Chapter 5 Beeton Track; Signing on; Lucky ship; Eyes down; Igloo

OFF THE BEETON TRACK ON THE BURMA-SIAM RAILROAD

Brandy and I called it the Food Forum. Recollection of how it all started is now hazy, but it was probably due to the fact that to a prisoner of war on Nippon's Burma-Siam Railway in 1943 an almost constant theme for thought was Food.

Our daily meals each consisted of rice supported by a feeble stew of melons, a little salt and much water; and melons were once described by Sapper Paddy Reid as "water standing up"!

There were occasional variations by the introduction of an odd bean, some "bullet" peas, a suggestion of cow or fish. This left much to be desired-very much. Small consignments of duck eggs-local pattern and not guaranteed-appeared at widely spaced intervals; native sugar likewise. For the rest imagination had to be called upon.

This evidently caused our Food Forum to come into being. Daily meetings were held to discuss old recipes, to invent new ones and generally to consider food in all aspects except its material presence. Most o the meetings were confined to Bandy and myself. A few others put in intermittent appearances, but something seemed to cause them strain and once was generally enough for them. People resting nearby were often observed to slaver slightly at the mouth, utter a moan or two and totter off to other parts. But to Bandy and me this daily discussion of delectable dishes served to keep our gastronomic souls from depression even if it caused the gorges of others to rise.

Chief Petty Officer George (Bandy) Galyean, bandmaster of U.S.S. Houston, sunk with H.M.A.S. Perth in Sunda Strait, proved to be a very keen gastronome whose knowledge of American and allied dishes was delightfully extensive. A short, normally rather globular individual, Bandy with his picturesque black beard, battered pork pie hat and silver trumpet, was a familiar figure around the camps of Branch 5 in Burma where he acted as Camp Bugler. At one time he had been associated with one of Al Capone's cabarets and could spin an interesting yam about gangsters and rackets. He was equally interesting, if not more so, when Food was being discussed.

The Food Forum had no scheduled hour for meeting, but we generally found ourselves babbling about meals past, present and future, around mid-morning after the hullabaloo of wrangling with the Nips over working parties had temporarily subsided; or in the evening when the absence of light caused conversation or pondering to be the only practicable pastimes.

Most of these sessions were accompanied by the background noise of the monsoonal rain hissing down upon the atap roofs with fearful monotony. Nearly everyone had some device whereby he kept his spirits soaring above the soul-searing situation.

For Bandy and me it was our Food talks which gave us a tremendous uplift. It might be thought that such a practice would have mentally unbalanced us. Perhaps it did. Perhaps we were unbalanced but we didn't know it; or knowing it, did not care.

We did not confine our talks to food in solid form; for beverages received quite a proportion of our time. One of the most interesting of the latter was the recipe for Chatham Artillery Punch which I had once obtained from an American book on pure foods. This liquid uplifter had probably caused the American Civil War; or it may have stopped it; it was, as will be seen, quite capable of both. Here it is. First take one gallon each of whisky, gin, brandy and rum. Mix all together in a large tub, ring up the police and the local ambulance, to be on the safe side. Then add a lot of chopped juicy fruits such as oranges, grapefruit, pineapples, papaws, raspberries and other noises enough to double the space occupied by the four spirits. Then add a gallon or two of Catawba wine (whatever that may be) and let the lot stand in a cool place for a couple of days.

It needs a strong-willed person to build this beverage and possibly a trusty picket or two. Early on the morning of the party, battle, burial or armistice, strain the solids out of the mass and place the liquor in a chilling space. Just before the "do" add one dozen quart bottles of champagne. This is merely to give the thing some head, other-wise it might be considered a "pansy" drink. The pure food book concluded this recipe by stating that it was very intoxicating and should be avoided. At any rate, in the jungle we only had to recite the recipe over a couple of times to revive our flagging spirits.

Another excellent beverage dodge discussed was that one devised in the Tobruk siege. There, one dusty day, I noted a brightly coloured piece of paper scuttering past in the murk. It looked like - yes, it was! An advertisement page from Esquire extolling in colourful illustrative fashion the fine points of Four Roses whisky. By tacking this up in my dugout I found that much desirable uplift could be gained merely by gazing upon it - drinking it in, as it were. Regrettably, we could find no Esquires in our part of Burma.

Then we had the Barbados Swizzle, described in a travel book as one of the world's most seductive drinks. There was a simple jingle to remember the recipe by -

One of Sour
- Two of Sweet
  - Three of Strong
    - Four of Weak.

Translating, for "sour" read juice of limes; "sweet" refers to a suitable concentration of sugar syrup; "strong" is, of course, high quality OP rum and "weak" is simply crushed ice. These are mixed for the larger gatherings in a bucket or bath. The swizzling is done by rotating in the liquid a small bunch of twigs in the case of the individual brews; or a clean bass broom for the bath-sized job. Desist only when the whole is a creamy mass throughout. If desired one's glass may be initially anointed with a rolled drop of Angostura bitters and a dash of nutmeg may be added to the top of the foam. Very good, indeed, and once tried is nice to look back on, or forward to. So we did those latter two things, back there in Burma.

Reciting a beverage recipe was as good a way as any of opening up the Food Forum session. After a round or two of Chatham Arty Punsh, er, Punch, some almost startling food recipes would be devised. Here are a few of these; just a little off the Beeton track, in a manner of speaking:

Steak Bandy: Pound a selected hunk of steak well and soak in soya sauce for three to four hours. Make sauce of olive oil and mashed garlic. Grill steak over open charcoal fire. While grilling smear steak with this sauce, using a brush. Serve hot and have plenty because Bandy says that guests are never satisfied with one lot. Incidentally, Bandy advises that a proper little picnic corner in the backyard complete with rustic rockery grilling range is a very popular idea back home.

Chocmallow Patterson: On a wheat-meal biscuit lay a three-sixteenth inch slab of block chocolate. Above this place a marshmallow made "gooey" enough to spread over the chocolate. Cover with another biscuit. Warm in oven till chocolate and mallow run together enough to stick to the biscuits. This novel sandwich is by Staff-Sergeant Patterson, U.S. Army. An alternative is to use nougat in place of the mallow. May be used as an adjunct to ice-cream.

Sauce Hollandaise (the Genuine Article, by a Dutch soldier, late chef in a big Javanese hotel, per Corporal Piet Faber): Take half a tumbler of vinegar; cut four garlics into shreds and place in the vinegar with ten crushed white pepper balls and one laurel leaf. Boil till all excess water evaporates. Cool off. Beat the yolks of four eggs into the residue. Stir all near a slow fire, or heat carefully in a double boiler till the mess thickens to consistency of advocaat. Melt one pound of butter very slowly and slowly mix 'With above mess. Pass result through a cheese cloth to eliminate any solids. Serve warm. This should be enough for ten persons; used with boiled fish. Note: Careful heating is the keynote. Avoid curdling.

Batterwurst Robertson: Assemble some three inch diameter garlic sausage, wholemeal. flour batter, tomatoes, HP sauce, soya sauce, crisped lettuce, butter or frying oil, raw carrot, 1 German mustard, asparagus. Chop sausage into three-eighth-inch slices and soak each in the HP sauce whilst preparing the batter. Prepare individual sausage fritters in the batter. Mix some soya sauce in the left-over HP with butter in the fry-pan. Fry thick slices of tomato in this. Lay lettuce leaves on each fritter, having previ6usly anointed top of same with the mustard. Place a fried tomato slice on each and pour over any excess frying sauce. Add two asparagus tips to top with a little butter. Sprinkle with grated carrot.
Phew!

There were many more such efforts discussed. We could let ourselves go in the matter of ingredients when we knew that we need only digest the designs.

Some consideration was also given to another Tobruk brainstorm. This concerned a commodity known as "toast paint" and was to be a liquid preparation done up in cans, which, when painted on to a slice of dry Army bread, would speedily convert it to a desirable slice of hot, buttered toast. There was to be an extra-super grade (in the purple can) to produce hot, buttered, wholemeal toast, covered with welsh rarebit and a poached egg!

Mention must be made of the extraordinary culinary ingenuity of Sapper Vic Lalor, whose art contrived actual realization of some of our "off-Beetons". Eyes were rubbed and incredulous noises made when he produced beautifully iced cakes decorated with legends and regimental badges, the icing out of native sugar and the ornamental "cream" out of some whipped fat tinted with gentian violet or acriflavine. Sapper Lalor also built very appetizing waffle-pancakes made out of a rice yeast batter in a home-made waffle iron. This was cleverly beaten from a sheet of old vehicle steel panelling and fitted with long handles.

A book devoted to the Dr Hay diet was eagerly read in the camp. In it we learnt that polished rice was not nearly so nutritive as the "red" rice and that carbohydrates should never be taken with meat. We could nearly always count upon adhering to this latter injunction since meat was quite scarce at any time.

And now we are home again. For more than a year we have been off the rice diet. Our plans for dealing ceremoniously with our first home rice meal have never gone into operation. We had planned to order large quantities of the carbo-whatnot, upon receiving which we would hurl it out the window accompanied by a dignified but unprintable ejaculation. But strangely enough there's been no rice available! Butter, bacon, many other food items anticipated with relish back in Burma, are not had without difficulty. Scotch whisky is almost as scarce as on the Railway. And "Beer's off!" is a common cry. Thus have we realized that there's been a war on. Yes, indeed!

Well, what about a brew of Chatham Arty Pun-wait for it!-Punch, on me! Right? All together, recite after me: "First take a gallon each..............

L. J. ROBERTSON, Second A.I.F.

SIGNING ON

SUMMER silence drifted through the windows of the Recruiting Office. Leading Seaman George Sanders sat at a desk scanning with troubled eyes a printed form that lay before him. He had intimated his willingness to volunteer to complete twelve years' service with the Royal Australian Navy, but the thought of the long years ahead caused him to pause, with his pen poised over the dotted line.

As he hesitated, memories of the years that had passed crowded into his mind. Back over the last six and a half years he drifted, until he remembered with a smile the youthful enthusiasm that had caused him to fret at the seemingly endless delays that had marked his early training courses.

Flinders, the great Victorian naval depot, had been colder and bleaker than ever. The discipline and rugged training had shocked but benefited his schoolboy mind and physical build,

It had not seemed long before he was on his way to join the latest addition to the Royal Australian Navy. She was a fast 6-inch cruiser, modern and beautiful, and had stirred strange emotions within him as the pinnace carried him and his new shipmates from Man o' War Steps to her newly-painted side.

Sanders had not easily adapted himself to life at sea. Things were strange and some of the officers so unsympathetic towards new recruits that he saw the Skipper for the first time across the defaulters' table. After a hectic run ashore, followed by a middle watch, he had fallen asleep on duty and more trouble followed. But George was keen to learn and very soon he began to regard his ship and his shipmates with more fondness than he had his home and friends ashore. He enjoyed listening to the men, sailors with years of sea time and raw recruits like himself, "spinning their dits". He liked the banter and the small talk and the rare, sometimes heated, discussions on every aspect of life, politics and religion.

The months slipped easily by and soon he became an Able Seaman. There followed patrols and convoy duties and a lot of time swinging around No.1 Buoy in Sydney Harbour, during which time he grew to love his ship more and more. In his mind he compared her with a woman. She was graceful and sleek, with the moods and fancies of a female and some of a woman's hidden wickedness disguised behind the slender lines of her twin gun barrels. He loved the way she cleanly cut the curling breakers, the way she shook herself as she rose from the trough of the waves that hopelessly tried to engulf her. He loved to hold her controls in the dead of night, hearing the soft whine of the wind in her wires, listening to the whispering of the bow waves and watching the stars in the blue-black sky sway with her seaborne motion.

Even the monotony of patrols, or the slow moving convoys, failed to bore him. He was content to be with his ship, keen to see her bare her teeth in battle.

When at last the order to join the Mediterranean Fleet came through he knew that the long awaited day was soon to come. With ill-concealed impatience he had said good-bye and was never really happy until Rottnest dipped below the horizon.

Then Colombo, Aden, Suez and Alexandria, heat and flies and whisky mixed with crème de menthe; dusky girls with tropic nights in their eyes. Warm dark skies, filled with lancing searchlights and thundering guns; the flash of bombs and the floating flares; the grey dawn creeping over the smoke-filled harbour as the bombers flew away and the day approached. Tobruk; Malta; Suda Bay and Athens; convoys and submarine scares; battles with bombers and never a friendly plane. The suspenseful action off Matapan, when, in the night, his ship had shouted her defiance of the Italian and split his fastest cruiser with her shells, until the darkness flared and glowed blood-red.

For weeks George had been worried by a frightening premonition that his ship was doomed. Scarcely a day passed without its share of air raids and as the number of ships in their squadron decreased and new ships came to take the places of those lost in action, this fear grew in intensity.

His ship was a veteran now, showing some internal and external damage.

Leave ashore became a memory as the tempo of war quickened. Sleepless nights became so frequent that the desire to sleep sometimes became more urgent than the need for food. Particularly was this so in the transportation of troops from Suda Bay to Greece. Almost at the same time as they completed this, mission, Piraeus was bombed and the evacuation began. Day and night became a nerve-racking nightmare culminating in the German invasion of Crete. Some of I the men broke beneath the strain and George wondered how much more his weary mind could stand. It was harder in the few quiet hours than in the midst of an air raid, among the indescribable clamour of battle, while his pompoms bucked and thundered and her blistered guns snarled at the skies.

But at Crete the end came. All day long the invasion had progressed. Wave after wave of bombers had dropped their deadly missiles all around his staggering ship. Near misses had sprung her plates. Her crew were tired, their senses dulled and deadened by the noise and nervous strain. For seven hours George had sat behind his guns refusing to be relieved. He knew that the end was near. He sensed it in the rhythmic pounding of the pom-poms, in the sickening lurch of his ship as a near miss drenched him with spray. Concealed in the haze that hung low to the sea a torpedo bomber streaked across the wave tops. George saw him as the sun's rays glanced from the torpedo as it dropped. He shouted screamed his warning to the bridge, while panic suffocated in his throat.

This was the end.

Through the sights of his guns he could see the belly of the zooming plane. Up and up he followed it while hate burned hot in his brain. Then suddenly the deck beneath him erupted in a sheet of flame and heat that hurled him into the air and unconsciousness....

He had never loved his other ships in the same way. The frigates, the corvettes, the armed merchantmen. He had followed the war across the world and into the Pacific among the green islands of the tropics, and had at last come back home to Brisbane.

Suddenly the war was past and he was going out.

Silently he listened to his mates as they built their civilian dreams. They talked about their jobs, the homes they were going to build, their wives and kids or the girls they were going to marry. George had never felt so lonely. His demobilization came through and he was face to face with the problem that he had so long avoided. The freedom of civilian life appealed to him, but he had no trade or profession, no girl to marry, no family for whom he could pit his strength and brain against life's wiles. All he had was a naval man's mind and a love for a dead ship.

That was why he had decided to sign on to finish twelve years. But he still hesitated. As he nervously fingered the comer of the printed form that lay before him, his eyes roved across the room and through the window out across the bay.

A ship came nosing up the stream, a plume of white at her funnel as she imperiously hooted the tugs and small craft out of her path. She was sleek and lissome, with wickedness in the slender lines of her twin gun barrels, her paintwork glistened in the sun and the water churned white at her stem as she swung toward the buoy.

A recognition and a new love leapt in his heart. While there were such ships, George could never be a civilian. Swiftly he signed the form and handed it to the Recruiting Officer. As he stepped outside the office, from across the bay there floated the music of anchor chains running out.

Somehow he knew that she would be his next ship.

ALLAN DOYLE, R.A.N.

STORY OF A LUCKY SHIP

THE mess deck conversation had turned to lucky ships and the leading Sig took a hand.

"You know," he said, adjusting the fan louvre so that a nice cool stream of air played on his bare back, "a good many ships have earned for themselves the title of 'lucky ship', but we on Hobart reckoned we had a better claim than most."

A coder gained a firm grip of the mess deck table and the leading sparker reached up for his "anti-drowners".

The leading Sig smiled at the banter and continued. "We left Sydney early in May 1941 -that was when I joined her. We steamed across the Indian Ocean to relieve our sister ship Perth in the Med. The voyage was uneventful until our arrival at Suez, the fringe of the war zone, and the furthermost bombing point of Italian and German long-range bombers. We were scheduled to pass through Suez the same day, but owing to mine-sowing activities conducted from the air by enemy aircraft the Canal was temporarily closed during sweeping operations. As a matter of fact we actually entered the Canal but permission to proceed was withheld at the last moment. The captain was of two minds whether to remain where we were or to retrace our steps to the bay.

"Eventually we re-entered the Bay of Tewfik and anchored just off the entrance to the Canal. That night the enemy bombers came. They very systematically bombed the spot at which it had been proposed to anchor, opposite the French Club. Not content with this they then proceeded to drop bombs of some size on the shipping in the harbour. A stick of five fell on our anchorage of the afternoon. A further stick completely gutted the 28,000-ton vessel Georgic which swung a little over three hundred yards from us."

There was a brief pause while "rounds" went through and the leading sparker had his towel scranned. The Jimmy disappeared through the port alleyway, and the leading Sig resumed.

"The following day we proceeded through the Canal. On arrival at the Bitter Lakes, we anchored temporarily, then proceeded to Ismailia. Twenty minutes after leaving the lakes they had an air raid, during the course of which they dropped many bombs on the anchorage there. Passing though Ismailia the Canal area was subjected to another raid, and on this occasion we saw enemy planes flying overhead caught in the searchlight beams from the defences on the Canal bank. They failed to see us, but it goes to show how good the German Intelligence was.

"On arrival at Alexandria we were allotted a berth next to the hospital ship Maine. The first night we had an air raid. The next day we left for Haifa. On arrival there we learnt that they had been raided consistently for weeks. From the day of our arrival to the day of departure-fourteen days-we didn't have one alarm, but ten hours after leaving they were again raided heavily. On our return to Alex we discovered that our berth could not be occupied and we had to proceed alongside the Kamaria breakwater. That night the harbour was subjected to a heavy raid and three one-thousand-pounders were dropped across our rightful berth. Maine which swung two hundred yards away was badly blasted and several killed aboard her.

"A week later we left for Port Said to ferry troops to Cyprus. Port Said had been raided every night for weeks and weeks. We remained one night during which there was no alarm. Sailing next morning for Famagusta (Cyprus) where we arrived just before midnight we learnt that they had barely finished their nightly heavy raid. Twenty minutes after we left they had a second, during which bombs were dropped all over the harbour. We went to sea with the battle fleet a few days later. It was the first occasion on which the fleet had put to sea without being subjected to air attack. Returning to harbour we were attacked by three Italian torpedo bombers but no hits were scored.

"Three weeks later found us off Bardia at midnight pouring six-inch projectiles into the Italian shore installations. A few miles astern of us, Latona was torpedoed and sunk. In all we made four trips up the Libyan coast bombarding, and on all occasions remained undetected by enemy aircraft, and on one occasion a nine-point-two German shore battery got our range just as we fired the last broadside."

The leading Sig lit another cigarette. "Towards the end of October," he continued, "we crept out of harbour with two cruisers and three destroyers on a secret mission to the south of Crete, the enemy Stuka base. This was the closest any Allied vessel had been to Crete since it had been lost to the Germans. We were without air support and as a sop they had sent the British ack-ack cruiser
Coventry along with us. Sunday morning found us some sixty miles off the Cretan coast.

A hundred miles to the cast of us the escort vessel Scud was getting into holts with an Itie sub. Ahead of us Ajax and Neptune were being badly mauled by enemy planes. On our beam fifty miles away, Flamingo had been torpedoed and was badly damaged. Along the Libyan coast the hospital ship Somerset was being dive-bombed. We never saw an enemy plane. The battle fleet put to sea to cover the Libyan offensive. We were forced to dock on account of a propeller defect. In the meantime
the battleship Barham was torpedoed and sunk, Jackal torpedoed, Glenroy torpedoed,
and Ajax near-missed by a thousand-pounder. We languished in dock.

"Well, the Japs came in and of course we had to be in that. We hurried through the Canal, sped through the Red Sea and picked up a convoy at Colombo, our destination Singapore, from which all cruisers and above had been evacuated. It was deemed suicide to leave large units anchored or berthed in Singapore or the adjacent waters. We went. Singapore was being raided day and night. Our first night we secured alongside a shed containing five hundred torpedoes! There was only one spasmodic raid!"

The light started to die and the duty stoker growled something about "flamin' Diesels" and hastened to the engine-room. The lights finally went out and the leading Sig continued his dit in the gloom, the pale light from a fitful moon drifting through a scuttle.

"We left Singapore and returned to Fremantle to pick up another convoy. Returning up Banka Strait we were attacked by five Japanese heavy bombers. All bombs missed. Wt secured in Keppel harbour for two days. Twenty-seven bombers raided the docks in the afternoon of the first day. Many fires were started but all missed us. The following day we left Singapore for the last. time and missed a minefield -by feet when our escorting destroyer frantically signalled us.

"Proceeding down Banka Strait with the destroyer Tenedos in company a single Jap bomber fastened upon us and dropped many small bombs, all of which missed. We arrived at Batavia and secured. A week later saw us in company with the British cruiser Exeter attempting to intercept a superior enemy force off Banka Island. Three Japanese bombers picked us up and tried to discourage the operation with an assortment of heavy stuff which failed to connect, though we had a few casualties.

"Two days later in company with a fairly substantial force we again attempted the Banka and Rhio straits. From shortly before noon until sunset we were subjected to what at that time was the severest bombing any vessels had suffered in the Eastern theatre. Few of the ship's company at that time will ever forget it. In all one hundred and thirteen planes were involved and about a couple of hundred bombs were dropped. They didn't score a hit and we skittled a couple of them.

"Returning to Batavia to fuel and take Perth and Exeter down the Java Sea in a 'door-die' attempt to stem the invasion of Java we were again attacked by a formation of aircraft and suffered a few casualties from antipersonnel bombs. We commenced fuelling alongside the tanker War Sirdar. A heavy raid commenced and a stick estimated at forty bombs fell a few yards in a dead straight line on the starboard side. Apart from superficial damage and a few minor accidents the ship was undamaged. War Sirdar collected a bomb through her fo'c'sle head and salt water contaminated her fuel tanks as she commenced to list. Through lack of fuel we were unable to put to sea and join the force which was going out to fight the final Battle of the Java Sea. The fate of that force is now history. Not one ship survived."

Not a sound could be heard in the mess as the leading Sig paused to ruminate.

"Yes," he continued, "We were lucky. We ran the Sunda Strait and escaped, but before this happened we made a final attempt to stop the rot with two old English cruisers, Dragon and Danae. A Jap 'recco' sighted us and Intelligence at Colombo advised us that the Jap 'recco' report falsely classed us as a battleship and two cruisers with the result that the superior force we were steaming to engage retired northward under the protection of their bombing planes.

"Making our run through Sunda the following evening we were mistaken for a Jap force by enemy planes and allowed to proceed unmolested. By hugging the enemy-occupied coast of Sumatra we evaded their searching squadrons and by some miracle won out to the free and open waters of the Indian Ocean, the sole survivors of the Far Eastern Fleet.

"A month or two followed and then northward we went to the Coral Sea Battle. Three torpedoes dropped from attacking planes passed down either side of us and disappeared astern.

"The Battle of the Solomons-well, some of you know about that. We took part in the entire operation, the only casualty a bloke who had his overalls blown off by our own six-inch guns' blast during a torpedo attack. On this occasion we survived an attack by forty planes. During the night it was our job to guard the lower approach to Tulagi. At 2 a.m. that Sunday an enemy force sneaked in and sank four of our cruisers with heavy losses of our men. A few miles away within sight of the battle we steamed unscathed.

"It was in June 1943 that we really collected when a 'fish' struck us aft, but the loss of life was amazingly small considering everything and we were able to make Sydney under own steam, after a patch job had been effected.

"Well, it's 'lights out', and it's me for the cart, but whenever you hear matelots talking about lucky ships, remember the luckiest of them all was Hobart."

P. R. BURING, R.A.N.

EYES DOWN A'LOOKING

AHOY there, you landlubbers! Come aboard this ship of the fleet and see Housie-Housie as it really is played. The lads of the Navy call it Tombola and what a game it is. None of this round-or-two
for a pound-or-two. It's high pressure and big time. The sea is sparkling calm in the after-noon sunshine. Time, the first dog-watch.
Action! Camera!

"Do you hear there? Tombola is now being played in the torpedo space." The Quartermaster's announcement is preceded by the shrill of the bos'n's pipe.

Tickets are sold at sixpence a time by two of the team. The third sits at a small table on the lee side with his numbered board and bag of counters cut from a broom handle.

"Who wants a ticket for the first Full House? You gotta speculate to accumulate. Come here in a wheelbarrow and go away in a Rolls Royce. You play, we pay."

"All set?" asks the "caller-outer".

"All set," reply the ticket-sellers.

"Eyes down a'looking for a Full House. First number."

All eyes are down a'looking.

"By itself number six; eight and seven, eighty-seven; unlucky for some, thirteen; all the sixes, clicketty-click; top of the Wazir, nine-o, ninety; all the ones, legs eleven; Kelly's eye, number one."

He pauses long enough to dig into his canvas bag for another handful of counters and to take a deep breath. Meanwhile one of his assistants counts the amount of the House and enters the total in a dog-eared book. Then he nudges the "caller-outer" and the monotonous chant ceases for a moment.

"Amount of the House, one pound fifteen."

Not enough," the players chorus. "Get on with it."

Eyes down for the next number. Three and six, thirty-six; one and two, one duzz; all the sevens, seventy-seven; doctor's orders, number nine; six-o, sixty."

"Blood!" A player has crossed off his first number.

"Shake 'em up for Pete's sake," he begs after a particularly barren stretch. The "caller outer" obligingly shakes 'em up.

"Next number." The voice calls on with hardly a pause. A stoker by the rail is "sweating" and curses softly.

"Just one more. Come on, you little boomer. That's right, all around it. Any one but the right one."

Several more players are sweating now and excitement increases.

"By itself number eight; five and......."

"Yes!" The stoker lets out a triumphant roar.

"House called on number eight."

His ancestry is questioned immediately and he is bombarded with a volley of curses by the other sweaters. A winner is as popular as a mouse at a mannequin parade.

The card is checked from the board by the "caller-outer".

"One House correct" and he signs for his thirty-five shillings.

Tickets for the next House are sold within a few minutes.

"Eyes down a'looking for a single line. First number . . ."

Only a few of the ninety numbers have been called when a line is completed by a seaman this time and he calls out: "That's enough! "

He also is roundly abused as he takes his ticket to the board for checking.

"House a fraud!"

There is a delighted chorus at the announcement. The seaman has crossed off a number in error.

"You beaut. You can't get away with it all the time, mate."

"Eyes down for the next number."

This is the game of Tombola, the only recognized game of chance in the Navy. Officially all others are taboo, but that's another story.

It is played every afternoon during the dog-watches at sea, providing the weather is fair, of course. The numbers are rattled off with machine-gun rapidity so that the players can't take their eyes from their cards. Big-timers operate two cards, thereby increasing their chances of winning the House.

Usually, three men run the game and stay in office for a month, sometimes three, according to the ruling of the canteen committee. As each term expires volunteers are called for from the ship's company and names submitted to the committee. From these volunteers the next three are selected and normally comprise a Petty Officer or Leading Hand and two other ratings.

All stakes in each game do not go to the winner, however. From the total the canteen fund takes a small percentage for the purchase of amenities for the ship-radios, library books, gramophone records and sporting equipment.

The three sailors running the game take another small percentage which is divided equally amongst them at the expiration of their term. If the "school" is of any size their share is seldom less than a tenner a month each, good money for a few hours' work a day. There are few rules but these are rigidly adhered to and the usual play is a Full House and single line alternately.

The game continues until "Cooks to the galley" is piped. The number of players has increased and the houses are worth winning now. On pay days it sky-rockets into really big money.

"Eyes down for the last Full House!"

G. WARWICK