HMAS SYDNEY's Last Fight
“…we had been in our lifeboat for one week…”
For some moments on a late November afternoon in 1941, the torn hull of the ill-fated Australian cruiser, HMAS Sydney II glowed red from the fires that raged below her decks, then plunged to the bottom of the Indian Ocean, a victim to the trickery of the disguised German raider, HSK Kormoran.
On board the Australian ship were 645 crew and officers. None survived.
With the Sydney’s loss was born one of the greatest naval mysteries of World War 2.
HSK Kormoran, after being seriously damaged by shell fire, was scuttled by her crew. About 80 men were lost, but 316 Germans and three of their Chinese prisoners were eventually rescued and taken into custody for the duration of the war.
After half a decade the Sydney-Kormoran sea battle is still an emotive issue. Suspicions of a Japanese submarine secretly assisting the Germans before they had officially entered the war are still held and rumours that the German captain, Theodore Detmers, devised all sorts of devious tricks in order to lure the Australian vessel within its gun range, or maliciously dealt with survivors afterwards, still abound.
British author, Michael Montgomery, mentions “the unimpeachable evidence for the shooting up of the British Union (a tanker employed by the Royal Navy) to support the theory that the Kormoran machine-gunned all Sydney’s survivors in the water.
However, one British Union survivor, Neville Finnis, contradicts this allegation, saying: “The suggestion that the Kormoran machine-gunned our boat is ludicrous … the commander of the Kormoran picked up several men which he located with his searchlight, one of his seamen going overboard three times after them …”
One fact is clear: the Kormoran was disguised as the Dutch freighter, Straat Malakka – a legal war-time ploy – when first sighted by the Sydney on the afternoon of November 19, about 240 kms of the Carnarvon coast in West Australia.
The Kormoran turned abruptly from its north-bound route into the lowering sun to reduce visibility, while the Sydney at once gave chase, flashing messages to the unknown vessel to identify itself.
While the Germans deliberately fumbled their responses, the Sydney’s inexperienced captain, Joseph Burnett, made the fatal error of coming in dangerously close, running parallel to the disguised German.
When at last the Sydney morsed: “Give your secret call sign,” and the Germans were unable to supply the code, the bloody interaction began.
Why the Australian captain placed his ship and crew in such a vulnerable position has plaqued historians ever since.
The late Captain Burnett’s elder son, Commander Patrick Burnett (retired), says: “I do not believe there was anything dubious about the Sydney-Kormoran action … Sydney’s placing herself in such a controversial position at the start of the action … was an error of judgement on the part of my father, who perhaps was too confident about his ability to handle any situation … Sydney was his first war-time command … he could be considered relatively inexperienced in practical warfare.”
Captain Theodore Detmers, a canny war veteran, gave the order to raise the German war flag and open fire with all guns.
Within 20 seconds, the Kormoran’s big gun power had smashed the Sydney’s bridge which would have contained the Australian captain and his senior officers.
German anti-aircraft guns swept the Sydney’s decks, chopping down the white-coated figures lining its rails.
Within minutes, the Sydney’s Walrus aircraft was blasted from its catapult and petrol, then flames, spread about its teak decks.
A torpedo from the Kormoran blasted the Sydney’s bow. The cruiser trembled with the explosion, its bow dipped deeply threatening to go under, but slowly the ship balanced.
Both ships were now ablaze.
The Kormoran’s engine room collected an Australian shell that tore apart an oil tank, setting it on fire, while another wrecked the German’s transformers and electrical fittings.
Then the Sydney turned in towards its foe, seemingly trying to ram it. As the ships passed each other, some said, they were so close the sailors could have had a shouted conversation.
Slowly the vessels parted, drawing further away. During the deadly encounter the Kormoran fired about 500 fuse-based shells, 50 nose-fuse shells and countless rounds from anti-tank and anti-aircraft guns.
According to the survivors, the Sydney was totally crippled. The cruiser was blazing freely and ammunition exploded in the flames.
The hull, dripping with molten paintwork, glowed red hot while swirling columns of poisonous fumes and smoke smothered the alleyways.
From their lifeboats German survivors watched the smouldering, glowing wreck drift aimlessly across the southern horizon.
Soon after midnight there was a sudden flash, possibly an explosion, followed by an eerie blackness, and HMAS Sydney II and her complement of 645 men vanished into history.HSK Kormoran’s casualties numbered 80.
One of the last to see Sydney disappear was the Kormoran’s battle watch officer, Joachim von Gosseln, who reminisced to the writer many years later: “To a real sailor the heart is bleeding seeing a sinking ship, whether it is his own or not. During the horrible days in the lifeboat … I thought often of the company of the HMAS Sydney, and hoped that most of them would be saved … I was sure that, the war being over, the men of the Sydney and the Kormoran would be friends.”
For many long days and nights the famished, wounded and debilitated Kormoran survivors drifted towards the West Australian mainland in their lifeboats.
Some lapsed into temporary insanity threatening to hurl themselves to the sharks circling their overloaded vessels. Delirious sailors had to be forcibly restrained from drinking sea water and Luger pistols were quietly confiscated by those senior officers still in control of their faculties.
Oberleutnant von Gosseln noted in his war diary: “A stoker … has gone completely crazy. Even during the day he is out of his mind, crawling through the boat, murmering all kinds of nonsense … night time is horrible. There are not many left who have retained their senses. I don’t think we will hold out much longer. I asked sub-lieutenant B. to hand me his pistol since he, too, is starting to dream loudly.
“Petty officer X comes crawling abaft. He whispers in my ear, ‘Lieutenant, before we all perish, the blood of the Chinese (prisoners) could keep us going for another couple of days.’ Is this the beginning of the end …?”
After more than a week adrift on limited drinking water and salvaged food, a couple of the Kormoran’s lifeboats reached shore at two points along the barren coastline north of Carnarvon: 46 men at the 17 Mile Well on Quobba Station and 57 others at Red Bluff.
Te remainder were rescued at sea by the Australian vessels Aquitania (26), Trocus (25), Koolinda (31), Centaur (61, plus one Chinese prisoner), and Yanda (70, plus two Chinese): a total of 319 men.
Exhausted and hungry, the 46 survivors at the 17 Mile Well sought the shelter of a small corrugated iron hut containing a watertank while their stronger comrades caught and killed two sheep and prepared them for cooking.
Unbeknown to the Germans, their activities were secretly observed by a Chinese-Malay stockman, Ahmat Doo, who quickly rode to the Quobba Station homestead to alert the owner, Keith Baston – and indeed the world – to the presence of German naval personnel on the Australian mainland.
Slightly further north, at the big Red Bluff cave, 57 other German survivors, with the Executive Officer, Herbert Bretschneider, in charge, pulled their metal lifeboat ashore, stowed their rations in the cave and collapsed into sleep. Overhead an Australian aircraft circled, noting the location.
Later the same day a Carnarvon-based policeman, Sgt. Stan Anderson, accompanied by the town doctor, Peter Piccles, arrived with borrowed Gascoyne Traders’ trucks and drivers to take the 103 German survivors into custody.
Not expecting to be approached by land, the Kormoran’s Lieut. Dr. Fritz List, an official war correspondent, was suddenly confronted by the sight of two approaching Australians along Red Bluff beach.
Realising he still had a 36mm Leica camera containing 35 exposed frames of film depicting crucial stages of the deadly action between the Sydney and the Kormoran, Dr. List ducked into the cave.
He then hurriedly scraped a hole in the sand and dropped the camera, protected by its leather case, into the shallow excavation. Swiftly, he patted the sand smooth.
Four years later, with the termination of hostilities, Dr. List advised the Australian military authorities of the historic film he had buried in a lonely cave in West Australia.
He was quietly brought back to the Red Bluff cave where a platoon of the Engineering Corp shovelled all the sand from the cave and scanned the adjacent beach with mine detectors.
Dr. List’s camera was never found.
This may be attributed to the fact that with each seasonal cyclonic swell the Indian Ocean surges through the great cave removing the old sandy floor and replacing it with fresh material.
For many years after the war an eccentric Englishman, Jonathon Robotham, who had been an intelligence officer at the Murchison prisoner-of-war camp in Victoria, where many of the Kormoran officers were held, returned to the 17 Mile Well and Red Bluff.
He methodically searched the sand dunes and limestone caves of the cliffs, absolutely obsessed with the thought of unearthing hidden German treasures.
Robotham died in 1978, sadly unrewarded.
About six weeks before the 50th anniversary of the Sydney-Kormoran sea battle, the widow of Capt. Theodore Detmers, Ursula Detmers, aged 75 years, made a nostalgic journey from her Hamburg home to visit me at my home in Carnarvon, West Australia.
It was a pilgrimage in memory of her late husband.
“I didn’t make any plans,” Mrs Detmers said. “I didn’t even tell my family or friends I was leaving Germany. I just decided to myself that the time had come for me to go to Australia to see for myself all the places my husband spoke about before he died.”
Looking at the HMAS Sydney memorial wall in central Carnarvon, Mrs Detmers said: “I think it is a remarkable thing that the Australian people can plan something like this for all those unfortunate young men who died so long ago …”
Mrs Detmers said that each year in Hamburg when the dwindling numbers of Kormoran survivors conducted their annual reunion dinner, they always made a solemn toast in memory of the 645 Australians who died when HMAS Sydney into the dark depths of the Indian Ocean in 1941.
“We remember the dead on our side,” she said, “and we always remember the young Australians who were lost at the same time.”
Walking the length of the 1.6km jetty in Carnarvon – the same jetty that saw the Kormoran prisoners taken from their rescue ship, Centaur, after being adrift in their lifeboats – Ursula Detmers said of her husband: “He was a strong and proud man. He never got used to being locked up behind barbed wire. He loved his freedom very much. That affected him deeply, together with the other pressures of being in charge of a lot of young POWs.
“While he was imprisoned in Victoria, he had a stroke. He never really recovered from it. When he returned to Germany in 1947 he couldn’t work, so he was more or less an invalid. I had to nurse him. He never complained. He loved to do woodwork. He could only use one hand. But he did it. He was a wonderful gentleman. His men thought the world of him.”
Did her husband ever discuss the Sydney-Kormoran battle with her?
“Sometimes,” she nodded, sadly. “Sometimes he would get up in the morning and he would not say anything, or he would talk about everything but the war years, as though it was past and forgotten. Then there would be other mornings when he was having breakfast with me and his memories would start flowing like an endless stream and he would still be talking when it was lunch time. He literally re-lived some of the events of the past, moment by moment. I sat there with him and listened to all of it. He sometimes spoke of the HMAS Sydney. He could never understand why a great warship like that came in so close to the Kormoran and ran alongside her when she was not sure if it was disguised …
“No, no, no, he would never call the Australian captain (Joseph Burnett) incompetent. He would never under any circumstances use a word like that to describe a ship’s captain, not even if it was the enemy. He only thought Capt. Burnett was inexperienced. That was the word he always used – inexperienced.”
On the Carnarvon jetty young fishermen and tourists did not notice the old lady, Ursula Detmers, run her fingers over the weathered grey railings and uncertainly point out to sea.
“It would have happened somewhere out there, wouldn’t it?” she pointed. “Somewhere in that direction. What a terrible thing it must have been. All those young lives. Lost. Wasted. I can’t tell you what a strange experience it is for me to be standing here at one of the places where my husband landed. I heard him speak of such places so many times before he passed away. Now I am standing here …”
Referring to the International Year of Peace when Carnarvon J.P., Keith Hasleby, started a national furore by suggesting a HSK Kormoran memorial should be built on Carnarvon’s coastline, Mrs Detmers said: “When we first heard of that gesture, the Kormoran men were greatly impressed. It was seen as a final healing of old wounds. It was a very noble gesture, indeed. But then some people decided to carry on the bad feelings of the war years and the memorial idea was lost …”
(Not really. The memorial was constructed with donated materials at an unpublicised location along the Carnarvon shoreline.)
“It was a great pity, a sorry attitude to have so long after the war was over. But the Kormoran survivors still think of the Australians as friends. We hold no grudges. The past is gone and should not be recalled. That is one of the reasons why I came to Australia, to visit friends …”
Before leaving Carnarvon Mrs Ursula Detmers visited the local library. On the fly leaf of her late husband’s book,“The Raider Kormoran,” the old lady wrote: “Wars did much harm – may mankind learn to keep peace always.”
I spent the greater part of seven years tracing many of the Kormoran survivors and engaging them in correspondence. Following are extracts from their letters …
Kormoran’s Battle Watch Officer, Joachim von Gosseln: “I send my best wishes to your people and hope that the future may give to both our countries, peace and welfare. I have many fond memories of Australia. I like the country and its people. I am thankful for having survived. But I cannot feel proud. So many young and hopeful lives were destroyed on both sides …”
Of his long days and nights adrift in a lifeboat on the Indian Ocean, Kormoran’s Battle Watch Officer quoted from his documented reminiscences:
“Night is falling … Now we have a few mates who are losing their minds. They start squabbling nonsense and want to jump overboard. A shark accompanies the boat, showing nothing but his sharp fin. I point him out to the others as an invitation to join him. My mates understand. Nobody ever threatens to jump overboard again. At noon Stoker L. has fallen asleep and has been redeemed of his sufferings. We wrap him in a woolen blanket. I speak a few words of commemoration and surrender him to the deep …
“Each night there are more whose minds are going walkabout, who talk nonsense and scream out loud. A stoker who could not control his longing for a drink has gone completely crazy … Will we ever get that far that those who still have some strength will slay the others in order to stay alive? I have six shots in my pistol. Will I have to use them?
The naval air observer on board HSK Kormoran, Heinfried Ahl, who later held the chair of economics at Hasse University, Frankfurt, recalled: “I think he (Capt. Joseph Burnett) of HMAS Sydney did not suspect that the ship he was pursuing was an auxiliary cruiser. Maybe he thought it was a ship with a very valuable cargo and he intended to capture it without wasting one shell …
“The disappearance (of HMAS Sydney) was, indeed, mysterious and quite eerie. There was no wireless signal from her, either about the sighting of an opponent or about the approaching battle. At the very latest, she should have made a report during the battle. She was overdue. The wireless stations ashore simply received no answer to their calls. If there is any ‘blame’ at all in this affair, it was not with those who used a permitted ruse, but with those let themselves be so badly deceived. It would be unfair to deliver a judgement against the responsible person on the Australian cruiser. He paid for his actions, for which we do not know the reasons, with his life, and his crew, in a way worthy of the great English maritime tradition …”
Professor Ahl was one of the 47 Kormoran survivors whose lifeboat came ashore on the West Australian coast at Red Bluff, north of Carnarvon, after having been adrist for five and a half days.
He recalled the experience thus: “In the next bay to the northwards we met a steep coastline. Then, at last, there was a large open bay with a level beach …
“Our landing took place at 0830 hours on the sixth day. As we came in to land, a two-engined aircraft sighted us. We still had something to eat and drink for a few days. We were saved …
“A sign was laid out, made up of ‘Kulanis’ (sailor’s jackets), so the pilots could find the position more easily. Since we thought we were in an uninhabited area, we believed that our position could not be reached by land. We counted on being picked up by ship or flying boat …
“In the southern corner of the bay lay a quite protected cave, which was a boon, as it kept off the unbearable heat of the sun. During the rest in the cave and the shadow of the rocks … most of our men hallucinated.
“Two men appeared on the beach. I threw away my pistol when the two Australians (Sgt. Stan Anderson and Dr. Peter Piccles) were approaching us. It was questionable whether it would still have worked in an emergency. It had become damp, like everything else in the boat … It was a strange impression seeing those two people coming towards us … There followed a short walk on foot to the trucks and a trip of about five hours to Carnarvon. We learnt that we had landed about 80 miles north of this little Australian port. On the way to Carnarvon, the trip over bad tracks in the bush seemed endless. It was like a torture. Many of the men had the impression we were driving through water. But it was prairie grass on both sides of the track …
“The population along the way (Quobba Station homestead people?) were curious but friendly. There was enough water and milk was given to us to drink … After midnight we arrived in Carnarvon and were accommodated in the village prison. We received tea and bread. This tasted better than ever before. Here at least we were safe. From this moment on we became prisoners of war – which, thank God, we did not then know it – was to last for more than five years …”
Kormoran’s Mines Officer, Heinz Messerschmidt, wrote: “Remaining on board (Kormoran) to destroy our ship were myself, an explosive’s officer, the first mate, Willi Rotzin, able seaman, Rolf Schleppegrell, and Captain Detmers …
“We took the precaution of scuttling our ship by placing explosive charges at eight vital points of the ship’s construction., each bearing 20 kilograms of TNT and provided with tape primers to activate the main load 20 minutes after ignition. At last the captain ordered that the tape primers be activated and to abandon ship. Captain Detmers was the last to leave …
“Over-crowded with 62 men in the lifeboat, on the lee side position we rowed as strongly as we could to get free of the Kormoran before she blew up … Shortly after midnight the explosive charges went up followed by a great silence … Then, about 20 minutes later, a tremendous explosion turned the Kormoran into one gigantic flame. A little later a shower of debris rained down on the water. It did not reach our boat. We seemed to stand in a zone of silence. When the last flame had died down HSK Kormoran lifted her bows into the air and slipped backwards under the surface. That was the end of our gallant ship. A dark silence fell on us …”
Kormoran’s wireless operator, Hans Linke, wrote: “My battle station during the whole trip was Radio Room 2. This room was two decks below the main deck. From here I was mainly observing other ship traffic. We got their positions and route from weather telegrams. They were transmitting twice a day. Also news agencies were observed, like Reuters, Domei and Unitedpress, for any flashes or special news. So we were always well informed as to what was happening in the world …
“I was not aware that there was a cruiser of HMAS Sydney’s type in the vicinity. I am sure she kept absolute radio silence … As far as I know, there was no radio message heard from HMAS Sydney during the whole action. This is unintelligible, and there remains a lot of questions that nobody can answer …
“Normally, she should have tuned her transmitters to the frequencies on the shortwave band and, when the action commenced, she should have operated the key and sent a message. There were a lot of naval stations around the Indian Ocean and in Australia and I feel sure those stations would have been alert to these frequencies day and night. I have another speculation as to what could have happened. HMAS Sydney’s aerials might have been destroyed by gunfire. Transmitters with grounded aerials are useless; all high frequency radiation goes into the ship’s hull and nobody can hear you …
“During the action I couldn’t see anything because Radio Room 2 had no daylight. After cease fire, I went upstairs on deck and I could see HMAS Sydney far away. She was afire …
“I came ashore in Paul Kohn’s lifeboat at the 17 Mile Well (Quobba Station) on November 24, 1941, in the afternoon.Our boat was immovable on the beach. I remember our lifeboat quite well. It was constructed of steel and one could see the rivets in the bow. The white stripe on the starboard side was probably from re-painting while the boat was standing in the davits. Originally, the boat was a white colour …
I jumped into the water and went down on my knees. They were weak like rubber. I went ashore. When I looked around I saw on the mainland a shed. The roof was covered with corrugated iron. Inside were several round watertanks. They were filled up with rain water coming from the roof. The tanks were full of water. Despite a few mice floating on the surface, the water was good for drinking …
“There was some sort of signal left in the sand on the beach constructed with little stones. What the signal was, I don’t know any more. It could have been the letters SOS. There was also a wooden stake with a white cloth on it …
“The tank in the hut had a diameter of about 2.5 yards, and the same height. I remember there was a water tap made of brass near the bottom of the tank. I had to stand on the tap to open the lid to look inside … Nearby was some kind of brushwood. We broke the branches and took it into the hut so we didn’t have to lay on the sand …
“In the evening the sheep came in for a drink and we killed about two of them just for eating. I remember it was a big chase and everbody who could move himself was participating. Even our pet monkey was clawing in the wool of the sheep …
“Next day we heard the noise of a plane coming very low along the beach and we were right in assuming they were searching for something. The pilot dropped a cigarette tin with a white handkerchief between the tin and the lid. In the tin was a note saying, ‘Land party arriving tonight,’ and also four cigarettes …
“Later on in the afternoon a car looking like a station-car with a door or lid on the back side was coming. In the car was the police sergeant, Stan Anderson, and a man in civilian clothes. He was a doctor. The doctor asked for any complaints we might have and he also had loafs of bread, butter and jam in the car … I did a lot of interpreting all the time …
“I thought the trucks that came to pick us up were army vehicles. The drivers looked like they were wearing khaki uniforms, as far as I could see, but it was night time … I was picked up by two RAAF (Royal Australian Air Force) officers who came with a utility car and a driver. The officers began questioning me in a polite manner and I was telling them what I knew because the battle was over and they could probably do something for rescue measures … I was separated from the other survivors. I was in Carnarvon about three hours before earlier than the others. I told these two officers the whole story about the engagement, as far as I knew it … Later they let me know that we had been involved with the HMAS Sydney. I cannot say why the RAAF officers singled me out. Probably they were convinced that I could make some conversation. I cannot recall any special questions that they put to me, but there were no accusations at all …
“I remember very well the old railway line leading from the town of Carnarvon to the old jetty. At the end of the jetty the steamer, Centaur, was waiting for us and she took us to Fremantle. I remember we had quarters in the hatch, near the bottom of the ship. Our lavatory was a wooden bucket placed in one corner on a heap of rubbish. It was something like sitting on a throne. When the bucket was full of shit – excuse my bad language – we had to whistle and a member of the Malayan crew came and lowered a rope and up she went. Sometimes the bucket was swinging against the steel walls of the hatch and the contents spilled over and came down on us. Thus the motto: good things come from above …”
The youngest Kormoran crewman, 18-year-old Hermann Ortmann, was in Capt. Detmer’s lifeboat, carrying 62 survivors, that was later picked up by the rescue ship, Centaur. Interestingly, after the war, Mr. Ortmann migrated with his family to Australia and became a naturalised citizen. At the age of 66, Hermann Ortmann remembered: “It was very doubtful if we could extinguish the fire on Kormoran …
At this stage we had lost most of our dead. Only a few were wounded. Some did not make it out of the engine room. There might have been one or two who stayed on the ship. They were seen after the battle, but nobody could remember seeing them in the lifeboats. Probably they preferred to get blown up to drowning in the Indian Ocean. At least 40 men drowned …
“Three of our lifeboats were damaged. One was still seaworthy. But on deck there were four boats from sunken ships and there were some rubber dinghies and rafts. About 2100 hours most of the boats left in the darkness. There were 120 men remained on the foredeck, including most of the officers. For us, there were two boats available in the hatch. As we had no electric power, we had to use rope and tackle … We had our last meal on deck. Now the time had come when we had to leave our ship. The mine deck was getting hot …
“We used blankets as sails. Maybe it would help push us along a bit faster. The days went past and the nights … were awful. We were wet and cold. It was mainly the thirst which was hard to cope with. In our boat was Lieutenant (Johannes) Diebitsch … He was a born seaman from the merchant navy. He insisted strongly that we should suck the button on our life jackets, or even chew the rubber. He put it in such a way that it seemed to be a matter of life and death. We soon found out that it prevented the mouth from going dry because the sucking released saliva. I am now sure that this was the main reason which kept us sane …
“The days were hotter and we were getting more thirsty. Around us, the blue water of the Indian Ocean. How tempting! Some of our men put the seawater in a bottle and looked at it. But your mate beside you would say, ‘Don’t be stupid’ …
“When we saw the Centaur the first time we had been in our lifeboat for one week. Yes, there it was, not far away. But it was dark. No lights … We fired two flares … The ship came closer to us. She showed her rear end. A rope was thrown to us. We quickly tied it to our boat. Captain Detmers called out, ‘We are survivors of the German raider, HSK Kormoran.’ At the stern we saw a few men with rifles. As requested, our first officer, (Kurt Johannes Otto Foerster) climbed up the rope ladder … Some sandwiches and an urn of tea was lowered down to our boat … I can still taste it today! It was as if my blood was starting to flow again …
“Foerster re-appeared. To our amazement, he made his way down again. Here was the news: only the sick could go up. About nine men left the lifeboat. This gave us a bit more room. We also had another problem. We all knew if you have to tow something, a strong machine is always helpful. But a big steamship towing a small lifeboat! When the Centaur was going too fast, the water would press hard against the bow of the boat threatening to rip it open. As far as possible, we went to the stern of the boat to lighten the bow …
“Suddenly our boat was full of water, and we cut the rope. The water was up to our breast, but we could still hold our boat under our feet. The air tanks were holding it up … The ship drew further away from us … Didn’t they know the rope was cut? … The Centaur slowly turned around … When we were laying alongside, we saw some movement on the deck … Some were women. We had not seen females for a long time. Then they were lowering a lifeboat. And a second one. We realised the boats were for us … We got moving again. This time, because the boats were much lighter, there was less danger of sinking …
“The next day we arrived at Carnarvon … We went up the rope ladder to board the Centaur. That was not easy either. Our legs were stiff and our knees were buckling. Immediately, we had to go into one of the holds. There was straw on the floor … Officers of the Royal Navy arrived and spoke to Captain Detmers. He was told the HMAS Sydney was still missing and so far there were no survivors … The news of no survivors was hard to swallow. They were all young Navy men killed in action doing their duty. We had to live with it …”
Carnarvon police sergeant, Stan Anderson, in his official report, dated November 30, 1941, recorded the following statement: “I have to report that at about 10.30am on November 25 … Mr Sharp, manager of Dalgetty & Co., Carnarvon, informed me that Flight Lieutenant Cook, of the RAAF … had located two lifeboats on the shore, about 80 miles north …
There appeared to be 80 seamen (really 103) in the two boats and that it was thought that they may be sailors from HMAS Sydney. Mr Sharp stated that he had arranged with Mr Patrick Young, of the Gascoyne Trading Company, to send three motor wagons to bring these sailors to Carnarvon … Dr Piccles was also notified. He and Flight Lieut. Cook, Arthur Snook, of the Gascoyne Traders, and myself left in a runabout (now commonly known as a utility, or a vehicle with an open back for carrying goods) and went on ahead of the trucks …
“The Carnarvon Council was also notified and arrangements were made to have all the seamen billeted out among the residents of the town. Boolathana and Brickhouse Stations sent in rugs and mattresses from their shearing sheds for the use of the sailors. Just before leaving Carnarvon, the Customs Officer (Gordon Ewers) received information that there may be a few German sailors amongst the men on the beach. I then obtained two service revolvers from the police station and took them with us.
“After we had travelled about 20 miles in the direction of the sailors on the Quobba Station Road, we met Mr Keith Baston, of Quobba Station, and he stated that he had received a telephone message from the Carnarvon Aerodrome requesting him to inform Flight Lieut. Cook to return to Carnarvon at once. Mr Cook then returned with Keith Baston to Carnarvon. Dr Piccles, Arthur Snook and myself continued on.
“After travelling about 80 miles, we saw a number of men who appeared to be sailors, in a tin hut, about one mile from the shore. There was also one man about 100 yards from the side of the road watering a few sheep in a yard. Thinking that he was a station hand, Dr Piccles and myself went over to him and I asked him if he had seen any sailors … and this man then informed me that he was a German and that there were others over at the shed. Three of the other men could not speak English. We then went over to the other men and ascertained there were 46 all together. Some of the provisions we had with us were then distributed among the German sailors. They were practically out of food. They had already killed one sheep and had others yarded up in case they were needed … A note was left with one of the Germans who could speak English to tell the motor trucks to come further on.
“We then continued on … north, leaving these men as they were. We struck the beach about 13 miles north of where the first sailors were found, after travelling over very rough country. Three RAAF planes were flying above and directed us to the other lifeboat. On arrival there it was ascertained that there were 57 sailors from this lifeboat. These men has sufficient food to carry them on for a while, but their water would have run out the following day. In the first batch of Germans located, apart from a few sunburns and sore feet, they were quite all right. But in the second lot the condition of some were a little worse. These were attended to by Dr Piccles. There was also a doctor among the Germans, but it was not known at the time.
“At no time did I question any of these men for any particulars, as I considered it a job for the military. About an hour after our arrival at the second lifeboat, one of the m/trucks arrived. The German sailors were then taken up the high cliffs to the m/truck. Some of the men had to be carried. Word then had to be sent back for another truck, which later arrived, and all the Germans were loaded on to these two trucks and we then left for where we had met the first German sailors. On arrival, 46 sailors were waiting by the side of the road. By the time all the Germans were loaded on to the trucks, it would be about 9pm. The three trucks then continued on towards Carnarvon, and we followed on behind in our runabout.
“Apart from the Germans on each truck, there was a motor driver and his assistant, and in the runabout there was the doctor, Arthur Snook and myself. We arrived at Carnarvon at about 4am on the 26th November and all the Germans were accommodated in the Carnarvon gaol …
“A military guard arrived from Perth on the morning of 27th November and took over from me the 103 German prisoners … I had the assistance of the Carnarvon Home Guard to patrol around the gaol. The Germans were escorted to the MV Centaur on the 28th November. I have been informed that there were a number of other German sailors picked up at sea by different vessels, but these were never landed at Carnarvon. At no time during the time the Germans were first met, and when coming into Carnarvon on the m/trucks, and while being detained at Carnarvon, did these men give any trouble whatsoever, and I was the only guard with the 103 men coming in with the m/trucks … The lifeboats were left on the beach, and the equipment was left. The local Customs Officer has been instructed to have all this brought to Carnarvon, and Constable (Jim) Sullivan will assist him …”
On a steep, scrubby hillside at Flying Fish Cove, on Christmas Island, washed by the waves of the Indian Ocean, is the neglected grave of an unknown sailor who, many believe, may be the only HMAS Sydney crewman to be buried ashore.
The sailor’s origins are a mystery. Surprisingly, no official investigation was conducted by Australian naval authorities to determine the unknown sailor’s identity.
Christmas Island, in 1942, was rife with tension as Japanese submarines encircled the shore. Already a Norwegian phosphate freighter, “Eidsvold,” had been torpedoed on January 16, 1942, about 100 metres offshore.
Early in the evening of Friday, February 6, some Chinese and Malay coast-watchers, stationed at lookout posts around the island, spotted through binoculars a floating object. A pilot craft towed it to the jetty. The object was a life raft, or Carley float, carrying the corpse of a man.
An observer, Joseph Baker, remembers: “Out to sea we noticed a large concentration of sea birds circling and gliding, about two or three miles away. Their behaviour seemed a little abnormal and we were able to make out an object on the surface of the water … “
Anunclassified Department of Defence document record the observations of the Christmas Island harbour master, Capt. J. Smith: “ … The … float … was undoubtedly of Naval pattern. The wooden decking was branded with the word PATENT, and one hole, apparently caused by a bullet, was found in this decking. The outer covering … was damaged in several places, a few pieces of metal being found embedded in the kapok filling. One of these pieces, in the opinion of the gun’s crew on the island, was what remained of a bullet.
“The inside framework, also the divisions between the buoyance tanks, were branded as follows: LYSAGHT DUE-ANNEAL ZINC. MADE IN AUSTRALIA INSIDE.
“All the roping attached to the float had a red yarn running through the strands. The canvas shoe found on the float was branded either McCOWAN or McEWAN, also PTY, followed by a crown and/or a broad arrow.
“The corpse was clothed in a boiler suit which had originally been blue, but was bleached white by exposure. There were four plain press buttons from neck to waist … The fact that a red yarn was found in the strands of the roping appears important, and would be one of the first things to attract the attention of a practical man …”
At the time, J. Baker, of the Christmas Island radio station, expressed his “desire that all information given be treated as unofficial,” before stating: “ … This float was grey in colour, the usual oval shape … On the decking was a corpse and a canvas shoe … The corpse was clothed in a white boiler suit. The pockets were empty and there was nothing to establish identity. The … doctor established that the body was that of a white man. All the flesh was gone from the right arm, and also the eyes and nose were missing … The corpse was decomposed in parts. The shoe was not on the foot of the corpse, but was found beside the body … The Carley float had been damaged in places, apparently by shrapnel or machine gun fire.
“One piece of metal, obviously not a bullet, was found embedded in the kapok filling. Another piece of metal, strongly resembling a macine gun bullet, was found in the kapok, the outer covering of the float being perforated by a small round hole. The float was marked No. 2 on the outside covering, and when the covering and kapok were stripped from the inner metal framework, the following brand was found in two places: MADE IN NSW. ANNEALED ZINC INSIDE.”
Sgt. J. Brown of the Christmas Island platoon of the Singapore Volunteers told a ‘West Australian’ newspaper reporter, J. Atkinson, in 1949: “ … It was … the body of an Engine Room rating in blue overalls, very much decomposed … A pair of boots was … on the raft which our medical officer said could not have been worn by the dead man. This led us to believe that there may have been others on the raft … The raft was riddled with shrapnel … We took the body ashore and buried it with full military honours … And there he rests on that island in the Indian Ocean in the little cemetery on the hillside under the towering cliffs. Who he was we shall never know …”
Capt. R. Hannevig, in his official report of February 23, 1942, recorded that, as of february 17, “an inquest was in progress (and) a full report is to be forwarded to Australia as soon as this … is concluded.”
All evidence of this alleged inquest has vanished.
Capt. G. Oldham, the Director of Naval Intelligence, concluded on August 2, 1949: “ … I have carried out detailed investigations for the purpose of assessing the possibility whether the Carley Float with the corpse on board … could have been ex the cruiser, HMAS Sydney … Identification particulars set out in some detail in Shipping Intelligence Report No. 137/1942 … assisted these investigations. While these show that the clothing found on the corpse could possibly have been that of an R.A.N. rating, it seems reasonably certain that the particulars given of the covering of the Carley Float that the float did not belong to an H.M.A. ship. My conclusion, therefore, is that the Carley Float sighted … off Christmas Island was NOT ex HMAS Sydney.”
Veronica Wright, the acting director of the Office of Australian War Graves, writing to the Christmas Island administrator, Mr T. Paterson, on December 1, 1983, noted: “ … This office was asked to investigate the possibility of exhuming remains from the grave of an unknown seaman on Christmas Island for re-burial in Australia … The naval intelligence reports at the time conclude that the float was not ex-HMAS Sydney, although this remains open to dispute.
“There is prima facie evidence that the sailor was a Commonwealth serviceman, possibly Australian, but … this cannot be proved … The identity of … the body or the float will probably never be known. If the unknown sailor is a Commonwealth casualty of the Second World War, the marking and location of his grave is the responsibility of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission …
“Our advice … is that there is no grave in the old cemetery identifiable by inscription as being of this sailor … It is possible … the body is buried in an unmarked grave … My inclination is to let the matter, and the body, rest …”
From the same writer on February 9, 1984: “ … It seems that there was a headstone on the grave at some time. However, the headstone has been broken off, misplaced or stolen, and the earliest official record we can locate (dated 1966) refers to the grave as being unmarked then.”
Same writer on March 6, 1984: “As it has not been possible to positively identify the sailor or the grave, this office will not be providing an official commemoration at the grave site and regards the matter as closed.”
Queensland author, Barbara Winter, said: “Summer currents from the battle site were to the NNW at half a knot. Accordingly, a raft from the HMAS Sydney could have been within 100 km of Christmas Island by February 6, 1942. If the shoes found in the float were marked D^D, they were definitely Australian government property. If one report says ‘canvas’ shoes and another says ‘black’ shoes, isn’t it possible they might have been black canvas shoes? I had a pair of black canvas shoes in 1947.”
Eighty-two year old Mrs Jay Smith, of Dalkeith, West Australia, commented in 1989: “My husband, J. R. Smith, was the Harbour Master at Christmas Island in 1941 …
“My husband recovered the raft … It was a sad memory for him, as he always said, ‘It was some Mother’s son.’
“I left Christmas Island with my small son and arrived at Fremantle in early February, so I was not on the island when the body was found.
On February 28 the “Islander” arrived and I received a phone call from my husband asking me to meet him at the dock gates at Fremantle. My husband met me there and he told me he had just left part of the raft in the Navy Office. The Naval Authority agreed it was from an Australian ship. My husband had already worked out that the raft could have come from the HMAS Sydney, taking into consideration the date of the sinking, the tides, etc. Nothing more was heard about the raft, and no papers changed hands …
I am sure my husband would have attended the funeral. I am also sure my husband would have taken the piece of bullet found in the Carley float. To him, that would have been evidence …
Former Christmas Island resident, Bob Forrestor, of Kalamunda, West Australia, wrote: “I did not set foot on the island until 1952 … I lived in the ex-manager’s house, below the cemetery, from 1958-1962 … The ‘unknown grave’ was so called because it was unmarked, just a mound over-grown with weeds …
The unknown grave was more to the north-east corner of the cemetery … The Carley float, as I understand it, was brought to Fremantle by Capt. Smith and handed over to the Fremantle Naval authorities, so surely they would have made some record of the event …”
Another ex-Islander, Brian O’Shannassy, recalled: “I took a photo of the unmarked grave in 1950-52. There were rows of tombstones and in the corner nearest the Christmas Island Club, right in the very corner near the boundary, there was a heaped up section of earth … This was the grave. I am quite sure there was never a headstone on the site …”
Ian Smith of the Australian War Memorial’s Information Services (Canberra), responding to my enquiry on April 18, 1989: “Regarding Carley Float parts delivered to the Navy Office, Fremantle … The Memorial holds the war diaries of the Navy Office, Fremantle (HMAS Leeuwin) … UNFORTUNATELY, THE ENTRIES FOR THE PERIOD 16 SEPTEMBER, 1940 to 7 March, 1942, ARE MISSING FROM THIS FILE …”
Naval Historical Officer with the Department of Defence, R. H. Pelvin, wrote in June, 1989: “I regret that I am unable to state why the Fremantle War Diary for the period in which you are interested is missing, nor do I have any further information … My own belief is that the corpse came from HMAS Sydney, as there does not appear to be any alternative source …”
The Carley Float was found in February, 1942. By the size of the barnacles (reported by a Christmas Island pilot at the time to be “six inches long”), it was in the water about three months.
By the currents, it had come from the south-south-east. By the markings, it was Australian. The body was still in a state to be identified as Caucasian.
The following ships were sunk in the Indian Ocean by German ships during 1941 (others were taken in prize): Atlantis: Mandasor: 24 January, 1941. Near equator, about 60E. PINQUIN: EMPIRE LIGHT: 25 April, 1941. Near Socotra. CLAN BUCHAN: 28 April, 1941. Near Socotra. BRITISH EMPEROR: 7 May, 1941. Near Socotra. VELEBIT: HSK KORMORAN: 26 June, 1941. Bay of Bengal. MAREEBA: 26 June, 1941. Bay of Bengal. STAMATIOS G. EMBIRICOS: 24 September, 1941.
From Mareeba and S. G. Embiricos, there were no casualties. There is no way a lifeboat from any of those areas could have drifted to Christmas Island. So, all facts considered, if the unidentified corpse was not from HMAS Sydney, from where did it originate?
-B.J.C.
