Chapter 10 Jezebel; Buoys of Pt Jackson; Kapitulation!; Ammunition expended.

JEZEBEL

HER name was Jezebel. Certainly it wasn't a nice name to give a mare but then Jezebel was not a nice mare.

It sounds rather an exaggeration to say that one horse could upset a whole squadron, yet Jezebel came very close to doing that to A Squadron of the 8th Light Horse. She came to us at Heliopolis after the evacuation of Gallipoli, sent up from the Remount Depot to replace a horse with a broken leg.

In the opinion of A Squadron the Army buyer who picked Jezebel was either blind drunk or else his knowledge of horses had been gained from reading the Saturday evening race results.

She was a tall, rangy brute with a wicked eye, a Roman nose, a long quivering under-lip and the sourest nature ever implanted in a horse.

Trooper "Snow" Matson fell for her and Snow really deserved a better fate. He was a born horseman, a man who understood and loved horses. In civvy life he'd been a station hand and drover, one of the long lean type one sees everywhere in the Australian outback. On Gallipoli he'd proved himself a good soldier, a cheerful hard case who could crack a joke in the most desperate situation.

But no matter how he tried Snow couldn't work up a spark of affection for Jezebel. No man could. Grooming her was a hazardous, nerve-racking job from start to finish. When Snow ran the brush over her flanks she lashed out with the vicious, raking kick of a soured mule; when he bent down in the region of her girth he exposed the seat of his pants to a slashing bite. She kicked and bit the horse on either side of her just as impartially.

Once as he limped clear of the horse lines during "stables" Snow declared vehemently:

"I wish to Gawd they'd occupy the flamin' Peninsula again. A man did stand a bit of a chance there but he's a dead cert to cop it here."

But it was on mounted parades that Jezebel really distinguished herself. Keep in line? Not her! She had a habit of snapping at the bit and bounding half a length ahead. When Snow dragged her back by main force she'd run backwards until a jab of the spurs sent her bounding ahead again. When she tired of that she'd swing sideways, bite the horse on her left and lash out at the one on her right.

The squadron sergeant-major's roars of, "Close up that section!" were just so much wasted breath. Jezebel wanted room, lots of room, and she got it. She preferred moving crabwise to the ordinary straight-ahead method of progress and instead of walking she jig-jogged, that maddening, jolting pace so detested by all horsemen.

I was in Snow's section so I knew almost as much about Jezebel as he did. We tried her as No. i and we tried her as No. 4. It made no difference to her. We tried her in the inside positions but our bruised shins forced us to give that up.

At first Snow tried kindness.

"She's been bashed about; that's what's wrong with 'er," he reasoned. "They nearly all come good if you treat 'em right." Snow was that sort of bloke - a good patient horseman.

But kindness was wasted on Jezebel. She took it as a sign of weakness. There was as much affection in her eye when Snow approached her with an extra ration of oats in her feed bag as there was when he changed his tactics and took to her with the flat of a shovel the day she ripped the back out of his one and only shirt.

From Heliopolis we moved across the Canal to Ferry Post and in that god-forsaken patch of the Sinai Desert our sufferings really started. There were long desert marches, patrols and monotonously slow days of camel escort duty. And in all those weary miles Jezebel never walked a single step. She jig-jogged along crab wise, advancing first one shoulder and then, when she tired of that, the other.

Ours was the most ragged section in the troop, the troop the most ragged in the squadron and the squadron, according to the colonel, the worst in the regiment. Before Jezebel came to us we were rather proud of our smartness but she soon altered that happy state of affairs. She changed Snow from a cheerful hard case and a good soldier to a soured lead-swinger.

We sympathized with him, of course. We knew how much he suffered on those long marches but towards the end of a long hot day in the saddle we were apt to forget Snow's sufferings and snap at him to "take his blasted cow camel to hell out of it". When your section mate's rifle butt crashes into your ribs just as you're starting out in the morning you don't really mind it; you almost take it as a joke. But as the long day drags on and the number of crashes mounts you get a bit touchy about that particular spot on your ribs and your sense of humour vanishes.

There was a lot more to it than an odd crack with a rifle butt, of course. You know how it is with horses; they're just like men. One upsets the other and so it goes on until you have a whole troop of normally docile horses playing up like the very devil. The colonel was once reported to have said that we had gained our knowledge of horsemanship behind the counter in a drapery establishment. That hurt.

At Ferry Post camel escort was one of the greatest nightmares of Snow's existence. All our horses hated camels but they gradually grew used to them and, in time, were even able to emulate the camels' haughty indifference. To Jezebel a camel always remained an excuse. At the first sniff of one she would roll her wicked eyes, snort in assumed fear and do her best to bolt. She must have had a wonderful constitution for she could keep up the pretence all day on camel escort.

At first Snow tried to force her alongside her charges but he gave it up when he found it was a physical impossibility to force her to within twenty yards of a camel.

It was on camel escort one day that he got his bright idea. "Kill or cure," he declared. Actually he accomplished neither.

There were no "heads" to reprove him.

Only our section was out -four horsemen escorting a small string of mangy camels with two Gyppo drivers. Twice Jezebel tried to bolt but Snow pulled her up.

The third time she took the bit in her teeth Snow gave her her head.

"Righto, you fiddle-headed bitch!" he yelled. "If that's how you want it that's how it suits me."

He told us later that he hadn't enjoyed himself so much since he enlisted. There was nothing for them to hit, no one to interfere, just endless miles of sandy desert. Jezebel bolted for nearly a mile before she decided there was no future in galloping over heavy sand in that blazing heat. She started to ease up but Snow had other ideas.

"You started this," he informed her, unbuckling his belt. "I'm finishin' it." The heavy belt curled round her belly and horse and rider faded into the shimmering heat haze on the horizon.

It seemed ages before they returned. Snow was still swinging the belt and whooping like a Red Indian but in spite of his efforts Jezebel was only moving at a very slow canter. Sweat dripped from her heaving flanks, her ugly head hung almost level with her knees and she stumbled frequently. She was completely done. Snow spurred her alongside me and let her ease down to a walking pace.

"That'll learn 'er," he declared with a grin. "She'll be glad to do a bit of walkin' now."

It didn't "learn" her. Exhausted as she was she sidled crabwise away from the camels and fell back into her maddening jog.

Snow started to swing the lead after that. He paraded sick but the M.O. marked him medicine and duty. The following day he paraded before the major and asked for a transfer into the infantry. The major was a shrewd sort of bloke. He knew all about Jezebel and the effect she was having on Snow - on the whole troop, in fact. He would have given a month's pay to get rid of her but he was powerless. Jezebel had been issued to Trooper Matson and Trooper Matson would have to keep her. That's how things were in the Army.

The major gave Snow a cigarette and explained all this nicely. He hinted that the regiment might be seeing a bit of action shortly. Anything might happen then, he pointed out. Horses would be killed and Jezebel might easily be one of the casualties. In the meantime if Snow would just carry on ...

Snow carried on. He attended sick parade every day for a week but it did him no good. The M.O. also knew about Jezebel and in the end Snow got fed up with his daily diet of Number Nines.

We were saddling up for a two days' patrol when Snow tried his next stunt. He took a crack at the orderly sergeant. It was a case of killing two birds with one stone, he confided in me afterwards. He'd always disliked that particular sergeant and if he couldn't escape to hospital he could get himself sent away to the cool er-anywhere so long as it got him away from Jezebel.

But once again his luck was out. The C.O. knew what was behind the incident; he fined Snow a tenner and gave him fourteen days' C.B.

Two days later the Turk attacked at Romani. Wild furphies were flying as we drew extra ammo and fell in in full marching order. The 1st Brigade had suffered enormous casualties! The Turks were over the Canal! We were withdrawing to Cairo! We were going to attack on the right flank!

The last Furphy proved correct. I don't know how Snow lived through that long forced march. Once I changed horses with him for two hours two agonizing hours while that cursed mare danced, jogged and reefed at the bit until she almost tore my arms out of their sockets.

Just before daylight next morning our scouts made contact with the enemy. Only a small force, we reckoned, for the rifle fire was light and spasmodic and there was no shelling whatsoever. It was full daylight when we went into action, A Squadron leading in open formation. The rifle and machine-gun fire grew intense and we got the order to trot. Ahead of us was a small sand ridge with a nice hollow on our side of it. The volume of fire increased, the trot turned into a canter and the canter to a mad gallop as we raced for the shelter of that hollow. We were "copping" it now! Horses and men were falling all along the line as we galloped through a hail of fire as hot as anything we'd struck on Gallipoli.

We reached the hollow and flung ourselves out of saddles in response to the shrilling of whistles and the shouting of orders. All, that is, with the exception of those who had fallen in the advance and one man who didn't stop.

We yelled, "Pull up, Snow! Come back!"

But Snow, tired out and weakened from twenty-four hours of almost unadulterated Jezebel, couldn't pull up. Jezebel had the bit in her teeth and was racing straight for the Turkish lines. To us, as we handed our horses over to the horse holders and threw ourselves flat on the crest of the ridge, it seemed incredible that a horse and rider could live through that murderous hail of fire, yet both came back untouched. Unable to stop her Snow swung Jezebel in a wide arc and headed her back for her troop mates. She crashed into them and Snow flung himself out of the saddle just as the horse holders started to lead them back out of range.

"Take her away," Snow said wearily as he passed his reins to our section No.3. "Take the sod away and shoot her." And then, with a flash of his old humour, "I took her over to the Jackos and offered her to 'em for five 'disasters' but they knocked 'er back. They wouldn't even waste a bullet on her."

Apparently we troopers weren't the only ones who had underestimated the strength of the enemy that day, for A Squadron suffered heavy casualties both in men and horses. Cut off from the rest of the regiment we hung to the hot barren ridge all day, husbanding our small supply of ammunition and watching the toll of wounded slowly mount. Away behind us we could see the shells bursting as the Turkish artillery searched the hollows for our led horses.

"They're giving the horses hell," I remarked to Snow once.

Snow spat into the hot sand. "Even if they wiped out the rest of the squadron," he said disgustedly, "they still wouldn't knock Jezebel. No such flamin' luck!"

At dusk our horses were brought up at the gallop and we were ordered to mount and withdraw. Helping some of our wounded and carrying others we staggered down into the shelter of the hollow. Badly wounded men were draped over the pommels of saddles; others, less seriously hurt, were legged up behind riders-there were big gaps in the horse lines.

My own horse was safe, I saw with relief as our section horse holder swung towards us; so also was Sweetheart, the little chestnut mare belonging to Charlie Conlon, my No. 2. But of Jezebel there was no sign.

Catching sight of Snow, our horse holder yelled, "Jump up behind me, Snow. Jezebel's dead."

Snow lowered his rifle butt to the ground and stared in disbelief.

"You wouldn't kid to a bloke about a thing like that, would you Jerry? " he asked incredulously.

"Dead as a maggot," Jerry assured him. "An eighteen-pounder shell hit her fair in the guts. Blew her clean out of me hand. Hop up, Snow, for Gawd's sake."

"Is that fair dinkum?" Snow pleaded.

"Your horse is dead, Trooper Matson. Get mounted behind someone else." That was our squadron sergeant-major roaring, his voice betraying the fact that he'd had a very trying day with the led horses. Snow tossed his hat high in the air and yelled,

'Ooray! She's dead! Jezebel's dead!" Instead of mounting he sat down in the sand.

The major was on to him in a flash. He galloped up and bellowed, "What the hell's the matter with you, Matson? Get mounted."

Jacko was shelling the hollow heavily now but Snow only waved his hat and yelled:

"She's dead! Jezebel's dead."

"Up behind me, Matson," the major snapped. "And get a move on." There was an urgency in his tone that brought Snow to his feet in a bound.

A wild gallop, a short canter and we settled down to a steady walk march, safely out of range. The major called the sergeant-major up beside him.

"You're sure about this man's horse, are you, sar'-major?" he asked.

"Certain, sir. I saw it myself. She's lying in that hollow we passed a couple of hundred yards back."

"Thank God for that," the major said. "There you are, Matson. I told you anything could happen in an action. We'll be getting some remounts up after this. You can have your pick of 'em and see that you pick a good one this time."

"My flamin' oath, I will!" Snow declared. "Hey, major."

"What, Matson?"

"D'you mind if I drop off 'ere? I just want to nick back and see 'er for meself-just to make sure she's dead."

"You stay where you are," the major commanded. "If that damned mare turns up I'll see she never gets back into this squadron, even if I have to shoot her myself!"

"STANDBY" (R. S. PORTEOUS, FIRST A.I.F.)

KAPITULATION!

THE last days of the European war, up to the unconditional surrender and after it, saw dozens of U-boats of all shapes and sizes making a hurried and ungracious departure from the North German ports. From all directions, they charged out to sea and headed for Norway. What they hoped to gain from such a policy remains obscure, because on 4 May a short signal was transmitted on all U-boat frequencies ordering them to cease hostilities and return to base.

At midday on 8 May the Admiralty announced that the German High Command had been directed to give surrender orders to all U-boats at sea. The submarines were to surface immediately, report their number and their position and to proceed by prescribed routes to definite points. Some U-boats obliged; others did not.

To combat the possibility of continued hostile action by pirate craft, and to escort in-coming and out-going convoys, Coastal Command crews continued flying. One of their tasks was to search for surrendering U-boats and to be kind to them if they played ball, but to take the gloves off and get tough if the Jerries felt that way. The Australian Sunderland squadrons, Nos 10 and 461, of course, joined in the fun. The Sunderlands were given another two hundred and fifty gallons of petrol, bringing their tankage to two thousand two hundred and fifty gallons. To counter the higher loading four depth charges were taken off-but four were left on, just in case!

On the morning of 11 May a crew of No. 461 Squadron prepared for operations. It was to be a flight with a difference; a sort of trumped-up affair. A Coastal Command photographer was to fly with them - his task was to photograph the surrender of a U-boat. The actual surrendering was already arranged, in fact, had already happened. The C.O. liked the sound of this and added him self to the crew list. It was quite a chummy little gang that eventually left the water at a few minutes after 1100 hours.

The U-boat in question had surfaced about one hundred miles south of Fastnet Light, Eire. A Liberator had discovered it and was reported to be circling overhead awaiting instructions. The navigator of the Sunderland handed the captain his course and they set off hopefully into the south-west. Shortly after 1300 hours the U-boat, with the Liberator overhead, was sighted a few miles off the port bow.

Everything was proceeding according to plan, so the official photographer began shooting while the U-boat crew, huddled in the conning-tower beneath their protective black flag, looked on in utter amazement. The Sunderland had begun a programme of minor aerobatics in search of bigger and better photographic angles.

Where this would have eventually got her and her crew it is difficult to say, but they were interrupted. The radar operator reported the presence of a contact ten miles southeast of the Sunderland's position; after a certain amount of consideration the captain decided to investigate.

He turned off and made a homing run. He had made many homing runs in the past once he found a U-boat; on most occasions he found nothing. Coastal Command captains adopted a philosophical attitude toward homing runs. They were a necessary evil, invariably ending in disappointment.

The Sunderland cruised in sedately to three miles. Suddenly the C.O. yelled: "U-boat! Dead ahead!"

Everybody jumped.

"There's no surrender flag!"

Everybody jumped again.

"Prepare for an attack," ordered the skipper, as the bomb doors crashed down. He rammed the throttles open, pushed the stick forward and watched the air-speed wind up to one hundred and seventy knots.

The U-boat raced on, now doing fifteen knots on an easterly course. Soon it was evident that there was great activity on board; numerous bodies were observed rushing about the conning-tower, and the aircraft had closed to less than a mile, shaking and shuddering, and showing to the U-boat boys that jolly soon they were going to get a bellyful of high explosive. This produced further frantic activity and, at last, a little square of black cloth about the size of a lady's handkerchief sped up the topmast and flapped in the breeze.

The captain broke off his bombing run and swept around to the submarine's bow-to his own disgust and doubtless to the overwhelming relief of the German seamen.

"Captain to navigator! Signal to Group. U-boat surrendering. Course about ioo degrees. Speed about fifteen knots. Request instructions. . . . Captain to galley! If there's a spare W.O.P. down there will he come up on the bridge for a spot of signalling."

The W.O.P., Steve, came up and stood dismally behind the captain. "Ask him for his number," said the skipper.

Steve could have done that very well-five minutes ago. Now there were complications. He had just watched the sheet of German words and phrases, issued to him by the intelligence officer, flutter to a watery grave. It had slipped from his hand and whipped out through the rear hatch. He jammed his mouth against the captain's ear and delivered this item of very sad news. The recipient threw a mild fit, hoped the C.O. hadn't heard, and told Steve to do his best.

Steve shrugged his shoulders and clambered into the astro-dome, took a sight, and started signalling-in a mixture of German, English and Australian. The results were hardly satisfactory. Blank bewilderment descended upon the U-boat commander. An almost equal haze befogged the aircraft crew.

Steve had another go, frantically pleading with the crew to remember some German phrases or invent some. The U-boat captain must have been an exceedingly intelligent man because soon he was flashing back, "1010".

"The number," said the W.O.P. proudly, "is U-1010! "

This information was also transmitted to Group. In reply, the skipper was requested to escort the submarine, although to what destination he was not told.

He began to escort it and, from then on, time lost its usual qualities. For seven hours the Sunderland flew in giddy circles around the U-boat; seven long hours of signalling to Group, to distant escort vessels, and to the submarine. That was where most of the trouble arose. The Jerries, bless them, were incapable of understanding a word of English or even pidgin German, and it wasn't for lack of trying on either side.

During this period the U-boat had been steaming a merry eighteen knots on an easterly course, with the apparent object of reaching a Channel port in the minimum possible time. This suited only the U-boat commander not Group or the Admiralty. They wanted it to steer a westerly course, although the reason for this seemingly crazy move was not crazy at all. The U-boat was supposed to travel, via the west coast of Ireland, to a remote Scottish port. All that the Sunderland captain had to do was to inform the submarine captain that he was going much too fast in the wrong direction. For a professor of the German language that would have been easy, but for a Prussian who didn't understand a word of English and for an Australian who didn't understand a word of German, the task was darned near impossible.

The navigator grabbed the Aldis lamp. He took station in the astro-dome and directed the beam at the conning-tower of the sub, pouring forth a stream of Anglo-German and profanity. The only noticeable result was a slight acceleration in the U-boat's speed eastward. Salvation now rested with the wireless operator. He had contacted an Escort Group and was homing them to the position with the utmost haste.

About an hour later, to the navigator's amazement, the U-boat slackened speed, stopped, and signalled to the Sunderland in English: "GO WEST!"

The submarine then slowly turned around, got up power, and cheerfully headed towards America.

This was a slight improvement, followed some fifty minutes later by the radar operator's report that the Escort Group of three vessels had come into range and was twenty miles distant.

The vessels approached at full speed and R/T contact was established. The message transmitted by the Navy brought further complications. The Sunderland was requested to stop the U-boat!

"Here we go again," groaned the navigator.

He climbed into the dome, without any hope at all, and flashed "HALT".

But the captain of U-1010 had sighted the three ships, altered course, and headed towards them. The air crew's general sigh of relief has been reported as temporarily eclipsing the sound of the engines.

They waited until the Navy had boarded the U-boat, the Coastal Command photographer completed his series of pictures, which had become genuine after all, and at 2121 hours the navigator thankfully gave the captain his course for home.

IVAN SOUTHALL, R.A.A.F.

THE BUOYS OF PORT JACKSON

AN intrinsic part of the lives of officers and 2A ratings of the Royal Australian Navy, the buoys of Port Jackson, rarely noticed, seldom thought about, often heartily cursed, have a place of affection in their hearts.

There are many buoys, of all sizes and colours. Pride of place at the head of the family is held by No. i buoy, situated in Farm Cove, for it has seen countless historic scenes regal and vice-regal landings at Man-o'-War Steps, newly commissioned ships and many new admirals. In peace time the flagship is always shackled to No. 1 buoy; it is an age old custom of the Service.

Compared with the history of No. i buoy, the remaining buoys in the harbour have scarcely lived. Their number is increasing as the years go by, augmented by aircraft mooring buoys and many other new types. Lowest on the social scale are the channel buoys. Although they can boast a light atop them they are looked down upon by the mooring buoys. The destroyer buoys take precedence above all navigation buoys, yet they are rated below the larger mooring buoys. A buoy's importance vanes according to the size of the ships that use it. No. 1 buoy is the uncrowned King of all Port Jackson while No. 7. buoy rules over all buoys east of Garden Island.

No. 2 buoy, however, has the most thrilling experience to relate. It happened on that memorable night of 31 May '42, when the port of Sydney was attacked by a number of Japanese midget submarines. No. 7 buoy was feeling very pleased with life as shackled to it was a 10,000-ton United States cruiser. This was extremely satisfying to No. 2, as No. 1 only had a large Australian cruiser attached to it, and everyone knew which ship was most in the public mind at the time. Besides, there was for some strange reason more glamour about a Yankee ship than one of the R.A.N.

Very late in the night a Japanese midget submarine fired a torpedo and then another at the American cruiser. The torpedoes passed uncomfortably close to the buoy's moorings, and No. 2 braced itself for the shock of the inevitable explosion. One torpedo failed to explode, the other passed under an Allied submarine and exploded against the sea wall. The force of this explosion caused an old harbour ferry steamer being used as a depot ship to sink, and No. 2 buoy to shake uncontrollably. There followed a hectic period. Depth charges were dropped and guns fired; the American cruiser opened fire with small arms and later slipped from the buoy and proceeded to sea. No. 2 watched her go with mixed feelings.

Sydney's harbour defences were not slow in going into action, and there were Japanese submarines which never left Port Jackson. The enemy's attack on the stronghold of the Royal Australian Navy was a complete failure.

It was a historic occasion for No. 2 buoy. The Japanese did not trouble No. 1 at all. No. 2 can now maintain, and quite rightly, that this exciting night more than made up for one of No. 1's "new Governor" landings or a Royal visit. Never before in history had an enemy attacked Sydney, and as the attack was a complete surprise and launched in a most ingenious manner the praise for the defenders of Port Jackson cannot be too high.

Rain, hail, storms or submarines, callous seagulls or badly handled ships-the buoys of Port Jackson, their moorings set deep in the harbour bed and the wisdom of the past, hold fast. But one at least can tell a tale of wild sea fight and fiery midnight action in the tradition of Drake and Raleigh, and claim brotherhood with ships that go down to the sea with men!

W. N. SWAN, R.A.N.

AMMUNITION EXPENDED (The death of HMAS Perth)

CIRCLED by Jap cruisers and destroyers, like Red Indians round a covered wagon, the centre of a vicious spoked wheel of blasting fire, cruiser Perth fought her guts out, until, ripped and torn, she was taken by the sea for its own.

There was no dearth of fierce naval actions during the war - Warspite in Narvik Fjord, immortal Jervis Bay, Crete and Greece, Atlantic convoys, Canberra's fight and a host of others, but for sheer, tiger-like courage and tenacity, the men who fought Perth's action would be hard to beat.

The squadron operating round Java at the latter end of February '42, comprised H.M. cruisers Exeter and Perth, the American 8-incher Houston, Dutchmen De Ruyter (wearing the flag) and Java, with a screen of nine Dutch, American and British destroyers.

There were many vehement little incidental actions fought by ships of the squadron, but the main backdrop or panoply, into which these smaller fights inserted a helpful pattern, was the interception by the squadron of a powerful Jap invasion force headed for Java.

The night of Thursday the 26th was clear and dark. By 7000 hours the destroyers had slid from Soerabaya, and, waiting for the cruisers, nosed up and down outside seeking submarines like hungry otters in a pool of fish. Then the ranged symmetry of the cruisers' bridges pushed past the harbour palms, out through the entrance, and the squadron formed in line ahead, destroyers screened well in advance, arrow-heading the cruiser line, De Ruyter, Exeter, Perth, Java and Houston, in that order.

It was a powerful force, fast and heavily gunned, and though its units were of three different nationalities, history vouched for them as sea fighters, and all ships had been welded by experience in eastern waters into a compact, hard-hitting fighting unit of proven efficiency.

No one had any illusions about what they were heading into: naval intelligence was good, and it was known the Jap force cruising south-east to meet them was large and well protected by heavy cruisers and destroyers.

All that night the Allied squadron steamed steadily to the northward, ready for, but not expecting, the enemy force. Friday morning should bring it in sight, and full dawn found all ships at action stations. The sun lifted in the east and climbed above a flat sea clear to the encircling rim of the far horizon. Not a thing stirred. The Allied squadron steamed on alone, ploughing vanishing furrows upon the blue sea.

Perth's guns' crews fell out, leaving one turret and 7 four-inchers closed up for-antisubmarine protection, and went below to breakfast. They were shortly to need it.

The bridge lookout saw it first - a thin black pencil jutting above the clear-cut rim ahead. Then another, and another, to right and left, and beyond, bulking larger every second, dark indeterminate blobs that broke the even line of the horizon.

De Ruyter had sighted them also; from her starb'd fore yardarm a single flag stood out like a board in the 20-knot wind of their passage.

"Enemy in sight!"

On every ship the strident clangour of alarm bells shrilled out their summons. The flags were hauling up De Ruyter's mast now in great, fluttering hoists. In obedience to their order engine-room bells clanged urgently, and the muted hum of engine-room blowers rose to a hungry roar.

Perth's long hull shuddered slightly under the increased thrust, and her white wake heaped up astern. Not much, for this slim sea fighter had been designed with deep-driving screws, which, in addition to their grip, kept her tell-tale wake down to a minimum. On that the enemy estimated her speed.

Another flag hoist jerked in long sweeps to the leader's yard. It hung a moment, the bright yellows, reds and blues whipping in the wind, then-down! Instantly the following ships swung out of line to starb'd, so that when they had positioned themselves, the long line had broken into a bristling breast of guns, stepped back along a line 135 degrees from the leader's bows, each ship's bow in line with the quarter of her next ahead; and all with their for'ard turrets bearing on the targets.

Now up Perth's foremast, hauling steadily right up to the truck, the red, white and blue of her huge Commonwealth battle ensign whipped challengingly above her speeding hull.

An instant later the 8-inch cruisers spewed a boiling cloud of tawny cordite smoke. Thunder beat across the sea, and ten seconds later the water round the enemy transports erupted into climbing pillars of white. Again and again the big guns roared, not the indeterminate mumble of haphazard firing, but the timed crash of controlled broadsides.

The Jap cruisers were returning the fire, little flickers of reddish-yellow lighting their sides. Then five minutes after the action opened, an ugly flame erupted from Exeter's stem and a boiling mask of dirty brown smoke spread above it. Heavy, it hung a moment, then shredded away to leeward.

That was good shooting. The British cruiser must have collected almost a full broadside, for, attended by two destroyers, she limped slowly astern out of the fight.

I While the 8-inchers were placing their long-range feelers Perth was outranged and had not opened fire. To close the enemy, regardless of the odds, has always been the accepted course of action in the British Navy: the Allied line opened out, and in line abreast swept at 25 knots towards the stretching array of ships before them. Almost at once a Dutch destroyer exploded suddenly into a bursting pillar of black smoke that soared high in the air, and, reaching zenith, hung in the sky.

Closer, and the towering superstructures of the Jap cruisers were plainly visible to the naked eye. The Allied cruisers were firing as they came in, but as the line turned for the run out, all turrets bore, and crashing broadsides were flung at the packed mass of transports. The sea was dotted with burning ships; every few seconds the vicious red burst of a hit flared among the troopers. The sky was dirty like a smoked ceiling, and far astern the Dutchman's pall was settling slowly down on to the sea.

For an hour the Allied line, always in perfect alignment, raced in, turned, flung tons of bursting explosive at the encroaching force and heeled sharply on the run out. Perth's guns were black, the paint blisters bulging on the barrels like tennis balls.

An order from the Admiral and three destroyers coursed across the head of formation, a white wall of smoke spawning from their tails. The Allied force retired.

It was a breathing space. Aboard Perth fresh cordite cases were broken open and hundreds of empties cleared from the decks round each turret. Although in the immediate presence of the enemy, guns were unloaded and the breeches left open to allow a cooling draught down the sizzling barrels. Big mess kettles of tea were passed to sweating guns' crews, and those who could be spared dropped from their turrets on to the upper-deck to clear their lungs of the biting reek of cordite smoke.

Then in an instant the ship was jerked to watchful readiness.

"Destroyer attack developing," came the signal.

It was the 8-inchers' field day. Almost a dozen Jap destroyers burst through the smoke screen at once, fanned out, and bore in at the cruisers. The big ships were waiting. One destroyer took a full broadside fair amidships. The heavy armour-capped shells hit at a velocity of two thousand feet per second, penetrated, and, their fuses started, exploded inside in a shattering blast that ripped and savaged her unmercifully. Still at full speed, the destroyer heeled. An enormous weight of water surged into her opened sides. The heel became a roll, and as more water filled her she turned right over and sank like a stone. It took perhaps twenty seconds.

Perth was firing her eight 6-inchers in rapid broadsides, while her 4-inch anti-aircraft guns coughed ineffectually at a Jap spotting plane high in the blue. At the height of the destroyer action our boats went in for the transports.

They disappeared into their own smoke screen, and that was the last Perth saw of them.

At least four enemy destroyers were sunk before the attack broke off and the sun slipped beneath the rim of a sea flecked with the fires of a dozen burning ships. As darkness rushed in from the east the Allied line formed up and cruised towards Java at 20 knots. De Ruyter was still guide, followed by Perth, then Java and Houston.

Somewhere in the darkness, searching, were scores of enemy cruisers and destroyers, and soon that enemy destroyer pack was to revenge itself cruelly for the smoke-screen attack. But before that happened Perth carried out what must be one of the most remarkable feats of gunnery shot during the war. There were no omniscient radar ranging sets up her masts, remember, yet in pitch darkness she sighted, ranged on, fired at and hit with her opening broadside an enemy cruiser nine thousand yards away.

Then, with startling suddenness, a number of flares burst into brilliant light on the surface of the sea. Where they came from -aircraft, submarine, or torpedo-boat- is not known, but they marked the Allied line perfectly.

What followed happened with paralysing suddenness. From somewhere beneath the sea there sprang the white wakes of loosened torpedoes. They shot across the dark water and buried themselves in the Dutchmen's sides. Java astern of Perth went up in a blinding wall of flame; a second later a thunderous concussion tore De Ruyter nearly in halves. Only the most violent alteration of course prevented Perth from slicing into the sinking wreckage of what had a minute before been a proud fighting ship.

With the Dutch admiral gone Perth's Captain Waller took command. Of the whole squadron, cruisers and destroyers, there remained only the Australian and the American.

At 28 knots these two sped south to Batavia, for, though fuel consumption had been light, ammunition was now desperately low. They reached Batavia under cover of three Hurricanes about 1300 hours the following (Saturday) afternoon.

Ammunitioning followed swiftly, all hands loading the long yellow shells inboard, and Houston's plane (Perth's Walrus had been fractured by the violence of her own gunfire) sailed out on a defensive reconnaissance. Just before sunset it returned; or what looked like the American's Kingfisher. Not until the seaplane roared overhead and banked away to seaward did the watching gunners see the red balls on wings and body. Fire was opened, but too late.

So at 2000 hours both ships left harbour to fight their way through what they knew that plane would send for them.

The two forces made contact about 2300 hours that night. Perth opened fire first, on a shadowy shape to starb'd, and those shots initiated an action which for sheer courage and contempt of danger deserves to rank with Grenville and the Revenge.

For one frightful hour the two gallant ships, caught in the revealing glare of a score of searchlights, withstood all a savagely triumphant enemy could hurl against them. From the frenzy of that hour it will be only possible to pick out the most striking incidents and developments.

As if Perth's initial salvo had operated their shutters, great sabres of light opened and searched the silvered wave-tops. One searchlight flared across the quiet sea and wiped its finger along Perth's hull. It went past, came back, and steadied; a baleful, malevolent eye.

Then the whole night erupted into flame and rocked with sound. Scores of heavy guns belched upon them in a roaring tumult that beat the eardrums with physical pain. One broadside plunged upon the flag deck; another shattered the catapult to savage splinters. One shell twisted P1 4-inch gun like licorice and killed most of its crew.

Above the thunder of gunfire and the scream of approaching shells they heard a rushing whine. A black shape shot past in the darkness, four hundred yards away. It was a huge Diesel destroyer, so close they heard her engine-room blowers. The 4-inch raked him with a salvo, but whether it was armour-piercing, practice or starshell captains of guns had no time to check. So many and so close were their enemies that the guns, normal ammunition expended, were firing anything their hungry maws were fed.

Then came the torpedoes. The first hit for'ard of the engine-room. The crew of the for'ard magazine were trapped by a flooding avalanche of water. Two more torpedoes reduced the sick bay and adjacent compartments to a telescoped mass of riven girders and electric wires. By a miracle the nearby 4-inch magazine did not blow up. The fourth torpedo exploded aft.

Houston in the meantime was being hammered cruelly. She lit up the sea for half-a-mile round with the curtain of flame that draped her from end to end. Soon, a glowing hull, she dropped hissing under the sea.

Captain Waller ordered his engines slow ahead to carry his ship, which was still the target of the most intense fire, clear of his men, and ordered abandon ship. They left her then, jumping over the side, sliding down ropes, dropping into Carley rafts. All the boats were splintered to pieces and sank as soon as they hit water. She was carrying a score of native rafts from Batavia on the fo'c'sle, and these, floating off as she went, saved many lives.

And she was going. Her port bow dipped down under till the moving sea creamed up over her guardrails, and the opposite quarter lifted itself slowly from the sea.

Then, her screws still slowly turning, the starb'd ones high in the air, the gallant ship slipped into the quiet blackness of the sea bottom.

She had fought her guts out. Magazines cleared, gun barrels almost smooth, her crew, like her, torn and wounded and desperately tired, she had fought to the bitter end.

Yet her men's suffering was really only starting. In the morning when the hot sun rose it burned upon a sea scattered with wreckage, to which clung men wounded and dying; blinded with fuel oil. The sea itself, inkily, insolently blue, drew all about them the uncompromising wheel of the horizon. The sun's rays fell steeply out of a cobalt sky, and the viscous fuel oil sank searingly into the red raw pores of their skin.

In boats and rafts and on casks and baulks of timber about 300 of them reached Java and were taken prisoner by the Japs. They were sold by natives to their captors for 10 guilders (about 3o/-) each - surely a cheap price for so much glory?

J. E. MACDONNELL, R.A.N.