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HMAS Waterhen, known and loved as "The Chook"
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THE CHOOK By J. E. MACDONNELL, R.A.N. Never was ship more aptly named. Out in the combers of the Pacific or down among the thrashing waves of the Bight, she maintained an unenviable reputation of being more often under than on top. It was His Majesty's Australian destroyer Waterhen, known throughout the fleet as "The Chook". Early in 1940 Waterhen cleared Port Said and breasted the calm blue of the Mediterranean; not for the first time, but now on work bent. She took up station under redoubtable Cunningham and soon her work commenced. For eighteen months she continued to give grand service in the Mediterranean, ferrying to Tobruk, anti-submarine patrolling, screening the Battle Fleet on it's sweeps of the inland sea, at sea six days in thee week; taking punishment in the form of rocking near misses, nerves strained almost to breaking point, minds wondering dully when all the hellish uselessness of it would end; and it out in the shape of falling, dive bombers, depth-charged submarines and broad sides flung at shore fortifications. Through all this pattern of high adventure, periods of intense nervous excitement mixed the savage exultation of victory, was woven the ugly fibre of those runs to Tobruk with helpless wounded crammed aboard, the enemy's bombing attacks developed with the certainty of the sunrise which presaged their commencement. It was on one of these runs to the immortal Rats of Tobruk that "Chook" met her fate. Time was about 7.40 of a calm evening on 30 June. Although the sun had set plenty of light lingered in the immensity above. Waterhen slipped easily through on her way to Tobruk, this time carrying, in addition to the usual supplies and ammunition, the Provost Traffic Control Branch of the Sixth Australian Division. She was in company with a British destroyer, disposed to port, both ships cruising at a steady twenty-five knots. "The Chook" was closed up in the fourth degree of readiness, A.A. and anti-submarine lookouts posted. Lounging on the upper deck after supper, yarning with the Diggers, most of the ship's company were enjoying the cool of evening before snatching a few hours' sleep before the work started. Eyes subconsciously noted the visibility in the sky, for with blessed darkness their worries were lessened by about eighty per cent. It seemed that the Sixth Australian Division members would have to wait for their own element to provide their baptism of fire. But at 7.45 the action bells shrilled out their summons. They came over, Stukas, forty-two of them, flying very high in the clear sky. Leading Seaman Orken was quartermaster at the wheel, and his first intimation that the attack had commenced was the First Lieutenant's shout reaching him down the voice-pipe. "Duck! " The Q.M. obeyed. Fifty yards off the ship's side the sea was convulsed into spouting columns of climbing white, discoloured at the base with bursting high explosive. Missed. The first flight swept up into the sky again, where the rest circled round, waiting their turn. Then, in position again, they fell off on one wing and dropped headlong upon her. Twisting and weaving at full speed the gallant little craft strove to escape the downpour. The fourth black shape streaked in for the kill. He was further behind his predecessors and by the time he got in range of the point fives and captured Bredas the smoke and spray had cleared away. Teeth clenched, fingers curled round triggers, in their hearts a savage hate, the gunners waited. Even in this holocaust their superb training asserted itself. They knew the range of their weapons and not a round was wasted. The whole port of the destroyer burst into flickering stabs of orange flame at once. Met by the concentrated fire the Nazi turned away, his big bomb clearly visible under the oil-streaked belly. As he turned a stream of Breda shells ripped into his guts. There came a flash of brilliant light, a thudding explosion, and bits of Nazi bomber drifted swiftly seaward. Petty Officer Durham was manning a Breda on the quarter deck. His Number 2 had been knocked out by a splinter and as the cartridge belt was too heavy to feed in without him the gun was useless. Durham saw a Stuka come in astern. The two bombs were plain under his wings. He let go. They flashed over Durham's head and exploded at the base of the foremost funnel. Motorboat, fenders, tinned fruit, all rose into the air in a splintered mass. A burst tin of best Bartlett pears landed on the gunner's mate's head, and in great trepidation, as the sticky mess oozed over his face, he pulled off what he firmly believed to be his nose! The destroyer heeled suddenly to port, over' further, until her lee gunwale was almost awash in the creaming sea. Down they came, a stick of four and all lobbed over, except the last. The bomb struck near the exposed ship's side and, its fuse started, exploded abreast the engine-room with shattering effect. A hole big enough to sail the whaler in was blown in her side and what with crippling near misses the brave little ship had had enough. She slowed down and listed to port as the water poured in, a black scum of escaping fuel oil spreading from her wound. The bombers had drawn off, their loads exhausted, and the British destroyer nosed her bow in to take off "The Chook's" crew. It was then the First Lieutenant uttered his famous "last words". Someone had suggested souveniring the ensign before she went. "Pipe down you bastard! " came the Jimmy's shout. "We aren't sunk yet! " Every man was transferred and they drew off to watch her go. She made a sad picture, rolling sluggishly on the oily sea, guns pointing at all angles in the direction of their last target, boats smashed to splinters, jagged holes in her funnels and upper works. At dark she was still afloat and it was decided to attempt a tow. The First Lieutenant with volunteers pulled over in a whaler and crawled up the sloping side on to her fo'c'sle. Suddenly he whispered: "Quiet. There's somebody aboard"' They drew pistols and crouched there, eyes striving to pierce the blackness. There was no sound save the occasional clink of empty cartridge cases and the flap, flap of a torn canvas screen. A smell of burnt cordite was heavy on the air. Then abaft the capstan a torch flashed on, and off. The First Lieutenant shouted: "Who's that? Answer or I fire." No answer. Quickly he fired four times at the light. The only result was another flash. With drawn guns the party scrambled over the tilted deck, guided by the light: to find the interloper was only a torch, flicking on and off as the roll took it over the button. They set to work swiftly and soon the tow was passed. The boat returned, was hoisted, and the British captain ordered slow ahead. "The Chook" once again moved through the water, but only for a moment. A sudden tautening of the tow wire till it quivered like a bow string warned them to slip. It was too much for her. Weakened bulkheads had given in. Her slim bow rose in the air, then quietly and gracefully she slipped under. Silently her men watched her go. Followed three weeks in a base camp in Alexandria, and finally word got round that they were going home. One rainy afternoon a merchantman pulled in to Prince's Pier at Melbourne and a line of sailors filed quietly ashore. There were no bands or plaudits awaiting-only the eager arms of wives and sweethearts. from "AS YOU WERE" 1947 by the AWM |
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JOURNEY INTO HISTORY |
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