Chapter 5 Special Mission; Skate a Figure 1; Old AGH; Best Boxer.....

SPECIAL MISSION

THE sun had gone, leaving the misty glow that comes before night, but it was dark enough for the four men to pick out the tiny native fires glimmering around the side of the Atsabi Saddle.

The first of the twilight found the shiny patches on their rifles and Tommy guns and shot little pink fingers out into the green of the jungle. They had been sitting on top of the spur for an hour, worn out after the long climb up from the valley and waiting for the work that was to come with the night. They were tired and they didn't speak very often but just sat there and watched the place where the sun had been; rested while they had the opportunity.

They were all bearded, one ginger and three black. The ginger man spat every now and then at his feet with little balls of spittle no bigger than the head of a pin. Every time he spat the other three looked down to find the wet mark on the ground.

One of them said, "That's a filthy habit you got, Doc", and the man with the red beard shrugged a breath out through his nose and spat again at his feet.

Down in the valleys it was darkening over. The greens were getting solid and losing their shape, while the hilltops and the spurs still held faint shadows from the day. Doc Garland slammed his rifle bolt in and out and thumbed the safety catch down.

"Where's the waiter with the coffee?" he asked.

"More talking and less spitting," somebody told him.

"Less insubordination." Doc palmed his beard down as he spoke.

"Go on spitting," Bernie said. "You're more intelligent when you don't talk."

"What you say?"

"Nothing."

The twilight moved over and followed the sun behind the ranges and the hilltops, and the spurs began to lose their little shadows. As it darkened it became quieter and the closeness of the jungle settled down to rest where the light had been. The pink fingers left the rifles and Tommy guns.

Doc ran his fingers along the butt of his rifle. It was like a saw blade with the notches and his rough finger made a scraping sound as it slid along.

"What if they don't drop this bloke in tonight?" Bernie asked.

"Then they'll bring him tomorrow night, or the next night. You ain't in a hurry. You got nowhere else to go."

"Maybe he's got a date," Joe said. "Maybe he's thinking about going to the Savoy for dinner or something."

"Gawd save me. It's lousy tucker at the Savoy."

"What's tucker?" Dave asked.

"Stuff our ancestors used to eat. Things like steak and eggs and lamb's fry and bacon. Things with salt in them."

"What's salt"' Dave asked.

"Ahhhhh, shut up."

"Go on spitting, Doc," Bernie said.

"It's too dark. I might hit my feet."

"Well, why don't you wear some boots-"

"I ain't been near a shop lately."

Doc was wearing native sandals with woven cross-over straps and thick soles. They went with the rest of his clothing, the battered straw hat with the wide floppy brim and the shirt with no collar and no sleeves, and torn down the front like a waistcoat and the trousers that finished just below his knees. They were all dressed much the same. Joe and Bernie still had boots and slouch hats, but Dave was hatless and wore a pair of old, worn-out sandshoes that both belonged to left feet.

He had patrolled half the area of Portuguese Timor in them and very seldom took them off. He said he always got confused when he did take them off because he couldn't figure out which feet they went back on.

"I'm going to catch some sleep," Dave said. "You blokes can wake me as soon as you hear the plane."

Nobody said anything. They all felt the same. Month after month of hard patrolling was beginning to tell on them. They were short of food, they had no salt and were consequently sapped of energy and staying power, and they had all been down with malaria and never really come up again.

They had made the spur in daylight and there they were going to wait until, under the cover of darkness, the plane came in from Australia and dropped the Special Contact man. Their job was to go out and find him and get him in to the company headquarters. That wasn't hard because they knew the country like the back of their hands. They had been living and fighting in it for almost eight months, picking at the Japanese, cutting at supply lines, harassing at every opportunity and fighting like jungle fairies, seeing and hitting hard but never themselves being seen.

Tonight's job was a nice, steady piece of work. They were to listen for the plane and try to follow it around in its circle. When they heard the engines revving they would know that the Contact man had been dropped. It meant only a couple of hours tramping and they should be able to pick him up.

It was dark now and the men still sat and waited. Dave slept with his mouth open and his head cocked on one side. They were all half-dozing, soaking up the quietness, but they were all listening and thinking far-away thoughts. The mosquitoes hummed about and settled on bare legs and arms and every now and then someone brushed at the insects and cursed.

Then they heard it in the distance. At first the small noise growing out of the quietness, then the dull throb of synchronized motors. The lights down on the saddle went out and there wasn't a spot of brightness in the whole of the night. Dave sat up as the others stirred. He pushed himself on to his feet and said, "Sounds like our bus now."

"This is it," Doc agreed. "According to the skipper this is the only plane coming over the area tonight."

"It's not a Nip."

"No. A Lockheed by the sound of it."

When the plane roared overhead they were all standing and Doc and Dave and Bernie and Joe all searched the sky for some sign of the aircraft. They heard it bank and go around in a circle to the right. It kept on in the circle and soon was coming straight back over them again. It passed over the second time and continued on in a straight line. It seemed to be a long way past when the engines revved, then settled back into their steady roar.

"That's him," Bernie said. "He's somewhere between up there and down here now."

"He'll find it harder to get out than it was to get in."

"Now we got to find him," Doc said, and the four men set off down the side of the spur.

* * * * * * * *

It had all been so simple. They came around in the lazy turn and the pilot gave him the thumbs up. Max took a last hitch on the straps under his legs and patted his pockets to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything, then moved to the hatch ready for the signal.

He waited until the pilot's hand dropped then he pushed his pack 'chute out and jumped after it. He left the plane and turned over in the air.

The sound of the engines seemed to race away from him and leave him in blackness and a whistling, rushing quietness.

The air was cool and he fell down and down. One hand was across his chest and the air curled about him and he didn't bother to count. Down and down he was falling and his left hand came away from his chest and his feet floated around and pointed to the darkness below.

The pilot 'chute slipped easily away and the air threw it to the heavens. A great black sheet floated out and Max felt the steady pull, then the sudden jerk and his shoulders snapped back tightly. His legs shot forward, his back jarred and he floated. Above him the black silk billowed and swayed and he pushed the ripcord into his pocket and swung from side to side.

Down and ever down he floated, for the first time realizing the vast space in the vast nothing. Below him he could picture the gaping mountains and the tangled mat of green and the heat. It was always hot. He wondered how much further down it was and how far away his pack had landed.

His feet struck something and a branch brushed his side. There was the sharp crack of snapping wood and something bit into his shoulder. The 'chute dragged and tugged above him and his feet swung forward and back again. He hung still, loosely. He was hurt.

Again it was quiet; he felt above him and there was nothing. He swung his feet and there was nothing so he hung there. He felt his shoulder; it was bare and bleeding and the blood was warm on his fingers and sticky. He swung his body like a pendulum, then he stopped and gradually slowed down and hung still again. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his clasp knife and snapped the blade back with his teeth.

He felt the cords above his head and he worked the knife into the silk and started to saw. Then he remembered something and snapped the blade back and slipped the knife into his pocket.

He remembered what the instructor at the training school had always said: -Two things you never want to forget.

Don't set up a camp in the daytime near enemy territory and if you get hung up in a jump at night never cut yourself down.

You might be hanging five hundred feet from the ground. Over the side of a cliff or in the top of a very tall tree. Wait for the daylight and then you know what you are doing. So remember that," he used to say. "Never make a camp in the day-time and if you get hung up, never cut your-self down at night."

And now he remembered and the blood trickled down his side and ran around his waist. He buttoned the flap over his back pocket and hung there. The straps cut into his shoulders; the left one didn't pain but the weight dragging down seemed to hurt him in the legs. He figured that it must be about nine o'clock and that left him all night to hang there. He pushed his beret back and the mosquitoes hummed about his ears.

He pulled up the torn shoulder of his jacket and it f ell back again and brushed his skin. The weight was hurting his shoulders and down his back and he tried to shift the straps. Then he called out, as loud as he could, again and again until it hurt and the lower straps cut into his legs. Then he stopped and it was even quieter than before, so quiet that it seemed to beat about him. Quietness was hammering at his brain. To break the silence he called again and again until he was out of breath and it hurt him to call.

He felt in his pocket for cigarettes and when he found them he realized he didn't have any matches. He had put the three boxes in the side of his pack; it could be anywhere by now. He put the cigarettes back. He wished he didn't smoke then he wouldn't want a cigarette. He remembered that June didn't smoke but that didn't help him much.

His hand wandered down to his back pocket again. He undid the flap and wondered whether he should take a chance with it and ignore the instructor, but he decided against it and did the flap up again and just hung there.

Then he saw something move in the blackness and he called to it; it answered him mockingly -with silence. He laughed and swore. The mosquitoes played about his ears and he swore again; his neck itched and his back pained. He said. "Jesus", and hung there, suffering, tearfully.

He wondered if he could sleep hanging up. He felt his shoulder; it was numb and cold, yet around him the air was hot and there were probably eight hours before the dawn. He hung there and he closed his eyes and wondered.

No place should be so dark or quiet. No place should be so hot and cold or should smell so thickly. He shouldn't be here anyway. This was Portuguese Timor and he wasn't a Portuguese. Even if he were he still shouldn't be here. Even Portuguese didn't go around hanging themselves up in trees. He wished he could change places with the instructor at the school. See whether he would stick to his word or not. He probably would though. He was pretty tough. The way he used to say, "You're not in the Army now, you're in Special Force. If you haven't got a cast-iron belly and a sponge-rubber head you may as well get out."

Whichever way it went he was in the wrong place. He should be back at home, sitting by the tall reading lamp in the lounge room. The lamp would throw a circle of misty light on the carpet and he wouldn't move outside the circle. Ever. Never. Always stop in it until the electric light supply broke down. Sit in the light circle and listen to the voices. Old voices and young voices. All kinds of voices. He started to talk with them, laugh and listen to them. His head dropped forward.

He was cold and stiff; he lifted his head and looked into the blackness. He swore aloud and reached into his back pocket and tore the knife blade open with his teeth, making his gums bleed; he slashed at the cords above him, then stopped and swore again and threw the knife from him.

It was black and he could see nothing. The blackness moved before his eyes and wandered about. It just wandered about and hung there but the blackness wasn't bleeding like him; it wasn't cold but it was quiet and still. He pushed at the blackness with his good hand, moved it across his face, clearing his vision, brushing it away, and, as if obeying, the blackness thinned on the bottom of the night.

The grey crept up the blackness and thinned the edges, turning it into a quiet grey itself. Soon there was radiance everywhere; from the radiance there was colour and Max knew he must have fainted and that this must be the dawn. He watched the colour come and the blackness go. Then came the noises, all the little noises of the wakening jungle. The cracking of grass, the stretching of trees and the cry of the waking insects; the mosquitoes hummed and buzzed and the colour grew more and more ...

Doc said, "When it gets a bit lighter we'll split into twos."

They all said, "O.K."

"You come with me, Joe, and Dave and Bernie can look along the top track."

"What about looking on the top track yourself," Bernie said. "This Contact bloke's no friend of mine."

"We'll take the bottom track like Doc said." Joe started to walk down the hillside. "Whaddya think he's got two stripes for?"

"I could tell you," Dave said.

If we don't find this bloke by midday we'll have to go back to the platoon and get a few more of our coves out," Doc called as he sidestepped down the hill after Joe Clarke.

"They mightn't have dropped him. Did you ever think of that?" Bernie called back.

But Doc was too far away and didn't hear. He caught up with Joe at the bottom of the hill and they moved along the track together. Doc took the lead, walking about five yards in front, his rifle swinging at his side. Joe walked along behind him, his Tommy gun slung across the back of his neck, his hands clasped behind it and his eyes half closed. He was tired and wanted to sleep. Every now and then he breathed in and out deeply and then he got an easy feeling like he usually got just before he dropped off at night.

They turned around the bottom of the incline and sat down on a broken and rotting tree. Joe pulled his Tommy gun from his shoulders and pushed the butt into the soft mud of the track.

"This is hell, this business," he said.

"You don't have to tell me."

"When are we going to get out? How long are they going to leave us here to rot?"

"Maybe they can't get us out. We're only a couple of hundred men. It doesn't matter much one way or another whether we get out or not," Doc said.

"It'd been a different story if we hadn't stopped here and fought."

"I don't doubt that."

Doc pushed himself up and moved off again down the track. Joe picked up his Tommy gun and moved along behind him. The light was back in the jungle now and the track stretched along, a strip of sodden brown in the world of green. They moved on and squelched as they went and the sound of their squelching was the only sound to break the quiet.

It was the only sound until the laughter came. Then the whole jungle was filled with the ripple. It came down through the trees and ran along the track and played about the jungle growth and grew as it travelled until the whole jungle was just a mass of green and rolling, travelling sound.

The two men stopped together and looked about, then they edged up the side of the hill and listened as they went. It came from on high and they moved up, following the laughter. They moved almost on to it before they knew they had found him.

"Look at him," Joe said. "Strung up like a scarecrow", and Doc started as he looked around and saw him in the tree.

The blood had run right down the side of his leg and it was dried and hard on the cloth of his trousers and his hands were hanging forward, loosely; his head was fallen forward, resting on his chest. His mouth was open and the laughter was ringing out.

"He's been there all night," Doc said. "I wonder why he didn't climb down", and he watched as the man in the tree pushed his toes down at the ground and laughed, his eyes staring big at the pool of blood six inches underneath his feet.

They stood and watched him for a second and the laughter swirled about them, then they moved forward to cut him down.

LEE ROBINSON, SECOND A.I.F.

CAN YOU SKATE A FIGURE ONE?

I still smile when I think of it. The Figure Skating Championship of No. 10 Air Observers School, Chatham, Canada, is forever deeply etched into the funnybones of all who witnessed it. As a spectacle it was superb. As an exhibition of confidence and daring it has rarely been equalled. And as a demonstration of the finer nuances of figure skating it was simply terrible.

The camp was virtually snowbound the day the skating topic first came up. We seven Aussies were "shooting a line" with our Canadian fellow trainees as a heavy blanket of snow fell noiselessly, heaping itself on the windowsills of our heated dormitory. If you stepped outside you fell into a snowdrift up to your hips. And stuck forlornly in the white mass, not far from the door, the branch of a beech-tree which had snapped under its snow burden seemed to be trying to burrow from view.

As usual, one of the Aussies, Alec ("Pin Point") Pritchard, was whipping his listeners into a state of desperate boredom.

"Skating," he opined, "is not hard."

For a moment there was silence. To the other Aussies this brash and provocative judgment from one of our band was even more inflammatory than Pin Point's usual utterances.

"Sure ain't easy," said a Canuck, sucking his pipe.

"Can you do a double Salchow, Pin Point?" said Ralph Peters from Vancouver. "Or do you prefer an open Choctaw or a Mohawk?"

"Cut out that Red Indian stuff," said Pin Point, bridling. "I said skating isn't hard. Back in Sydney I picked it up in a fortnight at the Glaciarium."

"What's that? A hothouse for skaters?" said Eugene Hyde from Swiftcurrent, Saskatchewan.

Everyone laughed. Pin Point looked testy.

"Say, Pin Point, can you skate a figure one~ " said Hyde. "Yes sir, of all the forty-one types of school figures I bet that's the one that really has you balled up."

"I could show you a figure or two, brother." said Pin Point, going red.

"That," said Hyde, "would be very educational."

"Challenge him to a contest, Eugene," someone said.

We other Aussies looked at each other, aghast. But we couldn't stop the challenge coming. The contest for the Figure Skating Championship of No. 10 A.O.S., weather permitting, was set for the following Saturday week.

The course quickly formed itself into two camps. Most of the boys were for Eugene Hyde. With an early quoted price, he was odds-on favourite. But we Australians, though appalled by Pin Point's reckless bragging, still ranged ourselves on the side of the Southern Cross.

Training began immediately. Armed with a book on figure skating procured from the village by one of the Aussies, Pin Point set out for a pond at a nearby farm for his "familiarization flight". Four of us went with him to watch and to hunt away spies from the Canadian camp.

When we first saw him take the ice our spirits tobogganed far downhill. For once Pin Point hadn't exaggerated. It was depressingly obvious that he had spent only a fortnight at the Sydney Glaciarium. And that period, from all appearances, had included about two visits.

Old Farrague, the Canuck who served in the station canteen, had supplied Pin Point's skates - a pair of good blades in prized condition, but they were wasted on Pin Point.

We helped him to the edge of the pond and then, steadying him as he took the ice, let go. With a sudden convulsive swing of his arms he landed with devastating force on the seat of his pants.

"You let go too quickly," he complained, with pique. The next tune time held him until he said he was ready to cast off.

To our faint relief he moved forward across the ice in a series of jerky stiff-legged movements. Cautiously he encircled the pond. Then with a heavy-handed effort at a flourish he "sped" towards us. Nonchalantly he prepared the blade of his free foot for the horizontal skater's stop. The blade cut into the ice, bit deeply, and Pin Point catapulted with frantically waving arms into the snow.

We roared.

"I'll soon pick up form again," Pin Point said as soon as he'd wiped the snow from his face. "Getting the feel of it already. Won't take long."

But although we waited all that week and the next the "form" we'd hoped for never came. Pin Point still waddled across the ice with the air of a man who has gout, rheumatics and an ice cold poker down his back. If points could be gained for supercilious dignity on the ice, Pin Point would be champ, but for grace, speed, artistry - I'm sorry, no!

True, Pin Point improved. Ralph Peters's "Red Indian stuff", the Salchows and the Choctaws, were laboriously learned from diagrams in our instruction book. But they were so clumsily executed that we dreaded a comparison with Eugene Hyde.

Meanwhile, reports filtered in from the rival camp--coloured, of course. Some rumours had it that Hyde had once been amateur champion of Saskatchewan. Some said he was a skating instructor in civil life. One bloke said Hyde had written a book on the subject.

Yes, we were deterred all right.

However, condemned to ignominy though we might be, we all-Pin Point included - ate a hearty breakfast on the day of the championship. We had hoped that perhaps a sudden flurry of snow would descend to obscure Pin Point temporarily from the judges' vision, but there was little chance with a startlingly blue cloudless sky and a coruscation of glare as the sun was reflected by millions of intricately shaped snow crystals.

It was going to be fine - all day.

In the snow country news travels on chained rubber tyres or sleighs. There was a huge crowd when the two contestants strapped on their skates at the edge of the village skating pond. A razor sharpness was in the air and folk were beating their hands together despite the protection of mittens and sunshine.

Some of the Aussies, true to form, were running a book on the event and Hyde was quoted at six to four on, Pin Point starting at an outrageously confident two to one against.

The skaters tossed for turns and Hyde won. Amidst applause he walked on to the ice and skated up to the judges.

Did we detect a wobble as he skated? Was it a fact that he stumbled as he stopped before the judges?

Nervousness, perhaps. Anyway, our spirits soared. Even if Pin Point were downed, his defeat might not be so inglorious, after all.

The crowd grew quiet as Hyde finished his conversation with the judges - the Station C.O., the Mayor of Chatham, Mr. Loggie the grocer and the Protestant minister. He then skimmed to the centre of the foot-thick ice surface of the pond.

Even we Australians recognized the elementary figures which followed. Salchows, Choctaws, Mohawks, "threes". They were executed with fair precision but a surprising lack of confidence. Once, Eugene slipped and fell and a roar went up from the crowd. Some people jeered.

Later, he got on to more complicated stuff -new to us, but explained by a bystander as "loop-change-loop" then a "bracket-change-bracket", ending up with "rockers" and counters". There was no doubt that Eugene was an average, competent skater. For many skaters he would not represent real competition - but for Pin Point!

We joined in the loud applause as Eugene finished with a double-three-change-double three, and started towards the judges. It was creditable skating and the Canadian supporters knew it. They began to cheer.

To give the boy his due he didn't look a bit nervous, just slightly dazed. His "hide" was so thick that I don't believe he was unduly depressed by Eugene's exhibition. He skated calmly up to the judges and I noted, with relief, that the ramrod back had miraculously vanished and he was loose and almost supple. But he was still clumsy. He nearly fell when he lurched to a stop before the judges. A girl
near me giggled. A brief conversation followed while more money discreetly changed hands in the betting ring. Hyde's price firmed to two to one on and Pin Point was now at fives.

Then Pin Point was skating off to the centre of the ice, beginning the routine we had rehearsed. Twice he wobbled and nearly fell and his skates left wavering trails in the smooth hard ice. He did eights, brackets and counters- crudely but successfully. It was soon obvious that on points he was trailing Hyde and the Canadian faces reflected it.

Suddenly, through all his laborious convolutions Pin Point sensed that things were not going well. I saw him doggedly attempt a loop-change-loop, which we hadn't even rehearsed. I closed my eyes and opened them again when I heard the crowd groan. Pin Point lay sprawled ignominiously on the flat of his back. The crowd shook with laughter.

That did it.

Pin Point, red faced, got up and attempted a fast Choctaw followed by a Mohawk - and made it. To this he added a Salchow - and went sprawling again.

The girl next to me was laughing herself sick.

Pin Point was desperate now and looked it. For him it was all or nothing. He skated right to the edge of the pond and came speeding towards us. The crowd was suddenly hushed. No one knew what he was going to do.

My mate Alec Prescott broke the quiet.

"No, no. Not that!" he yelled suddenly. But it was too late. Pin Point was in mid-air on his way through the most spectacular movement in skating, the Axel Paulsen, taking off on one foot, making a complete revolution and a half and landing on the other foot.

Wildly Pin Point gyrated. His eyes were popping and his hands clutching at air as he spun. And then-and here's the laughable miracle of it - he landed on his correct foot and stayed upright.

At first the crowd didn't respond. The impact of this ridiculously vainglorious attempt had to drive home fully. Then came a storm of applause. Pin Point, flushed and still startled, skated to the judges. A few seconds later they were left to deliberate.

The C.O. climbed on to the back of a truck to announce the decision.

"You have all witnessed a contest which for sheer spectacle has rarely been equalled in this town," he said. "Both skaters revealed certain idiosyncrasies of style which we here have been unable to trace in the official book of rules. Both, however, displayed a praiseworthy determination and, in the case of the Australian representative particularly, admirable self-confidence. We must admit that until late in the contest Canada's representative was leading well on points, but when the Australian . . . er . . . star attempted, and achieved, an Axel Paulsen, we had no alternative but to declare the contest--,a draw! This, we feel, is not only an accurate decision, but one which will avoid international repercussions.

Besides, we won't have to provide a prize."

LEICESTER WARBURTON, R.A.A.F.

NEW VIEWS OF AN OLD A.G.H.

MUCH has been written about Australian General Hospitals from a military point of view but I feel that a few notes are called for from the A.A.M.W.S. point of view.

On the site of the one I have in mind was built originally the homestead of William Lithgow, the first Surveyor-General of New South Wales.

We were told that it was nearly a century since the building of the hospital was commenced. We felt that this statement was fully borne out by one look at the baths in the A.A.M.W.S. quarters.

One school of thought inclined to the view that these baths were a relic of Roman times, while another held firmly to the belief that they were Renaissance, or possibly Very Early Victorian.

Some of the smaller girls disappeared from view completely while bathing, others could just peer over the top of the bath, while it was considered a merciful dispensation of Providence that during the Army's occupation of the hospital none of the fatter members got stuck in these extremely narrow and deep receptacles.

A place that never ceased to be a source of amazement and interest was the Piggery. It was one of the main topics of conversation, and no wonder, because it had been in the public eye, according to local records, since it hit the headlines as a proposed super-piggery estimated in 1896 to cost £2,000. It was "very adversely criticized in the Legislative Assembly", so the ancients said.

Under Army management, the Piggery was an excellent excuse for a walk in the evening twilight past the sergeants' mess (ostensibly to see the various new families of piglets which arrived constantly) but the subtle effluvium that arose from the pigs was not really conducive to romance.

The swimming pool was another popular feature and was frequently the scene of hard-fought tussles between the A.A.M.W.S. and Sisters. In contrast to the wards, in the swimming pool all female personnel were equal and on more than one occasion the A.A.M.W.S. managed to leave the Sisters standing, in a figure of speech. The excitement was so intense in one relay race that the second "leg" of the A.A.M.W.S. team dived in at the same time as the first pair and the three girls swam furiously halfway down the pool, quite oblivious of the frenzied shrieks of the onlookers and the anguished appeals of the starter, until at last they noticed that something was amiss. After this misadventure, the three were all so exhausted that the race had to be postponed for half an hour.

The regimental parade ground was also the venue of other sporting activities. One momentous cricket match between the medical officers and A.A.M.W.S. was actually won by the latter, but it is possible that the win was due to the fact that the officers, on seeing a ball coming their way, often gallantly ran in the opposite direction!

The spirit of physical training also pervaded our parade ground - an unhappy spirit, it should be noted. Every Wednesday evening it came upon us and from 5 o'clock onwards there was an ever-rising chorus of "If only it would rain! " "I heard the P.T. instructor was in bed with mumps." "Wishful thinking, dear. I saw him half an hour ago !, I wish I had the mumps or something."

There was, however, no escape and on lovely summer evenings, farewelled joyously and callously from the verandas by a few malingerers and fortunate girls on rest day, we would depart for the main oval, plus sandshoes and medicine balls which we passed somberly from hand to hand en route. There was usually a little excitement when a medicine ball was allowed to escape as we passed the sergeants' mess, but it was soon rescued and returned to us and we proceeded as before: a procession which in expression and general outlook strongly resembled that of a party of medieval prisoners proceeding to one of the dungeons for a spot of boiling in oil.

One evening we were lucky enough to have a diversion in the shape of the commanding officer's dog which chased the medicine balls and then the instructor, but this did not happen often enough to break the monotony.

Another unpopular institution was the current affairs lecture every Monday evening. If conversion to a Fascist or other doctrine depended on attendance -at a lecture we would have been quite safe. Judging by the horror with which we regarded any sort of lecture, no matter how attractive the title.

However, on Monday nights the soldiery was assembled, ladies on the right, gentlemen on the left and a talk on current affairs was given. There were, of course, occasions that brightened up this hour. Once, after a great scuffling amidst the male personnel at the back of the hall, the lecturer in the approved parade ground manner commanded "Sar-major, find that man and put him on an A4!" The harassed reply was, "Yes, sir, but it isn't a man, it's a dog! "

It is a strange fact that wherever a collection of men is gathered there are dogs, and wherever there are women there are cats, real animals, I mean. The cats would appear to have needed all their nine lives, Particularly the feline who used to inhabit (unofficially) the kitchen of Ward A until one very cold night when the A.A.M.W.S. on duty thoughtlessly left the oven door open. Later the cat visited the kitchen, saw the open door and apparently decided the oven would make a good, warm bed for the night. Later still, unfortunately for the cat, the sister on night duty also visited the kitchen, saw the open oven door and tidily closed it.

There are those who say that the possum is an engaging little animal. There wasn't an A.A.M.W.S. in the unit who could not tell you something about possums and their habits; especially the one which used to race up and down the veranda rail on moonlight nights. Every now and then it would take a flying leap on to the bed of a sleeping A.A.M.W.S., scaring her into seven fits. This possum was a lady, we knew, because after an absence she returned with a piccaninny and with maternal pride woke up, in turn, the occupant of every bed, apparently with the idea of insisting that each should admire the "most beautiful baby you ever saw".

In the mess there were several lessons that the new member had to learn:
- How to drink out of mugs, large, pint, without getting one's ears involved;
- how to pick a mug with an unchipped rim in haste from a large pile of same while about fifty others with the same idea hover on the outskirts;
- how to eat with a fork whose several prongs point in every direction of the compass;
- how to cut with a knife, the blade of which is as cock-eyed as a Malayan Kris;
- how to dodge M and V.

JOYCE McDONNELL, A.A.M.W.S.

THE BEST BOXER

A COUPLE of months before Atom Bomb Number 1 busted Hiroshima and World War Two wide open, we were operating from a base in the hills in the south of Bougainville. Our particular bit of
cake was the government road leading from the north into Buin, the Jap's stronghold in the south. It was along this road that he had to retreat as the infantry pushed him successively across the Hongorai, Hari and Mobiai Rivers. There were good pickings to be had, small parties, singles, mobs in carts and trucks, some on bicycles, and occasionally, large bodies of well-trained and equipped men - marines, the flower of the Japanese army.

On the occasion of which I write, we had been prowling around the road for three days and nights, wreaking considerable mayhem on the Nips, and the morning of the fourth day found us with our noses toward home, which lay about half a day's steady march away. It was a lovely day, sunny and clear, the jungle cool and quiet with a few birds vocalizing; in all, too good a day to be wasted in merely walking home, so we split the gang, sent the larger part of it home, and eight of us with two kanakas, headed back to the road: which, having been hit about six times in the last forty-eight hours, was a fairly hot spot.

What we wanted to do was to find a good possie, wait for a suitable-sized party to come along, let them have it and then pull out in a bee-line for home. Providing that we hit them pretty early in the afternoon, we should make the camp just before dark. The plan was O.K., but, well . . . you know these plans! We settled into position at about three thirty, right on the edge of the road, daubed with mud and sprouting ferns at every angle so that our own mothers wouldn't have known us at ten paces. Our idea was to hit anything over five and under thirty, nothing bigger as we didn't have a very good getaway. We let a few small parties go by, and then there was a lull. I looked at my watch; four o'clock. It was getting late.

Then we heard what sounded like a three ring circus coming along the road-Intelligence later reported it as a large body of marines retreating to the Mivo River to take up defensive positions there. If we'd known that we mightn't have opened up, but we did, when about twenty had passed through and there were about twenty in the ambush and, by the noise, still hordes of them coming along merrily to the party. The Bren started to laugh, and the Owens joined in, and old Kumba, one of the kanakas we'd brought with us, was standing up pumping the rounds out of his old Jap rifle like nobody's business. He was a staunch old fellow, just how staunch we were to find out later.

We got about nineteen in the first slap, and then, bingo! before we could reload, they had a couple of light machine guns on us, and with their rifles going, there was enough lead flying around to sink the Rodney. We upped traps and beat it, but by this time, they'd started their old outflanking movement and we had them extended in considerable numbers down both flanks. We lost no time in getting out, and it was just as well, for almost immediately mortar-bombs started to burst in our late resting-place.

We headed back to where we'd left our packs, with the Nips keeping pace on either side of us. We could hear them crashing through the bushes and one of their officers was making good use of a whistle which helped us considerably. Three of us hit the packs at the same time. I don't know whether they'd got there first and were waiting for us, but a shot went off right under our noses and we split in all directions, leaving the packs; it was our only chance.

The pongos were still blazing away when five of us met on the way home about half an hour later; that left three outstanding, but as they were all pretty good bushmen and knew the area thoroughly, we were not unduly worried. We had to slap the pace on, as we were about nine miles from home, had two rivers to cross and it was already dusk. Naturally, we weren't in the race to make it, so we made for an old sing-sing house where we knew there were some kanakas camped, and we dossed for the night with them.

They cooked us a bit of rice, and produced a banana each, and we sat around their fire yarning with them until first light, when we set out for camp again. We got in at about nine o'clock, and I went straight up to H.Q. to report to the boss. When I got back, two of the other three were back none the worse for wear and we had a bit of a feed, a wash, and hit the hay.

Just before lunch, old Kumba came in. I was awake and when I saw him talking to some of the boys and going through elaborate pantomime, I got up and walked over to him.

"Masta!" Kumba cried, when he saw me, the tears pouring down his cheeks. "Masta, me look 'im Masta Alan. 'I'm no die, 'e no die pinish! Masta Alan look long me Pella long eye b'long 'im!"

He put his old musket to his temple, gave a convulsive jerk, and lay down on the ground, rolling his eyes. It was pretty plain - Alan was wounded, shot through the head, unconscious but not dead, and before he passed out, he had looked at Kumba and rolled his eyes. The old boy had watched over him all night, hidden him in the morning and then come in to tell us. In a matter of minutes, there was a party ready to go out and get Alan, with an R.A.P. orderly and some kanakas for carrying the litter. We got another scout-boy, Moonoosai, and old Kumba gave him voluble and exact instructions as to where he had hidden Alan; just after midday we set out.

Our thoughts as we loped along the jungle track were a bit mixed-mine were, anyway. The spot we were going to was a hive of enemy activity and there was always the chance that the Nips had found Alan and booby-trapped him, or might be sitting around him, waiting for us to come and get him. But it had to be taken, and that was all there was to it. We stopped at the garamut where we'd spent the previous night and collected half a dozen more kanakas to help carry the litter and then pressed on.

We made as much use of streams on the way out as we could, so as to minimize the risk of being followed.

This naturally slowed us up, so that by the time we reached the vicinity of the road it was dusk again, and getting hard to see amongst the trees.

We passed through an ambush position that the Nips had occupied that day and were prepared for anything.

Suddenly Moonoosai put his fingers to his lips and whispered, "Masta, you wait. Me go lookim", and disappeared soundlessly into the shadows. It was eerie sitting there in the fading light, unreal.

One often had that feeling of living in a dream, as though all this were happening to someone else; the insects were fitfully tuning up their instruments for the nightly concert, and pigeons moaned softly in the deep jungle. The first fireflies trailed their tinsel gauze in the gloom, and I thought of home. My thoughts were cut short however, by the return of Moonoosai. "Come, masta," he whispered and we followed silently.

The Nips hadn't found Alan. He lay where old Kumba had hidden him, covered with leaves, his breathing regular and his pulse strong; there was a hideous gash in his forehead and he was unconscious. We moved swiftly. In no time at all we had made a litter; Murph, the medical orderly, had dressed the wound and as the last light faded, we turned once more for home. We were in the heart of the pongos' stamping ground, ten miles from camp, with a badly wounded man and in pitch darkness. The prospects were not inviting.

We crept on as best we could, but it was out of the question. We had to use the torches.

None of us will ever forget that night. We took turns with the litter. Hour after hour, there was no sound but the slashing of the kanakas' machetes as they cleared a path for the litter, and the monotonous chant of "Dewai!" passed softly along the line every time there was a fallen tree across the track. Sometimes, "Dewai on top!" and sometimes "Dewai long ground!" until every time I heard it, it seemed to burst like a star in my mind. We had been walking now for nearly twelve hours and there hadn't been much sleep in the three days previous. Hour after hour, and only the nagging weight of the litter on your shoulder, and the ever-present thought

What if the Nips get on to us? In an area liberally sprinkled with pongo camps, here we were at midnight, blazing a trail through the jungle with two torches that looked like super-searchlights. What would we do with more casualties here . . . what would we do with Alan? Hour after hour of clinging mud, streams to be forded, treacherous, slippery banks to be climbed up and down. Sometimes through a break in the trees you could see the stars, and then it didn't seem so bad, and when silhouetted against the gold glow of the torch in front I could see Alan's chest rise and fall, steadily, easily, and putting my hand up could feel his, warm and still, and the pulse strong, well . . . God did seem near, even if we have to be at the end of our tethers to recognize Him.

It started to rain at about two o'clock, a steady, soaking drizzle that turned the track into a maddening quagmire impossible to anything but desperation. It was then that the kanakas were at their splendid best, patient, gentle, humorous. working like tigers for the sake of the white man whom some of them had never seen. At about four o'clock the torches began to fade and when one gave out completely we made it somehow to the sing-sing house and decided to put up there for the night. The men just dropped where they were, sopping wet, covered with mud, cold and hungry; we'd been going for sixteen hours solid. A few of us huddled around the kanakas' fire and talked about beer and kindred subjects until the first reluctant light filtered into the musty garamut. Then we sent a couple of the kanakas off to the camp at the double with a note to say we were coming in, so that everything would be ready when we followed with Alan.

We got in at about eleven o'clock and the Doc immediately got busy and fixed Alan up. Penicillin was dropped by the kai-bomber and as soon as he was well enough to be moved, he was taken on the hazardous trip to the coast and so to Australia.

I suppose you're wondering about the title of this story? Why should it be The Best Boxer? Well, there'll be few of you that were in the Army, or for that matter, any arm of the Service, who will not know what a boxer is. It's the sling made to the ringy by a successful punter at two-up; it is also, by derivation, anything you can scrounge out of the cookhouse, or, as in this case, anything you can win out of a job . . . literally, the spoils of war, usually a Jap sword or a bundle of photographs.

Old Kumba, the kanaka who found Alan, got his boxer, and a handsome one, too; a dozen tins of bully beef, three sticks of tobacco, an Australian slouch hat (greatest treasure of all), release from all active patrolling and a sinecure in camp, O.C. of the marys who cleaned out the native compound every morning. An impressive total; but we got infinitely more. Not anything that we could sell to the Yanks nor exchange for weed, nor take home and hang above the mantelpiece, not even anything we could touch, except with our hearts - the life of one of our mates. All in all, you couldn't get a better boxer than that.

"T. A. GUY", SECOND A.I.F.