Open Writing

On a day in June 1945 the SS Dominion Monarch sailed gracefully past the high cliffs of the Sydney Heads and into the yacht-infested waters of that harbour, and when the ‘million pound coat-hanger that the pommies built’ -- the Sydney Harbour Bridge -- hove into sight, then we knew we had arrived.

‘We’ being the motley cargo of service personnel fresh out from England, well, out from England -- ‘fresh’ perhaps not after being cooped up on a troopship for four weeks. But there we were.

The sun shone. The skies were blue, the water tranquil even if it was midwinter, and the broad harbour spread before us in greeting, unlike the daubed message on the wall of a dockland warehouse which presented a foresight of the intelligence of some of the natives when it read ‘Pommies Go Home.’ For many that was a fervent wish, after having a look around, that is. There was no need for the ball-and-chain gang to tell us. As it was we were lumbered with them. No wonder their predecessors had been shipped to this colonial outpost.

Well, that was the consensus of opinion at the time. Fortunately a coin has its obverse, and there were many kind-hearted anglophiles in residence who willingly opened their hearts and homes to British service personnel, providing comforts unavailable in service life. Such retreats were known as ‘up homers’, and I was fortunate in being made a welcome guest in one such, the residence of the Andersons of Mattraville, a suburb of Sydney.

First though there was the business of becoming a resident of HMS Golden Hind at Warwick Farm racecourse. That shore base was bestrewn with bell tents, which provided our accommodation. Officers were quartered in the one-time grandstand -- obviously!

Ever on the look-out for a bargain, I fell to temptation by breaking the forces’ unwritten law which succinctly stated, “Never volunteer!” I was blindly trusting, young and foolish, so enlisted for sentry duties. These entailed patrols on the officers’ mess -- wardroom in the Royal Navy --and main gate. The routine was monotonous with what was known as 24 hours on 24 off, four hours about. That is 24 hours on duty with four hour intervals of sentry go, then four hours off, followed by 24 hours free time. That was the stick. The carrot was 48 hours off, which for me fell at the following weekend, and I had a comfortable home to go to. What could be simpler? Me. I fell for it.

Rarely is sentry-go exciting. Daytime duty is bad enough, but night watches are worse. One night because I was hungry I nicked some raw spuds from a conveniently placed sack and munched away on those. They eased the pangs of emptiness and helped pass the time.

Excitement was aroused on another occasion whilst parading outside the wardroom. Suddenly the elastic band on my underpants gave way. Fortunately I was wearing full blues and not shorts. Even so, I remember feeling a certain sloppiness as I paraded back and forth.

To further break the monotony and to accompany my floppy feeling, I commenced to throw my rifle about in customary drill routine. Again it helped pass time, even if I did consider my movements nonchalant in operation. It was daylight by that time, and a petty officer of the watch approached with, of all things, a commendation from the officer of the watch on my smartness of drill and military bearing.

He had been observing me from the guardhouse. I found the episode amusing but doubt if the officer would have done so had he been aware that my naval knicks were slobbing around my knees. I don’t know though. Perhaps I would have been further commended for my fortitude in the face of adversity, and then again maybe not.

I completed my week of duties at 8:00 a.m. on the Saturday morning and was walking between the tent lines, cheered by the thought of 48 hours in the comfort of a civilized lifestyle when I was met by another of the tent’s occupants. His four-word greeting deflated all my hopes and aspirations. “It’s on your bed.” There was no need for further explanation. I knew all too well what he had left unsaid.

The ‘it’ referred to was a draft chit. That meant I had been allocated to a ship. The questions then were ‘which one, where, and when?’ I read the chit. It said, “Wrangler.” All other information came from the draft office. This amounted to learning the vessel was moored in Sydney harbour, and I was to join her that afternoon. Bang went my hard-earned weekend off, that along with my droopy drawers. I was having a new start all around!

Instead then of my anticipated 48 hours leave I got one night ashore, and we sailed the following day. Golden Hind was several miles outside Sydney, and the railway proved the quickest way into the city. There may have been more stations than the two imprinted on my memory, but the names of those were quickly added to by the fertile wits of some ratings. The stations were Cabramatta and Parramatta. These were soon coupled with ‘What’s the matter?’ and ‘Doesn’t matter.’

However, when one left base on draft, unless it was en masse, then inevitably a Bedford truck provided transport. Left to one’s own devices whilst in transit opened the way to temptations. One could easily become ‘lost’ in a big city and a bigger country. Thus it was that I became a deposit at a point which gloried in the name of ‘Man o’ War Steps’ in Sydney harbour, there to await further conveyance onto my next floating abode.

I have always thought it extremely considerate of the Aussies to commemorate my departure from their beloved country into northern hostile waters and who knew not what dangers by their erecting a monument in my honour close to the point of embarkation. I am well aware that many people refer to that edifice as the Sydney Opera House, but I know the truth, and now so do you!

HMS Wrangler was a destroyer, one of the V and W clas, which meant all their names began with either a V or a W. At 1700 tons she was nippy for her time, and as time went by became nippier, but not in speed. I was assigned to her as radar operator, but since that apparatus was broken when I joined the ship and was still so when I left her, then I was engaged in general shipboard duties.

The full complement of bodies I don’t recall, around 150 probably. What I do remember, however, is that all hammock berths were occupied. ‘Cramped conditions’ is the term often used when describing such arrangements. So I was left with a makeshift slinging position, which meant one end of my hammock was lashed to an iron stanchion and the other to a clip on a watertight door some three feet from the deck at the pointed end of the vessel -- the bit that bounces most.

That situation served me for the six months I was on the ship. But one night when the sea was using the vessel as a ball and playing bouncy-bouncy with it, then the lashing on the clip was jolted upwards and aft. Being asleep at the time, it came as something of a shock to hit the steel deck with a bump on my rump and right elbow, which proved painful. After that I made sure the lashings were more secure.

Following my curtailed leave we left Sydney for Brisbane. Why we spent 24 hours there I have no idea. Lower deck ratings were then not always privy to the wondrous workings of Admiralty minds. All I do remember of the visit, socially, was that it rained and I went to the pictures, and it was still raining when I came out. So I’ve never been back.

The following morning our captain addressed us saying we were about to sail for the islands -- the Pacific variety -- where it would be our task to protect the aircraft carriers against attack from kamikaze bombers -- ‘The Divine Wind’ in translation. Should we be hit as a result, he continued, well that would be just too bad!

As might be imagined, our spirits were greatly uplifted by that news, and we raised lusty cheers in reply. Oh no we didn’t. What was said exactly I cannot write, since I am unsure of the spelling of some of the words. Besides, it is still possible that such expletives are as yet covered by the Official Secrets Act.

Nevertheless, it came to pass that within ten days of my arriving in Australia I was sailing northwards into hostile waters, where over the coming months we would not only sail north but also to every other point of the compass. We travelled in circles, squares, triangles, zigzags, spirals and any other geometric pattern you care to think of, in what began to seem a never-ending series of patrol duties consisting of long sea spells and apparently aimless wanderings.

Rarely did we know where we were, which meant that if and when we got there we were none the wiser. Consequently we never knew where we’d been. When a watery waste stretches from horizon to horizon day after day, it doesn’t really matter where ‘here’ is, since the difference between ‘here’ and ‘there’ doesn’t seem to exist. If all this sounds puzzling, then it gives some idea of how we felt at the time.

During the following months, although ports were reached, I set foot on dry land once only. So rather than ‘a life on the ocean wave’ substitute ‘lifetime’. It certainly felt like one.