Chapter 12 Shadow of things to come; MM I didn't win; 1 up on the Yanks;......

SHADOW OF THINGS TO COME

EACH morning during Allenby's final campaign in Palestine in 1918, the airmen of No. 1 Australian Squadron, which was performing the reconnaissance work for the army, sped out with the first sign of dawn in search of bombing targets for their expectant fellows at all the British aerodromes. Flying low over Samaria on the morning of 21 September the Australians spied a huge column of enemy transport and troops following the narrow tracks along the wadis leading down to Beisan and the Jordan further south. Using their wireless, they passed the information in a few seconds to the aerodromes, where lines of machines loaded with bombs were ready to move, and the airmen were standing by.

Within less than an hour the destruction of the enemy began; and perhaps nowhere else in the war was the efficacy of the air force, as a fighting agency against troops on the ground, so convincingly demonstrated. The main enemy column, after passing from Balata to Khurbet Ferweh, turned off along the Wadi Fara towards the Jordan. About nine miles further on the Wadi Fara passes through a gorge; and as this was entered by the head of the force, down swooped the vanguard of the British and Australian bombers descending to within a few hundred feet of their helpless quarry, the airmen quickly smashed up the leading vehicles and choked the gorge. Then flying up and down the doomed chaotic train of motors, guns and horse-transport, through which surged thousands of distracted troops, the pilots and observers continued their terrible work with both bombs and machine guns.

As one relay of machines exhausted its ammunition, its place was taken by another, while the first sped back to the aerodrome to refill. Some pilots made as many as four of these trips during the day. The enemy drivers fled in panic from their vehicles; one small detachment endeavoured to escape by a side track from Ain Shibleh, only to be 'pursued and broken and the remnant, when it reached Beisan, was met and captured by British and Indian cavalry. The fighting troops, scattered from the shambles on the road, were chased and machine-gunned as they sought cover across the hills.

A disorderly but still united retreat had in a few hours been turned into an utter rout. Each enemy officer and man sought only his own safety in flight and hiding. By their work on less than five miles of road, the airmen had caused the destruction or abandonment of 87 guns, 55 motor-lorries and 916 other vehicles. But this was only a fraction of their achievement. In bombing and checking the columns and scattering the fighting men, they had removed the possibility of any serious attempt to engage Barrow at Beisan or to oppose Chaytor's blocking movement up the Jordan Valley. The work of the airmen, following on the blow of the infantry, had taken all the fight out of the Turks before they reached the cavalry cordon beyond.

No.1 Squadron made six heavy raids during the day, dropped three tons of bombs and fired nearly 24,000 machine-gun rounds into the struggling parties in those terrible valleys. Yet this was only half the total ammunition expended, for the British squadrons attacked this same road with another three tons of bombs and 20,000 machine-gun rounds. The panic and the slaughter beggared all description.

With the Turks that day was an Austrian artillery officer, an artist by profession. Twenty years later when Hitler occupied Austria he fled to England. In September 1939, he came to Australia where he painted the picture reproduced opposite. The destruction of that day had remained fresh in his memory. By the standards of the First World War it had been terrific but, as the Second World War has shown, it was a pale shadow of things to come. Will the same be written in twenty years' time of the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki?

A.W.M.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT: This account of the bombing of Wadi Fara was taken from Official History of Australia in the War of 1914-18, Vols. V11 and VIII.

THE M.M. I DIDN'T WIN

THEY'RE giving me the Military Medal-but I didn't win it, honestly I didn't.

You know, I've always hated Harry Durham-that is, until just recently. Now-oh, well, what's the use of thinking about what I might have done. It's far too late.

You're probably wondering what on earth I'm babbling about, and what Harry Durham has to do with me getting a Military Medal, which I swear I didn't earn. It does sound a bit "screwy", I must admit, but when I tell you the full story I reckon you'll agree I'm right.

I first met Harry Durham attending the little country school which Mills Creek boasted. You won't find Mills Creek on any map, by the way. It's merely one of those spots which exist without the outside world knowing of it, and it was there that I began having to play second fiddle to him.

Of course, now that I can see matters in their proper light, I know it wasn't any fault of Harry's. He was just one of those chaps who can't help succeeding-and winning-at everything and anything. I was the fellow who had to be content with second place, and how I hated it! I doubt if ever there existed a jealousy like the one I nursed for Harry Durham.

I think it all began when Harry beat me in the yearly exam-the one in which I was so anxious to finish on top. Dad had promised to buy me a bike if I came first, and how I wanted to earn that bike! Of course, he still bought it for me, but somehow it didn't seem so good-a sort of consolation prize, I felt.

Then the school cricket team was selected to play Bentvale, and-yes, you've guessed it Harry was elected captain. I was sure I'd be picked to lead the team, and in my own sour way blamed Harry for what had happened, even to the extent of hoping he'd fail badly. It was no pleasure to me even when I scored forty-three in the match, for Harry took all the honours by knocking up seventy-six, and then snapped up a rasping one-handed catch to dismiss Bentvale's last batsman with only a couple of minutes to play. "Durham a Match Winner", the local newspaper headed its column, and described in detail his brilliant innings with just a mention at the end that I had "ably supported him by compiling forty-three".

We left school together, and Harry promptly obtained the only decent job in the township-clerk at the local bank, while I had to content myself as an assistant in the grocery store. Every time I saw him pass the door, as immaculately dressed as ever, while I toiled amid the dirt of the cellar and cobwebs of the loft, I told myself that he was the one who had relegated me to such a menial position, and my hatred grew until at times it threatened to envelop me altogether.

The years rolled by, but not one whit of my jealousy rolled by with them; in fact, I would say it was increased with time. Funny, I can see now how stupid and childish it all was, but of course it's too late!

Rumblings of an uneasy Europe reached Mills Creek, and my pet aversion was temporarily forgotten or, at least, pushed into the background as I scanned the daily papers, reading of the menace which had arisen in the form of a little man with a small moustache. Then came that dramatic Sunday night when we heard those fateful words from Mr. Neville Chamberlain and realized that for the second time in a generation we were at war with Germany.

My mind was quickly made up, and early next morning I made my way to the recruiting office. Here I found I was the second man in the town to enlist-Harry Durham of course had the honour to be first!

They gave us a send-off as we left to go to the city-and eulogized the debt Mills Creek owed to Harry and me. "Harry and me" it was always that way, always Harry first!

I didn't have too much time to worry about Harry when we entered camp. I had made up my mind quite early that I intended to press for quick promotion, and all my spare time was fully occupied poring over text-books, attending to my equipment, and generally endeavouring to be a model soldier. I was quite optimistic, too, when we sojourned to the rifle range to fire the musketry course for, up home, I had always been a first-class shot. Nor had I reason to feel anything but pleased when I handed in my card showing a drop of only four points on the day, to find to my chagrin that Harry Durham had shot a possible!

From then on I could see that I was again fated to be "next best" to Harry, and all my old hatred welled up within me. Together we were posted to the Special Coastal Force which established a 6-inch battery on an important strategic island in the Pacific. Harry, of course, was ideally suited as a coast gunner-cool, unruffled yet amazingly accurate and rapid. It was not long before he had distinguished himself as the finest gun layer, and he regularly took up that position in every practice while I toiled away as a loading number, bathed in perspiration as I staggered with 100-pound projectiles to the breech. Calmly and serenely Harry, as auto-sight layer, carried out his job. His promotion to bombardier was a natural conclusion.

We all chafed at the inactivity on the island, and reckoned we were just "forgotten troops" until one morning when we sat stunned as we listened to the astounding news of the Jap's treacherous attack on Pearl Harbour. We knew that our presence in the Pacific took on a new significance, and that our long-awaited hopes for action would most certainly be realized. Tensely we waited-and soon it came, with a vengeance.

I won't weary you with the details of how it started. It will suffice to say that we found ourselves fighting a murderous battle, not only for dear life but for the key to the Pacific. Off-shore the pride of the Japanese Navy, with adequate support, hurled salvo after salvo screaming into the midst of our defences. The shrill screech of shells in the air, the thundering reverberations of big guns competing, in a mad artillery duel for supremacy, the crashing to earth of buildings demolished by direct hits, the blinding flashes from each gun, the grotesque effects of searchlights stabbing through the inky darkness, now here, now there, combined to make one feel that this was a night on which all the fiends of Hell had been let loose.

I was a loading member of the crew on Number One gun, with Harry Durham (Sergeant Harry Durham) the auto-sight layer. Back and forward I toiled, now bringing up shell, now cartridge, now shell again until I felt it was only will-power which drove me on.

Harry, of course, was his usual cool self as he alternately elevated and depressed the gun after sending a great projectile screaming on its way against the sons of Nippon. He seemed to be even more at ease than normally, and I realized, as I sweated, that I was once again relegated to an inferior position.

Then came disaster. A shell landed nearby, and with a deafening roar exploded. We had instinctively flung ourselves to the gun-floor but I wondered as I felt clods of earth shower down whether we would rise again.

When I climbed unsteadily to my feet, dimly conscious that my left arm felt as though a thousand needles were being jabbed into it, I saw Harry Durham lying in a huddled heap, motionless.

Just what took place for the next few moments I'm afraid I can't quite tell you, for when my befuddled brain had cleared I found myself in Harry's position on the gun, with the elevating wheel firmly gripped in my hand. Somehow or other I spun the wheel until I could see in the telescopic sights the big enemy ship, then a pressure on the pistol-grip sent a great shell on its way.

Elevate and depress! Fire! Elevate and depress! Fire! Feverishly I spun the wheel, pulled the trigger, encouraged by assistance from an unseen force which guided me on, ever urging me to greater efforts. Some instinct which was surely not mine made the necessary adjustments to the complicated mechanism of the gun, placed corrections on the clicking gear, lined up the target and sent the shells away with split-second timing.

How long this crazy conflict lasted I have no idea, but I can dimly recall seeing, as though in a dream, the awesome blinding flash which made the night like day, and hearing the ear-splitting thunder which signified that the Jap ship had been completely finished.

I must have passed out later, for the next thing I can recall is finding myself surrounded by beds, whose sheets somehow seemed alarmingly white. My arm, which ached dully, was swathed in bandages.

One of the sisters told me that the Jap force had, after a terrific fight, been beaten off with heavy losses. Soon afterwards, to my astonishment, the C.O., with the adjutant, paid me a visit, and after inquiring about my injured arm gave me the details of how, when all seemed hopeless, a burst of remarkably accurate fire from Number One gun sank the main Jap attacker. After this loss the enemy withdrew. With an air of pride the C.O. added, "I must congratulate you on your initiative and pluck, to say nothing of a fine exhibition of gun-laying."

Desperately I propped myself up on my one good elbow as I replied, "I didn't do the laying, sir, it was Sergeant Durham."

The C.O. and the adjutant exchanged glances, then the latter, stepping forward, said quietly, "I'm sorry to have to tell you that Sergeant Durham was killed instantly before you took over his place on the gun," and they looked as though they thought I was delirious when I answered, "Yes, I know!"

And now they're giving me the Military Medal - but I didn't win it, honestly I didn't!

J. A. REDDING, Second A.I.F.

YOU ARE NOT FLYING A "CAT"'

COULD there possibly have been as many schools in the other services as in the R.A.A.F.? I survived many and had a tour of duty as instructor in one or more.

In fact, in story, and in verse, the flying instructor has been subject to much persiflage, much of it of a mildly hostile kind, from the pupils. Not so much has the reverse obtained, in print at any rate, but the instructor has his moments. He certainly has.

For instance. I was stationed at an aerodrome a few miles from an English village called Liddingreen - or was it? The tour of duty was three months on night flying.

One night I was instructed to check the flying of a pupil called Flight-Lieutenant Smith, a Canadian, who had not only completed his Advanced Flying Unit course, but had been a commercial pilot in Civvy Street. He had just done a brief tour on Catalinas.

I had a preliminary chat with him and deduced from his manner that, apart from having a supreme confidence in his own ability, he considered a check flight was quite unnecessary but he suffered the indignity merely to satisfy the Air Force rules and regulations.

Once settled in the aircraft and having vainly sought for a chink in his armour of superciliousness, I was determined to indulge in a friendly but severe constructive criticism of any mistake he might make, for experience had taught me that an over-confident pilot invariably kills himself. If a pilot is flying solo and cares to kill himself that is his own affair, but later on this pilot would be captain of
a heavy bomber carrying a crew of six or seven.

It was a dark night with high cloud blotting out the stars, a gentle breeze bringing with it a slight mist of industrial haze. A good night for flying, requiring careful attention to instrument flying.

Before taxi-ing out for take-off I said, "As you haven't flown at night for a fortnight would you like me to do a circuit and landing for you? "

He grunted: "No! I can manage."

I had resolved not to criticize whi6t flying but to make a mental note of his actions and correct him, if necessary, prior to doing a second circuit.

The aircraft was lined up on the runway and a green had been flashed at us, signalling all clear for take-off. Throttles were pushed open and we gathered speed. Smith hauled back on the stick and we left the ground with the airspeed dangerously low.

"Careful," I cautioned. "You're not flying a 'Cat'."

Silence; but he took the hint, pushed the stick forward and attained safe climbing speed.

Wheels up, mixture to normal, throttle back, zero boost, check flaps, downward navigation light off, motors synchronized. So far, so good. A bit ham-fisted, but safe.

I watched his instruments, speed varying by ten miles per hour, altitude 400 feet-600-700- Ye gods! when was he going to turn?-900 feet. Ah! at last! Angle of bank varied from rate half to rate one and a half; the directional indicator moved and stopped -moved again and stopped. Obviously he hadn't taken much notice of its reading on take-off and he turned a bare sixty degrees instead of ninety. Well, we'd see what would happen.

Throttle back to cruising revs. Flying straight and level. Well, not quite - anything from 1,000 to 1,200 feet. And so we cruised along. "Wonder when he's going to prepare for landing?" I asked myself.

Ah! He's signalling for permission to land. Our light sent out the plea persistently and enthusiastically, but no reply was forthcoming. No wonder! We were well out of sight of the flare path.

Smith's thoughts evidently were, "Oh well, no reply, but I suppose that it'll be O.K.," because he commenced his vital actions. Recognition light on, brake pressure O.K.,. undercarriage, mixture to full rich, ten degrees; of flap. Without a glance outside he commenced a turn. This time instead of turning

through ninety degrees he turned seventy degrees. At least an improvement! He looked down. Oh, there was the flare path - a twin row of lights slightly to port. Spot on, eh? Undercarriage lights showing green, throttles back to 140o revs (he didn't bother to check the undercarriage horn) twenty degrees of flap and a turn on to the flare path.

I maintained a dignified silence. Five hundred feet - 400 feet, throttles back to 1,200 revs, full flap -300-250- I could stand it no longer and in any case, I was young and did so want to get back for supper.

I sighed. "Please don't land here," I said gently into the mouthpiece.

"Why not?"

"Because that's the ruddy main street of Liddingreen!"

MALCOLM M GLENNIE, R.A.A.F.

JAPAN DIARY

IT is February and there is snow on the hilltops above Kure. Mists hang low over the hills and harbour. The streets are wet with drizzling rain. On the rare but welcome occasions when the sun shines there is no warmth in its rays. At the masthead in the courtyard a sodden Union Jack flaps dejectedly. We were told that the climate here is sub-arctic, but this is a gross understatement. It is colder than that.

On shore, former workshops of Japan's great naval base are masses of twisted metal. Sunken are the remnants of what was once the Imperial fleet. The modem and the primitive are side by side here, fast locomotives, human porterage; hydro-electric cables spanning rice-fields where peasants are using wooden ploughs.

Japan is a land of paradoxes.

All arable land is in use here. Wheat and barley grow on small plots by roads and railway lines. Vegetables (and sometimes grain) are sown outside city houses or on bombed areas from which the debris has been cleared away. Australians would not care to eat those vegetables-not after the fertilizer used by the Japs. The earth stinks excessively.

The Jap male is in unprepossessing animal, dull, stolid and servile. One wonders how the Nips very nearly became the overlords of Asia and the masters of the Pacific. Of the Jap women and children many have pink cheeks and, of the former, some are tolerably good looking and, contrary to expectations appear to be bright and vivacious. Most of them wear kimonos or pantaloons and carry pretty paper umbrellas. They are picturesque creatures and certainly have an eye for colour. However
their wide moon-like faces often give one the impression that their heads are too large for their bodies.

It is an experience walking through the Jap markets of Kure, Hiroshima and other towns in this area. Most of the articles displayed on the stands are the shoddiest under the sun. Much in the way of foodstuffs is sold - seaweeds, fish entrails and fish (including octopus) -threaded on small cane hoops and dried in the sun.

Shoddy curios, silks, souvenirs, cameras are offered for sale. I heard a Jap gramophone grinding out a familiar tune; it was "Isle of Capri" in Japanese.

Wheat and barley are grown on the terraced hills. Pine forests help to prevent erosion. Nearly all the forest trees here are conifers and lumbering is an important industry. Thousands of logs are rafted down the swift flowing watercourses. The Australian gum tree, so popular in the Middle East, is rare in Japan. There are several in Kure and on Eta Jima, a number around Kobe and Osaka. The smaller and more decorative kurrajong is much more popular.

This is March and it is snowing still. If only the sun would shine the landscape would appear bright and beautiful. All water standards at the railway stations between here and Tokyo have been jacketed in straw to protect them from the cold. Near the Imperial Palace in Tokyo there is a tree of a milder clime, its pruned branches and trunk encased completely with woven grass which will be removed with the arrival of spring.

A modem city is Tokyo, and for anyone seeking the atmosphere of the Orient, it is not impressive. Kyoto, the ancient capital, is more representative of Japan. In both cities there are temples, shrines and pagodas, but with few exceptions they are not imposing. Japanese architecture is outwardly too ornate. The intricate carving of wood and stonework, involving great skill and patience, is not justified by the result achieved. There is nothing in Japan comparable with such masterpieces as the Mosque of Omar, the Sultan Hussein Mosque and Muhammed Ali's Mosque, familiar to many Australians who served in the Middle East.

On 17 March we attended a St Patrick's Day concert at the Ernie Pyle theatre in Tokyo. Most of the players were Jewish lads of the U.S. Army and the concert was not reminiscent of the many Irish gatherings seen in Australian country towns. The Ernie Pyle is a wonderful theatre noted for its high
standard of entertainment. Its chorus of Japanese girls, dressed in Spanish costumes, wearing mantillas and with red roses in their hair, is something which will be long remembered.

The Ginza is the shopping centre of Tokyo. Along this street are the souvenir shops which sell junk manufactured for the troops. They are not fascinating places like the bazaars in India and the Middle East, and the prices are ridiculous. However, one notices that, in common with the Jews of Tel Aviv and Haifa, the Nips employ attractive girls in their shops. When one enters they give a little bow and then look up with a beaming smile. They seem to be very feminine, exotic little creatures. Many of us have always regarded the Nips as dull stupid Orientals, but this is not true of their womenfolk anyway.

However there is nothing very graceful about Japanese women. They shuffle when they walk. Their kimonos are beautiful in design and in harmony of colour, but are suitable for Japanese only. The kimono cannot be compared with the sari of India-that picturesque and classic garb worn by the Parsee girls in Bombay.

One day, on a Tokyo suburban platform, a Nip said to me, "What part of Australia do you come from, Sarge?"

"From Queensland," I replied, somewhat amused at the "Sarge" touch.

"Know Townsville at all?" he asked.

"My oath, I do," said 1.

"Well," he continued, "I once lived at Townsville and at Giru. Came to Japan for a holiday about the beginning of the war and was not allowed to return to Australia."

On another occasion, in Tokyo, I heard the sound of pattering feet, turned and found a well-dressed, smiling, bespectacled Nip looking up at me. "Do you come from Mosman, sir?" he asked.

"Not on your life," I said. "But which Mosman do you mean-Mosman, Sydney, or Mossman, northern Queensland?"

"Mosman, Sydney," he replied. "I lived there. It is a very good place." Then bowing three times he said goodbye.

I said, "So long, George," . . . but I did not bow.

At first most of the Nips were unfamiliar with our slouch hat. Some of them thought that we were "cowboy" Americans. In a large

suburban departmental store the presence of two of us brought business to a standstill. Shop assistants gravitated from various counters. Customers stood around, more interested in our purchases than in their own. A group of small schoolgirls stood by vainly endeavouring not to appear curious.

"Goshu," we said, indicating ourselves. "Goshu-jin, Goshu-jin" (Australian) was repeated a dozen times before the crowd dispersed. The little girls smiled and waved to us as they left the shop. They were pretty kids, cleanly and well dressed in colourful little kimonos.

Many of us had expected to find Japan a land of geisha girls and cherry blossoms. We have seen none of the former, but April has come at last and the Japanese are celebrating spring and cherry-blossom time. In places whole hillsides are covered with bloom. Dirty railway stations are decorated with it. Men, women and children carry sprays of blossom. But a flowering cherry tree is seen at its best when it is growing by a stream or within the shelter of an age-mellowed shrine.

At Horii we attended the spring festival dance. The stage, near a Shinto shrine, was set amongst the cherry trees. The dancers, girls about fourteen years old, were kimono-clad and carried dainty colourful little umbrellas. They moved slowly and gracefully. This spring festival dance had none of the fire and wild abandon of a Spanish dance, but possessed a quality which other dances lack. It was soothingly gentle. It seems strange that this race of Nippon, producing shy, demure, very feminine little women, has bred so many vicious, violent, ugly little men.

On one occasion we had to stay at a hotel in a Japanese country town. As is customary when entering Jap dwellings we removed our boots at the doorway. The hotel verandas, about six feet in width, were of polished pine. The rooms were large, without doors or windows, sliding panels taking the place of both. The panels, the colour of "holland", were bordered with black lacquer frames. The rooms were ceiled with wide pine boards, beautifully grained and without blemish. Between the sliding panels and the ceiling was a fretwork frieze. The floor was covered with thick finely woven cane mats. Apart from a low table in the centre of the room and a brazier alive with glowing coals, there was no furniture. One sleeps on & floor on eiderdown quilts spread out on the mats. In a shallow recess in one of the walls was hung a picture painted on silk and below it a vase containing one spray of red cherry blossom. This room appealed to us because of its air of restful simplicity.

In Japan maids enter bathrooms and bedrooms at will regardless of whether one is fully clad or not. The habit can be embarrassing, but the girls appear to be quite oblivious of one's presence. At the hotel my bath had been prepared for me. Removing a pine board floating on the water, I climbed into the deep tub. I left the tub suddenly, my yell causing the housemaid to come rushing to my assistance. I had almost scalded the soles of my feet for the bathtub was immediately above the furnace. The pine float I had put aside should have been submerged and used for standing on.

Spring has gone with its cherry blossoms and we have reached the mid-year. May brought the wisteria, and azaleas, which lent splashes of colour to the hills. Knee-deep in mud the peasants are ploughing the rice fields and the women are planting out rice seedlings one by one. Rice-growing may suit the Nips, but I'd prefer to grow sugar-cane. The weather is warm-warmer than a Queensland summer and more humid. Many of the Japanese women have laid aside the kimonos and pantaloons and are dressed in the European fashion; one sees a great assortment of knobby knees and ugly legs. It is no wonder that the Nip woman looks her best when clad in her Oriental costume.

Fans are in fashion now. Women and men use them in the streets. It is common to see Nip men with folded fans in their belts-in much the same manner as one might carry a dagger. The practice seems to have extended even to Australian veterans from the islands. Some carry folded fans in their gaiter-tops or in their puggarees. A bronzed Digger fans himself in a theatre or whilst sitting in a jeep.

We cannot plumb the depths of the Oriental mind, but the attitude of the Japanese civilian towards the Australian troops appears to be both friendly and helpful. It is doubtful whether or not this friendliness is a mask. I consider that it is spontaneous, especially in the case of the children.

Some of our Australian reconnaissance patrols have made contact with the fishing and farming folk on some of the islands of the beautiful Inland Sea. One wonders how much these people had to do with war. Tilling their fields and casting their nets they live in a world of their own. Some of them expressed surprise at the way members of the patrol rolled their cigarettes. They had never seen it done before. "It's an Australian custom," our interpreter explained. At first they were surprised and alarmed to learn that we were Australians. They had thought that we were Americans, but they had never seen Americans "roll their own" from the makings. And apparently our slouch hats had meant nothing to them.

Recently we visited a Jesuit monastery situated on the outskirts of the "atomized" Hiroshima. It stands where the plains and mountains meet-above it are the pine forests, below it the paddy fields. In its chapel there is a picture depicting the landing at Shimonoseki of St Francis Xavier, who brought Christianity to Japan. The picture is the work of a Japanese artist who visited Shimonoseki in order to acquire the correct setting and atmosphere for the picture. It was not until after the picture had been presented to the monastery that it was discovered that the artist had inadvertent1v painted a fortified area. Alarmed, the military authorities ordered the immediate destruction of the picture. The German Jesuits pleaded that it was valuable. In the end a compromise was reached. The artist was required to alter the contour of some of the hills, paint out others and replace one of the fortified mountains with Fuji which is distant some hundreds of miles from Shimonoseki. The incident is interesting in that it reveals the suspicion with which the Japanese regarded all foreigners, even German Jesuits whose fatherland was allied with their own.

ALAN QUEALE, Second AIF.

THE BATTLE OF WADI YA REKN

THE Western Desert in January 1941 was undoubtedly a scroungers' paradise. Among a notable collection of scroungers attached to a certain supply base, the recognized masters of the art were Driver Alec Kelly and his mate Robinson, familiarly-and perhaps appropriately known as "Robbo". Being members of a transport section, they had ample opportunity to apply their motto, "Never return empty handed".

On this particular occasion they were returning from a trip up to the front line and, place of bullets and bully, the thirty-hundred weight truck "Battling Bertha" now carried a clandestine cargo in the form of cases of the finest Italian Grappa, reluctantly abandoned by an Itie Q.M. when the relentless advance of the Sixth Division made it necessary to seek other quarters.

As the tide of battle rolled steadily in one direction, Battling Bertha rolled unsteadily in the other, with Alec keeping a more or less guiding hand on the wheel while Robbo nursed half a dozen bottles and occasionally opened one to see if it tasted any different from the last. Strangely enough the flavour did seem to improve as one empty bottle followed another out the side of the truck.

Robbo was discoursing fretfully on the relative lack of excitement in their service with the transport.

"The Cinderellas of the Service, that's what we are, pal, just glorified grocers. What chance has a unit like ours got of winning decorations or taking prisoners; any time we look like getting within coo-ee of the foe, along comes the infantry and chases them further on."

"You're right, mate," agreed Alec, "Why, our base is so far behind the front line now, I hear Spinney is talking of opening a cafe' here!"

"Speaking of the base," said Robbo, "we ought to be there by now; haven't we swung on to the turn-off yet?"

"Yes, about twenty minutes ago, but I don't see anything that looks familiar yet.

That's funny, where did that escarpment over on the left come from? I don't remember seeing it before."

"No, nor this wadi in front either! You didn't take the wrong turn, did you?"

"Of course not, I turned right at the Itie monument--"

"Turned wrong you mean! You should have swung left there, you silly ape. We're probably halfway across the Sahara now. It's the Grappa: you can't take it! Better let me at the wheel or you'll have us in the gully."

Four hands on the steering wheel is not recommended by the best driving schools. In protest at the contrary demands made on her, Bertha suddenly leapt at the wadi as if to jump it -hesitated- and then compromised by coming to an abrupt halt, with two wheels on the bank and two spinning merrily over the brink.

When the vibrations had ceased, Alec said philosophically, "Well, that's that. Anyway we've got plenty of grog, so we won't starve, and someone is sure to come this way sooner or later."

"That's all right if it's our own blokes, but there's still a lot of stray Ities that have been by-passed in the advance and if we struck a mob of 'em it might be tough!"

"Well, that should suit you, you're always moaning about not getting enough action. Anyway, let's bust another bottle and then we'll decide what to do."

One bottle, however, failed to produce any inspiration, so they opened another and by the time this had been swallowed, their original problem was forgotten and they were deep in a solemn discussion of the relative merits of various brands of brew.

When a voice said politely, "Goodamorning, gentlemen", and they looked up to find an Italian officer standing on the running board, Alec and Robbo regarded him with a certain degree of indifference. By this time, under the influence of the Grappa, they would have been unimpressed had it been Marshal Graziani himself.

"Who is this person, Mr. Robinson?"

"An officer of the foe I believe- Mr. Kelly-"

"What do you want, my good fellow-" Alec asked the officer haughtily. "Can't you see we're having a private discussion? Go away like a good chap."

The Italian lieutenant smiled good-humouredly. "Signor, I beg you to excusa me that I disturb you, but on behalf of myself and my brave soldiers I wish to talk the surrender."

"Surrender!" Robbo was climbing out of the truck. "Struth!" he exclaimed, "There's a mob of 'em!"

Behind their officer stood about twenty Italian soldiers, armed to the teeth and all grinning broadly.

Alarmed by now, Alec tumbled out after his cobber and was helped to his feet by the lieutenant, who produced a pink embroidered handkerchief and politely dusted the Australian's tunic. Alec brushed him aside and staggering over to his mate, put an arm about Robbo's shoulder and endeavoured to comfort him. "Cheer up, old mate! Bad luck there's so many of 'em - it's no use putting on a blue, we wouldn't have a chance."

"I reckon we'll just have to go quietly, pal. But anyway the war can't last forever and we'll be together. . . ." They shook hands solemnly and then Robbo turned to the Italian officer.

"Righto, Luigi," said he in a voice choked with emotion, "We surrender."

"No, no!" protested the lieutenant. "We surrender! "

"What 's he mean? " Robbo asked Alec.

"Signor Digger," explained the officer. "It is lika this: we are on the patrol and when we get back we find the company she is gone -we hava no more the rations and when Engleezi tanks come we try to surrender. But the Engleezi officer, he say they are too busy chasa the Regimente and we must find some other one to surrender to. Now you are here and on behalf of my brave soldiers I beg you pleasa take us prisoner - we hava no more the ration; my men they grow very hungry and thirsty ......

"Poor cows," murmured Robbo sympathetically, "I'll get a few bottles out and give them all a drink."

In the role of captor, Alec was trying to muster an air of dignity. "On behalf of General Wavell I accept your-hic! -surrender. and ... er ... well, dunks a lot!"

The officer bowed low and turning to his men announced in Italian that the Australians had kindly consented to take them prisoner. This news was greeted with a chorus of "Vivas" and as Robbo began to distribute bottles of Grappa from the back of the truck, their joy was overwhelming. The lieutenant showed himself a born leader of men by the skilful way he managed to grab the first bottle Robbo passed down.

"You know, Robbo," said Alec, "the whole thing is a bit lame somehow. The first time we actually come face to face with the foe, they're all ready to give themselves up like good little boys and we don't even get a chance to fire a shot! "

"You're right, mate, it ain't fair.... Luigi! said Robbo, addressing the lieutenant, "you should be ashamed of yourself for surrendering quietly like this without a fight. What would Il Duce say?"

The lieutenant blushed. "Signor Digger, what you say is true and almost when I tasta of this so wonderful Grappa again, I feel I could die fighting splendidly - almost. But my men, signor, they are so tired, so hungry, and we hava nowhere to go." He shrugged. "It would be only time . . ."

"I suppose you're right, Luigi; all the same, couldn't you and your boys just put up a bit of a show? Even a few shots would help. . . ."

The lieutenant considered the idea for a moment. Then his face brightened. "Signor Digger, if it would please the signors, maybe we could make the little battle so that the honour, she is more satisfy. We fire to the air and are very careful not to do the injury. My men, they are so mucha the tired and hungry. . . ."

The conference which followed was probably unique in military history.

The two British officers who witnessed the result of it, however, were ignorant of the true circumstances surrounding the Battle of Wadi Ya Rekn. And, it might be said, fortunately for all concerned.

As the leading vehicle reached the crest of the escarpment, Major Carruthers ordered the driver to halt, and, climbing out, raised his binoculars and focused them on a spot down on the plain below.

"Gad!" he exclaimed as he was joined by his second-in-command, who peered through his glasses at the point indicated by his superior.

"I should say by the markings on the truck, sir, that the two chappies firing behind it are Australians. The crowd in the wadi are undoubtedly Italians. The odds are about ten to one I should say."

"There's no way we can get down there to lend a hand? "

"Afraid not, sir; you know what a job we had getting up here."

"Yes, we'd have to go right round and there's a couple of those dashed wadis to cross; we'd never get there in time to ... Good heavens! Barkley, I do believe those two Aussies are going to make a charge!"

"You're right, sir, they're charging-magnificent! But they're going to certain death -two against twenty . . . look! they're zig zagging ......

"They're almost in among the enemy now -1 can hardly bear to watch, Barkley. . . . Heavens! Do you see what I see? The enemy seem to be surrendering; they're throwing up their hands."

"They've surrendered all right, sir, and the two Aussies apparently aren't hurt at all."

"Bravo! That, Barkley, is the finest thing I've seen since Mons; the Italians must have been completely demoralized by the extraordinary courage of those two magnificent Aussies! Have you got the truck number? We must put in a report about this-those two deserve decorations if ever anyone did."

"Yes, sir. They're loading the Italians aboard the truck and seem to be heading towards the coast."

"Well, there's nothing further to be seen from up here-we may as well descend and we should just about catch up with them as they reach the coast road. I should like to shake hands with those chaps ......

"Major Carruthers and his second-in-command saw the whole thing from the top of the escarpment overlooking Wadi Ya Rekn," said the C.O. "It looks very much as if they will get some kind of decoration out of this - the first in the unit. I'll have to consider promoting them both."

"They certainly deserve it, sir," agreed the Adjutant. "Twenty prisoners - a two-man charge - I can hardly believe it."

"I was amazed myself. I'd never considered Kelly and Robinson even particularly efficient soldiers-had them on the mat several times -but it just shows one can never tell what heights of gallantry the ordinary soldier may rise to when face to face with the enemy."

"What I don't understand, is how they came to be where they were. They took a load of ammo . . ."

"They explained that to me. It seems they took the wrong turning and got lost somehow on the way back; under the circumstances I was satisfied not to enquire too closely ... you understand. They're very modest about the whole affair; I couldn't get much out of them at all. Quite bashful, you know. But I saw Major Carruthers and got the details."

"It must have been a remarkable battle!"

"Yes! There's no doubt about it - Kelly and his mate certainly have the stuff of which heroes are made."

The C.O. spoke truly. Kelly and his mate had nearly half a case of the "stuff" and were even at that moment distributing bottles of it among their cobbers who were eagerly toasting the unit's brand-new "heroes".

MAX COOLAHAN, Second A.I.F.

THE CLOUDMOUSE

THE transport squadron's forward base was in the coconut plantation of a native mission, which was spread over undulating foothills sloping down to the reef-locked bay.

The crest of one rise had been ripped across by the airstrip and the clay and coral from the raw gash used to build up the valley end of the runway.

Steel mesh had been laid on the rough surface and the planes continually landing and taking off made a terrific clatter.

The heavy air reeked with the fumes of high-octane fuel and reverberated to the roar of powerful motors.

Great ten-wheeled lorries ploughed ceaselessly through the sodden tracks from strip to jungle hidden camps.

The squadron's operations room was a native hut, built of sago-palm thatch. Outside it Flying-Officer Bill Clayton was stopped by an awkward, lanky sergeant pilot who looked so much like a pup that had been needlessly belted that Clayton asked sympathetically:

"What's up, Homer?"

Homer Mills looked up. His fair, boyish face was yellow from atebrin and was already beginning to show lines from the strain of a life too suddenly tense and strenuous.

He spoke in a jerky, somewhat breathless manner, his fingers fiddling nervously with the identity discs strung around his neck on a bootlace.

"I was on the board to fly as your 'second dicky' on a special mission, but the ops officer has 'scrubbed' me."

He paused a moment, shamefaced, overwhelmed with self-pity. Indignation suddenly overcame this and he straightened up and spoke vehemently:

"It's because I've been telling some of the rookie skippers how Curly Stanford nearly 'bought it' when he would not listen to me and insisted on flying blind into a storm over the Gap coming back to Moresby.

They reckon I'm windy, when I'm just trying to let the new blokes know how really dangerous tropical storms can be here in New Guinea."

He paused again, his face assuming a look of wistful appeal.

"What about taking me with you

Clayton considered him dubiously. He knew the job ahead would be a series of long and dangerous shuttles over enemy territory where he would badly need a dependable crew and Homer had got his nickname because he wanted to go home at the first sign of storm. He said as kindly as he could:

"You've got a reputation for being a bit of a 'Cloudmouse'."

Homer's pale eyes blazed excitedly.

"Maybe I am, but everyone has some pet weakness. I've heard you say yourself that you sweat every time you fly a load of Troppo stretcher cases over the mountains.

"What about the Zeros-and the ack-ack?" asked Clayton, weakening a bit.

"I'm not worried about them," asserted Homer, so spontaneously and firmly that it carried conviction. "Give me another go - you won't regret it."

So Homer was on board when they landed on the lakeside strip at Hollandia which a couple of days before had been the Jap fighter headquarters. Another of their planes, piloted by Flight-Lieutenant Macallum, was there too. The crews, three men to each plane, camped that night in blankets slung hammock-wise across their big cargo planes. All night they could hear the boom of naval guns battering the Jap coastal positions and the occasional crack of a sniper's rifle from the nearby mountain as he potted at the bulldozers working feverishly on the strip.

Next morning they took off at first light on the return trip. Straggling wisps of mist ribboned Lake Sentani and the shadow of Mt Cyclops fell blackly on the still water. Lakatois paddled out from the thatch villages on the shoreline and languid smoke rose from the cooking fires at the huts in the palm plantations.

Homer, who was often carried away by quick and transient enthusiasms, was entranced by the picture-postcard beauty of the scene.

"I wouldn't mind running a tourist resort here after the war," he shouted above the drum of the motors. "A few speed boats and a jeep or two--"

"Forget about it until the war's over," Bill interrupted unceremoniously. "You can fly her back. Where's Mac?"

Homer pointed out Macallum's plane flying at about five thousand feet over to their starboard, evidently following the coastline.

"Keep him in sight and keep your eyes skinned. There are still some Jap kites at Wewak and plenty of ack-ack along the coast. Mac is a bit intrepid flying straight and level at that height. We'll 'stooge' further out to sea."

On their port side a dark bank of sullen' rolling, cloud almost down to the water ran parallel with the coastline. Homer kept edging away from it.

"Don't fly over the shore," Bill ordered him, "Do you want to be shot down,"

"I'd rather be shot at than fly into those clouds. That's the kind of storm that was nearly the end of us when I was with Curly Stanford."

"Blast you and your clouds!" Clayton said angrily, "I'll. bet you goaded Curly into flying into them with your continual harping. Get back on course and keep on it or I'll hand in a report that will keep you grounded for the duration."

He turned away from Homer, disgusted,. and spoke through the inter-com to Don Salter, the wireless operator, dozing with the phones on in his compartment behind them.

"Call Mac up, Don, and tell him we are going out around Kairuru Island."

just as Don made contact with the other operator Homer let out a sudden yell.

"Hey, look at Macallum's kite! Isn't that ack-ack?"

It was. One Nip gunner had been tempted to risk the fury he would invoke by revealing his position, though he must have known that at the first shot the Beaus and attack bombers would come screaming vengefully down on him.

The first shot had burst night behind the transport and the next under its port motor. The bio, ship rocked so violently that Homer could see the white identification stars under both wings and then it went in a weaving dive for the sea. Against the dark green background of the Torricelli Mountains, just inland, the plane flashed down and a great ribbon of smoke trailed out behind its damaged engine.

Bill immediately took over the controls of his plane from Homer and put it into a bank that would have put its designer's hair on end.

When he was out of range he looked for the other machine. It was skimming over the water, the port motor cut and the propeller feathered. It soon became apparent that the engine and wing were on fire. That wing had two big petrol tanks in it.

Clayton told Homer to work out a position and give it to Don to code and transmit. He called Macallum on the short-range set that the pilots use for calling up control towers.

Macallum explained his position briefly.

"Pretty grim here. I've had it. Have to ditch her."

"Hang on for a bit. There's a strip of beach ahead which might be safe to land on. If it is, you go down and ditch in shallow water. We'll try to land and take you off."

The beach was a shining yellow strip dividing the deep blue from the deeper green. Mac circled over it, the smoke from the burning motor making a smudgy ring in the heavy air. It looked level, though barely long enough. It was fringed with a filigree of palms behind which rose a low ridge. There was a track over the ridge but no sign of life.

"We'll give it a go," called Clayton.

"O.K. with me if you're game. I don't want to paddle a dingy home," replied Macallum. "But don't you land until I make sure it's solid. One kite "pranged" is enough.

He was making a wide approach with his dead motor up. Over the air his voice came tersely: Making a belly landing. This will have to be good."

It was. Hw greased the unwieldy plane tail down onto the shallow water, pulling up his flaps as he hit. She skidded, pitched up on her nose and then subsided in a cloud of smoke and steam. The watchers above gave a cheer when they saw the three men scramble out to the beach and start digging their heels into the wet surface to test it. They waved to Bill to land.

He made his approach and had just called for full flap, when Homer shouted "Nips" and pointed to the track.

They were there all right, several lorry loads rushing towards the beach from some hide-out in the dense jungle. They had seen the crippled plane, which by now was lit up like a Manly ferry. A gigantic black cauliflower of oil smoke above it must have been visible for miles.

Grimly Clayton held to his approach.

"Can we make it, Homer?" he asked the co-pilot. Homer had a quick appraising look.

"Put her down, skipper. We'll just about make it." His voice was excited but firm and confident.

Bill took him at his word and concentrated on the controls. He was not kidding himself about that landing. Their wheels were just as likely as not to dive into the sand, hidden rocks might smash their undercart, not to mention the menace of the blazing plane they had to land near.

His big hands were clammy and sweat beaded his forehead by the time they touched down in a rough three pointer. She bumped and bounced. but he stopped her quickly, using the brakes gingerly.

No sooner were they on the deck than Homer threw off his safety harness and raced down the tail. Out of the emergency kit he grabbed the Owen gun and two clips of cartridges - their only arms. The others ran up and they all gathered at the cargo door, where it was Homer who had the say. His features were animated by a quick enthusiasm, and he assumed a slightly ludicrous air of command.

"It's going to take some time to taxi back to the end and line up for take-off. By that time the Nips will be about on the ridge. If we don't stop them they will line the ridge and pepper us as we pass. I'll go up there and hold them off until you are ready. I'll only have to delay them a minute or two and an unexpected burst from the Owen should do that."

"What happens if you can't get back when we are ready?" asked Bill.

Homer looked as if he had not thought of that, but he clutched the gun firmly under his arm and straightened his gaunt frame. Perhaps he understood dimly that if he was ever to have his hour this was it.

"I'll be right, and it's our only chance. Don't wait for me if I don't make it, or you'll never get off." It was only a matter of seconds from the time they landed to when Homer was loping purposefully towards the hill.

The motors were still idling, and as he had said, there was no time for arguments.

"It stinks," Bill said shortly, "but there's nothing else we can do. Get in."

They taxied to the end farthest from the other plane, which was now the centre of a blazing inferno as the escaping fuel ignited on the water.

This was where training and discipline paid dividends.

The pilot's mind was numb with doubt and a feeling of some unknown inadequacy in his own actions, yet his capable fingers ran over the controls in a rough but certain check as they made a hard turn almost in the undergrowth at the end and faced along the beach.

From the ridge, above the hum of the motors came a sound like canvas ripping. Tommy-gun fire! No sign of Homer. The two skippers in their seats side by side looked at one another shamefaced, helpless to avoid a decision repugnant to their natures and calling.

There was no alternative. Bill stood on the brakes and gave her full bore. The great motors roared, the ship rocked and sand whipped under the shuddering tail and spattered the palms bowed in the slipstream. He let go the brakes and she lurched forward, sluggishly at first because of the softness of the sand but quickly gathering momentum to a crazy gallop which had everyone hanging on grimly as she swayed and bounded down the beach. They sped through the flame and smoke of the sizzling shell of her sister ship and Bill thought the tail would never lift as the end of the beach seemed to race at them. With the throttles right through the gate he hauled at the stick as though he would lift her bodily, and Mac, in the co-pilot's seat, had the under

carriage up as she bounced off the sand and smashed through the tops of the coconut palms.

Over the sea Bill steadied the murderous revving of the motors and circled back across the beach. It was as dangerous as it was futile, but they had to know what happened.

On the ridge the foliage was mainly scrubby Pandanus and scattered kunai and they could see Homer crouched behind a rock. Before him a lorry lay overturned where it had run off the track and the others were jammed up, empty, behind it.

A couple of bodies sprawled by the trucks paid testimony to the effectiveness of the ambush. As the plane approached, Homer waved to them. At the same time they saw that one of the Japs, had succeeded in outflanking him. Helplessly they watched him take careful aim and fire. Homer stumbled on to one knee, then stood up with his gun blazing at his enemy, who dropped in a heap. Homer stood swaying for a moment, an ungainly, unheroic figure, and then collapsed clumsily. As he lay on the ground his last remaining bullets kicked up little spurts of dirt.

Clayton hauled the plane around savagely, climbing and banking back. Then, like an answer to their unspoken prayers, they saw another plane swooping like a thunderbolt hunched up to hit, straight for the beach where the unsuspecting Japs were collecting by the burning wreck.

There was no mistaking the deadly power dive of a strafing Beaufighter, the "Whispering Death" of the Japanese. Along the wings and under the snub nose gusty puffs of gun smoke flickered and from one end of the beach to the other the sand lifted like smooth water does in heavy rain.

The transport set course for base.

R. H. WEBSTER, R.A.A.F.