The MONAB Story

[ As part of a review of the naval air support in the Pacific theatre the Admiralty announced in October that four Mobile Units were to be disbanded in early November 1945, these were to be MONAB I, III, IV and VII; MONAB II, V & VI plus TAMY I would continue operations in support of fleet operations and the reception and disposal of aircraft arising from the disbandment of squadrons as the BPF began to reduce its size. As part of this downsizing operation MONAB V was to replace MONAB I at Nowra and MONAB VI would replace MONAB III at Schofields. MONAB VII personnel were to be redistributed to other nits, many joining TAMY I.

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The reminiscences of Leading Air Fitter (Engines) Reg Veale

Reg served with Maintenance, Storage & Repair Unit No.6 (MSR 6)  and wrote down his memories in the form of a story ‘A WISH COME TRUE’ which he has kindly allowed to be reproduced here. Copies of his work are lodged with the Fleet Air Arm Museum, and the University of Leeds.

Early days

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 DELUXE 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'd 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 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.

Joining MSR 6

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 and 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.I, 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 win the war 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, and then report back to Gosling. 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.

Off to Australia

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 Med. 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 creeks 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 sheets 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.0. (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 Empress, 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. 2, where we were soon involved in building Seafires which were transported to the Fleet by means of the escort carriers of the Fleet Train.

&In 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 Gidley. 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 Gidley 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.

On the move again

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 to the R.N. or 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 formations during the storm. Commanders failed to realise that they should have given up such attempts and instead, directed all attention to saving their 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 Tannoy, "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, and 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

A wish come true...Ponam Island

After unloading supplies and aircraft the Arbiter weighed anchor and preceded 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 there 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, 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'.

Having grown a full set, and having suffered the agony of bugs getting trapped in it, I decided one morning after a restless night that enough was enough. I set to work with scissors and razor. I clearly remember the white mask that appeared all over my face. My beard had protected my face from the sun and I looked like the Phantom of the Opera, Even so, what a relief! However, my relief had a price attached: I was put on a charge for altering my identity. My pay book had a photo of someone with a beard but the person holding the pay book had no beard. This was a very serious charge and had I been anywhere else I would probably have been hung drawn and quartered or at the very least, been stripped of my hook. Fortunately, the skipper, apart from being sympathetic had a sense of humour. I was given 14 days confined to barracks; it was not recorded on my documents.

On the island we worked from dawn to dusk, there was no time for tropical routine, but it was not all doom and gloom. At times we received the privilege of extended "make and mends" when we would put on boots and gaiters to explore the shallow expanse of the lagoon where every type of coral and tropical fish existed. There was a deep pool in the lagoon, which had been scooped out of the coral with explosives either by the Japanese or the Americans and used for swimming, The water temperature rarely fell below 90F, and the only way to cool down was to stand wet in a slight breeze. As regular as clockwork, we would get an advanced warning of a tropical rain storm, because it was always preceded by the rustling of the palm trees as the wind sprang up.

M.S.R. 6 (Mobile Storage Reserve) was one of the many units making up M.O.N.A.B. 4. Some of us were detailed to the eastern end of the island to operate the dispersal site where, during our time on Ponam, literally hundreds of all different types of aircraft were despatched to carriers of the B.P.F. Due to the unpredictable weather and extreme conditions in the tropics the average life of a British aircraft was 15 flying hours, and of an American aircraft 25 hours. The difference between them was that a Seafire was designed as a short-range interceptor for use in temperate climates, whereas a Corsair was designed for long range and operation under tropical conditions; it even had an air-conditioned cockpit.

Earlier on I mentioned that we had no flush toilets. A walkway approximately 60ft long led to a platform over the sea covered with a roof of palm leaves. Inside was a low bench with a series of holes where one would drop shorts, sit on a hole and contemplate. The most unusual thing about this bench was that at times every other hole would be left vacant to allow each occupier to gaze down the adjacent one while holding in one hand, a fishing line. For some reason there was always an abundance of fish in this area; I have no idea what type of fish they were but we called them s**t fish.

In exchange for a tot of rum, I had obtained from one of the Yankee Sea Bees a primus stove, on top of which a piece of steel plate made a perfect barbecue. After de-scaling the fish it would be placed whole on the plate and well cooked, allowing the flesh to fall off the bones. This left the bones and intestines intact thereby stopping the contents o-f the stomach contaminating the flesh. This fresh meat made a welcome change to our diet.

Wednesday August 15th, we received the good news that the Japanese had surrendered. Order of the day: 'Splice the Mainbrace'. We were warned not to be too complacent; 1,000s of Japanese would not accept defeat and we were still considered to be operational, in fact it was not until March 2nd 1946 that the Americans considered that all hostilities had ceased. Anyone who served in the American forces up to that date were awarded the Asiatic Pacific Campaign Medal which was accompanied by the award of a pension for services rendered.

During our stay on Ponam we came under the command of William. F. Halsey who was the Commander of the American 3rd fleet. He was put in charge of all Naval Forces in the South Pacific. At the end of the war the Asiatic Pacific Campaign medal and pension was offered to all who had served under the command of the American Flee. unfortunately for us, the new British Labour Government of 1945 would not allow us this privilege.

There is just one thing, which rather irks me; it is an entry in Ron Lewin's unofficial diary, which makes me very envious of him and everyone who were on board H.M.S. Unicorn. It states; Thursday August 16th 1945 the 2nd day of celebrating has for us proved noteworthy in only one respect, namely the enjoyable dinner provided. The soup was quite commonplace, but the main course of turkey, stuffing, potatoes and green peas was liberal (a whole turkey between nine of us), well cooked and a complete change from the usual monotony of meat. There followed Christmas pudding and finally a raw apple. The ship "piped down" during the morning. Where the hell did they get such an abundance of good food? I think that the best we had was a tin of Spam and dehydrated potatoes. Somebody somewhere owes us a Christmas dinner!

With reference to the end of the Pacific War; sadly and in some ways prophetically, Admiral Rawlings wrote, "I have not seen the personal signals, or indeed seen all the official signals, but I am in no two minds about one thing; that the "fading out" of the task force and the manner in which this is being done is not only tragic, but is one which I would give much to avoid. To me, what is happening to its personnel and its ships seems to ignore their feelings, there sentiments and there pride; in so doing quite a lot is being cast away, for the Fleet accomplished something which matters immensely".

I am not speaking of such enemy they met, nor of the difficulties they overcome, nor of the long periods at sea; I am speaking of that which was from the start our overriding and heaviest responsibility, the fact that we were in a position which was in most ways unique and was in any case decisive; for we could have lowered the good name of the British Navy in American eyes for ever. I am not certain that those at home have any idea of what these long operational periods mean, nor of the strain put on those in the ships, so many of whom, both officers and men, are mere children, for instance Leading Seamen of 19 and Petty Officers of 21.

When I look back on that which this untrained youth has managed to accomplish and to stick out, then I have no fear for the future of the Navy, provided, but only provided, that we handle them with vision and understanding, and that we recognise them for what they were and are-people of great courage who would follow one anywhere, and whose keynote was that the word "impossible" did not exist. And so, I question the wisdom of dispersing a Fleet in the way in which it is now being done. At the very least there should have been taken home to England a token force somewhat similar to that which was left in the operating area with the American Fleet when the tanker shortage required the withdrawal of the greater part of the Task Force. It seems to me that here was a matter, which could have been utilised in a dignified- and far reaching manner-the arrival in home waters of ships who had represented the Empire alongside their American Allies, and who were present, adding there not ineffective blow, at the annihilation of the Japanese Navy and the defeat of Japan.

It may well be that the days will come when the Navy will find it hard to get the money it needs. Perhaps then a remembrance of the return and the work of the British Pacific Fleet might have helped to provide a stimulus and an encouragement to wean the public from counter attractions and those more alluringly staged. The arrival home of a token force at the time of the Victory celebrations might have fixed the British Pacific Fleet more firmly in the public's memory. But it was not to be. In time the Fleet quietly faded away, with the result that the Far Eastern fleets may have been the largest assemblies of Commonwealth ships in history but, like the three old ladies locked in the lavatory, nobody knew they were there.

In 1995 Harry Bannister of the Ponam Association applied to the Pentagon on behalf of its members for the American Asiatic Pacific Campaign Medal in recognition of their service with the American Fleet. As from late 1997,' after 52 years, the American Asiatic-Pacific Campaign Medal has been made available to all those who served in the British Pacific Fleet

The possibility of pensions or medals, or reflections of a forgotten fleet were not on our minds as we prepared to leave Ponam for home. On the 20th of September 1945, H.M.S. Vindex was anchored off the sea loading line to the south of the island. Fortunately, M.S.R. 6 were to be one of the first units to leave. The Vindex which had set off from Java had on board hundreds of ex-prisoners of war including some women internees. Several of the women were accompanied by young Japanese children and babies. These mothers had offered favours to Japanese officers in the prison camps in exchange for extra rations and medical care for sick and injured men.

The hanger deck was full of stretcher cases of men suffering from the effects of treatment received at the hands of the Japanese. I have never seen such a sight of human suffering in all my life than that which I witnessed on that day. It made me realise h idyllic our lives had been in comparison, and that my youthful wish had actually come true: I had visited the island of my dreams in the South Pacific with its waving palms and blue lagoon. ...And as the golden sun sinks slowly in the west, we say farewell to that exotic paradise island of Ponam

Reg Veale

The reminiscences of Sub-Lieutenant (A) Peter Hyde RNVR

Peter Hyde flew as a maintenance Test Pilot with MONAB 4 and later served with 723 Fleet Requirements Unit at R.N.A.S. Nowra.

‘Trapped above the clouds by co-incidence’

This reminiscence piece was not written with MONABs in mind, Peter is recalling the chain of coincidences which led him to the pacific theatre and eventually, to an encounter in a bar in London after the war. The work is reproduced by kind permission of the author

How it all started

Why did ten minutes spent in a Nissen hut on a Scottish airfield towards the end of the Second World War lead to a unique experience on a South Pacific atoll and to near disaster in the Australian skies? The answer: a series of coincidences, each setting the stage for the next, and documented by entries in my flying log book. The account that follows illustrates the powerful role of coincidence in shaping the direction of our lives.

It begins with my arrival on 28 December 1944 at R.N.A.S. Ayr, the birthplace of Robbie Bums. I was there for a three-week conversion course. I would learn to fly the Navy's first-line fighters and torpedo bombers, and I hoped, complete six practice deck landings on an aircraft carrier in the Clyde.

By then I had logged 455 hours, some at flying schools in Britain and Canada, the remainder while "stooging" in Boulton-Paul Defiants. Designed for night fighting, they were found to be lacking in speed and manoeuvrability, and were soon reassigned to other duties, one of which was drogue towing. The monotonous task of hauling sleeve targets at the end of a long cable, backwards and forwards along a designated sector of the Cornish coast between St. Merryn and Tintagel, so that they could be fired on by student fighter pilots, was one of the safest of all wartime flying jobs. Now, at the ripe old age of 20 I was about to realize my dream of joining an operational squadron and going to sea in one of HM's carriers.

Little did I realize that fate would intervene and deposit me on the other side of the world. Picture the scene at Ayr on January 4th, 1945. At latitude 55 degrees, 30 minutes north, the sun is about to set. It is 1530 hours and the sky is overcast. Flying has ended for the day, and the pilots and their instructors are awaiting transportation to the Mess, located on the far side of the field.

A utility van known as "Tilly" is sighted wending its way along the perimeter track towards the aircraft dispersal area. As soon as it arrives there is a rush to clamber aboard, for there is only enough space for about a dozen. The laggards, an instructor, another student and myself, must wait in the hut until the return of the van. As it happened, the conjunction of my tardiness and a high-level decision in London to assemble a British Pacific Fleet to lend direct support to the U.S. forces during the final months of the war were to have an immediate effect on my future.

Suddenly, the telephone rang in the next room. The instructor appeared briefly in the doorway to ask which of us was available for a flying exercise on the following day. As my companion was already booked, I was asked to give my name and rank, which were repeated to the caller. Minutes later, "Tilly" returned and whisked us away to the Mess. On arrival, the Senior Pilot casually informed me that someone from the Admiralty had "phoned and I'd been appointed to join 723 squadron in Australia. "Get your things packed and go on embarkation leave tomorrow. Take the morning train to London and get kitted out for the tropics. You'll receive further instructions in due course." So that was it—-not an exercise but half way round the world in a troopship. "What an extraordinary coincidence," I thought.

Off to Australia

The six-week voyage to Australia was completed without incident. After embarking in the troopship "Dominion Monarch," along with thousands of others, including many homeward bound Australian and New Zealand aircrew, we departed from Liverpool on the afternoon of January 15th. By daybreak we had joined a convoy of some 200 merchant vessels assembled off the coast of Northern Ireland; preparatory to crossing the U boat- infested North Atlantic at the speed of the slowest ship, about eight knots. It took all of 16 days to get to the Panama Canal.

After refuelling and victualling in Colon, we crossed the Pacific unescorted. Towards the end of the voyage we were scheduled to disembark several hundred New Zealanders, however, the plan was hastily abandoned upon the discovery that a Japanese submarine was shadowing us. The fact that the ship couldn't slow engines preparatory to entering harbour came as a major disappointment to the Kiwis, many of whom had been away from home for four or five years. Two days later, we arrived in Sydney.

After a few days of luxurious R & R in the spacious accommodations of HMS "Golden Hind," occupying the grounds of Sydney's pre-war racecourse, I travelled by train to HMS "Nabbington" at Nowra, a naval air station about 100 miles to the south, only to find that I was supernumerary, as the vacancy in the squadron had been filled. By yet another coincidence, a requirement had arisen for two maintenance test pilots to be sent to what were vaguely referred to as "the islands," lying somewhere to the north of Australia. To that end, another Subbie and myself were to receive training for the job at Bankstown, an R.A.A.F airfield on the outskirts of Sydney.

During our several weeks at Bankstown we were instructed in the fundamental principles of test flying in the leading naval fighters of the day, the Vought-Sikorsky F4U Corsair and the Grumman Hellcat, both designed and built in the United States, and the British-built Seafire Mark III, the naval version of the famous Spitfire. All were fitted with retractable arrestor hooks to facilitate deck landings, and with wings that folded hydraulically to facilitate storage below decks and in the limited space available near the forward end of the flight deck.

Off to the Islands

From Bankstown, we were ferried in an R.A.A.F DC-3 Dakota to Port Moresby in what is now known as Papua-New Guinea, and from there to the vast U.S. naval base at Manus, by far the largest of the string of Admiralty Islands forming part of the crescent-shaped Bismarck Archipelago.

After its recapture from the Japanese, Manus became the headquarters of General Douglas MacArthur, Supreme Commander of U.S. ground forces in the Pacific Theatre. Furnished with an excellent natural harbour, it served as the staging area for many hard-fought operations by U.S. ground forces against enemy-held islands lying farther to the north. By the time we arrived, MacArthur and his staff had already departed for their new headquarters at Manila in the Philippines.

From Manus, a light aircraft ferried Sub-Lieutenant Jack Jones and myself to Ponam, an atoll lying about three miles off the shoreline of the 60 miles long, jungle-covered Manus Island. The approximately mile and a quarter-long Ponam had been transferred by the U.S. Navy to the recently formed British Pacific Fleet. It incorporated an airstrip of crushed coral; aircraft repair shops and communications facilities; prefabricated buildings for the storage of aircraft parts; jeeps, trucks and other rolling stock; a launch in which a callow Midshipman named Balls deftly negotiated the treacherous waters of the reef; gasoline and oil storage reservoirs; a small control tower; a desalination plant to supply brackish drinking water; and accommodations for several thousand men. Air Artificers, riggers, fitters, armourers, radio technicians, electronics and communications specialists, to mention only some of those with state-of-the-art training in their trades, comprised the bulk of the Ship's Company. Known as HMS "Nabaron," MONAB 4 was the most northerly of the wartime MONABs.

Again, by coincidence, this was the very unit with which I had embarked at Liverpool earlier in the year for the six weeks voyage to Australia. I had never given a thought to its purpose or ultimate destination, and none of the lads had taken the trouble to enlighten me.

On thinking back, their studied silence undoubtedly reflected the high level of secrecy that surrounded every aspect of a brilliantly conceived mission. During the closing months of the war, "Nabaron" played a vital role in enabling forward repairs to be effected to British carrier-based aircraft that had been damaged in strikes against the enemy. The majority could be flown ashore, but the occasional severely mauled "kite" had to be ferried on landing craft that picked their way through the reef and the lagoon. Our job was to test fly them upon the completion of repairs, to ensure that they were airworthy and able to land-on and re-join their squadrons.

Soon after arriving, Jack Jones and I decided to stage an exhibition. We would do some unauthorised low flying in Seafires over the United States base at Manus, and after landing, provide an opportunity for the U.S. pilots to examine the famous "Spits" at close range. Upon returning to Ponam we were told to report immediately to the Commander (Flying). Lieut-Commander John Boteler R.N., a product of the Royal Naval College at Dartmouth, ordered us to stand stiffly to attention while facing him, and proceeded to read out a blistering signal received by Captain Bingley from the American Rear-Admiral a few minutes earlier. I recall hearing the phrase "not conducive to the development of good relations"... etc. etc. After telling us never to attempt such an "idiotic, blankety blank" performance again, "for if we did, that would be it," he shook hands warmly and the three of us sloped off to talk things over less formally in the Mess.

John Boteler, who was old enough to be our father, was immensely popular with a wide assortment of flying types. In exchange for a case of Scotch, he had acquired a home-made Piper Cub, built by an American sergeant in his spare time, and was in the habit of taking to the air in the old crate in the late afternoon hours. I can still "see" that tiny speck in the sky, some three-quarters of an hour later. It flew so slowly that it was impossible to lose sight of it. Getting back before dark was what really mattered, as Ponam lay only two degrees south of the Equator. He had some nasty prangs though, one of which consisted of tipping a Hellcat upside down after landing on the runway, and being forced to hang helpless in the straps, to the great consternation of the onlookers, the fire crew, the ambulance driver and the padre. Who knows! Perhaps he had applied the brakes too heavily? We were all saddened to learn of his demise, which as far as I know, was the result of yet another mishap.

I enjoyed my three months on Ponam; especially the time spent in the air, when one could open the hood and obtain blissful relief from the all-pervading heat and humidity on the island. It was with mixed feelings that I returned to Australia in mid-July, leaving behind an all-male community that included two Air Engineering Officers who were my cabin mates, the overhead coconut trees, the afternoon siestas that ended with a violent thunderstorm precisely at 4 p.m., followed by superb swimming within the safety of the reef, knowing full well that hungry sharks and barracuda lurked just outside it, the multicoloured birds and fish, the friendly lizards that shared our living space and pounced on uninvited insects, and the mysterious flying foxes, which could be seen among the treetops just before sunset.

Another lingering memory is that of watching Nabaron's padre, popularly referred to as The Bishop, explore the mysteries of the coral reef, with the aid of a snorkelling device. He did this every day. All one could see of him were the bubbles.

Return to Oz

In the Australian spring and summer that followed the end of hostilities, I remained on strength in 723 squadron until space became available in a troopship for the return voyage to the UK.

It was during this waiting period that a ceremonial flypast of British carrier-based aircraft took place off Melbourne as part of the victory celebrations. In the course of it, a Hellcat had become unserviceable and was forced to undergo repairs at Point Cook. A signal to Nowra was made, requesting that a pilot be sent to collect it, as the Fleet was already steaming north and it was necessary for the Hellcat to land-on.

The task was assigned to me and on September 6, 1945 I was flown from Nowra to Melbourne's Essendon airfield as a passenger in a clapped-out Avenger torpedo-bomber, piloted by a well-known Lieutenant Commander, one Freddie N.

drafty flight of several hours duration. We arrived in the late afternoon and agreed that on the following morning we would meet at 2,000 feet, and then fly back in formation. Over breakfast we finalised our plan. We would take-off simultaneously, he from Essendon and I from Point Cook, join up over the city, and head for Nowra and Bankstown, respectively. As he was by far my senior, I assumed that all matters pertaining to navigation and safety would be his responsibility. This was the only occasion I had ever taken off without a map, a chart, or some knowledge of the weather. All that I knew were Freddie's call-sign and the frequency of his receiver transmitter on the VHF radio band, essential for voice communications. It was easy to see him silhouetted against the ten-tenths ceiling. I had no idea of how thick the clouds were, and expected it would be easy to remain in formation as we climbed through them. At flying schools in Canada and Britain we had been thoroughly trained in the stringent demands of instrument flying, both at night and in cloud. But never before had I attempted to fly on instruments while keeping station on another aircraft. I soon discovered that it was impossible to do both. One would have needed two pairs of eyes. Cease watching his port wing for a moment and there would be an immediate change in your airspeed, course, altitude and the aircraft's angle of attack. The need to trust one's instruments implicitly and resolutely ignore subjective sensations was repeatedly emphasised in the training courses. Given that formation flying necessitates keeping the leader constantly in view, so as to instantaneously make corrections, the total loss of visibility was twitchy, to say the least. I hadn't expected the clouds to be so thick and had no alternative but to remain glued to the instruments until breaking clear of them.

The fact that the Avenger was heavier than the Hellcat and climbed more slowly added to the difficulties. On breaking into sun, Freddie was nowhere to be seen. I immediately contacted him by VHP. His reply: "Continue to orbit and I'll find you." Describing huge circles in the sky at an altitude of 9,000 feet, I wondered how long it would take him to spot me. About ten anxious minutes passed, during which I checked the amount of fuel in the main tank and the auxiliary drop-tank, which would provide an additional 45 minutes of flying. To my relief, both were registering full. There was no sign of the Avenger and I felt twinges of nervousness. The flight path between Melbourne and Nowra, approximately 500 miles to the northeast, crossed a major structural element of Australia's Great Dividing Range; it is known as the Australian Alps. The mountains trend north-eastwards from Melbourne at least as far as Canberra.

"Where the hell are you, Freddie?" I shouted, without switching on the transmitter, of course. Suddenly, the radio crackled in my earphones and he was saying "I can't see you. You had better proceed independently;" whereupon he gave me a bearing in degrees of azimuth on the compass, ending with "Good luck! Out."

Now, the course that a pilot steers in order to make good a desired track is governed chiefly by the force and direction of the wind. It was fortunate that, despite the absence of maps and weather information, I was able to recall the orientation of the departure runway at Point Cook and the approximate strength of the wind. Ideally, you take-off directly into the wind, so as to use up as little space as possible before becoming airborne. Knowing the compass heading of the runway, it was a simple matter to arrive at a rough approximation of the wind direction. By mentally working out a "triangle of velocities," I calculated a course that was based on the velocity of the wind at Melbourne and the direction and distance to be flown. The compass heading thus determined lay well to the east of the course I'd been given. After reflecting for a moment I decided that this easterly course was preferable. Getting lost over the outback would have led to my premature departure from this world!

Although I was counting on a break in the cloud, which would provide for a visual fix, after an hour had elapsed about half of the fuel had been expended and there was no indication of this happening. I was "sitting on the bearing," but the question that nagged me most was-"-how far away was the coast?

For a number of reasons, I didn't dare reduce altitude. For one thing, on the previous day we had flown close to or over Australia's highest peak, Mount Kosciusko, rising to more than 7300 feet. Secondly, if I were to turn 90 degrees to starboard, fly eastwards until well clear of the coast, and then come down through the clouds, I might still be above the land, as the course I'd worked out could have been wrong. The alternative of ditching in "the drink" and inflating the emergency dinghy was distinctly unappealing. It was safe to assume that there were sharks out there. There was no alternative but to remain on course and continue to hope for a break. After a further 45 minutes had elapsed I became seriously worried. The main fuel gauge was registering almost empty. I would soon have to switch to the drop tank. I peered downwards and could see only solid cloud that gave no sign of dispersing. Several minutes later, I looked down again. There were fleeting patches of cloud that presented a darker shade of blue. Then suddenly, I realized that the clouds were beginning to disperse. This was fact, not a mirage. Within minutes, a continuous expanse of dense eucalyptus bush country came clearly into view, some 10,000 feet below.

Now, for the moment of truth. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and turned my head to the right. After a moment of hesitation, I cautiously opened my eyes. Some 30 miles off the starboard wing was exactly what I'd been hoping for—a magnificent stretch of coastline. I breathed an enormous sigh of relief, made a rough estimation of the aircraft's position, and within half an hour was safely on the tarmac at Nowra.

My only other encounter with Freddie took place six months later in the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve Club on Hill Street in Mayfair. Noticing that someone had just taken an adjoining seat at the bar, I was astonished to find that it was he. How's that for a coincidence! "Hello" he exclaimed. "'Melbourne wasn't it? Get back alright?" "Yes thanks," I replied, somewhat gingerly. "What will it be?"

Peter Hyde

The reminiscences of FX587881 Aircraft Mechanic (Airframes) George Pickering

George served with Maintenance, Storage & Repair Unit No.4 (MSR 4) on Ponam

Joining MONAB II

After joining the Fleet Air Arm and completing my courses and training at HMS Gosling, myself and 30 ratings were posted on loan to RAF Coloerne (Nr Bath) in January 1944. This, we realised later, was to assist the RAF with operations for the D-Day landings.

In November of 1944 we returned to HMS Gosling, Warrington, for overseas postings (George was drafted to MONAB II). There were 90 of us ratings, each of us was issued with Army webbing and clothing for cold and wet situations. We were then sent on 14 days leave. Upon returning from leave we were confronted with Admiral Fraser who informed us that our destination had been changed and we were now going to the Antipodes, this news cheered us up a bit. Shortly after we went to Liverpool and boarded the S.S. Athelone Castle, the ship was full of New Zealand and Australian servicemen going home. We sailed from Liverpool on December 22nd 1944, heading for the Panama Canal, and then on to Australia, arriving in Sydney on January 25th.

Once off the ship we were sent straight to the airfield at Bankstown. This place was pretty empty and had little in the way of accommodation and facilities, but it began to fill up quickly as MONAB 2 began to move in. After about two weeks there a notice was posted on the camp notice board asking for 90 volunteers to form an advance party to go out to the Islands; nearer 200 names were supplied – my name was not included! The matter was eventually decided by outing three names from each letter of the alphabet into a hat, I came out as one of the ‘P’s.

Off to Ponam, the Admiralty Islands with MSR 4

The next day we boarded HMS Unicorn and sailed for the Islands, together with what seemed to be every British, American and Australian troop carrier and many other vessels of the fleet – I had never seen so many ships in my life! But by the next morning we were on our own, sailing up the east coast of Australia and on to the Island of Pityilu in the midst of a violent storm. I don’t know what happened here; the Americans refused us permission to land. The captain of Unicorn had to contact Sydney for new instructions, we were to spend the night on board an old Chinese Junk style boat while Unicorn ailed off elsewhere; she returned the next morning and we were taken back on board for transport to Ponam. The captain of Unicorn addressed us and told us that we were to form the advance party of MONAB IV and that from now on our address for post would be M.S.R. 4, HMS Nabaron.

Upon landing we were shown 8 Nissen style huts and told to ‘take our pick’, these had good bed spaces and wardrobes; these were to stop your clothes becoming mildewed.

We were met by four ‘top sergeants’ from the Seabees (US Naval Construction Battalion) who had built the runway etc. After settling in and finding our whereabouts, which didn’t take long. We were given our duties – I was selected for Chief’s Messman, which was looking after our own Chief Petty Officers, 2 RAF sergeants and the 4 Americans, 13 SNCOs in all.

During this time Unicorn had been unloading stores and equipment, including 7 Corsairs and 6 Hellcats; I can’t remember if any of them were serviceable, besides, there was no petrol or ammunition on the station. We didn’t have any guns either; the duty guard had only a whistle in case of danger! During this period there was little to do, one aircraft was being striped by a crew of 8 men, whilst another 8 men put one back together.

There was the occasional aircraft visit us but mainly because they had lost their bearings, one of these crashed, the pilot died from his injuries. Some of us were sent to remove oxygen bottles from aircraft because there was none in the stations sick bay. We sometimes saw the natives inside the coral reef for fishing, other times they were allowed ashore to bury their dead, we always had to stay clear from that end, and a guard was posted to make sure we did. We had a football pitch made from coral, there was a cinema, a church, and a proper sick bay. There were a few native huts but these were out of bounds.

I remember only seeing the Captain once, chiefs and petty officers very seldom; there was once chief who detailed the duty roster, he seemed to control the entire island, he was not a very nice man to get along with.

I had brought along a radio, one specially designed for the tropics, it was on almost all day listening to ‘the voice of the admiralties’ – it was through this that we heard about the atom bombs that were dropped on Japan. Just before this we were told all personnel would be allowed 10 days leave in Sydney, 30 at a time until all had been, flying there in a Dakota fitted out with seats.

I was on the first flight; first stop Port Moresby in New Guinea, fifteen minutes after leaving there the pilot came out and told us that the Japanese had surrendered. Next stop Townsville, Australia, we stayed overnight here, just the 30 of us in an old Australian Navy camp. The pubs appear to have been drunk dry, shops and cafes were closed so I went to the cinema. Off to Brisbane the next day, then on to Sydney. Not much of a leave, it took the Australians a week to open up again after VP day. We had a few good days, being shown around Manly, the Blue Mountains and Toranga Point etc

The flight back was nearly the same as that out; we arrived back at Ponam on September 1st to find that preparations were being made for some of us to leave. We (MSR 4) were picked up by Unicorn and taken to Brisbane, (MONAB VII); again, the camp was nearly empty. Two or three days later, after Unicorn had left, we were told we were to be sent to join MONAB IX at Singapore, and we were to board the S.S. Stratheden for passage.

Coming home

New orders came through whilst at sea, we were ordered home! First stop Bombay where I had my 21st Birthday, through the Suez Canal and on to Liverpool. We docked just in time for Christmas 1945. After Christmas it was back to HMS Gosling to await demob.

We went to Wellington (Shropshire) for demobilisation June 1st 1946 – due to be out by Nov-Dec 1946. My duties were in the guard room, this was where the sailors would queue every day to be signed off. I happened to see someone I knew and went off to have a chat with him – he was in the queue for demob. I was ordered by the PO to stop chattering and get back in line. I tried to tell him that I was just off duty but he would not listen. I got closer to the door where the Captain was signing the demob papers. The PO just opened the door for me and pushed me in. Of course, the Captain could not find my papers and ordered a Wren to go and get them. I tried explaining but he would not listen. The Wren came back with my papers and the Captain scribbled his signature right across them in red pencil DEMOBED 4TH JUNE 1946. So, to all my friends who thought it was a joke I was on my way home! They eventually came out in November. This is something that I have had a laugh about all these years.

George Pickering

The reminiscences of Telegraphist Kenneth Peterkin.

Kenneth joined MONAB 4, HMS Nabaron, at Ludham and remained with the unit throughout its commission at Ponam, returning home for Christmas 1945 with the ships company of ‘Nabaron’ aboard HMS Slinger.

Joining MONAB IV

I was transferred direct from Yeovilton to RAF Ludham and found the conditions there verging on the disgusting. All units were in dispersal areas on the perimeter. Some were two miles from the mess. It was freezing winter at the time and very few men could face the four mile walk there and back for breakfast. Fuel was in short supply and the Nissan huts often had no heating at all. Men slept dressed and covered their beds with an overcoat to keep warm.

A crude attempt was made to teach assault tactics and all ratings were issued with full Army battle dress, boots and gaiters. Most of the instruction was on Sten gun training and Mills bombs. The workshop units were set out on a runway and practice made with mobile generators, aerial erection, and driving of Jeeps and 5 ton Foden wagons with trailers. The trailers carried the workshop units which could be lifted to the ground, connected to an electrical supply and became operational immediately.

Most of the drivers had only driven on the airfield runways and were expected to drive a wagon and trailer from Ludham to Liverpool in black ice conditions. A wagon and trailer overturned in front of me as it was leaving the station. RAF Ludham was quite unsuitable for this type of training, which would have been better carried out at a Marine Depot. Took passage on HMS Dominion Monarch, stopping at Colon, then Sydney.

After about four weeks east of Sydney under canvas on a racecourse, we loaded up all our equipment on an LCT Empire Arquebus and took passage via Brisbane, New Ireland, New Britain to Manus harbour, and then to Ponam. On the trip from Sydney to Ponam on the Empire Arquebus messing was American style using a stainless-steel partitioned tray with officers and men eating together. The ship was infested by a flying beetle, which had come out of baled tobacco. The beetle was smaller than a ladybird but very voracious. All food had to be eaten quickly, beating off the beetle all the time.

Ponam, the Admiralty Islands

The airstrip at Ponam had been built on our arrival and we took over from US Seabees, Some remaining with us as maintenance staff. Ponam was about 22 miles by sea from the larger US base at Manus. We had a motor launch, which collected supplies from there each week, taking passage between Manus island and the barrier reef. I often went on this and used to buy slops and other items of clothing from the US store.

We only had one Marine attached to HMS Nabaron and he used to service the launch and was a regular crewmember. The same Marine also appears on the photograph of the ‘pacific post’ delivery. This purports to show a daily delivery of the BPF's own newspaper, 'Pacific Post'. The Marine is the driver. The rating standing is Puffer Train, Leading Hand WT, who was the editor of the daily newssheet, 'Jungle Echo’; I was present when the photograph (below) was taken. It was done for publicity purposes and the posters were stuck on the truck and removed immediately afterwards. That was the only day we ever received the 'Pacific Post' on Ponam. I cannot remember the name of the Marine but he was a good footballer and cricketer. He had played professional football for Plymouth Argyle. Puffer Train was well liked by the officers and was one of the few ratings who played badminton with them. He was about 38 and somewhat older than most of the crew. As editor of the 'Jungle Echo' he had direct access to the Skipper and used to discuss articles with him before publication. Puffer was one of the few lucky ones to be flown back to Sydney for two weeks leave. He got as far as the Blue Mountains. Puffer's home was Plymouth. All MONAB 4 men were Devonport ratings.

The 'Jungle Echo' was only made possible with the assistance of the Seabee detachment who remained on the island. They supplied all the reams of paper, stencils and the printing machine. Puffer was very good at collecting news but could not type and this made daily publication problematical. Up to 50 copies were printed each day and circulated to all ranks, and the Seabees. One of the collectible issues was when the first atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. This news was picked up from Tokyo Rose by the night WT watch as "a bomb with the equivalent power of 100,000 tons of TNT was dropped on Hiroshima destroying most of the city." This was telephoned through to the Skipper immediately and he would not believe it. He instructed that the tonnage be reduced to 1,000 tons. It was only after the second bomb was dropped on Nagasaki that we all realized that something enormous had happened, something beyond our comprehension. Tokyo Rose was an English-speaking Japanese news commentator. Something equivalent to Lord Haw Haw from Germany. The Japanese news was generally reliable and the radio signal came through clearly to the Admiralty Islands, perhaps transmitted for the Japanese left at Rabaul some 200 miles away.

On Ponam we had a small church, a football pitch and cricket pitch. We also manufactured small sailing dinghies out of packing cases and sailed the boats in the lagoon. My particular friends were Puffer Train (Plymouth), Raymond Loxton (London), John Slee (Bradford), Norman Langdon (Notts).

Shortly after VJ Day an aircraft landed from Singapore and has several former English female prisoners of war on it being repatriated to Sydney. They were in very poor condition and were the first females we had seen for months. Each week an aircraft flew us out a schooner of beer from Australia, some members also were flown to Townsville and Sydney on leave.

The Seabees on Ponam had no liquor and relied on us to supply it. Pusser's rum was in great demand and used as barter for clothing and equipment. I once gave a Seabee half a mug of neat rum, which he drank down in one gulp. All he said was "Jesus!" as he fell back on to a bunk. He sipped it next time. We had special dispensation from the Admiralty to issue our tot of rum at 6pm as when it was issued at the normal time of noon, we all fell asleep with the heat.

When we landed on the island the indigenous population was evacuated to the larger island of Manus. One problem was the native burial ground on the western end of Ponam. This was sacred territory and it was agreed it would be permanently out of bounds to all naval personnel. Most breaches of discipline involved trespass into that area. Manus Island was German territory from 1914 onwards. There were several German missionaries on the island and quite a lot of the Melanese spoke simple German phrases. The Japanese invaded the Admiralty Islands in 1942. The islands later became an Australian Protectorate. It was well known that the original natives were cannibals and referred to a dead human corpse as "long pig".

I was shown a stone trough, something like a sarcophagus, which had been used as a human cooking pot. It was the custom when a death occurred, to prevent the corpse being dug up and eaten, for an elder member of the family to remain sitting on the shallow grave for three days until putrefaction set in. Burials were still permitted on Ponam. A body was brought over on an outrigger canoe for burial, and an elder remained guarding the grave, often for several days. He appeared to fast during this period.

The distance from Ponam to Manus is about two miles. The larger island is covered with jungle but it was possible to make out a native village and see the canoe activity taking place. Several unofficial attempts were made to swim across but there were large sharks in the channel and the crossing was not for the faint hearted. I know that at least two men swam over and back as the natives fed them with green coconuts before their return. Green coconuts were quite delicious. The nut kernel had yet to harden and was like a soft white sweet jelly. The milk was very sweet and clear. Coconuts could be opened using a metal spike driven into the ground. The outer cover was then pierced until the inner kernel was revealed. Regular trading began to take place.

The natives particularly wanted tobacco, cigarette papers, knives, rope, wire, clothing and matches. Fishhooks were in great demand and many men wrote to friends in Sydney and asked for them to be posted to them. The natives could only offer cowry seashells and fruit. The younger natives dived very deeply for the cowries, often using a rope with a rock anchor to descend. The cowry shell had a small trap door in the shape of an eye and these were particularly valuable. Cowry shells were used as currency on the larger islands.

Not all our ratings were honourable with the natives and the Skipper was particularly enraged when he found ratings offering newspapers in lieu of cigarette papers. Eventually the launch was used to take ratings over to the village and one of the missionary boys arranged a walk through the forest using local jungle paths. Leprosy was endemic. A very small island near the main village was used to isolate sufferers who appeared to be abandoned. I visited this island and was appalled at the appearance of the older infected natives. Not all our ratings were honourable with the natives and the Skipper was particularly enraged when he found ratings offering newspapers in lieu of cigarette papers.

Eventually the launch was used to take ratings over to the village and one of the missionary boys arranged a walk through the forest using local jungle paths. Leprosy was endemic. A very small island near the main village was used to isolate sufferers who appeared to be abandoned. I visited this island and was appalled at the appearance of the older infected natives.

The fresh water supplies on Ponam were interesting. The Seabees were masters of improvisation and found that by drilling into the coral rock that parts of the sub-strata had caverns filled with a mix of sea and fresh water. By pumping the top layer of water, filtering and purifying it, we had a good supply of water. Later chilling plant was installed to cool the water and make it more potable. Regular warnings were given out about using water for drinking purposes only. It was easy to keep clean by diving into the lagoon and laundry dried in the heat very quickly.

Unfortunately both these substances turned the skin bright yellow which took up to a year to disappear. I was still yellow when I was demobbed. The high temperatures induced heavy sweating and it was common for men to collapse in the heat. They were suffering from salt deficiency. Eventually six salt tablets were issued with the evening meal and these had to be taken singly throughout the day. Many men attempted to take the six together before the meal.

The salt acted as an emetic and they immediately threw up what they had just eaten. There was also a daily issue of lime juice which was very popular with the Seabees. They had plenty of coke as the main depot at Manus had installed a coke bottling plant and it was brought in weekly on our launch. The Seabee unit at Manus all downed tools because they had no coke. A coke plant was flown out from Los Angeles and was working within days.

The informal discipline of the American units never failed to amaze me. The main medical problem on the island was tropical ulcers caused by getting coral sand in a small abrasion. Men swam a lot in the lagoon and were always cutting themselves on the coral. Once started on a leg the ulcer grew rapidly and refused to heal. I had an ulcer on my leg months after leaving the island.

One of the most interesting men on the island was the Vicar. He had been in the Para Regt and had transferred to the FAA. We used to chuck coconuts on the roof of his hut and he used to retaliate by chucking them on ours and chiming the church bell at an unearthly hour. The padre was good at identifying fish that were good to eat. Almost anything that looked like a small trout was edible. Most of the other fish were poisonous. The lagoon itself dried out at low tide and it was possible to walk out on the reef to the Pacific breakers. Many seashell collections were made. Some of the marine life was strange with many large sea slugs, like a huge maggot, in the pools. Sea snakes were numerous and deadly. It was most unnerving to be swimming and be joined by one of these marine reptiles.

One serious injury occurred when the Chief Petty Officer Telegraphist opened up the transmitter unit and the safety switch on the cage failed to turn off the power. This unit was fitted with large thermionic valves about a metre high with power provided by a Coventry Climax generator. There was a flash back and he was badly burned. Part of the training at RAF Ludham included the erection of mobile transmitter towers and these were used on Ponam. Six men could erect a 100 metre tower in about half an hour with practice. It was possible to receive messages from the Fleet Train and retransmit them to base using this type of equipment. An American style coding machine was introduced. This appeared to have been similar to the German Enigma machine but had six rotors instead of four or five. There were constant problems with the crude telephone installation on the island. Attempts to teach WT operators to read Japanese Morse were not successful. Some of the Japanese signals included letters up to twelve dots and dashes long. The Americans seemed to prefer RT for daily use.

We were finally picked up by HMS Unicorn, a fleet carrier, and returned to Sydney. On the return to Sydney a long paying-off pennant was flown, this broke and drifted overboard much to the Skipper's consternation. Two of our crew dived overboard in Sydney Harbour and swam for it; both had girl friends in Sydney.

Coming home

We were not allowed ashore and finally embarked in HMS Slinger for passage home to Portsmouth to be demobbed.

On the return journey it was found that a large number of ratings had picked up venereal disease in Sydney and there were large queues at the Sick Bay each morning. Up to six percent were infected. King's Cross in Sydney had been used by the Americans before our arrival.

One of the last things I remember was a Tannoy announcement as we crossed the Greenwich Meridian on the return journey, west of Gibraltar, that, "All original members of HMS Nabaron have now circumnavigated the globe." There was a huge cheer and we spliced the main brace.

Kenneth Peterkin