Chapter 1 Australian Charter; Gill wanted it; This nerve war; A Parcel was delivered

GILL WANTED IT

FIRST there was brown paper and inside the paper a wax-match tin, and inside the tin, cotton-wool. She took the cotton-wool from the tin and spread it out and the watch lay glistening in its fluffy white bed, reflections of light running up and down the gold hands.

She picked it up and turned it over to look at the back, then she wound it and the secondhand started to move. She turned it so the hands shone in the gold face, then she saw the note on the bottom of the tin.

She spoke the words aloud as she read, "Gill wanted this watch very much. Seeing how he wanted it we thought you might like it now." That was all. It wasn't signed and she looked on the back but there was nothing more.

"I wonder who sent it?" she thought. "I wonder where it came from?" And she looked at it, ticking softly now, and she wondered why it had been sent.

And she wondered because of what she did not know.

She did not know of an afternoon when it was raining and the mud around Waitavalo was black and sloshy. And she didn't know about the poker game....

They sat around the box, crouched over their cards rain dripped from every rope on the tent and under the canvas it was close and easy to sweat.

"Your six bob and up eight."

"That's fourteen you gotta put in."

"Righto, righto, it's coming."

Somebody walked past the tent and they all looked up, then down again at their cards.

"I'll pull out," Jock picked up the pack, put his hand underneath and started to shuffle the cards. "I couldn't keep in with my pair of threes."

"Like hell you couldn't. I'm betting on a pair of fives. Up another eight bob." Macey pushed four two-shilling pieces into the centre.

Gill said, "Up another ten. How much is that I have to put in?"

Macey told him.

"You boys are a bit solid," Frieder said, "but I'll put you up another ten. This might be where I get my mouth-organ."

"This might be where you get a solid kick in the tail," Macey told him. "Up another ten bob."

Gill said, "Up ten bob again. How much is that I have to put in ?

Jock told him. Macey lit a cigarette.

Gill pushed the money into the centre and spread the notes and coins with his hand so that he could see how much was there.

Freider told him, "There's enough there to buy my mouth organ. Up another six bob."

"Hello, he's weakening," Macey said and put it up again.

"No. I'm not weakening. I just haven't got much dough. It's a good mouth-organ. A chromatic."

'Yours and up another twelve bob," Gill said.

He was thinking of the watch. There was an American down in the barge company who wanted to sell him a watch. It was a beautiful piece of work, all gold with gold hands and a grey-gold face.

It even had a gold stretchable band.

Macey said, "Hullo, Rufe Naylor is in," and Frieder said, "I can hear myself playing that mouth-organ now. It's a beauty. A chromatic."

And he put it up again. Just another six bob.

Then out of the rain the officer came and stood inside the tent and shook the water from his cap. The drops spread in a line across the floor.

"You'll have to break it up, chaps," he said. "We have to go out in about ten minutes. You four, Turner and myself."

"What it's all about, sir?"

"It's a recce job. We have to try and find out just what is going on at Eggshell Hill. We won't be looking for trouble. Just looking around.

"Be ready in five minutes," lie said and went back into the rain.

Jock walked over to his bunk and shook the catch back on his Owen. He fired it and cocked it again and fired it a second time. He flipped the thumb-catch back and forward to make sure it was working all right.

"What about the game?" he asked.

"What do you say we leave it until we come back."

"I've got it sewn up," Frieder said. "That's my mouth-organ money. I may as well take it now 'cause I can't be beat."

"We'll leave it till we come back," Gill said. "Put something on top of your hands and stick the money in one of the packs."

So they left the three hands lying face down on the box. One with a tobacco tin on top, another a wax-match tin and on the third little heap a stone. In a very short time they were gone and the cards and the tobacco tin and the match tin and the stone had the tent all to themselves.

The track through to Eggshell Hill was slippery underfoot and the jungle smelled of rain and closeness.

Lieutenant Miller was right out in front of the patrol and they spun out behind him in file, Macey the last man, all with automatic weapons, Brens and Owens, and all squelching as they walked, dragging mud with every step.

The march through to Eggshell took only a couple of hours. They were there long before the heavy night rain set in and the officer went on alone.

The five men pushed into the wet undergrowth at the side of the track and waited.

"Macey should have gone forward with him, Gill said.

"Why Macey?" asked Macey.

Jock told him, "On account of you being such a red-hot soldier."

"Oh, he'll be all right." Turner was speaking. "He always likes to get about alone."

Frieder said, "I might go down tonight and buy that mouth-organ. A bloke in 'C' company has got it. It's a chromatic."

"Is it?" asked Macey. "You never told us that before."

They waited half an hour, maybe a little longer and the officer came back.

He said, "That's that!"

And then it started to rain, big thick drops that rustled the jungle into a whisper of sound. It was the night rain setting in.

Water lay in dark, shiny-topped pools among the black of the track and they walked through the pools and broke up the shiny tops.

And they were walking and breaking up the shiny tops when the first volley screamed over their heads and sang among, the green leaves as the bullets ripped their way along.

They scattered to the sides of the track and Gill's Bren was chattering in the direction from which the volley had come. Then an Owen came in on the serenade and the track was harsh with sound and smoke from the guns drifted about between the raindrops.

Gill crouched low and ducked from one side of the track to the other and he pushed his way through the wet growth and worked his way close into the Japanese position. They were using only one machine gun and with it they sprayed the track from side to side and the Owens and Brens sprayed back at them and Gill worked closer in.

Then he opened up and the Japanese sent a burst his way; he blew a mag and clipped another on. The gleam from an occasional tracer drew a line of gold between the green.

Then there was no firing from the Japanese position and Gill sent another burst chasing into the undergrowth, then he stopped firing and walked out on to the track.

He walked out on to the track and looked around, then he took another step and said, "When is the . . ." and they never found out what it was he was going to ask because he fell flat on his face in the mud and broke up some of the shiny-topped puddles and reddened them.

Frieder was leaning over him and he pulled his shirt open and the blood was sticky on his hands. Gill lay still and the Bren lay by his side. It was out of ammunition and Gill was dead.

At the dressing station the doctor shook his head and Macey said, "We know he's dead. ... He was dead when we picked him up."

The little heaps of cards lay on the box with a tobacco tin and a match tin and a stone - on top of them. Macey picked up his hand and threw it on the table so the cards fanned out.

"I had two pair," he said.

Jock asked them, "What about I play Gill's hand out for him? There's about eleven quid in the centre."

"I think I'd win," Frieder said. "I've got three aces full," and he put his cards into the pack. "Seeing we never finished the game I think we ought to divvy up the money. I wasn't so keen on that chromatic. I seen better mouth-organs."

"What about Gill's share?" Jock asked.

Macey took the match tin off the last little heap of cards.

"Whaddya know." He whistled through his teeth. "Four of a kind. Four tens. We pay Gill royalty."

He put the cards into the pack and shuffled the deck.

"Four tens," Frieder tapped the box with his fingers, "is a very hard hand to beat. The watch?"

"Yeah, the watch," Macey told him. "He wanted that watch like hell. You know the bloke? "

"I know him," Jock said. "It was going to cost fifteen quid."

"Well, there's eleven in the centre. We owe him four quid for royalty." So they made the eleven up to fifteen pounds and Jock stuffed the notes and silver into his pocket.

"Do you know where we're going to send it?" Jock asked.

"Of course we know," Frieder told him.

Macey said, "Gawd, he loved her."

As Jock left for the American barge company Frieder called to him, "Get some cotton wool from the R.A.P. on your way back."

And when he was gone Macey said, "Just out of curiosity, what was your pair to the three aces?" And Frieder said, "Tens. A pair of tens."

"You better not tell Jock," Macey said.

"Why not? He probably guessed. What did Gill really have?"

"Two pair," Macey said. "Queens up sevens."

Frieder told him, "It was a lousy mouth organ anyway."

And she wrapped the cotton-wool over the gold hands and the grey-gold face and put the watch back into the wax-match tin.

She could just hear it ticking, softly and muffled.

"NX73132"

THIS NERVE WAR

EVERY Australian soldier who has fought the Japanese knows only too well the extent to which the enemy has used tactics designed solely to fray nerves-with the object of disrupting all discipline and organization. In the early days in New Guinea this system proved extremely successful against our inexperienced troops-sometimes with disastrous results!

The lesson has been learned, however, and Australian ingenuity in this direction is being tossed back at the Jap with generous interest. For all that, it is still far from a joke to be on perimeter defence peering into the blackness of a jungle night, imagining every tree, every bush to materialize into a purposeful little-or large-Jap armed with anything from a "woodpecker" to a three-foot sword! Every
rustle or animal noise sends a warning impulse through the sentry's body; the strain becomes greater and greater. Sometimes the night noises are natural; sometimes they are products of the imagination; sometimes-it is the Jap.

That is the nerve war.

But there is a lighter side. An incident with some very unpleasant moments while it is happening may seem amusing after it has actually occurred.

One such story concerns a lone sentry hidden in a fox-hole beside a jungle trail. The night was completely black; the moon as obscured by moving, leaden clouds. Faint breeze from the sea set the leaves rustling. After two hours' peering and listening, the soldier was really feeling the strain, as there had been an attempt at infiltration earlier in the night. Suddenly a break in the clouds allowed a watery moon to shine faintly through. The moon silhouetted a pair of legs walking steadily towards his fox-hole! That was enough. A bullet left the Bren and sped straight to the target. The legs didn't stop.

A flick of the change-lever and the gun was ready for automatic fire. Still the legs plodded unheedingly on. The sentry squeezed and sent a full magazine into the intruder's legs. It made no difference, and the mental shock of this began to tell in no uncertain manner. The alarm had been raised by this time, and a general "stand-to" was ordered while a hastily gathered patrol stalked down the side of the track to make sure the Nip didn't escape. At last, they came to the spot. The legs were still moving ... the legs of a pair of trousers someone had hung on the telephone line!

It was funny to all - except the sentry, and the owner of the pants!

Another soldier committed the grave mistake of having his hair shaved off - without mentioning the fact to his two-man-tent mate. Some time between 0100 and 0300, the Japs' favourite time for mischief, his pal awoke and found his hand resting on a round, smooth ,object which felt suspiciously like a human head! Suspicion, decided the soldier, was the only motive required for prompt action. This was forthcoming a split second later in the form of a terrific straight left with its estimated point of impact somewhere in the region of an unseen Japanese nose. The blow struck home, and, the shaven one passed peacefully and speedily from sleep to unconsciousness.

Meanwhile, the attacker darted outside, raised the alarm, and returned with some mates -and a tree branch. The still form lying on the ground then, gave a preliminary glug. This was followed immediately by paragraphs of profanity that could easily have started a bushfire in a drier climate. The victim was obviously a very, very irate digger!

These days, all shaven heads are carefully paraded.

Film stars' names are always very popular as passwords, mainly because they are so well known and easy to recognize. But sometimes there are instances of troops whose knowledge of filmdom's identities is strictly limited. A soldier in this category had occasion one night to go outside the perimeter. Stumbling back through the darkness, he was suddenly challenged in a hoarse whisper: "Hayworth?"

"Howgarth," answered the wanderer promptly

A rifle bolt clicked and a round entered the chamber.

Again came the challenge, spoken this time in a tone that left nothing to the imagination:

HAYWORTH?"

"No..... Howgarth!" was whispered back, with more than a trace of anxiousness.

Normally that would have been his last Word, but the sentry gave him one more chance as he took first pressure on the trigger. "Halt! Hayworth? "

"Crikey," yelled a voice from the bushes, "what's wrong with you, mate? I've been halted for the last two minutes. And my blasted name's Howgarth!"

Then there was the weary sentry, just relieved from duty, stooping down to enter the little "doover" which he shared with another chap, who, apparently, was sleeping rather lightly. The slight noise woke him and he stared upwards at a shadowy form creeping stealthily into the tent. It was only a second's work to leave the mosquito net and grasp a warm neck between a large pair of hands that meant business. Not content with that, he called out to his tent mate-thought to be slumbering peacefully near by-and demanded some help in dispatching the Nip to warmer climes. His grip relaxed while he kicked the bed in an endeavour to rouse the sleeper. Only then did he realize the bed was empty! The prostrate, gasping form on the ground took full advantage of the temporary relief. . . . And the things he said!

A similar incident occurred when a small sapling col-lapsed just outside the usual two man shelter. Immediately both occupants awoke and sprang out of bed-each thinking exactly the same thing. Then the fight was on! It continued, too-until one of the contestants picked up his stretcher, and oblivion descended upon the other unfortunate soldier. But, as was pointed out to him in the regimental aid post next morning, he was really only "unfortunate" because he hadn't thought of the stretcher first.

All of which goes to prove that, after all, this war of nerves is really nothing to worry about ... much !

"NX113826"

A PARCEL WAS DELIVERED

THE big drab-coloured Douglas slid almost silently out of a shimmering New Guinea heat haze and touched down on the runway.

Tyres screamed and steel matting clanked as the plane sped along to the far end of the strip and stopped near a tiny building with a crudely painted sign over the door reading, "Air Maintenance I Platoon".

In the aircraft's fuselage was a gaping hole where the door had been. That was the identification mark of a "Biscuit Bomber".

First out of the plane was a young soldier. He walked into the hut and tossed his hat on the table.

The sergeant looked up from his writing. "How'd you go, Pete?" he asked eagerly.

"She's sweet," answered the soldier. "Visibility good; dropped dead on target, Sarge."

"That's good. I'll bet they're glad."

The sergeant took up his pen again.

Twenty-four hours earlier, a patrol of ten men was advancing through the dense Jungle among the towering mountains of the Torricelli Ranges. There were Japs in the vicinity. The patrol was out to find them; and having found them, to dispatch every little Jap speedily into the eternal company of his ancestors. It wasn't an easy job; the enemy had the advantage of innumerable hiding places He knew how to use those advantages.

The patrol pushed on, weapons loaded and ready; keen eyes and vicious, snub-nosed submachine guns probing every shadow. Silence was impossible. The hopeless maze of vines and bushes rustled and cracked in resentment as ten men sought a path. The clothes of every man were drenched in sweat; their bodies were sticky and itching. But they forgot about those things; they were looking for Nips.

Suddenly there was a muffled crack. A bullet whined. Harry, in the centre of the patrol, sagged to the ground with a little gasp. But the corporal had seen an ever-so-slight movement in the branches of a tree. He spoke quietly. Nine men peered at that tree through the sights of their weapons. A stream of lead drove unerringly towards the sniper's nest. It kept up until a small bundle fell to the ground with a soft thud.

"How's Harry?" inquired the corporal quietly.

They examined the still form on the damp carpet of leaves.

"It's serious," George answered. "We'll have to get him back. He may have a chance."

They applied a field dressing to the gaping hole in the side of his head. The bullet was still in there; they could see his brain. Harry would have to go back.

It took four hours to reach battalion headquarters. Four hours of stumbling through mud and slime carrying a rough stretcher; four hours of continuous peering into the gloom. The enemy was still there; hidden and watching.

But they got him back.

The medical officer's face was grave as he removed the inadequate field dressing that was now dyed red. He examined the wound closely, then issued instructions to one of the orderlies.

"We'll have to make the best of things and operate," he told the company commander. "That bullet will have to come out, here and now. Even with the best of carriers, he wouldn't stand a chance of surviving a two days' march back to the surgery."

"Can you do it?" asked the other officer. "You haven't got much here."

"I know that, but I'm going to try anyway."

Thirty minutes later, using the meagre equipment of the medical chest, the doctor and two orderlies were working over the patient in an operating theatre made from parachutes which had been used to drop supplies and ammunition. That operation lasted exactly six hours, and when the M.O. emerged from the tent, weary and soaked with sweat, he had performed one of the most amazing fears of battlefield brain-surgery ever recorded in the Australian Army. In the patient's head, holding the bone in place, were tiny silver staples fashioned from three-pences! But that was only the first part of the job. This man needed blood.

Once more the doctor sought out the O.C. "Well, that part's over. He can't be shifted; he needs transfusions, and, if possible, penicillin. If he gets it quickly, he'll have a fighting chance. If not - then..." He made a significant gesture.

The O.C. sat down and wrote on a message pad.

Late the same afternoon a dispatch rider handed a small parcel to the sergeant in that little hut on the airstrip. Inside it was blood plasma - and penicillin, together with a map reference. The sergeant scanned a sheet of instructions. "Here, Pete. Drop everything and get a 'chute on this parcel," he ordered. "Get the pilot and come back yourself. This is important."

"O.K., Sarge. I'll fix it."

Dark, ominous clouds covered the mountain peaks as the Douglas roared down the winding valley. Mountains on either side towered well above the plane, and the slightest error on the pilot's part meant only one thing. The occupants, however, were used to all this; they'd been averaging five trips every day in the same country.

The pilot looked at his map and glanced at the landmarks. "We're nearly there," he announced, "but I don't like the weather ahead."

"It's certainly closing in," agreed the copilot. "Let's hope we make it."

They flew on, following the narrow ravine. Then the rain came; blinding, lashing rain. Visibility was almost nil. The pilot did the only possible thing. The plane's nose lifted into the air and cleared the dim outlines of the rocky peaks. Disappointment showed on all their faces as the aircraft headed out to the coast and turned for home. Their thoughts were with a wounded Australian; his anxious mates - and a doctor fighting to save a life.

The Air Maintenance wasn't beaten, though. They had a parcel to deliver.

At five o'clock next morning they were again over the isolated little camp. The sky was cloudless and the pilot could see every detail of the ground as he put the plane into a shallow dive to a hundred and fifty feet. The camp was straight ahead. Black-and-white dropping signals were already spread on the ground; there were figures standing about staring upwards.

The co-pilot touched a switch and a little red light glowed a warning above the open doorway. The dropper stood ready, clutching the small box.

A minute later the light changed to green and a bell sounded above the engines' roar. A little bundle fell from the plane-and floated earthwards under a bright-red calico canopy. Figures on the ground waved. The dropper smiled and waved back. The pilot lifted the nose again. He was smiling too.

The Air Maintenance Platoon-and the R.A.A.F.-had done their job.

The parcel was delivered.

"NX113826"