It was hard to grasp that I was being sent about as far away from England as it was possible to go.
‘They must know what they’re doing,’ Dorothy told me when I broke the news to her.
‘I doubt it,’ I said.
Although unhappy about this posting, Dorothy took the news in her stride, resigned like so many other service wives to the routine disturbances of life. Her confidence that everything would work out all right helped ease my concerns.
I joined a ship called Dominion Monarch in Southhampton in February 1945. She was a luxury Shaw Saville liner before the war, cruising regularly to Australia and New Zealand, but had been requisitioned by the Royal Navy to serve as a troopship. Stripped of all her pre-war luxury and painted a gloomy grey, she could carry over 3000 troops. Her sea-stained, war-weary appearance reminded me of how Laconia had looked when I went aboard her in Cape Town in 1942. The old anxieties gripped me again, but were quietened somewhat by the fact that I was taking passage for the first time. That was a change. So, I settled down to experience shipboard life without duties.
It was a reasonably pleasant six-week voyage. There were personnel from all three British services on board, as well as many Australians, so there was no shortage of company and conversation. I shared a mess deck with a group of soldiers.
We were supposed to wash our own dishes after meals, and after only a week or so I noticed that the mess was running short of crockery. That puzzled me until I saw a soldier finish his meal, get up from the mess table and throw his dirty dishes through an open porthole.
We sailed south-west across the Atlantic and entered the Panama Canal near Colon. The trip along the canal intrigued me no end. It took an entire day to travel the 40 miles through the system of massive water-filled chambers and man-made lakes that raise and lower ships through the mountainous terrain of central Panama. We came out into the Pacific at Panama City and headed for Australia.
My intense fear of being below decks had not diminished, so I spent most of my time on the upper deck, idling away the hours reading and watching the sea. My mind wandered quite a lot. On several occasions I imagined I was on Laconia again, which sent a disturbing icy sensation through me. As we crossed the Pacific and the weather got warmer, I slept out on the deck most nights. I planned on being first over the side if something went wrong.
The Dominion Monarch sailed through Sydney Heads early on a lovely March day, and the sight of Sydney Harbour was absolutely beautiful. I recalled my father talking about its great coat-hanger bridge being built. Finally seeing it for myself created the strange notion that this was a homecoming of sorts.
We docked at Woollomooloo, where the wharf was swarming with people who’d come to see the ship berth. Among them were Sydney families selected to welcome servicemen to Australia, who came on board to introduce themselves. A middle-aged couple singled me out and greeted me like their long lost son, though they didn’t know me from a bar of soap. He was a beefy bloke, a rough-and-ready signalman with the New South Wales Railways. She was a short, chunky woman. They both had, to my ears at least, the most extraordinary Australian accents.
‘G’day mate, what’s ya name?’ the bloke asked.
‘Jim. Everyone calls me Mac.’
‘’Ow yer goin’ Mac, all right?’ He shook my hand and almost crushed it.
‘Fine thanks.’
‘Meet me missus.’
‘’Ow yer goin’ Mac, all right?’ his wife asked.
‘Fine thanks.’
‘Want any washin’ done?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Dirty clothes, love. I’ll wash and iron ’em for ya.’
‘It’s no bloody trouble for the missus, Mac,’ the bloke said.
‘No, honestly,’ I said. I couldn’t believe the generosity of these people.
‘Come on, then,’ the woman said. ‘Let’s go ’ome and ’ave a cuppa an’ a decent feed.’
I couldn’t have wished for a warmer welcome. Those perfect strangers took me to their home where they produced the promised cup of tea and a meal, then entertained me with their easy going conversation for the rest of the day. They couldn’t do enough for me. It was my first taste of genuine, no-questions-asked Australian mateship. Compared to the often-stifling English reserve I was accustomed to, their extroverted, carefree nature was a real eye opener. When it was dark they took me back to the Dominion Monarch.
The next morning I joined a big group of sailors on the wharf. A convoy of covered army trucks arrived and we all climbed aboard. I didn’t have a clue where we were going, but it turned out to be to the Warwick Farm racecourse, which had been transformed into a massive tent city, a sort of mustering centre for navy personnel. I found myself in a tent with a few other blokes who were also wondering what the hell was going on. As usual, no one was telling us anything. A lot of complaining started up.
‘So this is bloody Australia.’
‘End of the earth, this is.’
‘Wonder when the next race starts.’
‘Is this Golden Hind?’ I asked.
‘I think so.’
I spent a few miserable days at Warwick Farm with nothing to do, during which I sank into one of my dark, low moods, wondering why the navy had sent me all the way out here while I had a pregnant wife to take care of in England. The only worthwhile things in my life, my family and my wife and unborn child, were all on the other side of the world and it didn’t make any sense at all. I was eventually ordered to report to the Royal Navy Hospital at Punchbowl, and the thought crossed my mind that I was going to be admitted as a patient. Maybe this is the place where they treat survivors. Make a bit of sense, that would. It was a rather appealing thought. I felt I could do with a spell in hospital.
I soon discovered that the Royal Navy Hospital, like Warwick Farm, came under the banner of HMS Golden Hind. And no, I wasn’t there as a patient. The navy had more important things in mind for me.
‘You’ll be on the sentry detail, Mac.’
‘All right.’
So there I was, manning the front gate of the Royal Navy Hospital in Australia. It was like a bad practical joke. There were other survivors there, blokes who had emerged from similar disasters at sea, only to find themselves adrift with no real job. No one on the medical staff interviewed me or showed the slightest interest in why I was there. So I just got on with it, all the time thinking about Dorothy and hoping everything was fine back in England. I was very worried about her because we’d been hearing reports of deadly German V2 rockets creating havoc and terror over London and parts of southern England. I did my sentry duty and the time passed slowly. There were only Dorothy’s letters to look forward to.
The easy-going Australian way of life seeped into me. The weather in Sydney was sunny and warm, even as winter approached. On my days off I’d team up with a few other sailors and go into the city. Naturally we’d do the rounds of the pubs and then, more often than not, we’d wander down to Circular Quay. I thought of my father quite a bit as I watched the ferries come and go. He had always told me what a great place Australia was, and I could only agree. People were friendly and open. Despite the war, they had a cheeriness and optimism that I found very appealing. I was fascinated by the expression ‘She’ll be right, mate!’ I heard it often.
One night I was with a couple of other sailors in the city. We’d had a bit to drink. Well, a hell of a lot, actually. When it was time to make our way back to Golden Hind we stumbled onto a crowded train going to Punchbowl. The rhythm of the train was very soothing and within a few minutes we were all asleep, chins on our chests and dribbling out the sides of our mouths in the true tradition of drunken sailors. After what seemed like just a few minutes we woke up. The train had stopped and it was pitch black. Everything was strangely silent.
‘Where the friggin’ hell are we?’
Someone lit a match. In its weak light we could see that our carriage was completely empty.
‘There’s another train right alongside us,’ I offered.
‘Don’t tell me …’
‘We’re in the bloody train depot!’
‘We’re in deep trouble, that’s what we’re in.’
‘What time is it?’
Another match spluttered. We leant into its light and looked at our watches. It was after two o’clock in the morning.
‘Why the hell didn’t someone wake us up?’
‘Bloody useless Australians.’
‘We’ll be up on report for this.’
We groped our way along the carriage until we found a door and then lowered ourselves onto the tracks.
‘Got any idea how to get to the hospital from here?’
‘How the hell would I know? I’m a stranger in a strange land.’
‘Only asking.’
We stumbled around the depot for a bit, tripping over railway lines and cursing until we eventually saw a light in a building. There was a night watchman on duty inside. When we explained our predicament he just laughed and gave us directions back to Golden Hind. It was a pretty long walk. We were exhausted when we arrived at the front gate, and completely sober, too. Fortunately, one of our mates was on sentry duty and he let us in, no questions asked. We didn’t hear anything about it the next day, as the barracks were swept up in celebration.
It was 8 May, V-E Day. Germany had surrendered and the war in Europe was over. The relief was enormous. Dorothy was safe and surely, surely, the navy would send us all home. But they didn’t, of course, because the war against Japan was still dragging on.
So I guarded the gate in front of the Royal Navy Hospital until, early in August, a telegram came from Dorothy, telling me that I was the father of a baby boy called Barry. I was overjoyed at the news, but filled with heartache at being so far away. It made me even more desperate to get home. Then on 15 August, we heard the astonishing news that the Americans had dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and that the Japanese had surrendered. I was in Martin Place as the city erupted into the wildest celebration imaginable. V-J Day in Sydney was one big wonderful party, chaotic with uniforms and streamers and people hugging and kissing complete strangers.
Later in the day I went to the harbour. There were a lot of warships there, including the aircraft carrier HMS Indomitable, sister to Implacable, my last ship. It was strange to think that after nearly six years of vital work those great fighting ships and all the sailors serving on them no longer had such urgent purpose. I had no desire whatsoever to go to sea again, but I had to get home somehow.
August drifted into September and the buzz round the hospital was different every day. We heard that hostilities-only personnel would be demobbed from the navy in Australia. Then the word was that they would be posted back to England and demobbed there. Then there were whispers that we would all be posted to Japan. More than a few English sailors had fallen for Australian girls and wanted to stay. Some had even taken the unlawful step of going absent without leave to stay with their new loves. I had to complete my seven years’ service though, because I’d joined before the war started. But how and where I had no idea. The only certainty, it seemed to me, was that the war was over.
It wasn’t until early October that I got a draft chit. My heart was in my mouth when I read it. HMS Indomitable, the aircraft carrier I’d seen in Sydney Harbour.
Here we go again!
There was nothing on the draft chit to indicate where Indomitable would be sailing. Maybe the rumour about going to Japan was true. Anyway, I went aboard and handed my draft chit to the master-at-arms.
‘McLoughlin, is it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Let’s see what we’ve got in store for you.’
I could hardly breath or swallow as he flicked through his paperwork.
‘Demob,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir. Ship going to England, sir?’
‘Where else would it be going, the bleedin’ South Pole?’
I went to my mess in shock. I was being demobbed without having to serve out my seven years. The relief was overwhelming. I couldn’t wait to get out of the navy and back to my home. I knew it had to be a mistake, but if someone had buggered up the paperwork I wasn’t about to tell them. As the carrier steamed out through Sydney Heads I wondered if I’d ever see Australia again. Although I desperately wanted to get home to Dorothy and my newborn son, I knew that I would miss the place.
Once again the navy didn’t seem to know what to do with me. I didn’t have any duties on board, so I couldn’t keep my mind calm. I imagined submarines lurking about, commanded by fanatical Japanese commanders who either didn’t know the war was over or just refused to accept it. I spent my time avoiding the lower decks or seeking out vantage points to watch the flying operations.
Indomitable had already been at sea for several weeks when I was summoned to appear before the commander-writer, the ship’s senior clerk. He was angry.
‘What the hell are you doing, McLoughlin?’
‘Nothing, sir.’ This was quite accurate.
‘I mean, what the hell are you doing on this ship?’ I thought that was a bloody stupid question. I was on this ship because the Royal Navy had posted me to it.
‘My draft chit said to report to Indomitable, sir.’
‘Do you realise you’re not due for demob?’
‘No,’ I lied.
‘You signed on for seven years.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Only people being demobbed should be coming back with us. You were supposed to stay in Australia.’
‘But I’m here, sir.’
‘I can see that. Well, I’m sure the captain won’t be turning about on your behalf so you’ll just have to carry on.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
Nothing more was said so I carried on doing what I’d been doing before, which was nothing, and in that strange state of limbo I arrived home in time to spend Christmas leave 1945 with Dorothy and Barry. I was in awe of the little human miracle we had created together. It was the most marvellous feeling to hold him. The responsibility I felt for my very own family would, I hoped, sustain me and help push unwelcome memories deep, deep into the background.
My service finally ended at Plymouth in 1946. I gave my uniform back to the Royal Navy and they swapped it for a pinstripe suit and a suitcase. Everyone was given that.
‘We won’t put you on the Fleet Reserve,’ they told me. They didn’t say why, but I had a fair idea. They thought I was bomb happy.
‘That suits me,’ I said, and gladly left the service I’d been so desperate to join seven years before.
The only thing I had to put in my free suitcase was my free pinstripe suit, but I didn’t have anything else to wear, so I walked away from the navy depot a free man in a badly cut suit clutching an empty suitcase. I didn’t have a clue how I would support my family or what to do with the rest of my life. I just hoped something would turn up.