17 Mar 1943

Last Sunday we set out in our lovely aeroplane on a job. After being airborne for an hour or so both engines gave up the ghost and left us, so to speak, without means of support. Tom hurriedly jettisoned our bombs, we all jammed ourselves into what we considered the safest positions and within a couple of very long minutes Tom had miraculously landed us in a swamp about ten miles inland from the Australian coast and a good 150 miles from any white-man's habitation. Getting down safely was an exhibition of very excellent airmanship on our pilot's part, in the first place, and a marvellous combination of fortuitous circumstances, which we can call the guiding hand of God more than "luck".

For some reason he doesn't know himself, Tom was flying a thousand feet higher than usual, just in the right place was a small swamp clearing with heavy timber thick around it for miles and we just made it, taking the light top branches off a couple of trees and clearing heavy trunks that we couldn't have got through by just a foot or two. We were all scratched and one or two a little bruised, but not one of us was really hurt at all, though the poor plane was properly wrecked. Her flying days were over, poor girl.

Fortunately, the W/T equipment was only slightly damaged and within an hour we had repaired it and were in communication with our base. They cheered us greatly with the reply that help was on the way. We built beacon fires at a safe distance from the petrol and oil covered wreck and sat down to wait and review the situation. You may guess that the shining light that filled our minds was amazed gratitude at our good fortune in being alive to tell the tale. Now that we had been able to report and give our position to base we knew that, although there was some pretty stiff walking and some hardship in the way of mosquitoes, etc, in front of us, we would be rescued before many days were up.

Soon we heard a plane, lighted our beacons, and were located and succoured by provisions of water, bread and butter and good old bully beef together with a message to walk to a certain point on the coast and wait the arrival of a naval vessel, which had been sent to pick us up.

We set out on our trek at 1630 hours, carrying emergency rations, two gallons of water, a compass and map, the bread and bully beef and the silk from a parachute, which we hoped would provide us with a tent, which would reduce the mosquito menace to a minimum during our camping halts.

Gosh, that walk was a nightmare. For hours we walked through water up to our knees, at every step our feet sank into the mud and stinking water filled our flying boots and made walking a torture. We waded through creeks up to our waists and tripped over vines, which seemed like blooming octopus tentacles reaching out for us. At 10 p.m. we decided it was time to call it a night and we lit a fire, made what we thought was a mosquito-proof tent out of our 'chute and prepared to go to sleep. Mosquito-proof! My eye! Goodness knows where the mossies did come in but come in they did - in their thousands. I think that their noise was worse than their bites.

We set off again at 8 a.m. calculating that we were two miles from the beach. Before long we came to a wide belt of mangroves and spent a lovely couple of hours clambering over mangrove roots and stinking bog. Then we came to a river about sixty feet across and probably ten feet deep. Not liking the thought of crocodiles, which abound in most of these rivers, we decided to follow it to the sea, which we did. However, then we found ourselves a couple of miles away from our rendezvous and had to swim the river after all. In crossing we lost a couple of revolvers and one or two other things when our Observer tried to throw a bundle over and badly misjudged the distance. We did get our water and our provisions over though, which was the main thing. The river was a bit more than brackish and possibly fever-ridden as far as we were concerned, so we were rationing our water in case the ship didn't arrive as arranged.

The ship was not there, but another of our planes found us and signalled to us with an aldis lamp that she was a couple of hours away and for us to light a fire to guide her to us, which we did. About this time it started to rain heavily. We were fortunate to find a couple of native mia-mias, ‎(little huts made of saplings and paper bark)‎ where we were able to shelter. There were no signs of abos having been there for some time.

About 1530 hours the ship arrived and took us aboard - and we were thankful. Weren't we amazingly fortunate? First of all to come out of the crash alive and unhurt and then to be taken aboard ship 30 hours afterwards. The captain, officers and men are treating us very well. They were able to get to us so quickly because they happened to be on a job in the neighbourhood and were wirelessed to pick us up. The journey back to Darwin will take about three days. Because of the dangerous waters we travel only during the daytime and anchor at night.

There are about a dozen abo boys, three abo women and two dear little tarbaby piccaninnies on board. The boys are Melville Islanders, said to be easily the finest type of abo in Australia. They seem more intelligent than most, but are just like children all the same. They are clean and cheerful workers. They are employed by the Government as aeroplane spotters, trackers, etc. When we anchor at night they go ashore with their spears and raffia baskets and come back with fish and turtle eggs for our meals. Scrambled turtle eggs taste very nice indeed.

Last night the black boys dug up some cobbers on the mainland, we all went ashore and they turned on a corroboree for us. They are great actors and portrayed in their dancing little plays about hunting buffalo, crocs, wallaby, fighting between the tribes and so on. They rather shocked us with one wedding dance, which was quite lurid in its uninhibited revelation of wooing and winning. In none of these dances do the gins take part except to sit well in the background chanting and occasionally rising and doing a sort of shuffle-on-the-spot as an accompaniment for their lords and masters.

We should probably be back on Friday. It is hard to realise that what we cover in an hour by air takes about three days by sea. The routes the ships take are governed by coastlines, shoals, reefs, etc.

Several times we have sighted aircraft in the distance. They have all turned out to be our own planes, thank goodness. The niggers have astounding eyesight and see planes long before anyone else.

19 Mar 1943
We arrived back at camp last night and very glad to be back too. We are all quite well except for scratches and bruises on legs and arms and mosquito bites, but are not allowed to fly again until the M.O. has given us an overhaul and treated our blood for malaria germs. Sgt. Matheson, who was our 3rd WAG, is going down on leave almost immediately. Colin Storrie, ‎(2nd WAG)‎ came back to find that his promotion to Flight Sergeant has been gazetted.

It was a funny feeling to think, "In a few seconds I may be dead". None of us was conscious of fear, though for a few nights Tom said he was haunted by visions of the trees around the edge of the little swamp looming up before his eyes every time he closed them.

There was one young "boong" named Ginger Mark 2 - as black as the ace of spades - who wouldn't go ashore at one place because "Longfeller Mary, she sit down along this place. Last time she killen me here" ‎(placing an anguished hand on his behind)‎ "she catchem hold er me, she chasem me, me go along shore. She want to marry me. No sir, me stay alonga ship." And although the boys teased him unmercifully, young Ginger Mark 2 stayed aboard where Longfeller Mary couldn't catch him.

Later.
Just been examined by the M.O., and declared fit for operational flight again.