Chapter 7 Our Old Duck; Crusaders become Pilgrims; Busy Interlude

RESPLENDENT in her full title, she is Supermarine Seagull A2-. To us, she is known affectionately as "Our Old Duck". Noisy, ungainly, and often much maligned, she is nevertheless a thoroughbred.

Was she not built by the same firm that later turned out the now famous Spitfire?

Her speed - practically negligible; endurance - just enough; duties - many and varied, truly a maid of all work. But her successor has yet to be built. Come with me for a trip in her.

On the catapult everything has been made ready. The ground crew has thoroughly serviced her and signed the airworthiness certificate, without which no aircraft may be flown. The catapult's crew has made every last minute adjustment, and the "charge" is in the breech. We climb in, and you sit alongside the pilot, on the starboard side of the small glassed-in cabin. Under the watchful eyes of the pilot and observer you adjust your parachute harness, make yourself comfortable in your seat and, finally, put on your safety belt.

The order comes from the bridge to start up. The pilot makes his switches, presses a lever which operates the gas starter and the engine bursts into life, not with a steady purr, as do most engines, but with a spluttering, popping sound, as if it were undecided whether to run or not. After a few moments, when the engine is warm, the throttle is fully advanced and the ignition switches tested. Satisfied, the pilot throttles back and gives the "thumbs up" to the catapult officer standing on the deck below.

All we are waiting for now is the order to go. It comes. The engine is again run up to full revs and, with a quick "O.K.?" to the crew, the pilot "thumbs up" again, holds the wheel firmly in both hands, and-waits for it. Now, the moment for which you have been waiting for what seems an eternity. The catapult officer drops his flag and "whoosh"-we're off. A terrific push in the back, a jumbled view of masts, funnels and staring faces, and you have successfully done your first catapult launch.

Seagull A2- is airborne and ready to proceed.

Climbing steadily we circle twice, a signalling lamp blinks from the ship, which now seems small and insignificant below us, and we are headed out to sea. We are off on an anti-submarine patrol, hoping it will be our luck to spot one, and to have a smack at it. Many times before the crew has done this routine flight, sometimes over the selfsame waters, but it is all new and very exciting to you. Who knows, you might bring them luck and give them the opportunity to get in that long awaited smack.

After a few minutes the ship is left well astern and we commence our zigzag tracks, eagerly scanning the slightly ruffled surface of the sea for that tell-tale "feather" of a periscope, or that suspicious smudge of oil. Minutes turn into hours and still nothing is sighted, but you go on looking and hoping. It may turn up, you argue. There has got to be a first time.

A vast expanse of sea and sky surrounds you on every side, with nothing to relieve the monotony, not even the comforting sight of your own ship. And that reminds you, where is the ship? You try to figure it out. First you turn to starboard, then to port, until completely mazed you give it up. Turning round to the observer you shout, "Where are we?" He points to a position on his chart and shouts "us", points to another position-"ship". You nod and smile, not very much the wiser, but you've assured yourself that at least he knows.

After consulting with the observer, the pilot now decides to turn back. We've completed our time on patrol and must return before the petrol is expended. Round we go, and a course is set to intercept the ship. After a quarter of an hour we sight a smudge on the horizon. Binoculars are brought to bear and the smudge turns out to be "her". Closing rapidly, we identify ourselves as friendly, circle round and wait for permission to land. Up goes a flag at the ship's masthead. "That's us," says the pilot. He throttles back and makes a perfect landing alongside the ship.

The crane is swung out over the side. We taxi up to it, "hook on", and are slowly hoisted inboard. Carefully we are lowered on to the catapult and secured. Another flight over.

Up to the bridge we go, to make our report to the captain. "Nothing to report, sir." "Right. I shall want you again first thing in the morning-same job." Meanwhile Our Old Duck is being carefully groomed, or whatever is done to ducks, and bedded down for the night, to be ready for the next routine flight. Maybe this time we shall have something to report on our return.

Petty Officer R.C., H.M.A.S. Manoora.

ALARUMS-AND EXCURSIONS THROUGH THE AGES

SCENE: H.M.A. Naval Establishment ashore. Air-raid siren sounds.

1st RATING: Wake up, Joe. Into the trench.
2nd RATING: There he is - only one of the
blighters. No hurry. He'll only be taking our flaming pictures. I'm not playing rabbits for one darn recco plane.
1st RATING: Blighters always come in my watch
below. This bloke looks like one of ours to me.
(Noises og-Crrumph!)
2nd RATING: Cripes that's close. Where's me tin hat? Come on.
1st RATING: Ignorant cow doesn't know how to do a reconnaissance.

As Shakespeare might have done it- Exeunt.

1st NOBLE:
Shake off this downy sleep, death's counterfeit,
And look on danger's face. As from your graves
Rise up to countenance this horror
Being seated in a chariot burning bright,

Drawn by the strength of yoky dragon's necks. Come, haste, my lord, and friendly refuge seek 'Neath the solid rampart of maternal earth.

2nd NOBLE:
Nay, hold, for 'tis but one who wings alone
To pry through every crevice of each wall,

Look on each tree and search through every brake,

That, graven on memory's page, he may reveal, To his fell master, plotting vengeful harm,
Where lie our battlements, and whence shall fly, The quivering wands our sturdy bowmen's eager hands
Shall loose upon our dastard's foe's vain pride.
(The remainder of this manuscript has been lost to posterity-but be careful which lines you criticize.)

	By a Russian novelist of the Turgidov School Serge: Hark the howl of wolves. Let us shelter in your house. Boris: My house has been burned by Balalaikas. Serge: Life is like that. Boris: Perhaps the wolves are not hungry now, as they have devoured my wife and children. Serge: Come let us seek the cold embrace of death. See, I have my revolver-but alas, I have no bullets. Boris: Life is like that. Serge: Here are the wolves. Rejoice, for they are still hungry.
By Andeas of Crete (circa oooiz) Two men of a Southern country on perceiving a strange winged monster debated whether it was come with hostile intent or no. One was contending that it might spy out their habitations and the other opined that it might prove to be of amiable disposition. A missile launched at them by the monster resolved their disputations.
	As one of the Elders would have it- CHAPTER XXII And it came to pass that at the sound of the sackbut, psaltery, harp, flute . . . two of the captains of the host girded up their loins and came forth from their tents. And the one lifted up his voice and spoke unto the other saying: Behold it is the enemy who doth come for to slay us. Let us not tarry here, for this place is evil, but rather let us seek refuge amongst the caves of the hills. But the other was an angered and spake unto him scornfully, saying: Am I a dog or a jackal that thou biddest me hide my face amongst the rocks of the wilderness. And it was so. Selah.
As Pepys saw it- Up betimes and to the city where I listened to the discourse of two sailors but recently returned from the wars. And they did relate how the enemy is customed to drop great cannon balls upon them from flying engines to their great discontent; whereat I marvelled greatly but knew not what to think for these sailors be mighty liars. And so to bed.

SOME time ago, H.M.A.S. Hobart lay in harbour at Haifa, Palestine, under the shadow of Mount Carmel. Carmel is a lime-stone ridge about 20 miles long, which attains an elevation of 1750 feet at its highest part.

Somewhere on Carmel, at a time when the country was suffering severely from a drought
(in the ninth century B.C.), the prophet Elijah (Elias) held a successful contest against the prophets of the heathen god Baal. In answer to Elijah's prayer, there came down fire from heaven and consumed the sacrifice which he had prepared, while the prayers of the heathen prophets were of no avail to them.

Elijah then took these prophets down to the river Kishon, which flows into the sea near Haifa, and slew them there on the banks of the river.

He then ascen6ed the mountain once more and sent his servant to look out over the Mediterranean: and after some time the servant brought news of "a little cloud out of the sea, like a man's hand", which heralded the rain that was to break the drought. The traditional site of Elijah's sacrifice is marked by a Greek monastery at the top of the mountain range -some miles inland, while at a point on the range quite near to the sea is a cave in which Elijah is said to have lived. Near this cave was founded, about 1156, the famous Order of the Carmelite monks, and to-day the site is marked by the Order's magnificent modern buildings erected over the cave.

Many of the ship's company took a few hours off from their warlike duties in order to make a pilgrimage to some other sacred sites in Palestine. One of the places visited was Nazareth, 25 miles east of Haifa. This is the town where Christ lived with His mother, Mary, and His foster-father, Joseph, from the age of two until He began to preach at about the age Of 30. Here at Nazareth is the eighteenth century Church of the Annunciation. It is built over the cave which is said to have been the home of Mary's parents, and where the angel Gabriel announced to Mary that she was to be the mother Of Christ.

About 100 yards farther up the hill is the twentieth century Church of the Carpenter's Shop, built over the cave where Christ is said to have lived with His parents and where He worked with Joseph as a carpenter. Not far from this church is a rival site for the home of the Holy Family and the carpenter's shop, for last century there were discovered beneath the convent of the Dames de Nazareth the remains of two very old churches, which are connected in some traditions with the home of the Holy Family.

In another part of the town is the Greek Church of the Annunciation, which is built over the only spring in Nazareth. For this reason, it is almost certainly the place where Mary would go with her Son to draw water. A little way down the hill from this church, the spring issues for present-day public use in a stone structure known as Mary's Well.

Proceeding farther east, we reached after a few miles the village of Cana, which is the scene of Christ's first miracle, when He changed water into wine at a wedding feast. Farther east still, and suddenly there came into sight before us the blue waters of the Lake of Gennesaret or Sea of Galilee. The surface of the lake is 682 feet below the level of the Mediterranean Sea, and its shores and waters are the scene of a large part of Christ's ministry. It was the town of Capernaum, near the northern end of the lake, that Christ made His headquarters; on a hillside near Capernaum, He preached the Sermon on the Mount: on another grassy hillside overlooking the lake, He fed the 5ooo: and it was the waters of this lake (which can become surprisingly rough) whose raging He stilled and on which He walked.

We continued our journey down the hill until we reached the lake at Tiberias, a town which was founded by King Herod in the time of Christ, and which lies about 45 miles from Haifa. The Sea of Galilee was the farthest limit of our pilgrimage, and we celebrated our accomplishment by swimming in its pellucid waters.

Chaplain the Rev. J.E.R., H.M.A.S. Hobart.

IT is a hot, sunny day, with a heaving sea, just after the noon hour. We are in company with the battle fleet, pushing along at approximately half speed. To port and starboard over an expanse of sun kissed blueness lies the destroyer screen, lifting lazily to a low running swell. We are one of the cruiser squadron stationed a mile or so across the sparkling briny from the large clumsy battle-waggons and ponderous aircraft carrier.

For the past two days we have been steaming along quite peacefully upon "Mussolini's lake" carrying out a routine sweep, and praying that the Hightide Fleet is somewhere at sea, so we may dispute its claim upon Mare Nostrum. Things have been very quiet lately - unusually so in fact - so we are on the lookout for trouble at any tick of the clock.

A few of us off watch are lying on the upper deck carrying on a desultory conversation concerning the recent drawing of the Melbourne Cup sweepstake. Raising his elongated form upon one bony elbow, Lofty whines, "Well, Snow, at least you did draw a nag for your deener." Rolling over to sun my back I reply, "Lot of good he seems to be too' according to the well informed gentry of the mess-deck."

Suddenly the air resounds with the shrill insistent clamour of the air-raid alarm. We scramble to our feet, the only subject in mind being to get under cover with the minimum delay, as we are old hands in such experiences. A string of flags flutters from the mast of the flagship. The ship shakes with the sudden increase of speed as the screws churn the water to snowy foam astern and the bow forces a tumbling cascade feet into the air.

"Aircraft bearing Red 30, angle of sight 6o," snaps a voice.

"Fifteen bombers, low winged, three engined," yells a lookout.

Glasses swivel, steady, then focus.

I crouch under cover, vivid in my memory the stark horror of past atrocities. That refugee ship - aflame from stem to stern, with women, children, and the aged, calling piteously for help. Bloody murderers.

Now the gun-deck is a hive of scurrying activity. Shell lockers snap open, ammo passes swiftly from hand to hand, guns swing skyward.

"Height 15,000 feet," the height-finder barks.

"Rapid salvoes," from the H.A. director.

Shells are hastily fused with the speed of long practice, breeches slam out.

Whoosh! Forty pounds of high explosive metal rushes through the air like an express train. Eight recoiling muzzles are barking defiance. The atmosphere is cut by the sharp whip-like cracks of quick firing guns hurling their deadly missiles heavenward. White mushroom-shaped bursts ring the aircraft. A correction is quickly calculated and applied. Pandemonium seems to have broken loose. Every ship in the fleet is firing.

Suddenly there comes an unearthly whistling sound, rapidly ascending to a bloodcurdling scream. "Down," yells Lofty. We both flatten ourselves on the deck. The cruiser heels over in a high speed turn.

The concussion of thunderous explosions drowns even the roar of numerous gun detonations. Our vessel quivers, leaps sideways through the water. Shrapnel rains a hellish tattoo on the port side. The whole world seems to have gone berserk. This mad din continues for nearly a minute. Once more our A.A. defence can be plainly heard. Men work like automatons, sweat runs in rivulets down their half-naked bodies, they breathe in whistling gasps.

"Got him," screams a voice. A plane disintegrates into nothingness. "You corker," I yelp hoarsely, springing to my feet. Revenge is sweet. They circle-again those ominous hawk-like shapes roar overhead. That heart-chilling crescendo resounds through space. Every one in the open "goes to earth". An apprehensive shudder courses down my spine. A series of resounding blasts breaks the tension.

"They've got the carrier this time," gasps my slender pal.

Sick at heart, I lever myself upward on an elbow, and glance hastily around. To starboard I espy a wall of geyser-like jets and the stern of the disappearing craft. Can he be right? I pray not. He's wrong! I cheer weakly. She steams through it all seemingly unscathed, her guns still snarling their hate.

The bombers make off, as though disgusted with their non-success. But wait. Three small specks hover a moment above those larger shapes, then dive steeply to attack. Some of the Fleet Air Arm seem to have been waiting for them. The sound of machinegun fire can be distinctly heard. The bombers turn to avoid those diving machines. Too late. The fighters are upon them. Two of the foe fall out of the sky afire from end to end. How we cheer. Another comes down in never ending spin, and the rest head for home with those gallant little fighters in full pursuit.

Pulling a handkerchief from my pocket, I wipe the beads of cold sweat from my brow. Thank God that's over. We re-form on the fleet and drop back to our normal speed. Damage is nil, though a couple fell too close for comfort.

Excited chatter breaks out, interspersed with highly descriptive statements concerning the parentage of the fast fleeing airmen. The job of replenishing the ready use ammo lockers is now being done, amidst conjecture as to when the next raid may be expected. The work is soon completed and hands troop forward to tea.

After having eaten, we adjourn to the recreation room to listen to the radio. Restful music seems rather strange after the din of the past hour or so. We are not to remain peaceful for long however, as the loudspeaker booms forth the information that we are to muster on the quarter-deck in five minutes' time.

Conjecture is rife as to the import of this order. Everything from a major battle in the offing, to a change of station, is suggested, only to be quickly countered as another thought is voiced.

We fall in at the appointed time, still chatting animatedly. Quietness reigns as the Old Man walks on to the deck. In a few words he informs us that, with an accompanying destroyer, we have been detailed to bombard an Italian island, which is being used as an air base. The zero hour is at dawn to-morrow.

With our escort we turn away from the fleet at dusk to the accompaniment of signals wishing us good luck. Throughout the night we speedily chum our way through the phosphorescent waters to the throb of high powered turbines.

With dawn, the angry clamour of the action alarm forces all to wakefulness. I spring to my feet and hurry to my action station.

Turrets report correct. Parts of ship report closed up ready for action. To starboard a signal blinks out, "Bearing Red 30, 5 enemy M.T.Bs approaching at high speed. Distance 6 miles."

This looks like trouble. Those boats are travelling at nearly fifty miles per hour on a zigzag course. They also carry two torpedoes. The destroyer turns head on, so as to offer the smallest possible target, then speeds away, guns spitting flames and steel at the quickly approaching menace.

The shrill whine of shells in flight cleaves the atmosphere. Wham. One motor boat flies into fragments, a second bursts into brilliant flames. That deadly fire continues.

Now we are firing. Our main armament thunders forth its song of death. Our objective, the aerodrome, is obscured by palls of heavy smoke as S.A.P. shells continue their work of destruction. The ship reverberates to the recoil of pounding guns. The acrid smell of burning cordite permeates the atmosphere. Everywhere men toil unceasingly, carrying out their duties like well oiled machines.

"Cease fire," commands a voice. This stillness seems strange. Our companion ship has by this time sunk three of her challengers, and the remainder have been put to flight. Together we turn and speed away from the scene of desolation, exchanging signals of congratulation oil the fine work done.

We are now on our way to rejoin the battle fleet, and I really can't help wondering what the new day may bring. Anyway, those Cup results should be broadcast soon.

Telegraphist L.M.D., HMAS Townsville