Chapter 9 Revelation; Fly By Nights; Men of the M.R.S; Good Hunting; Green Grub

FLY-BY-NIGHTS
	THEY fly by night and their quarry is Japanese submarines-which explains the insignia of one R.A.A.F. patrol squadron illustrated herewith. Not that there are always submarines to hunt. Indeed, most of the little-publicized work of this night shift of the R.A.A.F. is negative in the sense that the squadron flies by night to protect convoys. The crews who do the day flying, shepherding the valuable convoys that pass constantly up and down the shipping lanes off Australia or escorting some slow-plodding single ship, may often find the job dull and boring, although the weather, at least, is always an interesting hazard.
These same convoys usually get air cover by night, too, and at times even crews on night patrol may feel that the job is flat and Unexciting. But that is not a common reaction. Comparatively, this may be a humdrum job. But a number of the men who do it had their fill of excitement in Malaya and New Guinea, and they admit it is not entirely a "rest cure" to spend five or six hours on a moonless, star shrouded night, stooging round a convoy and flying on instruments, and with no "George" 10 share the work. It is not divulging a trade secret to say that, as aircraft do not see much of a convoy on a night patrol - except at dusk, by moonlight, or toward morning-sometimes a suspicious circumstance may cause the captain of an aircraft to decide to "boop off" an illuminating cartridge-possibly much to the startled disgust of a trawler's crew. But enough has been publicly revealed about attacks by Japanese submarines off the Australian coast to show that chances cannot be taken if there is a ship in a place where a ship ought not to be. These Japanese submarines had an extraordinary run of luck for a time-not so much in the number of ships successfully attacked, as in the exasperating set of circumstances that allowed them to escape the hunters. There was, for instance, the occasion when the moon was at the full and a bomber made a perfect run over the quarry. But, inexplicably, the bombs were "hung up", although the mechanism worked perfectly in tests before and after the attack. On another occasion soon afterwards, in the same vicinity, the bombs overshot the mark by a margin sufficient to draw the deduction that the enemy would not be seriously incommoded. But two aircraft crews later delivered attacks on a submarine with much more satisfactory results. One aircraft was just about to go off patrol about midnight-it was covering a convoy - when it tracked down a submarine. It swooped into the attack just as the submarine was submerging, and so well placed were its depth charges that the submarine was forced to the surface. Attracted by flares, the second aircraft, which was just arriving to relieve the first, also attacked the submarine, first with depth charges and then with gunfire, which the submarine returned. If that submarine ever got back to its distant base it was lucky. Unsatisfactorily from the air crews' point of view, a definite "kill" could not be established, so down in the flight hut there remained in "kitty" a considerable sum of money, representing a ten-shillings-a-head payment by flying personnel, to be paid to the crew that is first with a sub. in the bag. Everyone has heard of R.A.F. Coastal Command. Not so generally known is the work of the Australian counterpart, of which night flying units are, one may justifiably say, the most important element. It is not politic to do more than hint at the scope of their activities. But Land's End is nearer John o' Groats than some of their bases are from each other. In the most northern base, the boys are wearing only shorts and open-neck shirts, while the lads down south are clustered round a blazing fire in the ante-room, dozing a few hours away because it is not worth-while going to bed before the airborne hour arrives. Tomorrow those fellows shivering, in the south may be sweating up north, for the changes have to be rung fairly rapidly as aircraft run out of hours and leave accrues. In flying hours and number of sorties each month, the night-flying units and their sister squadrons on day flying can compare favourably with Coastal Command, especially bearing in mind the strain of operating over enormous distances in the differing types of aircraft that are in service here for this highly important task that has the mundane description of "trade protection". Let's get up in the air to see a typical crew on the job. The flight-commanders knew by mid-morning the number of aircraft required for the night's jobs; Cloudy Joe (or maybe Sunshine Sam or Fog and Drizzle) couldn't see any anti-cyclonic gloom in his reading of the weather charts. Operations room staff have teed up the jobs, worked out the number of details required, and the datum points where the convoy is expected to be as each aircraft takes over, and prepared all other relevant information connoted by the vulgar generic term "bumph". When this has been done, the station task board reads almost like a railway time-table. The convoy is within comfortable range of the squadron's headquarters, so there v-11i be no need to use aircraft at a satellite base. Our crew is the dusk detail, which means that it will' cat and be briefed about 4-30 p.m. and be airborne in time to be over the convoy half an hour or so before dark. The two wireless operator-air gunners have done a quietly efficient job in gathering in -rations (stowed in two compact tins and including such tit-bits as barley sugar, chocolate, almonds and dried fruits), parachutes, Mae Wests, inter-com. gear and the rest. Watches are synchronized, the duty pilot gives us the nod, and we are taxiing out to the runway where the fire crew is lighting the flare path that will guide us in a few hours later. At the end of the runway the "skipper" goes through his cockpit drill and then calls a "Ready?" through the I-C. A few seconds later we are roaring down the runway and presently are airborne and banking to port as we head for the coast. Sunshine Sam in a later summing-up had warned us that the weather might not hold as well as had been expected earlier. We would probably run into a squall or two and there might be a bit of lightning away out. We do run through some rain, but the weather is clear as we cross the coast and head steadily out to sea. Everything is going splendidly, and soon the navigator calls over the I-C: "There they are." We turn a few points to starboard and in a few minutes are over the convoy. Corvettes are in protective formation. Mere cockle-shells they look, and we reflect that we will feel sorry for our colleagues in them if the weather roughens-for all air crew of the squadron in turn take a corvette cruise, an excellent idea designed to give the point of view of the sister Service on common problems. We hope to reciprocate soon by taking out naval officers on night patrols. Individually the ships which comprise the convoy might not be worth a second glance if tied up in harbour or proceeding alone, but in their trim lines they look, in the gathering, gloom, almost like a miniature Spithead review. We have done only a circuit or two before they melt into the darkness and the rest of our vigil will be without sight of them. Far out to sea lightning is playing brilliantly on the clouds, and in the aircraft the headphones are crackling. Clouds are stacked thickly down on the horizon, and when the sheet lightning finds a slight break the opening is illuminated like a pillar of fire. But right here in the patrol area, all is gloom. Once, early in the patrol, we had called up the guard-ship and back had come the reply, "Am receiving you loud and clear." Otherwise we have had no contact with our charges, ploughing., ahead two thousand or three thousand feet below, and one begins to agree that these patrols can be monotonous. But after an hour or so the wireless operator hands forward a message. It is from base and it calls for sudden change of plans. There is a "flap" on. An unidentified object has been reported just before dusk at a position sixty or seventy miles north of us, and we are ordered to the spot. Aircraft due to relieve us, we learned later, were sent out ahead of schedule so that the convoy would not be uncovered very long. We head into the storm area, and on occasions the lightning is really something to take notice of. We are in and out of squalls every few minutes and the head-phones are crackling with a vengeance. But there is the thrill of the hunt to take the edge off discomforts. As it happens, our very conscientious square search from the datum given does not yield results. "Probably a whale," says someone in a tone of faint disgust as we head for base three hours later. Soon we are crossing the coast again. Far ahead, we glimpse the reddish lights of the flare path. It is a fair enough night here, and a laggard moon is breaking through the clouds as we circle for our landing. Our very methodical pilot is chanting the heights Seven hundred . . . six hundred ... five hundred ...four hundred . . ." as we slip down from the sky. Slip-and then side-step to touch down with the gentlest of bumps. So another night patrol, with just a spice of extra adventure has ended. A few flying gentlemen have "diced" successfully; others are still out covering that temporarily neglected convoy; and all the official records -will say by way of comment will be: "Negative enemy."

MEN OF THE M.R.S.

THE winged caduceus of Mercury, insignia of the R.A.A.F. Medical Service, has a magical suggestion of heroic speed in aid of fellow men. War has turned this suggestion into fact, as witness the story of the S.S. Macdhui.

On June 17, 1942 the Macdhui was heavily attacked in Port Moresby by Japanese bombers. There were several casualties on board, but the Macdhui was still afloat. Next day the bombers came again and although the ship was steaming evasively in harbour, the bombs found their mark and it was soon apparent that the ship was doomed. Flames began to rise and the order to abandon ship was given. All who had survived the attack put off in boats - all but one. William Drury, a steward who, gravely wounded- lay in the stem unseen by his comrades.

Watching the attack were three R.A.A.F. medical officers and several orderlies. The ship's surgeon, Dr C. Tunstall, had been killed in the attack on the day before. If medical aid was needed it was "up to them". Almost before the bombardment had ceased they were in a launch racing towards the Macdhui.

As the launch closed in, flames were rising from the Macdhui. At that moment the men in the launch saw Drury rise at the ship's stern rail, wave feebly, and fall back.

Without hesitation the senior officer in the launch ordered the helmsman to put in under the liner's stern. A Jacob's ladder was hanging from the rail, and as the launch came alongside, Flight-Lieutenant (now Squadron Leader) "Tony" Bond and three orderlies swarmed up to the deck. Drury lay powerless to help himself on the deck of a ship carrying highly inflammable and explosive cargo. If the flames reached that cargo, Bond, the orderlies, Drury and the ship would probably be blown to pieces; but Bond and the orderlies worked methodically and swiftly on Drury while those in the launch waited grimly.

As the flames raced towards the cargo, a mattress from the crew's quarters aft and a coil of rope were obtained, and with them a sling, was improvised. Drury was hoisted over the Macdhui's side and lowered into the launch. Bond and his helpers then tumbled after him, and the launch pushed off. When they were safely out of range several explosions reminded them of what might have been.

It would be a happier ending to this story of devotion to one's fellow man to record that Drury recovered. Unfortunately the next day he died in hospital.

Three members of the crew of an American bomber lay seriously wounded at an advanced Australian Army base more than two and fifty miles away over the ranges from Port Moresby. Their aircraft had crash-landed after a fierce combat with a formation of Zeros and only skilled surgery and nursing could save them. A lone Army surgeon at a Regimental Aid Post (RAP) called for help, and soon a Hudson bomber was in the air. At the controls was Flight-Lieutenant R. A. Dunne, D.F.C.. and with him were two R.A.A.F. "MOs" J. F. Hughes and Flight-Lieutenant C. Greenwell.

As the Hudson climbed to eighteen thousand feet over the cloud-cloaked mountains the overcast became denser, and Dunne could find no opening for a descent to the lonely base where the wounded men lay. After four hours of dogged effort the bomber was forced to return to its base.

At first light next day the bomber took off again. This time the cloud barrier had broken, and the Hudson picked up the three wounded men. A swift flight back to Port Moresby, a brief run in an ambulance that was waiting at the aerodrome, and the three Americans were in the sanctuary of the R.A.A.F. medical receiving station.

For two of them immediate blood transfusions were ordered, and they received several pints of good Australian blood which probably saved their lives - a bond between Allies if ever there was one.

MODERN ALADDINS

IF there is ever an impossible salvage task to do in the R.A.A.F., the Repair and Salvage units do it. Though you would never guess it to look at them, they are a band of modem Aladdins, except that instead of producing new lamps for old, they produce new aircraft for damaged ones.

R.S.U. men are not fighting-men, nor flying-men. They are purely and simply ground staff, yet their contribution to the victories of the R.A.A.F. must rank high with those of the air crew.

When the air war over New Guinea was still at a critical stage. the responsibility and the amount of work these units were required to undertake was even more exacting than it is to-day. It was all work at high pressure. Apart from the officers who directed the operations of one particular R.S.U. in New Guinea at this period, a stalwart band of noncommissioned officers and men made up the mobile salvage party. Their names are recorded because they earned a place among those who, if not fighting the enemy in the flesh, were continually challenged by difficulties and, quite often, by considerable risks. They went everywhere that a crashed aircraft could be found-in the mountains, the jungle' even under the sea, in quest of salvage. All the time their one hope was to make another aircraft airworthy. In this mobile party were: Sergeant R. Couper (in charge), Sergeant T. Pearey, Corporal W. Phillipson, Corporal A. Smith, Corporal J. Johnson, Corporal R. Muir, L.A.C. R. Brown, L.A.C. K. Clark, and L.A.C. C. Elliott, the cook.

Means for reaching crashed aircraft vary with the locality. Sometimes it is in a Service "crash boat"-a fast, high-powered, sea-going launch; sometimes another aircraft takes them to the scene; sometimes a truck struggles and skids over boggy jungle tracks with them; and sometimes they walk.

On one occasion (in November 1942) members of the party were on their way along the New Guinea coast in a crash boat to a point where an Allied aircraft had made a forced landing. They carried with them 2 spare engine and a variety of equipment and gear that might be needed. About half-way between their base and the landing point a friendly aircraft circled over their boat and dropped a bottle. In the bottle was a message informing them that a second aircraft had been damaged in a take-off from an emergency landing-ground.

They were to see what could be done about repairing this plane as well as the one to which they were bound. This second aircraft had "gone into the ditch" close to the beach, about sixty miles from where the first aircraft had crashed. It would have to be dragged out of the sea and completely stripped to get rid of the effect of salt water, if it was repairable at all.

When the party had penetrated the tricky shallows, they found a band of natives directed by an Army officer had hauled the aeroplane out of the water. Several of the party were put ashore to go on with the work while Couper set out to find the first crashed aircraft. This machine was lying in the jungle with its undercarriage smashed. About three miles inland there was an open patch of country which offered some prospect as an emergency taking-off ground, and since the machine was single-engined there was reasonable prospect of getting it off once it had been repaired and a runway cleared.

The repair called for a fairly big welding job. A signal brought an aircraft which dropped a cylinder of oxygen at the nearest landing ground. The party had to row eight miles up the river and trek fifteen miles along a jungle track to get it. Using native carriers and canoes the cylinder was brought back to the damaged aircraft. Fabric, engine cowlings, and petrol tank had to be stripped before the welding could begin and when he was ready for this, Couper found that his dark glasses had "gone off" with some acquisitive native. Glasses were taken from the dials of instruments in the cockpit, smeared with iodine from the medical kit, and bound together with insulating tape. They made an substitute, and the job was done.

Meanwhile the natives were busy clearing the emergency strip, already mentioned, the currency for payment being sticks of black trade tobacco dear to the Papuan's heart.

Eventually the aircraft was ready for flight. A pilot was flown down and sufficient fuel to get the repaired machine back to its base was brought in by sea. With its wings detached, the aeroplane was man-handled through the jungle, reassembled, checked, and flown off the improvised runway, rising, in the words of the salvage party, "like a bird".

Another notable example of capacity to get a job done was provided by the same unit earlier in the New Guinea campaign, when they obtained permission to construct one air worthy bomber from two aircraft that had been severely damaged. For a few men with equipment as limited as theirs was at that time, it was a tremendous task, but they stuck at it, and after labouring for almost three weeks in the heat of the New Guinea summer, improvising equipment, devising special lifts, and overcoming many obstacles, the job was finished and the remade bomber was ready for test flight.

That same night an enemy aircraft raided the aerodrome and, though otherwise the raid was comparatively harmless, one bomb made a direct hit on the pride of the salvage unit's whole working experience. Next day a saddened working party examined the wreck and dragged out of it what was of value there was nothing but "dead" salvage.