Chapter 6 Sun Worship; What Chance 'av 'ya Got?; A Full Year; Cockroach; Tollio

"WHAT CHANCE 'AVE YER GOT"

I can't understand just how it is that the raniks haven't worried you yet; perhaps you haven't been in the Service quite long enough-but there is no escape!

Your question reminds me of the time we got the new pilot from the Air Force to fly that damn thing off the catapult; a nice lad he was, didn't drink much-not as much as a horse anyway. He had all sorts of bad luck right from the start; little things, y'know all his gear went to the wrong ship for one thing, and that never is funny.

The first time we shot him off he went away like a clay pigeon all merry and bright, but blow me down! he had only just got nicely clear when he started to splutter, and he finished up in the usual place. There was the customary hooting and tooting and bawling, but we had him inboard before his teeth started to chatter.

We were quite relieved to see that he wasn't hurt, but we were all astonished to see the look on his face. There was a hunted look in his eyes - sort of defeated like. Anyway, whilst everybody was rushing about, getting his machine inboard, we got his clothes off and he sat in the sun with a tot of grog we found for him, and he hadn't said a word.

So we were all ears when he drained the glass and said, "Blasted gremlins! Gremlins again! Always ruddy gremlins! I saw them uncouple my throttle-rod and walk off with it! What can I do? Oh, what can I do ... ? "

We stared at our feet and nobody spoke.

There was one of those awkward silences like there is when the Bloke looks up and asks, "Have you got anything to say?" There never is.

Then the pilot spoke again: "Sorry, chaps. You just couldn't understand. You Navy blokes don't know how lucky you are; no gremlins to worry about - you wouldn't be able to see them anyway - they only inflict their infernal tricks on us. Some of the chaps get on all right with them, but I don't. I know you think I'm 'round the bend', but I'm not. You just don't understand!"

We wouldn't understand ... ! Well, that's funny if you like!

Still, we said nothing, and shuffled off as quietly and gracefully as we could, with our own deep problems; all except the stoker. that is. He stayed to get the pilot into a dry boiler-suit.

Next forenoon I was looking over the wreck of the plane lying in a heap on the deck when the pilot strolled up to me and said, "She's a bit of a tangle!

I admitted she was, but reminded him there were plenty more.

I asked him if he felt all right and after some hesitation he said, "Ye-es. I wasn't hurt. you know, but I'm sorry about yesterday. If I'd known you had your own species of gremlins I wouldn't have 'dripped' so much about my worries."

Rattled, I asked, "Who told you?"

Again the hesitation before he answered, "Oh, one of your secret society!"

"Secret society?" said 1. "What secret society? "

"Oh, I know all about it: that lad in a dirty sweat-rag told me yesterday. Said he was in the Black Gang - one of those secret 'Tongs', I suppose. I thought you were in it too. Anyway, he told me all about your raniks--"

"He told you what?" I shouted.

"Oh, you know-the Navy gremlins that have been worrying you ever since Trafalgar' "

So our well-kept secret was out at last and to the junior Service too! It took the wind out of my sails, I tell you!

You see, we have kept the secret for so long Nobody would have believed us, and it has always been a secret sorrow with us - often mistaken by the general public for modest reticence. We aren't modest; we're just plain worried.

And now, after all these years, somebody goes and blows the gaff! Wouldn't it rip a plate off you?

The pilot was talking again. He asked rather sheepishly, "What do yours look like- ". I told him they looked something like the imaginative drawing of a squander-bug, but they wore clothes. He nodded wistfully and understandingly and asked:

"Do they have suckers on their feet so that they can walk on the underside of a wing? "

I told him they had them on their hands instead so they could swing along the deck head like a monkey and leer at you when you were at your wits' end trying to account for seven tons of fuel oil which you knew damn well the raniks had run off into the bilges and pumped overboard.

"But tell me," he said, "why do you call them 'raniks'? After all, they are very similar to our gremlin, aren't they?"

I explained to him how they were just plain "iks" about the time of Trafalgar-and look what they did there; changed the signal that Bunts had so carefully assembled, from "Free grog all round after the stoush!" to "England expects . .

Then they drifted into the German Navy just before Jutland, and cripes! their fleet never came out again; and it wasn't long, after that the whole fleet mutinied! The German mind is not capable of humouring them like we are. They couldn't cope with them at all. The German sailors called them "paniks", incidentally. Then of course we got them in the R.A.N., so the derivation is obvious.

The Fleet Air Arm have a peculiar hybrid known as the "gremik" which was produced about the time the old Royal Naval Air Service started; but, as I say, they are a hybrid and rapidly dying out because they can't breed. This makes them very recalcitrant, stubborn and vicious. They've even been known to bite pieces out of a man's Mae West.

Our raniks are not so bad unless they get upset-they can't touch an airman or a soldier of course-but once they hear us scoff at them, or mistake them for the hallucinations of D.Ts, they go stark mad and it takes months to get on the right side of them again!

Like the time we were taking fuel oil and water in Darwin and I was watching the filling valves; I was feeling pretty grim at the time as we had tried out a new brew of jungle juice the night before and I got very worried when I saw these small, ugly imps dancing on the filling valves. I had never seen them before and I called to a stoker P.O. who was passing at the time, "Charlie, come here! Do you see those horrible goblins on the filling valves' ,

He looked at the valves and said, "Goblins be damned; them's raniks! " and he walked off quite unconcerned.

But just for a little mistake like that those raniks gave me a dog's life. They changed the valves over and after an hour's steaming the furnaces spluttered and died, and the Bloke had the first shower bath in fuel oil in his life!

Yes, they gave me a grim time for a month or two, but they are not so bad now. They are quite happy to mix the salt with the sugar in the galley; drink my grog and fill the bottle up with water; fill the motor-boat gas tank with water so that the first lieutenant gets stranded in mid-harbour in the rain; change my letters in the envelopes so that my wife gets the letter a barmaid in King's Cross should get-and vice versa; they yell down the voicepipe in the voice of an O.D. and I say, "What are you screaming about?" and I find it's the Bloke I am yelling at. Little things like that they do to me now, not nasty - just playful; and I'm lucky to get off so light.

Well, y'know, I told that pilot all this just as I'm telling you and he was looking his old self again so I went on to tell him how the raniks shift everything around when panic stations sound at might; you try to put your ,Mae West on your head and tie your tin hat on your breast like an unbalanced Amazonian lady; you try to get through your locker door into the alleyway and the mob think you've got the wind up; you rush for the flooding-valve keys and find yourself in the heads! And of course the raniks in the magazine have been busy too, and the Gunnery Bloke is frothing at the mouth and tearing his buttons off because "practice" ammo is coming up the hoists!

Gremlins! who would worry about a miserable little gremlin?

I had almost finished my dit with that pilot (and he had tears of sympathy in his eyes), when I saw the Crusher coming along the deck with an armed guard and I wondered who could have been kicking over the truck; I knew I was all right because I'm sure it was a sick-bay tiffie's voice that had told me I could leave the sick bay.

But dammit - they stopped in front of me! The Crusher looked at me a bit queer like and read off a bit of paper:

"Heppletwistle, W. You are arrested for breaking out of sick bay whilst under treatment for advanced alcoholic poisoning."

And he looked at me and said, "Coming quietly?"

I spluttered, "Who? Me. . . ? "

But he nodded to his lads and they sort of encircled me.

By the way, isn't that the Crusher and his blokes coming along the deck now .

Aw, what chance 'ave yer got . .

"SEA BEAST"

A FULL YEAR

COMMISSIONED early in July 1944, the first year of service for the frigate H.M.A.S. Hawkesbury proved to be one of the busiest and most colourful any ship could wish to experience.

Few escort ships could lay claim to the wide and varied tasks that the Hawkesbury carried out during the 6o,ooo miles she covered in the first year of commission, and many strange and fascinating places were visited by the ship.

One of the first tasks allotted to the vessel on her way to her operational base was the ferrying of a large number of Australian troops to Potsdam Harbour, on the northern coast of New Guinea, but being primarily an escort vessel the greater part of her work consisted of convoy protection duty. However, in addition to the usual run of big, small, fast and slow groups of ships that go to make convoys, the frigate also made long fast trips far into the central Pacific to escort aircraft carriers en route from America to their Pacific operational bases. Submarines, too, were escorted back to their bases after long periods spent hitting at enemy shipping up around the Japanese home waters. In one of the queerest assortments of vessels ever to put to sea together, Hawkesbury and American destroyer escorts spent fourteen long days escorting eighty-six craft nearly 2000 miles under difficult conditions.

Rescue work was by no means the least of the frigate's duties, and she earned for herself a commendation from the Naval Board for her work in rescuing large numbers of survivors from a blazing and sinking U.S. troop ship. In addition to the rescue work, Hawkesbury went in close to the stricken vessel, finally secured her bows to it, and pumped water on the fire until salvage craft arrived and ultimately saved the ship.

Early in 1945, after a brief respite in Brisbane, Hawkesbury took the Minister for the Navy (Mr. N. Makin) on a tour of northern bases, and later in the year the then First Naval Member-Admiral Sir Guy Royle-made the ship his headquarters during his stay in Morotai.

Hawkesbury's work took her from Palawan to the Marshalls, from Leyte to Guadalcanal, to Borneo, Darwin, New Guinea and the islands of the Netherlands East Indies.

With her sister frigates Barcoo, Burdekin and Lacb1an, Hawkesbury was in the initial landing of the Australian forces at Tarakan in Borneo, and took part in the bombardment of enemy positions. Later Hawkesbury, with Barcoo, also participated in the Brunei operation, and these two frigates made several trips there with supply convoys.

One of the ship's most interesting trips was into the islands of the Netherlands East Indies, where valuable Intelligence work was carried out in co-operation with the Army. Japanese occupied islands were bombarded and shore installations destroyed, while much information was gleaned from natives on many islands visited.

So, just as the frigates of Nelson's day earned for themselves such an enviable record. Hawkesbury established a reputation comparable with that of her sister ships of the swashbuckling days of old.

"TACKLINE"

OWED TO THE GREEN STRIPE (With apologies to no one)

When the war flags unfurled, it was plain to the world

That the Navy was needing some talents;

So some landlubbers few donned the R.A.N. blue

To give the professionals balance.

It was hard to decide, without any guide,

What branch, say, could incorporate 'em:

Nor orange nor grey, nor surgeon nor pay

Seemed the colour or calling to rate 'em.

Followed trial make-do with a white stripe or two:

But not one could balance a ledger.

So, raw and unripe, they were given a stripe

As green as the care of a hedger.

As their duties all vary, you have to be wary

Before you decide who are brothers;

There are C.Bs and "I", R.M.S., Met., and Cy.,

M.M.S., Operations, and others.

Now this may seem clear. But it's common to hear

How they go where experience teaches:

There are "green" blokes at sea where they oughtn't to be,

There are sailors as oft on the beaches.

Some take to the air, with the plane flying fair

Through an atmosphere inky or chalky

From Lae to Sandakan. They have to get crackin'

From Finsch., and Madang, and Merauke.

There are some to be sent, on Intelligence bent,

On patrol with a sack full of doovers;

A few perhaps may go through mangrove and sago

To write up on recent manoeuvres.

Perhaps there's a wreck, or a far floating speck

Which may be a mine, for reporting;

Sometimes it's a beacon extinguished they're seekin'

Lest shipping might need some escorting.

For those who aim high, there may be, by and by,

Several jobs of the type cloak-and-dagger,

In a lugger or ketch doing carry and fetch

Under canvas sufficient to stagger.

Others manage a spell in a H.D.M.L.

Or a smart A.S.R. operation,

Or a routine stores trip in a big battleship:

(Gosh! Wouldn't that cause a sensation.)

Given slight naval training (you see I'm refraining)

From starting a cause for a quarrel)

No matter where borne, with distinction they've worn

The Anchor, the Crown, and the Laurel.

Soon after the war they'll be going ashore,

We hope to a crib in the clover.

Whatever the fates, it will still be the "Straights"

Who resume their own Fleet when it's over.

We'll say (when we're full) it was easy to pull

On the job of the Greenstripers' Navy;

So drink to your fill, come fortune, come ill,

To the Royal Australian "Wavy".

"A. X. SPECIALIST" Acting Sub-Lieut. (SP.) (Tempy.) (Provi.) R.A.N.V.R. (Retired)

TOLLIO -THE TOOTHLESS ONE

THROUGH the belt of palm trees which fringed the beach came a man. He was old and stooped and moved more with a shuffle than a walk. Dirty matted hair fell about his shoulders. For clothes, all he wore was a pair of tattered shorts.

He looked down to the water's edge where three men were busy with a large outrigger canoe.

"Hurry, old toothless one, or you'll stay behind," cried one sharply.

A new ship had arrived during the night, and they were going out to sell their goods to the men on board.

As the canoe slid over the calm water of the bay, Tollio, for such was the old man's name, sat cross-legged in the prow and looked at the other men.

In the stern sat Pedro, then Rami and in front of Rami sat Salu.

Pedro was the eldest- of the three, and Tollio hated him. He was not his son, as were Rami and Salu. Soon after he had taken himself a wife, she had had a baby. It wasn't his baby, but that of a Spanish sailor. He should have cast it out at the time, but because he was young and in love with his new bride he had let her keep the child.

Always had Pedro been the trouble-maker. Always had Tollio beaten him, even against his wife's wishes. Now Tollio was ancient and withered, and it was Pedro's turn to do the beating. Nearly every day he found some excuse to hit the poor "toothless one", as they called Tollio. Rami and Salu were nearly as bad. Their father had been a strict one, and many a beating had they received from him.

In the canoe they had grass mats, shells, fruit and knives. There was one Kris of which Pedro was particularly proud. The blade was long and slender, the handle of ebony intricately carved and inlaid with mother of pearl.

As they came alongside the ship the white sailors leaned over the rails. The bartering began. Tollio took no part. His sons would not let him, as he was too simple, they said.

"Hey, Joe," cried Pedro, "you like dis?" He held up a grass mat.

"How much?"

"One mattress cover and one carton cigarette."

"Always it is the same," thought Tollio, as the goods were thrown into the boat. "They get all these clothes, but I will get nothing from them."

For over three hours the bargaining went on.

Tollio realized someone was calling him. He looked up to the rails. A sailor was holding up a shirt and pants and pointing into the canoe.

Tollio did not understand what he was saying. He wanted that shirt though. It was white, with blue round the neck. He put his hand on a large shell. The sailor shook his head, and shifted the direction of his finger. Suddenly Tollio realized what he wanted. It was Pedro's beautiful Kris.

He looked stealthily at the others; they were busy trading fruit for cigarettes. Cautiously he lifted the Kris and scabbard, grinned his toothless grin, and shook his head vigorously up and down. The clothes dropped at his feet. As he stood up to hand the Kris to the sailor- the canoe rocked

Rami looked angrily at him, then saw what was happening.

"Pedro"' he cried.

Pedro looked, and Rami pointed to the sailor who was admiring his purchase. Screaming at the old man he demanded what he had got for it. Slowly Tollio showed the shirt and pants.

"Hey, Joe," he said, "dis not right. The old man, he not know how much. Should be one mattress cover, one blanket, one shirt an pants an five carton cigarette. You give?"

"Ali, go bag your head!" laughed the sailor.

Pedro stared blankly at him.

Tollio smiled. He did not know what had been said, but he knew Pedro didn't understand and it amused him as Pedro was always boasting how he understood the white man's talk.

Then all the canoes which had collected round the ship began to scurry away. Pedro yelled at Tollio to use his oar.

The big ship was under way. They watched her as she moved gracefully through the water.

"We will go back to the village now," said Pedro.

As the canoe touched the beach the men scrambled out.

Pedro said, "I will punish you tomorrow."

"He often does that," thought Tollio. "He does it so I will have much time to become frightened of what punishment he has in mind. Well, perhaps I am frightened."

The afternoon dragged on and, as night closed on the world, Tollio lay in his hut. His heart was full of hate for Pedro. He felt sure that he would die at his hand the next day. He did not want to die, even though he was old and useless.

He loved life, the trees, the beach and the sea. No, he did not want to die.

Soon he fell into an uneasy slumber. He dreamed he saw Pedro burning to death.

When he woke it was still night. His dream had given him an idea. Stealthily he left his hut and walked towards Pedro's. From his pocket he took a box of matches which a sailor had thrown to him some weeks before.

Soon the hut was blazing furiously. Tollio panicked. What would the villagers do to him now? Seizing a burning brand, he hurried, as best he could, from hut to hut, setting them all afire.

Then terrified at what he had done, he fled into the hills.

Sunrise found him wandering aimlessly through the jungle.

He was frightened. He dared not go back to his people. The memory of what had happened made him sit and whimper like a child. There had been women and children in those huts. Surely the gods would punish him for this.

He continued on his way shuffling and halting, terrified at every small sound and all the time frightened, wondering how the gods would strike.

The sniper cased himself in the fork of the tree. He became alert. Something had moved below him. He knew none of his men were near, so he raised his rifle and waited. There it was again. He aimed and fired, and smiled as he heard the body fall.

Tollio smiled too.

"So this is death," he thought. "The gods have punished me for my sins. They are right, of course. I did great wrong to my people." He smiled again. "At least I am cheating Pedro. So this is death. So be it."

He nestled his body to the tropical flowers and warm earth. Then a shudder passed through his weary old body. Tollio was at peace.

"D. A. R."