Chapter 9 It's the life; At sea in the Old Maid; Men in the Mangrove Swamps; XV-WG

IT'S THE LIFE

"WAKY! Waky! I want your bodies." The coxswain's aggravating English accent, coupled with the deadly drowsiness that always follows afternoon sleeping in the tropics, produces in me and my shipmates a desire to kill, or, at least temporarily render harmless, one Cox'n. This is, in all probability, one of the main reasons why Bill Diddums occupies the position he does. He is efficient,
astonishingly so, as some of the Hostility Only officers know to their embarrassment; he can
manage men and ships with equal ability, while book work is no novelty to him, rather a
matter of tedious routine.

From these few remarks you can gather an impression that Bill is decidedly useful, but consider the added advantage of being able to inspire men to kill, or, to put it more mildly, produce in them the will to take decisive action. Yes, I can assure you, friends, Bill is every inch a Cox'n.

My watch shows 16oo, and with a resigned attitude of body and mind I swing down from my bunk to the deck, and cover my nudity with a scanty pair of shorts. "What's the use of even them?" I ask myself. These dusky Islanders that inhabit the regions where we are tied up wouldn't mind if I omitted to wear anything, surely. But, of course, one has to appear civilized in front of the ignorant savage-thus a satirical and cold form of reasoning from my subconscious and slightly democratic mind.

Ah well, wars can't last for ever, so why worry. My mental alertness is coming to the fore now, and I even feel a little bit cheerful on sighting a pot of tea and a large fruit cake (relic of civilization by about two weeks) on the mess table.

It is one of Bill's attributes, or insight into the functions of human mind and body, that he always gives us plenty of warning before we are required to exert ourselves, and he always has a brew of tea or coffee on hand to make us more fitted for the task. It's just plain annoying to be called on for instant action straight from the Land of Nod.

"Well, Bill, are we on our way?"

"Looks like it, Ross," he replies. Always a careful speaker Bill, or "cautious" is perhaps more appropriate. That's typically Navy, of course. Never make a statement you can be pinned down to, or you'll be blamed for everything imaginable.

By this time, Rex is moving towards the tea. Weston, to call him by his surname, is a genuine Western (W.A.) product. We have three aboard, Rex, Chris Biggins our motor mechanic, and myself. Big, sturdy men, always in the front for work or play, even though I say it myself. We spend a half-hour trying to get a few words in amongst the hubbub of six States' representatives all crying the merits of their fair land. It ends as ever in the unanimous decision to differ. The attitude of one or two representatives is always a trifle magnanimous in the decision, but the others cry down any attempt to reopen the question.

Now Rex occupies an important position on M.L- 429. Although only a motor launch, this type of craft is well armed, and Rex's job is to keep the guns in A1 order, which he does with a thoroughness that would do credit to a man holding a much higher rate. Norm Frost, a "Taswegian", is second in charge of guns, that is, as far as upkeep, etc., is concerned.

I don't want you readers to misunderstand my remarks about the lower-deck ratings first, and think I'm implying that they are the responsible ones for the organization of a ship -far from it. The officers are the ones that take the responsibility, but I'd prefer to let you glimpse the crew first.

The "wet" is being thirstily absorbed by many chaps now. "Smudge" Smith our two pounder man is here; Eric Barry, leading seaman and technical man in charge of antisubmarine gear; Vince Drake, another antisub. man. Vince remarks that he should be "crashed" instead of carrying this -- ship. This is greeted with loud guffaws, somewhat forced 'tis true, but nevertheless disconcerting, especially to a chap classed as "young in the Service". (I am in the same boat.)

Dick Whittington and Freddie Greenfield are conferring on the question of engine rooms and the discomfort thereof, to the idle amusement of G. R. Butcher, the sig. "Baldy" Ashton, the tel., also sees cause to snigger at the expense of the engine-room ratings. Will Patterson, newly joined to our company, sits quietly summing up, as a wise fellow should, and seems to find enough in the topics under desultory discussion to keep a smile playing across the comers of his mouth.

The Cox'n gives us to understand that the trip ahead will be fairly trying, as a small ship's company usually finds any long run, and hints that we may-just possibly-strike action of some sort.

Hm! Action, eh? What is my reaction to that? Well, I don't quite know just what to think. If a chap was on a destroyer or cruiser, action would be a romantic sort of affair. Big guns, plenty of speed, auxiliary craft, probably air support, and a lot of other technical items. But action with the enemy from a motor launch! Well-it would be exciting-yes definitely. But safe? Well-perhaps not-who knows?

My conjectures are cut short, as were, probably, those of some other members who, although we had done a lot of work and general duties, had not tasted action in the raw. It is the first lieutenant's voice, John Trim, 19o pounds of bone and muscle, bellowing "Stand by to slip".

We tumble on deck into the bright light of late afternoon, and squint at the rays of the falling sun, still a fiery golden mass hanging in a sky of hazy blue, flecked by white mackerel cloud in the west.

Thursday Island, viewed from our angle, is alluring, to my mind. I imagine it in peacetime, just a point of call, with a scattered population of whites, traders and business folk, and a smattering of holiday-makers. Rows of coconut palms delineate the dusty streets, with a glistening surface of bitumen curving around the island close to the sea, from the business centre to a point about a mile away where it disappears behind a rusty-coloured bluff, dotted with verdant herbage and multi-coloured shrubs. The atmosphere is deliciously fresh, and the lower wooded slopes seem to extend an invitation to stay for ever; or at least to call again.

And many will call again at these isolated outposts where restless Nature forms perpetual change, in an endeavour to hold to her the heterogeneous minority of humanity that succumbs to her lavish charm. A Nature so prolific that today men pit their every effort against her, and tomorrow, knowing her, rest secure in a balmy land of wonderful and soothing peacefulness.

But war is in progress. We are fighting to preserve our way of life, and so we must not linger here.

Our ship slips away, leaving this island magic a purple and violet blur streaked in gold. It fades still further, and then-night.

We are steaming west across the Gulf. Look-outs scan the horizon in a ceaseless sweep, hour after hour, the watches change and fresh men take over the task.

The skipper, Lieutenant Vic Shortus, appears happy. We are getting places, it seems, nearer to the Jap, where we may get a chance to test ourselves and our training, and justify the existence of small ships.

But many days pass in monotonous regularity, and although our watchfulness does not slacken, nor our keenness, our optimism does begin to lag.

We are now well north of Millingimbi Island, still heading west. Dick Whittington reports a single aircraft on the port quarter. The skipper sweeps his glasses in that direction and holds the aircraft in their focus. He tenses slightly as it approaches, and it is approaching directly, with a deliberate and forceful air. His hand strays to the alarm button, hovers, then strident, short, clanging notes break our concentration. The watch below clambers on deck, clad in many rigs, and one chap in modesty only. Guns are manned, crews standing by expectantly.

It is a moment of mixed emotion for me. Here it is! Action! A tingling sensation so permeates my whole body that I quiver. Is it fear? Excitement? No! It is nature in one of her most subtle moods, bringing a human body to the acme of its perfection. Mental and physical co-ordination brought about by the subconscious, and completed a few seconds before the buzzer sounds the "Open fire".

I am cool, disinterested almost, and assist in e manning of my A/A weapon more as though it was a practice run.

The throbbing of powerful motors pulsating life through to the propellers appeals to y imagination. I listen to Sub-Lieutenant Vear, third officer, and in charge of my gun, as he advises and opines on the attack.

This Jap recco. makes his first run from our quarter, without any preliminary manoeuvres. The aircraft seems almost human, with its two floats like great eyes, looking at me with a fixed intensity. Then as it straightens out for the aiming of its bombs we all have its range, and it seems hemmed in
by rocketing tracer shells. The puffs of explosive shells have been following it in, and form a line across the cloudless blue sky.

A faint whine, then woof! A column of spray rises well astern.

"Missed!" We laugh, and feel exuberant. The little ship is too good for the plane. Nippo banks away and out of range. We circle, and again I feel a surge of pride and satisfaction. It's good to feel the pounding and throbbing. The ship seems alive. It seems to realize how much we are depending on it, and responds nobly.

Everything is well teed up when Nip makes his second run. He approaches from the starboard beam then banks sharply to run parallel with us, turns in, and we all expect a strafing run. As he comes into range we open up with all we have. He seems to stagger. Bursts and flash of tracer must be getting home.

He's closer now, but not close enough to bomb - yet he tries. I see this one as it leaves the plane, which banks away as it releases, and watch its curved flight towards us. We heel over hard a-port and draw away, still hurling a cone of tracer at Nip. Woof! He's missed again.

I'm getting annoyed now. He can't bomb us, but we haven't shot him down. He's two miles out now, on our starboard beam, circling gently to port, then turns abruptly north. He's broken it off, and is making back to his base.

We laugh and natter, as we fill magazines and clear away empty shell-cases. Each one tells of some incident, and we give our impressions and sensations.

When all is shipshape again we adjourn below, and the duty watch continues to scan the sky for aircraft with more gusto and enthusiasm than I previously thought possible.

"Action?"

'Yes! I guess it was action."

'Not very spectacular, and no gain to us."

"No! I agree, but to me it was a very personal thing, and one I'll not forget in a hurry."

It takes a lot of ships to form a Navy. Some seem more useful than others. Some receive more exciting tasks than others. But all are essential, and all do their allotted work to the best of their ability.

"VERBOSE."

AT SEA in the OLD MAID of the R.A.N.

WE had secured alongside only a few hours previously, and everyone was hopeful of a day in port. All had express reasons for wanting a run ashore; some had visions of a glorious brew of the amber fluid, while others, after pusser's scran at sea, fancied something different to eat, and some desired to meet the nice girls that are always found to love sailors. All hopes were frustrated, however, for duty called and the powers that be had decided that we were to be on our way, and once again, few, if any, of the mess deck "buzzes" proved correct.

We turned in the harbour and our consort steamed along abreast of us. A very strong wind had sprung up and the warmth of the ess deck was to be desired more than the ills of the upper deck.

I changed into old clothes and delved into my locker for my "sea-going woollens" and at 6 p.m. took up position for the two hours

the last dog watch. The woollen pullovers and the sheepskin jacket were much appreciated now, for I kept my watches in a small cabinet on the foremast, some thirty feet above the upper deck. From this point can be obtained a full view of the forecastle, and at same time it is in the line of fire of all chilly winds.

The wind was howling, and the seas became e choppy. We were heading straight into waves and, as they broke over the forecastle, the wind would catch the snow-white cap and force a profuse issue of spray hard against the windows of our cabinet. The splashes of spray from the waves soon sought out the cracks and crevices in our haven and this added to the discomfort of being cold and miserable by providing us with a pool of water on the deck. With the pitch and roll the ship it was impossible to keep any of the deck dry, and after more spray we found water a couple of inches deep swishing and swirling from one corner to another.

Two hours seemed to go very slowly, and having to man the earphones was an added discomfort. The pitch of the ship would not permit of standing in the one position for long without holding like grim death to something substantial, and the roll of the ship made the action of the swivel seats similar to that of the "octopus" at Luna Park. But, despite the cold and wet, we made our own fun and endeavoured to brighten the watch by singing songs and spinning "dits" to our mates at the other end of the phones.

At about 7-55 p.m. my relief came up, and I gladly went below for supper, the main evening meal. On the way down, I met one of my messmates. We hesitated at the top of the ladder. I waited for him. He waited for me. And that moment's hesitation saved us both from having a wet seat and no fish, for just then the ship rolled and at the same time the accompanying pitch buried the nose in the swell and a wall of water crashed on the forecastle. Water was thrown on to the flag deck only a few yards from where we stood, and instantaneously a stream of water a foot deep swirled and swished about our legs, and with the roll of the ship rushed down over the ladder on to the deck below.

When this subsided, we cautiously but quickly made our way down. The mess deck was dark but warm; the lights had been dimmed since "Darken ship" had been sounded. And beneath a forest of hammocks, twelve eager faces were seen round the mess traps and scran.

To eat when the ship is rolling and pitching is a work of art, for plates of food, cups of tea, knives and forks, slither and slide from one end of the table to form a hopeless and messy confusion at the other. After keeping a watch in the cold and wet we were all as hungry as hunters, and were not particularly concerned about anything except the quantity, and keenly awaited gash. But, alas, the mess dish was clean as a new pin.

Around the radio a silent, serious group listened intently to the news. In another corner were four sturdy, loud-mouthed sailors arguing over a pack of cards, and amidst the din of this and other chattering we sat and ate. The comics of the mess staged their usual turn. One chap of short thick-set' stature had earned for himself the nickname of "Friar Tuck", and gave his idea of the old music-hall days. With an interpretation of the well-known style of "kipper wit", he sipped contentedly at what he pretended was a pot of 'arf an' 'arf, which was in reality a cup of strong tea. "Curly" (veteran of Jutland) usually wets the tea, and makes such a potent drop that I am ofttimes tempted to use a knife and fork instead of drinking it.

After this meal we cleared the mess, and at 8-30 P-m- were fallen in to clear up mess decks and flats for rounds. The clearing-up process mainly consisted of mopping up water. I then proceeded to sling my hammock in the usual position towards the end of the passage near the waist, and again realized the advantages of slinging a hammock. It was about 9 o'clock when I bonked the bollard head down, and the swing of the hammock soon rocked me to sleep (if I needed any rocking). I paid little or no attention to the water that was running under my hammock towards the scupper. At 3-3o a.m. next morning we were aroused by the shrill sound of the bos'n's pipe "Calling all the blue watch, all the blue watch".

Yes, the game was on again; back to our cruising stations, where bleary-eyed, cold and tired, sat our opposite numbers of the white watch, gladdened by the sight of us, their reliefs, of whom they had been thinking from the time they had taken over the watch at midnight. During our watch all hands were called to exercise action stations, after which we settled down to the remaining hours of our watch. At 8.oo a.m. our four hours were completed and our reliefs came up to take over from us. We went below to the warm but foul air of the mess decks, and after a refreshing wash and breakfast, we mustered for the usual work of the day. The weather was still inclement and the greenies were pounding the upper deck relentlessly.

The usual clamouring and chattering accompanied the midday meal, after which the mess deck looked just like a hostel at midnight. Bodies were flaked out in every conceivable position. On the tables, under the tables, on the mess stools, and on the deck. With the weather as it was, very few had the inspiration to write letters, and with one watch at their stations, the rest of us settled down to get as much sleep as possible, for we knew only too well that we had the first dog watch and also the glorious middle watch. The same conditions prevailed on the upper deck and the middle was miserably cold and wet, though piping hot cocoa halfway through the watch warmed the cockles of our hearts, and served as a reminder that we had but two hours to go.

Dawn action stations again, and then the normal forenoon's work, and so the game goes on, doing our turn on watch as it comes around. By dawn the wind had died down considerably and conditions were a deal more tolerable. The sea was now reasonably calm, and with the increase in speed we were happily on our way with our consort faith-fully tagging on astern of us.

Our happiness is mainly brought about by the fun and ridiculous antics we have on the mess deck. After reading a Wild Western thriller, the boys often stage a hold-up and pull imaginary six-shooters. Maybe some "Jack me hearty"' will spin a horrible dit about a supposed naval engagement, whereupon the mess deck will be converted to re-enact the battle scenes. Teapots serve as machine guns, and everyone endeavours to outdo the next one with sound effects to represent aeroplanes, bombs, pom-poms, and the like.

It is with pleasure that we look forward to a night ashore with the folk we love; the comfort of sleeping in a warm bed between clean, white sheets; without having to keep watches. So now you know why I delight in sleeping in my favourite room and lying there till close on midday while everyone else is scurrying about on their lawful occasions. I declare there should be a lot more of it-so "Roll on, duration", or long leave or something. Till then, I guess I must stay "put" on the "Old Maid of the R.A.N."

ABLE SEAMAN V. M.