In the early days of the ANI many of its senior members were World War II veterans and some contributed their recollections. Among them was Lieutenant-Commander William Swan who wrote this short article for the August 1981 edition of the Journal of the Australian Naval Institute. It is a vignette from his time as an officer of the watch in the light cruiser HMAS Adelaide.
A tribute to the first HMAS Adelaide, as the second of her name comes forward with the new frigate HMAS Adelaide.
In the RAN, there was a ship forever burdened with sorrow. She was not a large, nor modern ship nor particularly beautiful. Yet she was loved by all of us who had the honour to serve in her. She did nothing spectacular during the Second World War. Apart from assisting in the taking of Noumea from Vichy without tiring a shot, and sinking the Nazi blockade runner Ramses, she carried out mainly routine assignments. In the few incidents that brought her to notice, she was conspicuous for the quiet and efficient performance of duty. The public heard little of her. She was not widely publicised. A quiet ship, if you knew her you would know why. You would know that her heart was heavy with sorrow, something that even time cannot erase.
The reasons for this sorrow amongst her personnel involve three incidents in which she was to play a reluctant, though dramatic role. Still vivid in my mind, they are described here in chronological order.
It was a fine day early in November 1941, and our ship was steaming abeam of a troop convoy off the coast of Western Australia. Visibility was excellent, and only light airs broke the even surface of the sea. On the compass platform, the Officer of the Watch (OOW) leaned down to speak into the voice pipe to the crow’s nest. “Crows nest,” he called. “We expect to see the Sydney any time now. keep a good lookout.”
“Aye, aye sir,” replied the rating at the other end. About a half hour later a report came from aloft.
“Masts on the horizon dead ahead, Sir. Looks like a cruiser.”
“Very good,” the OOW called back.
Very soon the glamour ship of the RAN, hero of Mediterranean exploits, was steaming around our ship while signals were exchanged. Sydney looked very clean, and made some quick turns like a hound impatient to be after its quarry. We duly handed over the convoy to her care, and parted company after the usual farewells. This was to be Sydney’slast convoy. She never returned to Australia. We had, unknowingly, bade farewell to her and her brave men forever. Two weeks later she disappeared after sinking Germany’s most modern raider Kormoran (Raider G) and being herself sunk with all hands.
We now pass to a dull February afternoon in 1942, only two days after the surrender of the heroic garrison at Singapore. Our ship was zig-zagging ahead of a convoy of tankers somewhere off the Australian coast. We expected to hand over this convoy to another cruiser later that day. The OOW leaned down to the crows nest voice pipe.
“Crows nest” he called “We expect to see Perth any time now. Keep a sharp lookout.”
“Aye. aye Sir,” came the prompt reply from above.
Over the top of the steel crows nest, a young able seaman leaned, his eyes glued to powerful binoculars as he searched the ocean. Suddenly he stiffened with anticipation, and pressed the buzzer to the compass platform.
“Masts on the horizon on the starboard bow. Sir,” he reported. “Looks very much like a cruiser.”
“Very good,” The OOW’s reply was very clear considering the distance separating the two positions.
Our ship was now zigzagging half a mile ahead of the convoy and Perth, being junior ship, took station on our port beam. Our Captain passed all information necessary for the safe escort of the convoy to Captain Hec Waller, then altered course to clear the area. Soon Perth’s masts were dipping below the horizon. Our ship did not know, but we were not to see our sister cruiser again. Perth was escorting her last convoy, and did not see again the shores of her native Australia. She was sunk by a superior Japanese force in the Sunda Straits after a gallant fight against overwhelming odds.
After the sinking of Perth, we hoped we had farewelled our last friends on their final voyage. We did not like handing over convoys to ships that were steaming to their doom. An unlucky ship, which put a jinx on a rendezvous, was not a pleasant title. There was also a horrible feeling of inevitability about these two incidents. Two of our best warships, manned by some of the finest officers and men in the country, lost without being able to make a proper report to the Naval Board. Two catastrophes, and we had to see them off the Station. There was only one thing to do – carry on cheerfully with our duties and hope for no more such farewells.
Unfortunately, we cannot control all the machinations of Fate. ‘Third time lucky’ proved inappropriate here, as for our ship the third farewell proved equally distressing. Perhaps more so, as with the first two partings the ships had been well-equipped, modern cruisers. In the third instance, the ship was a mere sloop, less than a third their size.
The scene was a wild, desolate stretch of the Indian Ocean. It was one week after the fall of Singapore. The sun vainly endeavoured to break through the clouds and bring light and warmth to a troubled world. Adelaide was steering north north east, with an air of expectancy on board. On the compass platform officers and ratings were excited as they awaited sighting a convoy The Captain turned to the OOW. Captain Harry Showers outward calm concealed his excitement.
“We should see the convoy very soon now,” he said. “Let me know when you see anything on the horizon.”
“Aye. aye sir,” the OOW replied, and bent down to the crow’s nest voice pipe, “Crow’s nest, we expect to sight Yarra shortly, with a convoy. Keep a sharp lookout.”
Our ship pushed northwards at a steady 20 knots. The wind grew stronger and white caps appeared on the waves. The sky to the north looked dark and forbidding, as indeed it might, for only a few hundred miles from our ship a great battle was raging for possession of the Dutch East Indies. We all ached to be in the thick of it but it was not to be. A convoy had to be met and brought safely to Fremantle. The crow’s nest buzzer rang, and the OOW applied his ear to the voice pipe,
“Masts on the horizon bearing green 10, Sir,” came the report, a note of excitement in the AB’s voice.
Reluctantly we took the convoy from Yarra. The sloop was operating under the orders of the C-in-C. Batavia so, after the usual information and farewells were passed visually, she turned north watched by envious eyes from the cruiser. We watched her go with sinking hearts. She was so small and, like the others, had gone never to return. Her Captain. Lieutenant Commander Robert Rankin, and ship’s company were gallant Australians of the bull-dog breed. Yarra had handed over her last convoy. Only ten days after parting company with us she was attacked and sunk by a large Japanese surface force. Outnumbered and outgunned she fought back with colours flying, in a manner reminiscent of the destroyers at the Battle of Jutland which disappeared beneath the cold surface of the North Sea.
So now you know why our ship, when not weighted down with the business of war, bore this great sorrow. Why you might have seen a member of the ship’s company on deck looking at the horizon. He would be looking for masts that will never break the eveness betwixt sea and sky again. Perhaps he saw a phantom ship flashing her last signals, then steaming north to glory. The silhouettes of these ships, their war camouflage, are indelibly imprinted on his mind. Many of those men lost were our friends, shipmates.
In regard to losses, the Army says “Close the ranks”. In the Navy we say, “The price of Admiralty is sunken ships and dead men.” Human feeling is, however, pardonable. Those called ‘great’ by an admiring world are often the most human. So do not censure us if we pause to remember those three fine ships and their gallant men.
Their exploits may grow faint in history; but to their brothers-in-arms their memory In evergreen. While men still fire guns of ships, walk quarterdecks, climb the rigging, spin the wheels, or scrub the decks. While masts still appear on the horizon, the names Sydney, Perth and Yarra shall represent everything that is best in the Service. In thinking of them, the lines of the late Lawrence Binyon’s poem ‘To the Fallen’ are recalled:
At the going down of the sun
And in the morning,
We shall remember them.
About the Author
Lieutenant Commander W.N. Swan OAM RAN was born in 1916 and first went to sea as a cadet in with the P&O. He joined the RAN Reserve in 1935. His early wartime service was in the minesweeping sloop HMAS Doomba (1940-41) and then the cruiser HMAS Adelaide (1941-42). He then saw service first as a Landing Control Officer then Executive Officer in the landing ship infantry HMAS Westralia (1943-45). As such William Swan took part in the landings at Arawe Peninsula, Hollandia, Leyte Gulf, Lingayen Gulf, Tarakan, Brunei Bay and Balikpapan. He remained in the Navy after the war, but from 1950 until his retirement in 1960 he served ashore due to failing eyesight. William Swan was an active member of the ANI and the Naval Historical Society of Australia. In 1953 he wrote Spearheads of Invasion. This is an excellent account of the wartime service of the Navy’s three landing ships infantry.
