Chapter 11 Sicilian drama; Dentist; Adrift; Wife; Picture Party; Mudlubbers

SICILIAN DRAMA

QUIETLY and unobtrusively, we nosed our way out of harbour to rendezvous with the largest invasion fleet to be then amassed in naval history. In a few hours we were to be front page news. The "Kipper" ship I was in at the time was to act as one of the escorts on the night flank of this great armada. Every class of ship was represented in this mighty display of Allied sea power, ranging from the smallest of invasion barges to the very largest capital ships of the Royal Navy. The serried lines of ships stretching from horizon to horizon made an amazing scene, and one which I could never expect to see twice in one lifetime.

Ever since we had left harbour, the swell had gradually been increasing, and was causing the smaller invasion craft some discomfort. Doubts were expressed in some quarters as to whether these craft could make a successful landing under such conditions. However, the sea calmed down amazingly as we approached the coast.

Undetected, we steamed towards our destination, until at sunset the volcanic outline of Mount Etna cast its shadow over us. As the curtain of darkness fell, the pulsating throb of giant transport: planes carrying grim, determined paratroops filled the air with continuous vibration. Suddenly out of the darkness ahead the enemies' ack-ack fire made vicious tracer-patterns in the sky. Our silent prayers went with those boys who had the "death or glory" job of silencing the enemies' guns along the landing beaches. As an omen to our ultimate success, a batch of parachute flares slowly descended like giant stars forming the V-sign. Everyone noticed this phenomenon and was distinctly heartened by it.

Slowly but surely we crept nearer and nearer, still undetected; until the brilliant beam of a searchlight from shore stabbed the darkness shrouding us. Methodically it swept across the calm waters in a wide arc, and detection seemed imminent. Then it seemed to us that a miracle happened, for suddenly the search light was extinguished-our paratroopers had taken over.

By now, the surf breaking on the beach was clearly visible, and our destroyers had commenced to shell any enemy positions likely to offer opposition to our landing forces. Under this covering fire, speedy invasion barges were disgorging their human cargoes of fighting fury on to Sicilian soil. The destroyers had done their work well, for practically no organized enemy resistance was encountered except for a few isolated pillboxes, which were quickly and efficiently wiped out. Patrolling up and down, we set about searching for the inevitable lurking U-boats and E-boats. Daybreak found "troopers" lying a few hundred yards off the beach with landing operations in full swing. It would seem from the minutely organized scale of operations, that we had been there for days; in reality, just five hours had elapsed since the initial landing.

So far so good. The forenoon passed uneventfully. At midday we were warned of approaching hostile aircraft. The much vaunted Luftwaffe was about to launch its initial attack. Alarm bells sounded their clarion call throughout the ship and guns' crews scanned the skies expectantly. The ominous, drone of aircraft became clearer, then suddenly all hell was let loose as every ship opened up with any weapon that could be brought to bear. The air shook with the terrific concussion of bursting shells. It did not seem possible that any aircraft could penetrate that umbrella barrage, but those twenty-eight Junkers 88 sailed serenely through that inferno of screaming metal in perfect formation. The shrill of falling bombs rent the air, and the next moment twenty-eight gigantic columns of water appeared as if by magic. Thank God they had missed us! Nearby ships received a thorough drenching but no damage was sustained.

Continuous reports of approaching aircraft were received all through the afternoon but our fighter pilots did a grand job and not one got through during that tense period.

Dusk, we knew, would herald the arrival of torpedo bombers, so we weren't surprised when four Savoias attempted to break through the destroyer screen's deadly barrage. The reception was too hot for them and they turned tail. Not long after night had fallen, the first wave of bombers put in an appearance and we knew that sleep would be a denied luxury that night, and for many nights to come.

However, the ack-ack fire was too intensive, and the night fighters too vigilant, for their bombing to be accurate., with the result that damage to ships was negligible. For two days we guarded the merchant ships, as they feverishly discharged their many and varied cargoes to keep the rapidly advancing invading force well supplied. Although the Luftwaffe was constantly bombing us, no one was unduly disturbed by their rather weak attacks.

By now our troops had penetrated deeply into the country, and were threatening Augusta up the coast.

On the morning of the third day, we were ordered to proceed to a position a few miles outside Augusta for the rather hazardous task of sweeping a channel up to the harbour entrance. We arrived there safely and commenced sweeping operations under the whine of shells screaming overhead from bombarding ships well out to sea. Gradually we drew nearer the harbour, but our hopes of entering were shattered, as a few scattered shore batteries, which had escaped the monitors' devastating fire, decided to retaliate by shelling us. With waterspouts from exploding shells bursting uncomfortably close, we successfully completed our task and took up position as submarine guard to the force of bombarding ships.

Barely had we taken up our allotted position, when an excited shout from the port lookout reported, "Periscope bearing red 8o, sir!" Simultaneously with the sounding of alarm bells, our main armament, whose crew had been waiting for an opportunity such as this, opened fire. With deadly accuracy this gun blasted six rapid salvos into the conning tower of the surprised "Itie", before she had time to bring her torpedo tubes to bear. Shuddering, she broke the surface and we closed ,with her at full speed; when within range of our smaller weapons, we raked her from stem to stern. On passing, the conning tower was observed to be little less than a bloody shambles. The submarine was helpless, completely out of action and from the battered conning tower a mob of frightened, frantic, gesticulating "Itie" seamen poured forth to plead for their lives.

A few figures were then noticed struggling in the water. Quickly we lowered our seaboat complete with boarding party and picked up twelve unhappy survivors, intending to board the submarine and tow it back to harbour; however, before this could be achieved a new menace was reported by our submarine detector. Leaving one of our sister ships in charge of towing operations, we proceeded to attack with depth-charges. After dropping a complete pattern, a terrific underwater explosion shook the ship and oil and froth bubbled to the surface. Jubilantly we returned to our patrol, with the confident knowledge that two of Il Duce's much publicized underwater terrors would not terrorize any more.

The few remaining hours of daylight passed uneventfully and those dreaded dark hours crept on us once more. Quietly we steamed up and down the coast, until flares began to illuminate the darkness, turning night into day. Bombs began to fall haphazardly amongst us; the concussion of near misses reverberated throughout the ship. Not wishing to disclose our position any further. disappointedly we refrained from firing.

These attacks continued without respite during the night, until dawn found a weary crew welcoming the presence of our own fighter protection. The following morning we landed our prisoners in Syracuse Harbour, and were immediately ordered to proceed to Augusta, to attempt to tow a M.G.B. out of trouble.

We had just passed the entrance to Augusta Harbour, when without warning three M.F.109s hurtled out of the sun in a practically vertical dive towards us. In a matter of seconds, three bombs dropped along the ship's side and literally enveloped the whole ship in a tremendous shower of spray. The ship heeled alarmingly to starboard and I for one began to strap my lifebelt on, but gradually she righted herself and luckily no serious

damage or casualties were sustained. The attack was so sudden that only a few unavailing rounds could be fired as the enemy rapidly disappeared over the hills.

We made several unsuccessful attempts to free the M.G.B. and were finally ordered to cease operations as the task was hopeless. We anchored in the centre of the harbour and were interested spectators of a fierce artillery duel, raging inshore between the Eighth Army and Jerry. We were at action stations all day and were constantly opening fire on marauding enemy aircraft, who were attempting to strafe our troops and smash harbour installations. We had the grim satisfaction of seeing at least one of these planes shot down by our fire and crash in flames. Our job of work completed for the time being, we waited in Augusta for further developments.

For several days we lay at anchor, during which period we were able to bring our dhobying up to date, also a few optimists studiously attended to their long neglected correspondence. Their efforts were not in vain as their mail was dispatched the next day by a sister ship returning to base. Some of us were fortunate enough to have an afternoon ashore, which we spent wandering among the orchard-covered slopes gorging ourselves with ripe fruit, which were growing in abundance. We encountered several Italian peasants who had stayed to tend their crops. They seemed overjoyed to see us and presented us with gifts of their produce. Even these gullible peasants realized that 11 Duce was toppling from his pedestal. Needless to say, during this period of enforced inactivity we did not want for fresh fruit and vegetables. Yet the actual town of Augusta was absolutely deserted, its inhabitants having fled, leaving their homes, shops and offices in chaotic confusion, previous to the arrival of the advancing Eighth Army.

Every night without fail, we could rely on the arrival of the Luftwaffe. About midnight, with a full harvest moon shining romantically on us in our picturesque surroundings, the stillness of the night was suddenly shattered by the roar of diving aircraft an~ our peaceful haven was turned into a hell of flaming tracer, exploding shells and bursting bombs. Each night appeared to bring the nerve-shattering whistle of bombs just a little closer than the preceding one. One incident during these nightly raids stands out in my memory, when a Beaufighter shot up a Caproni bomber directly overhead. The Caproni, being made of wood, immediately burst into flames and commenced a vertical death dive straight towards the ship. 1, like several others, gazed transfixed at this awe-inspiring sight. Sydney, just then. flashed through my mind and I couldn't help thinking of its numerous advantages over this distinctly unhealthy spot. At approximately two hundred feet above us the flaming aircraft deviated slightly from its course and finally crashed off our bows. I don't think I breathed the whole time the bomber was diving, but I certainly gave vent to a big sigh of relief when it eventually crashed.

A few days later we returned to our base for fuel, ammunition, etc.; we made the most of the few days afforded us and spent our leave in true naval fashion; for we knew that within a very short time we would be returning to Augusta, so aptly nicknamed by the ship's company the "Bomb Bank".

We thought we had done damn well sweeping from Alexandria to Sousse, in what was described by the B.B.C. and naval correspondents as the longest sweep in naval history; but compared to this operation it was a mere insignificant detail. Yes, Sir, this was some show.

"NAUTILUS."

ADRIFT

THE ferry was disappearing round the bend when Ordinary Seaman Walker raced on to the quay, gasping for breath and hoping against hope.

Now nothing is more depressing than missing a ferry-boat. A tram may be raced after, and even losing a train doesn't have that complete sense of finality engendered by the departure of a boat.

His helplessness came home to "Hooky" Walker as he stood on the quay gazing sorrowfully after the departing ferry. Slowly and sadly he turned and made his way off the quay, noticing by the board that the next ferry was not for half an hour.

If you have ever been a macca who missed the last ferry before leave expired you will no doubt appreciate the state of mind Hooky was in on this particular morning. And, if you have missed the boat the previous morning and been let off with a caution and a dire threat by the captain that the next offence will visit most awful consequences upon you, you will be in an admirable position to understand our friend's distress. Because that's just what Hooky had done.

If also, to pursue a somewhat relevant possibility, you have tried to get a taxi-cab at 7.30 in the forenoon, you will realize that Hooky Walker was being very optimistic. Since his ship was in dock several miles away, the only possible means of beating the ferry was by taking a taxi, but they seemed as scarce as Nazis in Moscow. The few that were occasionally to be seen were always engaged. The sight of a near-by clock threw him into the very depths of despair as he realized that he had only twenty minutes left to make the ship.

He stopped on a street corner where he could command a view four ways and watch a clock at the same time. It seemed to him that the inexorable clock was the only thing that could be depended upon to go perfectly on this imperfect morning. No use hoping it could be five minutes fast. Tower clocks in big cities have the habit of always being right to the second, a fact regretted by many.

After having decided that the only thing to do was to make back to the quay and get the next ferry, he caught sight of a taxi approaching along the main street, and waited. To his disgust, it took a fare just before the intersection. It is regrettable to have to relate at this point that Hooky Walker gave vent to a heart-felt curse. He wondered if he could afford to wait a few more minutes on the off-chance of another coming along, but decided against it. As it was, he had a very small margin of time to make the ferry, even if he ran. So he ran.

Psychologists will tell you that the feeling of an event having happened before in detail is a reflex of the mind sometimes experienced . Hooky, however, did not have to pursue his thoughts in retrospect very far to realize that the ferry disappearing-round-the-bend scene had taken place in his experience only half an hour earlier.

If he had heartily cursed the taxi before, Hooky now gave vent to his emotions in such a flood of invective as his shortness of breath would allow him. Details not being desirable, let it be sufficient to say that he was no happier to find that the next ferry was not for an hour.

An old hand, no doubt, would have accepted the situation philosophically and sat down to wait for the next boat. But Hooky, as previously stated, was a macca, and not given to accepting the inevitable. He suddenly felt an affection for the ship, brought on by the stress of circumstances. The dear old mess deck had never been so appreciated, nor did routine ever seem such a thoroughly satisfactory arrangement. By now his companions would be on board the ship or walking to the deck from the ferry landing. He cursed his luck, and particularly the urge to sleep just that extra ten minutes that had developed into half an hour.

So Hooky's overwhelming desire to get back as soon as possible led him to leave the quay once more and continue his search for a taxi. Either there were more cabs out now or business had slacked off, for one soon came along empty, and stopped for him.

On board H.M.A.S. --- the Captain was a worried man. It wasn't the absence of Ordinary Seaman Walker that worried him, because ordinary seamen have something in common with bad pennies. Also it is not unlikely the skipper knew nothing about his lost sheep. No, it was a much more important matter than that. It was an appointment with the Admiral.

The Captain had intended using the motorboat to get him to his appointment but at the last minute something had gone wrong with the engine, which would take hours to repair, and he was left without transport. A telephone message had been sent to the Naval Depot for a car, but it was a long way and by a circuitous route. The car would get him there very late, and the Admiral was known to be a stickler for punctuality.

So it was no wonder the Captain paced the quarter deck impatiently with a lowering brow, his eyes glancing anxiously at the clock every now and then.

Suddenly he stopped his nervous patrol to stare at a taxi that was coming swiftly towards the dock. At least, to everyone else it was a taxi; to the Captain it was a golden chariot from heaven, sent specially for him in his hour of need.

It soon became obvious that the cab was coming straight to the ship.

"Grab that taxi," yelled the Captain to the quartermaster, and as the Q.M. raced down the gangway towards the slowing car the skipper was hot on his heels.

Ordinary Seaman Walker alighted from the taxi and was paying the driver when a commotion from the direction of the ship caused him to turn. The sight that met his gaze had the effect of freezing his heart with terror. For what he saw was a sailor with a bayonet at his hip, if not actually brandishing it, racing towards him, gesticulating and shouting unintelligibly, followed at a distance by the Captain himself, equally incarnate with rage. Hooky hadn't thought his absence, serious though it was to him, would cause such a disturbance. He looked around wildly, not knowing whether to stand his ground or turn and run, but fear rooted him to the spot till it was too late and they were on him.

To his amazement, however, the quartermaster took no notice of him but sprang for the door of the taxi and held it open while the skipper jumped in and began shouting pantingly at the driver.

Hooky decided not to wait, since he didn't seem to be the object of their wrath, but made haste to get on board the ship before they changed their minds and attacked him instead of the taxi-driver, as they appeared about to do.

The rest of the day and the next morning was a period of intense worry for Hooky. He had been "Run in-Adrift" by the master at-arms, and put in the Captain's report by the Commander. When the pipe "Captain's request men and defaulters" finally sounded, Hooky went, miserable with apprehension, to take his place among the "criminals" and stand, unhappily aware of the stares and grins of near-by messmates, trying not to heed their speculations re the extent of his punishment, with which the more fortunate hands (temporarily out of trouble) love to tease the defaulters.

Eventually the Captain appeared and the defaulters began to go before him to have their sins laid bare and receive the punishment fitting to their transgressions. When Hooky's turn came, he doubled smartly up the table, removing his cap at an order from the master-at-arms, and stood quaking inwardly while the charge was being read.

11"inalfy he was invited to furnish an excuse for his misconduct, and started off his well-rehearsed story with all its boyish self-abnegation, to which the Captain listened patiently. When he had finished, the Captain, instead of delivering his judgment. and apparently bent on prolonging the agony, said:

"Hmm-is the taxi you came in the one I took when you got out? "

"Yes, sir," said Hooky, wondering what connection this had with his personal tragedy, hoping the taxi-driver hadn't blackened his character to save his own life.

"Hmm - I'll let you off with a caution this time, but see that it doesn't happen again."

Hooky was staggered. In a daze he waited for the master-at-arms to repeat the caution to know that his ears had not deceived him, then put on his cap and doubled away.

As he stripped off his No. 2s and folded them carefully, Hooky reflected that the "Old Man" wasn't such a bad old boy after all. But all the same he couldn't help wondering. We believe he is still wondering.

"JAQUES."

THE REGISTERED PARCEL

THE mess deck buzzed with the conversation of the sailors as they rested, in the lethargic heat of a tropical afternoon, from their morning's work. Those going ashore by the two o'clock liberty boat were rushing around, ordering reclining messmates; from off their lockers so that they could get to their kit. Curses flew thick and fast as the dozing men were disturbed.

At one end of the table Jock sat playing mah-jongg with two companions-with pay day four days off they had no option but to stay on board. They could not borrow because nearly everyone was, as they preferred it to be said, financially embarrassed, as well.

Suddenly, and without any warning, the voice of the bos'n's mate bellowed down the hatch:

"Jock - is Jock McTavish down there?"

"Yea--" said a sailor, rudely awakened from his dream of home.

"Who wants me?" asked Jock impatiently.

"The coxswain."

"Oh, hell, what 'ave I done now?" As he had already been warned twice during the morning he felt dubious.

"Nothin'," replied the messenger, as he hung half-way down the hatch, his hindquarters offering an irresistible target to those passing to and from the bathroom, " there's a registered parcel for you."

"A what?" Jock jumped up from the table to make sure that he had heard correctly, but the messenger had gone.

"What did that silly basket say?"

"A registered parcel," said one of the mah-jongg players.

"That means money," said the other.

"I'll say it does-boy-oh, boy," Jock rubbed his hands in anticipation and looked
around for his cap. Mah-jongg had been forgotten-ideas of a run ashore were passing through their minds.

"Hurry up-hurry up-we'll just make the two-thirty boat," said one of the "go ashore oppos".

"Now you know there isn't one," said Jock.

"Doesn't matter-we'll get a nigbo to take us." He was pushed up the ladder, and sent on his way to the coxswain's office to collect the parcel. While he was away his excited mates got out their own uniforms, and Jock's as well.

When he returned to the mess, clutching a small parcel in his hands, they were almost dressed.

"How much, Jock?"

"Dunno, mate," said the excited Scotsman. "Looks like a box."

"Must be in notes."

"Funny, you know - I usually get it in an order."

"Anyway, the money-changer's open."

He started to untie the red tape which held the paper together.

"Maybe it is in notes," said one of his hopeful friends. "Thahsounds of 'em."

"Think of all the beer."

His friends clustered around him as he fiddled with the wrapping. "Come on-come on-you've gotter get dressed yet."

"Aw reet," Jock lapsed into his native dialect, as he always did when excited, "keep yer 'air on."

By this time the rest of the mess had been roused from their lethargy, their curiosity getting the better of their feelings, and were standing around the table.

"As if there enough red tape in the outfit without having your parcels tied up in it," said Jock as the paper showed signs of parting. He impatiently ripped it
off and opened the box.

"Well, I'll be damned," he gasped.

"Not with that, mate," said one of the interested onlookers.

"What is it-ain't it money?"

Jock looked up hopelessly, his face crimson, and said weakly to the surrounding and expectant mess,

"It's a Bible."

CARSON COOKE.

A PICTURE PARTY IN NEW GUINEA

"HURRY on, Slugger! The picture truck's here." Slugger comes as fast as he can with a chair under one wing and his ground-sheet under the other, and we help him clamber into our truck

There are several open-air "theatres" here. A couple are on hillsides where one may sprawl on the grass and obtain a good view. At others, there are forms on which to place one's carcass, but tonight we are going where the site is almost level, so we are taking our chairs or stools with us, otherwise we should have to stand at the back.

Away we go. The first part of our ride is an uncomfortable one, for the road is rough. (If I I were a rate-payer and if a Municipal Council existed, I'd write a few hot letters to it.) Now we are on the main road, and tear along with the hills on one side, and the coconut palms and sand and sea on the other.

We arrive and select the spot for our seats. There are no slides to entertain us with advertisements of Mr. Smith's prime beef or Madame Jones's hairdressing, so we sit and argue about when the war will end, and what the big noises at Navy Office ought to do.

Bad luck tonight-no WAACS for us to gaze upon. Sometimes we see a few, each escorted by a fortunate officer. The audience is comprised entirely of khaki-clad males-officers and other ranks of the different Services of more than one nationality. All are talking, smoking, chewing or just sitting.

Well, it's starting. The white sheet, tied to two uprights, shows a picture of our King, and everyone rises as one to stand whilst the National Anthem is played. Now we are told that the film was directed by someone, produced by someone else, sound effects by another, gowns by yet another, and so on-all very interesting (?). The picture commences, but alas! something goes wrong with the works and the characters move in jerks.

Time off -while the operator fiddles with the machine, receiving plenty of good-humoured advice from the crowd. Such breakdowns are not uncommon, but the audience remains surprisingly patient for their duration, which may be a few minutes, maybe half an hour. Well, we're off again, but this time the characters have peculiar guttural voices, at which the crowd roars with laughter. Another delay, and everything is fixed.

The machine has only a single projector, so when one reel is finished, there is an interval while it is replaced by its successor. As our wooden seats are not quite as comfortable as those lounge chairs in a city theatre, we take the opportunity to stand and stretch our legs.

Curse it! Here comes the rain-and, believe me, when Pluvius decides to visit here, he does the thing properly. The rain just falls down in sheets. However, all we do is to pull our ground-sheets over the shoulders, thus making a rain-proof cape, and continue to be engrossed in the heroine's adventures. You know, it looks rather silly to see a crowd of fellows sitting in teeming rain watching pictures!

It would do a Hollywood producer good to join us one evening, and hear some of the lurid comments which grace the air. If a character makes some inane remark, it receives the derision it deserves. If the hero kisses the heroine longer than is necessary-well, you can imagine the reaction.

Occasionally we have a double-feature programme, but usually only a single feature. The shows start and finish early. Well, it is all over for tonight, so we arise, take up our chairs, and search for our truck amongst the many other trucks and jeeps. Sometimes there is a traffic jam like after a race-meeting on the mainland.

"Say, Dusty, what did you think of the show? "

"Aw, not bad, Bluey. What did you?"

Really it was a poor film, and if I had seen it in Sydney or Melbourne, I should have considered it a waste of time and money, but up here one has a different outlook, for even if it were of low standard, well, it was free and helped to fill in an evening.

But oh! to be back home, sitting in the local theatre holding my sweetheart's hand!

"CRITIC."

H.M.A. AUXILIARY VESSEL

MUCH has been written of the glorious exploits of our major war vessels and we are justly proud of their achievements. May I describe a few of the exploits of H.M.A.S. Wilcannia during three war years. H.M.A.S. Wilcannia is a converted coastal vessel, commissioned before the advent of H.M.A. corvettes, and designed to carry out tasks allocated such ships. The shake-down cruise having been completed, she sailed westward from our eastern coast in company with a sister ship, and arrived in a west-coast port some nine days later.

Within a few days of her arrival she took up her duties as an anti-submarine vessel, her main task being to protect vital shipping in an open anchorage.

Late in the year of 1940 our Japanese adversaries (then non-belligerents) caused quite a stir in the vicinity of Bunbury. The loyal citizens of Busselton and Bunbury had reported sighting a fleet of fifteen men-o'-war, and Wilcannia, under the command of Lieut. Commander G. Tancred, R.A.N., and two similar vessels, H.M.A.S. Bingera and H.M.A.S. Wyandra, were ordered to sea to investigate the supposed menace.

The passage to the scene of the sighting was a speedy one, the W/T office confirming the presence of Japanese vessels, the leading telegraphist identifying local transmissions as the Nipponese equivalent of Morse code. The whole episode ended in a rather disappointing anti-climax, for the supposed men-o'-war proved to be a whaling factory ship of over 20,000 tons, and her brood of fourteen fast whalers.

Month after month of anti-submarine and anti-mine laying patrols, not without incident, plus a 5ooo-mile jaunt, were Wilcannia's lot after the "Battle for Bunbury", as the whaler incident had been called. Then, in November 1941, a very sobering event took place. Our little group of ships patrolling in the Indian Ocean was ordered to "proceed with all dispatch to Fremantle". Upon arrival at that port, we found the darkness of the night shrouding an unprecedented scene of activity. We
secured alongside the quay, and fully equipped naval boarding parties clambered hastily aboard. Fuel, provisions and gear were embarked with equal hustle, and within the hour we had cleared the breakwaters which guard the entrance to Fremantle's inner harbour.

Twenty-four hectic hours passed, and the W/T receiver and transmitter had been in operation almost continuously, conveying instructions and transmitting information. The orders were to rendezvous with certain merchant ships, place armed guards aboard in mid-ocean to take charge of German naval survivors, and then carry out a searching sweep some hundreds of miles northwards. The boarding accomplished, "WN" (her bow identification letters) with her consorts swept up the island-studded coastline.

During the next few days the ships in company picked up almost 100 sailors of the Third Reich. By this time our ship was roughly 300 miles west of Carnarvon and just south of the Tropic of Capricorn. It was in this position that our ship picked up an R.A.N. lifebelt, inflated and with its fastening tapes obviously snapped. Sleep had been very much of secondary consideration up to that point, and from then onwards it was increasingly so.

Following the first discovery, the following were found within forty-eight hours: two shrapnel-studded and fire-scorched German lifebelts, two German Carley floats containing the corpse of a German rating, an R.A.N. Carley float perforated by gunfire and without trace of occupancy, a dog's kennel and an oil patch. This had undoubtedly been the area in which H.M.A.S. Sydney and the raider Kormoran had fought their last battle. Many weeks were spent in further and fruitless search. It was a very bitter and disappointed ship which returned to its southern base.

Wilcannia's return to the Pacific in 1942 found her stationed in a French dependency, namely New Caledonia. It was here that she worked in co-operation with the United States Navy. Piloting convoys through minefields. A/S patrol, duty as rescue ship in the Coral Sea, A/S escort, and acting as a refuelling base between New Caledonia and the then Japanese-held Solomons for Catalina flying boats proceeding on bombing missions, were a few of her many tasks whilst serving on this station.

September 1942 saw our auxiliary vessel in action against suspected Japanese submarines off Sydney, N.S.W. A victorious night was spent hurling between thirty and forty depth charges overboard, each exploding with a thunderous roar and sorely punishing a foolhardy enemy who failed to take into consideration the watchfulness of the R.A.N.

Cold, bleak, wintry weather accompanied "WN" on her coastal convoys which preceded and followed the submarine episode, and it was a welcome change when she set her course northwards in execution of sailing orders which indicated service in the Arafura Sea (actually to replace the ill-fated but heroic H.M.A.S. Armidale, which met her end at the hands of enemy torpedo bombers).

En route to Darwin orders were received to enter Port Kennedy, Thursday Island's tiny harbour. Here her first mission began; a convoy-escorting task. Before sailing, Intelligence reports indicated two submarines were operating within twenty miles of Cape Wessel (Arnhem Land), and warned of spasmodic raids by enemy floatplanes. So it was with an

alert ship's company she sailed westwards. Her initial task was quite eventful; although she successfully evaded the reported submarines, floating mines greeted her entry to Clarence Strait, and Port Darwin welcomed her with one of its many air raids. This first voyage in the Arafura was no isolated instance of Japanese activity, for each successive assignment brought the old ship into contact with the enemy.

During the next six months, enemy air raids in Darwin, Arnhem Land and Port Kennedy; counter-attacks against hostile submarines, bombing and strafing by enemy aircraft whilst on passage, added further laurels to her growing list of exploits.

New Guinea waters were next on Wilcannia's itinerary; Port Moresby, Milne Bay, China Straits in turn were her destinations. Cyclonic gales and the usual risks of wartime sea service were encountered. At long last the order was received to proceed southwards for leave and refit, welcome news in any H.M.A. ship.

Leave completed-farewells made, and off once more to an unknown destination. And so the war goes on. H.M.A.S. Wilcannia is a vessel typical of her class. No better and no worse than her counterparts, she does her job.

YEOMAN OF SIGNALS E. C. R.

MATELOTS V MUDLUBBERS

AND did they lub it! At Milne Bay, of all ,ft places where it is wet season all the week and summer on Tuesday and 144 inches of rain fall each year, half of it fell that afternoon.

H.M.A.S. Kapunda had been challenged by H.M.A.S. (Packet Bottleship) Orara.... Ob Whacko! Oh Boy!

The teams ratted the scran-bag for the game. Result, after make-and-mend, moth-eaten trunks, St Kilda baths vees, guernseys, shorts that looked liked Daniel Boone's step-ins, scalloped bottoms, military boots, footy boots and no boots-here and there a Collingwood, a South Melbourne, a St Kilda, a Footscray, and a Western Australian Jersey, showed through the mud plus a tattered pair of Richmond socks.

H.M.A.S. Kapunda won the toss, and elected to swim with the tide. They felt that they might drag the pick. And they were almost right -it wasn't long before the ball weighed easily sixty pounds and marked the man. The ubiquitous leather turned to a cake of oily soap. And so unseen that Ping, Cordner reckoned that he ought to be able to pick it up on the Asdic apparatus. A milling

pack, treading mud, broke up over Ike from Surrey Hills. Ike crash-dived, not even his periscope showing. Through the bubbles and the mud came "Go ahead, kick me. I'm still breathing!"

From then on, all hands recognized their shipmates by their acoustics. Or shot only when they saw the whites of their eyes.

Half-time, Basher Bear, ex-captain of Sandringham Juniors, gave his boys a pep-talk.

Somewhere from the Good Earth came, "You do speak funny with your teeth out."

Basher halted, surveyed the two acres of ploughed field, and remembered he'd placed his clackers in a safe dry place.

Half-time, and she's on again. Players pulled their weight and ballast, and two hurt eyes, protruding from the mud, preceded a cry of "Where's the Doc?"

And then, "Me flaming big toe's pointing the wrong way!"

He emerged, looking as if his feet were on the wrong legs. The sick-berth attendant placed him on his back in a miniature lake, ordered him to show his toe, and heaved on it.

With a loud crack the dislocation came back into the party line ("Vote Yes"), and with a sheepish look, he borrowed a sandshoe for his left foot, and played on, in one shoe. Lofty (Ping) Cordner, one of Melbourne's 1943 rucks, otherwise unrecognizable, continued to stamp his man into the mire between temperatures of 102.1 degrees and 104-1 however, he lived, but many a brave heart lies asleep in the slush.

Then came the "Pipe Secure". H.M.A.S. Kapunda took a trouncing, and staggered back through the neat Yank huts, with G.Is all goggle-eyed, dry and smug.

These eighteen Kapunda matelots ignored the wharf, and swam to the whaleboat, throwing their socks and pants, etc., to the coxswain, leaving a wake of Milne Bay mud in the lucid tropical waters.

Six inches free-board, and the whaler pulled for the Kapunda, all hands chanting:

"On the beam a submarine,

The biggest one you've ever seen.

On the bow, another cow.

We did not waste shot or shell,

But did we run?

We did-like hell."

CAPT. R. C. H.