Chapter 8 Wellington meets Blücher; Paint Ship; Johnno gets a job; Jungle business;...

WELLINGTON MEETS BLÜCHER

IT was the only picture hanging on the mess-deck wall. A black and white reproduction of Blucher meeting Wellington at Waterloo; it showed murkily through the dusty glass in a time-scarred frame. That is, until I gate-crashed the meeting. As true as the flight of a homing bird, the end of the long wooden stool I carried crashed through the glass.

Five minutes later, I found Petty Officer "Bosko" Horn having a quiet smoke in the baggage room.

"Petty Officer Horn, Sir?"

"What is it, son?" asked the P.O. of the Block, deftly nipping off the glowing end of his cigarette and pocketing the bumper.

"Please, Sir, Petty Officer Horn, Sir, I've just broken a picture in Mess 22. It's called 'Wellington Meets Blucher At Waterloo', Sir.

Petty Officer Horn stiffened at the call to duty.

"Follow me, son," he ordered curtly.

After surveying the damage and taking down relevant notes in a little grey book, Bosko prepared to give the wheels of justice their initial turn.

"How did this happen, son?"

With my lower lip trembling just that little bit, I carefully explained that I was cook of the mess and was carrying the stool into the quadrangle to scrub it. Before I knew what had happened, one end had taken charge and bounced off the ancient illustration, with unfortunate results.

"Well, son, this will have to be reported to the Officer Commanding New Entries. This makes you a defaulter. Be outside the New Entry School at 0830-"

I sadly murmured a few sirs and aye-ayes and hid in a comer to brood. The immediate future looked very, very grim.

At the stipulated time I joined the other youthful criminals at the New Entry School. Names were checked off, we were herded into line and a "crusher" machine-gunned: "When - your - name - is - called - double - smartly - into - the - O.C.N.E.'s - office - and -stand -to - attention - in - front - of - the - table. Requestmen - will - salute - defaulters - at - the - order-'off-caps' - will - remove - caps."

Names were called one by one. The door of the office opened and shut regularly.

"Waye! "

I jumped like a shot rabbit, commenced doubling frantically, skidded into the O.C.N.E.'s office, came abruptly to a halt in front of the table-and gulped audibly.

"Off cap."

It came off somehow.

"Ordinary Seaman Second Class Waye, Sir. While carrying out his duties as cook of the mess, did cause damage to His Majesty's property in that he broke the glass of a picture, namely, 'Wellington Meets Blucher At Waterloo'."

I shuddered as the charge was read by a stern Master-at-Arms and sneaked a look at the array of talent behind the table. Too close for comfort was the Officer Commanding New Entries-the man who was to guide my destiny in the first few months of my career as a seadog - and behind him in a rough semicircle were the odds and sods of officers who were apparently just passing and dropped in for the show.

The O.C.N.E.'s voice was gruff. "How did it happen, Laddie?"

Old faithful bottom lip flipped up and down again as I recounted the tragic tale. He listened gravely. and at the conclusion remarked, "Hmmm! "

A trim little figure slipped through the inquisition and with an "Excuse me, sit", whispered something in the O.C.N.E.'s ear. They bzz-bzzd backwards and forwards for a moment. then Petty Officer Horn slipped back into the shadows.

The O.C.N.E.'s eyes were kindly.

"Commander's report."

The Master-at-Arms picked up his cue. "Commander's -report - fall - in - at - Administration - Block - 0900 - On - cap - double - away - smartly."

Once outside, I dashed the sweat from the brow and wiped away a furtive tear. A commander's report! Now I was as good as condemned. Offences, as my limited experience in the Service had already taught me, must be serious to go before that demi-god. At this stage of my week-old naval career, I classified commanders and above in the same exalted category as film stars, cabinet ministers and the ultra-aristocracy. Now I was for the high jump.

As two bells echoed across the dell0itful vista of Flinders Naval Depot, I tool, up my position in the mass of humanity who, in some way, had transgressed the King's Rules and Admiralty Instructions, or wanted to pry a favour from the Naval Board.

"Crushers" buzzed around like flies. Gold braid by the mile disappeared into the commander's office and finally the commander himself arrived. This was it. My last moments of freedom. In a matter of minutes I would be making a start on the oakum.

A sour-faced "crusher" was calling out names at a steady rate. Sailors doubled up to the door, it swung open and was shut behind them. It opened again, out came the victim and the next one went in. Half fearfully, I looked to see if there were a row of old hags knitting a stitch for every head that dropped.

"Wave!" Like a knife the voice cut across my reverie. My feet started working and I did a frantic gallop into the holy of holies. The ritual was the same; off cap and then the terrible charge read out. The hangers on, more impressive this time by virtue of their higher ranks, stood in two rows like a jury. Behind me a "crusher" barred the closed door.

I told the same old story, bowed my head in supplication and waited for the axe.

Petty Officer Horn materialized as if at the rub of a magic lamp. He gave his evidence; how he had seen Wellington meeting Blucher in a welter of glass on the mess-deck floor. Bosko disappeared back into the lamp and his place was taken by the O.C.N.E., who seemed to shoot up from a crack in the wainscoting.

"Bzz-bzzd," whispered the O.C.N.E.

"Bzz-bzzd?" whispered the commander. He turned to me with a smile from ear to ear.

"The O.C.N.E. tells me," he said in an ecstatic voice, "that you reported the incident yourself. You sought out the Petty Officer of the Block and voluntarily reported it to him. And you've been in the Service only one week!" He was almost lyrical.

Very palsy-walsy, the commander rested both hands on the table. "You know, my boy, far too many of these things happen around here and nobody knows anything about them. Nobody wants to know anything about them, and it costs the Navy money. But you, with only a week's service, had the integrity to voluntarily make a report of this breakage. That's a fine spirit, my boy-be honest with yourself and the Service like you have been today and I predict a fine naval career for you. We need more men of your stamp. But, of course, you will have to pay f or the damage. You won't mind that, will you?

"Oh no, sir."

"Pay one and threepence. Charge dismissed! "

As I raced out into the fresh, free, glorious air, into the warmth of the golden sunshine, far behind me, like an echo from a dark and awful dream, I heard the sepulchral tones of the Master-at-Arms as he dutifully repeated:

"Pay -one -and - threepence. -On - cap - about - turn - double - away. . .

G. WARWICK WAYE, R.A.N.

PAINT SHIP

YESTERDAY we went to prayers. We always go to prayers after Sunday Divisions. I believe the skipper gets paid a certain amount for conducting the service.

When all the divisions had ambled aft and mustered in the after torpedo space the Jimmy took over.

"Ship's companeeee - ship's companeeee' Hun!" Then, to the skipper, "Ship's company mustered for prayers and might I suggest that we pray for a fine day tomorrow, sir."

"Ship's company mustered for prayers and . . . What did you say, first lieutenant?"

"Er-I thought we might pray for a fine day tomorrow, sit."

"What the hell for?" Which shows the Old Man is no piker, even at prayers.

"Paint ship, sir," said the Jimmy weakly.

"Certainly not. Fall out the Roman Catholics, off caps and stand them at ease."

The Jimmy gave the necessary orders and away we went.

Next morning dawned bright and clear and the sun rose on a multitude of sailors at their matutinal endeavours. The stages were swung outboard on their lanyards.

The leading seamen walked about and did nothing. The petty officers stood glowering and snarling or smiling and saying, "Come on, me lads! Slap it about! No leave till we get the ship painted today." There are two kinds of petty officers.

The sailors worked at their usual somnolent speed, not doing much but accomplishing a great deal.

At breakfast-time the ship was a tangle of ropes' ends and swinging stages. That much the sailors had accomplished. At strategic intervals were stationed oil drums, paint containing, paddles immersed and ordinary seamen attached.

At intervals of gazings at the horizon or draggings at a dirty bumper, the ordinary seamen agitated the paddles, thus stirring the paint and preventing it from settling.

With breakfast over the crowd turned to again, this time filling paint pots and attaching lanyards so that the pots could be lowered from the guard rails.

It wasn't long before the busy slap-slap of wet brushes could be heard, interspersed by snatches of song and exhortations from the petty officers.

"Slap it up and down, up and down," said the painter.

"Dip it in the pot, in the pot," said the painter,

"Happy as can be-"

"Whistle and ride down there. A little less noise and a little more work from you, me lad. You won't be going ashore tonight if you don't buck up."

The only other conversation that could be heard was desultory.

"Up top."

"Hullo."

"Lower please."

"Right."

Then, "Well", followed by "All fast" and the increased slap-slap of brushes as the work proceeded.

By dinner-time more than half the ship was painted and the Jimmy was rubbing his hands with glee.

After dinner the hands really warmed to their work and paint flew everywhere. Then along the waist came the sailor who was known as "Speed".

Every ship has a Speed and our Speed is no exception. With downcast eyes and a pot of paint in each hand he trudged wearily along the deck. He came to the sailor who was known ,is "the Wag".

"Hey' Got a match?" he asked.

"Yeah," said Speed, and dropped one of the pots is he groped for it.

The captain of the top heard the crash and the splash. He shouted some well-known profanity or words that sounded similar. "What the hell do you think you are doing? Mop the ruddy stuff up at once, you--.

Speed mopped it up.

The incident reminded the captain of the top of Bumble. Bumble was almost as handy fisted as Speed, though he was a little more intelligent. He had been engaged in painting over the stern for the reason that it wasn't so far for him to fall from there. The captain of the top found Bumble scrambling back inboard after completing his task. His pot of paint was on the deck right in front of him, so he fell over it.

"Oh my gosh," said the captain of the top. "Get some turps and a piece of waste and clean it UP."

Bumble trotted away and procured the turps and waste. Carefully he washed, mopped and wiped the deck, squeezing the waste into tine turps pot. When he had finished he raised apologetic eyes to his superior, lumbered to his feet - and kicked the pot of turps over!

"God help us," moaned the officer and fled, leaving Bumble to his own devices.

The painting was going with a swing and the sailors were happy in the knowledge that they would soon be finished and on their way ashore. Another ditty floated on the breeze.

"Oh, you take the paint pot and I'll take the paint brush,

And we'll paint the ship's side together.

And when the Jimmy comes along we will sing this little song;

Thank Gawd we never joined forever."

The Jimmy did come along, but he didn't mind the song. He was tickled pink that his ship was looking beautiful again or almost so. He smirked to himself and to the chief bos'n's mate as he accosted him on the forecastle.

"All right, buffer, you can pipe the liberty men to clean and let the duty watch clean up and replace gear."

"Aye, aye, sir."

And so a perfect paint ship was completed. Except, of course, for the usual casualties and they are inevitable: two broken ribs when an A.B. fell down the funnel, a case of mild concussion when a pot of paint mysteriously fell from the lower yard on to the head of the ship's money-lender; some fresh paint on the skipper's new suit.

He shouldn't have been on the upper deck at a time like this anyway.

Now we are ashore drinking suds. And we don't have to paint ship for another three months. You beaut!

A. R. PRANGLEY, R.A.N.

JOHNNY GETS A JOB

"QUEER, the jobs some blokes get to doing in the Army,- reflected Joe, as we lay under the nets one night. "There was a bloke in the unit I Just come from. You'd never have thought he'd finish up in the job he got. I was in a field ambulance up in the Ramu Valley. We had a cove there called Johnny Hayes. Little short bloke he was. Not as young as he used to be either. Long time before the war they reckon he used to be a jockey. Rode a winner on Derby day, they reckon. Daresay he did, too.

"Anyway, he'd been with them right from Pucka, an' somehow they never seemed to be able to get him into the right job. He was too small to be a stretcher-bearer, an' he never took to triangular bandages and that sort of stuff. Then he had a job in the cookhouse, but the burgoo didn't seem to be burnt any less than it was before. After that they had him on the sanitary, but he didn't make much progress in that job, either. Looked like they never could find a job that Johnny was much use in, if you get what I mean.

"Anyway, when we were up in the Ramu Valley, Johnny gets the bug. Mind you, he was a good soldier, an' he always wore his sleeves buttoned, if the buttons was on, an' had 'is gaiters on, if his trousers stayed in 'em. Anyway, we were running an M.D.S. at the time and they bunged him in a ward.

"We were a bit short of reading matter an' one day one of the M.O.s got talking to Johnny about malaria, and how the mossies give it to you. Well, blowed if Johnny didn't get all interested in it, an' he borrows a book from the M.O., full of Coloured pictures of how the malaria germs look under the microscope.

"Well, you just couldn't tear Johnny away from that book. He read it from sunrise to lights out every day he was in the ward. Ordinary times, you could always get him to tell you about how Gaspipe won the Derby, in 1922, but now he just wasn't interested anymore. Well, there was hundreds of blokes: getting the bug those days, an' all the hospitals were full up. They were shorthanded with M.O.s, too. Seems they had an M.O. in our ambulance doing nothin' else but look through a microscope at blokes' blood, to see if they had malaria. Johnny got to hangin' around this M.O., an' gettin' him to let him, have a squint through the microscope.

"Anyway, one day, don't ask me how it happened, we see Johnny, with a stripe on his sleeve, plonked in this tent where the M.O., used to be, an' the M.O. gone off with a, battalion somewhere. Yair, believe it or not, there was Johnny, sittin' up there, as the unit patho whatever it is, the bloke that looks through the microscope. They reckon this M.O. had the hell of a job talkin' the C.O. into letting Johnny take the job on. He couldn't believe that Johnny'd be any good at it.

"Johnny just loved that job. It was the same with the microscope as it was with the book. He had his eye glued to it all day. I watched him for an hour, once. I remember when a bloke's blood was okay, Johnny'd sort of shake his head sadly, and mumble- 'No, nothin' there.' Then he'd hurry on to the next one. If he sort of snorted 'Got him!' - you'd know some poor bloke'd got a dose of the bug. An' if he snorted 'Got you, you beauty!' kind of extra loud and fierce, you'd know it was an officer, with an extra heavy infection.

"Anyway, they reckon he was real good at the job, an' all his diag . . . diagn . . . they reckon when they sent those blood-smears on to the A.G.H. Johnny was always proved right, even on some rare kind of malaria he found one time.

"But even then, the C.O. always sort of laughed about Johnny being a real patho . . . anyway he never would give in that Johnny was a real expert at the job. Of course he had to admit that Johnny worked real hard - Gawd, I never knew anyone work - as hard and as long hours as Johnny did at that there microscope.

"But it kind of annoyed Johnny to feel that the C.O. mightn't quite trust him on the job, if you get me. If I'd known that then, I wouldn't have been quite so surprised the night Johnny came chargin' into the R.A.P. like a madman, with a bit of glass in his hand, yellin' out - 'Got him, I've got him' I've got the flamin' C.O.!' Sure enough, the C.O. was admitted with B.T. the next day.

"Just the same, he recommended Johnny for an M.I.D. He got it, too."

C. P. JACOBS, SECOND A.I.F.

"ITS SCARCE BACK HOME"

HE was a big soldier, that fellow. He came from the outback, just where, no one knew. When you asked him he would say slowly, "Cattle mostly in my town and a few abos weltin' 'em around. She ain't much of a burg but she ain't bad." He had been a good fourteen stone when he joined up but prison rations had thinned him down into the shape of a dead tree with the bark stripped from it. What was left was iron muscle stretched over a giant frame. His face was nondescript and always wore two days' growth, never more, never less. The eyes were way back in their sockets. On the rare occasions when he smiled you could see white teeth. His drawling voice was soft and deep.

The first smile anyone remembered was when the Japs were ambushed at Gemas. They came bowling down the road on push bikes and didn't know the Australians were in the jungle all round them. The big fellow held his fire until most of the rest had let them have it. Then he aimed at a little Jap scurrying for cover. He hit him square in the back. The Jap only wriggled twice.

"I seen a dingo do that once," said the big fellow. "Guess that little b- - - will be usin' up a ton of Shinto now." And he smiled. It was such a warm smile that the men with him, without realizing it, felt a trifle awed.

"Good shooting, Shinto," one of them said. After that they had called him "Shinto" which soon became "Shin".

Out at Changi Shin did two men's work without noticing it. He hauled trailers, and trudged round the auger pole for hours on end. He ate his own rice, sticky grey stuff ' and all that his mates couldn't eat. While everyone else got beri beri and dysentery Shin kept healthy. He never complained, indeed, he seldom spoke at all. Sometimes at night when "happy feet" drove you nearly crazy and you walked out into the moonlight to get rid of the pain, you would see Shin sitting on the ground star-gazing

if you could coax him into talking, he'd tell you lots about stars. "That little joker there" (you'd watch his finger and try to follow it) "that's the Crow. You can't see him too good back home. There's the 'ole Cross. He's an easy 'un to spot. And that bright bludger's Sirius."

"How do you know all the stars, Shin?"

He would shrug and drawl softly, "Just through lookin' and bein' told."

Being so fit, Shin was sent off to Singapore with the working parties to build the Japanese shrine at Bukit Timah. Every night there the boys would nick off on scrounging expeditions, but Shin would not go with them. "I'm doin' all right" was his only explanation.

On the last night before their return to Changi, the other men in the hut missed Shin. He was not on his bed roll. The wire was close round the house and the area was soon searched. With the realization that he had left camp came the astonished exclamation, "Wouldn't it! Shin must have gone through!" They went to bed and forgot about him.

Next morning all was alive with the bustle of moving and the prospects of a return to friends in Changi. Only when they were lining up for mess someone remembered. "God Almighty, where the b- - - hell's Shin?"

They got his breakfast in the old tin hat he used for a plate and put his "char" in a mug with a slat of wood on top to keep it warm. There would soon be a check parade and a Jap counting. Shin had better hurry back, or else--!

All the morning the men went to the hole in the wire and looked out. Not much time left now. Perhaps the Nips had got him. Perhaps he'd been. . . . . poor old Shin. Gee, that was tough.

It was only when the parade was lined up that they saw him. He was striding across the open ground with his pack on his shoulder. Its weight was pulling his shoulder down. With a quick stoop he was through the wire, and then walked to his place in the squad.

The parade over, they gathered round. "What's up Shin, gone tropical?" "How was the Number One girl"'

Shin said nothing, but for the second time he smiled. Clutching his pack firmly he went into the hut.

Back in Changi they displayed their treasures. Tins of bully beef, tight rolls of dollars, books, cameras and a complete set of women's underclothes. "Have a feel of those," the owner said over and over again. "They're real silk, they are." To which came the reply, "Why didn't you bring back a sheila to put inside them?

"Shin's got the girl," the others chorused. "Haven't you, Shin? She's in his pack and the tight old cow won't give us a look."

But Shin was not to be tempted. "Don't get openin' this pack," he said slowly, "or I'll do you.

Curiously, there was something about Shin that kept them away from that pack. There wasn't a man in the battalion who didn't know about it and there wasn't a man who wasn't bursting himself to look inside it. But you couldn't move Shin; not if he didn't want to be moved. All he said was: "Stuff in here's pretty scarce back home."

Each night Shin made up his bed and used the pack as a pillow. In the daytime when he was out working and you could have looked - somehow you didn't. Shin was that sort of a man.

The day the lists came out for "P force" everyone knew that Shin was a moral to be picked for Thailand. So he was and the rest of the crowd was picked too. In the few days before the big trip north, they decided what to take and what to leave. Mostly they bought food on the black market and gave most of their other gear away. Shin didn't bother about gear but he took his pack.

The trip up Malaya was pretty tough. Twenty-seven men were packed in each steel rice truck. There was no water, no air. At each halt they staggered out and lowered their parits. But the men with dysentery couldn't wait for the halts - which meant that what air there was inside the trucks wasn't too nice.

Back in the truck again and on and on soaked in their own sweat and that of the naked bodies wedged on each side of them. If a chap was quiet for a while they knew he had fainted. When that happened they shouted for Shin and he would drag the body towards the slit of air between the doors. That would mostly bring him round.

At the end of five days the train arrived at Bam Pong. Here fresh orders were received. Orders to inarch one hundred and eighty miles! Spirits were pretty low but that piece of news broke a few fellows to pieces. But Shin did not seem to care. His eyes had almost vanished into the recesses of his skull and his beard was possibly a fraction longer. Otherwise there was no change. If anything, the prospect seemed to cheer him because he walked about the camp and was almost chatty. " 'Taint over far, that step," he said. "I seen men round my burg do three hundred on an empty guts." And to add a final point to his comparison, "B- - - sight 'otter, too."

You wouldn't have thought to see those columns moving through the dust that they were making history. They didn't think so either. Only the vultures on the trees darting their piercing eyes over the tattered ranks seemed to know that they were marching to death.

Shin was used to walking. He loped along easily mile after mile, grunting occasionally when the screaming Japanese brought their sticks on the men who could not keep up the pace. He carried no equipment save his pack. It was heavy. You could see that by the way it sagged from his shoulders.

The rest were loaded with belongings; food, clothes, musical instruments and other junk precious to the prisoners. The sick were already beginning to collapse. They wanted to be left there to die. But the others picked them up and struggled on. Shin got hold of a youngster who looked bad. He carried him for two days. And then, when he found that he had died on his shoulder, he kept on carrying him until there was a place to bury him. As the march progressed all surplus gear was disposed of. Clothes were sold to the natives and other things often simply thrown away. Shin marched on, marched and marched, and the pack chafed a bleeding patch in his back.

"Still got your pack, Shin' ?" one of the M.0.s asked. Shin liked this officer who worked when he ought to have been dead. So he nodded and answered, "Yeah-a man don't git stuff like this too often back home."

The day the march ended work began. The men were sent staggering off to toil on the railway. Shin could still stand so they made him a corporal. Before going out to the cutting, Shin went to the doctor.

"Would you hang on to my pack, Doc ? 'Fraid some hungry b- - - might git down on it." The doctor was tired, absolutely finished.

"Stick it in the medical pannier," he said. "I'll watch it."

Out at the cutting, Shin was a white man. All the chaps agreed about that. He worked more than anyone else and he kept things going by thinking up new swear words for the Nips. Most days he took a beating from the Jap engineers because his men kept collapsing and dying on the job. When they beat him he just clenched his fists and said nothing. "No good arguin' with them runts," he would 'say. "Poor b - - - s don't talk English."

As the months dragged by, Shin got thin. His eyes now were just two big holes in his head. But he kept going. At night, instead of watching the stars he helped with the funeral pyres and heaved the cholera corpses into the inferno.

Every time they tried to give him a day in camp someone died and Shin had to go out to make up the numbers. After a while you 'Could hardly recognize him. His legs were just like two bamboo poles and they were pitted with festering ulcers. When he left camp with the working party, he shuffled along on two sticks. "A man's gittin' to be like a flamin' dingo himself," he would say. "Look at man's guts - they just ain't."

At last a day came along when Shin could not get off the ground. His ulcers were so deep they exposed the bone and his eyes were glazed with fever.

"Get the M.O. quick," said his neighbour. "Tell him I think Shin has just about had it."

They carried him to another hut called a hospital. There they scraped his ulcers with a spoon. Weak as he was, it still took two men to hold Shin down while the doctor gave him the spoon. The pain brought him back to consciousness.

"Still got that pack, Doc?" he asked.

The doctor had forgotten it long ago. "Yes, Shin, I've got it." An idea suddenly came to him and he asked quickly, "Is there food in it, Shin, or M. & B.? " With either there might be a chance and it was extraordinary what some men had kept for just such an emergency. He turned to the orderly. "Go like hell to my pannier. Tell the O.C. Here He scribbled a note on a bamboo tablet, "Take this and bring that pack!"

Shin's voice was a whisper now and his lips moved before you could hear anything come out of them. The doctor put his head down and heard Shin say, "It ain't much good, Doc. It ain't good for eatin'. She might have been 'andy though. That stuff's scarce back home."

Shin was dead when the orderly brought the pack. "Heavy," he said. "Must have a ton of bully in it."

Wearily the doctor undid the straps. He was too tired, too sick of death to wonder at the square parcel wrapped carefully in newspaper. It was heavy though. Surely not even Shin could have carried it on the march?

He tore off the paper and rubbed his eyes. There in his hand was a six inch cube of brass.

They buried Shin in a community grave and stuck the cube of brass at one end. One of the chaps in the battalion was an engraver in civil life. But he hadn't tools to carve the inscription the doctor suggested: "This stuff is scarce back home."

DAVID GRIFFIN, SECOND A.I.F.

JUNGLE BUSINESS

MANY and varied were the souvenirs that found their way from the serviceman abroad to the folk at home.

In the cities of strange countries the sellers' market was well supplied; away from the market, in the desert or on the islands, the ingenious Australian would fashion his souvenir from whatever materials were at hand.

An Australian soldier on a Pacific island base thought out a design for a neat little signet ring.

It was made from aluminium and perspex taken out of a wrecked Japanese aircraft. An American serviceman saw it and offered to buy it.

"Right-oh," said the Aussie. "I'll sell you this one, and make another one for mum."

This happened in a hundred places.

The comparatively well-paid G.I. found that he had more money to his credit than ever before, because there was nothing to spend it on in the jungle. He wanted souvenirs to send home. Some were captured from the Japanese, others bought from natives, but still more were wanted. The Americans were willing to pay for their souvenirs-and to pay plenty.

The Australians, with not so much money, saw the opportunity and decided to turn their spare time and ability into hard cash.

The production of souvenirs snowballed into little less than an industry. Beautiful and delicate indeed were some of the trinkets turned out from junk by Australian craftsmen. The Yanks kept buying them up as fast as the Aussies could make them. They put up their prices, but still the Yanks came. The prices became fantastic, but the demand remained steady. The Australians rolled up their sleeves and decided that their tropical tour would not be unprofitable. It became known in one area as the "foreigner racket". I have never established the reason for the use of the term; however, it might have had its origin in the fact that the articles made were foreign to those listed in the service vocabularies.

Not all who became interested in the foreigner racket were craftsmen or handy men capable of producing something. Far from it. just as in our normal peacetime lives, those who were born to be the salesmen, middlemen or contact men came to play their part, a parasitical part the producers said, nevertheless they became almost indispensable.

These salesmen were knowing gentry. They "got around" and made contacts in the Yanks' camps, found out where the demand was greatest and the prices best. By their own methods they always seemed to know which of the Yanks were well cashed up and those who had had bad luck at their gambling.

So it was that the "firm" for which the salesman worked seldom had stock which could not be converted quickly into Dutch guilders, American dollars, pesos, Straits dollars, or even Australian currency.

The Yanks were not suckers. But they wanted an article the Australians had and they were willing to pay for it. They went into the thing with their eyes open. They knew they had to pay the price asked, exorbitant though it might be, or go without. It was a simple case of supply and demand.

In the main the dealings were straight. As in every walk of life, there was the shyster who "put one over" or "pulled a fast one", but he generally did it only once.

Rules, regulations and orders to the contrary, the chief source of supply of materials for these foreigner merchants was wrecked aircraft. On them was the all-purpose perspex, more easily worked than aluminium. In some cases enemy aircraft had hardly hit the ground before the "wolves" were in with screwdrivers and hacksaws, stripping the machine of all parts that could be used in souvenir making. Sometimes the Yanks cashed in on this supply business and got the materials first, to resell them at a handsome profit to the Aussies. Probably, of course. costs of materials were added to the price and so it became a vicious circle, not unknown a 'scam' in other spheres.

The most ingenious system I saw operating was the "assembly line" scheme. In total up to half a dozen Aussies pooled their talents to make an article. If it were one of the signet rings that became so popular one would scrounge the perspex and toothbrush handles for the ring and inlay respectively. One cut out the ring. another polished and finished it off, another cut out the inlay, another fitted the inlay, another did the engraving and then the "outside" staff took over. The salesman unloaded the work on to the customer.

Although the profit often had to be split six or seven ways, the demand, especially towards Christmas, was so great that they could sell more than they could make. The engraver was in a class by himself. One very competent engraver that I knew of charged io/- for each inscription, and he was retained by a number of "production lines". He was an artist at his "hobby" and in sixteen months earned £1,500 from which he paid a bookkeeper £3 a week to keep track of his transactions.

Another useful craftsman was a member of a dental unit who had a machine capable of being used for buffing and polishing. His services were not given gratuitously and they were often retained by several syndicates.

In the early days of the New Guinea campaign, with the arrival of the Americans on the jungle scene, the Australians became wise to the Yanks' fondness for Japanese souvenirs. The Aussies had been sending home a few swords and flags. However, there was little bargaining between the Australian servicemen. But the Yanks indicated that they were determined to have souvenirs even if they had to buy them. The Aussies sat up and took notice and in no time unofficial values were placed on various articles.

Topping the list were Japanese officers~ swords, always good for £100, while Jap flags fetched from; £10 to £20. Swords changed hands as fast as they were captured. There came a time, however, when the supply of Japanese officers with swords began to run thin and the demand was too great not to do something about it. The Australians had another brainwave. "If we cannot find Jap officers with swords, we'll still get swords, even if we have to make them ourselves," they said. And make them they did.

Blacksmiths came into the production line, and forges worked overtime as shrewd Australians smashed and hammered at jeep springs, picked up from junk heaps, to fashion swords after the Japanese officers' model. Very good imitations they made too. They were so good that some were sold to unsuspecting Yanks for the ruling price.

The average American was no fool, however. Many became wise to the jeep-spring sword. They displayed to the Australians heartbreaking discernment in choosing the real thing and passing over the "phoney" article.

Japanese battle flags were turned out the same way. Though battles were scarce, as the Japs became more disorganized and decimated, the demand for flags continued, so the Aussies made them.

Fabric from abandoned food-dropping parachutes provided the material and the lads were not stumped for a few Japanese symbols to make them look real. They copied the writing from Jap jam tin labels, mustard tins, cigarette packs, in fact any Jap writing they happened upon, and put these symbols on the flags.

Many Yanks bought them up early. Who would know in a U.S. home whether the inscription on the flag was a fiery "I will die for my Emperor" on the real thing, or "Use Somebody's mustard; ideal with your dinner".

No one would know the difference, said, the souvenir merchant, so what odds.

Those in the game said that members of the photographic units had the best chance of lining their pockets in the foreigner trade. They were specialists at their own work and they had access to darkrooms and equipment which the ordinary serviceman could not get. Far into the night they toiled, running off sets of prints for amateur cameramen. The price of about 2/- a set was not exorbitant but the turnover was enormous and the demand unquenchable. If the photo merchant did not top the profit list among the amateur racketeers he must have been close to it.

There was the case of one Australian who went "Troppo" through trading, or so it was said. After a most successful year of activity his business acumen took a queer turn. He had saved up his beer issue, which he offered to Australian tent mates for 2/-, 3/-, 4/- or 5/- a bottle, whichever they wished to pay. Naturally, they were all snapped up for 2/and the trader went out muttering something about having to speculate to accumulate. Next day he went up to his sergeant and said, "I say, sergeant. You know that £5 I owe you?" "Yes," replied the sergeant with a smile of anticipation. "Well," said the trader, "I was wondering if you would lend me £1 of it?"

A few acts like these followed and he was sent home. It was said that he organized his "homer" and the amount that it cost him was a drop in the ocean to, what he had made the previous year.

The trading was not all one-sided, however. Deals in watches were on a big scale and the Yanks held the thick end of the stick in these transactions. Watches which they could buy for £6 or £7 brought from £12 to £15 -sometimes more, before they reached their final owners.

A R.A.A.F. officer wanted a watch badly and when an American sergeant offered him one for about £15 he examined it, saw it was. new and ticking and decided to take it. He did not have the money with him, but the sergeant said he would drive the Australian up to his camp to get the money. On the way, the officer began to wind the watch, but the sergeant hastily cautioned him not to wind too much, as it was well wound.

The money was paid over and the vendor disappeared into the blue, as usual. An hour later the watch had stopped. The Australian officer wound and wound but it wouldn't go. He found out that the mainspring was broken. It seems that a watch with a broken mainspring can often be persuaded to go for an hour or two, if gently wound, and this is what the vendor had done.

These activities were, of course, frowned upon by service authorities. Orders prohibited the making of souvenirs on an organized basis for sale and also the use of service time and materials for their manufacture. A craftsman was permitted to make a souvenir or two for his family, or friends, and he might even sell one, but it was not to become a business. However, the policing of these regulations was almost an impossibility. The hobby-cum-business filled in a lot of the monotonous spare hours in the tropics and provided many potential citizens with a potential handicraft.

This, then, was the "foreigner racket". The fact is that relationships between the Aussies and G.I.s became better as the war progressed. The Aussie learned to respect his Yank cousin much more in the battle zone. He admired his fairness, was embarrassed by his generosity and was entertained by his good spirits and quick wit.

The G.I.s never failed to praise Australian fighting qualities and their feeling towards our servicemen was very sincere. They appreciated the friendliness and humour but they often got a shock to find that the Aussie was a pretty smart guy too, and knew how to take care of himself when driving a bargain.

BERNARD GORDON, R.A.A.F.

A QUEER CONVOY IN THE PACIFIC

WHILE attached to the American Navy the Australian frigate Hawkesbury figured as the sole R.A.N. representative in the queerest convoy ever to traverse the Pacific from New Guinea to the Philippines, a journey which took a tumultuous fourteen days, during which many strange and humorous events occurred. It was two thousand miles of excitement. The little ships concerned took a terrific pounding. They were tossed about like corks, and if ever there were occasion to eulogize "wooden ships and iron men" this was it.

This story doesn't tell of attacks from either underwater raiders or aircraft. It is an account of the tribulations experienced by an extraordinary convoy of eighty-four ships. They were not bulky transports, lumbering cargo ships or huge tankers, but smaller though nevertheless valuable vessels essential to the bases which were to form part of the Philippines chain-in turn to become jumping-off places for attacks on Japan itself.

You never saw anything like it in your life.

It was a strange assortment of craft-floating docks, cranes mounted on pontoons, water and oil lighters, tugs, barges, motor launches, small tankers and, fantastically enough, the famous old paddle steamer Weeroona, well known to Melbourne bay trippers. Many of the craft were without engines, and were towed by powerful tugs; others were towed because of their small size and inability to carry sufficient fuel for even a couple of days' run. Biggest ship of the convoy was a tanker whose job it was to refuel the towing vessels and other craft moving under their own power.

Of the five escorting warships H.M.A.S. Hawkesbury was the only ship flying the White Ensign. She was assigned a position at the stern of the convoy to protect that flank from possible submarine attack and to look after stragglers who broke down or were unable to maintain the speed of the convoy. No sooner had the convoy left port than it encountered rough weather and the inevitable happened. Towlines began to snap, leaving unpowered craft floundering helplessly in the ocean.

A week out in a heavy swell, a tug's tow-line broke, leaving a floating dock, two pontoons and a crash boat helplessly adrift. To Hawkesbury fell the task of replacing the broken tow and getting the craft back C) into the convoy, which by this time was steaming over the horizon. In menacing seas the frigate lowered her seaboat to take a party aboard the dock to prepare that end for securing a
new towline. The lowering of the boat in mid-ocean in such weather was a feat in itself.

After three trips to the dock, equipment and a party big enough to cope with the job had been landed. There was danger not only from the seas, but from large numbers- of sharks which followed the seaboat and continually circled the dock on which the men were working. The sharks snapped at gum wrappers thrown overboard by the seaboat's crew, and often were close enough for the sailors to lunge at them with boathook or oar. With waves breaking over them continually from the mounting seas and in driving rain the men on the dock worked all the morning, the ominous dorsal fins providing a constant reminder of the fate in store for any man who fell into the water or was swept off by the seas.

In the early afternoon attempts were made to get the line from the frigate across to the dock, but each time the warship was maneuvered into a position a wave would wash the floating dock closer to the two pontoons and crash-boat drifting nearby adding to the difficulty of the task and increasing the possibility of collision. Three attempts were made before Hawkesbury finally passed a line over and secured a strong steel towing cable.

The strange procession moved off again, the warship towing a floating dock, two pontoons and a crash-boat. They finally caught up with the convoy, where the frigate passed over her burden to a tug and resumed patrol astern.

Her routine patrol did not last long. There was scarcely a dull moment. Towlines kept breaking on an average of four a day and Hawkesbury was busy dashing from one vessel to another. A floating dock being towed behind another escort began to break up in rough seas before the warship could hand it over to a tug again, and finally it had to be sunk by gunfire and depth-charges so as not to menace navigation.

A large pontoon carrying highly explosive petroleum broke loose and the task of getting a new tow to her was considered out of the question. Hawkesbury sank her also.

A small tug broke loose in the early hours of morning and drifted from up near the head of the convoy back through the columns, fortunately without hitting any ships. Hawkesbury had been warned of this by the senior officer of the convoy and was prepared. She closed to within a few yards of the drifter, but efforts to raise anyone with lights or yells from a megaphone were unavailing. Finally a rating jumped from Hawkesbury's quarterdeck to the tug. To his astonishment he found everyone asleep -and blissfully unaware of their plight ! He had to wake each man individually. She also was strung along behind the frigate until she could be handed over to her towing ship.

Things were going well when a tanker flew her ensign upside down and made distress signals. Her engine-room had been flooded with water. It was another job for Hawkesbury, who went to her assistance and took her in tow until the convoy was rejoined.

There were many deep sighs of relief when shortly after this the ill-assorted convoy reached port. A good job well done.

MAX THOMSON, R.A.N.