Chapter 8 Ambush; My Hat; Danny; Glory of the morning; Sam's Luck; Promoted

AMBUSH

Our point scout was at the bend in the track. He crouched there against the bamboos, waiting for the rest of the patrol to come up before he moved out of sight. There's no fun in being a point scout, unless you like being a decoy target for the Japanese. We went to ~,,round silently, and froze, our weapons cocked and every man alert for the next move. To step around a bend on one of these tracks is to step into the unknown.

Owen gun at the ready, the scout moved on and passed from sight. There was a sudden tearing crackle as the Japanese machine guns tore at the jungle. Bullets whipped through the trees over our heads, bringing down a cascade of branches. Our Brens and Owens were spewing lead for all they were worth, aimed by sound. It was as pretty a little flare up as ever I had seen.

Our officer motioned for us to come up to him, and the corporal and I snaked along on our bellies. We were worried about our point man. Of course we knew what must have happened, but we had to make sure. You don't leave your wounded behind to fall into Japanese hands. And you don't leave your dead either, if you can help it.

The corporal, the scout and I had been friends ever since we joined the army. We had to get to him. We reckoned that if we crawled through the bamboos at the side of the track, we could come up to the ridge top and pull the body over the edge without exposing ourselves too much. The corporal set off first, making downhill to come up in a wide arc. I followed a slightly different arc.

It was almost impossible not to make some noise, but the desultory firing of our patrol and the Nips helped to conceal it. At last I reached the ridge top. I parted the bamboos with my left hand, Owen gun in the right. Not more than six feet away a Japanese was kneeling at the side of the track sighting up on the corporal, who had just stuck his head out opposite the body. I fired a burst with one hand. It hit him fair in the ribs, and he fell to hang untidily among the bamboos.

My burst was the signal for the Japanese to let go with everything. Our patrol threw it back at them, and our central position was most unhealthy. The scout was obviously dead, so I heaved myself down the side of the ridge. At the bottom of the gully I stopped and listened. The firing had stopped. I called out several times, but got no answer. The patrol must have started to withdraw.

I knew their direction, so walked along the gully a little way before starting the steep climb to the top of the ridge where the track ran. I climbed for nearly an hour, and then found myself going down again, without sighting any track. It was a real razor-back, only about a foot in width at the top. I had no machete, so had to push through the jungle growth with my bare hands. It was enemy country, and I was making as much noise as a young elephant. I took my boots off and tied them to my belt. Progress was quieter, but my feet soon became as sore as my hands. But what could you do about it?

In the gully a shallow mountain stream rushed over the boulders. Above it the next ridge rose almost straight up. By this time I knew I was lost, so the only thing to do was to climb the ridge and try to get some sort of a bearing.

Near the top the jungle began to thin out; and then came a clump of bamboo which had been cut down and broken. With my Owen gun to the fore, and two grenades ready on my belt, I sneaked through it and hit the top of the ridge. There, in a cleared space, was a hut made of bamboo and grass. It had no sides. Around it were sited about five pillboxes. It was the perimeter of the Japanese who had ambushed us. I didn't feel much like moving for a while, but there seemed to be no one about, so I decided to go in and have a look around.

In the hut were a few steel helmets, a rifle, some Australian-type mess-tins and a china rice bowl. Perhaps the rifle and one of the helmets would help a bit if I were sighted by the Japanese, so I took them. I needed a shaving mug back in camp, so I took the rice bowl too. There was nothing much in the dug-outs. I thought I had better get out; it was no place for a Christian. There were a few documents lying on the ground outside the hut, and I stuffed them into my pocket.

Night had just about fallen when I got back into the gully, and I sat down on a rock to think things out. The track from our battalion headquarters to the perimeter manned by my company led upstream past a river; so if I followed this little stream down there was a good chance that I would come out somewhere along the track. The moon was coming up, and the surface of the stream was a bright shining mirror. I didn't know whether that moon was a good or a bad thing. It helped me to see where I was going, but if the Japanese were out after me it would help them too.

I hugged the right bank of the stream, and its gurgling rush quite covered any noise made by my bare feet. I had thrown away the Japanese rifle because it made too much noise hitting against the trees and undergrowth. The helmet followed because I couldn't think what good it would do me anyhow. Ahead I could see a "V" cut in the skyline. 'It was the end of the gully; and then I recognized it as the confluence of three small streams which ran into the river I was seeking. Once there I had only to follow it down to strike the trail between battalion and the company.

Near the junction I hit a trail which seemed to lead along the right bank of the river. It was better going, so I decided to stick to it. And then one of my boots came untied and fell to the ground.

I thought for a while it might be a good idea to put them on. My feet were getting very sore, but it was better to play safe. I sat there on a small boulder tying the boots on my belt again. And as I sat there I saw a dark blob pass along the skyline just ahead; then another, and another. There were six of them. There was no noise, but by a persistent cough which one of them had, I could tell that they had taken up a position astride the track' The Japanese must have found my footprints around their camp; and of course they would have missed the rifle and steel helmet. It had been a mistake to take them. If they hadn't been missing the Japs might have overlooked the footprints.

With rat cunning they had made straight for the point I would have to pass to get into the main valley. The dropping of that boot had been a blessing. I knew they were there, but what to do about it was the problem. I had two magazines for my 0wen. It wasn't nearly enough to take on six Japanese in the dark. Firing at sounds I would be lucky to hit even one of them; and the muzzle flash would give my position away. I tied my handkerchief over the muzzle. That might blanket it a bit. I was on the sharpest, horns of the biggest dilemma I had ever heard about. I had to get out, and get out quickly. Dawn would leave me utterly without hope; and I didn't know how far that was away. I didn't have a watch, so it might have been only an hour off.

One of my two grenades had fallen off my belt some time before. Grenades are the best friends that a man can have in the jungle. There is something comforting in their weight, and sweet music is in their lethal crashing explosion. With a half dozen I would have been feeling, even a bit cocky. But I had only one.

Well, I thought, one grenade isn't much use to me, so they may as well have it. I whipped out the pin and bunged it over. The Japanese yelled over its detonation, and I heard them flopping about in the bushes taking cover. They evidently expected some more. If only I had had them nothing would have pleased me more than to have obliged.

As it was I just lay there, wondering what was going to happen next. And then a brilliant thought struck me. I reached around, and untied my boots from my belt. I waited until the Japanese began to move again, and then heaved the boots over. I heard them hit the ground with a dull thud, and raced forward at top speed down the path. It had worked. The Japanese thought they were grenades and went to ground; and I was through them and away while they were still waiting for the explosion. The moonlight was now an aid, and I was out of sight down the track before they could fire a single shot. I had won through to the valley; but it wouldn't do to stick to the track.

I plunged through the undergrowth down to the river. The sky had become overcast, and I could safely wade in the stream, keeping close to the bank. I had been wading for about half an hour, and my feet and legs were becoming numbed by the cold mountain water, when something odd seemed to strike me. I stooped and put my hand in the water near a stone. It gave me a shock. I had been walking upstream, presumably along one of the other tributaries which met at the point where the ambush had been prepared.

There was only one thing to be done, and I did it.

Coming to the confluence of the three streams once more, I moved with my heart in my mouth lest the Japanese should be still there. Either I was moving more silently than I thought, or they had gone, because I go-, through all right, checking my direction by frequently dipping my hand in the stream.

At last I came to the river itself, and climbed on to its bank. I was becoming exhausted. It was only five days before Christmas, and never had Christmas seemed so far away. I wanted to do nothing but just lie there and rest; but I had to move on before dawn. It couldn't be far away. And when it came I was in a cold sweat. I stayed motionless in the trees beside the river for an age. The enemy would have been on the move if lie were still after me. But there was no movement, so I started off down the bank.

As I rounded a sharp bend in the river, the ugly scar of a landslide showed up on the other side of the valley. It was a beautiful ugliness - it marked the half-way mark of the trail between battalion headquarters and the company perimeter.

I waded across the river, clambered up the bank and found the trail. Barefooted, and with an Owen gun and china rice bowl in my hands, I went along the track with more spring in my stride than I would have ever imagined. Soon I could see movement ahead, and then I came to the wire guarding the approaches to our perimeter. The spring went from my stride, and tiredness flowed over me in great waves . . .

The rice bowl made a good shaving mug, but I don't think it was worth the price.

"N1307IO" "SX2663"

"DANNY"

MOST Army units have their mascots and ours was Danny. As a pup he certainly would never have won any prizes in canine exhibitions. His mother was a fox-terrier, and to judge by his feet his father could have been a St Bernard. Those feet were by far the most obvious part of him. They were immense.

He wandered into our camp near Darwin one day-only a pup, but already with an exaggerated idea of his importance in the world. His first act was to fall over his own paws, and he presented such a ludicrous spectacle with his air of injured dignity that our hearts warmed to him and we adopted him on the spot. We made a collar for him inscribed with his name and number and also the unit colour-patch. Danny, DX000, became a familiar figure around Darwin, and his egotism grew to such an extent that a fellow canine would have found him "very hard to live with".

Danny had one sad failing and that was a mania for wandering. Even as a pup he used to disappear for a week at a time but always turned up again, decrepit and dirty, and still mighty cocksure of himself. His conceit was appalling.

When we sailed for New Guinea, Danny sailed too, bitterly succumbing to the indignity of going aboard in a kitbag.

The New Guinea air appeared to agree with him, however, and he accompanied us on most of our "expeditions" there, as well as arranging private expeditions for himself. For all that, he loved company, and hated to be left behind at any time. He still continued his lone wanderings, and although on two occasions we really thought we'd lost him, he arrived back in camp safely and took his place, on the atebrin parade as though nothing untoward had occurred. His self-esteem grew with each passing day.

When we landed on Bougainville, Danny was in the vanguard and sniffed the new fields to conquer with an appreciative nose.

After a few weeks we were sent to a forward area, and by necessity, and much to his unutterable disgust, Danny was left behind at base. Where we were going was no place for a dog, so we said good-bye to Danny and told him to stick around till we came out.

It was some months before we returned to, base to find that Danny had disappeared completely, and despite exhaustive inquiries we couldn't find a trace of him.

Eventually, however, we heard news of the wanderer. He had gone to the Philippines. with the crew of a Yank bomber and, as far as we know, he is still there.

Wherever you are, Danny, we wish you good hunting and the best of luck. May we meet again in Tokyo!

"NX72755"

SAMS LUCK

IT was odd the way death came to Sam Gordon on Bougainville. Odd, and perhaps tragic too. There were some who put it down to chronic bad luck, but I've been thinking a lot about it lately and now I'm not so sure there wasn't something of a moral about the whole affair.

The day Sam joined our mob was unspectacular in the extreme. It was for most of us. Apart from himself or Hap O'Hehir and Basher McNook, who made the trio of new arrivals, I doubt if anyone else remembers his actual enrolment. I imagine he was welcomed into the brotherhood without fuss, about seven hundred on the family list. Whatever the particular form, it didn't change the global strategy or for that matter impress Sam over much either. Maybe the honour and dignity of his new station was lost on him.

All of which, of course, I only guess might have been. I have no way of knowing because it wasn't till three weeks after his debut that Sam made my acquaintance. I was sitting on the orderly room's only table when the question came without preamble:

"Hey, Corp., got any five-ply to spare?"

I didn't know then, but this was Sam in the flesh. Like many celebrated figures in history his person bore distinction, peculiarly his own. A limp and stained hat, so obviously an original issue, flourished a weary sprig of palm (from the Mount of Olives I learned later) and his greens had long lost their splendid hue. When he removed the old felt and took a seat on the table uninvited, I noticed his hair was a bed of dense, black needles which reminded me vaguely of a porcupine's back.

I might have studied him further but for his question. It was an innocent enough one and my answer was casual. "You might find a few sheets over behind the canteen," I suggested.

"Got them yesterday," he replied briskly, then paused for another lead.

"What do you want five-ply for?" I asked.

"Building a cabinet for the boss. Nearly finished. Put some floor-boards down this morning and knocked together a few chairs. Only want a bit more five-ply to do a tradesman's trick."

"And who's the boss?"

"Mick Fitz, the Brains Trust.

Captain Michael McAllister Fitzmaurice happened to be the education officer.

"You seem to know him pretty well," I returned.

"Hell, yes. We used to be cobbers in the M.E. He was a sergeant then. We knocked about the night spots in Cairo, Alex and the rest. Managed to pick up a trifle here and there too. They were good days. Fitz's a great scout, you know. He sent for me soon as he knew I hit it up north."

I was to learn much in the next half-hour. Sam's glory, it seemed, was essentially of the past. As he reviewed the "good days" I heard of gallant, fantastic battles in the desert; the black-out in Haifa and Beirut where the most fanciful adventure was merely routine; tales of counter-espionage with the provosts, with himself ever the hero. It was a classic story if you like fiction.

It struck me then that notwithstanding his flair for heroics, the knack of picking up valuables was his most genuine gift. At least there was some evidence to support my opinion that he was a highly qualified scrounger.

In the weeks of training that followed, the fact became firmly established. The disappearance of carefully stored oil drums, the R.S.M.'s easy chair and several bags of onions led inevitably to one source. Such feats were only eclipsed by the thorough-going manner in which the carpenter's shop was ransacked. This last was a rare scoop, all the more so because he got away with it. Naturally he only borrowed the gear for a week. It is superfluous to add that Fitz was the most luxuriously appointed officer in the unit.

Nor was his stock confined to bulk. An eye for charming personal intimacies brought Sam a showcase of varied excellence. Shining crests of the Queen's Own mingled in equal splendour with the Irish Guards and the Munster Fusiliers. A star piece was the "Imperial Standard of Ali Rashid Iben" no less, presented out of sheer good-will. Everything from the Koran to a Crusader's cross reposed majestically within his case. Shades of the Cairo bazaar!

When we moved up and along the shaggy razor-backs or through slush beneath a dripping canopy of green, Sam came with us. Fitz stayed at echelon, but at the rather compelling request of the C.O., Sam relinquished his "posting" as batman for that of a footslogger. He never revealed his treasure hideout or spoke of its whereabouts, but travelled light. Still an artist's gift seldom deserts him and wherever the fates took Sam his instinct for trophies remained.

That instinct was never dormant. Never idle. It was no surprise, therefore, when he came by a neat bit of Nip equipment. I remember it well and at the time laughed with satisfaction at the master's touch. Had I known then it was to be his final triumph there would have been no merriment.

We were bivouacked near the base of Blister Hill, after the fight for Carson's Crest, a feature the Japs yielded only after prolonged argument. It was tough scrapping and the defences were well sited. If there were souvenirs in those fox-holes or narrow tunnels, I saw none. But Sam did and so did others. This was apparent from what they were saying when I stopped to listen on my way to Post 59. Four experts were inspecting an assortment of loot, exploring prospects for its safe dispatch home.

"Boy, wait till the nipper sees this," came O'Hehir's voice. His eyes goggled when he held up a spotless white flag with a brilliant red emblem.

"What makes you think he's going to see it?" asked Monk Ruskin with typical gloom. Monk's disposition was no fun riot.

"Don't worry, he can depend on his old man."

"Maybe, but can his old man depend on the provost, intelligence or field security?" persisted Monk.

"Aw, quit laughing, will you? All right the kid's not going to see it because I'm not going to give it to him. I'll hand it in and they'll keep it. That make you happy?"

"Say, Sam, what did you crack it for?" broke in Jim Tomlinson.

Sam had said nothing previously and seemed reluctant to talk about his prize. He looked very thoughtful lying there with his head against a log.

"Come on, Sam. Don't hold out on us," from O'Hehir this time.

Sam stirred and almost reverently opened the top of his shirt to withdraw what looked like a large sheet of parchment.

"Struth, what you got there" exclaimed O'Hehir. "The constitution of the Black Dragon Society or something?"

"Hell, no, Hap," replied Sam quite seriously, "but something, off the record though. Reckon this'll put your flag in second place. Some kind of map or chart. I don't know which. Take a gander and see what you make of it."

I could just see the queer Jap characters scrawled across the top of the paper. I couldn't read what it said, but it looked like a map. A crude one. It was studded with dots and linked tip by wavy lines.

The four of them studied it. Hap O'Hehir was the first to speak: "Dunno much about this intelligence stuff, but I'll lay odds it's a map. You can tell by those symbols. Looks new to me."

"A memento of rare worth then," said Sam in mock grandeur.

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Keep it with the rest of my stuff, of course. Dunno why I never got something like it before. Something new for the kit anyhow."

"Or a good buyer~" queried O'Hehir.

"Hang on," Monk interrupted. "That thing might be important. If it's a Jap map, it will be. You know what the I.0. said about documents and all that. You ought to turn it in."

"Yeah, just like my flag and kiss it good-bye for keeps," added O'Hehir hastily. "Cripes, you're a wizard, Monk. It's Sam's luck. Let him do what he likes with it."

"But it might mean . . ."

"Argument can't do any good, Monk." Sam was adamant. "I've got something coming from this and it's not going into a dusty file."

He folded the exhibit and carefully placed it inside his shirt. Monk looked arrived, but didn't speak. They began to talk about other things and I moved on.

I promptly forgot the incident of Sam and his souvenir. There was a lot to do during that afternoon and night. We got our first hot feed in two days just after dark, and there were three patrols going out early next morning. I was in the first to go. We set off before dawn and were away about six hours, but there was nothing in it. Never made contact, just routine.

Late in the afternoon I saw most of the old faces again. They looked dull and listless with eyes streaked from too little sleep. It was hard to get anyone to talk, harder still to smile. Most of the second patrol came home one way or another, but I heard the third ran right into it and got a caning.

Sam was missing.

Hap O'Hehir took it badly. He and Sam had seen much of each other before they joined our show and stuck well. He didn't seem to understand that Sam was gone. At length he talked, glad of the chance to confide in someone. I listened without saying much.

"Nothing happened for the first few hours," he began, "until we got to about a mile east of Ward's Creek. The going was heavy up till then. You know the sort-a climb of one in four with not even the ghost of a track to follow.

"Well, it got thicker as we went on and we had to cut our way through the growth. We did this for about a hundred yards until we came to a clearing. There was no track leading through it, just dead trees lying about and the usual kunai. It looked natural and I don't think one of us suspected a trap. Anyhow the scouts gave the O.K. so we pushed on.

"Half-way across the stretch a woodpecker opened up right in front. It got one of the scouts and Angus Watts, who was leading. Sam was just forward on my right and he went down so quick I thought he was hit, but he wasn't. I was on my belly too, but before we could do a thing another gun had a go from the rear. I could see a Jap plugging away from a platform in a tree near the end of the clearing. It all happened in less than a minute. They certainly had us in the bag.

"Somebody howled behind me - I think it was Porky Snell - then slumped. It was a tough spot and getting worse. We never had a chance. I trained my L.M.G. on the devil in the tree and let go. Dunno if I winged him. A dozen slugs raced a yard across in front of me and I rolled over twice on my side looking for cover.

"Then I saw Sam make a rush for it. He'd been down from the start and was O.K. He jumped up and bolted for the bush. Couldn't make it, poor devil. I yelled at him, but it was no good. He didn't hear. They got him with a burst from behind before he went ten yards. Right across the back. I knew he was dead as soon as I saw him fall. God, it was sickening. I'll never forget the way he was lying there cramped and huddled flat on his face.

I could see he was unable to continue for a while. We were silent.

"Monk and Jim managed to drag him into the scrub," he resumed. "We hid his body where the Japs wouldn't find it and took a bearing so we could come back later.

Two of the medical orderlies brought him in after dinner, they tell me. I've just got to see him again before he's buried."

O'Hehir was silent.

We all felt bad about Sam. It was so sudden and final, but I had a persistent feeling that it need not have happened.

"How is it we didn't know about that nest?" I asked O'Hehir.

"Know! " he repeated mechanically.

"Yes. It was suicide. Why didn't our intelligence know ?"

O'Hehir stared at me, reproach in his eyes. "They would have if Sam had given up his souvenir," he replied. "The I.0. said it was distinctly marked on the map - Sam's map."

"NX4779"

HE WAS PROMOTED

"Congratulations, dear, on being promoted to sergeant."
- "Thanks, but I'm not a sergeant."
"You're not? "
- "Not exactly."
"But you wear three stripes, don't you?"
- "Yes."
"Well?
- "I'm a lance."
"A lance? "
- "Yes. A lance-sergeant."
"And what's the difference?
- "Very little really. A lance in a sense is a corporal-same pay-but he's virtually a sergeant."
"Then they're actually the same?
- "Which are?"
"The lance and the corporal."
- "No, they're not. The lance and the sergeant are - practically."
"Sounds awfully silly. Anyhow I'm glad you were promoted."
- "But I wasn't."
"Then what did happen?"
- "I was appointed."
"All right you were appointed or promoted or something. What will you be next?"
- "A sergeant - I hope."
"So you'll be a sergeant again. Now isn't that just beautiful!"
- "I'll say. Acting, of course."
"Acting -- What are you doing now-playing? "
- "You don't understand. I'll be acting for three months, then confirmed."
"After which, I suppose, you'll start all over again."
- "Hardly. I'll be substantive."
"Which means what?"
- "Means I can't be reduced easily. Not even if I'm supernumerary."
"You don't look it. What is it, anyhow?"
- What's what?"
"Supernumerary."
- "Above establishment."
"Come again?"
- "Well, every unit has an establishment, a set number. If you're over and above that, you become supernumerary."
"Why?
- Well, vou just can't exceed your W.E."
"What on earth is a W.E.? "
- "Just what I've been telling you. War establishment, of course."
"So W.E. and establishment mean the same thing? "
- "That's right."
"Well, why didn't you say that in the first place? "
- "Oh, I give up."
"No, you don't. Tell me, has every soldier got a W.E. or an establishment or whatever you call it? "
- "Yes-no-I mean he is, he hasn't got. Officers are P.S.L. or R.S.L. and O.Rs are Just supemumerary."
"There's that horrible word again."
- "What word?"
"Supernumerary. What does O.Rs stand for? "
- "Other ranks. But, look, can't we drop this?"
"Other ranks. What a funny name. Are you one of them?"
- "Yes, I suppose so. Sometimes, anyhow."
"Well, you don't seem very sure, dear. When aren't you?"
- "It's hard to explain. You see if I'm compared to an officer I'm an O.R. and-"
"I see and if you're compared to a corporal, you're not an OR?"
- "That's about it, roughly."
"So you're a sergeant O.R. or is it an O.R. sergeant ?"
- "But I said before that-"
"Don't tell me. I forgot. You're a lance sergeant O.R. There's no real difference though, is there?"
- "If you say so."
"Is there anything wrong, dear?"
- "Oh, no. Nothing. Not a thing. Why?"
"You look pale. No wonder either with all these confusing names you've got. What the Army does to a woman's husband. Never mind, whether you're appointed, supernumerary, W.E. or O.R., you'll always be plain Jack to me."
- "That's fine."
"I can't help feeling proud just the same."
- "Why? "
"Because you were promoted!

"NX4779"