Chapter 1 Blank File; Exit the "Rats"; Cairo gharry ride; Uneventful Patrol....

THE BLANK FILE

THE morning was cold, sharply cold with that pre-dawn chill, dark and silent except for murmured scraps of conversation from the groups of men waiting around the assembly point. Joe and I stood so that the light from a street lamp would fall on our faces, not talking but anxiously glancing at every new arrival. ne talking would come later, when our small party was complete.

"Never seen such a mob," Joe remarked casually. "Looks like a record roll-up."

It did. We would be a long, unwieldy column when we fell in but Joe and I were not so much concerned with records as with the arrival of Charlie. He might be away on business. He might be sick; I had heard that his old wound had been giving him trouble but I hadn't seen him for several weeks. Joe, not being a town dweller, hadn't seen him for twelve months.

Naturally, with the passing of the years, the three have drifted apart. Charlie is a successful business man, a man of affairs with a lot of social obligations. I have my job, my family and my own circle of friends, and Joe is, as ever, the restless wanderer in search of fresh fields and fresh jobs. Droving, mustering, cooking and contracting have all claimed him in turn. We never know what his last job has been or where until he turns up on Anzac Day. Throughout the years his annual reunion with us has remained the one fixture in his wandering life.

Charlie turned up at last and we shook hands all round. He looked old and drawn as he stood there, the lamplight gleaming on his uncovered, snow-white hair.

"We were afraid you weren't going to turn up," I told him.

"Me? Not turn up?" His reply was vigorously emphatic. "Have you ever known me miss a Dawn Parade?"

We hadn't. Right from the first Anzac Day we three had marched to the dawn service together, just as we marched and rode together as section mates in the old Light Horse days of 1914-18. Originally, of course, there were four men in our section-four good mates who stuck together through three years of war, from Gallipoli to Jerusalem.

Snow was the fourth member of our section-good old reckless, happy-go-lucky Snow. But Snow was killed on the barren ridges of El Burj, killed through his own sheer big-hearted love for a mate.

His death split our section up. Looking back on it all I think it was Snow who held

us together for so long, held us together until we were looked on as freaks, four men of the original Regiment who survived every engagement and refused all offers of promotion. The fact was that promotion didn't interest us. For one man to accept it meant the end of a comradeship too precious to lose.

Snow was a horse-breaker before he joined up-a big, fair-haired, reckless, fun-loving young chap only just out of his teens. Strangely enough he was the only married man in the section. He married a week or two before we sailed and his son was born while we were in Egypt.

"Fancy me with a kid," he'd say, roaring with laughter. "If we stay here much longer he'll be comin' over to join the Regiment. Stone the crows! I'd make a soldier out of him if he turned up here."

Poor old Snow! He never saw the kid.

He was the best scrounger I ever met and he educated us in the art until we were the most expert and shameless thieves in the Squadron. In those days a Light Horse section was a self-contained family unit, living, sleeping, cooking and eating together. Thanks to Snow's genius for scrounging and Joe's excellent cooking we four lived comparatively well, even on the desert. If we halted near a village the menu often ran to poultry and eggs. Ours was a true socialism for we shared everything, from money to blankets. Our marching order never varied. Charlie was number one, Snow number two, Joe, as horse holder, number three, and myself number four. We'd got so into the habit of it that we even strolled down a village street in that order.

At El Burj Charlie was badly hit-a rifle bullet through the stomach. Snow and I crouched down beside him and bandaged him as best we could. When we finished we dragged him behind the scant shelter of a small rock. There was nothing else we could do. To stand up was suicidal. The ridge we were holding was flat topped and almost bare of cover. We'd got ourselves into an infernally hot comer and there was no way out of it until darkness hid us. Charlie and the other wounded would have to stay with us until then. And darkness was four long hours away.

Just before we left him Charlie asked for a drink of water. We shook our heads. We knew nothing of surgery but we did know that too much water was fatal to a man with a stomach wound. Snow gave him enough to wet his mouth and we crawled back to our positions, taking his water-bottle with us in case the temptation to swill it became too strong for him.

The sun blazed down on us, scorching our bodies and parching our mouths. It was stupid of us, of course, but Snow and I had each resolved not to drink while Charlie lay there craving for water. God knows what suffering he endured for our own was bad enough. After a couple of hours Snow could stand it no longer.

"I'm going to give him a few sips," he announced. "I dunno what it'll do to him but he'll die without it."

"You be careful, Snow," I cautioned.

The rifle fire was intense and a machine gun raked the ridge with a monotonous, clattering regularity. Bullets whined overhead and snarled like maddened bees as they ricochetted from the rocks in front of us.

Snow nodded and crawled off. A few minutes later I looked around and saw him kneeling with his back to the enemy, Charlie's head resting against his thighs as he held a water-bottle to the swollen lips.

I yelled, "Snow! For Christ's sake keep down."

He grinned and waved the bottle reassuringly. Two seconds later he slumped down on top of Charlie.

He was dead when I got to him. Poor, fearless, lovable Snow. It was so typical of him that he should give up his vigorous young life for a mate, so pitiful that he, who loved life so, should lose it before he had fully savoured its pleasures.

We buried him on that barren hillside that night after we got Charlie out. Some months later Charlie rejoined us, fully recovered from his wound, but none of us ever really recovered from the loss of Snow.

We looked up his widow when we got back to Australia and we saw his kid, a fine sturdy youngster with Snow stamped all over him-the same fair bleached-looking hair, the same bright blue eyes and the same ready laugh. The widow married again after a year or two, married a station manager and went out West to live. After that we lost touch with her.

But we never entirely lost touch with each other. Every Anzac Day we met for the Dawn Parade. It may have been an accident that on that first parade we found ourselves with a blank file-three men abreast instead of four. Instinctively we fell into our old places with Charlie as number one, Joe as number three and myself number four. The blank file was number two, Snow's place. We moved off, the tramp, tramp, tramp of marching feet ringing through the dark, empty streets.

At the head of the column the pipe band was playing a stirring march. We didn't know the name of it, but what memories it evoked! The pipers of the Black Watch played that same march for us as they lined the sandhills to speed us on our way to the attack on Rafa. Snow was with us then, laughing as his chestnut mare tossed her mane and pranced sideways at the first skirl of the pipes.

"Cripes!" he said. "There's a girl who appreciates good music."

And Snow was with us again as we marched down the dark street. We could feel his presence filling that blank file. We could hear, not the tramp of marching feet, but the jingle of bits, the snorting of horses and the soft swish, swish of their hooves in the desert ,and. We could see Snow's chestnut mare tossing her mane and see Snow grinning as he bent to run a caressing hand along her neck.

Later, as we stood before the Cenotaph, the short but deeply impressive service was for Snow. Every plaintive note of the Last Post was for him.

The ceremony ended but it was some minutes before we could trust ourselves to speak. In silence we followed Joe's lead, knowing from long experience that if there was a warming drink to be had in town at this hour he would know where to find it. We needed that drink and it wasn't until the second one was in front of us that we were to talk about old times. Later, much later we could even laugh over some of Snow's doings, reminding each other of how he would have loved to be here drinking.

We remembered so well his invariable answer when someone mentioned grog: "Just lead me to it."

At four o'clock on every 25th of April we three met and marched together. And always we managed to keep that blank file. Time and again a late comer stepped in to fill it, only to be told: "Sorry, mate. We're keeping this place for a cobber."

The man would mutter, "Sorry", and drop back in the darkness to find another place.

Possibly there were some who wondered that we so jealously guarded a place for a mate who always failed to turn up. How little we cared! For us Snow was always there, swinging along beside us.

With the passing of the years we came to appreciate more and more the truth of those beautiful lines: "They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old." For I was rapidly going bald, Charlie's hair was quite white and his face careworn, and, though Joe retained his mop of dark hair, his face was deeply lined and weather-beaten. There was no spring left in any of us. But Snow, the only Snow we could see, was youthful, vigorous and full of the joy of living. Never had we known him any other way.

When the Second World War broke out Charlie's son was one of the first to join up. He went over to England with the Air Force. Naturally Charlie was terribly proud of him. He confided in us once that the proudest moment of his life would come when his boy returned and marched to the Dawn Parade beside him.

"Would you chaps mind," he asked us nervously, "if he filled that blank file?"

Mind? We'd be delighted to have him with us, we assured him earnestly. I had no son and Joe had never married.

But Charlie's boy never joined us. He was shot down over the Channel very early in the war. After that the blank file came to have an even deeper meaning.

That was why we so deeply resented the new marching order of three men to a section. It spelt the end of our blank file. There was no place, except in our memories, for Snow or for Charlie's boy. We never knew how deeply Charlie was grieving over his son for he hid his feelings well. But we still, talked freely of Snow and gradually, as each annual parade ended, we fell into the habit of saying, "Just lead me to it."

We were thinking of him this morning as we shook hands and looked over the crowd of waiting men. Charlie's white head, whiter now than Snow's had ever been, nodded as Joe repeated his remark about the size of the crowd.

"Yes," he said, "it's a record turn-up. And what have you been doing with yourself lately, Joe?"

Joe said, grinning widely, "I've reformed, Charlie. Settled down. Bought a little property out West."

"Pinching other blokes' calves, I'll bet," Charlie suggested. "You and Snow would have done well together in that line. Remember the time you presented the old Arab with a pair of worn-out army boots while Snow pinched his fattest goat?"

"And you reckoned it was the best bit of mutton you ever tasted," Joe declared, licking his lips at the memory.

Somewhere in the darkness the bugler sounded Reveille. A whistle blew and the voice of the Parade Marshal called: "Fall in." And then, after a short pause, "In sections of four."

Murmurs of surprise came from all sides. Someone suggested, "It's probably to shorten the column. There's a hell of a big roll-up this morning."

But we were not concerned with the reason for the command. We were hurrying to establish our old marching order - we three with a blank file in number two position. Ahead of us and behind us men were forming up. Voices were murmuring, "Another one here." "Right oh, Bill. Room for you in this section."

We weren't interested. Our section was complete and we would guard that blank file against all comers. Someone, a tall, fair headed youth, came slowly along the lines. Opposite our section he paused and, noting the vacant place, thrust himself forward.

Charlie's out-flung arm blocked him. "Sorry, son," he said firmly. "This file is taken. We're keeping it for a cobber."

The young fellow stepped back and muttered, "Sorry. I thought ...

He got no further for Joe suddenly sprang forward and grabbed his arm.

"Wait a bit, son," he said. "Gawd stone the flamin' crows! Hey, Charlie! Stan! D'yer know who this is? It's Snow's kid. I run into him out West and was tellin' him about us and this blank file. He was in Tobruk."

A voice called, "Parade. 'Shun."

The crash of heels coming together drowned the un-military shuffling in our section as we dragged the young fellow forward and literally forced him into number two position.

"Quick march!"

A skirl of pipes, a tramp, tramp, tramp of feet and we were swinging down the dark street, a full section once more. Bits jingled, horses snorted impatiently and in number two position a tall, fair head bent to caress a chestnut mare's neck. The pipers of the Black Watch were piping us out for the attack on Rafa.

God, how we swung along that dark street! Marching as we hadn't marched for years. Heads up, shoulders back and arms swinging to match the youthful stride of number two.

For once we scarcely heard the service. We wanted to get away, to tell Snow's lad a thousand things, to extract a promise from him to join us next year.

The last notes of the hymn died away. The parade was dismissed and to all three of us came the disturbing thought: He may not want to come with us. We're old and tiresome and he's young. It's only natural that he'll want to join some lads of his own age.

It was Joe who broke the awkward pause. "Listen, young fella," he said. "I dunno if you'd care to come along but we've sort of got into the habit of pushin' off for a yarn and a rum and milk after the parade."

Snow's son laughed - the rich, joyous laugh of his father.

"Just lead me to it," he said.

"STANDBY" (R. S. PORTEOUS, FIRST A.I.F.)

EXIT THE "RATS"

IT is 8 o'clock on the night of 22 August 1 41 and we are, at the moment, taking rather an unusual and morbid interest in a particularly violent enemy attack on the unhappy, wreck-strewn harbour of Tobruk.

There is, however, far more behind our strained anxiety than appears on the surface. This will be readily understood when it is realized that, in the first ninety days alone of the siege, official figures have credited the garrison with having withstood more than one thousand air attacks.

Why, then, this undue disturbance at such a commonplace event?

This is Tobruk-this devastated, wind-swept, heat-hazed, enemy-beset land of desolation has been copping these raids, day *in and day out, with monotonous regularity for the last five months or more. Tobruk without its air raids? It just wouldn't be Tobruk!

And yet tonight there is a difference. A vast difference. It is, for us, a night of great expectations, for one of the few furphies that ever amounted to anything-and Tobruk has had more than its fair share of these-is about to burgeon into glorious and unexpected fulfilment.

We are lined up, ready and waiting, on the brink of the Wadi Auda. The roll has been called and each man has answered to his name. Between the ranks our bulging packs lie stiffly at our feet. Coffee has been ladled out and distributed to one and all, and we are rearing to go.

Tonight we are to be evacuated from Tobruk! You wouldn't read about it!

And yet, during the last few days or so, there has been a steady influx of Polish troops so I expect that we should have been a wakeup to the fact that something is in the wind. Not even in our wildest dreams, however, have we dared to hope for this. Here, then, is one secret that has definitely been kept well under control, a secret that not even our old friend, that top-line, never-to-be-forgotten, comic-strip artist, Lord Haw Haw, has been able to tell us about.

The first I hear of the move is early yesterday morning. My informant is the orderly room sergeant.

It was a typical Tobruk morning, cloudless, with a mounting sun threatening redly the advent of another torrid day. "Salient Sue" had not yet opened up her hymn of hate on the nearby pumping station but the guns were up ready for and impatiently awaiting the arrival of our regular 7 a.m. raid.

The orderly room bloke and I, also in anticipation of events to come, had somehow or other both managed to make for the same hide-out. It was there that he spilled the beans.

"She's on, mate," he says.

I'm wondering what the heck he's talking about unless it is this coming raid which I am in a position to know is not on-yet. I think it wise, however, to show a little interest.

"Yes?" I query, mildly curious.

"Yep, we evacuate tomorrow," he nods authoritatively. Well, for the love of mike, I think, here's another of 'em.

There is, for the moment, a strained intentness in our attitude as a persistent hum of throbbing motors attracts our attention. The questing planes draw nearer and nearer but we are reasonably safe in our hide-out so we don't worry over-much.

I am also trying hard to think up some witty retort to this haywire information about our evacuation.

"Yeah?" I come back. "And I suppose the Seventh Armoured Div. has broken through again on the Bardia road; and maybe we'll have a flight of Hurricanes over tomorrow; and the day after that maybe we'll be having fresh meat?" And as a sarcastic afterthought: "I don't suppose you've heard tell of- any beer coming into the area?"

"No, but fair dinkum, mate," he protests, she's jake this time. We'll be on the way tomorrow."

Well, as I say, that was yesterday and, lo and behold, here we are, all lined up and ready to go and, what's more, she is fair dinkum!

And so also is this air-raid on the harbour -she's fair dinkum, too. Ack-ack guns bark furiously, there's an ominous crunch of bursting bombs and we watch anxiously as volumes of black billowing smoke bulge heavily over the port.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, the raid is over.

A heavy silence falls, a silence broken only by the faint drone of the departing planes and the mournful whine of jagged metal hurtling from the heavens as we cop some of the splash from the anti-aircraft barrage.

We're glad that it's over for soon we will have to embus and head down to that harbour to board our ship for Alexandria-that is, of course, if there are any ships left after Jerry has finished playing around.

Time mooches on. A convoy of trucks bumps noisily into sight. Orders are rapped out. Pick up packs ... put down packs ... pick up packs! She's on all right-the same old rigmarole!

At last we move off in sections to our trucks and the order is given to embus.

At 9 p.m. we're on our way, bumping tediously over the broken country until we reach the Derna road-Musso's victory road to the Suez. A fast smooth run now past the Eagle cross-roads until we reach the outskirts of Tobruk township where we stop to pick up our guides.

Well, now, here's a turn-up! Instead of heading down to the wharves we turn right and trundle out along the Bardia road. There is a considerable amount of conjecture regarding this move but we finally give it best and resolve to adopt a wait-and-see policy.

We climb steadily over the escarpment towards the old aerodrome, dip down the other side, and then, with a squeal of protesting brakes, the convoy slides suddenly to a halt and we are ordered to debus.

It's a black night, cloudless, and, judging by Tobruk standards, ominously quiet. There is a chill wind blowing and, over towards the perimeter, Jerry is, as usual, showing signs of a bad touch of the jitters. Flares dance madly on the horizon, searchlights flash in the sky, and we know that somewhere over there our patrols are out and giving the enemy merry hell.

We're led off in sections over the rough country in the general direction of the harbour.

Men stumble under the load of their packs and curse softly as though scared that Jerry will hear them and wake up to what is doing.

A whispered order and we halt. An officer goes on ahead to find the way, then suddenly

he returns and we are on the move again. We pause momentarily on the top of the escarpment and then commence a perilous climb in the inky blackness down the precipitous slope to the harbour.

Curses are more numerous now as loose stones clatter noisily down the escarpment; troops lose their foothold and lurch violently into their neighbours. Then, at last, we have made the grade and are assembled near a swinging pontoon bridge leading out into the harbour where the hulk of the Serenitas lies derelict. This is to be our landing stage and we think that we are at last a wake-up to this move to the opposite side of the inlet.

Bardia Bill! Somewhere out there along the Bardia road he lurks in wait for the unwary, the long-range gun that has been pounding away solidly at the port for some weeks now. Tonight he's silent, but, if he even suspects that this move is on, there'll be the devil to pay. On this side of the harbour, however, we are more or less protected by the obliging escarpment-or so we fervently hope!

We shuffle warily over the heaving bridge to the Serenitas, slip thankfully out of our webbing, and squat patiently on our packs, prepared for a long wait. Away in the distance an artillery battery fires a few desultory rounds as though to warn Jerry that he is not to get up to any mischief. Jerry sends his regards with a few in return, just to let us know he is still there.

Then that brooding silence again-heavy and pregnant. We are not at ease. We are thinking of Bardia Bill. We are thinking also of the Luftwaffe. They must be about due again and this spot is no garden of roses. Surely they won't let us slide out as easily as all this?

Somewhere out there in the darkness-over to our left-the stern of H.M.S. Ladybird juts defiantly out of the sea, a victim of the Luftwaffe as long ago as May last. A gallant crew of resourceful gunners have utilized her as an anti-aircraft post and, undaunted, she still fights on.

There are other vessels out there too -liners, destroyers, oil tankers, cargo vessels and battle barges, all wrecks. The inlet is literally choked with them. Among them lie the San Giorgio, the Liguria and the Benkura, their funnels and masts rising forlornly from the water.

A light winks out at sea. We stir expectantly and stare fixedly in that direction in an effort to pierce the wall of darkness.

Maybe we imagined it. No, there it is again! A ship is signalling. It shouldn't be long now.

It's longer than we expect, however, and we are about to give it away as a bad job when, just on midnight, our ship arrives. Like a ghost she emerges from the darkness and glides gently yet confidently to her berth alongside the Serenitas. No sound of given orders, no hint of pulsating engines, not even a bump as she berths. No taxi could have pulled into the kerb as effortlessly as this.

One moment there is nothing and next well, there she is! We are deeply impressed.

The ship comes to life. Sailors appear as though by magic. Orders are given quietly. Polish troops and stores come off from one end and we proceed to embark at the other. There is a minimum of fuss. Everything seems to be working smoothly to a pre-arranged plan.

We've heard a great deal about the efficiency of the British Navy-now we've seen it. From this day onward the Boys of the Bulldog Breed will have no stauncher champions than the "Rats" of Tobruk.

Our ship is the British destroyer Jervis, a flotilla leader. We file along the deck, scramble down companionways and are ushered down below into the crew's quarters. Wherever there is space, there are we bedded down. I lose a little skin during the process as I discover that military boots were not designed for steel decks and companionways.

The whole operation is completed in almost exactly one hour and at i a.m. we steal slowly out of the harbour, gratefully acknowledging the forbearance of the enemy who obligingly refrains from throwing a spanner into the works with his usual display of fireworks.

And so we say farewell to Tobruk -a sailor's farewell- and, as we make for the open sea, the troops settle down for the night.

It is 6.15 a.m. and we have been unpleasantly awakened from our slumber. We think that we are back again in Tobruk because all hell has broken loose. The ship is vibrating madly. Her guns blaze desperately. A sickening thud hits her broadside on, dull and metallic. We heel over sharply.

We don't like this at all. Cooped up below as we are, we wonder what's going on. Expressions are strained-extremely so. As landlubbers we are definitely out of our element.

A sailor appears and informs us that there is an air-raid on and that we must keep to our quarters.

A remarkably thin voice, hopeful, yet obviously seeking assurance, volunteers: "Oh, well, we should be safe enough down here", but there's an unbeliever amongst us. Resigned and pessimistic, he retorts sharply: "More wishful thinking! "

Somebody laughs (not me) and to a certain extent the tension is broken.

I'm thinking of rats. Somewhere I have heard of their curious habit of deserting a sinking ship and I am hoping that, if by any chance the Jervis should take the count, there'll be nothing to impede the momentum of this "Rat" as he endeavours to scurry to safety. One thing I do know-I'll be well up with the leaders!

All's well that ends well, however, and before long the action is over. We are now allowed on deck and we discover that the worst that has happened is that we have suffered a "near miss".

To our surprise we also discover that there are six other ships in the convoy. Three of these, the destroyers Hasty and Kimberley and the minelayer Abdiel, have been with us since Tobruk and have troops on board. Evidently then, whilst we were embarking from the Serenitas, these other ships were picking up troops from other points in the harbour.

Three cruisers and an air escort have just arrived as added protection and their arrival was no doubt instrumental in causing the sudden cessation of the enemy attack. Word goes around the ship that tea and buttered scones are being handed out so I join in the rush. Butter! A magic word! We've almost forgotten that there is such a commodity.

I get my fair share and am horribly disappointed. I find that during my sojourn in Tobruk I've cultivated rather a strong palate. The tea is insipid - it lacks that fierce chlorinated tang of the Tobruk variety. The butter, after months of rank margarine, is but a smear of tasteless grease. The scones are delightful.

However we are grateful for the hand-out and make the most of it.

Mid-morning, and it's on again!

The air-raid alert gives warning of further hazards to come. Sailors race to action stations, gun crews elevate and clear their guns, and once again we are herded down below with instructions to stay put.

The harassed Jervis, her engines racing, changes course violently, pom-poms blast into action, and that strained intentness is again apparent in our every movement.

The action is short-lived, however. The awful crashing of guns ceases abruptly and we breathe freely once more.

We are informed that this time the planes were ours and that they have just sent us a wireless message suggesting sardonically that we should learn to shoot-at least this is what the sailors tell us and we have no reason to disbelieve them.

We continue on our journey unmolested. The sea is tranquil and of a deep sparkling blue. Over to our right (or starboard) Abdiel glides swiftly along, white foam curling from her bows. The other ships, like watchful terriers, keep strictly to their formation. The sun shines hotly and somewhere ahead is Alexandria.

The sun rides high in the heavens when, dead ahead, we sight land and, as we gradually make headway, we can distinguish the barrage balloons floating high over Alexandria harbour. We see also the many ships riding at anchor.

An officer informs us that we are now to "dress ship". Not being sailors we are a bit vague as to what this "dress ship" business is but we are soon put wise. We line up at the ship's rail and then, extending the line right around the ship, we stand to attention. This is a new one on us and we can see no future' in it.

We soon do, however, and we are thrilled to the back teeth-and, I guess, just a little embarrassed. As we approach the harbour our convoy strings out into one long line and we find that we have to pass down a sort of channel between the anchored ships.

Each ship is gaily bedecked with flags. We see the colours of all the Allied Navies; British, Australian, Free French, Indian, they are all represented. We see something else, too. On each of those ships we see sailors, dressed in their tropic whites, and they, too, are standing rigidly to attention as they "dress ship".

We are now drawing level with the first ship, a Britisher. Clearly across the water we hear an order rapped out. The ship's siren blasts out a heart-warming welcome and the sailors take off their white caps and give us three hearty, resounding cheers. This occurs right along the line as we pass each ship. In other parts of the harbour cargo vessels, tankers and shabby tramp steamers join in the welcome and the sky resounds to the tumultuous welcome.

Never before have troops been paid such overwhelming tribute. The "Rats" stand there and take it.

It is the proudest moment of my life. I look along the line of my fellow "Rats" in their battle-worn uniforms. They are as shabby a collection of men as you could ever wish to meet, particularly in comparison with the spotless whites of the welcoming sailors, but I could hug every mother's son of them, I am so proud.

This is one day in my life that will live for ever.

And so Jervis completes her triumphant arrival at Alexandria. We tie up at the wharf at 2 p.m. Disembarkation is quickly completed and we are lined up in ranks along the docks. Rolls are called and answered, Gyppo wharf labourers favour us with their toothy smiles, and, as we await our convoy of trucks, we hear on all sides the bustling clamour of a busy city

She's on again! Pick up packs ... put down packs. . . pick up packs! The same old rigmarole.

Back in besieged Tobruk our pals are waiting eagerly for the ships to return to bring them out too, but we know they are in good hands.

For us, however, the long weary months of the siege are over. We don't know what the future may have in store for us but together with the officers and men of the British and Royal Australian Navies who, by their gallantry and courage along the hazardous stretches of the notorious "Spud Run", made the withstanding of the siege possible, we can look back to our sojourn in Tobruk with quiet -satisfaction, secure in the knowledge of a job well done.

The writer was a member of 18th Brigade Group which was withdrawn first from Tobruk as it was needed by its formation -Seventh Australian Division- for service in Syria. The group was relieved during the moonless period 19/29 August. Of the other brigade groups the 24th was relieved in September (18/28) and the 20th and 26th were to have been, and the main part was, relieved in October (17/25). The convoy which was to have made the last lift, comprising some members of 20th Brigade Headquarters and of 2/17th Battalion and the whole of 2/13th Battalion, was prevented by air attack from reaching Tobruk and they were not relieved as planned. The first two were finally withdrawn on 14 November but 2/13th Battalion remained until the siege was broken and left by road on 16 December '41.

J. D. RUTHERFORD, SECOND A.I.F.

CAIRO GHARRY RIDE

THEY GOT no scruples, them thievin' cows, snarled Dark.

He'd been through his tunic and trousers pockets and counted no less than eight dud Egyptian coins. These, together with the ones in his kitbag, now totalled a little over an Egyptian pound. And Egyptian pounds were not so easy to come by that an Australian soldier in the Middle East could afford to collect them in counterfeit coinage.

The Sixth Division had just moved into Helwan from Palestine, and the men of the cocked hat were proving easy and profitable prey to the unscrupulous Egyptian gharry drivers. Quite apart from, and not satisfied with the customary habit of purloining easy money via the delightful old Eastern practice of overcharging, these dusky gentry of the four-wheeled conveyance indulged, as well, in the extremely profitable sideline of exchanging dud coinage for the real thing.

The main method adopted to earn this surplus income consisted simply of convincing unwary Digger clients that they had paid their fare in counterfeit coins. As soon as the fare was handed over, the gharry driver would quickly pocket the money tendered and produce from another pocket a dud coin, maintaining that it had been tendered in the original fare. The unsuspecting client would, of course, end up in handing over the equivalent amount again.

But all rackets sooner or later become known, and this one proved no exception. The ease with which gharry drivers detected faked coins was of itself a bit suggestive, but before this little ruse had been revealed, many Diggers had been sorely fleeced, and some were left holding quite a variety of useless Gyppo feloose. Thus it was that Dark, a frequent client of the be-robed gentlemen with the long slender whips and swinging gharries, had accumulated such a collection of spurious wealth.

A special routine order was published warning the troops of the racket, and advising them to examine all coinage carefully before tendering payment and when receiving change. Most took their unfortunate lot for granted, and contented themselves with being extremely careful in their future dealings with the gharry drivers. Not so Dark. Nothing short of revenge, or even repayment, would satisfy him.

"I'll get even with them varmint," he threatened, the very devil himself appearing in his protruding optics as he reassessed, for the hundredth time, his losses in Australian currency. "A Gyppo quid," he murmured. "That's twenty-five good old Aussie deeners or fifty beautiful pots at Young and Jackson's! " No Nazi fanatic ever pushed the retribution claim as did Dark.

It was leave day for Cairo, and Dark sallied forth, saturated with the burning lust for revenge. "I'll make the thievin' black cows pay for their pranks, even if I have to ride around Cairo all day in a gharry to get my money's worth," he affirmed before he left the camp in the morning.

In Cairo Dark hurried with his bit of shopping and souvenir buying, and then set out to select a victim. Gharries were almost as numerous as dud coins themselves. Dark had no difficulty in getting one, and picked out one of the best gharries to be seen about Cairo's highways and by-ways. The gharry driver looked not unlike the last one who touched him off heavily on the dud coin trick.

"Where to, Australie?" asked the Wog, mustering his best English and gesticulating expansively.

"Oh, nowhere in particular." Dark reclined on the plush cushioned seat with his boots, ankle, brown, pairs one, resting heavily on the highly polished gharry front-board. "Just a ride around Cairo. I want to see the sights of your beautiful city," he lied.

That was ten in the morning.

The gharry drove on and on, the dusky one keeping up a running and rather doubtful commentary upon the various historical merits of the places visited. Ezbekiah Gardens, the Pyramids, the Sphinx, the Museum, drives along the Nile, the Old City-Dark did them all.

It must have been around two in the afternoon when Dark decided he'd had enough. Satisfying himself that justice had been done, he carefully selected a crowded thoroughfare for the termination of his ride and the "payment" thereof. He was prepared for a quick getaway amongst the crowd, if necessary.

"How much, George?" he asked.

"Three pounds, sir," came the casual reply.

By the usual method of haggling and threatening, Dark got it down to a quid. From his rear trousers pocket he produced the pound's worth of dud coins of the realm and, just as a bunch of Aussies surged past, he quickly thrust the handful of counterfeits into the dirty outstretched mauler. As quickly he shot into the middle of the party of Diggers and mingled with them in the crowded thoroughfare of a Cairo bazaar.

He hadn't gone a dozen paces before the gharry driver let out an unearthly wail. The dusky one had dabbled too long in the dud coinage business to be caught as easily as that. In a flash he was among the motley mob and, with uncanny perception, soon singled out Dark.

"But I paid you in real money, you scoundrel," persisted Dark. It was no use; the Eastern one was not to be turned away.

By this time they had passed around a comer, quite a distance from the gharry. Dark waited his opportunity.

When he managed to get a mob of Diggers between him and the gharry driver, he shot out from the mob, down another street to where a gharry was parked. Jumping in, he yelled to the driver, "Cairo station, very quick, George. My train leaves for Port Said in ten minutes!"

It worked.

In a flash George caught on. The long slender whip-that unmistakable hallmark of all recognized Gyppo gharry drivers-bore down upon the two shiny-coated black steeds, and they were away to a good start. Dark leaned back and sighed the sigh of accomplishment. His quick dash had eluded his pursuer.

But not for long!

When the gharry turned up into a side street, the other gharry shot into view from the rear, and the race was on!

Up evil smelling alleyways, crowded with over-laden donkey and mule taxis - the transport of the lesser fry-and small herds of bleating goats, down wide streets teeming with smelly sheikhs and heavily-robed bints carrying half the produce of Egypt on their heads, the gharry rolled on. But, despite Dark's enthusiastic urgings for yet greater bursts of velocity, it was evident that the angry one in the rear was shortening the distance between the two flying gharries. And much too quickly at that.

It was then that Dark's gharry driver got an idea. In a flash he wheeled the horses through into a side street, in an effort to avoid the more crowded thoroughfare, and also to take a short cut.

The flying gharry took the sudden turn on two wheels. Then it shot through what seemed to Dark the hallway of a house. The owner of a pair of large black feet protested violently, but in vain, as the two off side wheels of the gharry whipped across them.

Around another comer shot the gharry, taking half a mud-brick house with it as it straightened into a long narrow alley which was obviously not meant for gharries - especially flying gharries!

Higher up this alley Dark noticed. an outsize bint bearing the usual mystery burden on her head. It seemed to consist mainly of a setting of eggs (complete with Wog hen still carrying on the good work) and a collection of very doubtful looking Gyppo-tummy watermelons. On the opposite side of the lane a wog was struggling along with a crate full of screeching fowls.

Just at that moment the gharry shot into the picture. The narrow alleyway scarcely permitted it to pass, let alone to steer clear of obstacles such as now appeared on both the starboard and port bows. The gharry swerved violently to the right.

Apparently the Gyppo driver decided on going for the bint with the melons rather than risk damaging his gharry by running into the wooden crate of Gyppo fowls, but somehow he got both!

There was an awful crunching noise followed instantly by the screeching of flying fowls and wails from both the flattened Wog and bint.

Dark's gharry driver, still keen to collect double pay for the fast drive to the station, was as eager as Dark to get away from the awful mess. Pulling out a couple of startled fowls that had sought doubtful refuge beneath his flowing robes, the dusky one spurred his horses on to still greater efforts, leaving his dishevelled and angry compatriots to bemoan the loss of their produce, and make to Allah their various appeals for revenge.

The slowing up caused by the impact enabled the pursuing gharry driver in the rear to catch up. He yelled wildly at Dark's driver, but Dark told him to take no notice of his lying assertions. Accordingly Dark's driver

yelled something back at the driver in the rear. As the conversation was of course conducted in Arabic, Dark had no knowledge of just what was being said, but as his driver continued on in the direction of the station, he felt quite sure that he was simply telling off his dusky competitor in the rear.

As the gharry shot out of the lane into a busy street, another gharry shot past in the opposite direction, neatly whipping the protective cap from the rear off side wheel of the gharry Dark was in, and damaging the wheel itself.

In the next moment the gharry shot up still another side street into a big open courtyard, just as the damaged rear wheel collapsed. Dark and the Wog driver shot unceremoniously into the air and came to rest in a tangled mass somewhere up among the horses.

Just then the gharry in the rear entered the yard and pulled up. A wildly gesticulating Wog dismounted.

In due course Dark was instructed to pay six Egyptian pounds for damage to the gharry wheel, a fee of twenty piastres to the second gharry driver and a fee of three Egyptian pounds to the first.

Dark was strangely silent that night when he walked into the camp at Helwan. It was not until some months later, when we were out on patrol together in the desert, that he opened his heart to me and confided the whole story.

"What hope," he moaned, "has a man got against them thievin' cows that's got no scruples? How was I to know that those two thievin' gharry drivers were brothers, and that they were driving me helter-skelter into the Cairo courtyard of the Egyptian police?"

B. J. T. STONE, SECOND A.I.F.

UNEVENTFUL PATROL

OPERATIONAL flying in a Sunderland in the autumn days of 1943 was a thrilling adventure. The U-boats had received a thrashing, but Coastal Command still spread its tentacles across the Bay of Biscay, and Germany's long range fighters roved abroad for vengeance.

Strong bodies of JU88's, formations of up to twenty aircraft, would suddenly appear in blue skies, or swoop from the clouds upon lonely, lumbering Sunderlands, deal the death blow, and vanish, but sometimes the Sunderlands were able to return the fight with such skill and fury that numbers of Germany's fighter pilots were themselves sent blazing into the sea.

This meant that in the Bay of Biscay there was a danger area for the Sunderland, and this was delineated roughly by the meridian 10 degrees west. Anywhere east of that line, south of the Scilly Isles, you extended your neck to the meat-axe.

There were many reasons why Sunderland crews did not welcome enemy fighters. Their flying-boat weighed twenty tons and was not built for dog-fights. They cruised at 110 knots, and flat out could do no more than another fifty. Their armament consisted of light calibre machine guns. The crews did not carry parachutes and, even if they had, the ocean was not the place to use them. If you ditched in the Bay after combat, you usually smashed the aircraft and spent the remaining days of your life rotting in a dinghy.

Bomber Command survivors had patriots to help them; at the worst, captivity. Coastal Command survivors just died of exposure. Occasionally there were dramatic rescues, but often no trace was found.

All this contributed to one emotion - suspense! The hardened veterans took it in their stride; the new chums clung on to their seats and seasoned. With the seasoning came the realization that operational flying was giving them a devilish satisfaction, a sheer animal exultation.

One day our New-chum's crew penetrated the Bay when suspense was high.

Two U-boats had been sighted by Wellingtons the night before. The air was humming with wireless signals. Over fifty Allied aircraft were operating in the area. Sunderlands, Liberators, Wellingtons, Beaufighters, Mosquitoes. Jerry, no doubt, was also there in force. He would have been mad to stay away.

W/T came over the intercom: "W/T to Captain. We have received a signal instructing us to fly to 630' west, 44' north, to search for a submarine. Fighter escort laid on."

"To us," said the Captain. "In person?"

"Too true! "

"Hell! six-thirty west. We'll have one wing over the French coast."

"Yeah," grumbled Control (navigator) and proceeded to give the usual pep-talk to the turrets-re eyesight and JU88's. Less than one hour's flying time from Bordeaux. 88's! U-boats! Gad!

The Captain turned on to his new course. He brushed through the ragged cloud base. Clouds-thank heaven for clouds. Grey water; splashes of sunlight; glaring brilliance. Gale whipped white-caps; columns of foam; long streaks of driven spray.

Fighter escort! That sounded all right. Never had fighter escort before. But they'd be in sixes and eights-similar to the enemy. Never tell the difference until they were almost on you.

S for Sugar thundered on. Morning coffee and huge slabs of bread and cheese came up to the bridge. Ted, the little Scotsman, had cut the sandwiches . . . had to grip them in both hands and open mouths cavernously. The Captain was sipping coffee; his was white. New-chum's (third pilot) was black without sugar. The Captain ceased to sip coffee. The cup hit the floor. He swung the aircraft into a vicious turn to port and screamed downwards.

"Captain to Galley. Open the bomb doors. Run out the bombs."

Down. 160 knots.

A tall box of foam stood on the sea, dead ahead, two miles. The foam subsided. Waves washed over it.

"Gone," said the Captain. "I'll swear that was a sub! "

"Sure it wasn't a white-cap?"

"Damned funny white-cap."

Course resumed.

Flew on under cloud, but the eastern horizon was blazing sunlight. The Sunderland was in shadow; anything approaching it from France would come from the sun.

Change-over time. The pilots moved around; the Captain moved out and leaned against the radio bulkhead, chewing gum. The reports came through from the relief gunners in the turrets. "Tail in position." "Midships in position ... .. Nose in position."

"Second Pilot to Control. One aircraft on Our port bow. Ten degrees. Same height. Range about twenty miles. I can see him glinting in the sun."

"Captain to Pilot. Incredible. Get your glasses on it."

New-chum saw a tall tailfin. "Possible Sunderland."

"That will be one of ours," said Control. "All aircraft in the vicinity have been diverted east to search in different areas. We'll probably see more."

In the course of an hour the two Sunderlands were flying abreast -S of 461 and F of 461-about six or seven miles apart.

The company was gratifying. Companionship was worth a lot down there. . . .

F and S cruised on together. S became so used to the other aircraft that the crew forgot it. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, Newchum looked at it sharply.

"Second Pilot to Control. There's another aircraft on the port beam. Looks as though it's attacking F."

The new machine swept below the distant Sunderland, and turned steeply near the water. It circled again.

"What the hell! How many engines?"

"Two! It's a Heinkel."

"There are four engines, you ass. It's a Liberator."

"0r a Condor."

"Condor like hell!"

"Control to all positions. I could recommend a few lectures in aircraft recognition."

"Captain to Control. Can you identify it;"

"No!

"It's coming towards us."

"Shall I turn?"

"No. Must be friendly. It hasn't worried F." Control stopped. "A Liberator!"

Liberator all right. It cut across the bows, a couple of hundred yards ahead.

"W/T to Captain. It's a Yank. He's asking if we have any instructions for him."

"Asking!"

"The spoken word. Plain language. What shall I tell him?"

"Tell him? Damn him! What does he think I am the Brains Trust? Of course I haven't any crimson instructions. Does he want hell shot out of the lot of us? "

S droned on sedately. The Captain borrowed a cigarette and New-chum lit it for him. Poor man!

More fun. Ted was in the tail. He started up on the intercom. "Tail to Galley . . ." Utter Dutch followed. The Scot's brogue dissolved into a meaningless gabble of animal sounds; then stopped. Ted switched off. Silence hung heavily in the ear-phones. From the galley came another Scottish voice, Jock, the engineer: "Okay, Tail. I'll get it for you."

The Captain wrung his hands.

Further south. Further east. Nearer Jordan.

Broken cloud. Scattered rain. Sunshine; black shadows; patches of blue sky; high seas.

Gad! Suspense! Pounding hearts. Blood throbbing in temples. Nerves ... nerves. Exquisite racking strain.

The Sunderland turned due east along the forty-fourth parallel of latitude. Skipped through the clouds.

"Should see the Beaus pretty soon," said Control.

"I hope so."

How they hoped!

The first pilot, in the skipper's seat, was moving his binoculars around the port beam. Okay. Here it goes again.

"First Pilot to Control. Three aircraft on the port bow, eighty degrees, moving on to the beam. Range fifteen miles, down a couple of hundred feet. Almost on the deck!"

"Three aircraft! What?"

"Twin engined. Going like hell!"

"Oh-!"

Panic. The first pilot hurtled out of the left-hand seat. The Captain replaced him. New-chum hurtled out of the right-hand seat. The first pilot replaced him.

The Captain poked his forefinger in the air. The first pilot increased the power. Control sprang into his dome and said he couldn't see a thing. Turrets couldn't see anything. Bridge couldn't see anything. Where were those aircraft?

Chewing gum. Weak knees. Wouldn't get away with it this time. Had fought four once . . . but were lucky that time. Missing . . . presumed killed in action. Could see it in print. Weeping families. Pay day tomorrow. Oh Lord, preserve our wicked bodies. Will never swear, drink, or look at a woman again.

"Watch the clouds," said the Captain. "For Pete's sake watch the clouds. They'll jump us as sure as a chicken."

Yeah! But you're still going east. East! Fly west, young man!

"Tail to Control. just saw an aircraft through the clouds. About six miles."

"Watch it."

"Can't see it now."

"Still watch."

"Tail to Control. There it is again."

"Might be another."

"He's gone. Flying away from us."

"Thank heaven for small mercies."

Peace again. Still eastward. 7* 40'... 7* 20' ... 7* 00'!

Dinner was uninteresting. Couldn't swallow very well. Couldn't do anything very well except shake.

Clouds were getting thicker. Good! Clouds, more of 'em.

"First Pilot to Control. Aircraft ahead. Up two thousand feet in the blue patch."

Everyone looked, but it was gone. Ten seconds later, there again.

"The Yanks," said Control. "Liberator!"

And then they were there. Six degrees, thirty minutes west! No fighters, no submarines, no horizon-indefinable in a haze a thousand feet deep.

"High time we saw something," said Control. "We'll start the search and see what happens."

The Sunderland flew north-into haze, cloud, rain. But the water was calmer; a light wind produced the genesis of a white-cap.

North . . . then west. Now south.

The world was empty of substance, except themselves; but packed with electrifying abstracts that shook mental composure. They turned east once more to complete the square of courses.

Round again. It reminded New-chum of a game he played in schooldays; but that had been fun. This was agonizing.

"Where the hell are those fighters? Looks like a gag someone used to get us here."

Westward-and the cloud masses began to break. Sunlight again and bright patches on the ocean. . . .

"Second Pilot to Control." This with great deliberation. "There is an object on the water eighty degrees on the port bow. Range fifteen miles. You can see it in a patch of sunlight. I believe it's a U-boat!"

The game's on!

Bodies scuttled right and left. The Captain landed back in the right-hand seat. New-chum stayed where he was, with the glasses jammed to his eyes.

"Captain to all positions. Who can see it?"

Sweet silence. Our hero continued, "Still in the same place. Port bow, eighty degrees. Maybe it's twenty miles. It's a heck of a long way off. Turn to port a bit. You should pick it up clearly now. There are three patches of sunlight . . . take the middle one ... dead in the centre."

"Can't see a sausage," said Control. "You've got spots before the eyes."

Ignore.

"Second Pilot to all positions. Use the sun splashes as a reference. The middle of the second splash."

"Captain to Turrets. You watch the sky. We'll handle the sub from the bridge."

"Hem! Second Pilot to Control. Maybe it's twenty-five miles. It's backing on the bow now. Seventy degrees. Stone the crimson crows, can't anybody see it?"

"Captain to Galley. Put out the fires and open the bomb doors. Man the .5 in the nose. There must be something there."

They drew closer. Sweeping around through the clouds. New-chum lost sight of his contact for a few moments, but discovered it again.

"Still there. Forty-five degrees port. Sticking out in that sunlight like a colonial."

Said Control: "What the hell does it look like?

"A sub standing beam on. Seems to be a conning tower. The edges are sharply defined."

"Your eyes, pal, are truly remarkable."

They bored into cloud and turned head on to the target. Out in the open again. Nothing there. More cloud and once again clear. But the second dicky had lost it . . . the sun splashes were gone . . . the sea a shadow.

Suddenly: "Tail to Control. Something on the water! Port quarter. Ten degrees. Eight miles."

The Captain swung the aircraft through 170 degrees, and put the nose down. He lost altitude until all the cloud was above. This time all could see it. In a lone ray of sunshine, dead ahead, a silvery object marked the sea.

The Sunderland approached rapidly.

"Nose to Control. I believe it's a balloon."

"Possibly a radar decoy. The Jerries release them from the U-boats."

"Second Pilot to Control. I reckon it's an aircraft."

"Aircraft be damned. You're seeing double!

"Captain to Control. Positive balloon; but too large for a decoy."

He was right. A barrage balloon, half out of the water. The bottom portion had collapsed and submerged.

They circled it. An unbelievable sight. A barrage balloon hundreds of miles from anywhere, sinking slowly in the Bay of Biscay. Control photographed it and the Captain resumed course.

Fifteen minutes later: "Control to Captain. We'll have to return to base. Er . . . there seems to have been a slight error somewhere. Very slight of course. We've overstayed our endurance. Nothing to worry about."

"No, Control? "

"Perhaps it would be best if we jettisoned our depth charges and chucked out a bit of kit and set course for the Scilly Isles. That's the nearest land."

"Yes, Control. Is that all?"

"Your course is 348*."

The Captain turned on to course, then called up the galley. "Captain to Galley. Open the bomb doors. Run out the depth charges for jettisoning. I'm descending to 100 feet."

At 100 feet came the okay. "Galley to Captain. Bomb racks out!"

"Tail to Control." The interruption was in the Scottish brogue; the author of it was diminutive Ted. "May I fire a few rounds when you drop the bombs?"

"Control here. Did I bear you right?"

"Please may I fire a few rounds when you drop the bombs?"

Control's voice was an education to hear. "In the name of all that's holy! What for?"

"To relieve the monotony."

"Monotony! Split me! You'd better turn your b------ gun this way, Ted! I'm coming down to kill you!"