Never Forget

The Grey Ghost

GEORGE CAMPBELL 2/13th BATTALION

Notorious for her ability to slip silently through the night, I catch my first sight of the Grey Ghost. The Grey Ghost is the great ship H.M.S TQX. Before she was commissioned for the war effort, she was the luxury cruise liner the Queen Mary and despite the modifications to make her suitable as troops ship many of the niceties remains. On board the officers and some lucky soldiers have cabins to sleep in, while others like me sleep in impromptu dorms that were once dining saloons and the children's day nursery.

Running my finger along her curved and highly polished wooden rail I wonder about the passengers who would have touched this rail before me. I imagine ladies and gentlemen in their finery living a carefree existence, a life of royalty, a far cry from anything I have ever experienced in North Wagga. I make my bed in one of the dining rooms that has been allocated as a sleeping dorm and then poke my head out a porthole to look ashore at the crowds massing to wish us farewell. I imagine it is quite a spectacle for those on land to see the portrait gallery of up to three faces framed by the metal circumference of the ships portholes.

*********

Lying beside the pool, the sun's heat dances on my back as the drops of salt water dry, tightening my skin. It is now November 7, the Queen Mary is docked at Bombay, India. I have been waiting on-board for three days in the roasting heat of the crowded troop ship for my unit to be allowed on shore. This allocated swimming time is a welcome treat.

"...or we can wrap ourselves up in brown paper and go out with the mail," says Spog over enthusiastically.

I chuckle to myself as the expert of AWOL merchants toss about desperate ideas to fly this coop. My rostered time by the pool has been spent eves dropping on the ridiculous ideas devised by the group. It hadn't taken me long to realise that this time they have no real plan to undertake their daring escape and are only fantasising to keep their thoughts away from the oppressive heat and boredom of the day.

*******

At the end of the wharf, I pause to take in eclectic images of grandeur and opulence mixed with oxen drawn vehicles, roaming water buffaloes, jagged mountain ranges, fields of crops, beggars, squalor and diseased children. This abstract picture is accompanied by a mixture of aromas that both delight and repulse my senses. With the stern warnings given by the officers about the potency of the 'grog' and the moral dangers of 'Grant Road' still ringing in my ears I plan to spend my time exploring the town.

I am pushed sideways as a young lady is knocked into me by hustling movement of the shoppers. The market sidewalks are busy, mostly filled with soldiers who are looking for small gifts to send home. The lady lowers her eyes as she faces me speaking in a foreign language, assuming that she is apologising I smile and nod. Amidst the fragrant smell of the fruits stalls and the pungent smell of street dirt and raw sewerage, I catch a whiff of her lavender perfume. Her head is covered with a brown scarf held in place with a plaited rope. With nostalgia, an image flashes to mind of the school nativity plays that my siblings and I used to participate. Once a year, my mother- bless her, would strip the beds and skilfully fashion costumes for a Wiseman, shepherd and if I remember correctly, even Mother Mary had received a call up on year. Hadn't Hazel thought herself special, to be chosen for this holy role. For days, she rehearsed her lines in front of her make shift audience, consisting of any family member who happened to slow to escape the room, a real Shirley Temple she was. I have to admit that Hazel had given a stellar performance but it was Max who had just finished his first year at school that stole the show. Playing the role of a lamb, Max with his sheep skin costume made numerous appearances at the manger 'eee-awing' loudly like a donkey. At the time poor Hazel had been devastated that that her opportunity to be a famous star had been taken from her that she and vowed never to speak to little Maxy again. The image disappears as quickly as the lady.

*********

The night is so dark that only the faintest of grey figures can be seen sliding across the deck like spirits. The lapping of water against the haul is the only indication of the ship's presence in the dangerous waters. Visually impaired by the black out, those who need to walk about do so, cautiously with arms out, sliding their feet across the floor boards in the search of trip hazards. In lowered tones we whisper to each other, the immediate threat- only too real, anticipated danger lined with nerves and fear has us on edge.

Now aboard one of eleven troop ships, that is part of the convoy US7, the last leg of my journey is overcrowded and interrupted by daily air-raid drills. Inside the blacked out ship, it is like living in a furnace. I hadn't thought it possible for any place on earth to be hotter than the Grey Ghost. Yet, here I am, my body so dehydrated that there is no longer any sweat to add to the puddle on my seat. The dry smell of stale perspiration mixes with salt air to form an odour that would repel demons. We very aware that are travelling past an enemy- held territory as they head for our destination- Palestine.

My nose begins to itch and a force is building somewhere between my sinuses and the back of my head. I try rubbing my nose to disperse the tingling urge but it only moves to the tip of my nose with growing intensity.

Pineapple, I say under my breath, Pineapple, pineapple, pineapple.

I have only seen this strange tropical fruit a couple of times but remember one of my sisters telling me that saying the word 'pineapple' will stifle a sneeze. I thought it a silly remedy then and an even a sillier one now, however, as I feel my ability to hold back the impending explosive gush of air weaken I decide I have no other option.

Pineapple, pineapple, pineapple.

Ahhh Choo! The air expels from my nostrils. The noise started with an ear piercing high note finishes with a blunt 'choo' bringing stares in my direction that are thankfully hidden by the night. With the unspoken need for stealth and anonymity the ferocity of my sneeze is met with synchronized 'sh' of finger pressed to lips.

NOTES

The Devil's Own Despatch - 2/13th Association 1961

We had some bother: Tales from the Infantry, Gillan, Hugh.; 2/13th Battalion Association, 1985

Bayonets abroad : a history of the 2/13 Battalion, A.I.F. in the Second World War / by ex-members of the 2/13 Battalion, A.I.F. ; edited by G.H. Fearnside, 1953