Memoirs of George….
As my memory serves me, we boarded Centaur on the evening of 11 May 1943. Immediately there were problems with the wharf labourers as the transport section of the unit was armed. This was soon resolved on confirmation from the Army that all was in order.
Late in the morning of the next day, 12 May, we sailed from Darling Harbour in Sydney. Once we had cleared the heads, we sailed due south then turned east and finally due north. The day was uneventful as we settled into shipboard life with the usual routine of boat drill and exercises. The following day, 13 May, everything seemed to be going quite smoothly until we sat down for our midday meal. It was then that the boat drill alarm sounded. Leaving our hot dinner, we quickly raced to our respective positions; mine was at the stern of the port side. After a period of time the all-clear sounded and we returned to a cold dinner. There was no comment – it was accepted as routine training.
We had some good artists on board and that night we entertained the staff of the ship. This was complemented with an issue of beer which brightened up the evening considerably. However, an incident occurred when four of our boys were locked in the hold and placed under guard accused of stealing beer from the purser’s store. (I did not learn of this incident until later when told by my CO, Colonel Outridge, in hospital).
With 8 or 9 of my mates, I was quartered amid- ships in a small ward on the port side. The rest of the unit was dispersed throughout this deck which was the main hospital area. I did not pack pyjamas and like most others, slept in my cotton briefs.
It was about 4am on the morning of 14 May that a call of nature woke me and I made for the toilet. On returning, I had just got into bed when a terrific explosion hurled me from my bed along the passageway towards the entrance of the adjoining ward. I picked myself up with blood running from my nose, and saw a mass of flames enveloping the ward where I had slept. Something told me to get out quickly. I didn’t go back for my ‘Mae West’, but raced through the next ward where about 70 of our unit were quartered. This ward gave on to the narrow companionway leading to the ship’s stern where I passed Major Thelander and Corporal Corbett. The Major said: “Don’t panic, Mac”. That was the last I saw of them. I knew if I didn’t get out then, I never would. I was the only one who survived from this side.
When I reached the stern it was already rising steeply out of the water. Two of us tried in vain to release a float positioned above the deck railing. I remember saying: “Jump” and we both did. I hit the water and swam away to escape the suction. When I looked back the ship had disappeared. It was quite dark, I didn’t have a life belt, and I was concerned for my safety. After swimming for some time, I heard voices and was able to discern the outline of a float. I scrambled on board along with a number of other survivors. We eventually totalled 22 which required a sense of balance to keep the float on an even keel
Through the sound of the lapping waters, we heard cries for help. We were unable to render any assistance; we were already overloaded and the raft was drifting aimlessly at the mercy of the sea. It seemed an eternity until daylight which brought with it the sight of numerous dorsal fins, circling around us in the heavy oil slick. It was then I realised how fortunate we had been. Had the ship floundered instead of sinking rapidly, the oil could have ignited, with the possibility that there might have been no survivors at all.
At this stage I was under the impression we had struck a mine but Monty Banks, the Third Officer, said it was an enemy torpedo. He told that they had spotted a submarine the previous day when the boat drill alarm was sounded during lunch. Banks told me that this was the third time he had been torpedoed.
As the sun came up and the day wore on, I saw two planes; one at a great height and the other at a much lower angle. I also saw in the distance what I considered to be another float with survivors. We drifted alongside a life boat which was upside down. Banks said it contained rations and blankets and wanted six volunteers to right it. This meant going into the water and under the boat but with the sharks as a deterrent there were no volunteers. The sharks had become aggressive and had to be beaten off with broken oars and pieces of wreckage retrieved from the water.
The hatchway cover with the rope hawser attached to the central lifting rung was taken in tow and used to lessen the stress on the overloaded float. Four of the fittest took turns on the hatchway cover sitting back to back. I recall my first session on the hatchway cover. All I wore was my wrist watch having lost my briefs in the exit from the ship. A Red Cross pennant I had rescued afforded me some little protection.
The day wore on and there were no signs of rescue. However, the boys’ morale was high and full of expectation. Limited rations kept in water-tight containers were issued and we prepared for the night to come which was to be the most stressful in my war career.
It was about midnight when we were startled by the sudden roar of engines, prompting Banks to say, “It’s a submarine up to charge its batteries.” I was able to make out the outline of a vessel showing a red light. One of the survivors, thinking it might be a friendly submarine, lit a flare which Banks immediately extinguished in the water.
The sub crashed-dived, much to our relief, as Banks expected to see a search light and to be machine-gunned. Nothing more was heard or seen of the submarine.
It was bitterly cold. I feared hypothermia, going to sleep and falling into the water, so I kept moving my arms and massaging my body to maintain blood circulation.
Les Horgan, one of my mates and a powerful swimmer, considered swimming to shore in the direction of the lighthouse (Moreton Bay) which we saw flashing faintly on the shoreline. Banks had commented that we were drifting further out to sea. As a Christian I reverted to prayer, prompting my friend Les Horgan, to say he was an atheist; but he added “if we get out of this, I will never stop praying.”
We all realised that death, a violent one from sharks was possible, but did not give up hope or stop praying. Eventually dawn provided a great relief. The bloody sharks were ever-present and even attacked an empty flare tin which fell into the water.
The sun rose on the morning of 15 May, bringing some relief from the cold, although the glare affected my eyes which were sensitive from the effects of the oil and salt water. I had to rub them constantly but eventually found relief in keeping them shut.
During that morning, planes were again heard and gave encouragement that a search was in progress. Banks estimated the time of day by the position of the sun. We were grateful that he organized a change from the hatchway cover for the four of us back to the relative comfort of the float.
From then on our expectations were high until there appeared to be a change in the weather with the sea beginning to rise.
The Rescue
At about 3.30pm, out of the blue, a plane made straight for us. Banks lit a marker flare. As it banked around we recognised it as an RAAF Avro Anson Bomber. lt signalled to us to sit tight, rescue ship on the way. As one could imagine, the excitement was terrific. Then the plane disappeared into the direction from which it came, apparently still searching for survivors.
It seemed an eternity when at last we sighted a Destroyer coming at full speed in our direction; but then it took off again circling and dropping depth charges. Banks said it would have detected a submarine on the sonar and intended to keep it down.
It was when evening was closing in that the destroyer glided alongside our raft, with sailors lowering rope ladders over the lower part of the stern. The sailors gave us plenty of support hauling us on board. One chap who was badly burnt screamed and fainted when the skin came off his arms.
The sharks were still with us. A sailor emptied a magazine into the pack and there was a tremendous flurry in the water, with the sharks tearing each other apart.
After we were all on board, the USS Mugford moved off rapidly looking for other survivors while there was light.
On board we were issued with blue jeans and we spliced the main brace with a large Canadian rye whisky which hit home and made the blood circulate, bringing the lower part of my body back to life. My buttocks and the back of my legs were painful due to the friction from sitting on the hatchway cover causing the skin to lift in many places.
Food was offered to me but I didn’t want it. I was more concerned with checking on survivors and was surprised that there were so many in view of the speed with which the ship sank. Not wanting to stay below deck, I moved out with three of my mates and took cover in the forward gun turrets. It was quite dark when the ship began to change course back to Brisbane. With the rising sea, we moved back to our quarters below deck on the advice of the crew and stayed there until we reached Brisbane about 1.00am.
Waiting ambulances took us to Greenslopes Hospital where we were admitted under tight security. It was then that I realised how hungry I was – l ate six eggs, six slices of toast and drank six cups of tea! Then l was heavily sedated and didn’t wake until 1.00pm. I was greeted by two beautiful nurses. I thought they were angels…
We remained in hospital for three weeks because we were suffering from shock and exposure.
When I was discharged from Greenslopes I was given a fourteen day leave to visit my folks.
On our return to our camp at Corrimal we were greeted by a few of our unit who were on leave at the time and fortunate enough to miss the draft. But most important was my reunion with my fiancee who was a bombardier in charge of a searchlight battery at Port Kembla and very popular with many members of my unit.
We were reinforced by the 4th Light Field Ambulance and moved to the Atherton Tableland for further training. Prior to this, I was married and had a three-day honeymoon. Eventually I went with my unit to Moratai, Tarakan, and Labuan with a further landing at Miri in Sarawak, British North Borneo. We were at Miri when the Japanese surrendered.
We sailed on the hospital ship Wanganella for Kuching, where we evacuated the POWs. This was done with the aid of PT boats and RAAF Crash Launchers. The movement involved traversing 1.5 miles of river. Following this operation, and with the high points score, I returned from Kuching to home and eventual discharge. On returning to civil life, I moved with my wife to Braidwood where I had been born and reared, and where I had enlisted.
In 1976, my wife and I visited the United States of America. Prior to leaving, I enquired through the American Embassy whether it would be possible to meet up with any member of the crew of the USS Mugford. This was quickly arranged and I was given the name and address of none other than Rear Admiral Howard G Corey (retired), former captain of the USS Mugford.
At Honolulu, the Admiral who had been advised of our visit, gave us a pressing invitation to stay over as his guest, but this was not possible as we were on a tight pre-arranged schedule. However, I spoke with him for at least an hour on the telephone covering many aspects of our rescue.
I told him of the deep appreciation the survivors and the Australian public had for him and his crew, particularly in regard to the attention given to the survivors. He was surprised to hear that his crew had collected 500 pounds which they distributed amongst the survivors, and, until I spoke to him, he was unaware of the very heavy loss of life on Centaur. He and his ship had been committed to an urgent assignment immediately after our arrival in Brisbane.
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By Tony Stephens, Sydney Morning Herald, Thursday 18 January 2007
Birthday Beers Spared George
George McGrath was a man of many sayings and a good deal of luck. “Spare my days!’ he would say. And: “You’re better to be born lucky than rich.”
The best example of McGrath’s good fortune came with Australia’s worst single disaster in the Pacific during WW 2 – the sinking of the hospital ship Centaur by a Japanese submarine off Stradbroke Island. Of 332 men and women on board, only 64 survived. McGrath was the only survivor from the port side where the torpedo hit.
He reckoned it was the beer the night before, at the matron’s surprise birthday party, that saved him. He had to rise just after 4am to “answer nature’s call” as he put it. He was climbing back into his bunk when the torpedo hit – and he hit the deck running. He leapt overboard a moment before the Centaur sank.
McGrath, with the 2/12th Field Ambulance, had survived the Japanese bombing of Darwin. Mates joined the Gull and Sparrow forces on Ambon and Timer; some were decapitated on Ambon. Of the 192 from the unit who sailed on the Centaur for Port Moresby, only 13 survived. McGrath, who has died in Canberra at 90, was the last of them.
George McGrath was born on his parents’ property Jerriknorra, near Braidwood, the youngest of Mary Ann and Bernard McGrath’s nine children. Although an able student, he was frequently caned, like most boys of his generation. He accepted the punishment if deserved, but took exception one day when he was 14, walked out of St Bede’s School and enrolled himself at Braidwood Public. His mother discovered this three weeks later.
With the onset of the Depression, many children walked barefoot to school, even in a frosty Braidwood winter. George had shoes but would hide them to join his shoeless friends.
He might have made a name at tennis, if it weren’t for the war. As it was, a middle-aged McGrath beat a rising Lew Hoad in a doubles match; he represented the ACT In veteran’s tennis, and played until he was 84. He strung racquets – with John McEnroe and Jimmy Connors among those who used his services – until last year.
After leaving school, McGrath worked on the family property then in a Braidwood grocery store before enlisting. In February 1942 he and his brother Allan, were in Darwin when Japanese aircraft bombed the town. Allan would go to Tobruk; George to the Centaur.
Before embarking, he and Bombadier Marie Mullins were engaged. The torpedo hit on May 14, 1943, Marie’s 26th birthday, when she was in charge of a searchlight battery at Port Kembla.
The official Australian War Memorial history records: “There was no time to launch the lifeboats. Of those who managed to get off the burning ship, some were killed in the water by flying metal, some pulled down by the suction and others burnt by the flaming oil… sharks swam round the rafts…”
Under international law, hospital ships were immune from attack. The ship was painted with red crosses and brilliantly lit. The prime minister, John Curtin, described the sinking as “deliberate, wanton and barbarous”. General Douglas MacArthur, commander in chief of allied forces in the Pacific, expressed his “revulsion”.
The Japanese finally acknowledged, in an official history in 1979, that Hajime Nakagawa’s submarine 1-177 was responsible. Nakagawa spent several years in jail as a war criminal for ordering sub-mariners to fire on survivors from torpedoed ships in the Indian Ocean.
McGrath and other survivors spent 36 hours in the sea before being rescued by the USS Mugford. He married Marie in September and he was the only 2/12th survivor to return to war, landing at Morotai, Tarakan, Labuan and Miri in Sarawak.
Back home, he became a rabbit inspector with the Pastures Protection Board, then a ranger. The NSW government recognised his role against the rabbit plague. He was a founder member of the Braidwood Ex-Services Club, secretary of the Braidwood Show Society and a bush firefighter.
The McGraths moved to Canberra to educate their three children. In retirement he played tennis, grew vegetables and cared for Marie’s roses after she died in 1980. He recited poetry – from Lawson and Paterson to Shakespeare and Wordsworth – and talked more than most old soldiers about the war. The family imposed a “don’t mention the war’ rule.
McGrath continued to pray for lost friends. He said in 2003 of the sinking “It was bloody murder, but they got punished in the end. I’m moving towards forgiveness.”
He is survived by his three children, eight grandchild
ren and three great-grandchildren. Of the Centaur crew, three merchant seamen and a member of the medical staff remain alive.