Chapter 2 High Altitude; Spies on the Tableland; For Valour; Bless 'em all

HIGH ALTITUDE

I was one of a group of airmen who had volunteered to undergo a test on land to determine physical endurance when conditions of flying and bombing at high altitudes were simulated in a huge decompression chamber.

As we stood outside the chamber we began to experience some of the nervous qualms that a guinea pig would endure if he knew that a scientist was about to administer to him a particularly doubtful vaccine.

There was something of the Frankenstein touch about that great cylindrical steel chamber studded with thick glass portholes. The adjoining compartments were packed with a maze of dials and wheels, the important looking technicians were breezing here and there with books and charts, and there were lurid diagrams on the walls, depicting luckless airmen flying at great heights, suffering from lack of oxygen or anoxia as it is called. They were distorted, highly coloured diagrams, that did their utmost to impress the spectator with the futility of flying at great altitudes without carrying oxygen.

We had heard a great many lectures on this anoxia. We were told how the human body can adapt itself to withstand many exigencies but once it was whisked up towards the stratosphere and deprived of its life-giving oxygen, it soon yielded up the ghost. Quite a number of airmen who ignored this, we learnt, had forfeited their chances of ever being called "old airmen". Doctors had instructed us at times on the symptoms of anoxia-how "pins and needles" develop, the finger nails turn blue, there is dizziness, drowsiness, then swift unconsciousness followed by equally as swift death.

Now it was the intention of our doctor lecturers to place us in this chamber, pump the air out, thus creating similar conditions to actual heights, and let us see for ourselves what a menace the dreaded anoxia really was.

It would teach us, they said, the importance of using oxygen when flying over 10,000 feet.

There were ten of us standing there and the doctor in charge was having a last-minute chat to a technician.

In the meantime, the subject of our own physical endurance to lack of oxygen was being discussed in our little group.

One fellow, a most forthright teetotaller and non-smoker, was loudly voicing his criticism of our chances. "You blokes all smoke heavily," he said coldly. "You know how it eats up oxygen. Just wait till you get up to about 20,000 feet. Why, you'll all be blacking out like flies."

The doctor broke up the heated discussion that ensued and we followed him into the chamber.

It was comfortably furnished inside, with seating room for five on each side. Oxygen outfits and intercommunication gear had been placed at each respective seat in readiness for use and we were each allotted a number. Mine was ten. I felt quite relieved that there were not thirteen of us.

A great steel door closed behind us making the chamber airtight. We observed a W.A.A.A.F. seated behind a desk outside one of the portholes and the doctor told us that she was present to note all our symptoms and reactions. The proceedings began.

We adjusted our headphones and the doctor outlined the course of events that would follow. "We're going to take you up to i8,ooo feet to start with and we'll stay there for twenty minutes," he said. "You won't have your masks on, of course. When you begin to feel the reactions tell me. When you lapse into unconsciousness I'll put your oxygen mask on for you. After we have spent twenty minutes at 8,000 feet we'll go up higher," he continued with a wicked smirk. "I'll be wearing my oxygen mask all the time, of course."

He said something over the "intercom." to a technician and then addressed us. "O.K. We're off," he said.

In my headphones I heard an eerie sucking noise. The altimeter was rising. The air in the chamber was on its way out. Outside an audience had gathered at the portholes. It had the air of expectancy of a Roman gathering at the Colosseum on martyrs' day. The W.A.A.A.F. was sitting stolidly at her desk.

As the altimeter climbed we waited impatiently. The air in the chamber was quite warm. Thankfully we would not have to endure the biting cold that prevails at great heights in actual flying conditions. The doctor chatted to us and the crowd of spectators outside expressed their impatience over the "intercom."

We were at 15,000 feet in a short time and we realized that it was at this stage that anoxia began in earnest to make inroads on the human structure. We wrote our reactions down a small pad provided for the purpose. 15,000 feet. Feeling all right," I noted briefly.

I looked around the chamber. Number seven was cursing. He had the remnants of his fountain pen in his hand. We had been warned about bringing pens into the chamber but he had forgotten, apparently. The air inside the pen, owing to the greatly decreased pressure, had burst outwards, scattering the liquid contents over its owner.

The audience outside suddenly began to display signs of excitement and looking at the other end of the chamber I saw that number six was slumped forward in his seat. The doctor spoke to him over the "intercom." and he sat back shakily. His hands and face were toned with a weird, unnatural blue and his eyelids sagged heavily. He mumbled something unintelligible to the doctor and slumped forward again, taking deep breaths. This occurs when anoxia is very close and the lungs endeavour to make up lack of oxygen by taking deeper breaths. The doctor moved forward and placed an oxygen mask on the first victim. A few seconds later he sat up, the colour returning to his cheeks, and he smiled sheepishly at us from behind the mask.

Our teetotaller friend laughed cynically. Number six was a heavy smoker. The fact that he had blacked out at 17,000 feet had exceeded the wildest of the teetotaller's expectations.

The altimeter needle stopped at 18,000 feet and the twenty minute wait commenced. The doctor instructed us to outstretch our hands. Mine shook quite a lot but I was relieved when informed that no symptoms had appeared yet. The doctor read out a list of figures and ordered us to copy them on to our pads and add them up. I struggled with a mathematical problem that would have been too easy for a backward kindergarten graduate and then gave it up in despair. The audience outside were quite amused at my plight. The fact that everyone else, including the teetotaller, had obtained the correct answer, did little to restore my injured prestige. The doctor looked hard at me, but still there were no symptoms.

I was happy when everyone's attention was focused on number four and number seven who had broken out in a bawdy song. Their thick unsteady voices would have assured them a night in any gaol but it was yet another symptom of anoxia -a state of false drunkenness, which occurs when the oxygen supply to the brain is running low and the higher Judgment of the brain fails to operate.

Number seven, a well built chap, leaned forward suddenly with the next best thing to a beery grin and his eyelids sagged solemnly. Even the stern-faced W.A.A.A.F. managed to conjure up a smile at this exhibition. In another two minutes the artificial drunks were unconscious and the telltale colour about their features indicated that anoxia had finally claimed them.

The- twenty minutes at 18,000 feet soon passed and once again the altimeter ascended. Number two suddenly complained of "pins and needles" in his thighs. The doctor moved over to him. "What's your name?" he queried. A cloud of doubt appeared over the airman's features. "Write it down on your pad," he was instructed. Number two seized his pad

With his left hand and held it firmly against his thigh. Then, with his pencil in his right hand and the point of it almost a foot from the paper, he vainly endeavoured to place the pencil on the paper. He trembled violently and then sank back in deep slumber.

At 22,000 feet, the doctor checked our hands once more. Only four remained in the chamber without oxygen. The remainder who had blacked out were now wearing oxygen masks and watching with interest the plight of the others.

Our teetotaller friend sat calmly in his seat. I imagined he looked revoltingly healthy. Outside I could hear the audience making bets as to who would survive the longest. I didn't hear my name mentioned. I imagined I must look in pretty bad shape.

Twenty-three thousand five hundred feet the altimeter registered and the doctor read out some dictation for us to copy down. It dealt with "the quick brown fox jumping over the lazy dog". Number nine, next to me, repeatedly wrote "lady" instead of 'lazy' .

The spectators were once again expressing their impatience at the slow rate of events. The four "survivors" were showing no signs of yielding to anoxia as yet, and it hurt their gambling souls. I remember the doctor remarking that once, in a similar test, a chap actually reached 30,000 feet without having to use oxygen.

I looked at the altimeter. The needle was just on 24,000 feet. That would mean another 6,000 feet to go, I thought. I didn't think much of my chances but the teetotaller chap might reach it, I reckoned. I turned to look at him. I was astonished to observe that he was trembling and that his lips were an unhealthy hue. I could see disappointment registered in the faces of some of the onlookers. They must have backed him to win.

A searing comment to this spurner of cigarettes was turning over in my mind, when I observed that everyone's eyes were focused upon me. I looked significantly at my hands. The healthy pink tinge had given way to that blue anemic tone. I looked at the altimeter. It read 25,000 feet. My head felt very heavy. I leaned back in my seat and I heard the doctor's voice somewhere in the distance but I was too tired to answer it. Then oblivion swept over me.

When I regained consciousness a few moments later, there were only two survivors. My teetotal opponent was wearing his mask and I felt consoled. At 26,000 feet only one remained. The audience had settled their betting and were watching with renewed interest. The doctor gave number nine the sole survivor, some more dictation. The altimeter pushed upwards, but he did not weaken.

At 27,000 feet, much to the disgust of the teetotaller, he rolled a cigarette with steady hands. He struck a match but it did not have a fighting chance, the oxygen content of the chamber was too decreased.

The doctor did not wait for him to collapse. He said we had overstayed our time.

The audience outside were plainly annoyed at seeing their favourite balked from going on to further fame but the altimeter spun down to zero, and once again we were back to normal with plenty of oxygen for all.

We left the chamber and ten more filed into it and took up their places. I stared in through the porthole outside.

This was going to be worth watching.

GEOFFREY A. WRIGHT (R.A.A.F.)

SPIES ON THE TABLELAND

OUR Spies were caught in northern Queensland in 1943 It's true that they were our own chaps acting a part in one of the most astonishing tests of this nature ever carried out in Australia.

Their activities during the test were greatly reminiscent of the spy adventure stories that make such absorbing reading.

A woman spy, an A.W.A.S., was also selected for one of the parts in the drama, but it ended before she received her cue to appear.

But it is also true that there was some ground for suspicion that the enemy might have been dropping spies into Australia.

A sea-going security patrol, calling at an uninhabited coral island a few miles from the mainland, found a newly extinguished fire on the beach with an empty Japanese beer bottle, a couple of worn-out Japanese boots and a few other odds and ends beside it. Obviously a Japanese submarine or other craft had called in there a few hours before.

And there were other things. The Queensland coast is a long stretch of country.

However, to tell the story of the testing of the defences against spies. It all came about through the anxiety felt by Second Corps. The Seventh and Ninth Divisions had been training intensively for some time on the Atherton Tableland. No one except the top secret planners knew what their job was to be. We know now that objective was the Huon Peninsula with landings at Lae, Salamaua, and Finschhafen. These operations were the first of a series of carefully planned hops across the Pacific which eventually brought the Allied troops to the Philippines and finally to Tokyo.

It seemed essential at the time that the utmost precautions should be taken on the Tableland to prevent the enemy learning of any movement of our troops from their training base or of any battle plans for them.

So the security arrangements of all the services in the Tableland area were tightened up and teams doing this work were reinforced.

War Cabinet sanctioned a censorship cordon around an area with a radius of approximately fifty miles from Cairns. A special company of Army field censors was assembled, trained and put to work in the area.

Trunk-line calls to and from any place outside it were totally prohibited and all outward mail and telegrams came under strict surveillance. There was also a selective censorship of communications within the vital area, used primarily for the purpose of checking suspicious circumstances or persons. Blocks were established on all avenues and movement of persons in and out was forbidden, except by special permit.

In addition to these extraordinary measures, the usual security precautions on places such as wharves were maintained.

The civil community grumbled a bit at the incidence of these restrictions, especially business men deprived of trunk-line facilities.

It is comforting to reflect that the most careful search of the tons of Japanese documents captured on the Huon Peninsula and the most persistent questioning of prisoners, failed to reveal even a suggestion that the enemy had any prior knowledge of our intentions. The landings were a complete surprise to him, both as to time and place.

The fighting services, both Australian and American, the Commonwealth Security Service, the police, and co-opted civil servants and civilians all worked together enthusiastically and efficiently for the success of the measures.

It was not long after the normal security plan had gone into operation that I conceived the idea of a test, which, by adding the touch of reality, would cause interest and enthusiasm among our personnel and, it was hoped, increase their effectiveness.

It was also possible that the test might result in any enemy agents stumbling into our net.

Accordingly, as soon as the approval of higher authority had been obtained, all the security representatives in the area were called together and the test was propounded to them.

Four or five men, or women, trained as spies, would be introduced into the area by parachute, from a submarine, or by road.

They would be given no prior knowledge of the area or its defences, other than what they would expect to be furnished with by enemy headquarters. Their job would be to enter the area, to maintain themselves while avoiding detection, to collect information useful to the enemy and to get it out of the area to a secret address in Brisbane.

The job of the security defenders would be to prevent them entering the area, to detect them, to apprehend them, to marshal evidence of their activity and in any case, whether they were detected or not, to prevent any information collected leaving the area.

The test would be completely realistic, the spies would behave in all respects as if they were enemy agents. The defenders would do likewise, no holds barred.

As soon as word went round the area, the reaction was immediate and dramatic. Humdrum routine tasks became charged with reality. Even the minor members of security teams became seized with the spirit of the game.

It was not long before some results of the increased interest came to light, some of them unexpected. Suspects picked up from all over the area were brought in and interrogated. In practically every case the pick-up was justified, but the victims were not enemy agents, although some warranted, and received, constant watching for some time. The tally of A.W.L. arrests jumped up to a thousand per cent. Men and women evading call-up were roped in. One or two criminals from other States were caught. All sorts of people who were committing minor breaches of Security Regulations, apparently with impunity, suddenly discovered the area to be a very hot place and they didn't know why.

Many men and women illegally leaving or entering the area found that their clever little stratagems, so easy to pull off up to then, were suddenly being thwarted. The scheme was successful as a means of zipping up the security defences before even a test spy had come in.

My role was that of umpire. I had selected the spies, arranged their training and their means of entering the area, but I was under obligation not to give them any more information or assistance before or during the test, than they could conceivably get from Tokyo.

I, myself, was under constant surveillance. On at least one occasion my conversation in a restaurant was picked up by a microphone and recorded. All sorts of traps were set for me in the hope that I might let escape a clue. But I was completely impartial.

The evidence of an increased security vigilance in the area was obvious, especially among the troops.

By this time I was pretty confident that no organized enemy espionage was going on in the area. The four selected men were being trained for their roles of enemy agents while all this was going on. They were field security N.C.Os who, as far as could be ascertained, were unknown to any of the troops in northern Queensland. Two had been over the enemy lines in the Middle East on espionage jobs for us and they were already experienced men.

The other two were comparative novices. An essential part of the test was to have a static enemy agent in the area as a go-between.

An Australian business man in Cairns was approached and he agreed to play. His fictitious background was that before the war as a large importer of Japanese goods he had systematically defrauded the government of import dues with the connivance of his Japanese suppliers.

Just before the war a representative of these people had threatened to expose him to the Australian government unless he acted for the Japanese as a static agent if war should occur. The fiction was that he had agreed to do so.

The pseudo-static agent was given a simple word-substitution code and all he had to do was to assist any agents who identified themselves to him. The means of identification was an ordinary Yale latch key, a facsimile of which each spy and the static agent carried in a normal way on his person.

Spies coming into the area would, of course, know the static agent's name and address.

When the time came we couldn't get a submarine, so a corvette proceeding from Townsville to New Guinea was instructed to drop two of the spies at a certain spot on the northern Queensland coast.

It so happened that Mrs. Roosevelt was due to visit Cairns about this time. It was learned that she would be calling on an American Red Cross hostel on the coast only a mile or two from the projected landing spot on that very night.

The Americans, in characteristic fashion, had maintained an armed cordon around Mrs. Roosevelt wherever she went in northern Queensland.

I felt that this was an unfair hazard for the spies; it was just the sort of thing that would happen either in real life or in a spy story. but I feared trouble if one of Mrs. Roosevelt's trigger-happy guards on the beach should see our two spies stealthily landing from some mysterious craft at sea. There would be shooting and it wouldn't be for fun. So at the last moment, the landing place was changed to a point lower down the coast, a few miles north of Innisfail.

The very senior naval officer whose approval was necessary for naval co-operation was inclined to demur at this stage. It appeared that the coast watchers just there were particularly vigilant and efficient. However, with his eventual concurrence the two spies were dropped by the corvette's whaleboat on the beach at the appointed time and place.

I tried to find out afterwards if the landing had been noted by the coast watchers or detected by radar, but the Navy lived up to its reputation for silence. I concluded from the evasive replies to my questions that the spies had in fact made their landing without detection.

The spies had a sketch map of the locality done on rice paper which could be easily swallowed if necessary.

There was a bit of jungle and a formidable stream between them and the coastal road they would make for and according to the map there was a footbridge across the stream. They negotiated the jungle all right, but had not found he bridge when dawn broke. They were just about to swim across when a hail from a local sugar farmer stopped them and they learned that it would be unwise to swim across as the stream was infested with crocodiles. They were kindly directed to the footbridge and within a couple of hours, they were on the main coastal road.

Before nightfall they rode into Cairns in an R.A.A.F. tender, whose driver had given them quite a lot of useful information as they drove along. They called on the static agent, identified themselves and then separated.

They had entered the closely guarded area successfully, but their triumph was short-lived. Next morning when one of them chanced into a military office, open to the public, he made some quite usual inquiries, but incautiously slipped in a question of a military nature, not by any means one likely to arouse suspicion in normal circumstances.

It so happened, however, that the sergeant behind the counter had been to a security lecture the previous evening. He became suspicious and reported to his officer. The spy was quickly followed to his lodgings and, later, his meagre belongings were searched. Rail forwarding tickets in his name and in the name of the other spy were found. The parcels they represented, railed from Townsville to Cairns, were quickly searched at the Cairns station and found to be mainly change of clothing. This of course suggested that the suspect had come into the area in some way other than by rail. Later in the day he was arrested and searched. Wires were dispatched to Victoria, to check the details of his identity card.

In the meantime the suspect brazened it out. He spent a sleepless night in the police station under interrogation. He showed much ingenuity however. It wasn't until telegrams from Victoria established the fact that his identity card was false, that the chief of the Security Service in Cairns was satisfied that he hadn't made a mistake. In peace-time the spy was a well-known solicitor in Melbourne with whom the Security Service officer had done business in the past. But he wasn't recognized.

The service found nothing much in the way of clues on his person. There was a page of scribbled references and addresses, which were checked up all over Australia, but results were negative. However, one of the addresses was that of a hotel in Cairns; it was written in blue pencil, and this, much later on, was found to be a clue which led indirectly to the other two spies.

Meanwhile the owner of the other name which had appeared on the railway luggage dockets had been located in a hotel. He was sound asleep when arrested the next night. He confessed his identity when he heard of his comrade's arrest. He was thoroughly disgruntled for he had already been invited to join a local beer club, whose members, he had every reason to believe, would have proven to be thoroughly congenial associates. He had been looking forward to mixing pleasure with his business.

The two men had succeeded in their few hours' liberty in getting quite a deal of information, none of it vital or very important it is true, nevertheless useful enough. They tried to get it out through censorship in the form of two closely written messages hidden in packages.

One message was put between the gummed pages of a current copy of Reader's Digest mailed to Brisbane at book-mail rates. The other was in the lining of a tie dispatched in a gift box through the mail. Both these messages were intercepted in Cairns and confiscated.

In view of the improved security arrangements now existing throughout the area, I had been quite prepared for this early apprehension of the first two spies. In every hotel, boarding and lodging house in the area, an enthusiastic amateur security agent had been appointed and all new arrivals or suspicious circumstances were being reported to the Central Intelligence Bureau that had been set up.

I myself made many lone reconnaissances all over the area and it was interesting to note that a few hours after any departure from the beaten track almost invariably a report of my movements would reach the bureau.

Nevertheless, I felt that the two more experienced men busy establishing their background in Brisbane, would give the defenders a longer run for their money when they entered the area.

They were preparing themselves thoroughly. They had got hold of a small secondhand utility truck. They had come into possession of genuine identity cards, whose particulars suited their respective physical characteristics perfectly. One of these cards was bought from the owner for quite a trifling sum. The other card was got almost as simply.

The taller of the two spies chummed up with a tall fellow whom he felt he could impersonate and saturated himself with his background, unknown to the victim of course. He then went boldly along to the appropriate local office, said he was so-and-so and could he look at the entry against his name in the register? Without hesitation the official gave him access to the register and he was able to get all the particulars needed to fill in the blank identity card he had got somehow or other.

They had managed to get jobs in Brisbane on the strength of their projected motor trip north. They were appointed representatives to a hardware firm and were given a choice lot of samples to carry. In fact they booked some orders on the trip. They were also appointed life-insurance inspectors, and during their operations they sold several policies, including one to the static agent.

When they felt that they had their assumed identities thoroughly established they motored northward. To get into the area by road was, theoretically, difficult. They solved that problem in characteristically audacious fashion. As they neared the block on the main road, they noticed that they were being thumbed a lot by troops on leave. In a quiet spot they changed into the digger uniforms they carried and they then filled up the utility with a dozen or more hilarious troops. The party was stopped at the road block and all passes inspected. The first few were carefully scanned, but when the time came to see the passes of the impatient driver at the wheel and the little chap on the floor of the truck, the inspection had become perfunctory and a flash of a piece of paper was sufficient. They entered the area undetected and unsuspected.

Now we go back to the Central Intelligence Bureau. One possible clue only had remained unsolved from the apprehension of the first two spies. It was the blue-pencilled Cairns address on the scrap of paper. The closest check of the address had yielded nothing: it was merely that of a second-rate hotel.

Security Service was given the job of finding the writer of the address. All known suspects, including myself, were eliminated in the course of four or five weeks' investigation. Finally five business men in Cairns who habitually used blue pencils in their offices remained under suspicion. Four of these were eliminated by a study of their handwriting. The fifth remained: it was the static agent.

It is to the credit of the service that they should persist at this point, for the possible appointment of a static agent had not been divulged to anyone. All they knew even then was that this head of a large business house had scribbled something on a piece of paper, eventually found in the first spy's possession.

However, a constant watch was set on the premises and with the collusion of one of the employees close to the manager, everyone entering the premises was scrutinized. It was several days before anyone entered whose business was not of a normal character and who was unknown to the employee co-operating inside.

That person was a little nondescript fellow, who remained closeted with the manager for quite a time. The signal was given from inside again, and as you have guessed, it was one of the spies. He was kept under constant surveillance and eventually the second spy, by his occasional meeting with the first spy, came under suspicion also.

Reports on these men came into the Central Bureau as a matter of routine and I guessed from their descriptions: that the security defenders had located the two spies, although they didn't realize it yet. Now under Security Regulations in war-time, a man can be arrested and kept for ten days on suspicion alone without a charge being laid, and this procedure was likely to be followed with the two suspects. While I was sure that they wouldn't be able to pin anything on these two men, their arrest would negative the rest of the test; the collection of information and getting it out of the area.

I told the bureau that I thought the two spies had been identified. It was then agreed that the defenders should concentrate on collecting evidence against the two suspects and on preventing information from them leaving the area.

From the diaries of the two spies, seen afterwards, it was apparent that they very soon realized that they were under surveillance. On many occasions they turned the tables on their pursuers. They were out of sight for days on end. The watchers were a long time finding their separate abodes and when they went to search the rooms, they found the birds had flown.

In the diaries was a very complete chart of the security defences, gained from observation and deduction.

The security defenders, while they had a suspicion that there was a car or truck connected with the spies, never identified or located it. It was under repair for several days in a garage next to the Central Bureau, and was pushed outside on the road each day.

The spies got a lot of useful information out of the area and not one item was intercepted. They were never observed or even suspected in getting the information or in transmitting it. What they got out, while none of it was important, was certainly very useful. It embraced all military, naval, and air activity in the area that could be observed or deduced. But there was a lot of top secret activity in the area that they did not get on to.

They evaded censorship by one or two devices, one of which is worth mentioning.

One of them advertised the sale of a piano in the Cairns paper, giving a nom de plume in care of the paper for the answers. The day the advertisement appeared the spy approached the proprietor of the paper and told him that he had unexpectedly to go to Brisbane. Would he, the proprietor, kindly post any answers on to this Brisbane address? That day the spies themselves wrote and posted several answers to the advertisement. Between the lines of the conventional request for information about the advertised piano, they had written a lot of information in invisible ink.

The proprietor collected all the answers to the advertisement, including those from the spies, wrote a covering letter on the newspaper's own letter-head and posted it all to Brisbane. The censors, of course, opened the printed envelope, read the covering note, checked one or two of the enclosed replies and then stamped the large envelope "Passed by Censor".

Much of the information was taken out of the area by obliging engine-drivers and passengers. Several written messages also went out by train in the hollow bracket holding the towel in a men's toilet. Messages were screwed up into empty peanut shells and sent out in pound packets of peanuts. Others went into shells sent as souvenirs from the Barrier Reef. All the information these two spies got, they succeeded in getting out of the area without being detected. Whether the information could have been got out of Australia is another matter.

And now about the woman spy. The A.W.A.S. who had been chosen was to get a job with the Americans around Cairns and work *in collusion with the other spies. But while she was training f or the role in Melbourne, the American counter-espionage people, in common with ours, had reacted in no uncertain manner to the news of the spy test. Very intensive checks of all personnel engaged by them had been instituted, especially of women employees. It resulted in several women of doubtful character being escorted from the area.

It soon became apparent that the test was already successful in that direction and nothing much more could be gained by letting a woman spy loose on that objective. She would have been detected for certain, so, very much to her disappointment, her part in the test was cancelled.

A. LAUGHLIN (First and Second A.I.F.)

A SINGLE - MINDED MAN IS HENRY

I am walking along the road at Morotai and I am very much minding my own business when I first run into Henry Huckleberry Pinnipesse or, to be correct, he runs into me.

In Morotai the roads are bad and driving a jeep after the rains have fallen is about as tricky as standing on the soap in the bath. Henry Huckleberry comes shooting around a comer at just under the speed of a V2 and when he sees me he brakes, which is about the most futile thing he could do. With all the grace of a Sonja Henie with four-wheel drive, the jeep slides sideways into the ditch at the side of the road and nudges me headlong into thick jungle grass.

It's when I'm lying there and pinching myself where a hefty pair of buttocks used to be and where now there's nothing but tingling numbness that I first hear the voice of H. H. Pinnipesse.

"Is yo hurt, baw?" he says. "Is yo damaged?"

For a moment I am speechless because I am still clearing my mouth of grass and mud, but feeling is slowly beginning to flow back to tender areas and I am compelled to speak.

"Damaged? I'll flamin' well say I'm damaged," I splutter. "I'm a write-off job," I say, moving in painful reverse from the jungle grass.

The tall thin Negro who looks like a fire blackened clothes prop with clothes on gazes at me uncomprehendingly. He looks around him.

"Ah loss mah seegar," he says sadly.

"You can stick your seegar," I say. "Take i !,ok at my hat." My fur felt, which had off at an independent tangent when the blow struck now bobs gently in a mud pool the size of a swy ring. But by now I don't care much about my appearance so I wade into the water and retrieve it.

"Say. baw. Will yo help muh move this jeep:- says Henry when I'm back on shore.

I stare at him because it seems very much a request to turn the other check and I resent this. But then I think it over and the humanitarian in me shakes me by the throat until I give in.

After much straining, much cursing, and clouds of exhaust smoke, the jeep spurts on to the road. Henry sits at the wheel with his fatigue hat low over his eyes and he lights a cigar as I clamber in.

"Where're you from? " I ask him as we start to putter along at a fast clip.

"Narnty Thirrrd Division," says Henry Huckleberry.

"I mean-what part of the States'~" I yell.

"Atlanta, Georgia," he says, only he has to say it three times before I translate it.

I tell him my name and then he tells me that his is Henry Huckleberry Pinnipesse.

This keeps me quiet for a while and then I'm turning the insides out of this Huckleberry Pinnipesse as fast as I can go. Only with Henry that isn't very fast - not nearly as fast as his driving. The trees on the roadside are now such a blur it's as though I am wearing Grandma's glasses.

He is called Huckleberry, it seems, because when he was a kid he always wanted to be a streetcar conductor. He thought they always kept the money they collected. I don't get it, but I have to admit that as a child Henry Huckleberry showed signs of acumen. The Pinnipesse part comes from a Frenchman who accidentally grafted himself on to the family tree some generations back.

"Where yo goin'?" Henry says suddenly, pulling us out of a sideslip with the coolness of a combat pilot.

"Just riding around," I say airily, as though I'm air force inspector-in-chief of the island. We are now climbing a hill and you can actually see each tree at the side of the road.

When we get to the top, the road forks and we go bumping along an even worse track into even thicker jungle.

"Where're we going?" I say, taking my turn to ask a question.

"Mah outpost on the perimeter," he says, puffing calmly at his cigar.

My head swirls with sudden panic. There are Japs only half a mile from our camps on the island. I am not anxious to whittle the distance down to a few yards. Besides, I dislike anything that's made in Japan. So I look at Henry Huckleberry who is stolidly peering out from under his floppy hat and blowing enough smoke from his cigar to look like Krakatoa erupting. I am not reassured.

The jeep slithers down a steep bank and begins to splash its way across a shallow but swiftly flowing stream. We cross safely and I have to get out to help Henry urge it up the other side.

We resume our bumping and I am quietly meditating on the poor quality of nature's shock-absorbers when the amazing incident occurs. We turn a bend on a narrow part of the track and find ourselves face to radiator with three Japs who are carrying kerosene cans in each hand and who are obviously heading for the stream for water-getting purposes.

I haven't time to look at Henry because my eyes are as big as headlights with surprise and it feels as though most of my internal parts are caving in. The little men stop dead in their tracks and you can almost hear the thump as their lower jaws drop down upon their chests.

It is then that I learn that Henry. Huckleberry Pinnipesse is a stolid man, a single-minded man, and a man of resource. His foot goes down hard on the accelerator and the jeep races forward like a runaway kangaroo. Having dropped their jaws, the Japs now drop their water tins and looking like three versions of Peter Lorre with jaundice throw themselves frantically into the dense foliage at the side of the track.

They are too late. Relentlessly, Henry Huckleberry goes after them and, in a flash, I see his plan. He is about to give them the bulldozer treatment he gives me-only more so. By the time I decide this he's done it and one Jap is out cold and the other two are squealing with pain while they are crushed under the front differential.

Henry Huckleberry switches the motor off and for a moment there's quiet. Then the Japs start squealing again so H.H. takes his Garand out of the metal holster above the dashboard and gets out and takes a look around. Then he picks up one of the Japs' ancient Mauser type rifles and hands it to me.

"Keep a check on 'em, baw," he says. "Ah'll go get company."

Afraid that their squeals will attract other Japs, I tell them to shut up in what is supposed to sound like the voice of authority. But with three Japs and a jeep for company on a track through the buzzing jungle my voice sounds as commanding as a choir girl's. Soon the third Jap joins the chorus but he pipes down when I wave a butt in his face.

At last the welcome faces of Henry Huckleberry Pinnipesse and a ten-man Negro patrol appear and the perspiration runs off my nose with relief.

The patrol rolls the jeep off the Japs who look like pilchards after the lid has been peeled back. The coloured boys take a firm grip on them and search them for weapons.

As I watch I notice H.H. walking up and down the track and looking at the ground most carefully.

"What are you looking for?" I ask.

"Ali loss mah seegar," he says sadly.

It is then that I realize that Henry Huckleberry Pinnipesse is indeed a very single minded man.

LEICESTER WARBURTON (R.A.A.F.)

FOR VALOUR (1)

EVERYONE knows that it is an exceptionally great honour to win a Victoria Cross; its bestowal follows only some feat of great personal valour-one needing a ferocious courage and individual daring of a high order.

Of the score of Australian winners during World War II three marched in the great parade in London this year. Some of them had the honour of being invested at the hands of His Majesty King George VI himself. One, at a chance encounter in the street, received a salute from Field-Marshal Lord Montgomery. These, too, were great honours.

But there were those who did not march. Here are tributes to two Victoria Cross winners, one of the first World War and one of the second, written by men who served with them.

CAPTAIN ALBERT JACKA V.C., M.C. and Bar

I knew Jacka well. I served with him.

Born in the Winchelsea district, Geelong, in January 1893, he was employed by the Victorian Forestry Commission prior to the Great War. He was only thirty-nine when he died in January 1932 at St. Kilda.

On the training grounds of Broadmeadows and of Egypt his superior officers saw no more military talent in him than they did in other strong personalities. It was the stress and strain of actual conflict that laid bare the superb fighting and other qualities he possessed.

He was a lance-corporal when, at Gallipoli on ig May 1915 he won the V.C. by jumping alone into a trench containing a party of Turks, of whom he shot five and bayoneted two.

Under wise leadership Jacka was an army in himself; under other circumstances little less than a problem. His pride and strength of character singled him out from his contemporaries. His brother officers naturally looked to him for leadership. He set a standard for battle discipline that others found
hard to maintain. Jacka possessed that three o'clock in the morning brand of courage which his exploits on Pozieres Ridge amply demonstrated.

At the time he was a platoon commander and in charge of the 14th Battalion's right flank. No sooner had he taken over than a fearful bombardment fell on the ridge and continued throughout the night. The garrison, despite crippling losses, struggled to keep the trenches clear: it was an impossible task. Later, all who remained alive on the ridge sought shelter in a few captured enemy dugouts.

At dawn, a German bomb exploding at the bottom of the stairway in the dug-out told Jacka that an attack had commenced. Racing up the stairs he assembled his men - eight in all - and surveyed the situation. Wherever he looked he saw the backs of large parties of Germans on their way to the Australian support line.

While planning a course of action he saw a party of about forty Australian prisoners under a strong escort coming towards him on their way to the rear. Calmly biding his time, he let them approach to within thirty yards and then, with a yell, the Australians led by Jacka charged; a free-for-all ensued.

Parties of Germans took to shell-holes and opened fire. One party of four were causing heavy casualties and Jacka made towards them. They put three bullets through him and knocked him down. Getting to his feet, he reached them and killed the lot; turning, he saw a huge man almost on him - he shot him in the guts.

The gallant behaviour of this extraordinary man came as a stimulant to the half-dazed prisoners. As they saw him shooting and killing right and left they took heart, and flung themselves on their captors. Some were killed in the attempt.

Jacka's timely action, starting as a ripple, spread into a wave, as little groups of men in the distance hurried to join in the fray. The Hun had the ridge in his hand, but before the fingers closed, his forces had been rounded up and taken off to the cages. Jacka's action prevented a costly counter-attack and undoubtedly saved many lives. His action was the talk of the line; everyone said surely he would receive a bar to his V.C. He received an M.C.

In the official history of Australia in the 1914-18 war, it is stated that Jacka's action on this occasion "stands as the most dramatic and effective act of individual audacity in the history of the A.I.F."

A bar was added to his M.C. for a daring reconnaissance and gallantry under fire on io April 1917. He obtained valuable information, on which the success of the attack depended, captured a German officer and his orderly, and later personally guided and placed the tanks and his battalion in position for the attack.

The pride he infused into others was demonstrated by a lieutenant who was on loan from Jacka's company. Right or wrong he refused to discard his dressy uniform prior to going into the battle of Hamel. "We don't do things like that in Don Company," he said. An enemy sniper had the choice of killing what he thought was a private or an officer; he chose the officer.

The regard his men had for him was remarkable. At Messines a private picked him up as he would a child and dragged him into a trench away from snipers and shell-fire. Shamefacedly he said, "Well, sir, I beg your pardon, but we can't afford to lose you."

No picture of Jacka would be complete without reference to his loyalty to his subordinates - as well as to his seniors. His word was his bond. On one occasion a promise had been made by every staff officer from General Birdwood down to the effect that the battalion would be rested if they willingly undertook a long winter tour of duty while the rest of the Australians were enjoying a three months' rest. When he thought that the promise might be broken, Jacka saw red. Officers who had assembled at a certain brigade conference will never forget the forthright manner in which he spoke up for his men. Threats of arrest not deter him, he merely stormed the harder.

Such is the man I knew.

E. J. RULE (First A.I.F.)

LIEUTENANT T. C. DERRICK V.C., D.C.M.

Lieutenant Thomas Currie Derrick, V.C., D.C.M., was a man in whom dwelt the best of history's gallantry. He was the modem representative of those renowned medieval heroes who fought their way to fame by valour, skill at arms and sheer force of character.

In that same tradition he died, fighting an action as gallant as any he had fought.

Like so many of Australia's great fighting soldiers, Derrick's civilian life was one of hard work and struggle, yet such was the man that he gave far more to his country than she had ever given to him.

He was born on Oaklands Estate, near Adelaide, on 20March 1914. Who would have dreamt that he was destined to become a legend in his own lifetime and leave behind him glory and an inspiration?

From the time he enlisted in June 1940, at Berri, a town in the Murray irrigation areas of South Australia, his hardiness marked him as likely to be a good soldier. When he was awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal at El Alamein in July 1942, for "taking three machine-gun outposts and personally capturing a hundred of the enemy", no man of the 2/48th Battalion was surprised.

It was the inescapable outcome of fine soldiering which had started with the retreat from Benghazi and the defence of Tobruk.

When word came through that he had won the Victoria Cross at Satelberg, where "he reduced ten Japanese posts", and with his platoon "moved on to capture Satelberg", still no one was greatly surprised. The qualities of soldiering which he had so clearly exhibited on the sand and rock desert of North Africa were no less outstanding in the jungle.

This lack of surprise by his comrades was perhaps the greatest of all the compliments which have been paid to "Diver" Derrick. It meant that he was not just a medal winner, but that he was a man whose quality compelled recognition.

It was typical of the man that he would not leave his own battalion. When offered a chance to attend an Officers' Training School by the then chief of staff (Lieutenant-General J. Northcott) Derrick refused acceptance unless he was assured of being allowed to return to the 2/48th Battalion. It was against the established custom, but General Northcott made an exception.

That fateful decision cost "Diver" Derrick his life. He received his commission on 25 November 1944 and returned to his beloved battalion as a platoon commander - a position he had frequently filled as a sergeant - in time to train for the desperate fighting ahead at Tarakan.

Well intentioned people have wondered why the Army Command should send him back- after he had done so much, but it was his own wish, and one which is understood by those who knew him.

At Tarakan, Lieutenant Derrick, fighting as an officer after five years in the ranks, led his platoon inspiringly, making long personal reconnaissances, and moving boldly in the open during attacks.

Mortally wounded during a night counterattack he still continued to inspire his men, and when the stretcher-bearers arrived in the morning sent the other wounded out first, although he knew he had but a slight hold on life. Blood transfusions failed to stir his strong heart, and on that day - 23 May 1945 - he died.

In his home State there have been many suggestions for a fitting memorial, but none devised of man could equal the memorial he himself erected in the hearts and minds of his comrades, and fellow Australians.

EDWARD FAYE (Second A.I.F.)

BLESS 'EM ALL

During the early mornings of November 1939 I used to sit on a fence at Ingleburn, N.S.W., watching hundreds of men in strange garments walking, shambling or marching - generally in the wrong direction.

They wore assorted expressions of hopelessness, pain, injury, earnestness or smugness (obviously ex-militia!). Young officers, torn from their annual militia camps, hurried about, valiantly striving to bring some pattern out of the turmoil; and the anguished cries of suffering sergeant-majors shivered the tall gum trees as I watched with compassion the birth pangs of the Second A.I.F.

Two months later they marched through in their new uniforms, issue boots still a bit stiff, but already unit spirit was born and soldiers sailed in the first convoy shortly afterwards.

I followed them. I followed for six years and have met and re-met them in strange places since I first set up my Australian Comforts Fund tea-urn in Tel Aviv. There, bored, homesick and fed up, they wrote pithy comments in my visitors' book and drank reminiscent gallons of tea. There for the first time they learnt to look upon the provost as "not - bad sort of so-and-so" instead of a potential enemy.

My headquarters was handy for many things, especially as an excuse for that extra trip from camp. I craved a notice board, so transport was arranged for some pioneers to measure me for it. Ten minutes' measuring exhausted the party that it had to retire to a brasserie whence it emerged from time to time to re-measure, the answers never agreeing.

After many weeks the excuse wore out and the board was reluctantly installed. Then the Pole came over the border from a capitulated Syria, penniless but invincible, their only form of garment being their long blue stockings.

The A.I.F. fell upon them lovingly and treated them high, wide and handsome. There is a true story of how a Pole was gathered-in in Jerusalem early one morning and taken to our Fast Hotel where Australians did him lots of good in the matter of food and drink most of the day, with grins and prods the only common language between hosts and guest. Eventually the visitor rose to leave, bowed punctiliously, then leered evilly: "Now, you poor cows, my shout." The old, old story of clothes swapped on a bender the previous night.

On the sun baked ramparts of David's Citadel where the lizards whisk uncaringly. I was initiated into my first swy game.

Down through the bald volcanic hills to Jericho I found a lone man from Bondi leaning on the Allenby Bridge. "Wouldn't float a Manly ferry," he said, spitting moodily into the narrow but holy Jordan. We bore him off to the King George Hotel where a wall-eyed Armenian fed us baked peacock which neither impressed nor comforted him.

Later, Alexandria offered more scope for fun and games and for the short space before the desert campaign the A.I.F. made the most of it. Terrified wog tram-guards yielded up their money bags and the diggers sold tickets - double for the plain and elderly, free trip for the young, and possibly lovely, bints. The dignity of most of the best statues was rapidly and satisfactorily impaired and gharries dashed by with Australians on the box and outraged wog proprietors sitting in state behind.

Then suddenly they were gone and the war was on: Bardia fell to them and no one was ever quite so carefree again. Friends were being killed and others who a few weeks before had left Alexandria eager and irresponsible came back as guards to their first prisoners; now they were sobered and even the kids amongst them had suddenly grown up.

From Greece and Crete they stumbled off the crowded ships like men sleepwalking, worn out, burnt out. Later, in the sharp Syrian air they rested and trained and came rushing home, then on to the islands.

Some went to the Northern Territory where I followed and found them cursing their luck at being kept on the mainland. I made a trip in the famous cattle-truck hospital train, "Leaping Lena", from Adelaide River to Katherine. A long, slow but fascinating trip through almost virgin country with constant and apparently pointless stops at uninhabited spots.

Lying sweltering on a bunk, waiting to start up again from a siding, I heard voices and peering out through the air-vent saw two practically naked warriors squatting on cases in an open goods truck. "Hullo," I said. They turned slowly, stared dully, then looked away again. "Ain't seen one of them fer fourteen munce," said one dubiously.

The hospital contained the only women in a huge area and as only nearby troops saw them, trips by road to Darwin inspired mixed comments from troops by the wayside and threw patrons of the mobile shower into great confusion.

From there by flying boat to northern Queensland, a near mutiny arising en route at having to endure the agony of watching two Nip prisoners refreshing themselves with pink and white ham and hard-boiled eggs; during the previous months I'd only had one fresh egg and that by courtesy and cunning of the bakery unit who knew a hen.

On the Tablelands I found old-timers pining for the Middle East they'd left so gladly and when I was re-posted to Egypt one mourner pressed 3 shillings on me and nostalgically urged me to have an advocaat and cherry brandy for him when I got there. I did, but lost his address. Thank you, soldier.

Our first five hundred ex-P.O.Ws came into Egypt late in 1943 and they rushed joyfully round visiting old haunts. Quieter and saner they were, but still full of wit and when they went home Egypt lost much of its colour.

Two months before D-day I waited aboard the Franconia at Port Said for three days while most of the great survivors of England's merchant navy, laden with Empire troops, crept up the Canal to form an enormous convoy.

London gave us a spring welcome and then, after two weeks of endless aircraft thunder, D-day broke. A few slouch hats appeared in the streets - mostly Ninth Division P.O.Ws who had escaped the German net in northern Italy and made epic journeys across the Alps to Switzerland; however, I heard much more about the bad food in Italy than about their courageous treks. "Him- I nearly left him behind when he foundered in a snowdrift for the third time, but he had my watch on. See what I mean?"

They have always belittled the serious, played up the comic side. Pluto and Bill escaped from Austria to Yugoslavia, fought with the partisans, tempted providence for over a year and eventually arrived, whole except for teeth, in England. Bill strutted from his billets, glorious in new uniform and was smartly knocked down-and out - by an English push-bike.

V1's came and pushed us about a bit. Two mercy ships came up the Mersey with repatriated P.O.Ws, yelling lustily. V2'S were all the rage and then once more I was sailing down the Mersey, accompanying fifteen hundred Jerries to be exchanged for eight hundred British prisoners. We put into Gibraltar but shore officials ignored us and our unpleasing company. After dark the Navy boys playfully dropped depth-charges as close as possible and the Jerries became nervous so we left. At Marseilles we handed over subdued and apprehensive men to their Swiss guards; some escaped into France or committed suicide en route, but our eight hundred came aboard rejoicing.

By VE-day liberated men were pouring into England starving, tattered, grinning and undefeated; I came home with the last shipload. Our six thousand A.I.F. left behind them in England an altogether new impression of Australian soldiery. Beloved and honoured, their uniform was a passport everywhere-not even excepting the two who, after being warmly entertained at Chichester, decided to give a farewell dinner to the mayor and chief of police. After dinner they gracefully presented the mayor with a fine boomerang and left. Next morning a frantic Curator reported the loss of a valuable specimen of Australian aboriginal art from his museum.

On arrival at Pearl Harbour leave was eventually granted for a few hours with only $2 pocket-money and Honolulu placed out of bounds. Within an hour five thousand Australians and Kiwis burst happily into Honolulu, clinging precariously to anything on wheels. All through a terrible night they struggled back on board, bulging with trophies, festooned with wilting garlands full of O.P. spirit and goodwill. Most of them still had their $2 as well - the Yanks had been perfect hosts.

As we left the pier many "near misses" were pulled aboard on ropes and various large hearted craft of the U.S. Navy pursued us right to the harbour mouth with cargoes of latecomers.

The atomic bomb hit Japan directly we reached home and I was soon with the Eighth Division in Changi. Even six years with the A.I.F. had not prepared me for the heroic fibre of the survivors as, clamorous for talk, they sketched their experiences pungently, enchanting me with their fruity colloquialisms and descriptive powers. Never once was I told a story for its horror value that was just thrown in as a background or reason for some amusing incident.

Every division has had its different burdens, its individual hardships but the result is the same - they take it in their stride and emerge with the same old cheerful impudence.

In Changi I first realized that Australia has evolved a definite type of physique. Nine thousand Australians, Dutch and English, all shirtless and many practically naked, but I was seldom mistaken when picking out our men on the crowded roads; impossible to analyse the reason-possibly the gait and the rather cat-like way of picking up the sandaled or bare feet and the set of the shoulders.

After they'd left, I went alone through the deserted atap huts. Home-made sandals lay abandoned, strips of mouldy towels they'd treasured and small necessities they'd fashioned patiently in their great need-skilfully, but makeshift nevertheless-and over all the odour of humans who, however clean, have been herded too close, too long. The atap rustled in the stillness like the whispering of ghosts or the shuffling of weary feet and I was glad when Army mercifully fired the dreadful place soon afterwards.

I have no illusions about the Australian soldier. I speak of him and to him flippantly, because to do otherwise would embarrass him. I have been privileged to see him in the making, to walk some of his weary roads with him, then to meet him again at the end of his journeying and to my mind he is earth's best, a most true friend and delightful comrade. From what his cobbers tell me he is unsurpassed in courage, his creed is "Fair go, now!", he's generous to an insane degree and -this will rock him!-his shower is almost as important to him as his tucker. Here's luck, mate!

BIDDY MORIARTY (Australian Red Cross Society)