RANCA NSW

 

Extract from Corvette magazine

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Col Madigan

Col Madigan is one of the few remaining survivors of HMAS Armidale’s sinking. He has been a staunch supporter for adequate recognition of the valour of Teddy Sheean. When Howard Halsted and Bill Allen met with Colin in early December last year to discuss Howard’s new submission, he gave us his own personal views which are below.  He gave his permission for them to be published in Corvette.

 

The biographical details of Colin are in a quotation from Frank Walker’s HMAS ARMIDALE The Ship That Had to Die. (p. 134)

 

“Colin Madigan became one of Australia’s most eminent architects and designed two of the impressive buildings in the Parliamentary triangle in Canberra – the National Gallery and the High Court. Among the honours heaped on him was the coveted Australian Institute of Architects Gold Medal “for distinguished service in the designing or executing buildings of high merit resulting in the advancement of architecture”.

 

 

We fought WW2 on the seas

in the air and on the lands.

The loss of HMAS Armidale,

the case for a Navy VC.

 

Posthumous, means after death

now 68 years ago.

More than just a reward there-in.

Altruism; acting for others, in this case all of us.

 

If gazetted it would excuse

the official organised silence in 1942

the enemy so close to home,

an exceptional moment in our Australian history.

 

Into the Pantheon of Heroism;

Milne Bay; Kokoda; Sandakan in Borneo,

Tobruk in Libya, Sydney off the west coast

and Armidale just off Darwin.

Memorialised as is “Dunkirk” in WW2 history.

At this lost time, with much pride

it is a wartime notice, corrected and updated.

 

The Corvette Association salutes

Edward Sheean for his extraordinary valour in

the face of an enemy.

Our aim is to make it official

and  our history meaningful.

 

Colin Madigan

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HMAS SHEEAN AT LATROBE

Extract Corvette magazine January 2002

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The greatest day in the history of Latrobe is how the mayor of Latrobe, Bert Campbell, described the visit to Latrobe by the crew of the Collins class submarine HMAS Sheean, named after Ordinary Seaman Teddy Sheean, Latrobe's most famous son.

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Sheean earned a special place in Australian naval history when his ship, the corvette HMAS Armidale was sunk by Japanese bombers off Timor on December 1, 1942. Although mortally wounded, Sheean stuck to his gun even after the order "Abandon Ship" had been given and went down with the ship, his gun still firing to the end.

The submarine berthed at Devonport on September 3, to enable the crew to visit nearby Latrobe, where they were given Freedom of entry to the town and treated as honoured guests for the entire weekend.

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The commanding officer of HMAS Sheean, Lieutenant Commander Timothy Brown, unveiled a plaque at the Sheean memorial to commemorate the visit, and was presented with a plaque as recognition of the link between the submarine and the State of Tasmania. "Teddy, to us, was one of the great wartime heroes", said Lt Cdr Brown. "He was an ordinary bloke who did an extraordinary thing. It makes such a difference to the crew when there is a meaning behind the naming of their ship".

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Among the official guests was former Armidale crewman Rex Pullen and Teddy Sheean's brother 88-year-old Bert Sheean and his sister, Ivy Hayes, now 92. Also present was 79-year-old Frank McCullagh, a boyhood friend of Teddy's. He described Teddy "as tough as they come, a bloke who preferred a fight to a feed".

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Extract Corvette magazine 1989

                                                                          HMAS ARMIDALE

AT LAST, forty-seven years after this gallant ship succumbed to the attacks of overwhelming enemy forces, there now stands, in Central Park in the City of Armidale, a fine memorial.

 

On Saturday 3 December 1988, in the presence of nine survivors of her ship' s company, members of the Naval Association, New England Sub-Section Naval Cadets from TS SHROPSHIRE (Grafton) TS VENDETTA (Coffs Harbour), other corvette sailors, the Mayor of Armidale and others, the memorial was unveiled by Rear Admiral G.A.(Angus) Bennett OBE, OA, RAN (Rtd ).

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The dedication ceremony, conducted in the best of naval tradition, paid tribute to the ship, to those who died and to those who survived to continue the fight for our country.

 

We are grateful to the New England Sub-section of the Naval Association of Australia whose vision, enterprise and effort, produced this monument. I quote from the Memorial Unveiling Brochure ......

 

"The idea for a memorial began at another memorial opening a couple of years ago, also by a visit of Mr Rex Pullen to one of our founder members. The project was put forward at a Sub-section meeting and there were those against it and said it would never be, but we went ahead anyway. Our President, Mike Bedford was the main driving force behind the whole project and with the help of his good friend, Ken Roper, the memorial was well under way".

 

That evening, following the dedication at Legacy Hall a large gathering enjoyed the HMAS ARMIDALE Memorial Dinner. The "Armidale' survivors who travelled to the name city for the occasion are -

 

RAY RRAYMOND, COL MADIGAN,  BILL READ, TED MORLEY, JOHN PARKER, ROY CLELAND, TED PELLETT, ARTHUR LANSBURY, BILL McKELLAR

 

It was a very memorable experience. I heard it suggested that 'Armidale" survivors might consider meeting annually on Anzac Days or on the anniversary of the loss of the ship at Armidale.

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Extract from Corvette Magazine April 1990

 

THE ''ARMIDALE DIARY''

Col Madigan ex-HMAS "Armidale" 3rd December, 1988

 

Two hours before the 6.40 a.m. flight the bedroom alarm went off.  He turned over in the dark and thought, “Was it worth it?"

 

Incidents of the Armidale's sinking, close to the surface of his thought, were indelibly printed on his brain and when triggered by symbol or suggestion would well up into a mind picture that was near to real. One frame that occurred when he was cleaning his teeth was the smashed jaw of Ted Morley.

 

Ted lay passively in the bilge water of the decrepit motor boat. The motor boat was crowded and there was little freeboard. From his position on the ship's wreckage, he could see Ted Morley's head near the gunwale so close to the water line. The lower half of Ted's face was smashed wide open - the wound was green and smelly in the hot sun, a rag, under what remained of the chin, was tied in a knot on top of a bald shaven head trying to keep the fleshy fragments together.

 

There were other incidents too that recurred with startling clarity like the moment when he swore that the sun stood still. He could picture a bright yellow ball at the time angle of 1515, hanging motionless above a black glassy sea, bobbing black heads in the foreground.

 

This mix of oil, cordite and blood invaded the nostrils to remind him of the sheer horror of it all. The cohesive quality of this oily mix, made the line of bullet rushes surreal, like upstanding feathers that slowly dropped back into the sea as the low threatening aircraft roared, its form shadowing the sea, filling the sky above his head. They were Mitsubishi bombers.

 

On the way out to the Sydney Airport he told the taxi driver that he was going up to Armidale for the weekend to meet other survivors from the ship. HMAS Armidale was sunk by Japanese aircraft on the 1st December, 1942. She was alone at the time, having parted company from HMAS Kuru during a four hour battle that day. He took the taxi driver back 46 years to the very day of the taxi ride, 3rd December, "when doubts as to the Armidale's safety had arisen in Darwin, and at 11.36 a.m. on the 3rd Commodore Pope express these thoughts the Navy Board, referring to the air attacks she had reported, and concluding 'Possibly she was sunk by aircraft or damaged and subsequently located by enemy cruisers. Air search is proceeding' ". He said "Nobody knew we were sunk." As he unfolded the story in the taxi, he sensed  the driver was sympathetic to his quest,  resulting in the cheapest fare he ever remembered, and God knows he had made this ride to the airport hundreds of times on  his  way  to Canberra.

 

Sometimes he went to Canberra with Don Lawson, another survivor, whom he had worked with professionally for many years. They were only 18, 19 and 20 or there­abouts then, healthy youths fighting a war. In 1942 the Japanese were approaching our very shores, they had attacked Sydney Harbour.

 

Through the dark recesses of his mind, would he be able to match his memory with their image, 46 years older? He remembered them also thin, a weak skinny emaciated lot, covered in salt water ulcers, wounded and weary, a motley group. Darwin suffered many air raids. The hospital there was a row of beds in a shot-up-hut. The boots the Army issued, replacing their lost gear, were so heavy it cost him a weary effort to lift them off the deck, to say nothing about the ill-fitting bloomer Army shorts. He was skinny too, bald shaven head, a human wreck. He looked ridiculous.

 

On a beach near the Darwin Railway Jetty he vaguely remembers seeing the ship's whaler, or what was left of it, as the survivors were being transferred to a merchant ship going south. The ''Islander'' would try and get the mobile survivors home before Christmas. Ted went to the Air Base at Batchelor waiting for a plane going south to a big city hospital where his jaw would be attended to. It was hard to believe 29 men could paddle that wreck of a whaler, 135 miles in three days.

 

Preoccupied with memories on the way up from Sydney, he intended to use the aircraft toilet but noticed a Japanese tourist occupy it at the critical moment. He thought the man was too young to be a war pilot.

Stranded in Armidale this time would be easy. He called a taxi from town. It was still only 8.30 a.m. It was hot and the lady behind the motel desk told him he was in a room with two other blokes. There was nothing she could do about this, the motel was full. "You could try somewhere else if you like."

 

The idea of sleeping three in a room would be no worse than the fo'c'sle in the Armidale. At 3.15 p.m.,  when  the first torpedo hit the ship, he was knocked unconscious with a smashed nose. The fo'c'sle side was smashed open too; most of the soldiers crowded into the mess deck were killed in that first blast. Over the years the nasal drip had worsened, and he was self-conscious of his nocturnal snoring noises. The door from the bedroom to the motor court was open. The two men had just finished breakfast. "I'm Roy Cleland, aft Oerlikon gun, and this is George me mate. We play bowls now and again. He's English, but we worked together for years at Esso. I drove tankers and George worked in the refinery. You can have the double bed. Do you want any Wheaties, some toast, cup of tea?" Roy joined the Navy straight out of school in 1938. In the cruiser Australia Roy saw action in the Atlantic, Russian convoys, Coral Sea then Armidale. Considering these assignments Roy agreed he had had a fortunate life.

 

"Do you mind if I snore?" he asked them plaintively. It was a small room. The double bed took up most of the floor space, he couldn't understand why it wasn't pre-claimed by one of them.

The survivors had come to Armidale to dedicate the Ship's memorial that had been built in the City park, and they were to muster at 1330 for a bus pick-up going to where the march would start. Roy and George had seen the memorial the day before, and to fill in the hours it would be good to see it again -just down the street, opposite the church. "See the steeple down there." It was 9.00 o'clock now as they stood outside the bedroom door. Up to the left in the far comer of the courtyard he spotted  Fred  Still behind the motor cars.

 

Fred and he had been through Asdic School together, both had become higher submarine detectors (H.S.D.'s) in the same class at Rushcutters. He was posted to ''Armidale" and Fred to ''Kalgoorlie".

 

The "Kalgoorlie" and "Castlemaine'', along with the "Kuru" were involved in the two day battle before the 'Armidale" was sunk. The Armidale's" 4" gun came off an old destroyer. It was antiquated and would elevate to give a shell burst no higher than 5,000 feet allowing the bombers to stay out of range and play their deadly game with the ships most of the day.

 

He could picture Leading Cook Williams handing out sandwiches while the crew remained closed up at battle stations. The ''Castlemaine" would disappear behind towering water spouts; sea water would rain on the Armidale's" deck shattering the relative silence. White water towers on a blue sea were a sharp colourful imprint in his memory.

 

The imprint of Fred's face was stored in his memory at the time they were picked up. The outline of this incident was in black and white, the men in the whaler had dropped to an exhausted state, close to the edge of death, maybe colour had left his senses. He thinks it was a grey afternoon with a moderate swell. The day before when the wind came up they made a sail which was jury-rigged with their overalls. On the wave crests the whaler would shake then surge down into the troughs. During the battle, the whaler was badly damaged by cannon fire, and he was afraid she would break up in this heavy sea. He remembered how they had turned the raft into a floating dock to lift the whaler's stem out of the water, enabling it to be patched up with canvas. Considering the circumstances  a pretty amazing feat.

​

The survivors in the whaler had endured 8 ½ days on the surface of the sea. They had been through a saga of sun and thirst. The sun was merciless. Scramble nets were over the "Kalgoorlie's'.' side, and as the boats touched in the swell he mustered  a  remaining  reserve of  strength  to make the top of the rail, as he was helped over the side, he knew it was Fred who seemed to be all around him. Looking up, Fred's looming face was no more than six inches away, slowly waving about. The eyes searched, Fred could not recognise his "Belsen" look, the dry blistered sunken stare. No survivor could stand on the rolling deck of the "Kalgoorlie". They collapsed in a heap. His weakened state was apparent in comparison to the norm of activity that now surrounded him.

 

Wrapped in grey blankets, sipping hot soup below deck, there was a sense of urgency in the air. "Kalgoorlie's" crew deserted the survivors as they closed up to action stations with the Clax horns screaming. If the "Kalgoorlie" was hit this time, he was reconciled to go down with the ship. Looking around the mess deck, all the grey blankets were still and expectant. The soldiers in the ''Armidale" would have felt this black, hopeless anguish, before the sea rushed in.

 

Two others came out of the motel bedroom after Fred, Ray Raymond and Ted Morley. The three waved and sauntered down, smiling with outstretched hand. The smile broke up Ray's face. Come to think of it Ray was always near the engine room passage.. He could never remember him wearing a shirt . The residue of memory was in the tropics still. The talking voice and manner, the leaning forward stance, he seemed to dance on his toes when he talked, Ray had not changed, he just looked a bit older that's all, and then Fred. "I know your face so well", he prompted. Fred expected to be remembered and challenged his memory waiting silently. ''I'm Fred Still". Fred never swore, "flicken" is the only superlative he ever uses and he's still on about the "flicken" war. An unusual turn of phrase like that marks a man forever. Fred said "There were two bodies in the 'flicken' whaler when we hoisted her aboard". He couldn't remember this. "She broke her back in the slings you know."

 

Ted looked passive and drawn, passive, like being there. He didn't match up Ted's face with the image of the smashed jaw that he had focused on earlier.

 

From the other comer of the motor court, Bill Read emerged with his wife, Dulcie. He had met Bill with Dennis Reedman at Don Lawson's funeral in July. "Dennis didn't make this rendezvous, he's in Uralla Hospital", Bill said.

 

 He vividly recalls Don first coming aboard in Sydney Harbour. Black pants, white shirt and a peak cap. A lively, enthusiastic 17 year old chief of the Radio Direction Finding Team telling how great it would be when radar is installed. They were in the whaler together, they had endured the wrath of battle and the wrath of nature's elements - the vagaries of the sea, and had met fortuitously soon after the war in the same building, in adjoining offices.

 

Over the many years of their professional association, they would talk about the Armidale, particularly about the moment of separation, the anguish and torment of choice - who would go in the whaler and who would stay on the raft. They had already seen the motor boat leave with 22 aboard. They could see the mountains of Timor when that happened. Ted went off in the motor boat along with other wounded. This was a weak prelude to the more serious drama to come. Leaving the lumbering waterlogged raft was like a gateway to possible freedom and some comparative comfort. It really wasn't a raft, it was something put up, objects off the Armidale's deck, rope, oil drums, French mine sweeping floats, Denton floats, the small Carley raft, painting planks, these were all collected in the first dawn, after the first lonely night. At first light the motor boat loomed out of the dark, the only thing above the surface. The command post for the muster of all those black heads. There was a colony now. Covered in oil he thought they looked like sea elephants. The war tom flotsam was lashed together, and along with the submerged whaler, whose buoyancy tanks saved her from the bottom, formed a floating reef, regulated because when the sailors clamoured on, the plimsoll mark was the underside of the survivors chin, but at least the body was at rest. This meant there was the lifejacket contingent, beyond and about the raft waiting their tum to put their feet on the submerged island.

 

It became a feeding reef for sharks.  His skin comes up in goose pimples whenever he thinks about this. A forest of legs, like a sea urchin's tentacles -the coarse sand paper leg graze as the monster slowly cruises through the hanging limbs - Jesus. The perspective at water line is strange. It's an undulating surface never at rest, not far from the group, dead bodies supported by life jackets were flaying around, like dumb puppets dancing to the tune of a shark’s appetite. What fascinated him about the sharks was their battle tactics.  They were the same as the Japanese.

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The last moments of battle saw nine low flying torpedo bombers, three Zeros and a float plane circulate the ship in a slow mesmeric movement, separate out in threes at all points of the compass and tum into centre focus, their closing speed increasing - shit this was it. He saw the torpedo drop, another was in the water. "Pull now." He sent the bunch of rocket wires up hoping to snare the ugly war bird. How could he hang on in this violent audio, visual and olfactory confusion? It was a moment of stark horror like a frozen scream. Bombs and cannon fire from the planes made him take shelter head first into the iron side of the bridge. When the torpedo hit, the deep buried explosive thump made the ship heave. The iron side undulated and smashed into his face. He was knocked out, unconscious until the water crept over his body. She was listing badly to port.  Desperately he crawled through the starboard window of the bridge, which was near to horizontal.  A moment of terror when he thought his blimp jammed the opening, walked upright across the flat side of the ship and plunged into the oily sea. The sun was still, an eerie yellow onlooker above a calm surreal horizon. Christ - it's not over yet, boots off, pants off. The lifejacket would be the death of him. Every time he tried to get his head under to avoid the lines of strafing bullets, his arse would stick up.

 

After a couple of days when the oil cleared, he found the sharks had much the same strategy. The fins circle the cluster of heads then, with a turn of speed, move in unison to the centre. The leader would say "Yell now". They would scream in terror and splash the fucking water like madmen. Bar a few horrible incidents it seemed to work. The shark dance was performed many times.

 

Don and he would reflect on things over a lunch, not in much detail, but on the edge of the matter, their work possibly dominated their consciousness and suppressed memories. Sometimes it was like a lament. There was the time Cook Williams died. He drowned.

 

During the nights when some sleep was possible, if the chin went under, they either woke up or drowned. He was barely alive in the dawn light. How could anyone pump his lungs free? Again and again they would return to the moment of separation. It was a heart-rendering occasion, by chance arranged in such a way to leave a lingering guilt.

 

 ''Hadn't we been purged of this memory - Christ - we were back at sea within a month of the sinking. Will you ever forget the black/green lowering skies, the 80 foot waves? The pitch black night patrols up the New Guinea coast. The times we rolled so much we lost all the depth charges out of the throwers."

 

That's what they did for us - occupied our minds. Yes, but why us and not them? Some of them cried on separation day, Christ they wept . . .they wept, some pleaded, some swam away - and they felt the pitiful pain. Jesus Don, it wasn't easy for anyone. Thank Christ we were not making the selection. Anyway it was only sheer luck that we were found, nobody knew we existed, how you can be so lucky, right under the flight path of the returning Catalina which had just found the men on the raft. The whole bloody thing was absurd. "Eat your lunch." ''I don't think there is a God", he told Don, ''if there is, he's a nasty bugger". He pondered about this when he was discharged after the war, sick from dislocation and lack of purpose, wondering, absorbing the thoughts of Bernard Shaw in "The Adventures of the Black Girl In Her Search for God".

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The Memorial was a small brick structure in the form  of a square U, heroic scale you might say, higher than a standing man, the two outreaching arms which embraced the plaque had round ports in them, and along with the undersized pipe mast and cross arm at the back·, gave a slight nautical  impact  to the quiet  landscape  setting.

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They had remembered, and he could remember them. All the names were there, in four columns -Killed - Motor Boat - Whaler - Missing. It was arresting. He had not seen the ship's company of 83 codified like this before. The Missing column of names was as long as the whalers, he could see them now, a blurred picture, a cluster of men waving to an aircraft.

 

This was a time to remember. They would stroll down to the RSL Club and on the way call in on Mike Bedford of the Armidale sub-section of The Naval Association, who was preparing Legacy Hall for the big dinner night. Mike showed them a black and white picture of Armidale, camouflaged at Port Moresby. It appeared that she was about to weigh anchor, the figures on deck were too small to identify. Mike said, "The photo of the Armidale should be hanging up in the Club”.

 

They couldn't find the Armidale's photograph, they clinked glasses. Like a dreamtime sonata in four movements it broke out in a confused picture of anecdotes. Somebody in the water actually had his arms around a torpedo, struggling with it. No. Yes, it blew him to smithereens. Ray came out of the engine room behind the Engineer who copped a piece of shrapnel clear between the eyes. Ray pulled it out, and blood gushed all over him, there was blood and guts washing about in the waist, he recalled seeing bodies being washed against the ship's side flowing towards the propeller now lifting out of the water, but still turning  chopping  the bodies up. Ray was in the water now. He had steam up recalling the events, he was pumping up the story from his memory. "Jesus, I saw the torpedo coming straight for me." He seemed to be moving from side to side in his chair, trying to lift himself off the seat - "I was trying to get on top of the water." Then lifting his voice in disbelief, "The bloody thing went right under me, and it was red and green.”

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Ray was convinced he knew how the ship broke up. He saw Teddy Sheean at the Oerlikon blazing away at the Zeros. He saw him go down strapped in. Ray was adamant the last thing he  saw  of  the  ship  was the ensign  on the stem flag pole. He thought he could paint the picture. As Ray finished his story, he said "Christ, Roy, what happened to the bloke who had his jaw shot off?" In silence they all looked at Ted. Of course it was Ted, he couldn't imagine that mess being patched up. Ray said, "I tied the rag under his chin." Ted said, "I never thought I would ever clean my teeth again." You never can tell. It took years of careful  surgery. He could see him now with a sailor's cap on, no shirt, posing for a group photo on the deck of the Armidale.

Roy ruminated over his beer saying quietly “I think of an incident about the Armidale nearly every day of my life. After the war I would always take the 1st of December off work, go to Young and Jacksons and order two beers, drink me own and leave the other one. As I would leave the barmaid would question me about the full glass, and I would tell her 'Me mates will be along shortly to look after that'." They ordered another round.

 

He heard about the other group staying at the Cattleman's Motel. A close acquaintance Johnny Parker was apparently anxious to meet him. Johnny was an SD in the Armidale and he was the HSD.

 

Johnny Parker, he thought of  him  like a brother, of  all those he knew he was probably closest to Johnny Parker. Johnny had a great sense of humour, and would play up the boss/employee relationship. Famous for dropping one liners, the best boatswain's pipe he had ever heard. When the motor boat was attempting to tow the raft and the submerged whaler:  "Follow that cab", he rendered in the voice of W.C. Fields. The Armidale was sunk in the Timor Trench, 2000 fathoms deep, and Johnny swore he had his foot on the bot­ tom when they were being strafed . This made the grim Skipper smile. The motor boat engine would not start, and would be dismantled before eventually going. How could anybody fix that up under such forlorn conditions?

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It  was going  on  midday, and  he was hungry. He hadn't taken Roy up on the toast and Wheaties, and it was too early  to eat  when  he left home. He, Fred, Ted and Ray had an all-day breakfast at the Cafeteria  Shop in  the  City Mall. Ray said, "God we were hungry. Do you remember that sea gull?" His hand enclosed the pointed knife. "It  landed on that stick we were using as an oar." Ray pulled the knife towards him. The oar was pulled in slowly to within an inch of the ready hand. The gull flew off, and landed again on the patched up stern of the whaler. Christ knows how they kept the whaler afloat. She had to be continually bailed. There were men lying in the bilge water or were they dead then as Fred contends? He recalled a tin of bully beef divided up into 1/2" cubes and handed out as they do in Holy Communion. Then a sip of water or condensed milk - then nothing. The belly shrunk, no evacuation, no water. Could he drink his urine -put  it in that condensed milk can and woof it down. It was  still  warm,  it  made him retch.

 

He remembered  trying to catch fish. Tropical  fish, small fish that slipped through his hand when the fist closed. These incidents made them dream of food. It made the bacon, the sausage, the egg and the chips, the small piece of tomato, the mustard and the tomato sauce taste like a royal feast. It was time to get back to the Alluna Motel. The invitation  said  medals will  be worn .

 

They all dressed up and, considering it was hot and humid, it’s a mark of  respect for  those in the deep grave.  He hadn't thought of the medals until the night before he left Sydney. Were they really a testament to lost years? He found them, but not the bar to make a neat assembly. Would he wear the Order of Australia medal? Why not - possibly never have another opportunity. Ill prepared, he pinned the medals on with dry cleaners safety pins. Roy told him the correct order. Roy had one more medal, recognising his service in the Atlantic. Sinking the Vichy French ships off Dakar, hauling cold and blue bodied bomber crews aboard in the North Sea, ready to ram the Scharnhorst and Tirpitz.

 

"Christ, Roy, that was a bit rash of the Captain ." "Thank God he didn't find the great bastards." Roy had the demeanour of an experienced sailor, there were some torrid times in a Liverpool bomb shelter too. Roy told him he should wear the Order of Australia, this was on a neck sash. A bright gold bunch of stylised wattle with a blue centre.

 

They came out of the motel bedrooms for the muster. He could see Fred was neat in a light grey suit, and had obviously done this before. His medals were brightly polished. Ray wore only the returned sailors badge in his lapel. Ted and Bill had miniature sets which looked smart. They waited for the pick-up bus, asking what the gold medal was hanging on the neck sash. He was a bit self-conscious about this show  of pride,  he  had  an  urge to  take it off.

 

The bus drew up under the port-cochere, he was first in - a non-event -no recognition on either side. This was ridiculous. There were three men in the back seat. Perplexed, he turned around and asked ''Are you Armidale?" "I'm Arthur Lansbury, I'm Bill McKellar - I'm Ted Pellett, Johnny, he's your boss." Johnny was in the seat ahead, he had passed him on the way in.  He was talking about something but nothing matched. A deep engaging stare put the pieces together. A· sort of a round head , hair cropped short, and a black and white beard, this was Johnny alright, the old personality was beginning to emerge. He always had a sense of theatre. He could see his fair hair with a sailor's cap on, somewhat tubby with no shirt on, piping the Captain  aboard.

 

"It's great to see you again after all these years," Johnny said. "Often thought of calling in, went into Newcastle a lot in the phosphate boats out of Nauru. I became an alcoholic and went into the loony bins; OK now, never touch the stuff AA. Bought a gold mine and drove a Rolls Royce for a while." Ted Pellet confirmed and said  "That's  right."

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"You were a good swimmer. What happened to the Melbourne Baths?" "I looked after golf greens for a while," he said. "What's that gold medal? I've read about you now and  again ."

 

The bus moved off to where the march would start. They got out and peered keenly about at the busy proceedings. The city's brass band was coming down the street.  It had all the makings of a grand parade. Naval cadets from Grafton and Coffs Harbour had fallen in. The survivors were to march in  the place  of  honour  behind  the  Colour Party.

 

Fall in three abreast - 3 into 11. Fred Still would march with them and they were joined by Leading Telegraphist Anderson's daughter - she never knew her father - she was two months old when the ship went down -he's missing, presumed dead. She was slowly coming to grips with this phenomenon, came in especially from Kalgoorlie to attend this gathering. He could see her father now, sun tanned, no shirt on, a sort of prominent nose, sharp intelligent look. He had to be, he was the wireless operator, and as such would have known the battle plan before any of the crew. The decision to go back in, knowing it was futile. The first day’s battle delayed the beach night rendezvous. Armidale was hours late into Betano, and the landing plan to offload the 66 soldiers was aborted. After consultation with the Senior Officer in Castlemaine, Naval Command in Darwin sent the orders to return with the following rider, “Air at­tack is to be accepted as ordinary routine secondary warfare." The Armidale could have got back the night before.  They had had enough of secondary warfare for one day, and they knew two Japanese cruisers were closing on the Armidale's position. This was indeed false heroics. The Japanese had absolute power over their destiny. In hindsight the decision was regrettable.

 

As she marches with us today, she must know, her rather is spoken for, he has a presence still. He was well liked and he was courageous, his story yet unknown. A vague photograph exists showing the raft party waving to an RAAF plane. They were sighted first on the afternoon of the 7th December. No-one can imagine their last moments.

 

The photograph from an RAAF search plane was taken before the whaler was spotted, which compounds the great mystery of the raft. Fred said they didn't want the Kalgoorlie to go back for them; probably the risks were too great.

 

He was told that after the war Lt. Palmer, who was in charge of the whaler, tracked back through Tuner and all the prisoner-of-war camps he could find, right up to Japan, hoping to trace their whereabouts.  Not a sign.

 

The band strikes up. Johnny pushes him up front and it's under way. Short steps,  into the up-hill street. The knees seem to dislocate, the gait is unusual. Into the Park, past the memorial, fall out under the shade tree. It was a bright sunny day, a fair crowd. The Lady Mayoress was there, a retired Admiral, two ministers of the cloth to bless the memorial, naval cadets, the local naval association and interested onlookers.

 

The ceremony is beautifully staged by Mike Bedford and formal too. This was a permanent record, but who would realise the anguish. Was there a heart to this matter, or just a conglomerate of individual impressions? What one suffers is all that can be endured. The traditional cover, well-practiced, made it patriotic, almost made it  enviable,  despite the fact that Ray told the story in pretty graphic terms, or was it only unemotional statistics? It certainly was not the seat of blasphemy, nor did it have the grim colour of the dream time sonata at the RSL Club two hours before. In this case the intimate detail of blood and gore would be indelicate, it would be dangerous and offensive, without good manners,  but  unfortunately  it is part  of  the war game.

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The eloquent Lady Mayoress said she was only a child at the time, recalling the flight from the beach side suburbs when Sydney was shelled one morning, and Kuttabul was sunk in the Harbour. "Well, what can I say, it was great," she said. At this reference the survivors looked knowingly at each other. The men of the cloth called on Jesus to maintain peace, but he knew men made war, and war made some men gods, others it made survivors, some just men. The admiral expounded about tradition, about duty, the cult of the sea and comradeship. He was really talking to the youthful cadets.

 

The  strains  of  the  Last  Post  and  Reveille  took  all the memories into starry mansions yet unconquered . It was enough to know there is a Beyond. A solemn salute to those at peace.

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Somewhere, under the stairs, he thought he had a group photograph taken in the tropics, of the Armidale's crew. They were arranged in the form of a pyramid.

Col Madigan   ex-HMAS "Armidale"                       3rd  December, 1988

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Extract from Corvette Magazine  July 1992

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ORDINARY SEAMAN TEDDY SHEEAN,

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hero of HMAS Armidale sinking, will be commemorated by a sculpture depicting the action in which he sacrificed his life to save his shipmates. Navy men have always believed Sheean should have been awarded the Victoria Cross. The Royal Australian Navy has now decided to name one of its new submarines HMAS Sheean, which is interpreted as a tacit admission that Sheean deserved the coveted Award.

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A fund for the memorial was launched on Anzac Day by member Frank B. Walker, ex Latrobe, whose book, HMAS Armidale, the Ship that had to die", gives the full story of Armidale.

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Walker was guest of honour of Latrobe (Tas.) Council and RSL at the Anzac ceremony.  He said :  I was inordinately proud of HMAS  Latrobe and all who sailed in her. I am also proud of all who sailed in the other 59 lovable little stomach-pumps. They were a special breed of men serving in most exacting conditions in most demanding ships.

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Frank described the sinking of Armidale, the tenacity and ingenuity of the survivors and the gallantry of Teddy Sheean and said:

Through my book I was able to play a humble part in recording his bravery, but I feel that is not enough. I THEREFORE PROPOSE THAT A PROMINENT SCULPTOR SHOULD BE COMMISSIONED TO DESIGN A  RELIEF OF THE DRAMATIC ACTION to be cast in bronze and  mounted in a suitable place here in Latrobe, Sheean's home town. Also, that a replica be cast and presented to HMAS Sheean when she is commissioned, so that Teddy Sheean's dedication can be a constant inspiration the to ship's company. To finance this project I would like to launch a fund, to be known as the Teddy Sheean Memorial Fund, to be administered by the Latrobe Municipal Council. 

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