Chapter 5 Just a loading number; Warrior; Mediterranean Action; Salute to AASC; .....

JUST A LOADING NUMBER

I SHOULD like to say old Jim was a tall, lithe young man, dark-skinned and dark-eyed; a man who fulfilled the general conception of a hero as closely as Jim did his gun-drill that unforgettable day off Leyte. But old Jim was remarkable for none of these things. The only attributes which lifted him from the level of mediocrity were his splendidly-muscled body, and his being a man clean through.

If there is one thing the last shambles gave us, it was a swift, sure appreciation of the men we mixed with when you're fighting your guts out beside him, and your life depends on the other bloke's effort, you get to know a man through and through. And Jim and I had grown to be as close as I think it's humanly possible to grow.

He being a loading number of my gun, and I the gun captain, there existed an affinity between us, not of constant intimacy through being closed up together so long and so often, but one of technical dependence each on the other. No matter how fast I had that twin 4-incher conned on the target and the electric firing interceptor closed, if Jim hadn't his shell inside, we might all as well have been in our hammocks.

Jim had a face, as the gun's crew told him often enough, like the side of a turret-ironhard. He was the boxing champion of the ship, and they used to watch him in the torpedo-space of a dog watch, the muscles of his back rippling and running as he punched the bag with steam-hammer precision. I thought I could "go" a bit, till one day after tea in Malta-but that's another story.

What I want to tell you could perhaps be called a story-I'm not sure. But when a man gives his life for you, and your crew and your ship, you feel like telling people about it. Perhaps you're proud you had such a friend.

We'd been through a lot, this crew., of mine. Not only in the Pacific, but in the Med., too. It's not often a gun's crew of sixteen men could stick together for so long; but we were lucky, and most of the same men who had loaded H.E. time-fused against the JU-88's of the Luftwaffe had loaded the same sharp-pointed stuff against the sons of Nippon.

What Jim did that day, no doubt many men have done before, and will continue to do, but this was our gun, this was our ship we were fighting to save, and it was our laughing, good-natured, do-anything-for-you old Jim who died that day.

It happened during the landing on the sprawling strip of jungle the communiqués were soon to make world-famous, when the fourth raid of bombers came in low from astern. The order came over the phones: "Alarm port, aircraft! Bearing red one seven five."

We closed up quickly, tin-hatted, anti-flash gear on, looking like cowled monks, the loading, numbers with shells cradled in their arms. As the enemy planes drew ahead on our port beam, the guns followed them round smoothly, twin barrels stretching out across the water, their mouths blackened and gaping.

Then, as expected, the formation turned suddenly, and bored in at us together -torpedo bombers, fifty feet above the sea. They would open out when they closed the range, but the Air Defence Officer controlling the 4-inch decided to see if we could hurry 'em up a bit.

The fuse-setters twirled their setting handles deftly, there came a shout from the phone number, "Commence, commence, commence!" and we were into it. The crew swung into action like a well-oiled machine, loading, firing, loading again, each man drilling smoothly in a perfect cycle of top-rate efficiency.

Sixteen a minute we were punching out, as fast almost as she'd fire them-the roar of the guns, the slam of both breeches, and the clanging thud of the empty cylinders hitting the deck combining to form a cacophony of sound that churned the brain into a sort of savage madness.

It was pretty to watch Jim. His burned face running with sweat, black where the cordite fumes caught it, he dropped each shell neatly on the fuse machine, waited a second for the fuse to be set, pulled it off into his arms in one lithe movement, stepped aside, and with all the power of his muscled body rammed the projectile hard up into the breech. It took perhaps three seconds.

Away across the sea four black puffs burst among the bombers, a vicious flick of flame in the centre of each. The next salvo did the trick, bursting beautifully just under their noses. They jerked upwards, too late to drop their fish, and circled back for another run. We stopped loading, laid down our shells, and wiped sweaty faces. Then, so suddenly that we acted purely by the instinct of training, we'd opened fire again.

"Barrage, barrage, barrage!"

That meant he was within a few thousand yards! The gun swung on to the bearing with a rasp of straining machinery as the trainer gave her full power, the muzzles depressed until they were almost horizontal, and the twin breeches jerked in recoil.

But he was too close; a Jap fighter, a line of win- two glittering propeller arcs, and between them the black nacelle topped by a glistening greenhouse. Grey balls of smoke broke from his wings. Two lines of tracer reached out to the ship, beat a tattoo along her side, elevated, and swept our mounting with a whining blast of lead.

Three loaders of the left gun crumpled inertly to the deck, shells crashing with them. One tried to rise. I saw the flush of blood well suddenly up over the edge of his flash helmet, and spread over his chest. He fell back choking.

Then Jim, his own face looking as though someone had flung a plateful of strawberry jam into it, jumped from the right gun and picked up the other's shell. As he did so, the phone-number shouted again: "Alarm port! Torpedo bombers!"

Whether it was deliberate, or just pure bad luck, we couldn't say. But that fighter, coming in so soon after the others, had crippled half the crew. Now the formation of torpedo bombers was heading towards us on the second run in. The mounting swung on to the bearing.

Did I say we were crippled? I can see him now. Crouched there, like a tiger ready to leap, the blood mingling with the sweat on his face and running in damp splotches down his chest, his shell in his arms, he was the incarnation of all that ship was fighting for and with that day - guts, sheer and unadorned.

The first round crashed up into the breech, the block slammed home and across the sea rushed a fast-diminishing whine. Salvo after salvo roared out, the jerking ship seeming to sob with rage. We couldn't see where they were going, didn't care. The team up in the director were looking out for that. All we could think of was to get as many exploding shells into the air before those bombers as training and straining muscle could throw.

It was Jim alone, only Jim, who could have kept those two guns in action. He was loading the left gun unaided, doing the work of three men, working like a bull. And all the time the blood was oozing down his chest.

Then, subconsciously, we felt the ship heel, at the same time as the bombers flashed overhead in a bellow of sound. We were turning to avoid their torpedoes. The cease-fire bell shrilled out, and we stopped loading, each man waiting for the concussion of a hit. But again they'd been thrown off their aim, and nothing came. The ship steadied, came upright, and ploughed steadily on.

Jim came over to me, and while I live I shan't forget the look in his eyes. They were wild one moment, and the next a film seemed to form over the orbs. He put out his hand to the fuse-setting machine, missed it, and before I could jump down to grab him, fell heavily to the deck.

He died there, in my arms, in rear of the gun, the remainder of the crew standing round him, the only sound the cough of a man with cordite smoke in his throat, and the soft clink, clink of empty cylinders as the ship rolled.

We laid him aside with the others and opened up another ammunition locker. Waiting, I couldn't keep my eyes off the still form. You can grow to more than like a man? I don't know. Was Jim a hero? Or, in his own words once when asked by a war correspondent, "just a loading number. . . ."?

"BREECHWORKER", R.A.N.

THE WARRIOR

IT began away to the south, an insistent drone like the buzz of a blowfly dancing a mad fandango on the back verandah on a summer's afternoon. Lying in the tall kunai grass the soldier, just a boy and weak-faced, glanced anxiously upward, cocked his rifle, jammed a round into the breech. The cocking piece was warm. It was weeks since he had fired a round, but the steel of the cocking piece was warm with the grey Papuan heat.

The sound of the plane grew nearer, the engines roaring over the tree-tops. The soldier stiffened, instinctively apprehensive. He could see the plane, but he did not know what it was, Yankee, Jap or R.A.A.F. Some fellows could tell a plane by its sound, but all planes to him were alike and he respected them all with a fearful caution. The plane circled the clearing, and the soldier felt big stomach somersault.

"Fortress," he heard someone say. He relaxed, trembling. The plane circled once again, skimmed the tree-tops and droned homewards.

The soldier's nerves were at tension pitch. Down in Moresby he had heard with foreboding stories of Jap snipers in the tree-tops. Coming up the trail he had fearfully imagined them on all sides, waiting to strike. His fears were aggravated then by foolish pranks of his companions, who seemed to him to have no nerves, he not realizing that their Jests were to them a saving grace in the face of an unknown danger.

He was moved deeply, too, by the sight of the wounded, the men his lot were moving up to reinforce, being carried down the trail by Papuan black boys.

At night it was worst. With the pale moonlight filtering through the trees he could see Japs creeping through the moist jungle's dark foliage, and even in his troubled sleep he was uneasy with thoughts of Japs. He had never seen a Jap, but he knew they were close now. From the otter side of the

clearing and up on the ridge he could hear their high-pitched, chattering voices. He could not see them because of the tall grass, but he was oppressed with the knowledge of their nearness and with a dread of the imminent battle.

At first he tried in his mind to blame the wearying monotony of the New Guinea heat for his mental turmoil. He compared this heat with the unbearable heat he had known in the training camp at Bonegilla; the red-hot sun scorching down -on the tin roof of the Y.M.C.A. hut, making it like an oven, and the sweat running under the armpits and down the back, the throat's dryness, and the sudden willy-willys presaging a saving wind, blinding the eyes, filling the lungs with dust and the pores with grime. It was not like that here, though. Here there was just the moist heat, unending and unendurable, somehow endured.

But he knew inwardly that it was not the heat. It was the sickness in his stomach, the dry taste at the back of his mouth, and, above all and only this, it was the dread of the coming battle and the dreadful fear that he would disgrace himself in battle, his nerves tense with the one thought of battle.

It could not be long now. Last night the advance party had crossed the rope bridge hastily slung across the river by the engineers, encountered no opposition; the battalion had followed and was now waiting silently in the kunai for the signal to attack; the river a mile behind. The soldier knew that there was no thought or hope of retreat. To try to go back across the bridge would be suicide, a machine-gun massacre, and to cross the turbulent river was, he knew, beyond his powers.

He glanced at the man nearest to him, suddenly aware of him for the first time, although he had known him for months. He saw tousled red hair topped by a cocky-looking, green hessianed steel helmet, beard-stubbled face, , perky grin, unlighted cigarette butt dangling from his lower lip, cheerfully ready to light up as soon as he had disposed of the Nip; green jungle shirt with grease caked collar, green webbing, green giggle pants tucked into pair of tattered knee-high Yankee gaiters. The shirt was sleeveless, revealing a pair of arms, freckled and tattooed.

On the was a heart tattooed in red and blue ere was an arrow through the heart, and slantwise across the heart was written "Sadie". Beneath it was a scroll, and in this was tattooed "It's dinky-di, too". It reminded the soldier of a family coat-of-arms. Blue seemed quite happy, and the soldier wished that he could be that way, nerveless.

Blue rolled over to make some joke with the man on his right and the soldier noticed that Blue's shirt was stained across the shoulders and down the back and under the armpits with dried sweat. He felt a sudden craving for salt. His own shirt, he knew, must be sweat-caked too. He reached into his hip pocket, withdrew a rolled-up handkerchief opened it and jammed a pinch of salt into his mouth.

The salt was satisfying, but now he wanted to drink. He did not touch his water-bottle, however. He remembered once being told by a medical officer always to go into battle with a full water-bottle and an empty bladder. That was one thing about the Army. They thought of everything.

Behind him, breaking the day's silence and the air's stillness, he heard the sudden detonating of the primary charge of a mortar bomb; a lifetime later he saw the earth rise from the Jap positions and then as the earth subsided, the sound of the explosion rolled back to him, echoing and re-echoing in his eardrums.

And then it began in earnest. Behind him he knew that a whole battery of mortar crews was going into action, setting up the preliminary barrage. He saw the irregular spurts of earth from the Jap emplacements, felt the sullen earth's unwilling reaction, a dull vibration, and heard the unlovely sound of the blasting bombs.

He knew it could not be long now and he listened with a fearful apprehension for the whistling whine of a mortar bomb lobbing short. It could not be long now and, waiting for the order to advance, he felt acutely the, sickness in his stomach and gulped in futile endeavour to suppress the taste of soured food rising in his mouth.

It could not be long now. In his mind there was a tumult of conflicting emotion, relief that it could not be long now, that soon it would be over, and the sudden knowledge that he could not kill, a revulsion for his bayonet and a dread of cold steel. Into his mind stole remembrance of the soft laughter of girls across the river on a summer's night, the cool night sky and the sound of the river, the swish of a canoe on the river and lights on the river, the water's lap and the rustling of the willows bending to the water. Despite the hollowness of his stomach, the dread of this, he remembered the sudden flowering of the red, gums along the Murray, and the straggling dusty little township, half-awake, a few houses, store, pub and the pub's crazy verandah, and the vast remoteness of the dark night skies: over the Mitta Mitta valley; and now soon, the battle.

It could not be long and he was glad that it was to be a daylight attack. At night, groping in the black jungle gloom or in the moon's pale, deceptive light, not knowing who was friend, who foe, the mind a tortured and despairing turmoil, to fight would be a frenzied hell beyond the most horrible of nightmares.

The mortar barrage intensified, and away to the left the machine guns opened up covering their advance. The long line of men groped to their feet, rifles in hand and held across their bodies.

Someone said, "We're on our way", and slowly they moved off towards the Japs, the soldier, robot-like, automatically going with them.

Behind he could hear the explosions of the Japs' H.E. bombs, and the earth's rumble; he felt a relief that it had come, and also a, fear of the conflict and of how it might end, although in his mind the end was too remote, to consider seriously. As in a dream he heard Blue singing to himself an utterly disgraceful Army song to the tune of "The~ Wearin' of the Green".

In defiance of the Vickers' covering fire the Jap machine guns spattered lead through the tall grass, but the soldier scarcely noticed it; it was as if he had known the utmost depths of fear and was now incapable of emotion.

He had no thought in his mind now, only a maddening jingle come from nowhere and of which he could not rid himself, "And the green grass grew all around all around and the green grass grew all around." It was infuriating and he could not forget it, his mind repeating it over and over.

Suddenly the barrage lifted, the staccato bark of the covering fire of the M.G's died away, and they were in the open, almost at the foot of the ridge, doubling towards it.

A mortar bomb had destroyed the Japs' M.G. nest, and as they stumbled forward, bayonets fixed, the Japs greeted them with a deadly burst of rifle-fire.

The soldier noticed the chap next to him fall and lie still.

It was Blue. He stopped and bent over him. There was no blood; Blue just lay there. It looked peaceful and not at all violent. No blood. The soldier felt suddenly reassured.

"Get on there!" somebody yelled at him, and he stumbled on. He was painfully aware of his pants chafing between his legs, and as he stumbled up the ridge there was a tightness in his calves, his knees sagging beneath the weight of his body.

Around him whined Jap bullets, and here and there his companions fell. He stumbled on, rifle-butt held into his hip, forearm along the top of the butt, left arm extended along the barrel, bayonet out before him, and over and over in his mind he was repeating, "High port, on guard, high port, on guard", but he did none of these things.

As they neared the top the Japs came over at them. Some of the Japs crumpled, dropping their arms, but one with a pistol took aim at the soldier. It was quite close, and the soldier's fear came back into his mind. He could see the white teeth of the Jap gleaming, lips drawn back, eyes dilated and the green-black lustre of his hair.

The Jap fired and missed, and the soldier lumbered towards him saying to himself, "At the throat point, at the right groin point, at the left groin point." He felt for a moment the sudden anger of combat, and he heard the sickening rasp of steel on bone as his bayonet sank into the Jap's ribs. The Jap fell back, skewered on the bayonet, a surprised look on his face, a soundless scream on his lips. The rifle was unbearably heavy with the weight of the Jap.

Bayoneting the Jap, the soldier had skinned his knuckles on his cocking piece and now he fired a round into the jerking carcass. It splintered the ribs and loosened the bayonet; putting his foot on the Jap's chest, he withdrew it quite easily. Withdrawing it, he saw blood spurt up the bayonet grooves and slowly spread a dark stain over the Jap's tunic.

The blood was red. This fact imprinted itself deeply in the soldier's mind. The Jap's blood was red. He had never thought about it before, and it had not occurred to him that Jap blood was red. He had not thought the Jap blood would be red. Suddenly, at the sight of this red blood, he sickened of the fray, and he stumbled blindly on with only one thought, to get away from the battle and the bloodshed.

It was quite impersonal and he had now no thought of saving himself by running away. It was just that this was battle and death. Around him men were dying, and he had no part in this. He determined to remove himself from this place as quickly as possible.

He started on his way back. He was apathetic now to the battle's outcome; the one thought in his mind, to leave this place of carnage. Behind him he could hear the confusion of the battle.

He dropped down exhausted eventually in the shelter of some trees, and it was then that he noticed that he was bleeding from the thigh. He must have been hit, although he had not realized it previously. He did not know how long he was there, but a lifetime later he noticed that the firing was desultory and coming from a great distance, away to the right. The battle, as far as his crowd was concerned, must be over.

He rose stiffly and, going out from the trees, he was surprised to find that he was on the edge of the clearing where the battle had taken place; he had imagined that he had wandered for many hours. The sun was still high, he noticed, and the wounded and dead were still lying where they had fallen.

From the other side of the clearing, some men hailed him. He recognized some of his companions and wondered whether his absence had been observed. He was suddenly ashamed of having run away in battle.

He rejoined them reluctantly, but apparently his lapse of courage had not been noticed, and soon he was discussing with them the details of the battle. It was taken for granted that, in the confusion of the fight, he had become separated from his platoon.

He felt sick at heart. Now the wound in his thigh was becoming painful, and lie limped across the clearing, returning to have his thigh attended to, joining the walking wounded who were coming back in dribs and drabs.

He came upon Blue lying where he had fallen; now there was a pool of red blood congealing, flies on it, and he felt limp suddenly, himself leaving his body, and vaguely as from a distance, he saw himself fall. There was a blood mist before his eyes and later,

without interest, he knew that the black boys were picking him up, jabbering in that queer lingo that he had never been able to master. He felt himself placed on a rough bamboo stretcher and he heard the swish of the grass against the boys' legs as they moved off, and the soft pad of their feet.

Suddenly he remembered the battle and he knew that he was a veteran. He had drawn blood, braved death and survived, and he felt a pride in this achievement. He was one of the elect.

He asked for a cigarette and one of the boys took paper and tobacco from his mop of hair, deftly rolled a cigarette, lit it, and placed it in the soldier's mouth. He relaxed, revelling in the slow undulating motion, inhaled deeply, exhaling a cloud of blue-grey smoke.

Coming down the trail, they met a platoon of soldiers going up. From his position of eminence as one who had seen and survived battle, he immediately recognized them as redraw rookies.

"How is it up there, sport?" one of them asked him.

"It's not too bad. You'll get used to it," he said, at once sincere, patronizing and superior, a battle-hardened veteran. "You'll get used to it all right. It's not so bad as they make out, and you'll get used to it. Don't worry about that."

A plane droned low over the tree-tops, and in his mind the soldier saw the field of battle. Then he remembered his lack of valour on the field of battle, Blue waiting to light up and lying now in a pool of congealing blood.

He felt his gorge rise in his mouth, revolting him. He felt weak suddenly, and suddenly very sick.

DESMOND FENNESSY, SECOND A.I.F.

MEDITERRANEAN ACTION

STRETCHED out on a broad front in orderly columns of line ahead, the vast convoy of forty large merchant ships, their speed regulated by that of the slowest, steamed to the westward on the last lap of their voyage from Alexandria to Gibraltar; an impressive spectacle, beautified by the soft light of a fine autumn evening. The convoy, after a brief respite, had sailed from Oran on the morning of Friday, 13 August '43, a day of portent to seafarers of bygone days, but given little thought by the present-day seaman even if he still retains a vestige of superstition.

The escort force protecting the convoy from possible submarine attack consisted of the sloop Shoreham, the Australian corvettes Gawler, Ipswich, Maryborough and Lismore. the Bangor class Fleet sweepers Romney, Hythe and Ryde. It was not a strong escort for such a large number of ships. or for those waters, but then times were not ordinary and destroyers and other larger units were urgently required at the Italian landings and elsewhere in the Eastern Mediterranean, so little ships were doing the work of big ones. Anywhere in the Mediterranean escort work was not easy; it meant long dreary spells at quarters during dusk and dawn stand-to's, it meant also nerves keyed up continually, in expectation of anything in the book.

'ne fact that the powers-that-be had considered it fit and proper to withdraw all air cover, and that we were over five hundred miles from the nearest enemy territory eased our minds.

Whilst talking to the first lieutenant before he went down from his second dogwatch, I voiced my opinion and he also seemed to think that the chances of attack were somewhat remote. Under the circumstances I decided not to have a dusk stand-to, but to be on the safe side ordered everything to be in all readiness in case of any emergency, and warned the ship's company to be on their toes and ready to jump if the unexpected happened.

The shadowy coast of Spain was looming up in the far distance, and as I went down the bridge ladder I saw the young midshipman pointing to the distant land and overheard him proudly proclaim it as the land of his fathers. In view of subsequent events I feel he will always remember his sight of it.

I settled down to read, but just before sunset, about a quarter to nine, my peace was rocked by a shrill whistle from the voice-pipe.

Without waiting to answer it I dashed up to the bridge where the officer of the watch called out excitedly that there were about fifty big bombers on the horizon. I took one look and ordered "action stations".

Silhouetted against the coastline were at least fifty large twin-engined planes. They seemed to be making no attempt to come in, but were circling and gliding back and forth just above the surface like a flock of large evil birds. It was a minute or two before they formed up and came in to the attack; we were quite ready and waiting for them, a most impatient gunnery officer was begging permission to open fire, and it was hard to say "not yet" even though they were out of range.

Ipswich was on the extreme starboard wing of the escorts in the screen position ahead of the convoy. Between thirty-five and forty Heinkel III's attacked from the starboard bow, flying about thirty feet above the water; they disregarded the escort force and came straight in, the majority of them passing between Whitehaven and Ipswich, who was the first ship to open fire.

We gave them all we had, pumping in Oerlikon and 12-pounder shells sometimes at point-blank range, and at such a rapid rate of fire that the larger gun was nearly red hot. This heavy fire saved us from a severe machine gunning because I counted at least four of the enemy firing at us without even hitting the ship. It also caused two of the aircraft to drop their torpedoes at random and run for home, probably in a badly damaged condition.

The stubborn defence by the escort broke the enemy formation, and as they passed our beam the convoy commenced to take part in the action. At this stage things began to happen, and I counted seven planes crashing, all in flames. The remainder of the enemy force, about a dozen Junkers 88's, attacked from the port quarter where Maryborough bore the brunt and shot down one with a direct hit from her 4-inch.

On the approach of the larger attacking force the commodore of the convoy turned his ships to meet it bows on and put up a very heavy barrage. Hundreds of smoke floats were burned and thrown overboard resulting in a scene of apparent devastation and havoc; in fact I thought half the convoy had gone.

The Germans, having expended their torpedoes, were scattering and making for home individually.

We were now looking for targets and to I engaged one with the 12-pounder, setting her on fire. This plane when last seen as burning furiously on the starboard side and within easy Oerlikon range. Another one as engaged and riddled with 20-mm. shells; was in a very bad way as it drew out of range, the pilot continually attempting to gain height by throwing the nose into the air, but er each attempt he lost a bit more and seemed to crash on the horizon. An extract from Ipswich's report featured in the weekly intelligence report stated that the plane which as set on fire had sent out wireless calls for assistance and had probably been lost with the entire crew and that the crew of the other been rescued by a Spanish passenger ship. When the convoy re-formed and proceeded its course it was seen that only two ships not still with us. They had to be left behind listing over and lying with engines stopped; they were subsequently taken in tow by two of the Fleet sweepers and eventually ached Gibraltar safely.

n the following morning the German io claimed that they had sunk thirty-two s of the escort and convoy for a loss of a few planes, and extolled this attack as a y notable achievement. Ipswich's only casualty was the 12-pounder gun, which on examination in the morning revealed a conspicuous bulge half-way down the barrel. It was condemned on arrival in port and replaced. The only real casualty in the escort force was on Gawler, who had one rating wounded in the thigh by a machine-gun bullet.

Ipswich's part in the action was the participation with the escort force and convoy in the shooting down of seven planes during the initial attack. In addition she damaged two planes and forced them to jettison their torpedoes before reaching their objective, and during the retreat so seriously damaged two other planes that both eventually became a total loss.

This action was quoted as one of the finest defensive actions against very heavy torpedo bomber attack that had ever taken place in the Mediterranean; particularly as there was no air cover, and the escort was a light one.

Notwithstanding all this, the convoy was saved and more of the enemy shot down than often was the case in heavier escorted convoys against lighter attacks.

Prisoners picked up by the escorts and convoy stated that the information regarding the convoy had been received from agents in Oran and that the attacking aircraft had come from Montpellier in southern France.

There was very little publicity given to this action, but the following copies of Sir Andrew Cunningham's signals will show that he considered that the job was indeed well done.

The first: "To Shoreham (R) F.O.C. Admiralty, from C.-in-C. Mediterranean Fleet. I congratulate you and the escort force and convoy KMS 21 on your sturdy defence of convoy against heavy torpedo-bomber attacks. The enemy got a sore head that he is likely to remember."

The second: "To Med. Station (R) Levant Station, from C.-in-C. Mediterranean Fleet. Exaggerated German claims to have sunk many ships by an attack on convoy off Alboran on evening of 13 August. C.0's may inform ships' companies of the true facts which are as follows: -No ship was sunk, only ships hit were two merchant ships which have reached Gibraltar. Sturdy defences by the surface escort and convoy resulted in seven enemy aircraft shot down for certain and several probables. An excellent performance and example of what can be done by self-help."

J. S. McBRYDE, R.A.N.

SALUTE TO THE A.A.S.C.

PICTURE a string of Motuan Moppets fuzzy wuzzy angels if you like-grunting under their heavy burdens along a precipitous mountain trail which soars and falls over knife thin ridges, through knee-deep sloughs, across roaring torrents-the Kokoda Trail.

Perhaps you think you've heard enough of that piece of misplaced geography. But enough can never be written to give full tribute to the worth of the men who manned it.

Fuzzy Wuzzies have been lauded, and A.N.G.A.U. men who organized and directed them have had some of the praise they earned; but has anything at all been said about the A.A.S.C. men whose trained and experienced hands and heads directed, promoted and channelled the flow of vital or lethal supplies to the A.I.F. in the Owen Stanleys?

Whether it has or not, this brief article will not presume to give a complete story of the Australian Army Service Corps' triumphs in that incredibly difficult and complicated task. Only an A.A.S.C. man who knows his own job - and every one of them on that trail did - should do that.

There is danger that the romanticized fuzzy Wuzzies, invaluable as they were, may run away with all the credit; but the truth can never exclude the prodigious labours of the Army's "butter and egg" men.

The first bunch of Service Corps men left all their lavishly supplied transport behind at the roadhead (a bunch of grass huts and tents huddled behind the impressive notice board "KOKODA L. of C.") and started on their own feet into the jungle.

Until the incomparable engineers made it a two-hour hike on "tourist" tracks, the first day's stage along the trail was a torturing struggle of endless stair-flights, up or down. Each slippery, sapling-cut rung held dammed up a six-inch pool of clinging mud which, it seemed, gallons of human sweat had helped to make.

If twitching muscles or trembling legs gave way you had only to fall a few degrees out of the perpendicular to be flat on your face in the mud. At the end of it all was "Ack-Ack", the first of the forward A.A.S.C. dumps. When the Japs were still on Ioribaiwa Ridge, and we were facing them from Imita Ridge, Ack-Ack near the crest of that ridge was the supply head.

Picture it, the one that impressed me first and most. A hillside, densely forested, washed by the inch-a-minute rain of a tropical thunder storm; a track rising steeply on a razor and given the appearance of a rudimentary street by tents on the left-hand side and huts of Pandanus palm, banana leaves and matted branches on the other; subdued, tired chattering of boongs loading and off-loading great bundles and sacks of food and ammunition; a dim green light outside, and in the huts thick smoky gloom pierced by the glow of native cigarettes and of white eyeballs, gleaming in the light of the cooking fires.

Such was the home from home established Mac, the senior A.A.S.C. officer of the post, A.N.G.A.U. help and labour resources. Mac himself was across the way, cheerily ring a mug of billy tea, a meal to follow (bully beef, rice) and a bed for the traveller. bedding was a couple of sacks of persistently protuberant army boots, in a leaky proprietarily frequented by rats and garnished with centipedes; but it was paradise to what the infantry had to put up with a few hundred yards away.

From that primitive outpost branched the supply service which built up our offensive the advance across the Owen Stanleys. When it came, the push was so accelerated the A.A.S.C., governed always by the of its carrier lines, had difficulty in keeping up with its successive dumps-"44" and "88" and the string of native place names, Nauro, Menari, Efogi, Myola, which were unknown through all history to the rest of the world until suddenly blazoned forth a years ago.

And in each spot, right on the heels of the advancing troops, a post was set up with the swift organisation evolved through the demands of a pedestrian war. It was a simple drill. There were officers (with or without assistant troops), the carriers, and the supplies. No equipment, no standing orders or movement orders, no paper instructions of any kind. Simplicity was all. The system had to work and it did. The small forward groups, learning more and more how to overcome jungle problems, moved on and others took their place in the L. of C., keeping it always on the move. To all of them fell the task of fortifying and pushing on the reinforcements, of passing back the sick and wounded, cheered by tea and rest.

This duty they shared with those other spots of cheer in a twilight world, the R.A.P's where wounded and wanderers could rest. Always there was billy tea, usually on the boil. Hot sweet tea is a medical staple, and however sickly it might seem normally to some it was nectar always after the great physical effort of movement in that country.

Quarters were not always the same as those at Ack-Ack for the supply points. At Menari, for instance, some huts remained after our bombings of the retreating Japs, and the A.A.S.C. took these over as shelter for their stores and their weathered bodies. Others were built to accommodate people staging through. A sapling-built hut had a dozen rough stretchers of saplings and sacking, spaced side by side on two long stringers, also saplings. Whenever the occupant of one of the stretchers moved, everyone bounced springily, right down the line.

From Nauro on the supply men had the hazards of the "bully-beef bombers" to face transport planes raining supplies on the dropping grounds which they had made. Theirs was the job of collecting the scattered and often shattered supplies from the jungle. They could not be blamed if biscuits were sometimes pulped back to meal, or if tea and sugar were hopelessly mixed together, or if there were no tinned fruit or jam. They were having enough trouble getting basic supplies to the troops.

But their stocks went up, and rightfully so, when they were able to hand out some dried fruit at last, after weeks of lesser fare; or a little rice to make endless bully stew less unpalatable.

They fed and sped the troops, and pressed after them all the way over the Owen Stanleys; and no one grudged them their vehicles when they got off their feet at last at Popondetta - Soputa.

They were still on their toes.

"MYOLA"

ARMED RECONNAISSANCE

MAKE an entry in my flying logbook, "Armed Recce", followed by a summing up of results. Thinking back, I trace the events connected with this mission.

Yesterday afternoon an announcement came over the amplifier system:

"The following crews are detailed for operations tomorrow. . . ." My name was included and I was requested to report with my crew for briefing at 6 p.m.

While waiting in Ops room for the briefing officers, we study the maps and photos on the wall, and try to digest the latest available intelligence information. After the arrival of the C.O. we take our seats and the briefing begins.

The C.O. indicates the area he wants covered and the information required. He points out a position containing four anti-aircraft guns in a clearing beside an airstrip. Previous recce planes have reported two enemy planes which appear to be in a flying condition on the strip.

This part is a specified job. First to carry out a visual and photographic reconnaissance from a safe distance and then to bomb the gun positions. After this we are to attempt to photograph the strip from close quarters and try to confirm the previous report on the serviceable aircraft.

Another specified job is to carry out a line overlap photographic run at eight thousand feet of an enemy stronghold near our other target.

Next, we are given details of areas to be covered with a view to bringing in new information where possible.

Then follows a procession of officers, each to impart information or build on to preparations for the job; specialist officer, bombing leader, gunnery leader, sigs officer, intelligence and flak intelligence officers, and finally the air-sea rescue officer with details of where to go if shot down, friendly natives and routes of escape.

Left alone at last in the Ops room I hold a consultation with my crew. A detailed conference lasting an hour follows and from this emerges our plan of operation. And so we part to get some rest, each with a clear picture in mind of the exact routine to be followed. We are to be called at a quarter to six. Breakfast and a final briefing will follow. We are due to be airborne at 7 a.m. In bed, my mind wanders over the plan of action we have worked out. . . .

A guard calls me when it is still dark enough f or me to bash my shins against unseen objects in my tent. A hasty breakfast, and then a hundred-yard walk to the Ops room, strapping "Betsy" to my hip as I go.

In the Ops room I go over the details of our plan of action with my crew once again and sign a clearance book. The met. officer gives us the "dope" on the weather to be expected: cloud layers, wind velocities, showers, fronts, etc.

Briefing now complete, we pile into a tender after throwing in our parachutes, Mae Wests, Jungle kits, water-bottles and small arms. In addition to the usual machine guns constituting the armament of the plane, we carry a rifle and a Tommy gun. A crew forced down in the jungle can thus be well armed, and constitute a small fighting force.

Out at the plane we get busy and carry out a routine check. Mae Wests are strapped on, parachutes placed in position. The gunner checks all guns and ammunition and ensures that we have emergency rations, water, first-aid kits, and that our pyrotechnic equipment is aboard and in good order.

Wireless gear and bomb-load are checked, engines, airframe, electrical circuits and instruments get the once over and we all settle into our seats and wait for the clock. Time, and I prime the engines, adjust the mixture, switch on the ignition and press the starter buttons. After a little persuasion the motors start and a check of controls precedes "chocks away". Thumbs up to the ground crew as the ship rolls forward, and we are on our way to the take-off point.

My navigator sitting beside me watches the engine instruments like a hawk for signs of faltering.

An engine failure at this stage with a load of "eggs" aboard usually means "curtains". We all breathe a sigh of relief as we climb away slowly to safe altitude.

The air is smooth as we climb, and before long we are running through thin wisps of stratus cloud.

As we near our first objective the eight thousand foot run over the area does not appear to be even a possibility. We can see the area but cloud appears to extend from three thousand feet to least twenty thousand feet.

About ten miles out I circle at about nine thousand feet looking for a way to photograph through a break in the clouds. Lining on a course which would take us over the area, I put the machine to a gentle dive, and head into the cloud in the hope of finding a break.

Down, down to six thousand feet before I realize we must be over the target, and there no break. A slow turn to port on to a reciprocal course and I climb away to break rough the cloud again. The job is an impossibility so I head over to our next objective. Through small breaks in the cloud we can in-point our position, and we go spiralling down through the breaks.

Down, this time to break through the final layer of stratus cloud at eight hundred feet over the water, and our objective is a distance of perhaps three miles on our port beam. A couple of runs at a safe distance from e guns to size up the situation and take me oblique photographs.

I swing round short, flying through light scud at a thousand feet to make my first bombing run. Flashes on the ground indicate that the guns are active as we straighten up to place our bombs. Bombs away, and a sharp break to port. The stick overshoots the gun by about twenty yards but blows up a nearby hut.

Around again on a second run. This time I come in a little high and cloud interferes with the bomb run, so that our final stick of bombs falls into the jungle near the gun.

By visual reconnaissance we can see no serviceable aircraft on the strip so we set course flying very low over the water off on our roving.

We inspect and record details of the jetty and then fly along the coastline looking for activity.

Suddenly we come on to a jetty around which are littered oil drums with a track leading off into the jungle. I turn in and follow this in about five miles and come across a deserted oil derrick. No life here so back again to our search of the coast.

Flying at about two hundred feet we come on to a village suddenly. My gunner promptly sprays the area with lead when he sees a Jap disappear hastily into a hut.

Farther on we find the cloud base right down on the water so decide to abandon this section of the recce and turn to fly up the other side of the bay. Villages, jetties and Lakatois are carefully noted by the navigator, and any sign of activity brings forth immediate response from my gunner.

Eventually we find ourselves once again in the vicinity of our second objective, so we decide to go in closer to get more positive photographic evidence of the serviceability or otherwise of the aircraft in the dispersal bays round the strip.

Flying inland very low, I turn and head the aircraft for the strip and climb to a thousand feet, flying on instruments in the cloud. When I judge the strip to be underneath I dive out and as I turn steeply to port my wireless operator manipulates the heavy camera to get some good oblique shots of the strip and dispersal bays.

The guns do not appear to be active now, so we do a final straight run over the gun positions very fast and low to get a vertical shot of the guns.

After this I decide to pay a second visit to the village where we saw the Jap to give it the "once-over" again. Down low now, about twenty feet over the water with a wing tip at times almost brushing the mangroves we Shoot along, hoping that our approach to the village will not be seen.

Rounding a bend in the shore we flash past within fifty feet of a Jap dressed in a spotless drill suit standing up in a canoe a few yards out from the shore. Our gunner said afterwards that he could see the astounded expression on his face as we went by. And astounded he must have been, for he was still standing in the canoe apparently petrified after I had swung round in a tight turn so that my
gunner could bring his guns to bear. When the bullets started to splash the water around him, he evacuated the canoe with more haste than dignity and dived into the mud.

Farther along the coast I pull up sharply over the village, and both navigator and gunner open fire, but the only thing seen is a white hen fleeing into the jungle.

Climbing up now through the cloud breaks we head back to our first objective to find the cloud still making it impossible to do our photo run.

Looking down we can see the neatly laid out gardens of the Japs covering hundreds of acres. Everything looks peaceful in the little colony. On our way home, flying at ease, we discuss the trip and condense our impressions so as to be able to give a clear picture to the de-briefing officer when we land at base.

We agree that one Nip will be very annoyed with us for causing him to get his uniform covered with mud. We agree also that a certain hen will lay no more eggs for months to come, and we argue as to whether it was a White Leghorn or a White Orpington. But we will never know.

COLIN W. HOBSON, R.A.A.F.