Chapter 4 A Day in the Home Life of a CPO; Albino; Floatplane Fred; Preparing for Peace

THIS WE HAVE KNOWN

THE joss-man's huge fist enveloped Tony's hand and squeezed it tightly for a moment.

"Good-bye, Palmer," he said, "and good luck."

"Thanks, master, and the same to you."

Tony turned abruptly and flung his hammock over his shoulder, jostling it into position as he walked up the gang-plank.

For months he had hoped for this draft. He had expected to be pleased. Now that it had happened, he could not understand the ague misery that filled him. His draft ashore meant that he would be home with Edna and his adorable three-year-old daughter at least every second night. Two and a half years' sea-time should be enough for any man, he thought, and yet-this inexplicable feeling.

He paused at the head of the dock and turned to look in mute farewell. He would her again. She would be swinging around No. 1 buoy; or standing out to sea, the spray-swept heads fading rapidly astern. But hw would not be with her.

She looked almost the same as the day he first come aboard. Recently returned from America and Portsmouth, where she had been commissioned from the Royal Navy, she had been undergoing a refit.

He remembered that first day. The Jimmie, resplendent in his white uniform, had struck Tony dumb with awe, towering over him. He had felt just what he was: a sea-going sailor, with five minutes' sea-time in a dry dock.

"Is that how they taught you to stand to attention in Cerberus?" the officer had shouted.

Tony had mumbled some unintelligible reply.

"Well? Speak up, man, and stand up too!" he had bellowed, and roughly seized Tony's shoulders and forced them back until his shoulder blades had ground together.

He remembered with a grin the hurt pride and anger that had flared within him.

The hot September noon hung over the dockyard as Tony's mind slid back into the past....

He saw his ship thrown into lurid relief by the glare of the flames that leaped into the night from a crippled sister cruiser. He saw the blistered guns, eternally pointing skywards as his ship lurched in the spray and shrapnel of bursting bombs; he heard the chilling shriek of the bomber, the steady pounding of the pom-poms, the death chant of the point-fives, the crash of four-inch; he smelt the acrid fumes of cordite, and the stench of fear sweat, but through the incredible din, he heard the voice of his Captain, firm and unshaken, speaking down the voice pipe:

"Steady-steady. Green one oh, half-speed. ... Here they come again-hard a-port-full steam ahead!"

The sun was hot on Tony's bare head as he absently twirled his hat in his hands, the dockyard reverently quiet, to watch the farewell of a sailor and his ship. He raised his eyes to the mast. The direction-finder was gone. He remembered the day that happened. The day the bombers had scored a direct hit. The day Mick had died....

He recalled the quietly heaving sea, a track of shimmering moonlight, like a woman's daring evening gown, flung across its breadth. He heard the soft voice of the Padre:

"We ... commit his body to the deep. . .

He heard the faint sigh of canvas on wood, the dull splash, as, one by one, his dead shipmates plunged into the sea. He thought of a line of doggerel that Maxie had written:

"Little strings of bubbles, bursting one by one,
- Broken chains of bubbles, marking where he's gone....
  - Never more to wander, never more to roam,
    - Down to Davy's Locker-a Jack goes home."

Tony's eyes were stinging, and a hard lump rose in his throat as memories of the past flooded his mind.... The runs ashore in Alex., with Mick, and Doug, and Maxie . . . Rue de Soeur ... the whisky and creme de menthe ... the champagne and Mayra Daphne in Athens . . . the beer in Haifa and Malta ... card games in the mess . . . kai watch by the galley after a bitter two hours on the bridge ... the sodden heat of the magazine, tense with the strain of near-snapping nerves ... the staggering lurch of the old ship, battering Nature's face in the grip of a hurricane off Crete.... The greenies, hoary and grey, that flung themselves upon her, and were contemptuously thrust aside as the gale screamed with rage through her rigging ... the long intimate talks with Mick up on the fo'c'sle, the soughing wind of her progress mingling with the wash of her bows as she pulsed and lived beneath them. They had talked of home, of love, of life, of politics and the war, of Edna and Trina. Edna-his wife, and Trina-well, Mick was still over there, fathoms deep.

The faces of the men he had lived and drank with crowded around him. Doug, Maxie, Tinker, Lofty, Knocker, Blue-they were all there, and one by one they passed. Tony knew now why he was unhappy. He loved this ship. He had loved her while he had cursed her and the Navy that was her. Cursed her as she had lurched through raging seas or ran before a gale. Cursed her with his heart, yearning for home and his wife's dear face, while all the time she had bound his soul more closely to her own. He was leaving her now, and he felt that he was leaving part of his heart. . . .

The dockies were moving about again. Their lunches eaten, they trudged down the steps that led to the bottom of the dock. Her sleek, long hull dwarfed them to pygmies. The raucous clatter of a riveter split the heat apart and shattered the spell that bound him.

Roughly he dashed the back of his sweaty hand across his eyes, picked up his hammock, and turned away.

ALLAN DOYLE.

FLOATPLANE FRED

"An enemy floatplane was destroyed by one of our fighter patrols over Wide Bay, New Britain."

THIS item in a recent communiqué brought to mind a little yellow gentleman known as "Floatplane Fred". "Fred" had endeared (?) himself to the members of the erstwhile Naval Base staff, Rabaul, in the days following the Japanese landing there in January 1942. This little yellow gentleman piloted
a floatplane-hence his name-and his ubiquity was amazing.

His mission in life was to harass the remnants of our forces scattered round the shores and interior of the Gazelle Peninsula. He did not, to our knowledge, succeed in liquidating anybody, apart from a few blameless natives, but his attentions were at times a trifle too pressing for comfort.

His first effort was a dusk affair. He slid over the trees into a clearing and seemingly endeavoured to enter the front door of the house it contained. Meanwhile the ex-base staff, Rabaul, (all eleven of it) fell out the back door and rolled down into a friendly gully at the rear of the house. Fortunately the evening meal was being taken out of a tin that night, and a fire had not been lit; consequently dignity was the only thing which suffered any damage.

On another occasion, some days after the Jap landing, two of the naval party had ascended, with due caution, a bare knoll surmounted by a native house. From this vantage point they could see the ridge on which Vunakanau airfield lay. They were intently regarding this ridge to see whether enemy aircraft were using the airfield as yet when with an angry roar - "Fred" leaped over a nearer and lower ridge, about half a mile away, and headed towards the knoll. With instinctive low cunning he was flying up and down the valleys between the ridges, hopping over the latter from time to time in search of prey.

The pair on the knoll had just time to dash behind the house - the only available cover within fifty yards. "Fred" must have sensed the movement-he certainly could not have seen it, as subsequent events proved him to be as myopic as the rest of his race-and subjected the knoll to a close scrutiny. Round and round he flew, and the fellows beside the house kept just one corner ahead of him. They were nearly sighted when "Fred" suddenly turned about-they barely managed to scuttle behind the comer they had just rounded. "Fred", however, seemed satisfied that his instincts had let him down and resumed his course down the valley followed by a volley of relieved abuse.

A few days later "Fred" was seen sweeping up and down tracks, and over villages, and, at the same time liberally besprinkling the countryside with sheets of paper. They turned out to be invitations to join the G.E.A. Co-Prosperity Sphere, invitations which were rejected forthwith on the grounds of a subsequent engagement.

On the last occasion "Fred" came to close quarters he surpassed himself. As usual, he slid into a large clearing with his motor cut off and, as fate would have it, caught two of the party standing in a patch of knee-high kunai grass. They sank to earth and hoped for the best. They' had plenty of time to meditate on "Fred's" approach. He was so busy leaning out to look round that he almost forgot to switch on his motor again. In fact, for a while, it seemed as if he contemplated attempting a landing then and there. However, his head was suddenly withdrawn when he was within a few yards of the quaking pair in the grass and, with a thunderous roar, his motor revived and he shot off over the next hill. There could be no doubt about his myopia!

Thereafter "Fred" was seen from time to time, but he seemed to have lost his joie de vivre and contented himself with flying staidly up and down the coast. Soon after, the naval party left his hunting ground and "Floatplane Fred" vanished from their ken.

"ANOPHELES."