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Bougainville Island was our last radio delivery before North New Guinea. North New Guinea was part of the German Possessions before the last war. That northern part was mandated to Australia. The Germans had begun gold mining in the mountains.
Since the North New Guinea was so big and had so many plantations, the Australians were handling the distribution of radios themselves.
Because our job was done we could have headed straight for Guam but, we were headed for the Philippine Islands. It was safer to keep moving among the islands. The Pacific is notorious for typhoons. Too far away from shelter wasn’t a good idea. For the Vellamo III a route that included the various island harbors was better.
Except for those pesky pirates. We were on our guard all the way.
The very last radio delivery: The plantation manager said, “It’s sticky out here. You need to get firearms and learn how to use them.”
“We have firearms,” Wendy said.
“Where are they?” he asked.
‘He’ is James McDouggle, planter, Scotsman extraordinaire, and friend of his workers. No nonsense, mind you, but Jim is welcome to the weddings, feasts and dances of the natives.
Jim is a University graduate and a member of the Royal Australian Navy Reserve. Most of the plantation managers fit that mold.
“Below, in the locker,” said Wendy.
“There’s a fog ... you can’t see your hand in front of your face ... three proa with three hundred men come screaming out of that fog ... less than a hundred yards away. Where is that firearm?”
“I see,” Wendy said.
“Yes ... you see your husband beheaded, gutted like a pig and tossed overboard to feed the sharks that ALWAYS follow the proa. They always follow the boats because they get fed. You see your daughter taken in all three holes and your son in two. Then they’re beheaded and fed to the Great Whites. They’re beheaded because these guys collect skulls and fasten them to the bows of the proa ... for the terror of it.”
“That is not a pretty picture,” Wendy said.
“Let’s go see what weapons you’ve got,” McDouggle said.
The maschinenpistolen impressed.
“What else you got?” he prompted.
“The rest are in number two hold ... they’re ... umh ... bigger,” I said.
“Now you got me interested,” Jim said. “Shall we?”
“First, you need to see the provisions made for the guns,” I suggested.
We went up on deck. I pointed out the interesting reinforcements.
“Swiss Oerlikon S, .55 inch cartridge, and those four are mounts for American Browning .50’s. The bow mount is for a French Hotchkiss one inch auto-cannon.”
Then we made a tour in the hold.
“A gun that’s not readily available is a paperweight. These are considerably more than paperweights.” McDouggle said, “Let’s get them mounted up.”
Using the mast and boom as a crane the Oerlikon S .55 inch was lifted out and set on the stern mount. The water-cooled Brownings were mounted on the rail stanchions.
The Hotchkiss one inch cannon was a different story. With a range of 7,439 yards (4.250 miles) it could reach far beyond the ancient muzzleloaders of the proa. It was big. The one incher even had a seat for the gunner. It was big. Big enough that it normally operated with a crew; gunner, trainer, loader. Did I happen to mention it was big? Almost 1200 pounds. Big. Switching that from the hold to the bow is going to change the hull dynamics. Fucker is big.
“You need a false crate ... something that looks like cargo but collapses,” McDouggle said. “Remember the Q ships?”
Yeah, I remember reading about them. All kinds of tramp steamers, seiners, fishing boats. Fill them up with pingpong balls or balsa wood, load ‘em down with big guns, put ‘em out as stragglers just looking like targets. Yeah, I remember Q.
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