Chapter 11 1493 Hour Firebrick; Qualifying; Buzz Merchants

THE 1493 HOUR FIREBRICK

IN one of the war's backwaters, where the war had not hitherto made itself felt in action, came a sudden assault on our merchant shipping, plying their trade unmindful of the possible sudden death and destruction which awaited them. These courageous merchant seamen, who were happy to think that they had escaped the rigours and dangers of the North Atlantic and Freetown areas, came at last to the supposedly peaceful South African station. Alas for them! A pack of German submarines had arrived in the same locality with no fanfare of welcome and plenty of targets.

H.M.A.S. Nizam arrived at Simonstown early one morning in 1942 for extended refits, involving all sorts of minor, and a few major, alterations and additions.

Nizam anchored outside the small harbour and all on board heaved a sigh of relief, for we were already overdue for boiler cleaning, and were looking forward to a well-earned rest. But that was not to be; we were to keep up our tradition of always being sent to sea again as soon as we arrived in a new harbour.

By midday we were told to keep steam at one hour's notice, and were eventually sent to investigate an aircraft which had been reported down in a position some fifty miles from Cape Point. We proceeded as soon as ready, and gradually worked up to thirty knots. When about half-way there, we were recalled. As a safety precaution against the weather, which was deteriorating rapidly, we returned to harbour, remaining at short notice for steam.

Early the following morning we were sent off, this time to investigate a lifeboat which had been reported by aircraft as being about thirty miles south-east of the Cape of Good Hope. Little did we realize that the one man we had managed to send ashore was to take us a fortnight to recover. With an R.N. destroyer in company we rounded the Cape, sighted the boat, recovered the survivors, and detailed a corvette to dispose of the boat. We searched the area for other survivors, and eventually picked up three more boatloads.

Suddenly the air seemed to be full of signals from merchant ships-of sighting submarines, of sighting suspicious objects, of sighting things which looked like periscopes-all happening together and covering a large area. To any layman intercepting these signals it must have seemed that the ocean was littered with ships sinking, with ships being shelled, with ships being chased, with stalwart merchant seamen going to the assistance of another in distress, and in turn being torpedoed.

Two R.N. destroyers hopped in and came to join the party. We formed up together to act as an A/S hunting force, started off to go to the aid of one ship being shelled, changed our minds as another was attacked closer to us, and finally carried out a night sweep in the area. We sighted large patches of oil and floating wreckage in the dark, but saw no sign of survivors or boats. However, shortly after midnight we suddenly sprang to life, as a consort on the far side of the force sighted an enemy U-boat on the surface, and opened fire.

The next week was one hectic rush-rushing from one distress message to another; rushing to pick up survivors; rushing back to harbour for more fuel, and to land the unhappy survivors, some hospital cases, some damaged by fire, by exposure, or by blast. One mad rush, with no sleep, little chance for food, little chance for rest.

One evening in the middle of all this turmoil, when operating singly, we were detailed to investigate a merchant ship. This ship, when challenged by air patrol, had apparently given a reply which might have been a coded version of the signal letters of a ship already overdue, and considered lost; she was last heard of when she left Canada with an important war cargo on board. We reached her just about dusk, established her identity as the missing vessel, and the following signal conversation took place:

Nizam: What is your cargo?

M.S.: Mixed cargo.

Nizam: Have you any explosives on board?

M.S.: Yes.

(Sundry remarks in Nizam such as: Not a very communicative blighter, is he?)

Nizam: How much?

M.S.: Fifteen hundred tons, plus war stores.

The calmness of this declaration seemed wholly out of place with the general situation, but we were even more astounded when, a few minutes later, he signalled to the effect that, as he could not make Capetown in daylight, he would stand off to seaward until dawn! We told him to follow us, and led him up the searched channel in the dark to his anchorage.

A day or two later we were patrolling at sea when we intercepted a distress message from a ship which had been torpedoed and subsequently sunk some considerable distance to the south of us. Knowing that she was carrying a large number of men (sailors, soldiers, and air force personnel) on board, we altered course and proceeded at maximum speed towards her position. Our estimate was that we would reach her boats at about midnight. An aircraft was despatched from shore to ~inform the boats to keep together, as help was on the way.

We had been steaming for an hour or two when, by a great piece of luck, we sighted a raft on which were four men. Although the sea was bitterly cold and quite rough, one man, who later turned out to be the Captain, had tied his trousers (his only garment) to a broken oar, and was waving in a feverish attempt to attract our attention. For three days these four men, sole survivors of a Greek ship, had been sitting on this raft (no larger than a small table top) with their feet and legs hanging in the water. All required medical attention. We rescued them and sped on towards the other ship's position.

At about sunset we intercepted another signal which informed us that a Norwegian ship had picked up all survivors from the torpedoed vessel and was requesting maximum protection. Little wonder, for now, in addition to her own crew, she carried about eleven hundred people, with a vastly inadequate number of boats should the worst occur. This courageous captain had stopped his ship, had calmly allowed his own power boat to tow back the boatloads of survivors, knowing full well the terrible risk he was running. The two of us joined him the following morning, having had a small argument with a German U-boat during the dawn period. One of the survivors was our old coxswain, who had left us some months previously, and who had no idea we were in the locality at all. Imagine his joy when, after such trying times as he had been through, his old ship should come up, as it were, and snatch him from the very jaws of death.

The four Greek seamen who had been rescued by pure luck were almost embarrassing in their gratitude, for on subsequent returns to harbour the Captain would be down at the wharf to meet us, for further news of his crew; and when our ship's company was ashore he and his three men would station themselves in various parts of the town to act as hosts to our men.

When eventually reinforcements of destroyers arrived and we were able to continue our refit, we had a small celebration to mark the occasion. On the table in the wardroom was a brick from the boiler furnace, with 2 ribbon round 'it, and a note "1493 Hours".

LIEUTENANT R. A. H. M.

"QUALIFYING"

"Ordinary Seaman Drake!"

"Sir," cried that young rating, stepping forward one pace with creditable alacrity.

"Pack your bag and 'ammick, m' lad," said the instructor, with a twinkle in his eye, knowing full well that those were the words for which the eager youngster had been avidly waiting.

"Am I really on draft, Chief ... where to?" There was no mistaking the joy in the query.

"Yes, Drake-H.M.A.S. Nomad-report to the Police Office at 1300 ready to proceed."

And so those months of training, studying and hard work had at last to Bill Drake's mind borne fruit. Nomad! Boy, wasn't she just the latest addition to the Royal Australian Navy! Thirty-six knots destroyer, and with the fire power practically of a cruiser. Wait till Nancy hears of this!

At last aboard the train together with three other ratings-and with instructions to proceed on six days' leave on arrival at their destination and then report to the local authorities. Agog with excitement at the chance of serving afloat for the first time, Bill addressed himself to one of his travelling companions, Leading Supply Assistant Roy Brook (I Badge, if you please): "Say, Roy-were you ever seasick?

"Was I ever seasick," scoffed that individual. "Well, not the first time, Drakey; you see my first draft was to a cruiser-but from the time I first crossed the brow of a destroyer-why, I was 'smowdge' for a whole week, and then home."

"Did they turn you in then?" asked the slightly anxious Bill.

"Turn me in," cried the L.S.A. with great disgust. "I damn well worked in the victualling store all day, and for good measure did a cypher watch every night."

"He'll learn," muttered a three-badgeman from the depths of his corner.

"Muster the watch-prepare to unslip-fore part fore, after part aft-cable party muster on the fo'c'sle-special sea duty men to their stations-close all watertight doors, square ports and deadlights." The resonant voice of the quartermaster echoed and reverberated throughout the mess-decks, to be met with a hive of activity from watch keepers and day men alike.

"You there, what's your name?" shouted the fore top petty officer, to a forlorn little figure standing helplessly against the bulkhead.

"Drake, Chief," answered Bill promptly.

"Well fer land's sake, man, look alive; or I'll have your awning furled in no time."

With a spring very Ordinary Seaman Drake clambered up the companionway and doubled aft, to be met with a chorus of abuse for his slackness from the chief bos'n's mate. Bending his back and trying not to fumble or appear clumsy, lie was soon immersed in the business of getting the after spring inboard. And so, with a wall from the siren, H.M.A.S. Nomad put to sea and the ship's company settled down, first to make their ship spick and span throughout, then to resume normal sea routine.

Six months passed, at the end of which Bill, now a seaman torpedo man, emerged with some of the rough spots knocked off him, and a more or less useful member of the crew. He looked fit and sunburned from long months of service in the tropics, but, like his ship, untried in action-a fact which chafed him not a little. Now, however, it appeared that his chance was about to materialize. Nomad had been ordered on a job through hostile waters, and, if possible, to return to base within forty-two hours.

just another stunt, said the fo'c'sle, but the expressions the upper deck officers wore belied tills. Aircraft attack was expected and all day the gun crews had been exercising, and lookouts had been increased. Even the idlers-day men-had been called upon to do a trick as lookouts either on the bridge or at the after observation positions.

Now all was ready and it was a remarkable fact that the usual noisy cheerfulness of the mess-decks had subsided into desultory patches of conversation. To other members of the convoy, Nomad appeared to be alive with an expectant eagerness as she nosed through the water and circled like a watchdog around her charges, sometimes flashing an instruction to one who was not keeping station,-at all times alert and with such a force of unleashed power within her as to give the impression that she was about to leap clean out of the water.

Suddenly, during the afternoon of that same day, young Bill started from gazing with superficial interest ,t his magazine. "What was . that?" There it was again-no mistaking that penetrating voice now: "Hands to action stations-look alive, me hearties." Just as those words rang out, the action bells commenced their incessant clamoring.

The magazine fluttered loosely to the deck from nerveless fingers as the grim realization dawned on the young mind. The next instant the lad had sprung to his feet, as, with senses racing and heart palpitating madly, he raced for the first ladder. Up and up he flew, whilst scurrying forms brushed hurriedly past him to their appointed positions.

Exactly one minute after hearing the call Bill was standing by the voice pipe in the transmitting station.

"All guns cleared away, bore clear, lined up, sit."

The strong vibrant voice of the petty officer in charge of the section relayed the information through the headpiece to the gunnery control officer sitting at the instruments 4 the range-finder directly above.

"Warn all positions-enemy aircraft believed heading this way-no Allied fighters in the vicinity-stand by to load with H.E." Swiftly the order was passed-anxious faces scanned the horizon, squinting up into the burning tropical glare.

"Report to the Captain-armament checked and correct."

Gun crews, ammunition supply parties, medical attendants and repair squads settled down to wait-waiting that is almost intolerable in its hellish grimness-for those filthy swine to swoop and roar down from the skies. From which direction would they come? Out of that damned sun probably. "Seasoned" hands chafed at the delay, and cursed Nippon's messengers with characteristic vehemence.

My God, wasn't it hot ... would they never come? The agony of the seemingly interminable suspense increased. Small beads of perspiration appeared unnoticed . . . nerves frayed, stretched almost to breaking point. Someone mentioned the Ph the Nomad was on . . . stupid wretch - of course it must go through. The fuse operator- looked up from his instruments and steadily regarded Bill, eyes moist with understanding. How well he remembered his first "action" . . . screaming of high-powered explosives, the static bursts of the pom-poms, shouts from captains of guns, the terrific roar and repercussion of the H.A. armament.

Noise, smell, sweat

Bill moistened dry, cracked lips-looked at his hands ...

God, how they trembled, those hot and clammy objects. The air was rancid with the odour of men ... strange how one sweated so profusely in moments like this. Shirt and trousers, limply clinging-anti-flash gear stifling.

A momentary vision flashed before Bill's miserable being . . . Nancy! What if she could see him now? Her Bill. How proud she had been of him when he had rushed up to her, breathless with excitement: "Final leave got a ship at last" was all that he had been able to gasp.

Involuntarily the youthful fists clenched, lips tightened into a thin determined line, body braced and erect ... Bill knew he was ready. Even before that cryptic order-"Stand by to repel dive bombers"-came through he had won his first battle.... Let 'em. come.

PETTY OFFICER WRITER G. L. K

A GULL "OBSKEWERED"

Amongst seabirds, I have always turned a kindly benign eye upon that buxomly proportioned bird, the Skua. It has the comfortable and disarming appearance of a domestic hen. Many's the time I've taken a piece of fat pork or bacon to the ship's rail when cruising off the Tom Thumb Islets and, if the wind has been a following one, watched with admiration the quick response of this species of bird-life as it has raced to a position ahead of the ship and then, with perfect poise and precision, turned, and heading into the wind, come gracefully along the side of the vessel to take the food thus offered from the extended hand boldly and fearlessly, whilst the more timid and flighty seagulls hovered protestingly near, so near but no nearer, waiting for a chance titbit to be thrown out to them.

With a head wind, the manoeuvre presented even less difficulties for the comparatively larger bird, for the Skua just gave a few flaps of its strong wings, and increasing speed a few knots, easily adjusted its speed to overtake the ship from astern, and thus secured a meal by being generously hand-fed.

But what a "swallow"! One can well agree with the schoolboy who wrote in his essay on bird-life-"The home of the 'swallow' is in the stomach." The incident I am about to relate happened whilst at anchor off an Australian port a few months ago, and has made me a little more wary of the placid-looking sea hen (as some fishermen describe the Skua).

I was watching a crowd of gulls tantalizing one of them by screeching just out of the reach of its powerful beak. When one of them, a little bolder than the others, got just a little too near, and failed to side swerve quick enough. The Skua fastened its neb into the back of the gull's neck, and then, ducking and ducking its victim under and under repeatedly, eventually drowned it.

What now, I wondered.

Almost immediately the white downy feathers began to cover the water nearby like falling snowflakes as the Skua plucked at the under body of the gull and (ornithologists please note) regaled itself with a cannibalistic feast - a veritable "butcher" bird amongst seabirds.

One would have expected such treatment from an eagle, or even a hawk, but I feel that the fat, friendly-looking Skua has also taken me by surprise with this sudden outburst of savagery - truly outside appearances are often deceptive.

LIEUTENANT A. R. B.

"STORMY"

ALREADY most people are aware of the part that corvettes are playing in this war and that they are manned generally by R.A.N.R. ratings from all walks of life with a leavening of permanent service men. This is a story of one young man, typical of many, and his first few days and weeks on an Australian corvette.

I recall his arrival as he first stepped over the brow, his cap stuck jauntily on his head, the rim of it resting on his right eyebrow in the "old salt" style. After bringing his kit on board, he reported to me, inquiring rather timidly: "Are you the coxswain, Chief?" After going through all the formalities necessary for him to become a member of the ship's company, I sent him to get his kit stowed away.

That day we left harbour and, while proceeding, downstream, young B-- had taken his place with the remainder of the seamen constituting the "fore part" who had fallen in for leaving port. For him the great adventure had begun-at least he -,vas now part of the ship's company of a seagoing ship. I noticed with amusement that he-still wore his cap in the jaunty manner - quite the old sea-dog, and on being told to put it on "square" he complied; but some how it always managed to slip back to the old style.

Outside of the shelter of the bay, the weather had livened up and consequently the monotonous and uncomfortable pitching commenced. B- could be seen on watch as after lookout, stationed on the 2-pounder deck, no longer looking so cheerful but still on his feet, glasses handy, scanning the sea at frequent intervals to spot that difficult target - an enemy submarine periscope.

"How are you sticking, it, son?" I called out to him.

"Not bad vet," he grinned weakly.

The ship's movement increased as evening approached; we were in for a battering this time. "Stormy" (as he was later to be named by some mess-deck wit) had given it best. His practically unconscious form lay in the passage-way and "Stormy" cared not for earthly matters, he had passed that stage.

What he felt, he alone knew, and he was beyond telling. Willing, kindly hands attempted to move him along to the mess-deck for supper, but to no avail.

The following day a real attempt was made to get him out of his coma. He was coaxed to his feet and presented with the essential gear for cleaning the paintwork of the ship's superstructure. "Stormy" wasn't very interested. He could hardly stand, yet he was a trier. He tried to clean it sitting down, lying down, on all fours, with little success. The Captain, passing by, stopped to take in the strange spectacle of "Stormy's" contortions in his efforts to become stable enough to master the job, at first frowning until the reason became evident. "Listen here, young man. Keep on the move and don't give way to it," he advised kindly.

Well meant it may have been, but "Stormy" heeded not as once again he made fast speed for the guard rails for the umpteenth time. By then he must have been working on last year's meals in order to obey an energetic impulse.

However, a few days passed and "Stormy had improved. Seasick or not, he began to take an interest in things generally, and managed to keep his watches. Then we came to a big port, quite new to "Stormy". "Going ashore, m'lad?" I asked. With a long expression "Stormy" informed me he was "broke". Well, he didn't have to worry over that so much, for one can always remember the first big port and how anxious one is to get ashore to see it.

The next morning he came aboard looking very cheerful, cap as usual at the jaunty angle, quite evidently having had a good time.

Some weeks have passed. "Stormy" has had his leg pulled quite a lot, but has taken it very well. He has looked in vain for the mythical key of the starboard watch, and has fallen for most of the usual jokes, the latest being over the gratuitous issue of an article of kit. He was solemnly informed that the "battle shirt" would cost him five coupons and three shillings. "Stormy" arrived at the Issue Room to confront an amazed supply assistant, with his coupon book in one hand and money in the other.

A few days ago he manned a "grass" fender, his duty being to lower it over the side of the ship between the wharf and the ship's side to prevent damage to the side while the ship sheered away from the wharf. Somehow his feet tripped over an obstacle and "Stormy" followed the fender, but, to his own and everyone else's surprise, he landed in some extraordinary position on the wharf. Quickly a Lieutenant sprang to his aid, and he was pulled inboard. Unhurt but shaken, he was

ordered amidships to collect his scattered senses. But not for long. "Stormy" found himself another duty somewhere else, a grin on his face at being chaffed by his messmates as the "Human Fender".

He still wears his cap at the jaunty angle, I guess he always will, and he is no longer worried much by the state of the sea, for he is a "corvette sailor" now, and "belongs".

So another young Australian, straight from civilian occupation and after a few short weeks in a "Shore Depot", has Joined the ranks of those who may one day say with pride, "I helped to keep Australia free."

PETTY OFFICER M. V. C.