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The 36th Battalion: a record of service of the 36th Battalion with the Third Division in the Pacific

Chapter Ten — Hours with the Signals Platoon — (Somewhere in the Pacific)

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Chapter Ten
Hours with the Signals Platoon

(Somewhere in the Pacific)

0600 Hours. Mono Island.—As daylight strengthens heads and then bodies begin to appear above the edges of fox-holes. An exchange operator has already given up any hope of reply from any of his subscribers. Only too well does he know the meaning of the light, easy turn of the generator handle. K rations are eaten with an air of acceptance of no alternative. A plaintive voice is heard calling 'Hullo Charlie Three. Hullo Charlie Four'. From BHQ comes a string of enquiries for news of the companies. The radio operator produces message pad and pencil. Back at the exchange, small parties collect cable, pliers and tape and reluctantly disappear in the jungle. Some are lucky enough to have an I Section guide, others can only hope to follow the remnants of the tattered lines. A worried looking lance-corporal makes his way slowly toward the beach where smoke is still rising from the dump set ablaze during the night. How much of his precious equipment will he find? Soon there will be calls for more cable, more batteries, more telephones, more—it is just the beginning of the second day on Mono Island.

0800 Hours. Aboard one of His Majesty's troopships. Avondale Racecourse is a recent but already fading memory. Since day light eyes have been peering through the rain at this new 'home'; Paradise of the Pacific. First impressions are not good. A small jetty is seen on the shore—but the waters seem very high and ship lies anchored well off-shore. Small boats make their way alongside, nets go over the rails and the mystery is solved. All we have to do is hang equipment on every available corner, don a life-jacket over page 72everything else, scramble down the net and hope for the best. If we don't get drenched going through the gap in the reef or miss our footing jumping for the jetty steps, maybe we'll get ashore. The local roads are a sea of mud, advance party transport is hopelessly bogged, there are no tents. It has rained for three days already, but why should a private do his scone—others of higher rank are paid to do that; or are they?

1000 Hours. Necal.—From their hiding places they gradually emerge bold and purposeful, all making in the direction of the cook-house. The early birds returning to their hide-outs are questioned eagerly, Ts there any sugar in it to-day'? Probably there isn't, and the signallers return to their tents ready to ward off any enquiring orderly officer who wonders why so many signallers are always resting. 'Exchange duty, sir.' 'Duty DR, sir.' 'Picket last night, sir.' Strangely enough the stories are usually accepted, but the appearance of Sergeant Hill struggling under a load of shovels causes consternation. Excuses are no use now. 'All out, Number One platoon. Three trucks are waiting in the shingle pit.' Wearily they climb aboard the next truck.

1200 Hours. The signallers share the anticipation of all the company. What's for lunch to-day? It is always an occasion of limitless possibilities—fresh bread, real New Zealand butter, tea with sugar, maybe even fresh meat. Or maybe—'Sorry. No bread to-day. A tree fell on the bakery last night'. Every possibility is covered by that mysterious document: the ration scale with all its wonderful alternatives 'in lieu of'.

1400 Hours. Maybe Mono Island or just another manoeuvre. Through the trackless jungle wanders a small party seeking the platoon they have been following for the last hour. Coy HQ it is. Far in the rear struggle two forlorn figures. Stumbling, cursing, sweat-drenched and mud-Stained they trudge onwards. Coy HQ pauses for a spell. At last the stragglers catch up, but a message comes down to them. Off comes the 48 set, up goes an aerial, headphones and microphones are plugged in and in no time at all more information is on its way to those ever enquiring minds at BHQ. Sighing with relief, they relax but Coy HQ have already vanished. At the edge of the tiny clearing stands a guide. 'They went this way', he calls and he too disappears. They climb to their feet and stumble on.

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1600 Hours. Guadalcanal.—Lightheartedly he climbs the hill above the camp. He is 'retained for essential duties'. In go his phones, over goes a switch and presently in come the reports from a relay station on a distant hill top, in touch with out-Stations far below in the depths of Death Valley. Hidden in the gullies, clambering over rocky river beds, tripping over fallen trees, go those hapless parties attached to companies in jungle training, striving vainly to find a comfortable area for the night bivouac. Bronzed, lean and hard is their ideal; they have already gained one-third of their objective.

1800 Hours. Stirling Island.—Gathered round a small table the card players cut, shuffle and deal. All is peaceful in spite of a rising moon. From the exchange dug-out comes a muffled shout, 'Brigade's line's out again'. Resignedly the line men lay down their three aces and promising flush, gather their cable, climbing irons and other gear. They'll be back again soon before the sirens begin their nightly wail —perhaps.

2000 Hours. That line is still out. Sirens have blown red and green. Down in the exchange the operator prepares to continue his letters. Up comes the adjutant's light. He wants to call Captain Fitz—about barges for working parties. Then begins a period of ringing, calling and waiting. Strange names are exchanged—Fini, Riga, Canary, Cabinet. Some are helpful, others not. Up comes brigade light. Swiftly he plugs in—'Line party here. What line is this? Who? Chariot? OK.' That voice was never educated in New Zealand. So the struggle goes on until finally with an air of triumph he connects the adjutant. 'You're through, sir', but the adjutant has gone for a cup of tea. Finally located he is brought back to the phone but his other party has grown tired of waiting. So it starts all over again. The rumble of approaching thunder, flashes of lightning increasing in brilliance make the operator cautious. Electric storms are no pleasant experience.

2200 Hours. Force HQ. Norfolk Island.—It is far from a pleasant night and the rain which has poured down all day shows little sign of slackening. The night operator watches with sleepy eye for the occasional call, glancing enviously at the duty DR sleeping peacefully near by. The Cable Station is calling. Just as he expected, a batch of official cables is waiting ready for delivery. Callously and violently awakened the DR curses all messages and page 74their originators, struggles into boots, leggings and cape and disappears into the night. The stuttering of his motor bike settles down to a steady roar as he slides gracefully out of the gates and continues to slide all the way to Anson Bay. The ghostly moans and eerie shrieks of mutton birds fail to inspire him and the fact that he knows now just how bad the roads are is little consolation.

2400 Hours. Normally this is a very peaceful period and the operator just beginning his spell of duty knows his hardest job will be to fill in time. A few check calls, perhaps a report from an OP where a troop look-out is seeing lights on the horizon, maybe a 'condition red' that will call him and his men and draw fluent maledictions from all those he rouses from their slumbers. His only visitors are likely to be bats or land-crabs lurking in the crevices of the coral of his underground shelter. Those strange rustlings outside may be night birds or crabs or snakes or Japs; and the bird calls repeated with slight variations may be natural. In the meantime other eyes are watching and other ears are listening. So his weary hours go by.

0200 Hours. It's Stirling Island again, and the night operator is all alone in his little world. Just an hour to go, and with luck he'll catch up with his mail. Outside a full moon shines in the peaceful waters of Blanche Harbour; around the islands, other lights twinkle, indications that others share his lonely vigil. In the distance a siren begins its mournful wail. Others take up the call; a light flashes on the switch-board. 'Condition red.' Out he goes to add to the wailing. Louder and higher shrieks the warning and from the nearby tents dash the rudely awakened sleepers. Already the crash of AA fire is speeding their flying feet. Some are booted and tin-hatted; muffled curses from the fox-holes show that sharp coral points have once again reminded the unwary of the folly of not trimming the walls of their shelters. The crash of guns dies away, ears strain for the welcome single wail but again the unwelcome visitor returns. Finally the all clear sounds and only now does the operator realise it is 0400 hours—one hour of precious sleep lost and those letters still unanswered.

0400 Hours. The loneliest watch of all. Message writers, working party organisers, all trouble makers are fast asleep. C Coy's light flashes. Probably someone wants the exact time, but no—the trucks have not arrived to collect the unloading party waiting to go to work. A strange time to go to work surely, but this is Guadal-page break
An LST preparing to unload at Falamai, Mono Island

An LST preparing to unload at Falamai, Mono Island

Basketball in the Treasuries

Basketball in the Treasuries

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Fox-holes at Malsi, on Mono. Some were covered with palm fronds, some with pup tents. As morning broke, the underground population emerged after an uncomfortable night Native guides on Mono. They knew their way through the jungle The beginning of the journey home. Men waiting in Blanche Harbour to climb the ropes of the troopship that was to take them back to New Caledonia

Fox-holes at Malsi, on Mono. Some were covered with palm fronds, some with pup tents. As morning broke, the underground population emerged after an uncomfortable night
Native guides on Mono. They knew their way through the jungle
The beginning of the journey home. Men waiting in Blanche Harbour to climb the ropes of the troopship that was to take them back to New Caledonia

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A patrol sets out to seek fleeing Japs on Mono. The men in camouflaged jungle clothing almost merge with their surroundings

A patrol sets out to seek fleeing Japs on Mono. The men in camouflaged jungle clothing almost merge with their surroundings

An artist's impression of A company moving out of Malsi when the battalion was relieved

An artist's impression of A company moving out of Malsi when the battalion was relieved

page 75canal
, a forward area where the fighting 36th work six hour shifts at any time during the night.

The tale is not complete. Stories could be told of broken lines torn to shreds by all the mechanical demons of a modern army, of branches that crash on unsuspecting tent-dwellers, of manoeuvres and exercises, of weeks of procedure to say things in a new way, of inspection parades that even 'On duty, sir' cannot avoid. Enough has been said to rank the signaller with Gilbert's policeman whose 'life is not a happy one'.