The New Zealand troopships had been painted light grey with a small number inside a star at the bow and stern, but the Australians had been less conscientious, leaving their vessels in their original colours, potential sitting ducks in daylight, even obliging the enemy with a large square painted on the bow with which to identify each vessel and supply a perfect target at which to aim. They are almost a week out to sea before someone in the fleet realises that the larger passenger liners and, in particular, the Orvieto with the general and staff on board, are conveniently lit up like a Christmas tree for any German cruisers hunting at night. From this point on, the strictest blackout conditions are observed. In an example of Navy overkill which goes from the sublime to the ridiculous, the troops are even forbidden to smoke on deck on the premise that a match struck on a dark night can be observed by a strong pair of field glasses at a distance of four miles.
On November 7th the convoy receives the news that the two German battleships the Scharnhorst and the Gneisenau have met a British squadron off the South American coast close to Coronel and that the British cruisers Good Hope and Monmouth have been sunk. There is suddenly a sobering sense of vulnerability among the general staff with the realisation that a single German cruiser, were it to get in among them, could wreak havoc with the three parallel lines of Australian and New Zealand ships. If, for instance, the enemy warship managed to sail into any one of the corridors separating the Allied ships, every ship would instantly become a sitting target for the Germans, while the four Allied cruisers would virtually be unable to fire a clean shot at the enemy for fear of hitting one of their own convoy in the crossfire.
On the night of November 7th, the Cocos Islands thirty-six hours of sailing away, all lights are extinguished in a practice drill involving the entire convoy and its four supporting cruisers. Sleeping on deck is forbidden, members of the crew pad about the ships in bare feet and complete radio silence is maintained. The Cocos Islands are considered a danger point, since the German battleship Emden was last known to be prowling in the vicinity of the Bay of Bengal and is quite capable of reaching the convoy.
To make matters worse, at dawn the following day the Minotaur signals to Major-General Bridges on the Orvieto that she has been ordered on other service and disappears in the direction of Mauritius. The presumption is, because of the losses of two British cruisers off Coronel, she will be needed to escort a South African convoy from the Cape. The Australian and New Zealand convoy is left with only three cruisers and the Melbourne takes the Minotaur’s place at its head. They now have a cruiser ahead and one on either beam but nothing to protect them if the Emden creeps up at night from the rear and gets in amongst them.
The sun sets gloriously on a smooth sea bringing with it a calm and warm night. They are due to pass fifty miles east of the Cocos Islands in the early hours of the following morning. Ben is unable to sleep in the hot cabin and goes on deck for a spell of cooler air just as the moon rises at eleven-thirty. The sea is smooth as glass and he can see the dark hulls of the convoy, like a great herd of silent and determined behemoths moving on their way. The Ibuki’s huge smoke plume is clearly visible in the moonlight. Ben remains on deck for an hour before being discovered by a ship’s officer and ordered below. He lies in his bunk thinking of home, of Hawk and Victoria, Hawk growing visibly older, and it occurs to him with a sudden start that Hawk may not be there when he returns home. Depressed, he conjures up in his mind the soft cool dawn of a Tasmanian summer morning and then thinks of the adventure to come. He wonders whether seeing Britain and Europe will change him, though he can’t conceive of ever wanting to leave the Tasmanian wilderness with its fast-flowing creeks and the deep-flowing rivers fronted with blue gum and blackbutt that had stood tall and majestic when Abel Tasman the great Dutch navigator passed the island more than two hundred and fifty years before. The trees now tower for almost three hundred feet, brushing the canopy of low cloud that settles above the forest just before it begins to rain. He can’t imagine anything comparing with that, no cathedral in Europe could be a grander sight to his eyes. The lights of Paris or London could never compare to a vermilion bushfire raging through the mountains at night. Eventually he falls asleep listening to the throbbing of the ship’s engines and the plash-plash of the waves hitting the side of the ship as the convoy moves undisturbed through the warm tropical night.
Summer dawn in the Indian Ocean is as beautiful a display as nature is capable of putting on, with the pink-streaked dawn as sharp as a maharaja’s ruby. As the new day breaks, the siren of the Orvieto gives a sustained hoot, the convoy is, at that very moment, swinging round the Cocos Islands and the most critical point of the voyage appears to have passed.
At 6.24, the cooks are breaking eggs and beginning to fry the first rashers for breakfast in the galley when the wireless operators of several of the convoy ships and the three escorts receive a short unexpected message. It comes through very loud and clear as if sent at no distance whatsoever and simply reads ‘KATIVBATTAV’ which makes no sense. Two minutes later the message is repeated. Then the wireless station on the Cocos Islands is heard calling, ‘What is that code? What is that code?’ No answer follows, but ninety seconds later the same coded call is made, though only once. The next signal to come through is from the Cocos Islands calling the Minotaur, which does not reply as she is well out of radio range on her way to Mauritius. The Cocos wireless station tries again and this time adds, ‘Strange warship approaching.’ The Minotaur is, of course, again unable to answer and shortly after the station sends out a general call, ‘S.O.S. Strange warship approaching,’ and suddenly falls silent.
HMAS Sydney is detached from the convoy to hunt for the enemy, leaving the convoy with only the Melbourne and the Japanese light cruiser Ibuki to protect the convoy. If Sydney doesn’t find her quarry and the enemy cruiser sneaks up on the convoy, all hell will break loose. With a German warship in the vicinity, discovering the convoy’s whereabouts isn’t going to be too difficult. The Ibuki burns two hundred tons of coal a day and an ever-present pillar of dense black smoke tumbles high into a cloudless sky and is visible forty miles away. A determined enemy warship with a good set of guns and a well-trained crew, if it can get in amongst them, is capable of sinking at least half of the convoy before it is finally dispatched.
The entire convoy witnesses the Sydney leaving them and it doesn’t take a lot of imagination from the men to know she has gone to meet the enemy. The day is to be treated like any other on board, with physical jerks, inspections, parades and rifle drills as well as the scheduled lectures, but at every opportunity the men’s eyes are turned out to sea.
Just after breakfast a message is sent from the Sydney to say that she has sighted the enemy ship which is steaming northward and could conceivably cross the convoy’s track. The Ibuki immediately requests permission from Captain Silver of the Melbourne to join the Sydney in the impending battle, but this is refused. Both warships now move to a point far out on the port beam to be in the best possible position if the enemy ship approaches, the Melbourne slightly ahead of the convoy and the Japanese ship at its centre.
At 10.45 a wireless message is received from the Sydney: ‘Am briskly engaging the enemy.’ Most of the men on board are convinced the enemy must be the dreaded Emden, the German cruiser most often mentioned in Australian newspapers as taking a terrible toll on British merchant ships in the Indian Ocean. At 11.10 comes a signal: ‘Emden beached and done for.’
The news, despite the effort of General Bridges to keep it subdued until more is known, spreads like a bushfire through the transports, and there is tremendous pride among the men that an Australian warship has tasted first blood and come out the victor. Whatever activity is taking place on board is thrown into chaos and finally an order from General Bridges gives the troops a half-day holiday.
However, the convoy is not out of danger, the Königsberg, the Emden’s sister ship, is still thought to be hunting in the Indian Ocean, and that night there is a
nother blackout for the ships. The captains of the transport ships hate the blackouts because they make sailing in a convoy dangerous, with the ever-present risk of one ship ramming another. But the following day news arrives that the Königsberg has been definitely sighted off the coast of Africa, at much too great a distance to reach them. From that point on it is plain sailing to Colombo, where they meet up with the Sydney again. The prisoners taken from the Emden are transported to various troopships, the wounded hospitalised, with the captain of the Emden coming on board the Orvieto together with several of his officers. The troops are not permitted to go ashore at Colombo and, after coaling and taking on fresh water and supplies, the convoy sails for Aden.
Several days out from Colombo, Lieutenant R. G. Casey, one of the officers in charge of the prisoners, asks Captain von Müller, a tall, thin aristocrat, what he would have done if he had sighted the convoy.
Excessively polite, von Müller replies in an English with very little accent. ‘If I had got up to you I should have run alongside her,’ he points to the Ibuki, ‘and fired a torpedo. Then in the confusion I would have got in among the transports. I would have sunk half of them, I think, before your escort came up.’ He shrugged. ‘I would have been sunk in the end, I expect, I always expected that.’
It is generally agreed that his chances of approaching unobserved on such a bright moonlit night would have been a thousand to one. It is also agreed among the Australian officers who get to know him that he is just the sort to attempt it.
At Aden, while most of the ships are anchored in the harbour, the Orvieto, with the Australian High Command on board, docks. Aden proves to be a busy port. Troop transports, either making for India with territorial troops or returning from there with British regulars or native troops, seem to be coming in or out all of the time. On the day the Orvieto arrives there are fifty-seven vessels in the harbour and the dusty streets of Aden, set against a backdrop of bare red hills, throng with soldiers.
A small contingent of officers from the Orvieto is sent ashore to perform various duties, one of which is to see that the mail from the Orvieto is delivered to the Aden Club for posting. Sixteen infantrymen are picked to carry the mail bags to the club where they will be placed under lock and key until they can be put on board a ship returning to Australia. Six of the Click platoon, as they are now known, are among the lucky men selected for the mail patrol. Muddy Parthe, Crow Rigby, Woggy Mustafa, Numbers Cooligan, Hornbill and Library Spencer all draw the lucky short straw, with Wordy Smith as one of the two officers in charge of the ship’s mail.
None of the lads has been overseas and, except for Woggy Mustafa, whose father hails originally from Lebanon, they have never seen an Arab and know nothing about the exotic world of the Arabian Nights although, at a pinch, they might admit to having heard of the Pyramids.
Library, of course, knows a fair amount about the Arabs and the British presence in Aden, none of which is considered useful and he proves absolutely hopeless when it comes to the important stuff like brothels, booze, belly dancers and what food is safe to eat, whether the beer is cold and if it gives you gyppo guts.
However, Numbers Cooligan reckons that human nature being what it is, every city has a place where you go to get into trouble and they’d find it soon enough. ‘All them what wants to get pissed and plugged, bring your frenchies and follow me,’ he declares at the bottom of the gangplank. They are to wait on the wharf for the mail bags and for Wordy Smith to arrive. Ben has given Crow Rigby an exact map to the Aden Club in case Wordy gets them lost.
‘Who says we’re gunna be allowed any free time?’ Hornbill asks.
‘Officers have been given the whole day ashore, with my powers o’ persuasion, Wordy Smith’s not gunna make us return to ship before sundown,’ Numbers Cooligan answers confidently.
‘Reckon we should do, yer know, a bit o’ sight-seeing first,’ Crow Rigby says. ‘Get to know the lay o’ the land, like?’
‘Whaffor? We seen it comin’ into the harbour, it’s a shit-hole.’ Cooligan gives a couple of exaggerated sniffs, ‘Can’t ya smell it?’
‘Shit, Cooligan, that comes from that dead dog over there,’ Hornbill says, pointing to a dead mongrel lying some fifty feet upwind from them, three crows are already busy pecking at it.
‘Fuckin’ ’ell, they’ve even got ’em here!’ Crow Rigby exclaims.
‘Well, that’s yer proof then, ain’t it? We ’aven’t come fifty feet and we’ve hit our first dead dog. Plenty more where he come from, mate!’ Numbers Cooligan says ominously.
‘What do you think, Woggy?’ Muddy Parthe asks. ‘Yer old man come from ’round these parts, don’t he?’
‘Lebanon, it ain’t like this, we’re Christians, mate,’ Woggy protests, then adds, ‘Me old man says you got to go to the bazaar.’
‘Did you hear that, lads? That’s a flamin’ expert opinion, Woggy’s old man says the bazaar. Righto, them what’s coming, onward Christian soldiers!’
Lieutenant Ormington-Smith arrives and shortly afterwards the mail bags are lowered by crane. Crow Rigby, on Ben’s instructions, takes command and, with each of them carrying a sack of mail, they head for the gate. The provost sergeant at the gate salutes Wordy Smith with the merest touch of his red-banded cap, examines their passes and tells them not to drink the water or any soft drinks and gets the cheerful reply, ‘Righto then, Sergeant, if you insist, we’ll stick to beer!’
The Arabs waiting hopefully at the gates follow the lads all the way to the Aden Club where Wordy Smith has simply followed Crow Rigby who, in turn, has assiduously consulted Ben’s map. Numbers Cooligan, who has been walking alongside Wordy Smith at the rear, gives the thumbs-up sign as they reach the club.
The veranda of the Aden Club, with canvas awning down and electric ceiling fans working overtime though it isn’t much past ten o’clock in the morning, is already packed with Australian and British officers off the various ships, the Australians busy getting their laughing gear around a cold and splendidly foaming ale, while the British seem to have a preference for a drink called ‘Gin and it’.
The lads from Ben’s platoon, trying hard to remember what a truly cold beer tastes like, soon realise they are unlikely to be given the opportunity to find out at the Aden Club, and take the mail bags to the club secretary’s office. With Wordy Smith watching, the canvas bags are locked into a back room with no windows which seems to contain several bags of potatoes and onions but little else. The club secretary gives Wordy Smith a receipt, but Crow Rigby politely takes it from him, folds it and places it in the breast pocket of his tunic for safekeeping.
Wordy Smith leaves them at the entrance, having arranged with Crow Rigby to meet them back at the club no later than five o’clock that afternoon.
They all salute him. ‘Thank you, sir, have a beer or six for us, won’t you, sir,’ Numbers Cooligan advises their platoon officer.
Wordy Smith taps the small canvas kitbag he carries, ‘No, no, cliffproms splendspes, whato!’, which Library translates when they are out of earshot as ‘No, no, cliffs promise splendid specimens, what ho!’ Library adds, ‘He’s got all his stuff in his kitbag and he has his kneepads in his tunic. He’s taken the day off to paint his flowers.’
‘Do you think Ben knows?’ Muddy asks.
‘Jesus, Muddy!’ Numbers protests. ‘It don’t matter, not for now anyhow! Let’s kick the dust, the bazaar awaits such as us with wonders to behold!’
They walk down the quiet, neatly raked, white-gravel driveway bordered by brilliant red cannas and clipped lawns, shaded by poinciana trees, and out of the gates of the snooty club grounds into the harsh sun and baked earth where Britain’s orderly influence ends and Arab chaos begins.
Once through the gates, the lads are immediately engulfed by men in long white robes importuning them, plucking at their tunics and presenting their wares, most of which appear to be of a recreational kind. All of the offers begin with the words ‘You want . . .’ ‘You want jig-jig, soldier?’
‘You want my sister? Very clean. You only first time, British guarantee!’ ‘You want jig-a-jig show, only one dinar, mans and womans, donkey and womans, very nice for you.’ ‘You want dirty postcard? Only one dinar, six, you pick also.’
‘Ere, give us a gander at them postcards,’ Hornbill says to an Arab, who has a dozen black and white pornographic postcards which he loops in a two-foot arc from one hand to another. The cards instantly stack into his left hand and he deals the first one to Hornbill as though a croupier in a Biarritz casino.
The card shows a bald bloke with a waxed and curled mustachio, he is barrel-chested with a protruding beer gut and is completely bollocky except for his socks and suspenders. He is chock-a-block up the back of a large female who is on all fours. She is looking directly at the camera, her face devoid of any expression. The centre of her lips is painted into a small bow, which extends above and below the lip line, with the remainder of her mouth visible on either side of the bow. The outlines of her eyes are heavily made up with black kohl and the eyebrows appear to have been shaved or plucked and then painted back in a more intensely arched line with the same substance. Two darkish circles of rouge are apparent on the cheeks of a face powdered a ghostly white. Her hair is swept up in the style of the Victorian era, the whole effect giving her the appearance of a tarted-up possum.
‘Shit, it’s him again!’ Hornbill exclaims as they jostle to have a squiz.
‘Him, who?’ someone asks.
‘Me uncle’s got some o’ these pitchiz,’ Hornbill explains, ‘he got ’em from some sailors who were pissed and broke who swapped them for eight pies and a bottle o’ sauce.’ He stabs a finger at the man in the picture. ‘It’s the same bloke, me uncle’s got twenty o’ them postcards, that fat bloke’s in all o’ them and here he is again!’ Hornbill shakes his head. ‘No matter what possie he’s in, he don’t never take off his socks and suspenders.’ He turns to the Arab and hands the postcard back. ‘Let’s see the others, mate? I bet fat Fritz is in ’em all.’
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