Chapter 12 Storm at Sea; Tropical Memory; At Base; Enemy Surrenders; RAN-Bougainville

STORM AT SEA

THE invasion of Leyte was primarily a big ship show. They fought the battles and took the really hard knocks. Amongst the small craft which acquitted themselves nobly were those of the minesweeping flotillas. Two days before the invasion, hordes of small wooden Y.M.Ss emerged from a typhoon and mountainous seas, streamed their sweeps and got to work. These gallant little ships did their job magnificently, and deserve far more credit than they received.

Much smaller than these, however, was H.D.M.L. 1074- Under the command of Lt- Commander Stan Robertson, R.A.N., now D.S.C., she had been in action at Morotai the day after the first landing, and had contributed to the recharting of the harbour. It was a very ambitious task for such a small ship to set out from Manus with an eleven knot convoy of minesweepers on a i5oo-mile trip right to an enemy stronghold.

After the first day, the weather worsened. Gradually the wind increased and the sky clouded over. No sun was seen for so long that the crew began to suspect that it had ceased to exist and that blue skies were merely a figment of imagination. As the wind increased to gale strength, proper sleep and any cooking became impossible. The whole ship was drenched, "greenies" coming over almost perpetually as the little vessel struggled onwards. Visibility at night was practically nil, and in the day limited to a little over a mile. Everyone was wet and stayed wet.

With ever increasing head seas the ship slowly dropped astern, till the convoy was lost in the driving rain and spray. M.M. George Richards and stoker Alex Campbell struggled in the pitching, stuffy engine-room for better results, but it was of no avail. Finally one engine was stopped and the other slowed down to conserve fuel. There not being enough fuel to reach Leyte, we had to wait for help to refuel us at sea.

In spite of all his efforts, "Blue" Nolan could raise nobody on his set. It was just not powerful enough. Out of contact with our friends in a raging gale, our plight seemed bad. We reckoned on a position 200 M11CS east of Jap-held Mindanao. This was impossible to check, the whole sky having been overcast for days. Worse was to follow before we were to reach shelter.

Early on the morning of the 14th October, a red light blinked a challenge on our starboard beam. Twice the challenge was sent and twice, through blinding rain and spray driven by the gale, it was answered. just as it seemed that our salvation was at hand, a sharp bow appeared out of the murk, bearing down on us at terrific speed. Through the rain and spray the destroyer had been unable to read the answer to their challenge. Through the minds of those on the bridge flashed the horrible thought that all on the mess deck would be drowned as they tried to sleep in their sodden bunks.

Full astern was rung down. From dead slow ahead we stopped. Then a terrific crash came as the destroyer carried part of the bows away, for-ward of the collision bulkhead. So bad was the visibility that it was impossible to see the bow and stern of the ship at the same time, much less identify the class of vessel. Only subsequently did we learn that it was a destroyer.

By a miracle alone did the forward bulkhead hold and allow us to keep the mess deck from flooding. Short of fuel, damaged, and not knowing where we were, our predicament in the middle of the storm seemed as perilous as it could be.

From the crash on, our voyage was purgatory. We effected rough repairs at dawn and refuelled from our old friend Y-M-S-P6 in heavy weather. The crew strained frantically on the heaving, oil-slippery deck, with lines and hoses. First the lines parted, fouling one screw; then the fuel line parted, with our having embarked just sufficient to make Leyte, with a little reserve. In seas bigger than the ship, making water, bows stove in, and a fouled screw, the only course possible was to take the seas on the quarter. The ship was almost unmanageable, with seas washing right over.

Quite often she fell ninety degrees off her course in spite of the efforts of the quartermasters. However, she withstood all the buffeting and rode the seas magnificently. M.L. 1074 had been built in England, and built well.

There was no turning back. Ahead into the unknown we had to go. For two days nobody slept or washed, and biscuits and bully were still our only fare. Then the weather cleared. Dawn found us off Surigao Strait in calm seas. "Bonk" Sims stripped and cleared the fouled propeller, enabling us to proceed at increased speed. Expecting enemy intervention at any time, we steamed on up into Leyte Gulf, past flotillas of busy minesweepers. They had been in our convoy, and expressed their surprise at seeing us still afloat.

Towards dusk we reached Mariquitdaquit light, and H.M.A.S. Gascoyne, our mother ship. Never did any ship receive a grander welcome than that given to us. The whole of Gascoyne's ship's company seemed to be on deck, on the guns and every possible vantage point. To them we were veritable
ghosts returned from the dead. It was then that we found that the buzz had gone around that we had been given up as "lost with all hands".

The exhausted crew of the battered M.L. were treated royally by those on the trim frigate. Number Nine Mess, in particular, excelled, adopting the whole crew. They did all they could, finding them dry clothes and sharing their food with ten extra men. Those weary lads can never forget this kindness.

We felt proud. In the past two months we had covered 5,000 miles of open sea at an average speed of ten knots. A collision and a typhoon had failed to stop us. Now we felt more than ready for warm food and bed.

Before we could enjoy these, we had one more night of steaming after beating off an air attack and helping to shoot down the plane. Much as we wanted to relax we could not, being so forcibly reminded that there was much hard fighting ahead before we could enjoy our well-earned rest.

"SNIFTER"

TROPICAL MEMORY

I WAS sitting in the mess one night quite recently when over the wireless came the tune of "Anchors Aweigh". This belongs to the U.S.N. and has no signi1cance in the R.A.N., but in the way that music will, it took me back to a night we were at anchor in Hollandia in the days when the coast from there onwards wasn't too well known to the majority of us.

It was a really beautiful tropical night and most of the ship's company were on the fo'c'sle enjoying the coolness, as it gets hot in Hollandia during the day. One of our musicians was playing his accordion, and if we felt inclined we joined in with the words of any song we knew.

Alongside us was a Fairmile, and the buzz had it that she was to go along the coast on a special mission of some kind - one of those odd jobs the Fairmiles carry out so quietly and efficiently. We heard the muffled purr as her engines came to life and warmed up. Soon she cast off to begin her journey. As she did so, our accordionist changed his tune to "Anchors Aweigh", and that tune seemed to carry our good wishes to the Fairmile and her crew as she quickly slipped into the darkness.

I don't know just where she went, but I hope it was a good trip. I know I'll always remember her departure.

"ELMET"

AT BASE

AROUND the harbour ships of various designs and tonnage lie like grey clouds in a blue sky. The scorching sun blazing down in unrelenting fury on them brings forth curses from their complements. Yet, the scenic grandeur of the harbour itself shows no sign of dissatisfaction, and the small boats scooting from ship to ship lend a tone of picture-book beauty to the place. Only for a day or so, for this is only one of the innumerable supply and oiling places in the vast Sth. West Pacific.

Sleek-looking destroyers move in and out, a heavy cruiser or two slowly gets under way, and, lastly, the mighty bulk of a "battler" glides like a floating island through the multitude of small fry, mostly at dusk, to disappear into the glory of colour that only a tropical sunset knows.

And as night descends, cool breezes bring ships' personnel out on deck to enjoy the best part of the day, to relax and live in the little world of their own. The darkened ships and shore buildings seem miles away. Presently the searchlight batteries cut finger-like ribbons across the sky, weave a few crazy patterns, then go out, leaving the darkness deeper. In the protecting shroud of night the remaining ships settle down and sleep in peace. Who knows what the dawn will have in store for them, and who, in the face of a peaceful all night in, cares.

"SIRREE-LI"

ENEMY SURRENDERS

His Magesty's Australian Ship Diamantina lay at anchor in Torokina Harbour, Bougainville. The morning was hot and the tropical sun was shining brightly, much to the discomfort of the duty watch who were engaged in the monotonous job of chipping paintwork. The ship appeared changed to many of those aboard. Her guns, always oiled and ready for action, lay idle. Being a ship that had been built in war-time she had never known the balmy days of peace, and her new status was strange to her crew. There were no more enemy shore positions to be bombarded, and no more submarines to hunt.

For the war had ended three weeks previously, and as a result there were the usual mess-deck buzzes about. One was that we were to take part in the surrender ceremony of the Japanese general and staff on Bougainville, our part being that of bringing them to Torokina, where the Australian Army headquarters were located.

For once, this buzz coming from the direction of the signalmen's mess, proved to be correct, as in the afternoon the Naval Officer in Charge, Northern Solomons, came on board with his staff, followed by Army photographers and war correspondents.

We sailed that afternoon, and headed for Gazelle Harbour, which was to be the rendezvous. There we anchored for the night. Early next morning excitement ran high when a Jap barge was sighted coming out from the direction of Buin, where much fierce fighting was done by the Australian Army in the so-called "mopping-up" operations. As the barge came closer it became apparent that there was no Jap general aboard. A Japanese Army staff officer boarded Diamantina from the barge, saluted smartly, and in good English read aloud a message from General Kanda, Japanese G.O.C., announcing a change in the plans and that the ceremony was to take place on the following Saturday-"so sorry, please". This rearrangement was apparently agreed with, as he returned to the barge which, discharging clouds of blue smoke, made off towards Buin.

Again there was a period of waiting. A fortnight previously H.M.A.S. Lithgow, accompanied by H.M.A.S. Dubbo and three Fairmile motor-launches, had attempted unsuccessfully to bring in the Jap general and had been rewarded with an unimportant Jap captain, who was an envoy from General Kanda.

One humorous sidelight was contributed by one rating who, quite oblivious of those around him, gazed towards the coast and sang softly to himself, "Oh where, and oh where, can the yellow b-- be."

At last, on the following Saturday morning, our accompanying Fairmile, M.L.h6, was ordered inshore to bring back two Jap barges which had been sighted on the coastline. We wondered if we were going to repeat our last performance. But no, fortune was with us this time, as we could see by their uniforms that the persons in the barge were "big-nobs". First to step aboard was General Alasetane Kanda. He was a sick, old man, and appeared to be stunned by the defeat of his 17th Japanese Army, which had conquered Bougainville some three years before.

Next followed his chief-of-staff, Major-General Makata, then Vice-Admiral the Baron SamejIma and other military and naval staff officers. They all carried their swords with them and these were handed over to the N.O.I.C. They also carried with them two polished boxes, which later proved to contain two beautifully made vases, being presents from Kanda to Lieutenant-General Savige. The Japs were to be disappointed if they thought this gift might soften Lieutenant-General Savige's surrender orders.

Our previous passengers were placed in the sick bay. The trip back was uneventful and the Jap party remained below until, after fours hours' steaming, we entered Torokina harbour. A squadron of New Zealand Corsairs zoomed low overhead as we approached the harbour, adding to the impressiveness of the occasion.

"BOS'N PERTH"

THE R.A.N. AT BOUGAINVILLE

WE stood to attention as a pipe trilled and the White Ensign was lowered from the flagstaff, together with its trailing decommissioning pennant.

I was witnessing the decommissioning of one of those little-known naval shore establishments which are scattered around New Guinea and the islands. In this case it was the paying off of H.M.A.S. Lusair, Torokina, Bougainville, in the Solomon Islands.

The name "Lusair" was derived from the Solomons native name for the porpoise, which they consider most sacred. Our depot differed little from other such bases except for the number of R.A.N. ships in the area, which was larger than that of most other port directorates.

We had been landed ashore in February 1945, from H.M.A.S. Swan, a few months after the Aussies had fired their first shot on Bougainville after taking over from the American Marines.

We expected our stay to be a long, one, and we began to convert the American quarters into an R.A.N. shore establishment, and soon had a naval routine in full swing.

When the sun was shining the jungle was a pretty little spot, but when it was raining it was just the opposite. The ship's company were mostly specialists in their various jobs, all helping to keep the R.A.N. ships that came into port supplied with whatever they needed. There was the supply party, who, whenever a corvette or frigate arrived, would send out food supplies or ammunition for the ship's next voyage. There were R.M.S. ratings waiting on a call that would send them hurrying, away to where a Jap mine had been seen. At the risk of their lives, they would deal with the mine, coolly and efficiently, then return to wait again.

Then there were the liaison officers who were young lieutenants living wherever there were Army brigades; they acted as "go-betweens" for the two Services, and when a gun emplacement on the coast became a particular nuisance to Army artillery, a corvette would proceed with instructions from naval intelligence officers-the "backroom" boys of the Navy-and a bombardment would begin. It was during one such incident that H.M.A.S. Colac was hit by a Jap shore battery.

Lusair was a happy "ship", but life was by no means comfortable. When a Jap commando raiding party broke through the perimeter around Torokina, "Clear Lower Deck" was piped. We were told that we were to be armed with rifles and to do guard duties for seven hours every second night; we were to patrol in twos through the surrounding jungle, and generally to act as though we were soldiers. I his was in addition to our regular jobs. Men on watch carried their rifles during the day-time, and it was usual to see a signalman at work on his Aldis lamp, carrying a rifle or Owen gun on his back.

After a month it was announced that the Japs had been cut off and rounded up by the Papuan Infantry Battalion. We were most thankful to the boongs, and were not sorry to see the last of our rifles, thanking our lucky stars we were not in the Army.

Our numbers then increased, amounting to ninety officers and men. More ships began to arrive and the depot became a busy centre for jeeps carrying officers from ships back and forth from the N.O.I.C.'s headquarters where many "conferences" were held.

Suddenly the war was over, and we saw the proud Diamantina bringing in the Japanese general to surrender. Jap prisoners, bowing and scraping, became common sights along the roads as they worked under their Australian guards. The "powers that be" then decided that our work was done. We saw the last R.A.N. ship steam out of the harbour and, on a troopship bound for home, we left as quietly as we had come nine months previously.

Our stay had been short compared with that of others ashore in the islands, but it had been most eventful. Port directorates-such as ours-are little known amongst ships afloat, but they had done sterling work in keeping communications going, and formed a necessary cog in the wheel of the Royal Australian Navy.

"F3692"

THE SURRENDER OF DUTCH BORNEO AN EYE-WITNESS ACCOUNT

AT 0815 on the 8th September, 1945, as he stepped aboard the quarter deck of the Australian frigate Burdekin, the flag of Major General E. J. Milford, G.O.C., 7 Div., was broken at the fore-truck and fluttered challengingly in the light breeze. Representatives of all the Allied services in the Balikpapan area were also embarked, and the Burdekin weighed anchor and proceeded out of Balikpapan harbour en route to a rendezvous position approximately fifty miles north, just off the mouth of the Mahakam River delta. Seven United States P.T. boats - M.T.B. Squadron 27-accompanied her. Her mission was to receive on board the Japanese naval officer in charge of Dutch Borneo, and accept his formal surrender.

While the "mosquitoes" proceeded to embark the Jap emissaries, Burdekin anchored in her appointed position and made preparations to receive them. A table and two chairs were placed on the quarter deck, the cutlass party armed and positions assigned. All was ready when, on time, the P.T. squadron hove in sight. The squadron commander in P.T.377, with three "mosquitoes" ranged on either side, approached. Formations of Mitchells, Spitfires and Boomerangs winged their way overhead.

A green Very light was fired from HMAS Burdekin as a signal to come alongside, and the guards on the gangway, armed with cutlasses and standing at ease, snapped smartly to attention with ceremonial precision, and brought their cutlasses to the "carry". The P.T. secured alongside, and Vice-Admiral Mitchishi Kamada stepped on board between the guards and saluted, a battery of cameras recording his every movement.

A red Very light was then fired and the Jap staff-Captain Tsujahashi, Lieutenant Commander Wake and the interpreter, Mr. Nagashima-followed Kamada's lead. They approached the table and stood waiting, shifting nervously from foot to foot.

Grouped around the table to witness the signing were Brigadier I. N. Dougherty (COM. 21 Inf. Brig.), Brigadier F. 0. Chilton (Com. 18 Inf. Brig.), Brig. G. H. O'Brien (C.R.A- 7 Div.), Brigadier F. G. Wood (COM. 25 Inf. Brig.), Lieutenant-Colonel Wilmouth (G.S.O.1 7 Div.), Lieutenant Colonel Lahey (A.A. & Q.M.G- 7 Div.). Captain Jacobson (G.S.0-3 (Inf.) 7 Div-), Captain Smith (A.T.S.), Group-Captain J. P. Rylands (R.A.A.F.), Captain E. W. Hoffman (U.S.N.), Captain J. C. Seale (U.S. Army). and Lieutenant-Colonel L. A. Vandeberg (N.E.I. Army).

As the P.Ts circled the ship at half speed, the ceremonial cutlass party, Major-General Milford, and Burdekin's commanding officer. Lieutenant-Commander T. S. Marchington, R.N.R., who was the naval representative, marched to the table. The staff officers saluted, and the G.O.C. returned the salute. As he turned and faced the Japs, grimly but triumphantly, each stood rigidly to attention in their dirty jungle greens and saluted the leader of the men who had brought them to this sorry pass.

Receiving an affirmative answer from the Jap admiral, that he was prepared to accept the surrender terms in full, the G.O.C. instructed him to sign the instrument of surrender, and to place his sheathed sword upon it as a token of surrender. This order was complied with, the Jap admiral looking very defeated and the picture of abject despair as he stepped back. Eight bells sounded noon and signified the conclusion of the solemn impressive ceremony.

Two white Very lights were fired to indicate to the aircraft that the formal proceedings were successfully completed. The aircraft thereupon cavorted all over the sky, zooming, climbing, and diving, and victory roll followed victory roll as the planes endeavoured to emulate, stridently, the jubilation we all felt. The Japanese emissaries reembarked in P.T-377, and Burdekin returned to Balikpapan, the general's flag being struck at 1630.

"S5035"