John Braidwood Dooley was born in 1883 in New South Wales of Irish stock. His was a wild youth, on his own admission. He was first a shearer and miner, and he developed strong Trade Union tendencies, then led the tramway employees into union. He was converted to the conciliation and arbitration system, and became a strong Labour Party member. After contesting New South Wales Senate elections a few times, he was elected in 1928, to become Leader of the Senate in 1929, then Minister of Home Affairs in 1931 and Assistant Minister for works and Railways in 1932. He lost his seat in 1934 when his sponsoring Union backed the Lang faction, whereas he had supported the Scullin-Theodore group. He went back to being a works supervisor.

In spite of his tough upbringing John was thoughtful, soft-spoken, and blessed with a great sense of humour. Whatever his past, and whatever his failings, he had a great fund of knowledge, and he was a frank and honest exponent on Australia and its people. Talking to him was an education, and he laid a good foundation of understanding for me to appreciate the Australians in depth. He probably had a drink problem, though I never saw him worse for drink at work. On the eve of ANZAC Day, which was a holiday in spite of the demands of the War, he and the man from Salford - obviously drinking pals - went on a bender, with me as an embarrassed onlooker until I found an excuse to duck out. John was also very generous. I still have a homemade wooden box filled with drawing office items - scales, pencils, squares and suchlike - which he insisted on giving to me when he realised that I had left all mine in Singapore, and I needed some in my site office. Worthless things to anyone but me today, priceless reminders of a remarkable man.

In 1961 John was mentioned in the national Press. Just two or three lines; he had died and was buried in a pauper's grave. During his short political career he must have made some enemies for the Press to report his demise that way. In fact he had a State funeral and was then cremated, leaving a widow and eight of nine children.

Olly, the other supervisor who was to work with me, was another character to remember. He was originally a sort of Jack-of-all-trades, mainly a joiner, but his personal efficiency and his way with men earned him promotion until he became a foreman. He was reliable and invaluable. His looks belied that description, however, because he looked like a bit of a rogue. He was slim, red-faced, with wispy corn-coloured unmanageable hair and laughing eyes. Though middle-aged, his young mouth had a permanent twitch as if he was still savouring memories of a happy youth filled with wild oats. It seemed to me that he would laugh his way through life and then fade away without ever growing old. He was a happy man.

The Department were under pressure to finish upgrading the airfield for the Americans. After doubling the size of the runways, they had to be dressed with bitumen and chippings - a cheap and quick job - and two swamps had to be reclaimed. All design had to be done on site as work proceeded, and three site contractors had to be kept supplied with instructions and site information.

The engineer who had handed over to me called at the site a few times, but when he saw that we were making progress he left the job to John, Olly and me. We had one or two hairy experiences out on the field, because the aircraft were switching from one runway to another without notice, and lorries were at risk, not to mention myself when I was setting out with instruments.

The Americans were very appreciative of the progress made, and we became friendly with many of the officers. It was a satisfying job for me, and I came home tired every day, shedding my private worries with work therapy.

Vic was enjoying his camouflage job also. He had to site dummy aircraft in decoy locations, and he was out in the country every day. We wouldn't have minded very much if we had had to stay in our voluntary jobs for months. We stopped worrying, and enjoyed ourselves. He went to a few orchestral concerts, and I even managed to see a seamy old play at the nearby Theatre, with a leading lady well past her best, hamming it up for the small audience.

One Saturday morning the tram was taking me along Pitt Street when I noticed crowds of people waiting for the shops to open. The shopping streets were already crowded, well before opening time. When I came back into the centre in the early afternoon the tram had to stop every few yards whilst shoppers swarmed across the road in front of it. When I alighted at King Street to catch another tram, the mob was pressing from wall to wall. Trams were packed solid, and half an hour passed before I could manage to get a foothold on a tram platform.

Back at the digs the reason was explained. The Government had announced that clothes rationing was to come into force on a certain date; the shops had been rushed next day, and a wave of panic buying ensued. People drew money from their banks and fought their way into the shops, snatching madly at socks, shoes, underwear, woollen goods, coats, suits, hats and ties, regardless of number, size or price. Some stores were emptied in two hours, others closed in self defence. One woman bought thirty seven pairs of shoes of different sizes, a man bought twelve hats; crowds were fighting, pushing, shouting - panicking.

Vic and I had been restocking our personal wardrobes as cash allowed, choosing carefully and wasting nothing. We were dismayed to think that our chance had gone to buy any more. We were working a long way out of Sydney, so that we left for work before the shops opened and returned after they closed. Soon shops started closing at noon, working on a quota basis. Prior to that, one store sold one month's stock in the first two hours of panic buying; another sold so many coats that it had to close its coat department for three weeks.

In an effort to overcome the problems caused by the stupid forward announcement of rationing, the Government filmed the first day's rush. The crowds were likened to sheep; a woman tore at another woman as she was holding a garment, and received a stream of invective in return; the scene was followed by a remarkably similar picture of two goats bleating nose to nose. A woman was shown being decorated by Hitler for her help in the War effort; another sat in the middle of a pile of shoes that didn't fit her; a man looked foolish with twelve hats on his head. The film ended with a shot of the new ration cards, on which were printed the words "Issued for your protection".

Following a weekend setting out work in advance for the airfield contractors, I left the job in the safe hands of Olly and John, to carry out an urgent survey up-country on the edge of the Blue Mountains. The trip was to be a highlight of my Australian experience.

The survey was for landing strips or emergency runways - probably to supplement the Sydney airfield - and I had to set out long straight lines through the gum trees and scrub. In order to get the lines laid down and pegged, the trees had to be removed. The survey involved taking levels and measurements, which would be made up into working drawings back in Pitt Street office. For the field work I needed a couple of labourers.

I was taken out with all the surveying instruments and pegs to a small village or settlement a short lorry drive from the work sites. Accommodation had been arranged for me in a cottage owned by two old maids. The cottage was a bungalow clad mainly with corrugated iron, and an unforgettable feature of it was the provision for ablutions. There were several taps over an ablution bench, and a simple shower arrangement, all under a tin roof.

On arrival on the first day I was asked to pick the two men needed to carry the surveying tape and staff and to drive the pegs. A motley crowd of casual labourers stood awaiting inspection; I knew none of them of course, and for no apparent reason I picked a young blond lad and an older man with greying hair and pale skin.

The young man had a hard, clean face and keen eyes, and he was Garney Sheppard. He owned a few acres of land nearby. The other was Paddy, a quiet-voiced Irishman, who proved to possess a great sense of humour.

A lorry picked me up each day at seven-thirty, and brought me home at five. The working area was some miles from my digs, so I took sandwiches and tea for the midday snack. When ten o³clock came Garney collected a few dry twigs and lit a fire. Two forked stakes with a third bit of wood as crossbar made the frame for hanging the billies over the fire.

Out in the country, with warm sun on my back, sipping hot fresh tea, the smell of woodsmoke coiling up from glowing spills or chips of ironwood bark, time stood still. That was a great luxury after the city crowds and past pressures. I ran out of cigarettes, which were becoming scarce in the shops, so Paddy showed me how to roll my own.

The half-hour midday break was the most enjoyable, because then we could lie in the sun, chatting about this and that. Garney sprinkled his contributions liberally with epithets, which somehow did not create offence. Paddy was not a great talker, but his contributions were pithy and humorous. We were never short of a laugh. In the course of our chats I received instruction in the special Australian vocabulary, words and expressions redolent of open country, timber and rugged earth. Today the many Australian films on television have given everyone an insight into the use of words like 'digger', 'cobber', 'bonzer', dinky-die', and 'dinkum', and the nicknames for Englishmen - 'kippers' or 'pommies'. To hear them, and to get into the way of using them, out there on location is another thing altogether.

Garney and Paddy were contented with life. A few cattle or chickens and a bit of land was all they needed. My intervention was not unwelcome as a change, but they were not eager to pick up casual jobs.

After the experiences in the cities of Melbourne and Sydney, it was good to feel accepted; they had no apparent prejudices, their opinions were not influenced by media propaganda, and they took me on merit.

We worked together for a week, by which time we had split off from the main gang of forest clearers to work on another site. We went in Garney's converted car, which he used as a station waggon. It had a good engine but nothing else. Soon I was allowed to drive the thing from one point to another over the rough terrain whilst the two men set out the pegs.

Garney and Paddy took a keen interest in the project, and on the last day, when it seemed that we would not be able to finish on time, they hurried with the setting-out and worked to the last minute to finish the job. It was dusk when we finished and left the site, and I took them into a hotel for a farewell drink.

They dropped me at my lodgings and said goodbye. As the old banger rattled away down the dirt road I decided that this was the Australian as I wanted to remember him; broad minded, honest, big-hearted and clean. This too was Australia as I shall always remember it - rolling hills and wide uncluttered country roads, huge open fields with grazing cattle, stray foals on the highway, the horse and sulky or the man shopping on horseback; the call of the kookaburra drowning the song of other birds; the wide, slow-running river with peaceful riverside gardens and fields of maize; the tracts of gum trees, the distant mountains treeclad and magnificent, paling in a regression of misty blue on the farthest peaks, and winding climbing roads of freshly cut earth. The city has nothing to compare with that.

I spent my last evening there working out my readings, and next morning I packed my bag ready for departure. The two kindly old maids charged me an absurdly small sum for the week and gave me a bunch of freshly picked roses. I walked along the dusty road and caught a train to Sydney.

A letter was waiting for me when I returned. The High Commissioner for the United Kingdom informed me that my services were to be terminated in accordance with the terms of my agreement. I was entitled to a return passage to England, and should get in touch with the Agent in Sydney for details. Victor Smith had received a similar letter.

So that was it; our Colonial Service careers were finished. Three months had passed since we had left Singapore, and we were weary of the uncertainty and suspense. Once we were home we could pick up the pieces and join one of the Services or take a technical job.

All the same, it was something of a knockdown, thanks to the Japanese. My original mission - three or four years in Malaya, then home to marry - had shrunk to two years, with no job at the end of it. I thought of home; the house on the edge of the country, parkland to the north, Pendle Hill within sight to the northwest, the old farms and walks up Red Lane, the large canal feeder reservoirs lying in the bottom, the canal winding like a silver ribbon in the valley; the moors of Boulsworth and Pinnah, purple with heather, sheep grazing in stonewalled fields on the hill slopes; Noyna Rocks, with views over distant hills, and Tum Hill, where the Romans built their early camps on the south side of the town. On the other side of the world I was homesick.

We went to see the Malayan Agent next day. Our salaries were calculated up to the end of our notice, and we were given permission to arrange our own passages.

When I went to the Department office to tell them of my impending departure, the senior engineer offered me a paid job. I thought of the cool reception of our first meeting, when I was offering my services free, and realised that my short spell with the Department had changed their attitude in my favour; but why couldn't they have offered me a paid job when I first went there? Even so, I was tempted, but homesickness took over. I'd go home.

Looking back, I probably made a big mistake. Two years or so in Australia instead of Malaya would have kept me in a job, without uncertainty, and I would still have been free to go home then, or bring my fiancee over to join me. I think I undervalued Australia as a land of opportunity. It is just as well that the future is unknown to us.

The next few days were spent in rushing to the shipping agents, the Malayan Agency, the Customs Office and all the other offices which wanted to know name and address, age, sex, marital status, destination, and dozen of other things, over and over again. Form filling seemed never ending. We tolerated it because we were doing it for a real purpose, and the officials treated us kindly and made things easy for us.

We realised that we had very little to wear, and not enough suitcases. The shops panic had subsided a little, but buying was still heavy, and daily quotas were usually sold by ten o'clock. We had to get to the centre at nine every morning for a week, and gradually accumulated a stock of essentials such as socks, ties and handkerchiefs by sheer persistence. I bought a leather overcoat, of a kind such as were simply not seen in Britain. It was soft brown calfskin, smooth and fine-grained, the back made from one piece. The woollen socks were of outstanding quality, and still in plentiful supply. I had two suits made to measure by a Polish tailor, the worsted silky and luxurious.

John Dooley and Olley had made excellent progress on the runway extensions during my week's absence, and now that I was due to leave we had to get plans and quantities completed so that the work could be completed without a hitch. My early morning shopping trips made me late most mornings, but we all worked later in the day, and with a greater intensity. The plans which I had drawn in my little site office were filed, we pegged out the rest of the site, and then concentrated on supervision. We were an effective trio because we enjoyed the work.

Notice of sailing was short. The first date was rescinded, and Vic and I were standing by from day to day, ready to go at an hour's notice. It was during the waiting period that Sydney had its first physical experience of the war, on a Sunday night.

Several large cargo and naval vessels were in the harbour when two Jap submarines penetrated the net and fired their torpedoes. They missed their main targets and struck a ferry boat. Depth charges were dropped, and their explosions shook the hotel in nearby Macleay Street where we slept.

"Jap subs sunk in Sydney Harbour" was shouted from every newsboy's stand on the next day. For several days the papers showed pictures of the two submarines being raised. Whole pieces had been blown off their hulls, and torpedoes were still in position in their tubes, making the raising operation a hazardous business.

The second attack also occurred on a Sunday night, at about eleven o'clock. I was in bed, heard shellfire, dressed quickly, and went down to the water's edge to see what was happening. All was quiet, and as I turned for home the lights went out; then the alert was sounded.

Wardens came on the streets, but no aircraft appeared. Soon it became obvious that no bombing was imminent, and I went back to bed.

Next day we heard that a Jap submarine had shelled the coast, and a few houses at Rose Bay had been damaged. The raid had no military significance, and appeared to be a show of bravado. Nevertheless one newspaper headed its feature with the dramatic caption "Sydney's War Scars". "War Scare" would have been more accurate.

The submarine visits succeeded in making people more aware of the need to observe proper blackout precautions, and we saw shoppers armed with blinds and string and blackout materials. The harbour frontage showed the biggest improvement of all. The people had learnt their lesson.

On Saturday 6 July 1942 I said goodbye to John and Olley and the engineers at the Department of the Interior. Our sailing was imminent.

Early on Tuesday morning the shipping agents rang to tell us to catch a train to Brisbane that night, to catch a ship.

Half an hour later the post arrived. It included letters from the High Commissioner.

We had been dismissed in error; our notices were rescinded, and we were to await further instructions regarding transfers to another colony. Our passages were booked, insurances taken out, money changed. A train was leaving that night for Brisbane and a ship to England. Now we had to stay where we were, and wait.

Our first thoughts were to destroy the letters and say we never had them; then we thought a friend could redirect them to England as if they had arrived after we had left. Honesty, or fear of being found out, decided us to lay our problem before the Malayan Agent, who had been a good friend from the start.

The Agent was sympathetic, and sent a telegram to Canberra saying that he intended to send us home to report there, if the High Commissioner had no objection. We found that the ship was not sailing until weekend, so we could leave a few days later anyway.

No reply had come from Canberra by Thursday, so the Agent took a chance and let us go. We made a final round of our friends' homes - we had made a surprising number - and a taxi took us to Central Station at eight o'clock. Rain was falling in Sydney as we left, as it had when we arrived.

The journey from Sydney was six hundred and nineteen miles, and we were lucky to have a sleeper for the overnight trip. Not that we slept very much in the stuffy blacked out compartment; the train seemed to be stopping every few minutes, and the journey took twenty four hours. Once a child's tricycle was on the line, and twice we stopped at stations for meals. There was no dining car on the train, and each meal stop lasted one hour. A derailment held us up for over an hour, and other stoppages were at passing loops to allow oncoming trains to pass on the single track.

On arrival at South Brisbane Station we took a taxi to the Customs Office and then the ship, where we were shown our cabin. The ship was the twin-screwed motor vessel Port Fairy, one of the Port Line, and she was loading refrigerated stores for Britain. There were eight beautifully equipped passenger cabins, and Vic and I were to share one for what we anticipated was going to be a comfortable and interesting voyage home.

After Customs and other formalities on the following morning - a Saturday - we were free to explore Brisbane. It was a clean, quiet city, with silver trams and freely-moving traffic; none of the usual bustle of a city centre. We met a girl who had been in our hotel in Sydney for a few days, and she offered to show us round.

After looking at key buildings, and finding a good restaurant, we did a little shopping, and the contrast between the atmosphere and attitudes there as compared with Sydney struck us immediately. We met several Queensland people, friends of the girl, and they were quiet and very friendly. We liked Brisbane.

Back on board, we watched the cargo being loaded, and marvelled at the speed and efficiency of the operation. The Brisbane stevedores apparently had a reputation for efficiency and speed. Hundreds of cases of butter slid down the chutes from the cold stores to the stacking points where they were loaded, eighty at a time, into slings which lifted them up and over, and down the hatches into the bowels of the ship.

On Sunday morning we steamed slowly down-river to the sea, passing two cruisers tied up at the wharf. Marine bands on both ships played 'Rule Britannia' as we passed - surely not specially for us? - but it seemed so, and we thrilled to that sendoff. Further downstream two American warships glided stately by.

On one shore a solitary female figure waved to us, and a fellow passenger waved back. He was standing at the rail, next to me, and as he turned slowly to leave the foredeck he introduced himself.

He was John Reading, travelling to Britain for the first time, as the London correspondent of the Sydney Morning Herald. The woman on the shore was his sister.