Chapter 9 The Scran Bag; Jess; Flame of Dakar; Opening Phase

THIS is the story of "Jess". About four years ago, on the assembly line of a plant somewhere in Canada, she was created, eventually being shipped to Australia where, after seeing some service in Sydney suburbs, she was returned to the A.G.E. Whereupon my Oppo in business and robbery, about to commission Warrego, decided to see the," bloke" for permission to ship the above lady (a dhobying machine).

Permission being duly granted, we shipped Jess in newly commissioned Warrego. She commenced her strenuous career immediately. We were the dhobying firm. We had a somewhat quiet time, minesweeping, convoying, etc., for about eighteen months, but during that time Jess stood up to far, far heavier work than ever Mrs. Suburbia gave her. In that period about the only gear that didn't go through Jess was the anchors and cables, davits and guns, which we couldn't lug off the upper deck.

Well, at the time the Nips decided to take a hand we had just returned to Sydney for a small re-fit when the powers that be decided to hurl us north. We shoved off, and found ourselves to the north and west, where we stood up to everything the Nips could heave at us.

But to return to Jess. At this time of course we were in tropical rig, which just about trebled her terrific punishment. On the forenoon of February 14 lookouts reported a hostile plane, which we drove off, but not before he had reported our course, speed, and ships in convoy; and at noon the following day 44 Jap planes attacked the convoy.

At the time, my Oppo and I were in the bathroom, where Jess was hammering away with a full issue of sailors' dirties. Action stations!-and away we went, in the panic forgetting the old girl sloshing away. We fought the raiders off-and I suddenly remembered Jess.

What a sight! She had banged and clattered away for the standing part of four hours and what with the ship doing high speed turning and maneuvering, Jess had carried away her sea-lashings, heaved everything overside, and clewed up in the scuppers, bung up and bilge free. She was still turning her main engine over but there were parts of her sculling everywhere. We shoved her back on an even keel, and with a Pusser's axe and a scraper we whacked her together again. She still carried on!

On another occasion she broke adrift from her lashing and went careering from bulkhead to bulkhead, eventually clewing up with her legs uppermost. We sorrowfully viewed the remains and decided to bury her with all honours. Suddenly one eagle-eyed seaman-gunner sighted signs of life in the old girl, so we got to bear with the usual axe and scraper, and away she went, as good as new.

She is probably the only lady on active service with the R.A.N. and, should we be scuppered, she has her midships stowed full of cork, and with her dead meat ticket lashed to her legs she'll take her chance with the rest of the mob. I'm certain that if she were picked up by the Japs she'd blow herself up in a sheet of blue flame and soap suds rather than do any dirty work for Tojo. Bless her faithful heart.

The last time she was in the scuppers, all her life's blood drained away, so we topped her up with a gallon of second-hand diesel oil and she hasn't complained yet. I often say to my Oppo, "What the hell makes her go?" She gets a bit weary at times up here, but so far, after a hell of a heavy time, she is still hammering and clattering away and doing her share in the big scrap. At the moment "Jimmie the one" has had "clear hammocks to be stowed", so there's another damned heavy session for Jess, with another handful of caustic and soft soap. She thrives on it. Wherever the end of this lot will find us, rest assured that our Jess will be carrying on.

P.S. Jess is named after Australia's most widely known and popular barmaid (to the fleet).

ABLE SEAMAN E.L.C.


	HMAS AUSTRALIA in action
	ACTION stations." To the thrill of that command every man moved swiftly to his station. Across a misty sea, big ships and little ships glided like shadows. We, on the deck of the Australia, stared through the mist at the grim outline of those threatening cliffs. A lookout was staring through his glasses. A shaft of sunlight through the mists showed us the big guns from the fortress, trained on our movements. The suspense made our flesh creep. Something would happen soon.
The ship could have been a scene in Hades. Through the smoking wreckage we saw figures sliding over scorched sides into a cool sea. Two of our destroyers which had enviously witnessed the fight hove to. Attempts were made to rescue the survivors under the very noses of the forts. These threatened the would-be rescuers. They had to give up. Suddenly our bugles sounded "Repel aircraft". Bombers appeared overhead. Australia's A.A. armament belched flame and smoke. The raiders hesitated, they swerved, and after dropping their bombs, disappeared. Sixteen minutes after having left her squadron to engage the destroyer, Australia once again took up her position. On the horizon we saw the sinking sun. Soon darkness enveloped the sea. Our squadron retired-tired and sweating men bathed and fed and rested. To-morrow there would be another day of fighting. ABLE SEAMAN T.M.J., ex H.M.A.S. Australia.

I WAS in a sloop at the time. You know, one of those little 1,000 ton ships which you cannot imagine braving the perils of the open sea. One of those little ships, as seaworthy as the Queen Mary, trim, taut, efficient, capable of steaming half-way across the Pacific non-stop, heavily armed with anti-aircraft and surface armament, and, with her depth charges and deadly detection gear, a menace to the skulker underneath.

I stood on the pier one day and looked her over. I had just come from a great cruiser, and admit I felt some qualms. But when I'd inspected the twin 4-inch dual purpose quick-firer forward, and her sister aft, my mind was eased, for I am a gunnery man. Her name was Warrego.

Time passed, and we eventually found ourselves in the north-west sector. We'd had a crack at the wily Jap the day before out near Amboina - practice which proved invaluable in the light of future events. Future events.... Even now, six months since, I sometimes wake at night, sweating from the ghastly memory of that brave Yank destroyer going up, a hellish inferno from stem to stern.

It was a lovely day, I remember. Calm sea, visibility unlimited. The gunner's mate was discussing with me an idea he was developing to improve our barrage. The whole twin 4-inch crew was close up at our daily drill, standing by for the next practice run.

I had started to move to the gun, when I noticed a plume of white steam spout from the depot ship's funnel. Before I'd reached the breech, the wailing crescendo of the siren smote our ears. WhooOOoo WhooOOoo. Ashore from a signal station a huge "A" flag fluttered to the peak. "A" as in apples? No, not this time. "A" as in aircraft.

Those practice shells were ditched in a trice, and in a few seconds the long, wicked looking H.E. came shooting up the hoists. The gunner's mate took over Officer of Quarters. Waiting, I saw him peering up, striving to locate the hum of motors we all could hear. And then I saw them. High over the town on the cliff they came, rather a lot of them, with black dots weaving about, which we knew for the escorting fighters. We were too far away to hear the bombs falling. The first lot anyway. But

suddenly, starting from Mali Point, and running the length of the town, huge spouts of flame and dirty yellow smoke shot up in quick succession as the well-aimed sticks caught their target. The dull crash of the explosions reverberated to us across the harbour. We stood there, tensed, waiting. And then we were into it.

"Bearing green four 0. Angle of sight seven 0. Dive-bombers. Barrage long long long."

The deadly twin swung round on to the bearing. In slid the time-fused shell, the heavy breech greasing up silently behind it, my hand under the interceptor, snapping it shut.

"Ready one."

A second of waiting. The long grey barrels recoiled viciously, the stout little ship leaped and shook, and our first welcome streaked towards the red-balled bombers. After the first round it was sweating toil trying to get off as many as we could so they'd have to fly through. My crew swung into action like a well-oiled machine, firing, loading, clearing away from the recoil, firing again. Sixteen a minute we were punching out, as fast as she'd fire them.

The check fire bell gave me a chance to look around. On the fo'c'sle the sub-lieutenant was weighing anchor. I shan't soon forget that sight. He stood' there, alone, machine-gun bullets spitting into the sea all around him, then leaned over the rail above the cable. His voice came, calm, unhurried: "Anchor aweigh, sir."

We were moving through now, increasing rapidly to full speed. Down the harbour she tore, her sides stabbing defiance at the hordes of planes above her. A soldier ashore told me afterwards it was the grandest sight he ever saw. To us, it was pure hell. The next 15 minutes our brains were numbed, our ears deafened, by the crash of guns and slam of bursting bombs. All we could do was load, fire, load again-and hope.

We were protecting the depot ship, throwing a canopy of bursting H.E. above her. The success of our efforts is evidenced by the fact of her being still afloat.

We turned, heeling over under the pressure of our hard-over rudder, and steamed flat out up the harbour again.

A thick pall of smoke hung over the water. Just off our port bow the USS Peary was receiving her death blows.

Four bombs, one after the other, tore into her vitals. She settled by the bow, completely enveloped in smoke and leaping flame.

And yet incredible though it seems, from her stern, the stabbing flash of a still-firing gun was visible. Guts, sheer and unadorned.

As suddenly as it had commenced, the raid was over. Deep, almost abysmal silence settled over the waterfront. The harbour presented a shocking sight. There had been too many of them. We wiped our sweat-grimed faces, and prepared to haul in survivors. They'd caught us that time. Let's see how the next action would go.

Six months later, and we've had the next action--or next big action, I should say. You may have read about it by the time you read this, but I can't tell you yet what happened. Too soon. I can say this, however. Darwin has been avenged, many times over. And soon that little yellow nose is going to stop a bigger sock than it can take - and I think the Navy will do the job.

Petty Officer J.E.M.