Awards to Australian Naval Personnel; Gate Crashers; Spud Run

Able Seaman by B3/59. This young Able Seaman is the counterpart of thousands of Australian naval ratings serving in ships and establishments of the R.A.N., and also with the Royal Navy. Their area of service is world-wide, so that at all times and in all seas, Australians, speaking of their own, may say "The Navy is here."

AWARDS TO AUSTRALIAN NAVAL PERSONNEL

As an early peril came the magnetic mine, and in November 1939, when a British cruiser was heavily damaged in the Firth of Forth, Australia was represented by Mr. Venus, Commissioned Ordnance Officer, and Petty Officer Ian Cowie. P.O. Cowie was later to see high adventure in H.M.S. Scimitar during the French campaign.

The Norwegian campaign gave most of our anti-submarine men their first taste of real warfare, and it was en route to this theatre of war that one of them gave his life in action, and must hold a high place in Australia's roll-of-honour. A.B. Claude Bampton was in H.M.S. Glowworm when that ship was compelled to separate from her consorts for a time on April 8, 1940, and fell in with a strong German force; she was overwhelmed after a gallant resistance, losing 160 men.

Able Seaman Williams and Whittington were fortunate to survive the ramming of their destroyer by a merchant ship in a North Sea convoy, and survived adventure in other ships before reaching the Mediterranean in Australian destroyers. Able Seamen McDougall and Langton in H.M.S. Havock, after operating in the North Sea and Arctic saw the first Battle of Narvik before going into further action in the Mediterranean. Here they were in at the kill of the Bartolomeo Colleoni, at Greece, and at Crete. Langton returned to Australia with a Distinguished Service Medal, and McDougall after all this was lost in H.M.A.S. Sydney. Able Seaman A. Kennedy, after arduous Arctic work, survived the dive-bombing attacks which sank his ship, H.M.S. Gurkha, on April 9, 1940, but soon afterward lost his life in an air attack on another ship.

Numerous others could be named, but let us finish off these classes of ratings with Able Seaman Douglas Cousins, serving in H.M.S. Nubian. He saw the "Altmark incident", the landing and evacuation of Namsos and Trondheim, during which time his ship sank a U-boat. Nubian moved to the Mediterranean and "broke through", losing a consort off Pantellaria; was with Illustrious during her ordeal and during the Taranto attack; in the Battle of Calabria, and through the Libyan and Greek campaigns. Unfortunately ill-health finished his adventures and has since caused his discharge from the Service. Small wonder!

I had the fortune to form one of a party of four R.A.N. petty officers who had just started an exchange period of two years in the Royal Navy when war broke out. It so happened that all
four of us saw an interesting series of events before that period had elapsed. Petty Officer A. Fisher, torpedo gunner's mate, offered his services in the submarines, and was soon at sea in H.M. Submarine Truant, which became one of Britain's most successful submarines. During a patrol very early in the war, P.O. Fisher's well-tended torpedoes sank two of the first German merchant ships to fall to our submarines; and during the Norwegian campaign Truant rendered magnificent service at a time when Germany lost 28 transports and possibly io others. 

Perhaps her finest effort was the sinking of the 6,000-ton cruiser Karlsruhe. On this occasion Truant endured a depth charge attack of terrifying magnitude. When she was transferred to the Mediterranean, her luck held, for on the way she intercepted a German ship which was the floating prison of the German raider's victims. P.O. Fisher has since kept up the good work of harassing the enemy and to date has earned himself the D.S.M. and a mention in Despatches.

Petty Officer M. McDonald, soon after arriving in England, joined the battleship Resolution, and after convoy work in the Atlantic took part in the unfortunately necessary action Of July 3, 1940, when British ships inflicted heavy damage on the French Fleet at Oran. Here, P.O. McDonald had the rare thrill of being away in a boat which found itself placed between the opposing forces, but came through it to serve later in Norwegian waters in H.M.S. Sikh. He is now in an Australian destroyer.

Petty Officer R. J. Fleming, gunner's mate, took an active part in the training of a landing force of the Royal Navy, and with the invasion of Holland in May 194o he took a platoon to that country to cover the operations of naval demolition parties in Amsterdam and the important canal port of Ijmuiden. Dive-bombing, fifth column and parachute-troop activity all served to give him a lively time, but it is sufficient to say that the performance of his duties was such as to gain him the Distinguished Service Medal. Later, in H.M.S. Sikh, he saw the destruction of a German convoy and escort off Norway in a dashing action. He, also, is serving in an Australian destroyer.

It came my way to serve in H.M.S. Vega at the outbreak of war, and after North Sea convoy duties, we went to the continent when the fighting started there. Vega took part in the successful blocking of the Bruges Canal at Zeebrugge in face of considerable opposition in May 1940; assisted at the withdrawal of the B.E.F. from Dunkirk and Le Havre, and in June successfully blocked Dieppe harbour with three blockships. After this, in H.M.S. Somali, I saw operations against Norwegian ports before returning to the R.A.N.

Without touching on the excellent services of the R.A.N. officers who saw, and are seeing, service with the Royal Navy and Allied navies, the foregoing cases, quoted at random from hundreds that are similar, may serve to show Australians an interesting delight on Australia's contribution to the conduct of the war.  For here we have reviewed briefly the nature of the work, during the first years of the war, of those men of the R.A.N.-Australian born and trained-who found themselves serving outside the armed forces of Australia. Petty Officer D.W., ex "Gate Crasher".

Believe It or Not !

SPUD RUN

The secretary has charge of the ammunition supply, the stokers man an Italian Breda gun which they "found" in Bardia, the seamen give the chief stoker a hand when oiling ship, the stewards help to load the depth charges, and all hands are lookouts.

The vibration eases a little and the engineer officer, putting his voice-pipe to his ear, hears the "ting ting ting" of the telegraph above the hum of the engines. "Coming down," he murmurs. "Must be getting near." He hitches up his lifebelt and reaches for his gloves and torch.

On deck it is completely dark. He stands for a moment or two to allow his eyes to become accustomed to the blackness and then cautiously feels his way forward towards the engine room. The narrow decks are piled high with cases of ammunition land lines, detonators, medical stores; bags of potatoes, onions, cabbages; boxes of tinned fruit; and, in the lee of the boxes, little groups of soldiers sit silently, their rifles between their knees.

He feels his way past them, draws aside a canvas screen, and drops down the ladder into the hot brightness of the engine room. "All ready for anchoring? Steam on the capstan?" All ready. The telegraph sounds again: "ting, ting, ting", 200 revs, 20 knots. Bring her down gently.

On the bridge the captain and the navigator gaze long and steadily through their night glasses into the darkness ahead. There she is, Sir, says the navigator suddenly . Away ahead in the distance a faint blue light burns for a second and goes out.

"Steady on the light," says the captain, "and bring her down to 10 knots ." He puts his head under the canvas screen of the chart table for a moment and then reappears with a cigarette glowing between his lips. 

The destroyers glide gently into harbour past the wrecks. Close to starboard the burnt out hull of the old Italian guard-ship San Giorgio lies on the mud, the twisted guns of her wrecked turrets pointing grotesquely to the sky. 

She is only one of some 40 corpses in this graveyard, and the number grows from week to week. Somewhere under the water are the remains of one of the "Junks", a sister ship of the Dexterity.

She has been there only a few weeks.

"Oh, shut up, chief, and put something over that damned hatch. It's like a ruddy searchlight. Do you want a six-inch 'brick' in our guts?"

The chief grins, climbs carefully over a pile of mailbags, and feels his way aft to the wardroom. He goes carefully because the guard rails are down and a slip might land him among the steel ammunition cases which are clattering down the mess tables which serve as chutes into the waiting lighters.

The captain is in the wardroom. He has a sardonic mouth and steady blue eyes slightly bloodshot -to-night from sand and spray and lack of sleep and long hours of searching the darkness with high-powered night glasses. He is drinking a small beer. His conversation is colourful.

"Hullo, chiefie, my love. Have a snort. Steward, bring my friend the engineer officer a can of suds-and bring a flock of hooch for these other officers and gentlemen. Engines all right, chiefie? Good! Well, get all your kettles connected again in about three-quarters of an hour and stand by to give her the works. We'll be out of this dog hole like a bat out of hell. Oke?"

"Aye aye, sir," says the chief as the captain leaves. He has a couple of expansion glands leaking badly on his H.P. turbines. The temperature down there will be about 140 degrees until daylight, when he can open up the hatches and let the steam out.

He lifts his glass. "Well, here she goes. First to-day," he announces, wiping his mouth with the back of his leather glove.

"First for six months," answers a young subaltern from the settee. His shirt and shorts are bleached almost white with the sun and his worn boots are thick with dust. His arms and legs and face are burnt almost as black as those of the little Indian captain who sits beside him, sipping a glass of water. There are six officers going out tonight. They have just come in from the perimeter. They have put on clean uniforms for the occasion but their hair is full of desert sand. Not much chance of a shampoo on half a gallon of water a day. They look tired as they sit crowded on the settees with their bags, gas-masks and tin hats strewn about the deck at their feet. Two of them are already asleep with their hats over their eyes.

A little sergeant-major is sitting at the wardroom table checking over a list with the sub-lieutenant. "Forty cot cases, three walking wounded, 20 prisoners with escort only Eyeties - six officers, 150 other ranks, 500 empty cases. . . ."

The sergeant-major has been laid up for a few weeks. A bomb fell in his office and got him in the leg, but he was more concerned about his uniform which was ruined with office ink. He prides himself on his appearance. He holds his glass up to the light. "Here's your health, sir."

"How's the leg?" asks the sub.

"Almost well again, thank ye, sir."

"That's the worst of you Pommies," says the doctor, coming in wiping his hands and smelling vaguely of disinfectants, "You can't take it."

"Wounded all in?" asks the sub.

"All in," says the doctor. "Not a bad lot. Burns and breaks as usual. A few bad burns, but they look worse than they are-this new treatment -silver nitrate, aniline dyes-turns 'em black like Indians. I've got 'em all comfortable now. Shot of dope to help 'em sleep till morning. They'll be all right if Father doesn't roll 'em out of their stretchers dodging bombs in the morning."

He is interrupted by the sound of gunfire, slightly muffled, coming down the ventilators.

"Red warning," says a signalman at the door.

'Blast!" says the sub., picking up his tin hat and making for the ladder. "See you later."

Outside, the guns are firing heavily now and there is an occasional heavy double crump-wump" of a bomb. The ship shudders slightly and there is a little smacking sound on her side under the waterline. One in the sea - not too far away.

The mail officer comes in. He is sweating and has lost his hat. His head is shaved and his ears stick out, but his face, with its broken nose and square chin, has a rugged beauty. He does not mention the air raid. Letters are his business. The 5o bags of mail are all in the lighters. He threw most of them in himself. "Fifty bags," he says, wiping his forehead. "I think they must fill them with lead or something."

"I've saved some papers for you," says the doc. "Picture papers mostly-lovely ladies to pin on the walls of your mess."

"Thanks, doc., but we ain't got no mess. Tobruk Annie got it to-day."

He tells a story about an Indian patrol that went out to silence Tobruk Annie. They got there all right and slit the throats of all the crew, but left the gun intact. Said they had no orders about the gun.

"That is not strictly accurate, I think?" murmurs the little Indian captain.

"Maybe not," says the sergeant-major, collecting his papers, "but it's a good story. Like the one about the dam fool Aussie who chased a tank on a bicycle and stopped it with a crowbar . . ."

"And blew the crew to hell with a grenade when they opened the hatch to investigate," adds the doctor. "But if you want a true story for your memoirs, what about the two young Aussie officers we brought in with us to-night? They got leave from Mersa Matruh and came here to Tobruk for their leave."

"Mad!" decides the sergeant-major.

Outside in the dark on deck the unloading is almost finished. The last few boxes are being slid down the mess tables into the lighters. A petty officer is supervising the setting up of the guard rails. The weary sailors sit about on the deck eating oranges and sweating. All around them soldiers, newly arrived on board and top-heavy with their kit, are bumping and slipping about in their steel studded boots as they feel their way about in the darkness. Piles of kit bags, acrid with the smell of dirt and sweat, block the narrow gangways.

The air raid is over but something is happening away over behind the town. Lights flicker and flare up and then die down. A fire is burning somewhere over to the westward, sending columns of black smoke up against the stars. There is a low rumbling sound.

"Slight patrol activity," quotes a broad Yorkshire voice in the darkness, and someone laughs shortly. Out there on the perimeter the patrols are creeping out over the sand -hard faced Diggers and quiet Indians and little sandy-haired cheerful men from the Midlands.

The lighters are shoving off now and the voice of the first-lieutenant preparing the ship for sea is drowned by shouts and catcalls: "Give my love to Alex! Have a couple of pots for me! Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" and the answering hails from the ship: "Look after yourself, Dig! See you next trip! Save us a coupler tanks for the kids, Bill!"

Now the lighters have gone off into the darkness. The destroyers are ready to sail. The captain stands on the bridge straining his eyes into the night.

"All secured for sea, sir!"

"Main engines ready, sir!"

"Right oh, No. 1. Thanks, chief. Yeoman, make a signal to Dexterity  - 'Weigh and follow me out.' Forecastle! Heave in! Cox'n, ring on the engines!"

Down on the iron deck the soldiers are settling down, making themselves as comfortable as they can. A few stand round the engine-room hatch, drinking cocoa and peering curiously down into the steamy engine room. The chief engine-room artificer stands in the hatch with his feet on the ladder. He is chewing a sweat rag. "What can she do, choom?" "Thirty, maybe." :, New ship?" 'New last war. Not so new now, but she goes . . The telegraphs clang and the C.E.R.A. slides from view. "See you later, choom!" 

A mouth organ starts playing softly and four soldiers perched on a lifebelt locker break into song. They harmonize well, as if from long practice. It is a mournful dirge of innumerable verses and each verse ends with the words:

Wi-i-i-ith my 'at on woon side."

"Put a sock in it," growls a voice.

A couple of torpedo men, sitting on their tubes, start up a rival song. "So we'll all go back to Gozo land The tune is from South Africa but the words are pure Navy.

"To Gozo land, to Gozo land, where they don't know sugar from......."

A high rushing sound drowns the end of the song and a column of white water rises up a hundred yards astern. Another shell whistles overhead and every one ducks 'instinctively and laughs self-consciously.

"Just getting out in time; the cows have started shelling again."

Up forward in the darkened galley flat the ship's cooks, Dill and Daffodil, are ladling out cocoa - "kie" they call it. It is hot; and thick as paint. The air is pretty bad here but nobody seems to notice it. The soldiers push and jostle good naturedly round the galley door. The ship is under way now, but they don't know-or care. Sailors push past them as they hurry to their night defence stations.

In the mess-decks, the wounded lie quietly in their stretchers looking at the rivets in the deck-head and listening to the gentle slap of the water against the ship's side. Some are smoking and those who can are drinking kie. There is a heavy smell of dressings and dirty clothes and oil fuel. They lie quietly, feeling the motion of the ship.

Down in the wardroom the six officers are asleep, unconscious of the steady beat of the propellers and the gentle shaking of the ship as she gathers way. The secretary draws a curtain to keep the light off them before settling down at the mess table to work at his ciphers.

The ships are feeling their way out of harbour now, dodging the wrecks. Soon they will be away, speeding towards the brightening eastern horizon. The crews sit silently around their guns waiting for dawn action stations. The soldiers huddle together on the lee side, talking in low voices and smoking cigarettes whose glowing ends they conceal in their hands.

In the engine room the watch keepers, stripped to the waist, stand dripping under the fans watching the gauges. Twenty-seven knots, 270 revs, vacuum 25 inches, oil pres

sure O.K. The gears hum as the turbines increase speed. The chief E.R.A. watches his. leaking expansion glands anxiously as the pressure rises. Steam is hissing into the engine room. The temperature goes up and up.

"All right, Jack. I think they'll hold. Let me know if they get any worse. I'll be on the hatch."

On the bridge the captain takes a last look around. "Right oh, officer of the watch, she's yours. I'm going to have a bit of shut-eye. Call me just before sparrow fly."

He slides down a short ladder and steps through a sliding door into his sea cabin. As he closes the door the lights come on. He smiles at a photo of a beautiful woman which is propped up against the bulkhead. It must be about lunch-time in Sydney now. He kicks off his sea boots, opens the sliding door and lies down on his bunk in the darkness. Just outside in the wheelhouse the quartermaster stands like a statue, faintly silhouetted by the light from his steering compass. The wheel turns gently under his hands.

Down in his cabin the chief is finishing off his letter: "Life goes on much the same as usual. We get a bit of excitement sometimes, but nothing to compare with the excitement I'll feel when I see you once again. It's been a long time, hasn't it, old girl? Nearly two years now. . . ."

Back in Tobruk the last lorry has been loaded and is climbing away from the battered jetty, up the dusty road through the dark empty ruins of the town and away across the sand.

The moon is coming up over the hills to the east, and out on the perimeter the patrols are coming in.

"KAMLOOPS"

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