大象传媒

A WISH COME TRUE

BY REG.VEALE EX L.A.F4E) LFX 106479

Back in the early 1930's going to the cinema was a regular Saturday morning occasion, I don't think that my friend and I ever missed a matinee at the DE'LUXE theatre in Gloucester where, with great excitement, we used to watch serials such as The Last Of The Mohicans, The Lone Ranger, and Buck Rodgers etc. During the interval, the organ would rise up from the pit and we would sing along, with the help of words pointed out on the screen by a bouncing ball. It was after this that we would be shown a travelogue and I well remember the paradise islands of the Pacific they portrayed: palm trees swaying gently in the breeze, beautiful blue lagoons, and arid exotic food in abundance. Visitors to those shores were embraced by dusky maidens in grass skirts, festooned with garlands of flowers, and regaled by the cascading harmonies of Hawaiian guitars to which the grass skirted ladies sensually gyrated. Trance like, the closing words of the narrator never varied: "And as the golden sun sinks slowly in the west, we say farewell to this island of paradise". I used to long to visit such an island and dream about my wish coming true.

On the 9th of December 1944, having been seconded to the Royal Air Force for nine months, I received a draft to return to H.M.S. Gosling in Warrington. This Fleet Air Arm camp was where I had received my basic training in March 1943. I associated it with square bashing and disciplinary training that I and other raw recruits had been put through. What was the reason for my return? During the customary F.F.T, and general joining routine, I met a few other bods who were wondering the same thing. All was revealed in a pep talk on how we were going to 鈥渨in the war鈥�, and how we were to be trained in the art of self defence, jungle fighting and survival. On the matter of survival, the only thing I knew was that you should never eat yellow snow. Three months of intensive Commando training followed in the middle of winter how we ever survived the ordeal, I'll never know. I was supposed to be a Leading Air Fitter and so what the hell was I doing, fighting fit and dressed in Khaki battle dress?

At last! Order of the day: 14 days leave, then report back to Gosling on the 7th of March 1945: marching orders; destination Liverpool Docks. As part of a unit known as M.S.R.6, we piled into the usual mode of transport, the faithful old Bedfords. Later while embarking on the cruise liner Empress of Scotland, close observation revealed that the word "Japan" had been blacked out and "Scotland" painted over it. Was this an omen?

With 10,000 souls on board, we joined a convoy, and headed north round the tip of Ireland and then south into the Atlantic before parting company with it at the Azores. The convoy continued onwards to the Mediterranean. Swinging to starboard, our course was south west across the Atlantic. With our speed increased from 6 to 22 knots it would be almost impossible for a submarine to sink us (so we were told). The old Empress shuddered as the taps were opened up, but she finally settled down as she reached cruising speed en route for the Panama Canal.

Early on in the journey, I found night times the worst. I clearly remember the day the Skipper assembled us on the promenade deck and told us that we were heading for Sydney, Australia, to join the Pacific Fleet. We were given a lecture on how to survive should we have the misfortune of being torpedoed. That night in my bunk I was looking at a porthole immediately above my head and like all others it had been covered over with a thick steel plate. I realised that we must have been very close to the water line and that if attacked, a torpedo would enter the ship just below my bunk and that the Skipper's lecture seemed a complete waste of time; in any case I couldn't swim and even if I could, where would I swim to? After weighing up the situation I remembered that someone once told me that drowning was quite a pleasant experience, from then on for some reason or other, all doubts in my mind disappeared. On reflection, how can anyone know that drowning is a pleasant experience? I sometimes think that somewhere along the line we were all brainwashed to think that it would never happen to us.

After a few days out we ran into rough weather; it appears that the Captain had taken evasive action to avoid the worst part of the storm but even then, gale force winds lashed the old Empress and you could hear the creaks and groans as she battled against the elements, there were moments when I thought that all my birthdays had come at once; this was my first introduction to rough weather and sea sickness.

As the days passed, life became very boring; nothing to do but pace the deck or stand and watch the hypnotic effect of the bow wave making instant changing patterns, or stand aft watching the wake left behind like a wide watery street reaching back to infinity. We were by now entering the tropics: the Empress was beginning to warm up; conditions below decks were gradually becoming almost unbearable. The holds were opened and large canvas shoots hung in an attempt to channel fresh air to the lower decks. Order of the day: sun bathing. Having received a lecture on the dangers of over exposure on the first day we were only allowed 10 minutes on the front and 10 minutes on the back. This was extended at the rate of 5 minutes a day until we all had an acceptable tan protecting us from serious sunburn. Some of the lads did not heed the initial warning and suffered great agony of large blisters on their shoulders that could only be described as having the appearance of fried eggs. Because the injuries were self inflicted, they received very little sympathy from the sick bay and had to suffer in silence.

At long last, land ahead! We had reached the port of Colon, the entrance to the Panama Canal. The Canal Zone had been occupied by the American army to ensure the safety of Allied shipping. We were allowed ashore, but only in the immediate vicinity of the Empress. Something I shall never forget is when a native attempted to sell bananas from the dockside. They were arranged on, what looked like, two massive hands each being almost as big as himself and suspended from a pole across his shoulders. Not having seen a banana since the outbreak of war, it was like showing a red rag to a bull; the poor fellow was mobbed. The unfortunate native disappeared without trace.

While the Empress was refuelling and taking on supplies the American U.S.O., (the equivalent to our E.N.S.A.) entertained us with the big band of Tommy Dorsey and the ever popular Dinah Shaw. We also enjoyed a demonstration by the American Jitterbug champion and, if my memory serves me right, Paddy Lewis the youngest member of M.S.R.6, was one of the volunteers to have a go. Coca Cola and doughnuts were the order of the day, then back on board and the fantastic experience of passing through the Panama Canal.

With just inches to spare we climbed up through the locks to the freshwater lake; what a relief! Freshwater showers, the first since leaving home. Leaving the lake behind, we continued onwards and down to the Pacific (which I'm told, is higher than the Atlantic). We had witnessed the result of a feat of engineering beyond all words to describe, it has to be seen to be believed.

After a few days the temperature on the Empress, whilst continuing South West, began to cool down, making conditions more acceptable for the last stretch of our journey. Eventually we reached our destination, and what a welcome sight as we passed through Sydney Harbour Heads was the old coat hanger bridge spanning the harbour and the view of the city beyond. All around us, anchored in the harbour and tied up to quays were ships of every type imaginable. We were told that they were part of the famous Fleet Train on which we were later to rely on for our existence. Without them, indeed, the B.P.F. would never have existed. On disembarking, and after a short journey out of Sydney, we arrived at R.N.A.S. Bankstown, or H.M.S. Nabberley, manned by M.O.N.A.B. We were soon involved in building Seafires which were transported to the Fleet by means of the escort carriers of the Fleet Train.

During the first week in May we were given 14 days leave. My good pal, Harry Watts and I opted for a stay at a sheep station at a place by the name of Gidleigh. The station was in excess of 400 square miles, we were warned not to wander off out of sight of the homestead on our own; it was all too easy for anyone not conversant with the bush to get lost with serious consequences. On the 8th of May we received the news that Germany had surrendered. Mr Robinson the station manager, immediately organised a Victory parade and Thanksgiving service at the Gidleigh war memorial. My claim to fame is that Harry Watts and I were the first ever and only, F.A.A. ratings to lead a Victory Parade.

After sampling the generous hospitality of the Australian people, we embarked on the escort carrier H.M.S.Arbiter on the 18th of May to join up with M.O.N.A.B.4 on the island of Ponam. At last my wish of my younger days was about to come true; I was on my way to see for myself the swaying palms and dusky maidens of a paradise island in the South Pacific, but, things were not quite as they had been portrayed in the travelogues. Firstly I found out that the Pacific Ocean was not as tranquil and blue as they had made out. After about four days out somewhere around New Guinea, we hit a typhoon. Huge waves broke over the flight deck which was loaded with supplies, and despite being securely lashed down, several crates were washed overboard. During the height of the storm the Arbiter registered a list of 48 degrees and, without doubt, if it had not been for the full tanks of aviation fuel acting as ballast, she would have turned turtle. Had the tanks been only half full, the weight of fuel shifting to one side would have assisted in taking her under, fortunately the Captain had been well briefed on taking evasive action when confronted with such severe conditions.

There was an event on the 18th of December, 1944 that involved the U.S.Navy's Pacific Fleet and was little known neither to the R.N. nor to the public. The Scene for the catastrophe was set about 300 miles east of Luzon. During support missions for the invasion of the Philippines, the fleet was caught in the middle of a vicious typhoon. Three destroyers, the Hull, the Monaghan and the Spence quickly capsized and went down with all hands. Carriers Miami, Monterey, Cowpens, San Jacino, Cape Esperence and Altamaha were all seriously damaged, as were D.D.Aylwin, Dewey and Hickox, lesser damage was incurred by 19 other ships. Serious fires broke out on three carriers when aircraft smashed into each other in the hanger decks; 146 aircraft on various ships were lost overboard or sufficiently wrecked by fire or impact to warrant their scrapping. 790 men were killed and 80 were injured. Rolling of 70 degrees or more

was reported from destroyers that survived. The severity of the disaster was due to the Fleet Commanders trying to maintain Fleet courses, speed and formation during the storm. Commanders failed to realise that they should have given up such attempts and instead directed all attention to saving there ships. After this terrible tragedy, Admiral Nimitz issued orders to the effect that the safety of the ship at all times was of paramount importance even if it meant dropping out of battle formation; the ship would be saved to fight again and, in any case, the enemy would be similarly affected by turbulent conditions.

On entering the Bismarck Sea we were warned that we'd come within range of enemy aircraft based at Rabaul in New Britain. The damage control party was closed up and all bulkhead doors kept shut, this being normal routine when in an operational area. A Corsair which had been lashed down on the catapult was checked over; it had not suffered any damage during the storm. An interesting thought: had it been necessary to have launched the Corsair there was no way that it could have landed back on board with the flight deck loaded with cargo, I presume that the Admiralty considered Pilots and Corsairs to be disposable objects.

Approximately 300 miles further on and we were approaching Manus, the main Pacific Fleet anchorage in the Admiralty Islands. We were lulled by a calm sea, a gentle breeze, the clear sky reflecting on the water, flying fish and dolphins riding the bow wave. My wish had started to come true; all I needed now was the tropical island and a blue lagoon. I was rudely awakened from my meditative state by a blast from the annoy, M.S.R.6 "MUSTER IN THE HANGER DECK" we were told that we would be reaching our destination, Ponam Island, the next day.

The following morning we sailed into a massive anchorage of shipping, with the similar variety of ships seen in Sydney. There were tramp steamers, tankers, cargo vessels and rust buckets of all shapes and sizes and nationalities. It was an International Fleet with Officers and men from Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, India, Canada etc. This was Task Force 112 better known as The Fleet Train. Its anchorage at Manus in the Admiralty Islands was the main forward supply base for the British Pacific Fleet. After unloading supplies and aircraft the Arbiter weighed anchor and proceeded to Ponam Island just three hours sailing from the anchorage, I had at last arrived at my island paradise. Going ashore however was a great disappointment. Where were all the dusky maidens with their garlands of flowers? Why, in the travelogues, was there no mention of the sun reflecting off the coral and burning your legs, or the sand flies, coral snakes, land crabs, mosquitoes, Instead there was the high humidity, no flush toilets, no fresh water, tinned and dehydrated food, the list goes on and on. Needless to say no mention was made of the necessity of being armed with a Sten gun. There was no doubt about it; all those travelogues that I had seen were part of a big con. I felt like complaining but unfortunately there wasn't a complaints department on the island. One submarine Captain described the Admiralty Islands as the 'Islands of lost souls'.

Ponam Island was the most northerly Fleet Air Arm base in the Pacific during the Last year of the war, being 2000 miles north of the B.P.F.Headquarters in Sydney, two degrees off the equator, zero feet above sea level. One and a half miles in length and approximately 400 yards wide, it was just large enough to contain a Mobile Operational Naval Air Base and its support. The unit's name was M.O.N.A.B.4 and its title H.M.S.NABARON. 3 miles to the south in the plantation on the western end of Manus were an isolated battalion of Japanese, hence our issue of Sten guns. They were carefully monitored and left to their own devices. The natives were paid by the head for any they brought in and this, I may say, they took literally. Occasionally they were used for combat practice by American troops fresh to the operational area. The object of the Base was to repair and replace aircraft to all front line squadrons, at some time or other all carriers and squadrons of the Fleet visited Ponam and apparently we did a very good job under appalling conditions. Everyone suffered from prickly heat. Some of the lads suffered from tropical ulcers caused by coral dust getting into the slightest scratch or burns from the metal of the aircraft. In temperatures of 120F plus, despite high humidity, dehydration was a problem. We lost a lot of body fluid and were told to drink plenty of water, fresh water to us on the island would have been like drinking vintage Champagne. All that was available to us was lukewarm desalinated sea water, heavily chlorinated and dispensed from large canvas bags not unlike large oversize cows udders. At lunch time we were given an anti-malaria tablet and two salt tablets washed down with our daily dose of lime juice; this proved a problem for me because the salt tablets made me violently sick after the midday meal so I decided not to take them.

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