Chapter 16 Tropic Morning; Tonight at 4 Mile; Flaming QM; Xmas Party

TROPIC MORNING

HE placed a large box wearily on the back of a truck, fastened the tail-board and walked over to the edge of the jetty to sit down. Stretching his legs out comfortably, he surveyed the scene before him.

It was the season of the south-east trades, a clear day in May with a bright blue sky dotted in one corner with a few white clouds through which the black shape of a plane was gliding, its engines humming faintly in the blue distance. The sea was blue, too, a light opaque blue that reminded him of the Mediterranean, while across the narrow strait on all sides were islands, grey-green with close deep green patches of mangrove here and there along the shore. Patches of vine scrub, a different green again, dotted the hills. Where there were no mangroves the narrow beaches shone white in the sunshine.

At the jetty's end a steamer was moored, a small one, red in colour with the long funnel and untidy appearance that only a tramp can have. And alongside on the wharf were boxes, bundles, bales and drums, with still more being lowered indifferently over the side on the clattering winch. The tide was in now, but shortly with its sudden drop he knew that the greater part of her hull would disappear below the wharf. A few odd, small water craft were moored to the overgrown piles, while a fisherman or two walked idly along the jetty with the many-pronged spear so popular with the islanders in these parts. One or two of the more conservative were sitting with their legs dangling over the side and lines hanging slack from their hands.

He let his eyes wander along the beach. Creamy-brown sand, covered in places with driftwood, merging into mangrove with its waxen leaves and high, stilted roots at one end and vanishing at the other round a muddy point. A few brown coconut palms, With fallen fruit below them, bent slightly in the wind, while in between small stunted trees and waist-high grass filled the picture. To the rear and above them were the peaks of the island's larger hills, mostly tree covered and blotched with vine scrub.

The earth road left the jetty and vanished into the trees. A few dilapidated iron buildings, slowly falling to pieces or being "salvaged" for newer erections inland, were clustered near the road, resting sadly on their piles. In the water were some young mangroves, around which long-fallen coconuts drifted, and just where the beach rounded the point the wreck of a schooner, its masts long gone, lay on its side just below high tide mark.

The sound of aircraft engines had increased and he turned his attention to the sky, watching the flying-boat circle over the islands and start its long, steady glide in towards the only landing channel in the strait. A small motor tender started out from the jetty to meet it as it bumped gently, glanced along the water and moved towards the buoy. The propellers slowed gradually and stopped with a conclusive )erk; a small hatch opened and a head emerged to greet the tender. The plane was made fast, several figures left the tender and climbed on to the hull and as soon as their places had been taken by others it set out for the jetty again.

He watched it with lazy interest until it disappeared behind the steamer, and would have gone on dreaming had not a large truck, awkwardly maneuvering on the wharf, forced him to shift his legs swiftly to safety. He got to his feet and moved over to the landing steps.

The usual crew was on the tender, with two Air Force officers from the plane, one of whom waved towards the jetty. Looking round he saw another airman at his side acknowledging the salute and apparently waiting for them to arrive. At last the tender came alongside, and the two newcomers leapt off and came up the steps to be greeted by the other watcher on the jetty.

'Morning, John," said the taller of the two, with a slight smile.

"Where the devil have you blokes been?" the chap who'd come to meet them asked, with mock seriousness. "The skipper's been go' crazy about you. Last we knew you were losing height and fiddling with that port motor of yours, and now you turn up large as life for morning tea!"

"Nothing serious," the other replied casually. "We had to put her down for three hours, but got her going eventually. Couldn't be bothered coming back with that bomb load aboard, so we thought we'd do Kaukenau over, since it was only a hundred miles or so away. Got a couple on the strip, too," he added as an afterthought, "and when we left they seemed to be highly excited."

Still talking, the three moved on up the jetty, leaving the dreamer alone with his thoughts.

So that's how it was, he thought enviously. "We thought we'd do Kaukenau over, since it was only a hundred miles or so away.

What a life.

A call came from the ship: "Right-oh! Come on now, No. 2 shift!"

He turned away to the rusty ship, the petrol drums and the clattering winch. Somebody had to do this job, he guessed, and he was it' .

"NX35137"

MIKE-THE MALARIA MO-SKEETER
	IN tropical regions, there's "mozzies" in legions But none causes havoc completer Than one little devil who's not on the level, It's Mike, the Malaria Mo-skeeter. With no foe or ally is Mike ever pally, His aim is to be a world beater; For Tojo and Aussie's the same to this mozzie, To Mike, the Malaria Mo-skeeter. The world's aviation has yet no creation Like Mike in his striped single-seater, Bad trouble is comin' when you hear the hummin' Of Mike, the Malaria Mo-skeeter. He sure is a glutton and he won't eat mutton No sir-nor is Mike a beefeater. For Mike likes consumin' the blood of a human, Does Mike, the Malaria Mo-skeeter. So please heed my warning, at sundown or dawning, Altho' you may dwell in a heater, Just keep yourself covered, lest you be discovered By Mike, the Malaria Mo-skeeter. In time's smallest fraction you'll be out of action If once he injects his saltpetre. The world's greatest vermin is not Jap or German, It's Mike, the Malaria Mo-skeeter. "NX16478"

TO-NIGHT AT FOUR MILE

IT may be any night ... depends where you five; you may even get transport and go visiting another show, but our show is Tuesday night and picture night means a lot in New Guinea as I soon found out. Perhaps to many of the lads it's just a good night's entertainment and it's certainly that, but to me it always seemed to have a spot of drama and not a little of tragedy about it. Tragedy may seem an odd word to use, but so much unnatural importance linked with a mere movie show seemed to me to be a sad commentary on the deadening sameness of New Guinea life. Of course the show is free, but the Army is not made up entirely of tight-wads so it's odds on that it's a big night for some other reason; I'll leave it to you.

The mobile projection unit starts an undercurrent of expectancy by arriving in the morning and disturbing the serious serenity of the locality with bursts of newsreel theme song and a few disruptive bars of feminine Vera Lynn as the sound engineers tune up. By the time early "picture night mess" comes round the whole place has become infected, and a truly impressive canteen business in sweets precedes the daylight migration of seat carrying votaries to the scene of operations.

Weird and wonderful is the selection of seats-boxes, logs, forms and some Heath Robinsonish inventions, which do credit to both the ingenuity and courage of the possessor. It's a dull night that is not enlivened by the shattering collapse of somebody's support, an occurrence which is gleefully seized on by the lads and embellished in terms more often picturesque than homely.

The drama of this open-air show was what appealed to me, although I was certainly not unresponsive to the charms of Deanna Durbin. To me there's a real drama in the blanking out of the talkies as huge bombers roar immediately overhead on their way to paste hell out of the Japs; the contrast of our peaceful enjoyment of the sophisticated shadow show and the stark realism of death and retribution
setting out and momentarily obliterating the puny sounds of our mechanism sort of got me.

Then a truck swings at the cross-roads just a few yards away, and the headlights throw into vivid relief the seated audience and perhaps pale the Image on the screen. The beam of the projector catches the billowing cigarette smoke that seems to rise in recurrent waves and makes a striking pattern against the overcast sky.

Suddenly a sharp shower breaks over the scene and the concourse rises almost as one man and a vast rustling fills the air as ground sheets are unfolded and slung over shoulders. Then silence again descends as seats are resumed and the sounds of the talkies are accompanied by the pelting of the rain on waterproofed shoulders. The projector beam now resembles the beam of car headlights on a wet road and the audience assumes a queer rounded shiny aspect with wet capes on backs humped to the rain. Not that rain matters much up here, you're wet either with perspiration or rain or perhaps both. In fact it's not unusual to sit through a complete show in heavy rain, with the screen running with water, but it's mostly fine somehow on picture nights.

At interval everybody stands up for a rest and yams till the show starts again. This may seem strange, but the seats are not plush and change is acceptable, especially if you've been bouncing round in a jeep most of the day.

They are a pretty discerning audience these lads; you can't put much over them and they are not slow to give tongue if they don't like a thing. Some of the people who make newsreels of New Guinea should stay to hear the reception some of them get. Then there was the movie in which the boss deplored the projected departure of a valuable assistant and pointed out to the departing lad that it was a pity that he was going because the boss had just been on the point of promoting him.... Well the boys seem to have heard that one before to judge from the derisive hoots of amusement.

Then the show is over and the immediate neighbourhood breaks into feverish activity. Voices are heard yelling for separated cobbers, or cursing as shins meet logs or boxes. Parked trucks and jeeps stutter into fuming life, headlights stab the dark and seem to add to the confusion by their dazzle as the local lads wander tentwards and the cavalcade of visitors' trucks jockeys for position and races madly down the road, setting up an almost blinding fog of New Guinea dust, their headlights marking the bends of the road as they go into the d istance.

The morning-after scene is interesting. The junk left behind is picked over at first light, and boxes which have withstood the weight of spectators or the boots of the retiring multitude are eagerly snapped up, probably to be lugged eventually to another picture show, from whence, maybe, they came.

Some of these boxes have probably travelled round quite a bit from show to show-have probably been rudely overturned when the Jap so far forgot himself as to put on a raid during a show; have nobly supported a fifteen stoner or casually cradled a slip of a lad.

And that's picture night in Moresby.

"V144618"

THE FLAMING Q.M.

GEORGE was that rarity - a smiling Q.M. However, the day "Dlvvy Sigs" installed a new switchboard in the tent used by him as joint store and sleeping quarters found him most hostile.

He went round muttering dire threats. Such expressions as "so-and-so Sigs"-"such-an'-such Q tent"-"adjectival bell and exchange" could readily be distinguished.

We hadn't been long in New Guinea and our camp site was covered with several feet high kunai grass. It was decided this day, that we bum off. All hands turned out for the big event.

As the fire got well under way the Sigs were imploring "Don't burn our cable."

"Don't panic! We won't hurt your precious wire," answers George, who didn't say "precious".

But nature took a hand. A sudden hefty gust of wind and the flames leapt away. Out of control, the fire was heading quick smart for George's store.

"The cable! Mind our cable!" howled the Sigs.

"Blast your cable. Look at my store," sobs George.

The latter was a wonderful sight. The tent itself lasted only a few seconds in the holocaust, and then the highly inflammable contents commenced spouting flame.

George supervised the rescue squad.

"Ammo and Emma Gees first." "Put down those Q records, you damn fool." "Forget that switchboard"-were only a few of his instructions.

The fire was over. George was once more his happy self. "Sure I lost a few personal things," he said, "but I won't have that thing (pointing to a mass of twisted metal) ringing in my cars all night. Besides (confidentially) all my records were unfortunately destroyed."

He winked. "Good old fire."

He strolled off, whistling.

"NX20671"

Xmas Picnic at Casey's Lagoon
	THERE is many a man in a certain A.I.F. battalion to-day who remembers the picnic at Casey's Lagoon. No map of Australia flaunts Casey's Lagoon in capital letters, but it lies eight miles from Darwin, not as the crow flies, for the crows fly there but once a year, when the picnic is held on Christmas Day. Under the direction of His Majesty's Australian Imperial Force and with a leave pass to prove it, there's me and Owen Brannigan seated at a table on a certain night in Darwin and in our hands we hold a piece of paper that is destined to make or mar our modest fortunes ere the sun's rays set on Casey's Lagoon one evening two weeks hence. "This programme for the sports," says Brannigan, "is the finest thing that has happened to us since Saint Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland."
I do not say anything to Brannigan in reply, but I recollect that it is a long time since Saint Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland and almost as long again since Brannigan's schemes had us out of the red. But the night was warm and the brew was consoling and I let him proceed. Brannigan read the programme aloud to me with great deliberation.
"Grand picnic and sports to be held at Casey's Lagoon, Christmas Day, December 25. Races for young and old, on four legs and two. Hundred Pounds sprint championship without respect to persons, colour, race or creed. Enter now with the Secretary. Bar, soft and hard, under the personal supervision of Mrs. Murphy, Kennant's Creek. Bring your own pannikins." He laid the programme down and said: "We shall pool our resources and concentrate on the sprint championship. How much have we got? " I have two pounds nineteen and fourpence and it is idle to protest for it was a Brannigan who saved my great grandfather from a Black and Tan ambush in '15 and I've never heard the end of it. Bolstered by the brew before him, Brannigan propounded his plan with all the rich eloquence of brave Robert Emmet himself. " 'Tis a nigger I have in mind," said he. "Fleeter of foot than the great Phar Lap ever was, he was an associate of the notorious Nemarluk, that black broth of a boy who escaped from Fanny Bay Gaol across the way and eluded capture for nine months. We'll see him at the week-end, cajole him first, physic him after, then feed him on the finest foods until the day of the race when we make the grand kill that will put us in Easy Street for the duration of the war." I nod my head in approval but I still say nothing for I am mindful of the time Brannigan rang in the greyhound on the Billy Goat Derby. The disguise was nearly perfect. Came Sunday morning, and on a bush track 130 yards in length our black phantom by the name of Paddy Clearwater covered the distance at a speed that would put the Italian Navy to shame. "More power to ye, me black beauty," says Brannigan. "You've been sent from Hivven itself." "Gibbit chillin'," says Midnight. At the first streak of dawn on Christmas Day we escorted Paddy to the station, there to await the arrival of the special train that was to take us to Casey's Lagoon. We tried to usher him into a carriage, but 'twas of no avail. He had to sit on the roof with his cobbers. Brannigan says to me: "Y'd better sit up there with him jist in case he goes through on us." It is not the first time I have sat on the roof of a railway coach, but I am mindful of the time I have perched in more select company; but I say nothing and console myself with the knowledge that Paddy Clearwater is the most precious deck cargo I ever have Journeyed with. Paddy won the first heat of the sprint championship with 20 yards to spare from the nearest competitor. When he won the first semi-final by a similar margin and we collected forty-five of the best my faith in the equality of the black man was at its peak. Brannigan rubbed our champion down with a will. "More power to yer limbs me black darlin'," says Brannigan. "If there's black saints in Hivvin, 'tis canonized you'll be." "Gibbit bacca," says Paddy. We backed Paddy at two to one on with every penny we had. The final was in the bag. And as they went to the post there was joy in my heart. Joy in my heart . . . until, for the first time in all the day, I saw the evil eye of a certain sergeant. He leered at our Paddy as he trotted to the holes. Then he leered at Brannigan and me and gently patted the side of a sugar bag he was carrying in his hand. There was something about that sergeant that prompted Brannigan to remark, "That man over there with the evil eye and the queer looking sugar bag is as evil a thing as I've seen since the downfall of Cromwell." I do not say anything but I am mindful of all the times I have quakings in me heart when Brannigan's promotions are nearing their finale. The gun goes and off goes Paddy. Straight to the front like a reindeer in full flight. When the field had covered 50 yards, he's 10 in front and at the 75 the distance is increased and there's joy in me heart once more. It was then I saw the evil thing that was to overtake us and Paddy. That sergeant fumbled with the bag and as Paddy flashed past towards the post, the bag flew open and straight across the track in front of next year's leave pay sprang the fattest goanna you've ever seen. And Paddy after it. Disregarding all the rules of the sprint championship, he after that goanna into the bush, for a goanna is a succulent beast to a blackfellow. And we never saw hide or heard tidings of Paddy from that moment to this. I knew there was trouble brewing with Brannigan. "Lead me to that blanky sergeant," he bellowed. I do not say anything. But Brannigan and human nature in the form of certain sergeants being what they are, there will always be wars. "QX33727"