Coasts of Cape York

by Christopher Cummings

  It was a good landing, much smoother than Willy expected, and he thoroughly enjoyed it. ‘I love the way the spray flies up past the windows,’ he told himself.

  For five minutes the ‘Catalina’ taxied along close to the waterfront of Thursday Island. Willy saw hundreds of people waving and watching so he waved back. ‘Mr Jemmerling is doing a good thing,’ he thought, ‘even if he is going to charge these people money to visit the plane.’

  The Catalina then swung to starboard and buffeted its way into a metre high chop across the two kilometres or so of water between Thursday Island and Horn Island. This took another ten minutes and they came to a bobbing standstill close to the jetty and slipways at Wasaga. The ‘Catalina’ was driven up onto the bottom end of a wide, gently sloping concrete ramp. “This was the hard and slipway used by the Ansett Airways Flying Boats in the Nineteen forties and Nineteen fifties,” Mr Jemmerling explained as he joined them in the cabin after the motors were switched off.

  “What type of flying boats were they sir?” Willy asked. He thought he knew but did not want to appear a ‘knowall’.

  “They were mostly converted ‘Sunderlands’, and a civilian version called the ‘Sandringham’,” Mr Jemmerling answered. Willy nodded. ‘I was right,’ he thought, picturing RAAF ‘Sunderlands’ on patrol, searching for German U-boats.

  The group was then told to collect their gear and disembark. One by one they passed out their bags to Harvey and Mr Hobbs and then climbed down the short ladder. As soon as he was on the wet concrete ramp Willy was directed up past the bow to where a white min-bus waited. Here he joined the others and met the driver, a very pleasant and attractive lady.

  “Please hop into the bus and I will take you to the resort,” she said.

  “May we watch the ‘Catalina’ leave?” Willy asked.

  “Certainly,” she answered.

  They climbed in and sat watching. Willy noted that Mr Jemmerling did not join them but that Mr Hobbs did. Harvey folded up the steps and climbed back into the aircraft. As it was sweltering in the small bus the driver turned on the engine and the air conditioning while they waited. The ‘Catalina’s’ brakes were released and it rolled slowly back into the water. A bow rope was thrown to a big Torres Strait Islander in an aluminium dinghy with an outboard motor. This then acted as a two rope to spin the aircraft around. Once it was facing away from the shore the tow rope was cast off, the dinghy motored out of the way and the aircraft’s engines were started. The ‘Catalina’ then taxied off towards Thursday Island, the slipstream showering the waiting bus with a misty spray.

  The bus was quickly driven away from the sea. The route was along the streets of the small town of Wasaga. To Willy it all looked fairly ordinary, but very dry. A few blocks away the bus parked at the ‘Gateway Torres Strait Resort’. This was where they were staying for the night and they unloaded their bags and went inside to register. They were then shown to their rooms. The resort was all one story with a large dining room and a bar and cabins and a swimming pool beyond the courtyard. Of more interest to Willy was the discovery that the fourth side of the courtyard was taken up by a large hall that housed a museum.

  TORRES STRAIT HERITAGE MUSEUM and ART GALLERY read the sign. This also listed the times and admission prices. ‘I must have a look in there,’ Willy told himself.

  He was shown to a room which he was to share with Stick. As soon as he had placed his bags in the room Willy went back out and asked if he could visit the museum. The driver, now acting as the receptionist, smiled and nodded. “It is paid for as part of your accommodation package,” she explained.

  Willy made his way to the museum and went in, followed by the others. Inside he found it was a large hall. Nearest the door on the left was an audio visual display. All of one side was devoted to Horn Island during World War 2 with hundreds of photos and signs explaining them. The other side included a Melanesian cultural display, models of pearling luggers, historical photos of Thursday Island and Horn Island; and an art gallery of paintings depicting Torres Strait myths and legends. There were also numerous artifacts such as drums, masks, spears, models of outrigger canoes and the headdresses called dharis.

  After a quick walk around to sample the range of items on display Willy started at the beginning of the World War 2 section. There were not only numerous photos but also a lot to read. These included signs, memoirs, books and pamphlets. The first fact that he learned which surprised him was that Horn Island was the first place in Queensland to come under Japanese air attack during the war.

  “I didn’t know that,” he commented to Marjorie.

  Willy picked up a pamphlet and read the details, noting that the first raid was on the 14th of March 1942. The first Japanese raid comprised eight ‘Zero’ fighters and 12 ‘Betty’ bombers. They were met by American ‘Kittyhawk’ fighters of the 7th Squadron, 49th Fighter Group and were led by Capt Bob Morrissey.

  A painting nearby illustrated a critical moment in the resulting air battle when one of the American pilots, Lt House, having used his ammunition in shooting down one enemy plane then used his starboard wing tip to slice through the cockpit of another Zero which was on Capt Morrissey’s tail.

  ‘That was a gutsy thing to do,’ Willy thought. It got him wondering if he would ever have the skill to do something like that, or even if he could. ‘Could I fire at another aircraft, knowing that I might kill a person?’ he wondered. It was one of those niggling doubts and moral dilemmas he was starting to consider more and more.

  Then Willy picked up a pamphlet which instantly gripped his interest. It was the photo of the three-engine flying boat that caught this eye first. Then he read the caption. It read: ‘Dutch Dornier flying boats at Horn Island after evacuating civilians from Makassang, 18th Feb 1942.’

  “Dutch flying boats!” Willy muttered. “I didn’t know they ever came to this part of the world.”

  CHAPTER 19

  GULF THUNDER

  Willy bent to study the small black and white photo more closely. ‘Dutch ‘Dorniers’ for sure,’ he told himself . He read the snippet of information beside the photo. It read: ‘As the Japanese over-ran the Dutch East Indies the flying boats of the Dutch Naval Air Service were used not only for reconnaissance and bombing raids but also to evacuate people to safety. The two aircraft shown had just landed at Horn Island after rescuing VIPs, Senior Dutch Officers and civilians from Makassang. They had been attacked and chased by Japanese fighters but managed to escape.’

  The story fascinated Willy and he felt a strong wish to learn more. It also appealed to his imagination. ‘That would have been a really worthwhile thing to do, to save those people from under the noses of the enemy,’ he mused.

  Andrew interrupted him by saying, “Willy, come and look at this fabulous model of a pearl lugger.”

  Not wishing to be rude Willy did so. It was certainly an excellent model but did not really interest him. But he did learn that there had once been a great pearling industry centred on Thursday island- hundreds of small sailing ships: schooners and luggers, which took divers out to the shallow areas where pearl shell lay on the bottom. He had heard a bit about it but now learned a lot more and felt quite ashamed of his ignorance.

  Stick gave him another insight into the pearl divers by trying on the old fashioned brass diver’s helmet that was suspended by chains from the rafters. “Try this Willy,” he called.

  Willy walked over and ducked down to place his head in the helmet. The instant impression was one of claustrophobia. He felt quite anxious and realized he could hear his own breathing. ‘You can’t see much through these tiny little portholes,’ he thought. He knew the portholes had to be small so that the glass would not crack under the pressure when deep down.

  Stick added to the awful images by saying, “You wouldn’t have got me down in one of these, having to depend on some joker up in the boat to keep the air supply going.”

  Willy knew the old fashioned divers had been supplied by air through a rubber
air hose from a pump up in the lugger. ‘Nor me!’ he thought, imagining the air hose getting cut or broken.

  Stick called to Andrew, “Hey Andrew, stick this on. You are a diver aren’t you?”

  Andrew looked and then shook his head. “Not for me thanks.”

  “Why, ya scared?” Stick sneered.

  To Willy’s surprise Andrew nodded. “Yes I am. I’m a diver, so I know how dangerous it was. My Grandfather died diving in a helmet like that,” he replied. He then looked quite upset and turned away, walking off quickly.

  Marjorie at once snapped at her brother, “Oh Stick! How could you be so insensitive? Don’t you remember that horrible business last year when Andrew discovered his grandfather’s remains in that old shipwreck?”

  “Yeah well! He’ll be alright,” Stick muttered, but he didn’t look sorry.

  Willy decided the best thing to do was allow Andrew to recover in private so he went back to studying the war records. These included accounts of air raids by the Japanese, aircraft accidents, engineering works to improve the base, and details of the various air force and army units based at Horn Island. The number and variety of these astonished and interested Willy. ‘The RAAF had three squadrons based here: 32 Squadron with ‘Hudson’ bombers, 75 Squadron with ‘Kittyhawks’ and 7 Squadron with ‘Beauforts’,’ he noted. There were pictures and plastic kit models of each type and he studied these.

  He noted that American aircraft of the 19th Bomb Group and 49th Fighter Group were based there, plus an American anti aircraft unit- the 104th. The Australian army had engineers (17th Field Coy RAE), heavy coastal artillery and two batteries of anti aircraft guns (the 34th Heavy AA Bty and the 157th Light AA Bty). “There were also the 5th Machine Gun Battalion, 26th Infantry Battalion and the Torres Strait Light Infantry Battalion,” Willy read.

  The photos of Torres Strait Light Infantry particularly held his interest. ‘They look very ‘colonial’ to start with,’ he thought, seeing a photos of strapping big black men in shorts, boots and slouch hats but no shirts in 1942. This was followed by one taken in 1943 in which they were all dressed in the standard khaki long trousers and shirts that the army wore at that time.

  Mr Beck and Norman joined him. “Anything interesting Willy?” Mr Beck asked.

  “Here is a plane crash,” Willy said, pointing to a photo of the wreck of a P-47 ‘Thunderbolt’. He read the caption, which told him that on the 19th of March 1944 the aircraft, flown by Wing Commander Lambert, had clipped the propeller of a parked ‘Kittyhawk’ with its undercarriage, then the tail fin of another ‘Kittyhawk’, causing them to collide with yet another ‘Kittyhawk’ that was parked in the stand-by area. ‘All the ‘Kittyhawks’ belonged to No 86 Squadron but were empty,’ it said. Then Willy read aloud the last sentence which said, “The remains of the aircraft sits on the spot where she landed in 1944, the pilot having escaped with minor injuries.” He turned to Mr Beck. “Maybe we could go and see that wreck if it is still there?”

  “Possibly,” Mr Beck replied. “Depends on my friend Mr Jemmerling.”

  “Friend?”

  Mr Beck laughed. “Oh he’s been nice enough but there is no doubt we are in competition and he is continually trying to trick me into giving away clues.”

  Norman laughed as well, then said, “Here’s another aircraft crash, a B-17 this time.”

  Willy studied the photos and read the caption and felt sick. The plane had been a bomber named Tojo Jinx and had been carrying five members of a salvage crew who had been sent to retrieve what they could from another B-17 that had crashed a few days earlier. ‘The aircraft, No.41-2421, flown by Major McPherson and with Lt Penick as co-pilot crashed on landing. The cause of the accident seemed to be the scraping of the large wing on the ground. All 10 crew and the five passengers were killed,’ he read.

  The image of the bomber exploding and burning the people to death appalled Willy and he felt momentarily queasy.

  Norman pointed to a photo which showed one of the B-17’s engines lying where the plane crashed. “We could see that,” he suggested.

  Willy shook his head. “I’d rather not,” he answered. He moved on, to read about the work of the engineers and to look at a display to the 1st Australian Camp Hospital. Marjorie joined him and snuggled in. “What are you looking at?” she asked.

  “Just seeing if any of these nurses are as pretty as you,” he replied.

  “Oh get away with you!” Marjorie squeaked in delight. She snuggled closer and hugged him.

  “Stop that you two! This is a museum, not a playground,” called Norman, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Oh poo to you!” Marjorie called back, poking her tongue at him, then giving Willy a kiss on his cheek. As she did Willy’s father and mother came in. She at once let go and Willy blushed fiercely. His parents made no comment but he was sure that was the reason they made very sure that he and Marjorie got no opportunity to be alone that evening.

  Willy’s mother said, “It is nearly dinner time. You children go and have a wash and change and then join us in the dining room by seven.”

  “Mum! We aren’t children,” Willy protested.

  “No, maybe not,” Willy’s mother replied, giving Marjorie a cautionary glance.

  Willy again blushed. “But we haven’t seen half of this museum yet,” he protested.

  “Doesn’t matter. You will have time in the morning, now go!” his mother said firmly. Willy knew that tone of voice so he went and did what he was told without further argument.

  A shower, change of clothes then dinner in the restaurant followed. Willy enjoyed the food and was happy to discuss all they had seen during the day but found he was yawning by 8:00 pm. Unable to think of any plausible reason that might allow him and Marjorie get away on their own he had to sit with increasing frustration and then made excuses and went early to bed. He knew there was no chance of seeing Marjorie during the night as she was sharing a room with his mother, while his father shared with Norman.

  During the night Willy had two bad dreams. When he woke he could only remember snippets but the one that stuck in his mind was of him being in a large propeller driven aeroplane which kept losing altitude towards an ocean full of sharks. Finally it crashed and as Willy struggled to get out of the door he saw below him in the sea the floating corpse being savaged by a huge shark.

  Stick, who had shared the room, was not amused. “Gawd Willy, you tossed and bloody turned and kept groaning and carrying on. I wish you’d stop dreaming about Marjorie,” he complained.

  “I wish I had been,” Willy replied, rubbing sleep from dry and tired eyes.

  By 7:00am they were packed and ready. Ten minutes later they were in the dining room having breakfast. Willy pretended he was fine though in truth he felt awful and more anxious than he could justify. By 8:00 am they were all back in the museum. Mr Jemmerling and the aircrew had not had the opportunity to visit the previous day so another hour was spent there.

  This time Willy concentrated on the cultural side of the museum, studying the paintings of local legends and scenes and dreading their stories. He found it all very interesting and decided that he particularly liked the rhythmic music of the Torres Strait. Several times a cheerful and chatty Mr Jemmerling spoke to him and Willy was even more confused. Was Mr Jemmerling really the deadly rival or not? ‘He seems so open and nice,’ Willy thought.

  By 9:30am the whole group was standing outside the resort, loading gear into the mini-bus. The aircrew were driven to the ‘Catalina’ with the gear. Twenty minutes later the bus came back and the others climbed aboard. A short bus ride took them through open, dry bush to the remains of a B17 that had crashed. All that remained were the rusting remains of the engines and a few pieces of aluminium. After a few minutes for photos they got back on the bus and travelled on to the airport but they only drove around for a few minutes, then travelled back to the town. This time the mini-bus took them to the hard.

  The ‘Catalina’ was ready for take-off by then, ha
ving been refuelled and had its pre-flight checks mostly done. The group climbed aboard and settled in the same seats as the previous day. As he did up his seat belt Willy experienced a sudden feeling of dread and wondered if it was a premonition. ‘Are we going to crash on this flight?’ he wondered. As he usually really enjoyed flying the vague feelings of apprehension bothered him. ‘I’m being silly,’ he told himself. ‘We are mostly flying over land, or near it, on this flight.’

  Some lunches in cardboard boxes were passed up to Harvey and Mr Hobbs. Then the door was closed the ‘Catalina’ rolled back into the water. Willy watched with interest as it was towed away from the shore and turned around. Being so low to the water that some of the spray swept over his porthole gave him a peculiar feeling of sinking, but the flying boat bobbed about easily on the small waves. The motors were started and run-up, then the aircraft taxied out into the open water.

  Despite Willy’s irrational misgivings the take-off was uneventful. Once airborne the aircraft turned to starboard and flew over Horn Island and then over Prince of Wales Island. As it did Willy glimpsed several large, ocean-going ships to the north of the islands. ‘They are in the main shipping channel through the Torres Strait,’ he noted.

  The aircraft continued to climb, going up to 1,000 feet according to Mr Johnson. Through his porthole Willy could see east over the Endeavour Strait and was just able to pick out the coastal settlements near Bamaga: Seisia and Injinoo. He noted with interest that he could just make out the other side of the peninsula. ‘That is the Coral Sea in the distance,’ he told himself.

  Their course then was southwards over the waters of the Gulf of Carpentaria, with the western coast of Cape York Peninsula a kilometre to port. Willy knew that this coast was very different from the east coast but even so it made him shake his head. Below him slid mile after mile of shallow water full of sandbars and mudflats, seemingly endless beaches backed by low scrub and dry bush and huge tracts of mangrove swamps intersected by twisting creeks and inlets. And in all that vast expanse there was barely a hint of any sort of human settlement or development.