Chapter 5 In a Repatriation Hospital; 10 day alibi; Bathroom pirate; One jump ahead

IN A REPATRIATION HOSPITAL

THE ward is dark, peaceful and silent except for the faint snoring of one or two patients.

A man at the far end of the ward starts to cough - a hacking, rasping bark, obviously a cigarette cough.

The sound produces a tickling in my own throat and I try unsuccessfully to stifle the wretched cough.

Half-heartedly I tell myself I'll cut out smoking. I'll give it up tomorrow. I won't, of course. Cigarettes are plentiful here, thanks to the Red Cross and the hospital canteen. We all smoke too much, principally, I suppose, because there is so little else to do.

The door at the end of the ward opens and the light from a torch gleams along the polished floor. The Night Sister is coming along to investigate. The powerful beam flickers across a few beds and comes to rest on my face, dazzling me with the fierce white glare of a destroyer's searchlight. I shut my solitary eye and curse silently at such treatment. The previous Night Sister used a small torch and always covered the beam with her hand so that only a faint illumination escaped. This one carries a torch that must be fully two feet long and she flashes its blinding, beam around with reckless abandon.

She is a big girl, generously proportioned and obviously bush bred, although she stoutly denies all knowledge of the primitive outback. There is nothing subtle or sweetly soothing about her but she is efficient, always cheerful, and as big-hearted as they come. We rag her unmercifully for, as the boys say, "she comes in every time". But we all love her. At daylight she'll have the entire ward in a boisterous good humour.

"Why aren't you asleep?" she asks, bending over me, still blinding me with the torch.

"How the devil can a man sleep with that blasted searchlight shining in his face?" I ask irritably. "For heaven's sake turn the thing off, Sister."

"Your bandage is slipping," she announces cheerfully. Deftly she readjusts it, ignoring my rudeness. "Pain worrying you tonight?"

"A bit," I admit.

"I'll get you something to ease it. Would you like a cup of tea, too"'

Would I like a cup of tea! What man wouldn't when he finds himself unable to sleep at about 2 a.m.? And who wouldn't have a soft spot in his heart for the woman who offers to make it for him? I swallow the tablets, sip the tea gratefully and settle off to sleep.

It seems only a matter of minutes before a bright light wakes me again. This time it comes from no single torch but from the combined glare of all the lights in the ward. The Night Sister and an orderly are bustling around in feverish, noisy energy as they prepare to wash the bed patients and square the ward up for the day staff. It is morning, official hospital morning - although not the faintest glimmer of dawn shows through the eastern windows.

I try to ignore the lights, to settle off to sleep again although I know it's hopeless.

A rumble of wheels and a rattle of cups announce the arrival of the morning tea trolley, pushed by one of the patients.

"Cupper tea, mate? Milk and sugar?" I recognize the voice. Alf is on the job this morning despite the fact that his right arm is extended on the level of his shoulder, held aloft by a clumsy "aeroplane splint".

Alf is one of the Old Diggers who once rose to the rank of corporal but lost his stripes through "taking a crack at a military jack in a little estaminet outside Amiens". He claims that the provosts picked on him when he was stone-cold sober but, knowing Alf, we are rather doubtful about that.

The man in the bed opposite mine rises, yawning. He's a youngish man who was a major in Tobruk. A shell splinter has rendered his left arm useless yet he pulls on a dressing gown and slippers and says:

"I'll give you a hand with the tea, Alf."

"Good on yer, mate." Alf stirs sugar into a cup and hands it to his newly acquired off sider. "Give this to the bloke over in the comer."

"The bloke over in the corner" is a young A.B. still in the Navy. He is fit enough to get up and pour his own tea but he lies in bed and stretches out a languid arm. Yesterday morning, he was taking the tea around and this morning he is enjoying the luxury of having it brought to him.

"Cupper tea, Dig?" Alf shakes the shoulder of my next-door neighbour, a man named Ashton. "Come on. Gawd stone the flamin' crows' Some of you blokes 'd sleep all day if you was let."

Ashton, who is a grey-haired ex-lieutenant commander, R.A.N., with the ability to sleep through anything, sits up and rubs his eyes.

"You want a cupper tea, Dig?" Alf persists. "Or don't yer?"

"Oh, thanks. Thanks, Alf. No sugar if you don't mind."

"Suits me, mate. Have it any way yer want it so long as you don't ask me to pick the tealeaves out of it."

Faint in the distance comes the sound of crowing roosters. A man with a bald, shining head sits up in bed.

"Listen to that, will yer?" he pleads. "I've heard blokes growlin' because the chooks woke 'em up in the mornin' but in this joint we wake the flamin' chooks."

I feel he's got something there and am about to back him up when Alf thrusts a cup of tea into his hand and says, "Here! Get this into yer and don't start whingeing at this hour of the day."

"Day!" a youthful voice exclaims. "You don't call this day, do you?"

The Night Sister calls, "Come on now, some of you walking patients. Drink your tea and start having your baths. You'll all leave it till the last minute and then growl because there's not enough room in the bathroom."

Someone pleads peevishly, "Gawd! Can't a man ever get any sleep in this place?"

"Sleep!" the Night Sister jeers. "You've been sleeping all night."

That is a definite challenge, one that is taken up from all over the ward.

"All night? That's a good one."

"We're only half through it now. It can't be much after midnight."

"Anyhow, what hope's a man got of sleeping with the Night Sister galloping around the ward, shining a walloping great torch in his face? "

"I'll bet your old man was a cow cocky, Sister. If you was at home now you'd be wakin' the poddies up to feed 'em."

"I beg your pardon!" Sister "comes in" now, rising easily to the bait. She'll never admit that she comes from the bush. "My father was not a cow cocky."

"Of course he wasn't. You pull your head in, Morrison." It sounds as if the Sister has a champion until the interjector goes on to expand his theory. "He was a 'possum shooter. Brought his daughter up the right way, too. Many's the 'possum she's shot out of a tall gum-tree with that very torch. Notice how she always shines it in your eyes? That's how they get the 'possums. Dazzle 'em first and shoot 'em after."

The Sister pauses in the act of rubbing a back. "If you're well enough to sit up and make those wise cracks, Mr. Marsh," she declares, "you're well enough to get up and make your own bed. You'd better get started on it now."

Marsh, young and irrepressible, pretends to be penitent. "Break it down, Sister," he pleads, "I'm a sick man."

That statement is treated with the derision it deserves. Ours is a surgical ward and we are a pretty healthy lot. Certainly we don't muster as many arms and legs between us as an average crowd of citizens would, some are in plaster after recent operations and quite a few are on crutches. In our private lives we are men of widely different tastes and ideals for our ages range from eighteen to seventy and we represent a variety of trades and professions-labourers, bank managers, farmers, clerks, miners, business men, carpenters and small shop owners.

But here we are a united gathering of pyjama-clad patients, drawn together by one strong bond. Young and old, successful business man and unemployed navvy, we have all seen service in defence of our country. If we tend to draw into small cliques the groups are Service groups rather than social. Ranks or ex-ranks do not exist. First War unites with Second War so that Navy presents a united front in an argument against Army. Air Force stands by ready to defend itself against both.

Occasionally, just to add variety, a verbal battle starts between First and Second World War veterans. There is a definite regrouping of forces then, a complete reshuffle as youth attacks old age or vice versa. One of these looks like starting now as old Dad, the oldest Old Soldier of us all, uses Marsh's plea for rest as an excuse to attack the youth of today. Not that Dad really needs an excuse. He is an irritable old tyrant at the best of times, probably because his arthritis gives him no peace.

"You young blokes is all the same," he declares. "Too soft. Can't take it. Ridin' into action in motor cars! Aeroplanes to keep the tucker up to yer! "

He doesn't get away with it, of course. Someone says, "Hello; she's on again." It is. Youngsters from various parts of the ward join in.

"I'll bet things were tough in the Boer War, Dad."

"Boer War! He was drawing a pension when the Boer War started."

"That's right. They gave it to him for long service in the Indian Mutiny."

"No. They knocked him back for a pension because his wound was self-inflicted. His muzzle loader went off when he was ramming the powder in."

"Very funny!" At last Dad gets a word in. "If some of you smart alecs 'ad been in action with me . . ."

"Shut up, will yer!" Alf is throwing his weight about now. "A man'll be pushin' this flamin' trolley around till breakfast time. . . . Milk and sugar, mate?" He turns to his offsider. "Give Dad one next. Shut 'im up for a while. No milk or sugar. He likes it straight."

In the east the first faint light of dawn shows. Soon bright sunlight will be streaming through windows that reach from floor almost to ceiling, revealing a ward that is airy, spacious and as cheerful as its inhabitants. Looking out across the wide verandah we will see green lawns and gay flower beds.

The Night Sister must be thinking of these flower beds for she says, "Anyone doing anything about flowers this morning? "

The suggestion is quite illegal. The head gardener doles out the flowers but, like all head gardeners, he is miserly with his precious blooms. Moreover he has a lot of other wards to satisfy. We like flowers in the ward, lots of them. We like to think that ours is the best looking ward in the hospital. And right opposite us is a fine bed of roses.

The ex-lieutenant-commander arises and signals the young A.B. "Come on, me lad," he says. "This is a job for the Silent Service." The A.B. reaches for his dressing gown and the pair depart to raid the pantry for sharp knives.

"Home, home on the range, where the deer and antelope play."

What the song lacks in tune it makes up in volume. It comes from a young fellow with his right leg in plaster. He is sitting up in bed, balancing a basin of warm water beside him and as he scrubs his bare chest with a washer he sings in a loud, raucous voice.

"Where seldom is hear-rd . . ."

That last note is so horribly flat that it causes a general outbreak of groans and the Night Sister inquires, "Do you have to make that hideous noise, Mr. Thompson?"

"I can't help it, Sister," Thompson explains. "I always sing in the bath at home and even if I can't have a decent bath here I still feel like singing."

Sister misses a wonderful opportunity for a cutting retort because from the far end of the ward there comes a clatter followed by a loud, "Damn those -- crutches! Do you have to leave them stickin' out like that?"

"Here! " she yells. "Who's that swearing?"

The muffled reply is one of those meaningless army answers-"The man outside Hoyts."

Sister either doesn't hear it or else it goes over her head. "What did you say?" she asks.

"The man outside Hoyts." There is no mistaking it this time for it is chanted lustily by

U WERE 1950

at least a dozen voices, followed by a crash as someone deliberately drops a pair of crutches.

"Stop dropping those crutches," Sister orders, standing in mid-ward with a basin of water in her hands.

Cra-a-a-sh! From the volume of sound it would seem that half the men in the ward use crutches and all of them are hitting the polished floor together.

Sister stamps her foot, a feeble noise that goes almost unnoticed after that other terrific clatter. "Listen to me, you one-legged apes," she threatens. "If I hear one more crash I'll collect every crutch in the ward and lock them all in the linen-press. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, Sister." It is a meek, subdued chorus, falsely meek for no one is in the least intimidated. No one believes she will carry out her threat.

"You don't think I'll do it?" she taunts them. "Well just try dropping them again. And don't forget there's cricket on this afternoon." She marches off to empty her basin, well aware that she has fired a very telling shot.

This afternoon at the Brisbane Cricket Ground Queensland is playing Victoria and the Red Cross is putting on a trip for all walking patients. That splendid organization provides transport, admission to the ground and afternoon tea, all free. It is too good a chance to be missed but if you are minus a leg and crutches you can scarcely be classed as a walking patient.

Alf comes back, pushing his trolley of empty cups. Opposite my bed he stops. "Finished with yer cup, mate? " he asks. As I pass it to him he jerks his thumb over his shoulder and says, "Get an eyeful of 'em, will yer?"

By leaning forward I can see three one legged men hopping deftly around their beds as they tuck in sheets and carefully smooth out the quilts.

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

TEN DAY ALIBI

UNTEROFFIZIER Oscar Benesch was the moron who was responsible for putting the electric fence around Arbeits-kommando 113. In the opinion of the disgusted prisoners of war inside this was the
action of a typical kraut-eating, spoil-sport. Just because some of the boys had pinched a few Russian carp out of the factory manager's fishpond, and unfortunately got caught in the act of enjoying them for supper, the Kommandant had taken this unfair advantage of us all. Barbed wire was bad enough, but an electric fence - that wasn't cricket.

The working camp was situated within the grounds of a large paper factory. The prisoners in the camp, mostly Australians and New Zealanders, were employed on a number of jobs in and around the factory. Three shifts were worked daily, and it was simplicity itself to escape from the factory at any time, but especially during the night shift. Exactly why the Germans went to the trouble of installing the electric fence around the barrack room was a bit of a mystery.

One thing the fence did do-it made one particular Kiwi, Lloyd Sutherland, about as popular with Benesch as a rattlesnake. The incident occurred before the fence had been in operation two days.

It seems that somebody, feloniously and with malice aforethought, sneaked into the Unteroffizier's private quarters and connected a wire from the fence through the window to the toilet. His work completed, he went as mysteriously as he had come.

Then, in the silence of the night, when the so-dignified Kommandant unsuspectingly pulled the chain . . . .

The current was not powerful enough to give him more than a severe jolt, but the barrage of picturesque Teutonic oaths and the yell that preceded them were music to our ears. As the irrepressible Sutherland remarked, "The poor chap must have had a shocking experience."

We never found out how Benesch learned that Lloyd Sutherland was the guilty party. But the German was no fool. A few days afterwards he called us out on parade, and he had a most self-satisfied smirk on his face.

"I am sure that the news I have for you will be most unwelcome," he began. "But orders come from higher up, and we have to obey them." He waved a sheaf of official-looking papers, and went on. "An order from the Oberst at Wolfsberg. No. 5748, Sutherland L., is to be transferred to Waldenstein immediately." Waldenstein was a punishment camp. This, it seemed, was the Kommandant's way of getting even.

The news of his proposed transfer came as a blow to Sutherland. He had been making elaborate plans to escape from Frantschach. The escape was to be a sort of double barrelled affair. George Reilly, a friend of his who was at a working camp some twenty kilometres away, was due to escape and meet Sutherland in Frantschach in ten days' time. All the details had been worked out by means of correspondence carried by a friendly railway guard who worked regularly between Frantschach and the village in which Reilly was located.

The castle at Waldenstein was notoriously difficult to escape from; so, if Sutherland wished to be in Frantschach to meet Reilly on the prearranged date, he had no alternative but to escape immediately, and hide in the vicinity for ten days. Inquiries from the guards revealed that he was to be sent by train to Waldenstein early the next morning. It was a case of now or never.

Preparations for the escape were quickly made. Maps, compass, biscuits, chocolate and all the paraphernalia which made up an escaper's kit, were got together in record time.

The electric fence would be no hindrance as it was not usual to turn on the current until after "lights out", and Sutherland intended to get away as soon as it was dusk.

The main problem was to find a means of assisting him to negotiate the barbed wire. The solution proved to be simplicity itself.

Half a dozen of the boys went outside and engaged in a rowdy game of deck tennis. A single unsuspecting sentry patrolled around the wire. Suddenly the game stopped and somebody called the sentry, explaining that the quoit with which they were playing had rolled into the long grass beneath the wire. Would the sentry kindly help them to recover it? While the German obligingly poked and pried in the grass, Sutherland got busy with a pair of purloined wire-cutters at the other end of the compound.

He was through the fence and half a mile away by the time the guard had found the carefully-hidden quoit, for which he had been searching with true square-headed thoroughness.

There was an Austrian farmer in the district by the name of Rusman, and it was to his house that Sutherland intended to go. Herr Rusman's farmhouse was a real haven of refuge to Allied prisoners of war. We had first made his acquaintance when a party of us had been detailed to help him at harvest time. We ate our midday meal in his barn, and one of the boys casually remarked to our temporary employer that his barn was big enough to billet an army in. Rusman gave us a broad hint as to where his sympathies lay when he replied thoughtfully, "Yes, it's a big barn. I could hide half a dozen of you here if I wanted to. Even my family would not know."

Sutherland had no doubts about his being welcome at Herr Rusman's place. Arriving at the farm a couple of hours after he had slipped through the wire, he made his way quietly into the barn. Climbing up on top of the hay he settled down to sleep. Time enough to contact the farmer in the morning.

A little after dawn he was awakened by the clatter of milk pails. Nine chances out of ten it was Rusman himself out there in the cow-yard but one had to be careful. If he stuck his head round the comer of the barn door, and anyone but the farmer should see him ... Sutherland was an old campaigner, not on his first escaping attempt by any means. He lay doggo.

It was not until late afternoon that anyone came into the barn. Sutherland was so thirsty by this time that his caution was fast deserting him. As soon as he saw it was Rusman he slid down his pile of hay like a miniature avalanche, appearing so suddenly that the farmer leapt back in alarm.

"Mein Gott!" he gasped. "Do you wish to frighten an old man to death? So! Once again a wandering Englander makes a hotel of my barn!" He paused for breath, reached out and shook Sutherland's hand enthusiastically.

"Welcome my friend. Where do you intend to go? What are your plans?"

"Yugoslavia," replied Sutherland, as soon as he could get a word in. "But first a drink of water, schnell, Herr Rusman." The last dry biscuit he had eaten had refused to go more than half-way down his throat.

As soon as he had quenched his thirst Sutherland explained the situation to the farmer - how he was forced to escape ten days before the intended date, that he had arranged to meet Reilly near the football field on the outskirts of Frantschach in ten days' time, and so on. The Austrian listened intently.

"So," he remarked, when Sutherland had finished. "You will stay in my barn for the next ten days. You must not eat your canned food and chocolate. You will need that when you set out to get away. I shall feed you while you are here; and perhaps some civilian clothing could be arranged...." He bustled away in the direction of the house.

The old farmer was the answer to an escapee's prayer. Sutherland had expected him to be friendly but his hospitality was positively overwhelming. When he thought of the risks Rusman was taking he shuddered.

For attempted escape a prisoner got twenty-one days' bread and water. But for assisting an escapee an Austrian civilian could expect only one punishment - the axe. Rusman apparently didn't consider the possibility of detection worth worrying about.

The ten days passed almost unbearably slowly. To Sutherland, cooped up in the barn, it seemed he had been there for years.

Eventually, however, the vital day arrived. The farmer came into the barn at nightfall with a can of hot soup, a great bowl of savoury smelling goulash, and a hunk of bread. Some schnapps and half a dozen apples completed the meal. Not a bad spread in Austria in 1944. Sutherland ate his way methodically through the lot because the odds were that it would be his last hot meal for a long time.

The meal over, Rusman pointed to a parcel he had brought with him. Wonderingly, Sutherland opened it. A civilian suit, shoes, and a Tyrolean hat with a feather in it - it was unbelievable.

"Herr Rusman!" protested Sutherland. "You shouldn't--"

The farmer stopped him with a wave of his hand. "My son Erich," he said quietly, "will not need those clothes any more. They killed him at Kharkov. Erich never wanted to be a soldier. He was a farmer, the same as I".

Sutherland changed his clothes slowly. They walked to the door of the barn. Thanks were superfluous. They shook hands, and Sutherland headed down the path to the village.

Herr Rusman returned to his work and followed the path that was to lead to Klagenfurt prison and execution for him and his wife in 1945 for aiding Allied prisoners.

Speaking almost perfect German, and dressed in excellent civilian clothing, Sutherland believed that this time he really might make it. Reilly, also, would most probably be wearing civvies. He knew a girl on the farm where he worked...

Soon Sutherland was on the outskirts of the village. If he were lucky there would be nobody about near the football field. Nobody except Reilly, of course. But Sutherland was not lucky. He never had been lucky when it came to escaping. And it was luck you needed more than anything else.

He walked round a corner, a torch flashed in his eves, someone growled "Halt!" He halted. One does not ignore a brace of policemen armed with Tommy guns.

So much for the flash civvy suit. So much for his faultless German. Without identification papers he didn't have a hope of bluffing his way past. But he decided to have a go, regardless of the odds.

"Who are you'~" asked one of the grey uniformed gentry.

"A Croat," replied Sutherland without hesitation. "On leave from Russia. I belong to the 3rd Croatian Anti-Aircraft Regiment."

The policeman looked much more friendly. He gabbled away in some unknown, barbaric tongue, then looked at Sutherland as if waiting for a reply. For a moment Sutherland was perplexed. Then the awful truth dawned on him. The policeman himself was a Croat. One chance in a thousand. And Sutherland couldn't speak a word of the language.

He was the unluckiest man in the world but he had a sense of humour. "Take me away," he said to the astonished police. "I'm an escaped prisoner of war." They obliged.

First he was taken to the police station at Frantschach, then to Stalag XVIIIA at Wolfsberg.

On arrival at Wolfsberg Sutherland lost no time in giving serious thought to his position. The penalty for escaping was not worrying him. The problem which had to be solved was to find a way of explaining where he had been for the last ten days. And where his civilian clothes had come from. To incriminate Rusman was out of the question. Yet there was obviously an Austrian civilian involved, and the Germans would use

every trick they knew to get the details from him. The thought was not pleasant.

Sutherland's escaping attempt had not been spectacular. Nor had his recapture. It was the aftermath that was unique - the stroke of inventive genius that enabled him to talk his way out of the whole affair.

The officer who handled Sutherland's case was a certain Hauptmann Gossner. He was the Abwehr, a sort of security officer. He looked at the voluntary statement that Sutherland had signed. "So. You escaped from Frantschach on 29 March. You were recaptured on 8 April. What's this - still in Frantschach! Can you explain what you were doing for ten days in Frantschach?"

Sutherland was silent.

Gossner looked grave. "And you were recaptured in civilian clothes," he said. "This is very serious. German civilians involved. You will have to make a complete statement as to their identity."

Sutherland remained mute.

The officer looked at him interrogatively, then lost his patience and thumped the table. "Speak!" he thundered, "Or we may find ways of making you talk."

Sutherland shook his head. He was too busy thinking. If he said he had stolen the clothes they would soon check up on that story. He couldn't say he had found them. People didn't lose clothes or throw them away. It looked as though he was in real trouble.

For ten minutes or so Gossner raved on. Then he decided to try cunning. "You were recaptured coming down that path that leads up to the mill, behind the sports field," he said. "Now, if we concentrate on that locality, search every farm, I think we might learn something. It was a farmer who sheltered you. Nobody but a farmer could afford to fill your pockets with food."

Something desperate had to be done, thought Sutherland. The Abwehr was too horribly close to the truth. It was then that he had the brain-wave.

Hesitatingly he stammered, "If-if I tell you who they were, you won't punish them too severely, will you, Herr Hauptmann?" Sutherland knew only too well what would happen to any civilian implicated. Execution. But he played his part to perfection.

The Abwehr smiled in a generous sort of way. He could sense victory. "Oh no," he lied. "Just a little disciplinary action. Come now, be sensible and tell me who they were that helped you."

Still Sutherland hesitated, playing for effect. "I feel like Judas," he said, looking thoroughly dejected. "It's only because I know that eventually you will find out who they were that I am able to tell you."

"Yes, yes," said Gossner. "Who were they? "

"They live in Frantschach," said Sutherland.

"We know that already," was the reply, somewhat impatiently.

"In a white house. Two storeyed. With blue around the windows."

"Where in Frantschach is the house?" The officer's voice was strangely quiet.

"Just before you come to the bridge, on the left."

"And ... and what are their names?"

"Two girls."

"Enough!" snapped Gossner. "Impossible! I don't believe that Anni He stopped, licked his lips.

"Sutherland, do you know the penalty for helping escaped prisoners? It is execution. Did you know that?"

"Yes," replied Sutherland quietly.

"And you would condemn..." He hesitated, looked down at the papers on his desk.

"You are sentenced to twenty-one days' bread and water for escaping. That will be all. Dismiss! "

Sutherland saluted, about-turned smartly, and walked out of the office. As he walked to the punishment block with his escort he thanked Providence for a train trip twelve months previously.

Passing through Frantschach one of the guards had said, "You see that big white house with the blue windows? Near the bridge. That's where Hauptmann Gossner lives. See, those are his two daughters, Mitzi and Anni."

E. H. GIESEN, SECOND A.I.F.

BATHROOM PIRATE

THE slogan, "Crime does not pay". is familiar in a certain film short while the adaptation, "Grime does not pay". has advertised soap. This story concerns both crime and soap, only here crime seemed to pay fairly well.

Back in the days when so many of us lived in tents I had a tent-mate whom I will call Kidd, for reasons that will become obvious. He had an extraordinary credit in his pay book. I remember asking him once how he managed to keep away from the canteen.

"Soap, toothpaste and that sort of stuff, Kidd," I said. "Even you must wash occasionally in this stinking climate." He replied significantly and without any trace of shame that he never bought soap and toothpaste. He didn't have to. I recoiled in exaggerated horror.

"Kidd!" I forced the words. "You're a confounded bathroom pirate." "I'm a silent worker for the good of the community. Scores of fellows have their good memories to the lesson of my works."

"But it's fundamentally dishonest"'

"Fundamentally my eye"' he snorted. "Do you ever leave soap in the showers?"

"Not now."

"But you did once"

"When I first joined up I lost a cake or two because of pirates like you."

"Precisely. But you don't now, simply because public-spirited people like myself keep you on your toes."

We argued until tired, and the beast almost convinced me that bathroom pirates were necessary evils in all camps. That his lessons were effective, he said, was becoming increasingly evident In the camp. Unclaimed soap and toothpaste were becoming a rarity.

I was showering late one night, the only one in the hessian enclosure that served for a bathroom in our particular neck of the woods. On the shelf under the shaving mirror was an obviously new cake of fragrant -green soap. You will understand at once, of course. that when I took it my sole idea was to keep it out of Kidd's clutches. I intended to announce in the mess that night that a new cake of soap had been found in the showers, and that the owner might claim it from me. That was one way I thought of making Kidd see the error of his ways shame him by upholding the virtue of honesty.

However, there was a lot of noise in the mess that night - the beer boat had come in that day - and the right moment never seemed to come. I began to realize it would look rather silly if I called for silence and made a dramatic announcement about soap. I eventually forgot about it.

When- I got back to the tent Kidd was waiting for me.

"So I'm an unscrupulous bathroom pirate, am I?"

"Ar--- forget it!" I fumbled for my tobacco.

"And I steal soap and toothpaste from my mates' ,

"You most certainly do." I found the tobacco.

"Green soap for instance."

I stopped rolling my cigarette, and looked at him with sudden suspicion.

"What do you mean - green soap?"

"Aw-nothing much I suppose, except that Johnno lost a new cake of green soap tonight, and there's a green cake on your locker-a used-wuncer," he added professionally.

"Kidd!" I exploded with some feeling. "You don't think for one moment . . ."

"I didn't need a moment. As soon as I saw the soap, the great brain went to work. It's elementary. You don't use that particular brand. Johnno does. He loses it. You've got it. What's more, I dislike hypocrites."

He smiled pleasantly, and left the tent.

Next morning I returned from the shower and hung my towel in the sun. I went to place my soap on the locker, but I hadn't got it. Shades of Captain Blood and others - I'd left it in the showers, and Kidd was there.

I flew back along the path and bumped into Kidd coming back.

"I would suggest you proceed with more care and wear at least a towel around your loins," he started. "Your body might be beautiful, but doesn't . . ."

"Oh, shut up!" I snarled. "Where's my soap? "

"Have you looked in the place of bathing?" he said with mock concern. I left him and dived into the shower enclosure. No soap. Kidd was sitting on his bunk when I returned, his face composed in studied innocence. I glared around the tent.

"Looking for anything?" he said, and smiled like Shirley Temple.

An impossible fellow; yet his peculiar talent had its uses. Sometime later we were tent mates under different circumstances. Our honourable hosts had apparently lost their honourable spectacles, and were strutting about blindly, threatening and fuming. How Kidd had done it was a complete mystery. He was next to me when the inevitable parade came.

"Looking for anything?" he said sweetly to a guard, and smiled like Shirley Temple.

We all smiled like Shirley Temple.

GUY B. H. SAUNDERS, R.A.A.F.

ONE JUMP AHEAD

0NE of the finest feats of seamanship under adverse conditions and in which men were called upon to discharge their duties against terrific odds was the escape and epic tow of the Australian destroyer
Vendetta, already a war-scarred veteran, out of Singapore in the grim dark days of February '42, when Japanese forces were over-running the Malay Peninsula and the Dutch East Indies.

Having distinguished herself in the Mediterranean theatre of war, in which she had steamed thousands of miles without a refit, Vendetta was ordered to Singapore to undergo a complete overhaul and docking. It was in these circumstances that she was caught ,stripped of her main armament and with her main engines in various stages of overhaul in the dockyard workshops, when the Jap made his first lunge at Britain's island fortress.

As the evening shadows closed in over the Malay Archipelago, Singapore, apparently unaware of the impending disaster, sprang to life in a blaze of colour; a cosmopolitan seaport, where men and women of the nations -of the world rub shoulders as they thread their way through its crowded thoroughfares. The strains of music rose above the din as dance-halls and honky-tonks settled down to their usual Saturday night routine with laughter, pretty girls, raucous-voiced drunks and street women, all of them part of Singapore's night-life.

Within twelve hours this city of gaiety became a city of despair, a bomb-pitted hell of desolation and confusion with the hand of death sweeping through it, a black pall of smoke hanging low over its buildings to increase its desolation.

Lying alongside, in Keppel Harbour, was His Majesty's Australian Ship Vendetta-one of the five "Old Contemptibles" which steamed into the Mediterranean two years before and earned the title of "Scrap Iron

Flotilla" from Reich Minister of Propaganda, Herr Goebbels. Most of her original ship's company had returned to Australia for a well earned leave, but on board Vendetta on that fateful morning were three officers and eighteen men who made up the maintenance party. It had been a most oppressive night, not uncommon for this tropical port, and as the members of the ship's company lay turning restlessly in their hammocks and bunks the roar of approaching aircraft signalled something amiss. As one they turned out and appeared on the upper deck to see what was the cause of this sudden activity on the Sabbath.

"What's up with the -- Air Force?" said the gunner to the navigating officer who was standing beside him. Before he could frame a reply a bomb whistled its warning through the sultry atmosphere and exploded with a roar, rocking the little ship and showering the gallery with spray.

"Phew! that was close," gasped the navigator, getting his second wind. "Looks dinkum."

"My oath it's dinkum," howled an A.B., "and we can't even pelt spuds at the swine!"

The next bomb crashed down on the quayside. "Out of the frying-pan into the fire," grunted another, a veteran of the Tobruk ferry-run.

It wasn't until the morning edition of the paper was on the streets that many were aware that Britain was at war with Japan.

After a hasty breakfast the gunner went ashore to the Naval Base and reported to Commodore Collins that Vendetta's crew volunteered to man an ack-ack battery. The Commodore quietly told him to return to his ship and await orders. Returning on board the gunner reported the result of his visit to the commanding officer. Then, after a quick interview with the manager of the Singapore Harbour Board, they were successful in getting the ship's 12-pounder A.A. gun mounted on the dockside alongside of the ship with two machine-gun posts. It was one thing to get the gun mounted and it was another to get the ammunition, but after a slight delay it was obtained.

In the days that followed the Japs carried out nuisance raids, dropping millions of pamphlets warning the inhabitants to evacuate by the twenty-fifth, as on this day they promised to do Singapore over "good and proper". It was during one of these raids on the twenty-third that Vendetta became the target, and taking no risks on hearing a familiar sound all dived to cover and awaited the explosion. For two minutes or more they remained in the prone position, then someone looked up and to his surprise found, instead of a dud, a neatly secured bundle of propaganda. Cursing his tormentors, he seized the bundle, exclaiming that they might at least have had the decency to cut the string!

As promised, on the twenty-fifth Singapore bore the full brunt of a heavy attack, there being no fewer than 12 5 bogeys overhead and with them the "bogeyman". At about 1145 hours a squadron of nine planes in formation came in low over the harbour works and made straight for Vendetta. Quietly the grim little band loaded "Bertha", as they affectionately named their 12-pounder, and laid on the oncoming planes, withholding their fire until the leader was in the sights at point-blank range. "Fire! " yelled the gunner.

Imagine the surprised look on the faces of those astonished sailors as the leading plane exploded in mid-air, rocking the aircraft on either side of him and causing serious damage to both. That lucky shot had apparently touched off the bomb rack and so saved "Bertha" and her crew from being pulverized. The irony of it all was the fact that since no instruments were available for height calculations the shell had been fused by guess. On this occasion it had been a number-nine setting. "This ought to give him the belly-ache, sir! " yelled the loading number as he rammed home the pet number-mine, and that it did!

Things were becoming a bit too warm to remain as a sitting shot and orders were received to prepare for towing early next day. Accompanied by his yeoman, the gunner proceeded to the Naval Base, the objective being to retrieve as much of the ship's armament and stores as possible. During the frequent trips to and from the base the party were subjected to raids, the base itself receiving plenty of attention, but after a long weary process much of the equipment was: salvaged from the wrecked storehouses. Scrounging the gun telescopes caused their thoughts to turn to the locks of the guns and their "tin-fish". Unfortunately the Jap forces had advanced as far as Woodlands where this material was housed, so the idea was quickly abandoned.

Just prior to making the final trip, the gunner was inside the magazine ensuring that they had taken all that belonged to them when the sirens walled their grim warning once again. For an hour he sat, with his fingers, crossed, in a pool of his own sweat, expecting at any moment to be "sitting on top of the world". Reminiscing on his misery he reckoned he aged ten years and reduced his poundage by the same figure; however, we got what was wanted, thanks to the Armament staff, whose assistance was invaluable.

Two days prior to her departure Vendetta was docked so that she would have a clean. hull for the long tow which had been planned for her. In spite of incessant raids the dockies worked like niggers, knowing full well that one bomb amongst the ammunition alongside the dock would send them to meet their oriental ancestors.

Early next morning the dock was flooded preparatory to undocking. At 0900 hours the gates opened and aided by a tug Vendetta moved slowly astern. Even as she commenced to move the wailing sirens flung out their warning note. This was more than the coolies could stand-they'd "had it". Dropping everything they fled, leaving the crew to it with the ship half in and half out of dock.

At the old familiar sound all hands dropped, to the deck.

"Wham! "

A stick of bombs dropped right across the dock where only a few minutes before Vendetta had been; the only damage sustained was, a shower of sullage over the entire ship. In spite of the continual bombing she undocked. with the aid of the tug and berthed alongside the wall. Late that evening when the defenders dynamited the Causeway, the terrific explosion shook the entire island to its very foundations, and the end was in sight. Lying astern of Vendetta was the small British tug St. Just which had only recently arrived from Hong Kong after running the gauntlet. This tiny craft was manned by three white officers and a native crew. Coming on board, the captain volunteered to tow Vendetta to safety provided he could get his ship coaled. He had no need to enlarge on his precarious position for the crew of Vendetta turned-to and coaled that little ship with a will that would have put even the best to shame.

A couple of days later, in tow of St. Just and a Harbour Board tug, Vendetta was moved from her berth and commenced her long journey to Fremantle. It was one day in the lives of Vendetta's crew that they will always remember - 2 February. Slipping downstream they saw H.M.A.S. Hobart lying alongside at the Power House, one of the warmest spots in the harbour. As Vendetta drew abreast the guard and band of this trim little fighting ship marched on to the quarterdeck for the hoisting of colours at o8oo. This staggered the motley crew that trod the old destroyer's decks, then the shrill whistle of a Bosun's pipe called them to attention as they paid their respects to a senior officer.

Across the still waters came the clear note of Hobart's bugle as the trumpeter sounded the "Still" and "Carry on", acknowledging and returning the salute. As Hobart's bell struck 8 o'clock the "Alert" came clearly across the harbour and the guard sprang smartly to attention and presented arms. With the first bars of the National Anthem the sirens wailed their warning of an imminent air attack-but regardless of danger the ceremony went on and when it was finished the guard and band retired from the quarter-deck as though nothing were amiss.

Half an hour later Vendetta was clear of the harbour and the British destroyer Stronghold arrived alongside to take over the tow. While the tow was being passed a group of fifty-four bombers flew overhead in the direction of Singapore ignoring the two destroyers and the tug.

The last glimpse of Singapore will live long in the memories of the ship's company, for astern the stricken city blazed fiercely, burning ammunition dumps spewing a sickly yellow smoke in striking contrast to the black pall and hungry red flames born of shattered oil installations and burnt-out buildings.

Stronghold took up station ahead while St. Just attached herself to Vendetta's stem to act as a rudder. Tow commenced at eleven knots and the next thirty minutes were all that could be desired; then like a report from a gun the tow parted. For the next hour and a half there were many anxious moments before the line was restored and the ships resumed their way. Unknown to the three ships they were steaming through a mine-field and the first warning of their plight came when a junk ahead touched off a mine, blowing herself sky-high. Now on the alert, they navigated with extreme caution for the next few hours.

At 0600 next morning, while the gunner was standing his watch, the signalman of the watch scanned the sky.

"Aircraft overhead, sir!" he reported.

"Very good; make the challenge."

"Challenge made, sir, but no reply!"

By this time the captain had made an appearance on the bridge, and backed up by the chief Bosun's mate assured everyone there was nothing to be alarmed about, the aircraft being a Wellington. The bomber dropped astern, turned and flew in along Vendetta's wake, and without warning dropped four bombs. As an amazed crew watched the smoky columns of water behind them a sarcastic voice broke the silence.

"Nothing to be alarmed about, boys, it's only a Wellington - but it was stamped 'Made in Japan'! "

For the next few hours all went according to plan, then at 1100 four aircraft were sighted overhead. "We're for it this time! " yelled an A.B. as he raced away to man "Bertha", the hope of the side. Between the three ships they couldn't put up a decent barrage - Stronghold's best was an antiquated pom-pom and two Vickers and eight Lewis pieces, while St. Jest's main armament was three .45's and one hundred and fifty rounds of ammunition. For an hour the planes circled overhead, giving the crews many anxious moments before they finally made off. But relief was short-lived, for at 1415 the look-out gave a warning cry, "Aircraft starboard quarter!" and while eyes turned towards the new menace a cry came from the port side. "Here's more of the --- coming in from the port quarter!" In all eleven planes made the attack and for the next couple of hours things were anything but comfortable. Vendetta, lying a dead-weight in the sea, bucked and heeled under the impetus of several near misses, one of which shattered the bridge windows and cut through the guard-rails.

When she left Singapore Vendetta's total ammunition had been one hundred rounds and now only thirty-six remained.

About 1715 a tanker was sighted by both the attacked and the attackers. The latter peeled off for the destruction of this defenceless stray lamb, unloading the remainder of their bombs into her and leaving her a blazing mass. It was here that Vendetta lost her rudder, for St. Just slipped her wires and went to the stricken tanker's assistance. It was estimated that during the three-hour attack one hundred to one hundred and ten bombs had been dropped.

At daybreak the following day the cripple and her escorts were off the mouth of the river leading to Palembang. Stronghold's captain decided against forcing Banka Straits during daylight hours and it was decided that all three ships would take temporary refuge in Palembang, which was still another forty-five miles upstream.

Next day fifty-four bogeys came over to give Palembang the "works" and to the surprise of both the raiders and Vendetta's crew up went fighters to intercept. For the next few hours the community, with a grandstand view, was entertained by some first-class dog fights. During the day Stronghold said au revoir and left the towing operations to St. Just. Arriving alongside about sundown, the tug master apologetically explained that despite strict surveillance the majority of his crew had slipped ashore and only one fireman remained on board. At this juncture three stokers who had never seen anything in a stokehold but a sprayer and who thought black diamonds and a banjo were items of luxury, one to adorn beautiful women and the other to provide music, volunteered to steam St. Just down the river. Handling the slice and feeding the hungry fires were a little beyond the boys, who had the utmost difficulty in maintaining steam, and Providence was to be thanked for a four-knot tide on the ebb.

At midnight visibility was blanketed out by a violent rainstorm and both vessels were forced to anchor for the remainder of the night. To add to the misery the destroyer had no power to move her capstan, and her lower deck had to be cleared and the hook weighed by hand. This initial back-breaking business proved the forerunner to many more before their journey's end. On reaching the estuary at dawn Vendetta was greeted by friend and foe. To seaward stood H.M.A.S. Yarra, -ready to take over the tow, whilst overhead hovered the usual reception party of about fifty machines. The sight of this small sloop of war was most comforting after the departure of Stronghold.

Stopping engines as she anchored, St. just had a full head of steam for the first time since leaving Palembang. With a report like the shot of a gun her valve head blew off and escaping steam roared into thin air. A sweat-begrimed face, with a grin from ear to car, shot up through the stokehold hatch.

"What about us kid-gloved stokers now, you flatfoots? Get a load of that - - - lot! just wait till I tell 'em back home how I steamed the St. Just down the creek!"

"Oh yeah! What about the four-knot tide?" echoed a voice across the intervening space, and an A.B. turned his back on the elated dustman and spat contemptuously over the guard-rail.

Yarra then took over the tow. With much feeling for the three officers of St. Just, Vendetta bade them good-bye, as the gallant little ship with her one remaining fireman made her way back upstream to render what assistance she could.

On 10 February Yarra, with Vendetta in tow, arrived off Tanjong Priok, Batavia. After a hasty conference ashore at Allied Naval Headquarters Commodore Collins informed the C.O. that arrangements had been made for the ship to be towed to Fremantle. On learning this good news the ship's company cheered until tears of joy rolled down their cheeks.

Two days later Singapore fell and this was closely followed by an announcement that the Jap Navy had captured Palembang. Lady Luck was certainly favouring Vendetta; she had managed to keep just one jump ahead. During the afternoon of 17 February she was towed to a rendezvous with the towing ship, paying a final salute to H.M.A.S. Perth as she passed the cruiser on her way out. Imagine the disgust of the ship's company when they found that their safety had been entrusted to an old flat-bottomed Chinese river-steamer the Ping Wo.

The tow consisted of a nine-inch hawser, and a four-and-a-half-inch wire with a shackle of the ship's cable. Closing the Vendetta, the skipper of the towing ship called sarcastically through his megaphone, "Who the hell do you think you are, the "Queen Mary?"

In the ~ours that followed he must have swallowed those words, for Vendetta yawed and plunged all over the ocean reducing the towing speed to between one and four knots it was her turn to make a few passes, which she did in true Australian style. However, despite these jibes at each other, good relations existed between both ships throughout the long journey. The original intention was a speed of advance of eight knots, making it possible to pass through Sunda Straits during darkness. This of course was impossible and the ships ran the gauntlet in broad daylight passing under the very nose of the Japs who had occupied Sumatra and Banka Island. Hourly expecting an attack from hostile aircraft the crews of all three ships did not relax until they reached the broad expanse of the Indian Ocean.

Off Christmas Island another pleasant surprise was in store for Vendetta's crew when the familiar silhouette of H.M.A.S. Adelaide loomed over the horizon. Turning over her charge to Adelaide, Yarra signalled farewell, whereupon Vendetta replied, "Goodbye and good hunting."

Little did they realize as they saw her disappear over the distant horizon in the direction of Batavia that it was their last glimpse of a gallant ship and her company who in the near future were to thrill every Australian with the story of their epic action against overwhelming Japanese forces.

The remainder of the trip to Fremantle proved an uneventful monotonous drudgery. Void of power, Vendetta had no light, and as the sun set her ship's company would go to nest like the fowls. But on 3 March, just fourteen days after her escape, the white sandhills of Rottnest Island broke the horizon and a lump welled up in each man's throat. Home and safety.

"We've made it!" cried the gunner.

It was one of the most sensational escapes and towing feats, one of the most hazardous and brazen operations in a war studded with feats of outstanding courage and endurance. "Old Contemptible", battle-scarred veteran of the deathless Scrap Iron Flotilla, mauled and harried and pursued, she had limped half-way across the world to the haven of her homeland, and left a record that even the pressing weight of eternity will never tarnish. Vendetta had made it!

R. G. ROBERTS, R.A.N.