Interviewed  by  George  Dick  and  tape-recorded  at Glenbrook  on  1st  November  1990.

Before the war I was involved in the radio game, finishing up with a firm called Amplion who manufactured loudspeakers. I had been in the Militia for about 3 years — with the 30th Battalion, which was a NSW Scottish Regiment. I applied to joint the Air Force because I wanted to fly, and I was in camp with the Militia for the sic weeks immediately before my enlistment at Woolloomooloo. Perhaps if I'd stayed in the Army I would have finished up with a reasonable commission; most of my mates became captains or majors. I enlisted to become a W/T Air and after my rookie training went to No 2 School of Technical Training at Ultimo about the middle of 1941. Our initial radio training took place at the Marconi Wireless School, which was accommodated in the showrooms which had belonged to York Motors at Camperdown. We were given instruction in elementary physics, electricity and magnetism, elementary radio theory, as well as lots and lots of Morse Code.

Others with me on that course were Ken Delbridge, Don Angus, Eric Lusk, Ron Binnie, and Kev Carrick. We had civilian instructors, most of them had been trained as radio operators for the Merchant Marine.

From Ultimo we went down to the RAAF Signals School at Point Cook, then commanded by Squadron Leader 'Bunny' Austin, a little tiny fellow. There was also Warrant Officer Chandler — Officer-in-Charge of Pigeons, and Corporal Clarke. I started off on No 69 Course, but went back a couple of courses because I developed a bad case of the mumps and spent some time in Prince Henry Hospital. We marched down to the School every morning and afternoon, and it was my 'privilege' to play the side-drum on those occasions.

While we did an amount of radio theory there, most of our time at Point Cook was taken up with practical work — principally with

the TR 1082/1083 radio equipment. Signals procedure also took up a good part of our training and we got experience in that aspect of our mustering by spending time in the outstations — small huts which were copper shielded and scattered around the School's buildings. There were instances when a transmission would get out through the shielding and we know that a signal was picked up in Tasmania.

In addition to the flying exercises, we did some mobile work, going out to Werribbee in a tender, the 1082/1083 gear, and, of course a collection of lead-acid batteries. Students were rostered as attendants in the battery-charging room — not a particularly pleasant job because of the noxious fumes and the smell of the rubber aprons.

It had been customary to select men from these courses to become wireless-trained Air Observers, but that cut out about two courses before mine.

Together with Don Angus, Ewen Blackman, New Britton, and Ray Bockman, I was posted to No 30 Squadron at Richmond, arriving there on 12th June 1942. It was wonderful to get there as we had hardly seen the sun during the whole of our time at Point Cook — in fact, the papers wrote it up as the longest sunless period on record. Because the Station Signals Office was short-staffed the five of us were sent up there to help out — being put on the roster for duty with the night shift. While we handled the weather reports, we didn't do much in the way of transmissions; We really were on a listening watch, just turning the dial of the AR7 and logging what we heard. I was on duty one night when I heard some strange signals in my headset and called the Signals Officer over. He got onto the Direction Finding stations and got a fix; they confirmed my original suspicion that it was a Japanese transmission, but I don't know whether it was one of their submarines. The transmission was in Kani Code, and later on a few of our fellows were given instruction in that code.

In those early days the Squadron hadn't developed an identity, probably because many of the fellows were loaned to Sections belonging to RAAF Station Richmond, and the fitters were undergoing Beaufighter engine and airframe instruction at No 2 Aircraft Depot. Nevertheless, we all made ourselves known to others; if you told a cook that you belonged to 30 Squadron, he'd welcome you with open arms and tell you that he was a mate of yours. A feeling of camaraderie gradually grew up among our fellows — as well as with the men of No 22 (Boston) Squadron, and No 6 (Beaufort) Squadron, which were being formed at Richmond at that time as well. You know, those three squadrons stayed together for quite a long time in New Guinea, and there was great, but very friendly rivalry between them.

There was an aerodrome of sorts at Schofields where they had an outstation, and we got involved in dealing with antennae — the big stuff. For that we were in the charge of Flight Sergeant Naughton McNaughton; he finished up in charge of the wireless section of No 31 Squadron.

I occasionally gave patronage to the Clarendon Inn, run by 'Ma Tunnell' (and who later became the wife of Bob Burchall, a messman in our Squadron). He came to some of our early re-unions, a solid cove, not at all boisterous, and very likeable.

I had a couple of flights in Beaufighters at Richmond. One of them was with Sergeant George Sayers when we flew at tree-top height down the Hawkesbury going round every bend, and right out through Broken Bay where we tossed out a marker and did some straffing. And then came back the same way.

Richmond was a city, and quite a few Air Force fellows lived there, and the place did us proud when the order came to move out. It was mid-winter, and we were all kitted out in full tropical rig, khakis, tiger-shooter helmets, webbing, respirators, tin hats, rifles, water-bottles, etc, and we marched out from the Station, through the streets of the town and on to Clarendon Railway Station. The local citizens were there to see us off, and the RAAF lined the streets; they yelled at us and we yelled back at them. It was terrific.The Band was in front, playing selections from White Horse Inn — one of the popular numbers being 'Goodbye'.

When we got to the Railway Station we found a composite train with about 8 carriages as well as freight cars loaded with our transport vehicles, our kit bags, and the Squadron's stores. The carriages were the oldest suburban carriages that could be found. There were straw-backed seats, didn't have tables, and a platform at the end of each carriage where you could stand and get an eyeful of sooty grit. That's how we got to Brisbane.

We all assumed that since country and troop trains all left from Central, our train would go there first before going north. In consequence, many parents, sisters, girl friends and so on had assembled there to see us off. But our train sat on a loop outside of Strathfield Station for hours while the families were waiting at Central. However, one of the wives had been waiting on the platform at Strathfield, and when she enquired what had happened the station master told her that the train was a mile or so up the tracks. So she walked all the way along the line to our train to see her son/husband or whatever, but when we eventually pulled out she was loaded with quick letters from nearly everyone on board. Later in the afternoon we got under way for Gosford, but never went in to Central.

All the boards with place names had been taken down so that we didn't know where we were on that trip north to Brisbane. We were allowed off to stretch our legs and have lunch the next day and the W/T Operators went to a chemist and each bought some Johnson's Baby Powder to use on our feet in the tropics. We had to ask the chemist the name of the place and found out that it was Kempsey.

On arrival in Brisbane we were accommodated in American-style tents at an Army staging camp at the Ascot Racecourse. Those tents were made of dark birkmire and were uncomfortably hot.

We boarded the Sunlander for our trip to Townsville — a much more comfortable train, fitted with fans. The most wonderful thing was that at every station we stopped at the ladies of the town had prepared the most sumptuous meals for us. They were simply wonderful people.

We made a longish stop at Gladstone, but this wasn't a meal-stop. Instead, Curly Wearne took us for a brisk route march around the station's environs. Strangely enough, there wasn't a soul in sight to give us a welcoming wave, and it wasn't until we got back near the station that we came upon a fellow with a tin hat who turned out to be an Air Raid Warden and who told us that we had arrived in the middle of an air raid practice.

We spent a night or two at RAAF Station Garbutt before moving out to the tented camp at Bohle River. Again, the W/T Operators were sent to the Station Signals Office at Garbutt to take turns on watch. We were into the war then, for there were cases of calming the Yanks in B17's which had been on raids on Rabaul and who wanted to bail out. They were stationed at Charters Towers, which developed into a massive American air base.

While we were at Bohle River Caesar O'Connor came back from a flight having forgotten to wind in his trailing aerial and we spent quite a few hours out in the bush trying to find it for him. We never did locate it, and I suppose he had to sign a Repayment Voucher for it.

After stand-down and on rest days the men would go into Townsville where they spent their time swimming, sunbathing, taking launch trips to Magnetic Island, drinking in the pubs, dancing with the local girls or going to the pictures. A Squadron tender would  call at a few nominated pick-up points in the town about 11 pm: it could be identified by the call 'B-o-h-l-e-  R-i-v-e-r'  And that was often used as our Squadron cry in New Guinea. There was an open-air picture place in Townsville and shortly after the interval a notice was flashed on the screen ordering all 30 Squadron personnel to report back to camp. It seemed that a good half of the audience stood up and rushed out. There was one utility outside and the fellows loaded themselves on to it, in the tray, in the cabin, on the roof, on the bonnet — anywhere there was a finger-hold. It was so jam-packed that the truck was travelling sideways back to camp. I can't imagine how the driver managed to get us all home.

The call was not entirely unexpected as I was among the working parties who had been loading our stores and suchlike aboard the SS Taroona.

However, about a dozen of us were deleted from the ship's passenger list and were flown to New Guinea in an RAAF DC2. We landed at the 11 Mile Strip (Jacksons) where we were picked up in an American truck driven by a Negro. We got about half-way down the dirt track which ran beside the strip when the driver suddenly pulled up the truck, flung himself out of the cabin, and ran full pelt up a nearby hill. We were still sitting on the benches in the back, still wearing all our kit, webbing, sidearms, respirators, tin helmets, rifles — everything, and we were smiling at the antics of our driver. He was about half-way up when he yelled out that we ought not to be laughing during an air raid. We were out of that truck in a flash and ran so fast up the hill that we nearly bit the Negro to the top. As we went and the going became more difficult up the steep slope, we shed different bits of our gear so that the side of the hill was strewn with all kinds of kit.

Warrant Officer Ted Good and his small advance party had selected a spot in June Valley as the Squadron campsite and had erected a few tents. But as he hadn't yet organised any water supply we walked back along the track towards the strip and had a shower with the fellows of No 5 Mobile Works Squadron. They were building the strip at Wards, working seven days a week, in shifts, and under floodlights. They didn't have any bulldozers so they got their gravel and fill by using a pair of tractors wired to a huge metal scoop which was dragged down the side of a hill near the strip, sweeping the stuff into funnel-shaped wooden structure known as a 'Chinaman', under which the truck was waiting. Those fellows went at it hammer and tongs, and really earned their money, working in such temperature and high humidity — not to mention the dust. In recognition of their hard slogging in such conditions, the unit had a wet canteen, and we were each able to buy a bottle to take back to our camp. Coming back along the track that evening we saw a snake blocking our way and we killed it with one of our bottles — without losing its fluid contents.

The wireless crowd occupied a tent next to that of Ted Good. One of the first things I had done when we arrived at June Valley was to dig a slit trench just outside our tent. There were six wireless operators in that tent. George Shearin (who had joined us in Townsville), Don Angus, Ewen Blackman, New Britten, Ray Bockman, and myself. Ray left us some time later and went to Moresby as member of a crash-boat crew, and New Britten went to the Marine Section and joined a little boat called the New Gingko. This was a very small coastal vessel, crewed by the skipper, the wireless operator, and two natives. Its job was to travel round and drop supplies to the civilians, coastwatchers and small parties at different points around the New Guinea coastline. When they called in at Goodenough they told us that they had seen gunfire flashes coming from the trees and shrubs at various points in their journeys, but had never used their rifles for fire back.

Bill Graham took one of the vacant beds in our tent at June Valley. He wrote 'None Shall Survive', which dealt with the Battle of the Bismark Sea, while he was with us. Later on he was in the Public Relations outfit.

Ted Good, the WOD, was a bit of a rough diamond, and although he could make it clear that he was boss, he was a good-hearted chap. We often had practice batting and bowling sessions in and around our tents, and if the cricket ball went into Ted's tent we would get a gruff reprimand and told to move away. Because we were shift workers we were excused from parades and some camp rosters, and that used to get on his goat a bit — especially when he saw us sleeping on our camp stretchers as late as ten o'clock.

Because we were in a war zone, things were pretty relaxed for the first few months, for instance many of the fellows started to grow beards. Enemy soldiers were only about 25 miles away; we had to keep a smart lookout for Japanese infiltrators, and Les Braund, the Equipment officer, was told to prepare an emergency plan for the Squadron to pull out if the enemy got much closer to Moresby.  Bomana would have been the first strip to be over-run, and then the 11 Mile (Wards) would have been the next to go.

But after a few months, and when our fellows were pushing the Japs back along the Kokoda trail, the discipline was tightened up and morning parades were introduced. The Orderly Sergeant was made responsible for hoisting the RAAF Ensign at those parades. Curly Wearne would give the order with the command "Raise Away!" But one morning the Orderly Sergeant had got the Ensign up only a few feet when Curly gave the command "Lower Away! Lower Away!" We could see that the Ensign was upside down, and realised that Curly was telling the NCO to pull it down and start again, but the hapless fellow didn't understand the order and despite Curly's continuous admonitions to "Lower Away!" hoisted it to the peak. The Adjutant and the WOD had a few words to say about that.

I was off watch and up at the camp during one particularly heavy air raid, when one of the W/T fellows rang me from the strip and told me to nick over the hill behind our June Valley camp and grab the belly tank he'd just seen drop from an aircraft. I was heading out to get it when Curly appeared outside his tent, with tin hat and drawn revolver, threatening to shoot anybody who tried to leave the camp. He'd been in Darwin with Blackjack before joining our Squadron and got very edgy as his New Guinea tour went on. Mark you, we got the very best Adjutant. When we arrived on posting, he greeted us with a friendly grin and a welcome to 30 Squadron. No matter where you were he'd say hello to you, not like some of our other officers.

Everybody had to turn out for some particular parade at June Valley where we had to turn out in full kit and with our rifles. We were given the command to Open Order, March, and then, For Inspection, Port Arms. At which time Ewen Blackman discovered that his rifle bolt was missing, and Flight Lieutenant Les Braund, who was the inspecting officer, didn't quite know what to do about that, so he just passed on.

Blackie was nothing if not a humourist, and he was also most forgetful. He got a lift on a motor bike up from the strip one day with a couple of aircrew, and the fellow riding the bike gave Blackie his helmet. When they got to the June Valley camp Blackie thanked them for the lift, but when the rider asked for his helmet, Blackie couldn't make out what he was talking about it. He'd forgotten about it in the few minutes it took for that short ride.

Blackie, Don, and myself were virtually inseparable pals.

Some of the fellows in 30 Squadron formed themselves into a concert party -although in realty it was a band — and we put on a show at the various Australian and American Units, sometimes from a stage, sometimes from the back of a truck. The fellows in the band included Cec Mitchell, who was the Squadron's butcher but who was a top saxophonist, and who had played for the ABC in Perth. He was a most accomplished sax soloist.

Our pianist was Owen Fenwick, who was a Fitter IIE in the Squadron and now lives in Queanbeyan. He was the blackest looking fellow you ever saw, burnt black from being in the sun so much. Although Cress Clarke was a pianist, he didn't play the piano in the band. He had a saxophone sent up, and he learnt to play that while he was in New Guinea. The two sax players had to learn to play in harmony and Cress spent many hours practising to get it right. Alf Hunt was our drummer. He had been a drummer in the Grafton Town Band, so he got a side drum up and he provided the percussion on that. We didn't have a base drum.

Then there was Duncan Hattrick, one of the cooks in the Squadron, who acted as our guitarist in the band. He was a Scot, and he could play that guitar. Blackie and I were the vocalists, and Duncan also often added his voice to ours. Incidentally, four men from the Squadron's Wireless section were members of our band. Don Angus didn't play but he went everywhere with us and helped out with the administration.

Of course, there were no microphones and you had to make yourself heard over the noise of the audience yelling out at you. There were many times when we went to a picture show and gave a performance from the back of a high-sided 'Ironsides' truck, in the teeming rain, wearing a tin hat and a ground sheet. If it was too wet for our musicians to produce their instruments in the rain, Blackie and I could provide entertainment by simulating their sounds, and we got quite good at that.

 We were always well received, and we made it our business to play all the late numbers. We were fortunate in that one of the non-GD officers had been the musical arranger for the ABC dance band, and Cec Morrison's dance band. So we had the right fellow to keep us up to date, and he also did the organising for our party.

There was another fellow who didn't go round with us to play at other venues, but was always around our tent when we had our own sessions at June Valley. He played a banjo-ukulele. He came from Newcastle way, and was a baseball player,  Frank ...

Doc Marsh — what a wonderful bloke — drove us to our venues in his ambulance, and 'Snowy' Poole, the nursing orderly would come with us too.

We had a concert in the 30 Squadron lines one night, at which the CO, Curly, and everyone in the un it was present. For all the songs that we presented, we had written lyrics that had some reference to incidents or personalities in the Squadron. One of my songs referred to Ted Good:- "Our WOD goes on the spree/when and where he can...." And we brought the house down with each of our vocal numbers.

Every American unit seemed to have its own movie projector and a good supply of recently released films. The American cinemas were usually fitted out with rows of logs which would all be occupied by the time we arrived. But the occupants vacated their seats in great haste when the Air Raid siren went off, which then gave us the opportunity to occupy the front rows and have the best seats in the house when the All Clear sounded and the performance re-started.

Rex Dawe brought a concert party up to New Guinea: He was the headmaster in a radio series called 'Yes What?', and which featured a dense student called Greenbottle.

Boxing matches were arranged pretty often — the nearest venue being across the road at 22 Squadron. Tom Phelan — one of our mess stewards — was the referee. Tom was a Canadian and had come out here to fight Jack Carroll, the Australian Champion (Light/heavy or Middleweight). He was a very likeable fellow who'd put his arm around you and yarn away.

Blackjack was admired for his flying abilities, and he flew anything that he could get his hands on, and he flew them well. He borrowed a lightning one day and had an aerial scrap with Ross Little in a Beaufighter. It was something to see. They chased one another round the Moresby skies. Ross turned the Beaufighter inside out, I can tell you, but the CO ran rings right round him.

While we were at Milne Bay (or it may have been Goodenough), Blackjack brought a Mosquito up from the south to show us what that aircraft was like. He put her into a climb on one motor, corkscrewed around until he disappeared somewhere in the heavens. We were impressed, I can tell you. There was sheer admiration for both the aircraft and the pilot.

We got on pretty well with all of the aircrew, but especially the Wireless Observers, because we had a common interest. Many of them would come across to our tent for a yarn. Alfie Nelson more-or-less lived in our tent, he was there so often. Eric Lusk, Ron Binnie and Bob Hasenohr were frequent visitors too. Bob had a little portable HMV Gramophone, with only two records — The Anniversary Waltz was one of them. He and his pilot died as the result of their Beaufighter pranging on Wards Strip in June 1943. The story at the time was that the starboard tyre blew during take off, the leg collapsed, the motor skidded along the ground, the aircraft veered off to the right, the petrol tank was ruptured and the whole thing just exploded into flames.

The impact broke the plane's back just forward of the navigator's station. The front section of the Beaufighter was completely burnt out by a terrifically fierce fire. We looked for Ed Woolcott's dog tags but there was absolutely nothing left. We managed to get Bob out from the tail section, as far as we could make out at the time he was just knocked around. Doc Marsh whipped him off to hospital in his ambulance, and the story was that he would come through OK. It appears that he lost the will to live when he found out that his pilot was dead, and he died the day after he found that out.

We often thought of Bob when we played or heard The Anniversary Waltz.

There was a very strict rule about taking atebrin tablets every day, and at mealtimes somebody would stand at the issuing point and make sure that everyone took them. The stuff used to turn you yellow. We also took salt tablets — although they might not have been compulsory, but they certainly warded off dehydration. I was sitting in a Beaufighter just after lunch using a wavemeter and the perspiration ran from my arms in a stream — not in drips, but as a running stream. It might have been over 50 degrees celsius in that aircraft on the ground and I know that I lost a goodly quantity of water that hot day. Of course, we normally drank lots of liquids, either water or fruit cordial.

A number of our Beaufighters were lost or damaged because of air raids on Wards strip: A19-37 was peppered with shrapnel and looked like a collander. However, the aircraft was patched up with fabric so that George Drury and Dave Beasley could fly it back south. Before it left, Don Angus and I painted a handful of 'sparks', and a message to the wireless fellows on the mainland. We heard back that our greetings had been passed around to them. Many of the Squadron men gave George and Dave parcels to be sent on to their families at home, and these probably contained souvenirs they got when they visited the native villages.

George Sayer and Arch Mairet were our first fatals, being shot down not long after we arrived in New Guinea, and the following month that same target claimed one of our Wireless Observer mates — Eric Richardson. Some of the fellows managed to scrounge rides in aircraft doing test flights in the local area, but I had managed to arrange to go with 'Grumpy' Eddison and Max Allot on one of their attacks against Lae. It so happened that I failed to wake up in time to get down to the strip for an early morning take-off, and I suppose that I can count myself lucky for that, because the aircraft was shot down over the target.

Not all Beaufighters were lost or damaged through enemy action. George Gibson pranged  because he tried to shut his top hatch during take-off from Wards. Col Campbell and Jim Yeatman were taking off in A19-9 on 19 Feb 1943 when the pilot was startled by a loud explosion, and, thinking it was very serious, set the aircraft, wheels up, on the runway. It turned out to be the explosive charge in the IFF set, and as a result of Campbell's action, the machine burnt out. The Identification Friend or Foe gear was on the secret list, and to prevent it falling into enemy hands if the aircraft landed in their territory, was fitted with a switch which the navigator was supposed to depress and blow the thing up. But the tumbler had been set too fine, and the bumpy progress down the runway had tripped the detonator switch, with disastrous results. Neither of the crew had any idea of what had happened at the time.

Over a period of a few weeks we had a series of belly landings at Wards;  we knew when this was going to happen for we could see the Beaufighter make a low, slow approach, with its undercart still inside the nacelles. It turned out that this occurred because the engineers down at Air Board had decreed that some locking pin wasn't to be used. A technical officer from down south visited the Squadron and after he had ordered the pin to be used, we had no more incidents from that cause.

Jack Laverty was the IFF man who had set the detonator switch and he was fined, but whatever the penalty, it didn't pay for the lost aircraft. However, it proved that the detonators really worked.

Lola [LAC Lane] and Brenda [LAC McVernon] were two of the cooks in 30 Squadron and they were a couple of characters; today they would be called a pair of gays. I first came into contact with them at Bohle River where they fell all over us young fellows and made quite a fuss of us. They used to do themselves up with lipstick and powder — Lola more so than Brenda, because she was so natural as a female. I bumped into Lola in Kings Cross after the war, that would be in the early 1950's while I was working as a traveller.

Everyone in the Squadron got on famously with them, and none of the fellows ever slung off at them. And heaven help anyone else who threatened them or teased them, for they were part of our Squadron, and we would have got stuck into outsiders who dared to sling off at a Beaufighter man.

Don Bain was a well-known racing motor-cyclist, competing against the likes of Tommy Binstead and Eric Hinton, and was the Australian champion at one time. Don pinched a jeep from the Yanks in Port Moresby, brought it back to the camp and hid it in the high kunai grass at the back of the camp, while he did it up and made it so unrecognizable that the American MPs who came around didn't recognize it. Our squadron emblem was a white square, and this was painted on our vehicles, packing cases, and other large items of equipment

At one stage the fellows in the wireless section all had to get a licence to ride a motor bike — probably because our duties might involve Don R activities. We did our trade test at the Squadron MT Section; Sergeant Maxwell produced one of the Squadron's Indian bikes, told us how to start it, manipulate the throttles and other levers and pedals, and told us to ride the thing up the road for a few hundred yards, turn round and come back. We all passed.

Don found an old motor bike somewhere in Moresby, brought that back to camp too, and got it going, so that the wireless blokes had runabout facilities. Of course we all fell off a few times, I know that Nev Britton had a few falls. On one occasion I was coming back from Port Moresby in the dark, and in the poor light from the headlamp, mistook the strip for the road and went merrily down it until it dawned on me that I was riding on a bitumen surface instead of a dirt one. I made a hasty about-turn before the guards let off a round at me.

On another occasion I was coming back from Port Moresby on the bike but found my way along the dirt perimeter road blocked by an American grader, whose motor was running, but which was unattended. In fact, there wasn't a soul in sight. While I was manhandling the bike past this obstruction I heard a voice repeatedly asking if they had gone yet. I discovered that this came from the negro driver of the grader, who was hiding in the drainpipe under the road. Those drains were simply old 44-gallon drums whose ends had been cut out, and were laid end to end to make a culvert. The negro had clambered in there when he had heard an air raid warning, but hadn't heard the all clear.

The W/T Operators and the Wireless Mechanics formed the Wireless Section, and we reckoned we could do anything and get anything that would make our life a bit more comfortable. When we were off shift a couple of us would sling our haversacks over the shoulder, and hitch rides to some Army stores unit. There we loaded up — without any hassle from the storemen — with tins of peaches, Nestles thickened Cream, and other goodies. We lived much better than those who had to rely on the monotonous stuff served up in the Mess. I never understood why our catering staff accepted lousy rations when there was much better stuff at the

Army stores unit which was supposed to supply us at the proper scale.

One of our early jobs was to string up phone wires to the sections at Wards, and we did that in the usual Australian fashion — minimum tools and lots of sweat. But the Americans put in the connection to Moresby and the encampments, and that was when we first saw Yankee know-how at first hand. Their bulldozers simply knocked down every tree along the intended path, and completely flattened the earth. These were followed by mechanical post-hole diggers mounted on trucks, which in turn were followed by trucks from which a telephone pole was dropped into the hole, another work party filled and rammed the earth around the pole, and this was followed by a bunch of fellows who strung the wires to the poles.

We had connected the lines which we had strung about the place to a switchboard down on a little rise just off the strip and which we manned for a time. When we were on one of the after-hours shifts we got a few slices of bread from the kitchen staff and toasted them over a hurricane lamp down there. We had an AT5/AR8 set near the switchboard, our call sign being ROADAN, and the callsign of the Signals Office in Moresby being ELSIE. When we were testing the Beaufighter radios we could call up ELSIE and get a radio check.

That radio communications link with Moresby Signals was set up for use in an emergency — such as the phone facilities going out, and there were fixed times when we had to make checks between the ground stations. In addition, we kept an ear cocked for all the messages being transmitted by the Beaufighters — they weren't addressed to us of course, but we listened in to what was going on. For instance, we heard everything that went on during the Bismark Sea Battle, and kept the entire Squadron up-to-date with its progress.

'Tiny' Bill Cameron (also known as 'The Flying Ploughman') found it quite difficult to move around inside the navigator's cupola, and, being so tall, he found it extremely difficult to bend down and turn on some piece of radio/electrical equipment located near the Beaufighter's floor and underneath the radio crates. So he had the metal bashers fashion him a metal rod which had a pair of hooked 'fingers' at the end, and which he could use to switch it on without bending  over.

Another tall navigator was Phil Edwards, variously known as 'Phil the Dit' or 'Phil the Dill'. How he got that second moniker I don't know for he was anything but a dill. I had been on course with him at Ultimo and knew that he was an exceptionally clever fellow — although more than a little mad.  During our training we had to draw diagrams of circuits which could accomplish certain proscribed objectives. Phil's circuits were always different from the set answers, but the instructors had to admit that his were neat and satisfactory solutions. He and Dudley Wright were a pair of bright boys at the Signals School, but they horsed around so much that Phil was very nearly tossed off course. He was a genius. I think he came from Newcastle.

He had a little mast attached to his tent-pole at June Valley, from which he flew — with a degree of pride — a blown-up condom.

Orders came though about the middle of 1943 to move to Goodenough Island, but some of the Squadron were to stage through Milne Bay. I take my hat off to all the pilots for their handling of the Beaufighter during take-off and landing on that dreadful mesh. which had been laid across slush and mud, and which had many bumps along its surface.

I didn't go down to Milne Bay for a few weeks, because I was roped in to do some modifications to the radio gear and its generator at Wards. Three fellows were sent up from south  to carry out these mods — a civilian, Flight Sergeant Allan Wickstead and Sergeant Ron Anderson. I was asked to help them.

Down at Milne Bay our camp was in the middle of one of Lever Brother's Coconut Plantation, and no matter in which direction you looked, all you see was coconut trees. At night you would hear the coconuts dropping. You could get killed if one of them hit you on the head.

The race at Goodenough was one of the more exciting events, for there was friendly rivalry between the fellows of 22 and 30 Squadrons. Everybody in our Squadron got stuck into getting the Beaufighter into tip-top racing condition. We spent hours polishing that machine, and we removed every single article that wasn't necessary to attain maximum performance/speed — its oleo legs rose about two inches because we stripped so much stuff out of it. We couldn't do anything about reducing the pilot's weight — Squadron Leader Boulton was nearly twice as heavy as anyone else.

Col Harvey was in another airborne Beaufighter and was acting as the starter and commentator. The start-line was the coast of Woodlark Island and we heard Col broadcast the fact that the Boston had made a fast start and was way out in front. It took a few minutes for the Beaufighter to wind up, but that she did, and Col told us that it had streaked past the Boston. But the commentator's aircraft got left behind the competing pair so it wasn't until they were virtually at Goodenough that we saw their respective positions. Our aircraft was way, way ahead of the Boston, and came across the finish line — the duty pilot's tower, quite some distance ahead of the Boston. We went wild, of course, and later on I went round to 22 Squadron — who were a pretty glum lot — to collect on the ten shilling bet I had taken out with Jack Miller.

Cosgrove pranged his aircraft pretty soon after he'd taken off from Vivigani strip, killing himself and his navigator, Bernie Le Griffon. One story had it that he had taken off with his airscrews in fine pitch and being unable to reach height, the aircraft had just dropped into the water not too far away from the coast. Another story had it that because of some domestic incident his action that morning was quite deliberate.

I was down at the strip when Ted Marron arrived back from an operation, and there was something odd about the appearance of his undercart. So when he taxied to his dispersal Don Angus and I hopped onto our motor-bike and side-car and went down to have a look.  Bunny Gollan, his navigator, stuttered a little bit when he was stressed, but when he got out of the machine, he couldn't manage to get a single word out for quite some time. We eventually got the story. In their attack on a camouflaged barge, Ted Marron had gone in so low that his wheels had actually straddled the wheelhouse, and in doing so some of the palm fronds used as camouflage had been whipped off the wheelhouse and got caught up in the Beaufighter's fuselage.

I have an idea that Bunny's father was a member of Parliament.

Cress Clarke was the leading light in the escapade of relieving some Army trucks of cases of rations being taken from the wharf to the supply depot. He'll tell you the story.

Goodenough was an idyllic place, beautiful days, cool nights. Put your washing out and it might be stiff but it would be bone dry in the morning. What a blessing after Milne Bay. At the end of the strip was a hut which had a sign outside identifying it as "The Charcoal Grill" — something of a misnomer because all that it served were cold water, cold cordial, or hot tea.

Another reason that we liked being a Goodenough was that our rations improved considerably, and we seemed at last to b e getting stuff from American supply sources. They knew how to keep their troops, wonderful food, ice cream, fresh meat, and stuff like that. On paydays we got a handout of goodies just like the Americans: I sold my cartons of cigarettes for ten shillings.

The day I left Goodenough at the end of my tour, the Squadron moved across to Kiriwina. While we were waiting to board the aircraft to go to Moresby — piloted by Lionel Van Pragh — one of the waiting passengers pointed to a kit bag which was smoking. When it was examined the cause of the fire was a box of Wax Vestas which had self-ignited. The pilot of that Australian DC3 flew across the sea at wave-top height.     

PERSONAL  PARTICULARS

NAME (in full)  :  DAVID  BRUCE  ROBERTSON
BORN ON         :  23 March 1920
BORN AT         :  Lakemba, NSW
FATHER          :  John Henry Austin Robertson
MOTHER (Maiden) :  Olive Muriel Rose
EDUCATED AT     :  Belmore High School
MARRIED TO      :  Mildred Beryl Rutter
MARRIED ON      :  25 March 1944
MARRIED AT      :  Lakemba
CHILDREN        :  Judith Helen Robertson
                   Penelope Anne Robertson
ENLISTED AT     :  Sydney
ENLISTED AS     :  ACI Trainee Wireless Operator
ENLISTED ON     :  19 April 1941
DISCHARGED ON   :  15 April 1946
RANK ON DISCHARGE  Corporal
OCCUPATION THEN :  Radio Mechanic and Salesman
ADDRESS - 1990  :  294 Old Northern Rd, Castle Hill
                   2154   (02) 634 2771