Chapter 9 First Naval Officer Killed at PNG; Entry & Exit; This is the price

ENTRY & EXIT

THE time is just before dawn. There is no wind, but a warm, misty rain hangs round like a curtain, shutting out all light from the stars and making invisible the line where sea meets sky.

In the past few hours we have been lying to anchor in the easy swell that is runnIng, anchored by a sweep wire and sinker over the stem in fifty fathoms of water, about two miles outside D---. Our consort, full of troops, as is our own ship, is moored to our stem with a long scope of line, and we are waiting for enough light to see our way into the reef-lined little gulf that forms the harbour of D---. Our chart is a hand-drawn map made by a Dutch soldier. It shows in detail all the principal objectives to be secured by a landing party, but carries no soundings-so an element of chance remains.

The sky lightens with the swift rise of tropical dawn. Up comes our sinker and we move in towards the shore at full speed, hoping that our reckoning of the previous night has been correct. This operation has been planned to allow for bomber support, land based planes from several hundred miles away,

and as they can only stop in the area for forty minutes before returning, the plan must work out to the minute. As the light increases, tops of palm trees become visible over the blanket of white mist that lies along the shore, also the mark we have been hoping to find-the iron-frame light-tower marking the entrance.

All hands are calmly expectant, and each man has been drilled in his own particular post, so the ship is silent except for the throb of the engines, and we strain our ears for the drone of our bombers.

Boats are ready and manned, waiting for the word to slip, and to run the first landing party ashore. Men are tightening buckles on equipment and looking their weapons over as the light improves.

Suddenly our planes are over us, timed almost to the second, and at once our scene changes to one of activity as the boats are slipped and run in with the first party-brown men of the N.E.I., dressed in green cover-alls and steel helmets, each man armed with Tommy gun, cutlass and bag of grenades. Their job is to cut off the retreat of any one attempting to get away from D---. We watch them ground their boats in the shallows, their landing covered by our guns, and we watch them rush the first grove of palm trees. Bad spot this - a machine-gun nest would have made havoc with that party, but so far the surprise has been perfect.

Now for our big moment. Our consort has come up with us, and together we round the bend at easy speed into the harbour. As our anchor goes down the bombers are roaring close overhead, swooping down over the astonished population and diverting their attention from our second landing party speeding to the jetty. Our own lads are in this, giving support to the N.E.I. men and seizing the mixed bag of shipping in the harbour.

The surprise is complete; the town is secured in twenty minutes and all hands turn to landing stores and ammunition. There is no time to waste on this job, as we do not relish being caught in the narrow confines of the harbour by enemy bombers from A, not too far distant. Two hours is the time fixed for the whole operation, and before long every prau and canoe in the place is alongside, their coming and going regulated by one of our subs on the shore, who discourages arguments as to boat ownership with the aid of a Tommy gun held under his arm.

During this operation we are visited by Major S- - - in uniform. He is one -of those people rarely met in the flesh, Secret Service, and the last time we had seen him he was disguised as a native and steering a prau. He gives us his despatches - we give him a cold glass of "doings" - "See you again soon" and out to sea again, another job done.

Interval, spent in New Guinea when things were warming up. Word reaches us that the enemy had re-captured D-, also other places we were familiar with, and that the garrisons of gallant and happy brown soldiers were no more, except perhaps for a few fugitives.

We return to Australia and Lieutenant S- - - and two N.E.I. troopers arrive in a stolen Japanese-owned cutter from D - - - * Lieutenant S- - - has a bayonet wound in the chest, and an amazing story. The story of his voyage is a good yarn in itself. He tells how the garrison was surprised one moonlight
night by the Japanese, using very much the same method we had employed previously. Those who had not been killed in the first clash had organized a counter-attack, using bushmen for reinforcements, armed with bows and arrows. Japanese mortar fire soon put an end to that show, but there were still some survivors.

Our job is to pick them up from the beach and bring them to Australia. The time is just before dusk. For the past few days the sky has been cloudless and the sea like the surface of a mirror, and we have been expecting the enemy recco planes to spot us at eighty miles -but our luck has been marvelously good, and now in the calm sunset we are steaming in to where three columns of white smoke stand out against the dark green foliage, the sign that our people are still there. Carefully we sound our way into two fathoms, and our friends come off in praus from the beach.

We scan the boats for the face of someone we know better than the rest, to find he is missing. There are no badly wounded among them, but this remnant is bitter at being let down by lack of reinforcements. They do not want to come with us; all they ask is more men, more and better weapons, and they will recapture the place and take their revenge on the enemy. They tell us of the savage brutality of the invaders, tales that make us want to steam up the coast and blast them with our shells. However, our job is to get away without being seen, and after further protestations the O.C. troops gives the order to embark, wishing that we had no written order to show him. Among the gloom of this evacuation gleams one bright star. A brave Indonesian lady is among the refugees, with seven young children-grown-up little people who were never heard to whimper all the way to Australia, although they had only just escaped butchery at the hands of the Japanese. Major S- - - is missing, and his retainers killed.

Back in Australia, with the Dutch liaison officer down on the pier to meet us Well done, brought it off again!" Now good-bye to the remnant of a brave force, and a thought for those who did not survive. Perhaps we will join you in another party some day, and better luck next time.

A/Lt-Commander S. J. B.

THIS THE PRICE

The landing of the 9th and 10th Battalions, 2nd A.I.F. (ex-"Rats of Tobruk"), at Buna, having been transferred from Milne Bay on board the Australian minesweepers Ballarat, Colac and Broome, the 13th December, 1942

New Guinea, grim, dark green, foreboding,

Ringed by treacherous Coral Sea;

Priceless, aye, our bill of lading,

Diggers game, to fight for thee.

Well Australia guards her mandate

'Gainst the lustful heathen flood;

Hard the price, but great the purpose,

In the land where flows her blood.

Many leagues of heaving water

Crossed we 'neath your dazzling skies;

Resolute our undertaking,

Freedom on our victory lies.

This morn, north our bows are pointed,

Leaving Milne Bay far astern;

Reinforcements bound for Buna,

Oh! Australia, live and learn.

These men, hardened, grimed by battle

In the blazing desert sands,

Go again to guard your honour.

Dauntless courage, steady hands.

In the swelt'ring tropic conquest,

Never seeking vain applause;

One thing ever goes before them,

Life or death in freedom's cause.

Is it worth it? you can answer.

Not for selfish gain or gold,

But for freedom and their country,

Fight they now the fights of old.

Do they murmur at the hardships,

Not for them to question why.

Does it matter if in Buna

Or the Middle East they die?

Plough we on through placid waters,

Creeping nearer to the shore,

Where they'll meet the Nippon butchers,

Where they'll stain the sands with gore,

Should it be? Ah! Who can answer?

They who fought and bled in France

In the 'fourteen-'eighteen slaughter,

They will tell you now: "Advance,"

Hear the truth for all time spoken,

They whose sons that die to-day,

They can tell you, now, Australia;

Stand and listen while you may.

Soldiers, sailors, gallant airmen,

You lose little in the strife;

Gaining all by dying gamely,

Losing only earthly life.

Mothers, wives and sweethearts, hearken'.

Do not mourn them or their blood;

Hold them ever, proud in memory,

Stars above life's stormy flood.

None will ever stand above them,

Theirs shall be immortal fame;

Bright the crown of victory shining

O'er their great and glorious name.

Guard them who return, Australia,

As they guarded you out there;

All, in comfort, you can offer,

Theirs the privilege, treat them fair.

New Guinea, silent, lonely, brooding

O'er the dead we leave with thee;

Shield their graves in dark green splendour,

Bathe them with your sparkling sea.

SICK BERTH ATTENDANT T. A. McL.

CHURCH ON THE QUARTER-DECK

IN the Royal Australian Navy the church services are held on the quarter-deck, which is right aft, in nearly all warships. A special respect is paid to the quarter-deck. Officers and ratings in uniform salute whenever they step on to or leave it and persons in civilian clothes are expected to bow or raise their hats. There are different versions of the origin of this form of respect, but in these days it is regarded as a gesture or pledge of loyalty to God, King and country and to the good name and record of the ship.

In peace time, with warships mostly in harbour on Sundays, swinging around a buoy in calm water, the church service is held in an easily appreciated setting. With a canvas awning rigged to enclose the quarter-deck, chairs and mess-deck stools arranged for the congregation, the lectern fitted with an amplifier, the ship's band as an orchestra, and every pew filled, the chaplain has a grand opportunity to conduct worship with men with whom he is in close daily contact.

In war time, these arrangements are not possible; the ships are mostly at sea on Sundays, the canvas awning is not carried and even the amplifier is a rare thing in the standup services. The chaplain and the members of the congregation have to contend with many difficulties.

The wind is not helpful. Indeed, with the ship speeding, as ships must in war time, I have seen pages tom from the Bible on the lectern by the wind, and once my notes went into the sea and remained no longer dry.

The birds distract attention. I have seen one tiny swallow fly into a church and spoil the sanctuary atmosphere by distracting attention. At sea quite often there are thirty or more members of the feathered families of albatross, gannets, petrels, and molly-hawks following the ship. In their diligent search for scraps of food they give a wonderful exhibition of gliding, diving, banking and turning on the wing and all in the view of the members of the congregation; in fact, right over their heads. One would be unnatural if one were not attracted by their brilliant aerobatics. I delight in watching them at other times, but feel like praying for their removal during the Sunday morning service.

One Sunday morning we were well south in the Great Australian Bight steaming through a pea-soup fog, which reduced visibility to less than a ship's length. I could scarcely see the men on the ends of the lines at the service. But the fog served the purpose of the canvas awning. It was calm weather, we were travelling at reduced speed, there was no wind and there were no birds. The prayers and sermon were punctuated by the weird screech of the fog siren, but we could stand easy on a steady deck.

It does require extraordinary concentration and "sea legs" to get the best out of church services when the "tummy" has to synchronize and the body maintain balance with the irregular movements of the deck. However, despite all difficulties and distractions the Sunday morning service is held with remarkable regularity and is appreciated by many officers and men. Indeed, there is something special about the services held in mid-ocean. It might be that the Holy Spirit bestows a special blessing upon those who attend to worship under adverse circumstances. An inspired Psalmist has declared, "They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters, see the works of the Lord and His wonders in the deep." At any rate, even without the outward aids to worship, it is uplifting and enriching to join in praise and prayer and thus create the awareness of God's presence.

To have several hundreds of men at a service and all of them in the uniform of a time honoured organization is to have a special feeling of unity in worship. It is a great joy to lead a united company of men of all religious denominations in the worship of God. It is a fine demonstration of Church unity when Anglicans, without bothering about the restrictions (if any) of the Thirty-nine Articles, and Roman Catholics, without claiming infallibility, and Methodists, without disturbing their adoration for the strangely warmed heart of John Wesley and Baptists, without going far from the water (perish the thought of total immersion), and Presbyterians, without taking up a collection, worship as a ship's company. In the close associations of shipboard life one finds that, despite a multiplicity of sects and creeds, in the fundamentals of the Christian faith men are agreed.

When the chaplain, as a part of a ministry of manly friendliness, speaks about God, Jesus of Nazareth, and the Holy Spirit, he is given a hearing. If he states, in ~lain language, why God must be recognized in all our relationships and sets forth the practical values of the Christian way of life, he finds that a large majority of the men are interested. The value of the church service is not lost, even though the approach of enemy aircraft causes a hasty Benediction and a dispersal to "action stations".

Chaplain N. H. S.

"KRAZY KOMMANDO'"

Tills is a little story about one Cyril Fishcake, a shipmate of mine and a downright pain in the neck. He was a cross between a Chicago yegg and a George Street gigolo, standing 6 feet 3 inches in his Comforts Fund sox with strength to match. Before the war he earned a humble living tossing wool bales around a waterfront warehouse, and exercised nightly in a gym. His relaxation and only vice was Boris Karloff, Hopalong Cassidy and Superman, all viewed and worshipped at the local. A simple soul was Cyril.

He walked ashore one evening with the firm intention of seeing the latest thriller, but somehow got the theatres mixed, and he wound up at a show called "The Commandos Strike at Dusk". When he returned, Cyril was a changed man. The light of ambition burned brightly in his eyes. Briefly he dropped his verbal bombshell in the mess-"I'm gonna be a commando."

From then on life in our little ship became unbearable. Every night during the dogs, Cyril was to be seen shadow-boxing, skipping and exercising the bulging muscles of his massive body. We already knew that Cyril was as strong as an ox and, when he asked for volunteers to be sparring partners, we were naturally reluctant to oblige. Several of the braver spirits tried their luck after extracting a promise that he would handle them gently, but Cyril simply did not know his own strength, and they were soon reduced to cowering, moaning wrecks. After that little episode, no one would take him on at any price.

Then the idea was born. After much persuasion on his part, he armed two of us with a billet of wood and a marlinspike respectively and said, "Now dis is a square deal. Try and hoit me, moider me if you can. Ain't dat fair and above board?" I agreed rather doubtfully as he gave me my cue to attack. "Dis is what dey calls unarmed defence."

I rushed in bravely, aiming a deadly blow at his bullet head. As quick as a flash he ducked, grabbed me firmly about the waist, and tossed me high into the air. I reached my zenith at about twenty feet, described a graceful arc,

and came down with a thud on the iron deck. A myriad stars flashed before my eyes, then everything went black. I came to twenty-four hours later with my head swathed in bandages and aching in every limb. In the bottom bunk was the marlinspike man with a broken arm and three stitches in his jaw.

Reports filtered in via the S.B.A. that Cyril was worse than ever. The blood-lust had taken possession of him and the entire ship's company was in mortal fear of his colossal strength. Daily the attending list grew bigger in the sick bay, and, as the only two bunks were occupied, hammocks were slung in the remaining space and outside in the starboard alley-way. The Captain and all the officers alternately pleaded with and threatened him, finally promising him a draft, first available opportunity. It was no good. There came 2 day when only the First Lieutenant, Buffer, two petty officers and Cyril fell in. The walking members of the crew were all excused duty.

Eventually the Marlinspike and I were discharged from the sick bay to find the mess decks living in terror of Cyril and avoiding him Eke the plague. The men's nerves were cracking under the constant strain, and all showed bruises and scars, mute testimony to the zeal of our would-be commando. Something had to be done and done quickly. Desperate measures were needed and we finally hit upon a plan to rid ourselves for ever of the menace of Cyril.

That night, when all was quiet, the chosen six crept to his hammock. His steady breathing and blissful face showed that Cyril was deep in the land of dreams. A pad soaked with pilfered sick-bay chloroform was pressed over Cyril's craggy features. He stirred slightly, then lapsed into deep unconsciousness. Not one of us felt a twinge of conscience as we lifted his seventeen stone of bone and muscle from the flea-bag and staggered down the alley-way to the port waist. For a brief moment we poised him over the rail, then Let him drop into the calm sea with a splash. Our duty done, we faded one by one into the darkness of the mess-deck.

Came the dawn, and all felt a little uneasy as we gazed at the empty and still-swinging hammock. But we felt safe, and had our story prepared. Then from aft came a long drawn-out scream of mortal horror. "It's him'. He's come back to haunt us! Aaaaaaah!" And into the silent mess-deck came Cyril, dripping water from head to toe. He looked rather tired, but his battered features beamed happily. There was a second of frozen stillness, then everybody bolted.

Looking rather surprised at his reception, Cyril said, "What's de matter wid youse guys? Say, I'm getting some co-operation at last. Dat's de best spot of training I've had yet. I had to go some to catch de ship, but I made it. We'll do it again to-night, and youse can time O.K.?"

The following morning, the entire ship's company applied for immediate drafts ....anywhere.

Signalman G W W