Chapter 3 Fitters keep 'em rolling; Information please; Amphib Op; Parting....

Fitters keep 'em rolling; Information please; Amphib Op; Parting....

"Hand-drilling a Rock Face, Bulldog-Wau Road" by SX7174

FITTERS KEEP THEM ROLLING

IT is hot - and unbelievably stuffy - in the tank. All hatches are closed down and the occupants are separated from the world by inches of armour-plate. In the turret, three men listen to the rhythmic crashing of two giant diesels in the next compartment. Even weird crash-helmets and bulky headphones fail to keep out the terrific noise. The accompanying vibrations set every screw and rivet in sympathetic motion. . . . Everything vibrates. . . .

Forward, in his own compartment, the driver notes this steady beat with obvious satisfaction. That tells him the engines at least are working well. And every driver knows the moods of his own engines.

The great mass of armour forges steadily, unerringly ahead, keeping its place in formation and guided - not by guess and by God but by radio and periscope.

But suddenly, the crew hears a variation in the engine's song; heads are inclined as each listens for confirmation of that first, ever-so slight change. Then the driver's voice comes in; his gauges and instruments have told their story:

"Driver here, sir. Right-hand engine overheating. Oil pressure down. Can you hear it?"

"Yes," answers the crew-commander. "Seems a bit wonky. Can she make harbour?"

"No, sit. I'll switch off. We'll crawl home on one motor all right.'

"Very good. Go ahead."

The crew-commander switches on his trans",-.ter and calls up the squadron-leader.

"Hullo, Bolo ... six calling. Left motor out of action. Am returning to harbour.

"O.K., six. Get the fitters cracking; we want you again by tonight."

Slowly the sick tank chugs back to the harbour area; a mechanical casualty; a rush job for the fitters.

That's where the Armoured Fighting Vehicle Fitter comes into the picture. Fitters keep each tank rolling under all circumstances and difficulties, working behind the scenes and unpublicized. It is their job to keep mobile each tank under their care. Men's lives depend on that. On manoeuvres the fitters have no "knock-off time" and very often it is necessary to work throughout the night wrestling with the massive, greasy innards of the lumbering ' cy landship. There are a thousand and one things which can go wrong-and do! The fitters' reward comes, however, when creaking, steel tracks carry the vehicle into action again.

In the Middle East, fitters often worked under fire to achieve this, and more than one died
with a spanner still grasped in a grimy hand.

The fitters are a really distinctive lot, our particular team being a good example. Almost every State and a great variety of occupations are represented; nicknames figure prominently and these are used on every occasion. Here are some: "Shorty", "Southy", "Tich", the inevitable "Curly", "Sparks" (the electrician), "Campsie", an obvious Sydneyite-and "The Boogy Woogy Kid"! Everyone prefers these descriptive monickers to the official rank of craftsman. And the boys don't mind; they're no "snobs".

Each man's great pride is his tool-kit; a steel box, complete with the strongest lock obtainable and bearing his name on the lid. Woe betide anyone who borrows and fails to re turn a spanner or screwdriver! In fact, it requires many solid reasons and much talking to borrow an item at all!

One great thing is common to both tank crews and fitters, and that is the amount of whole-hearted co-operation necessary at all times. A tank is chock-full of mechanical headaches and, although each man is a specialist in his job, there is always something about which, for example, "Tich" may have to consult "Curly". It may even be necessary to bring "Shorty" into the picture, but sooner or later they emerge from the depths of the engines and say "She's fixed!"

For after-work hours, the fitters seem to have two main pastimes: souvenir-making and arguing about their home States! Maybe some day, they will decide on the winner and duly crown him, but as yet, the honours are even. Relations and friends usually receive the results of the souvenir-making hobby and these are well worth having too. Much work is put into those rings and knick-knacks which arrive home in a matchbox, "passed by Censor", and with a covering note: "Made out of a piece of tank, Mum."

In any group of men, there will always be personalities which stand out. The fitters' teams are no exception. For example, our team has a real philosopher who, incidentally, enjoys the distinction of being the only English representative. His name is simply "Jungle", because to the army, the initials "J.W." mean only one thing - jungle warfare. So "Jungle" works and quotes his little pieces of philosophy.

"I fold my trousers," says Jungle, "and sleep on 'em. That's how I keep the creases. . . . That's how I keep my pants!"

And maybe he's right both ways.

There briefly, is something about the "angels with dirty faces". We call them that, knowing that they are anything but angels in the strict sense of the word-but these blokes certainly have dirty faces! Anyway, as good old Jungle says: "It shows you've been working."

Australia's armoured units owe a great deal to the fitters. Any tank-crew member will vouch for that.

"NX13826"

INFORMATION, PLEASE

THE jungle-warfare course had been tough. Very tough, in fact. The platoon had done its hardening-up marches over the local mountains, the obstacle course, the Jungle courses and the mopping-up course. Finally they were drawn up for dismissal one afternoon, feeling very weary. The Trump himself came out on parade and took over from the platoon-commander.

"Now men," he said, "you've almost finished your course here. Tomorrow you do the final stunt. We take you down to the river and there you do river-crossings on the various types of bridges you're liable to meet up north. Then you go to the 22 foot tower and do a jump with full battle-equipment on. Are there any questions?"

"Yes, sir," came an all-too-respectful voice from the rear. "When we jump from the tower, are we allowed to jump into the water, or is that considered too effeminate?"

"NX35137"

AMPHIBIOUS OPERATION

THE newspaper streamer read:

"Australian troops have successfully landed near Lae. There was no opposition from the enemy, apart from a few bombers which caused slight damage and casualties."

Home at last from the Middle East, a wonderful leave, and the division has assembled in Northern Australia for jungle training. Next crack is against the Jap, and, about him, our ears receive some terrific bashings from the other divisions. How will he compare with the Jerry and the Eyetie?

We train in jungle, wade mountain rivers, and at night debate where we'll go next.

Presently we go down to the coast for amphibious training with an American Boat and Shore Regiment to learn the peculiarities of L.C.V. landing craft and L.C.M. - landing craft mechanized - in which the delights of acute seasickness can be experienced to the full.

A good crowd these Yanks, and by the time we left them after Finschhafen, they were talking of putting up our colour-patch themselves.

Wicked nights of rolling and pitching in rough seas during practices; landings on wrong beaches and the other upsets of training, but at last it's over and we're sent to Milne Bay. Here only a year before the Japanese had been stopped for the first time in the war. Milne Bay, the Kokoda Trail, Buna, Gona and Wau, had halted the Japanese drive on Australia, and given us the bases from which our counter-attack was to come. Our debt to these men who stemmed the tide can never be paid.

The development of Milne Bay, and the masses of equipment there gave boundless confidence. How could you lose with this behind you?

Days and nights of loading and unloading landing craft-big and small. How many man hours to unload an L.C.T., carrying stores a hundred yards through deep sand; and how many to unload an L.S.T., carrying fifty yards over good going? Practical answers to endless problems on these lines were worked out at Milne Bay. Finally, to make sure, everyone and everything was loaded up, pushed out to sea and landed in a practice operation - without enemy. Next time the exercise was carried out Tojo would supply the enemy.

Back to Milne Bay, and only a few days to go. Big issues depended on our operation. If successful the main Japanese troop concentrations could be bypassed by a series of hops, steps and lumps, and the war taken rapidly to Japan. We were confident.

At last down to the beach to embark, the training finished and the big job ahead of us. Somewhere in New Guinea or New Britain the division-and you-is going ashore, in the first Australian amphibious operation since Gallipoli, twenty-eight years before. Most of the day is spent in loading the ships, and in glorious weather the great fleet of transports and escorts heads off down the bay. Planes drone overhead, and you watch the hills and valleys roll by as you make for the open sea. Ack-ack crews man the Oerlikons, card-games start, and there is nothing to indicate that this is the real thing.

That night, cramped in the congested hull of the L.C.I., where miracles of compression provide a bunk for every man, but not enough room for a dog to bark or air to bark with, the fleet makes for its staging point at Buna. AD night sweat rolls from you, but the blackout ends, and the holds empty as men pour on deck for fresh air and a smoke.

Ashore at Buna, and you realize how good it is to have your feet on terra-firma. A shower does wonders, a good meal and the last brief final letters. Tomorrow morning it's on. The big cemetery and the knocked-out tanks tell their tale at Buna.

Aboard once more, and the ships make for their appointment. There seems no end to the procession of L.S.Ts, L.C.Ts and A.P.Ds, and the escorting fleet of cruisers and destroyers. Maps are produced, and the men are 'told where they are going to land-east of the Buso River some eighteen miles from Lae and when; the first wave going ashore at 0630 hours next morning. The final checks are made, and there is nothing to do but wait until 0705 hours when your wave, the fifth, hits the beach.

It is a beautiful afternoon, but you're conscious of your proximity to Gasmata and other Jap plane bases, and surely a recce plane must come over.

But all the afternoon nothing is sighted, and it's finally back to the hold. It's too hot and your mind's too active to sleep, so up you go on deck to join your Oerlikon crews and see how they're getting on. All around are ships, leaving gleaming phosphorescent wakes. Surely Tojo can't miss this; but the night passes uneventfully by.

As the light increases, the high hills of the Huon Peninsula appear on your right as you cruise serenely west along the coast towards Red Beach, the code name for the landing place. The Japs must have beach-watching parties, and surely the alarm will be given now, but nothing happens. The light increases, and away in the distance where the coast curves away to the south is Lae, and beyond it Salamaua.

In the high mountains behind Salamaua are the men who've fought the Jap back from Wau and Nassau Bay. You think with pleasure of the kick their grandstand view must be giving them, if they can see it.

Something has happened. A rocket flare has leapt to the skies at Lae. The Jap knows we're here, and the boats are headed in toward the beach. The A.P.Ds edge in with the first wave of assault troops, to launch the assault craft close to the shore. It's all too quiet to be real, and apart from that one rocket no one would know a war was on. Planes begin appearing. Fighters circle overhead, with the twin-fuselaged Lightnings easily identified. Away to the left, the big guns of the warships recoil, and then case forward. Your ears soon hear the rolling thunder of a naval bombardment, a pleasing sound when it's yours. Your wave of L.C.Is is forming up in line abreast to go in, and the first wave approaches the beach. Your ears are straining for machine-gun fire from the shore, but all is quiet. Overhead your fighters blanket the sky.

The first wave is ashore, and you've heard no small-arms fire. The landing is unopposed, or practically so.

On deck almost two hundred men, loaded to the eyebrows, are packed waiting to disembark. Barely room to blink an eyelid, and your wave has come unstuck. It's going in fourth. The L.C.Is are racing for the beach, and you're only a few hundred yards out. It's just too easy. Overhead a squadron of Lightnings floats by, high up. Coming in low from the coast three planes fly at tree-top level towards you, but no one pays any attention to them.

Coloured candles flame towards the sky from your Oerlikons; coloured lights dance along the leading edges of the three planes and streaks of fire pass close overhead. In a hundredth of a second you catch on, and think with pleasure of the days when Mitsubishis were a firm of wool-buyers. Cannon shells are hitting the bridge, but the strafing is just too high to hit the packed mass of men on deck. There's nothing you can do except watch the bombs pattern their bursts, as the planes bomb from left to right down the wave.

Two bombs more, and the third will make a direct hit on the forward deck where you are. You didn't think it would be like this and - what do you know? The b- - - has run out of bombs. Your boat on the extreme right is all right, but the L.C.I. on your right is sinking, out of control, and may ram you as she yaws madly. No, she's just missed you, and the beach is only two hundred or so yards away.

The L.C.I. shudders, and hurls everyone forward as her nose hits the beach. The ramps crash forward. A tidal wave of troops surges out, and you fly across a few yards of beach into what has now become the beautiful, lovely, welcome jungle. You're on shore and can hit back at them.

Bulldozers roar, equipment pours ashore, preliminary reports from the leading infantry indicate almost complete surprise. The operation is a success, and another major step on the road to Tokyo has been taken. The sea can and will become a broad highway to the heart of Japan.

"SX3406"

PARTING

It seemed a long time since the night she said good-bye to him. It was a long time too - almost before the war - and before the war seemed before time itself sometimes. She remembered every detail clearly. At moments of intense pain or pleasure throughout her life she had thought, "I shall never forget this," but she had. All those moments had merged together to remain as a mingling of colour on the grey background that is life. This alone remained-the memories wrapped up in the night he left.

He was to go away next day - for how long neither of them knew. They met just as dusk was falling over the fields, and walked slowly away together.

They wanted no wild farewell party in which to hide the pain of parting-just quietness, and the joy of being alone together once more.

They didn't try to be bright with that forced gaiety that is seen so often when parting time comes near.

They knew each other too well for that, and it would have left unhappy memories with them both.

They had spent many evenings beside the river-bank, and their steps automatically turned there. She remembered how high the corn was, and how the sun's last rays burnished it to a bright bronze. It gleamed on the darkness of his hair too, and almost found some bronze there.

There were dozens of rabbits on the bank. Every evening they came, and every evening at their approach the rabbit sentry sounded his signal of alarm-a rapid thump! thump! with his back feet-and away went all the rabbits. This night all obeyed the signal except one. He was new to them, and remained when all the others had gone. He was a soft black baby with a star of white on his head. They walked softly up to him as he nibbled at the grass; he looked incuriously at them, and then hopped softly away into the corn. Neither of them chased him. There was panic enough in the world without bringing a baby rabbit into it. She was glad they had left it alone.

She had never seen another with a white star on its head. She prayed to God she never would. They didn't speak much. There wasn't anything to say. They were both thinking of next day and the next, and the one after that, and all those to come when they would be apart. Some of the sorrow and loneliness of those days came to them then. There wasn't much to say.

There was a platypus in the river. It came very close to them as they sat there. It thought it was alone. They sat quite still, and presently it paddled away through the water and left them watching the ripple distorting a few stars. He was young to be going to the war. As she watched him leaning against the trunk of an old gum-tree she thought, "If only they could fight hand-to-hand against their enemies
as they used to. His courage and strength would save him then. But these machines--what chance has he against them? What can he do?" A surge of terror rose in her. Then he turned and winked at her.

The impudent gesture caught at her heart. "Still love me?"' he asked lazily. Did she love him? The quick
tears rushed to her eyes. He leaned over and kissed them away. "No, no tears, darling," he said tenderly. "You mustn't. Please. Not now. And from his distress she found courage, and there were no more tears. There was plenty of time for that when he was gone.

The moon rose higher and higher, and in the stillness of the night he said lovely secret things that she still held in her heart. Then he went. Her mind closed over that. No use remembering. And no use remembering the night they brought news of his death, either. Those thoughts hurt. Far better to remember a platypus splashing through the evening waters, and a little black rabbit with a white star on its blunt forehead, and him, in the dim light, winking impudently at death.

"TF150161"

DEAL IN FLAGS

ME and Flanagan are sitting on the fence near the hospital.

We are sitting on the highest part of the fence, and have established a bridgehead with a commanding view.

Inside the canvas walls of that hospital is a fellow by name Mushy Goldstein, who, having successfully evaded a showdown with his Eternal Father in the dengue ward, is awaiting discharge to the outside world.

But it is not the promptings of Christian chanty that cause me and Flanagan to sit on the highest part of the hospital fence and wait for the appearance of Mushy Goldstein.

On the contrary, if everything goes according to plan Mushy Goldstein will be back in the casualty ward within the next ten minutes carrying more bruises, abrasions, lacerations and contusions than the Atlantic Wall.

In short it is the intention of me and Flanagan to hammer Mushy Goldstein into the greatest physiological study of all time, and to provide the medical faculty of Sydney University with enough used-up anatomy to keep the undergraduates going for the next fifty years.

It is a deal in Japanese flags that has caused the rupture in our relations.

Me and Flanagan have established since the outbreak of hostilities an honest reputation for investing our propositions with sound principles; but at the same time me and Flanagan would be the first to admit that occasionally we have erred on the side of generosity-and some people have been dissatisfied with the outcome of our propositions; which only goes to show that me and Flanagan can make the same mistakes as anybody else.

So when Mushy Goldstein comes to us one night in the Y.M. hut and says he's got a proposition, me and Flanagan display a certain amount of interest; but we do not display too much interest for we are mindful of the time in Cairo when Mushy Goldstein organized a raffle for the widow of the unknown soldier.

Anyhow me and Flanagan allowed Mushy to proceed with his proposition for, according to Flanagan, it is a cardinal law in all branches of business that all propositions have possibilities.

It appears that Mushy has a cobber in the 98th Brigade which has just come out of action against the Japs.

Mushy says that his cobber has come from the battles with many trophies all of which have been passed for general exhibition. Mushy's cobber has plenty of trophies. In fact he has so many trophies that Mushy's cobber reckons there's nothing left of the Japanese Army but dried fish and empty saki bottles. The most expensive of the trophies is battle-flags, of which he has a large number dating back to the time of Admiral Perry.

But Mushy reckons that his cobber is not fussy about parting with the genuine Japanese battle-flags, complete with inscriptions - not laundry marks - he adds; but on account of that him and Mushy are such good cobbers he is prepared to let Mushy have a few flags to hang in the parlour in Woodbine Street, Carlton.

Then Mushy says that on account of him and me and Flanagan being such good friends he is prepared to let us have a few flags at a nominal figure to cover expenses "just so that youse jokers will be able to say youse never took charity even from Mushy Goldstein."

Me and Flanagan linger over the proposition for a few seconds and Mushy starts to kick on.

He reckons that me and Flanagan are the finest soldiers he's ever been in contact with, and we've never had a fair go with medals and things. "Think of the time in Bardia when you bust the Dago tank with a jam tin," he says. "And the time at Suda Bay you killed six Herman Goerings with an axe handle."

"Nine Herman Goerings," says Flanagan.

"Bull," I says under my breath, but I am well content with the details.

Then Mushy gets into his stride and says we deserve more than the Africa Star, and that fellows like me and Flanagan who have been in real battles should have some memento of our triumphs against the barbarians.

Me and Flanagan get real sentimental at this point and Mushy starts to cry. Then Flanagan starts to cry, and for the next two minutes I've got more emotions than Greta Garbo and I'm crying like a Moslem mourner and lamenting the fact I never gave Mushy Goldstein the key of the bottom drawer years ago.

Me and Flanagan recover our composure a bit and Mushy loosens up with all he's got; but if I had known then what I know now, I'd have drunk poison with the barbarians sooner than played snakes and ladders with Mushy Goldstein.

Mushy gets to the point which is thirty shillings per genuine Japanese flag complete with inscriptions which is a proposition he reserves only for me and Flanagan on account of our outstanding record in four campaigns against the barbarians.

Flanagan is all for making it a deal there and then, but I flash him the red light as a vision of the past comes before me.

And I recall the time I saw Mushy Goldstein in the Empire Club in Cairo, selling a genuine scarab from the Hill of Jesus to an Allied soldier for 2oo ackers. Mushy was crying then too, and so was the Allied soldier. The price was a sacrifice. And so was the Allied soldier, for if I'm any judge of Egyptian handicraft that scarab was born in a Birka shooting gallery, and will never get closer to the Hill of Jesus than the blue-ridge mountains of Virginia.

But me and Flanagan are sentimental souls. Flanagan ignores my caution and Mushy Goldstein has his feet on the sawdust and we have seven flags and Mushy has ten guineas Australian.

Next day we make sure there is no breach in the wall of security and that the inscriptions are in genuine Japanese and relate to the history of the Tomato Maru Division which has been wiped off the order of battle on account of General Tomato Maru failed to commit hara-kiri when his batman went through on Shaggy Ridge.

News spreads through the camp that me and Flanagan have acquired something special in the way of souvenirs and we have so many offers for the Japanese flags that we are reluctantly compelled to sell four at three pounds-ten apiece so that our companions-in-arms may share in the downfall of the barbarians. We sell the remaining three flags to a joker from the con depot with a limp, then me and Flanagan reckon it's time to make further contact with our source of supply.

Mushy reckons we are stretching his goodwill a little too far but he finally agrees on account of our campaigns to sell us ten more flags at two-pounds-ten each. We sell two flags to the mess orderly and five more at the con depot, which leaves us with three on hand for the ring outside the pictures.

It's like the ring on Cup Day in Flemington when me and Flanagan get to work at the pictures and finally we knock two flags down to Elmer Putz of Boston for a tenner and one to Syd Peaty of Pine Creek for seven-pounds ten. Elmer's flag was torn in battle, and he was quite prepared to pay extra for more souvenir value.

Back in the tent that night me and Flanagan go over the figures.

The rake-off from the Tomato Maru Division adds up to plenty war bonds and me and Flanagan make further contact with Mushy Goldstein and buy seven more flags just before he lumbers off to hospital with the dengue.

Something seems to tell me there's trouble brewing when me and Flanagan get near the pictures with our flags the following night, and it strikes me all of a sudden that the Tomato Maru Division must have had a pretty decent transport section to cart all those flags around Shaggy Ridge.

I don't say a word of my fears to Flanagan. I don't have to, for no sooner do we hit the pictures than Elmer Putz and Syd Peaty stroll up to us casual-like. I don't like the look of Elmer Putz and Syd Peaty and I'm for going through but Flanagan sums up the situation and says: "Well, boys, pictures crook?"

"No," says Elmer Putz, "but them flags is I guess. They're phonies I reckon."

"Come clean," says Syd Peaty. "I'm a sheepshearer but I never drew blood like youse jokers."

"I want ma dough back," says Elmer.

"Me too," says Syd.

"There must be some mistake," says Flanagan. "Them flags is the battle-flags of the Tomato Maru Division."

"Mistake nuthin'," says Elmer. "Japs is tamaytas but they ain't gat 'em in divisions."

By this time the mob's getting worked up. I've never seen so much flag-waving since the Ninth Divvy march and they're yelling for their money back or else.

It's time for me and Flanagan to go through. Flanagan leads the pack and I'm a yard back running second.

We've covered the first quarter and are running for home when Flanagan falls in the sullage-pit.

I dive in beside him and we both come to the top just as the pack catches up.

They drag us out of the sullage-pit and me and Flanagan decide to take them back to our tent and exchange the flags for Australian currency.

Flanagan is covered in the remnants of Friday's goldfish, and I'm on the nose like I've never been before; but those jokers are gluttons for punishment and they stay with us until the final satisfaction of every commitment.

And they go away and leave me and Flanagan to our misery; and there isn't a cracker in the world between us; and on the ground, encompassed within the four walls of the tent lie the battle-torn flags of the Tomato Maru Division to remind us of our battle with barbarians.

And Flanagan sinks to the floor, overcome by the stench and exhaustion from the night, and I enshroud him in the symbols of our downfall.

A merciful providence denies him the sorrow of the sight that greets me from the corner of one battle-flag of the Tomato Maru Division.

In little white letters, I read in the watermark the saga of a swindle.

I "Product of the Goldstein Flag Making and Bunting Coy Pty Ltd, Carlton, Victoria."

But it is not the promptings of Christian charity that cause me and Flanagan to sit upon the highest part of the hospital fence to await the appearance of Mushy Goldstein.

"QX3372"

ON SLEEP

DID you ever consider *in how many positions it is possible to sleep? One can sleep on a stretcher, or in a hay stack, on the beach or in a meadow, but to experience all the unusual forms of sleep, one has to join the Army. We have slept on the ground, with a rock for a pillow and stars for blankets. We
have also slept in mud with torrential rain for eiderdown.

I recall the occasion when we left on a short bivouac in nice, warm weather, in our summer outfits and with one blanket for each man, ran into a snowstorm and spent the night like Eskimos-under the snow.

I shall never forget how grateful we were to our Brigadier, who, back in camp, stood sentry duty for four hours outside the showers and kept everybody away, to conserve the hot water for us. He was to my knowledge the only brig. in the whole history of the A.I.F. to do that.

I am blessed in a very special way I can sleep under any circumstances. I have slept under the one blanket and a couple of inches of snow. I have also slept in the back of a three-ton truck, driven at twenty miles per hour across country at night, with the lights out

Sleeping in a tent I consider an unnecessary luxury. But even I have come a cropper once, and under very unusual circumstances.

After sleeping for eight months under the skies or under a truck, depending on circumstances, we were glad to be given tents. We slept like lords. Six men per tent and no rain down your neck. And then some higher authority decided that we must have palliasses and straw. Ten pounds of straw per man.

The camp was in an uproar. The two-up game was cancelled. The wet canteen was neglected. Everybody got ready to go to sleep at 7 p.m.

And then it happened. The unbelievable, nay, the impossible happened. We could not sleep. Not on account of the straw or the palliasse, but because a few grains of sand managed to find their way into our blankets. We, who previously did not mind half-a-dozen centipedes or rocks, could not sleep.

Eventually I got used to disregarding a few grains of sand in conjunction with straw and palliasse and slept just as well as ever, but my pride is deflated. I still consider myself an authority on sleep, but I do it very modestly and do not proclaim the fact as I used to, once upon a time.

"VX61400"