In the 1950s, everyone expected to find Russian agents under their bed or inside their closets and security in military bases was very tight. I was stationed at HMAS Watson at the time; a navy RADAR training establishment, situated near Sydney’s famous Gap at South Head.
The base offered magnificent views all around. A great spot to be at in fine weather, it could however, be rather bleak when it was not. We were accommodated in ‘nissen’ huts; constructions of corrugated iron resembling old fashioned cement laundry tubs turned upside down. As there was hardly any level ground on which to set them, these rested on tall brick piers, inviting the wind to whistle over and under them without any hindrance. The bare timber floor, warped and badly fitted tongue and groove hardwood planks, seemed to work in cahoots with the piers and provided the wind with as many cracks and spaces as it wished to ferret through.
The gate at the end of the road leading up to the establishment was guarded at all times and no one believed that enemy agents would scale the tall, perpendicular cliffs to seaward. Still, those in charge thought it prudent to be more certain, and ordered that all-night patrols be mounted within the base itself.
The day I had this duty dawned clear and sunny but by the time the quartermaster’s mate shook me awake for the middle watch, i.e. midnight to four in the morning, low cloud had covered the heavens and it was blowing a full gale. I tumbled out of bed and into my uniform, then into a thick, heavy greatcoat that came down almost to the floor. At the guardhouse, the man I was relieving wasted no time in handing over his whistle, torch and night-stick and I ventured out into the howling night to begin my rounds.
I started in the area that contained the officers’ wardroom and senior staff accommodation, which was well lit, and then went around and checked the car park and the canteen. Muttering under my breath at this stupid waste of sack-time, I made my way back up the road to the guardhouse, and then continued along a dark track that led to the RADAR school itself.
Here, the lighting was quite inadequate and I walked carefully, skirting piles of soil and sandstone boulders, that Jan the gardener was busily using to transform the barren areas of exposed rock into lovely flower beds. The darkness was so intense I could almost taste it. Unseen some two hundred feet below me, the sea boomed and crashed against the cliff face, sending sheets of spray to fly with the roaring wind. My ears deafened by the elements, my eyes closed to merest slits against the wind, my chin tucked deep against my chest, I turned the corner of the main building, behind which were the RADAR aerials, a few feet away from the cliff’s edge.
I had taken a couple of steps past the first aerial mast when suddenly, a shape darker than the surrounding dark jumped in my way. Enemy agents! Saboteurs! I froze in my tracks like Lot’s wife, my heart beating painfully against my ribs; my life racing past my now, wide, wide-open eyes. I wrestled the torch out of my pocket and with fingers grown suddenly numb depressed the switch.
A weak beam of light was all the battery offered, but it was enough to reveal two large green orbs glaring at me. I turned to run; thoughts of heroic acts dissolving as quickly as they were conjured, when from somewhere beneath those staring eyes came a querulous bleat.
I had quite a few words to say to Jan the next day. A displaced person from Poland, Jan had enough ‘English’ to tell me how sorry he was for giving me such a fright. He had tied the sheep near the aerials to keep the grass down, he said, and had forgotten all about it. He was ever so sorry, he repeated with a grin, and to show there were no hard feelings, he bought me a beer at the canteen.
Have you ever had an encounter like Gus’s at night? What happened and what did it turn out to be?
