another grenade is thrown ... Brens chatter ... and within a moment our guns are holding the position. You feel like cheering. Only Eric and his grenades have made the summit possible.

With the covering fire from those Brens you commence to climb again. Others are doing the same beside you, and you are able

to inch your way up the side of Green Sniper Pimple. There is no firing from the Japs as you advance, but you are wary just the same. You've seen them play this trick before.

You reach the crest and dig in, not showing your head over the top. You hold one side of the Pimple and the Japs the other. Behind you from Intermediate Pimple you are receiving protection from an enemy charge. They do charge once without success....

Thirty feet from the top you lie, and the ,grenades commence to rain as the Japs, from the shelter of the lip of the hill, hurl them at you. The mountain-guns open a barrage against which Brens can do nothing. This is hell.... Shrapnel is whining around you and there is nowhere you can go for cover. Go over the ridge and you're a sitting shot for snipers in the trees. You must lie ... and lie . . . and wait . . . and wait. Wait for the caress of agony from flying steel. One by one men are being wounded around you. Those who can, walk back through the barrage; others, too badly wounded to move, must remain. You watch stretcher-bearers hauling wounded up the cliffs in strait-jackets along the terrain you have passed. There never was country such as this.

Back on Intermediate Pimple the company commander is killed. A field-telephone line has been laid and while he is talking to an officer at the rear a shell bursts on the tree beside him. He, too, rolls away down the side of the mountain.

And so, until the sun clambers from the heights of the sky, the battle continues. In late afternoon the barrage lifts and you can raise your head. You can think sanely and draw back to you the coherence of thought.

There are some things you don't forget on days like this. Such things as Aubrey struggling forward to the advanced sections from the cookhouse at the rear with a four-gallon dixie of hot black tea in each hand; the portable radio and the song of Vera Lynn before you went into action; the lone, second of waiting for the grenade to burst beside you.

You know, too, on a day like this, when the mind has a moment of clear perception, the enduring nobility of man. The bitterness of pride in battle and manhood. Death seems so near; yet you realize how hard a man is to kill. You've seen your cobbers take bad wounds with a wry grin. And over yonder you've heard Japs squeal when they were hit like pigs in the slaughtering pen. Japs always squeal like animals when they're hit. . . .

Shaggy Ridge is almost won and ahead lies Kankiryo Saddle and the enemy's last stand on Crater Hill. You don't know these are coming. This is today and you know only what the battle for Shaggy Ridge has been. . .

That night you sleep where the Japs have slept, and the hours of dark are quiet. In the morning the hill is clear . . . the enemy has left the scene in panic. The day is bright and although you can hear the sound of another battalion assaulting Prothero, there are only occasional snipers to bother you. A Bren tries to finger out where one is strapped in a tree . . . and a couple of men are shot as they evacuate the dead up steps cut in the side of the mountain by the pioneer platoon. But it is a reasonably quiet day....

Only-there are men lying dead on the slopes who have made possible the quietness of this day. They were your mates; men who had lived and laughed by you; and men who had died by you. You'll remember them; you'll remember everything that happened this day. . .

You'll never forget Shaggy Ridge.

"QX6905"

UNAV0IDABLY DELAYED

IT was hot in the little tent-the sticky heat of a few hours' brilliant sunshine during the wet season, when everything steams. Even the shade of the lone palm on the mildewed canvas couldn't keep out the steam and the glare from the sandy beach.

The battered phone had been crackling for some time. The officer in the tent had given up explanations and simply remarked "Yes, sir" or "No, sir" occasionally when it seemed demanded of him. Eventually he replaced the battered handset and buzzed off. Rising, he made his way outside, crossed the strip of sand and sat in the doubtful shade of a paper-bark.

The brigade-major's remarks had been quite to the point. He remembered the final one: "Well, Simpson, this is the third unavoidable delay. We'll suppose it really was unavoidable. But if that gun isn't over here by to morrow morning, you'll be over to see me yourself. That's all."

The gun story was a long one, and he let the facts run slowly through his mind. Brigade wanted one particular 25-pounder. Unfortunately they knew the number of it, so that even if he could lay hands on another it wouldn't be any help. It had been left there earlier with several of its kind when, for the moment, the twenty-fives couldn't be used. They were all nicely covered in grease and had canvas over the less weatherproof parts. Whoever was in the vicinity would apparently look after them. And they were looked after, and eventually collected. All except one, which had now become his responsibility and which he was left to find.

The gun was really rather a large object, but d'you think he could find it? Not on your life. Nobody had ever seen a 25-pounder when he inquired politely over the phone. What was it a bomb? Oh, a gun! No, old chap, never even heard of one over this way, let alone seen any. Very sorry. The game was then definitely on.

After walking and jeeping for weary miles he'd run the thing to earth behind an engineers' dump. It was sitting in the long grass with its little snout pointing disdainfully skywards, still carefully greased, still carefully looked after.

Pulling his new find out of the scrub and down to the jetty was another matter. Everybody who has tried to borrow a vehicle at some time knows how difficult it is. The A.S.C. eventually came good with a three tonner. Organizing that had been child's play compared with hauling that twenty-five over the soggy ground. After digging both vehicle and gun out several times, and laying yards and yards of corduroy they had arrived at the main track. Only this morning the three tonner had arrived at the water's edge with the errant gun in tow. Was it success at last? No. Brigade wanted it yesterday.

Now he had until tomorrow morning to deliver the goods. If the gun wasn't there then, he could see the two ragged stars falling from each shoulder and the Brig.'s teeth fastened in his neck.

He had been promised a barge at noon today. It should arrive at sundown, in that case. The tide would be in and would remain in until at least nine o'clock. After watching carefully for three days he was fairly certain of that. As certain as you could be with tides around here, when you could get two highs one morning and low-water all the next. There would be enough time to get the gun on board before nine and tow the barge over before the moon went down. He felt decidedly better.

About sunset, a grey boat with large black letters and numbers on its hull came in through the odd reefs fringing the shore. Hurried puffs of black diesel-smoke came from its loud exhaust. Following rather reluctantly was a barge. The barge was made fast to the jetty, and the boat to an adjacent pile. In half an hour the tide would be high enough for loading to commence.

In due course a working party, acquired after spinning a very hard-luck story on the phone during the afternoon, arrived. Two solid planks were run down from jetty to barge about a wheel's width apart. The gun was trundled along the decking and maneuvered down the planks on to the barge with only one or two anxious moments. Once on deck it was secured with light rope to prevent it rolling off. The rope could have been a bit heavier, perhaps, but it wasn't going to be a rough trip. The working party thankfully trudged off up the road while Simpson was hailing the boat.

"You chaps will be going across before the moon goes down, won't you?" he yelled.

"Yes, sir. We'll be leaving in about half an hour! " came the reassuring reply across the water. "Got to be on another job by eight!"

With a happy smile on his face Simpson went down the jetty, turning once to sneer triumphantly at the gun. At the tent he rang brigade and then told the switch he was closing down until morning. Hopping into the jeep he drove off. For the first time in the week he was a man with no worries.

In the clear light of the following morning he returned to the beach. The tide was right out now. Clinging, securely fastened to the jetty, was the barge. It slanted away at a crazy angle to the water some twelve feet below. On its deck a couple of frayed rope-ends flapped idly in the breeze. The boat itself was gone.

With a harsh remark to nobody in particular, he sprinted down the jetty to the barge. The water was very clear and very deep. Or, the sandy bottom was the gun, pointing towards the entrance through the reef. An odd bit of seaweed was drifting against the barrel while an inquisitive fish or two stared vacantly at the breech.

On the phone, he pieced together the whole story. The boat had left at seven. It had another job at eight. They would be returning for the barge at eight-thirty this morning. What? Didn't they tell you they weren't taking the barge last night? That would be seen to; wasn't the first time it had happened, but it would definitely be the last. Hope you weren't inconvenienced?

He slowly lowered the handset, buzzed and put it to his ear again.

"Put me through to brigade."

"Brigade? Mr. Simpson speaking. Put me through to the B.M."

"Oh, Simpson here, sir. About the 25 pounder. I'm afraid there's been another unavoidable delay ......

"NX35137"

OPERATIONAL DROP

MY pal and I are easily awakened when the picquet comes in at 0400, for we have that restless feeling born of impending action. We quickly wash and dress. In a few minutes we cross to the mess and find our snack of sandwiches and tomato-juice waiting where an obliging steward had left it late the night before.

We walk down the track to a spot where a jeep with lights blazing is waiting. The driver is not pleased at such an early start, but we pass a couple of sandwiches across, and he probably feels a little more kindly to the mad officers who want to go here, there, and everywhere at all hours of the day.

An hour's run brings us to our first stopping place where we find a few others awaiting us. Then we hop into another jeep and set off to an airstrip. During the change-over I step into a ditch and come out with skinned hands and dirty slacks-an auspicious start.

On the field we find the aircrew standing by their giant plane. It is now 0545 and the light breeze is pleasantly cool. We strip off our shirts, and a feverish hour's work follows. It is very heavy work and we sweat profusely. Five minutes' spell follows, then the crew chief calls, "All aboard"; and it is "all" for sixteen men troop in.

The captain calls to the second pilot, "Number one motor!" The starter whines into action, the port outboard motor coughs, then, with a full-throated roar, springs to life. Other orders are drowned by
the noise, but in quick succession the other motors are running and the aircraft shakes with vibration as she warms up.

The engines have a quieter, more balanced note now, the brakes are released, and the giant slowly emerges from her revetment and swings on to the taxi way. We have a swaying, bumpy ride then to the runway with the brakes and other controls being tested.

Soon we face the long strip and the crew chief calls, "All forward and tense for takeoff." The din of the motors increases to a terrific roar, the brakes are released, and the big aircraft is off down the long level strip. The speed mounts rapidly and soon we are doing sixty-seventy-eighty miles an hour. Somewhere near the hundred mark the plane is air-borne, but so smooth is the lift that no one knows exactly when we left the ground, The Flying Fortress soars away.

The climb is gradual. We are carrying a tremendous load. I watch the needle of the altimeter gradually swinging round until it shows a thousand feet, and the airspeed indicator reads 160 I go aft where one of the crew motions me to a seat at the port-side waist-gun. He passes a set of headphones across. I put these on and take a look round. In five minutes we are over the spot we had left three hours before. I peer down, pick up a landmark and see my camp. In a moment we are over the sea and turn to follow the coastline.

There is a frequent crackle on the intercom, and I hear orders being passed-"Pilot to navigator" - "Bombardier to pilot" - "Starboard waist-gunner to pilot." Places are named and I look down on isolated little spots which were once big names in the news. I even identify a river or two, and a prominent coastal feature, for I once had cause to study closely the maps of this area.

The gunner opposite leans across and passes me a pair of very heavy shatterproof goggles. I adjust these and look out again to find the glare gone, and that I can gaze directly into the sun without blinking. All the colour of the panorama below is emphasized, and the shades of green and blue of jungle and sea stand out clearly in all their beauty.

Soon we reach a turning point-a furious battle was fought there by our boys-and we swing away from the coast across the open sea. The rush of air past the gun-port is terrific and the roar of the motors intense, but the headphones keep it down. Away on the horizon hangs a dark mass of cloud, and it is obviously raining there. White clouds begin to sweep by; then they thicken a little, and in a moment it is raining here. The rush of air sweeps the rain across the wing and at the trailing edge there is a plume of spray. In a few seconds we are through the storm.

Land again. Away on the port side I pick up two islets. Gradually they grow and I notice that they are practically identical in size and shape. Mentally I name them "The Twin Islands". I smile a little at that for I wonder how one might be distinguished from the other with such a name. A larger land-mass looms out and soon we are following a new coastline.

Everyone is on the lookout, and frequently we draw one another's attention to what we see below; mostly wrecked barges or small ships, formerly Japanese. Our planes had often been this way and caught the Nip in his drive southward. Once I heard the pilot say, "Two cruisers were caught there."

The intercom crackles again: "Pilot to navigator-over"; "Navigator to pilot-over"; "Jap airfield at -- degrees on the port side." It is a misnomer, for it is no longer an airstrip but a green sward cratered by hundreds of bombs. Wrecked aircraft are everywhere, some in most grotesque positions; one lies on its back in the middle of the field. A nearby coconut plantation has been literally razed to the ground. Just beyond the surf-line I can see craters beneath the water-bombs must have over carried a little to get out there.

The kaleidoscope of colour continues to pass beneath. There is not a moment without interest. The guns have long since been loaded, and everyone is watching for Master Tojo, for we are over his territory. Nothing interferes with our smooth progress and soon comes the information-"Three minutes to target." I notice that we have left the coast."

There is no time for sight-seeing now as the call means action for some of us. We go forward to the bomb-bay. The doors wind slowly out, and at my f eet is a clear drop to earth hundreds of feet below. The air rushes into the plane and dust flies everywhere.

The tree-tops are sweeping past at great speed for we are flying low. Everyone is tense. At a signal from the pilot, releases are pulled, and the aircraft surges upwards, glad to be freed of its load. The pilot "hits" the engines and we climb swiftly away.

We work hard loading the bomb-racks again, and it is only six or seven minutes before we are making a second run. The bomb-doors open again-again the tenseness-again the signal-and again the surge upwards and the quick climb away. Five times we make the run.

Before the fifth run my job is over and I go right aft to see the result of our work. As we sweep low over the target I look down and it is a sight to gladden the heart. A photographer is busy near me with his large camera taking shots of our handiwork.

The big thrill is over and we turn back on the long journey home. The now-familiar sights are passing below. Already we are beginning to relax. When we are reasonably clear of the place, sandwiches, fruit, sweets and cigarettes are passed around, and everyone is happy. The edibles were our thought, and the Yanks are pleasantly surprised.

Once more we are over the open seas. We pass the edge of a storm, and see the phenomenon of rain falling on one wing of the plane but not on the other. The radio operator tunes in to an American station and on the intercom I hear a "hot-jive" session. Those with headphones suddenly jump up, for the announcer has cut across the programme with "Our planes have bombed Japan and our troops have landed in the Marianas." We are all pleased but the Yanks are delighted, and someone says, "It'll be over by Christmas."

The hours pass, and we are back inland circling the airstrip we had left nearly six hours ago. The flaps are down, the tremendous wheels slowly appear from the engine nacelles, the motors are throttled back and speed is appreciably diminished. The crew chief says, "Forward and tense for landing."
Up we go, and soon there is a little jar as the big craft settles. The iron mesh of the runway rattles a bit, the speed drops away, and we taxi to our revetment at a modest twenty miles an hour.

The brakes squeal a little and we swing around. The motors roar and die -the little door opens and we stumble out. I notice how hot it is, how deaf I am -and how tired.

As I climb into the jeep, I think of the gaily coloured parachutes which flowered down to that tiny band of men in enemy territory. Arms, ammunition, food, ordnance stores and some papers - had been delivered right on the target to those gallant lads. The operational drop is over.

"NX22445"

"GEORGE"

IT was an early spring day that George arrived. There was still a cold nip in the air and the Orderly Room was not the warmest place. We were congregated around a perforated oil drum in which the previous day's wastepaper was being burned.

A heavy step on the threshold and the crash of the opening door drew our attention. A corporal stood there, a fluffy bundle enfolded in his arms. "Say, fellows, look at him ain't he the goods?"

He deposited his burden on the table. It flopped helplessly on its side and emitted a frightened squawk.

The boys gazed in amazement at the young magpie which opened its mouth and spat in defiance.

"He must have fallen out of the tree and done 'is leg," volunteered the proud owner. "Maybe Doctor Death can fix him up-he'll make a good pet."

"Maybe," we agreed. It was worth a go, anyway.

Doctor Death -the Medical Orderly to- you took charge of the strange casualty and placed the injured limb in splints. Spring gave place to Summer, and George, as the bird was called (after the corp. who had introduced him to the unit), considered himself "on strength".

His injury healed, he refused to go away. He never missed a meal parade, and would battle for his tucker with the battalion of cats that lived around the kitchens.

His days were spent in lengthy recco trips up and down the extensive area that made up the camp site of our M.T. unit. He would spend an hour talking to a lonely sentry, sitting on a fence or fossicking under the sentry box for grubs.

A driver carrying out routine maintenance in his vehicle would find himself no longer alone as George casually strolled by on his purposeless meander. Elsewhere a lad lying in the shade unobserved by the sergeant-major would find himself committed to the task of excavating grubs for an insistent bird.

At sundown George was to be found at one spot. Invariably he would appear on the roof over the Orderly Room door, there to warble a few notes of farewell to the dying day. The night picquet on the telephone found him a constant companion perched on a rafter over his head.

The Summer passed and George was considered a personal friend by everyone from the 0. C. downward. He would carol in the early morn and in the evening. In between times he would amuse mob with his droll antics. He liked to have his back scratched and would come to your feet with an almost human request for service. He hated to be picked up or otherwise mauled.

The day came when the show was to move back to town. Puzzled by the wholesale activity George sat on the roof of the Orderly Room and surveyed the scene shouting an occasional protest at the unusual scene.

The advance party moved off; then the main body. Only the rear party remained to clean up the area. A disconsolate magpie followed the C.S.M. around for most of the day. The meal parade was a dismal affair. The kittens were gone - the dogs too. George went around to the sergeants' mess and picked at some morsels offered by the sympathetic W.O. The last vehicles were loading.

The area had been handed over to the Area Commandant's representative.

The C.S.M. made a final appeal to George: "Y' cranky cow! Are y' coming-or are y' stayin"?"

George hesitated. Then he walked up to the C.S.M., climbed on to his hand and suffered himself to be placed in the truck. George had decided to come! A halt was made for the evening meal by a picturesque river setting north of Sydney. George strolled around the vehicles and climbed on to the loads.

Somewhere in the nearby trees other magpies carolled. George gurgled and warbled in a low tone. Faint memories stirred within his fluffy breast.

He flew into a low tree near by. The trucks started up. The C.S.M. called impatiently to George.

"Come on if you're coming - or you'll be AWL."

George flew down from the tree and approached the truck. A burst of song from the bush caused him to hesitate. He cocked his head on one side and listened to the song.

Then he flew back into the tree. The C.S.M. entered the truck and slammed the door. The convoy moved off!

George flew around in a wide circle and dipped in a farewell salute, then headed into the trees whence came the cacophony of song. A deserter! What matter, anyway. We're on our way to a pool for disposal. George was the first to march off strength-that's all!

"NX103126"