Published: 1 May 2023
Chapter 22
Thursday afternoon places a damper on whatever Chip had planned, as Alf has arranged for Owen to do the deliveries to the base the following morning and would need him to help in moving the irrigation pipes for the top paddock watering during the day.
“Now that Jim is back couldn’t he do the deliveries?” Owen suggests.
“You can’t expect Jim to do lifting with his shoulder.”
“Gavin could help.”
“You sound as if you have something planned.”
“Chip said he has a surprise for me and I would need to take off a couple of days; didn’t mum speak to you?”
“She mentioned something but I believed it wasn’t until next week.”
“No it’s for tomorrow.”
“You have already taken time off when you went to the lakes and there was that daft little escapade of yours to New Guinea, I still can’t understand what brought you to do such a stupid thing.”
“I don’t work for a wage dad and what I do around here is what most would call gratis and at all hours of the day and night.”
“We feed, clothe and house you, that is as good as a wage in these times and there is the spending money.”
“Spending money, most of the time I can’t even shout a mate a beer at the pub.”
“You’re not twenty-one as yet boy, you shouldn’t even be in a hotel bar.”
“I may as well enlist at least they pay and give you leave on the occasion.”
“You’ve tried that threat a number of times and don’t think the army lets you go off whenever you want to. Mark my word on that one.”
“Dad,” Jim calls from the verandah while hearing what was turning into a heated argument between father and son.”
“Dad let him go. I’ll do the deliveries as long as Gavin gives me a hand with the lifting.”
Alf remains in two minds as he paces towards the verandah and Jim. On reaching the steps he returns to Owen; “how long would you be away?”
“Chip said a couple of days, possibly four.”
“Where to?”
“He didn’t say where.”
“Not New Guinea again I hope,”
“I wouldn’t think so; chip simply said it would be something I would find interesting.”
“Chip said,” Alf repeats somewhat sarcastically and is about to continue with his displeasure. Instead he takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “Go on but it will be the last for some time, regardless who offers to do your work.”
“Thank you dad, I really appreciate it.
“Yes appreciate,” Alf says and leaves for the shed as Owen goes to the verandah and Jim.
“Thank you,” Owen simply thanks his brother.
“You owe me one kid.”
With Jim’s acknowledgement came the ringing of the telephone.
May answers and after a short conversation she calls to Owen, “Chip is on the telephone and he is in a hurry, so don’t take all day.”
“You better answer it or you will miss your surprise,” Jim says.
It was a tight squeeze with the three brothers in the truck’s cabin on the way to the base and as suggested Jim was to do the driving, Gavin the lifting and Owen would enjoy Chips planned adventure.
“She missing on the third cylinder,” Gavin declares as they meet the main road.
“How would you know,” Jim discredits his younger sibling.
“I know this engine.”
“Dad is arranging a new truck.” Jim shares and adjusts the side mirror to suit.
Owen immediately shows interest, “how do you know about the new truck?” he questions.
“I heard him arranging some deal on the telephone.”
“Why would he be secretive about buying a truck?”
“Maybe he didn’t want to mention anything until he had done the deal,”
“A new truck, that will be just dandy,” Owen agrees.
“More like a new secondhand truck,” Jim corrects.
“Why not a new truck?” Owen questions.
“Do you actually think industry is geared to private usage? The only new vehicles that are coming from America are for the war effort and the minnow that is Australia’s vehicle industry is making staff cars, troop carriers and tanks. There hasn’t been a new truck, or car made for commercial use in this country since thirty-nine and with Hitler bombing the shit outa’ Europe, nothing is coming from there either.”
“I didn’t think of that,” Owen admits as they approach the gate to the base, finding no one on sentry duty.
“Now that’s what I call good security,” Jim suggests as a soldier comes from behind a lone shrub close by.
“I needed that,” the soldier sighs as he buttons his flies.
“You do it in your dacks at the front,” Jim says.
“I don’t know about that Jim Parker. I heard you were home.”
“Home yes Bob, how come you are guarding the airfield and not with your regiment in New Guinea.”
“Like you Jim, I was injured.”
“I haven’t time to natter have to deliver this lot.”
“We haven’t seen you at the clubhouse.”
“One of these days Bob – seeya’.”
The guard waves them through.
Jim parks close by the camp kitchens and as Chip had seen the truck’s arrival he is waiting close by.
“Jim it is pleasing to see you are on the mend,” Chip cheerfully gives greeting.
“I’m sorry I don’t remember who you are?” Jim appears confused.
“Jim, it’s Chip Miller, your pilot who brought you back from Moresby,” Owen introduces.
“Then good piloting.”
“Thank you; it was all part of the service. How is your shoulder?”
“Getting there,” Jim turns to Gavin, “alright kid get on with it the truck won’t unload itself.”
After a short conversation with Jim, Chip excuses himself and draws Owen away towards the rear of one of the hangers where the original section of the Mareeba airstrip could be found and remained populated with a small number of private aircraft.
“What have you in mind?” Owen asks believing it to be a strange place to start a four day surprise.
“What do you think of her?” Chip points to a Piper J-3 cub parked close by and by its appearance almost new.
“I like what I see but I’m somewhat confused.”
“She is a two-seater in line and designed for training. It has a range of over five hundred miles, needing less than a thousand feet for takeoff and less than six hundred to land.”
“But no bombing capacity,” Owen makes light.
“She’s not designed for that. Have you been to Cooktown?”
“I’ve only seen it from the air, when we flew to Port Moresby.”
“Then that’s where we are heading.”
“Really!”
“Only if Alf gave you the okay, as you didn’t appear too certain when I called yesterday.”
“He wasn’t happy but agreed, thanks for Jim intervening and offering to do the run with Gavin.”
“What do you think of my idea?”
“It is getting better by the minute.”
“I’ve done some reading on the town and with your usual historic flair you will be more than capable of filling the gaps in my knowledge.”
“I could try, Cooktown was quite a large town during the Palmer River gold days but that was some years back,” Owen relates.
“It is mostly an air force base now and an army supply dump, I believe most of the permanent inhabitants have been moved out.”
“Yes I heard,” Owen approaches and pats the side of the craft, “can you fly it?”
“We will be in trouble if I can’t. In fact I learned in one similar back State-side, my dad has one, although a previous model.”
Owen’s excitement level is lifting, “who owns it?”
“A Dutch-American farmer near here, my family knew him when he lived in the states. He got it to spray tobacco, although the cub isn’t suitable for crop spraying and since growing the stuff has been shelved until after the war and with the only pilots capable of flying drafted into the air force, he is more than willing for me to keep it in flying condition.”
“So you have taken it up previously?”
“Yes often in my spare time.”
“I like it?” Owen again approaches and runs a hand along its fuselage, “yes I more than like, I love it but why Cooktown and from what I have heard Cooktown doesn’t have an airfield.”
“It does now and I have a couple of mates up there, they have arranged our landing. Also I know another who has a shack on the beach a short distance out of town.
“Who don’t you know Chip?”
“It is called networking. My old man has a reckoning that in life one should know and befriend someone of every trade.”
“And you do?”
“Not all, I haven’t managed a judge or politician as yet; come on stow your bag and let’s get this little sparrow into the air.”
“So that is what you are up to?” Gavin calls as he approaches after unloading the truck.
“And best you say nothing about flying, or you will have mum in a panic again, okay kid?”
“I wouldn’t say anything but I’ll swap you places, it looks like fun.”
“Possibly another time Gavin,” Chip gives a shallow promise. Then turns back to Owen, come on we better get a move on, as we don’t want any night flying in this bird, she isn’t designed for it.”
Once seated with Owen behind, Chip hesitates and points towards a speck in the north-western sky, “we have to wait a moment there is a flight arriving.” Slowly the speck grows larger until it makes a final approach and the sun catches its length in flickers of silver flashes, “She is coming in from Darwin – how are you finding it back there?” Chip asks.
“There isn’t a lot of room.”
“Then it is well we are both lean,” Chip says as the incoming flight makes its landing.
“I have a control stick here,” Owen realizes.
“As I said, she was designed for training but you won’t need the controls during this flight.”
“I should hope not but I’d love to fly it.”
“If you are a good boy, I’ll give you a lesson or two,” with those words Chip increases speed and with ease the small craft is in the air and bearing north-west to be away from any unannounced incoming traffic.
“How fast does it go?”
“The cruise speed is about 120knots.”
“What is that in real speed?” Owen asks at a shout over the engine noise.
“For you about 130 to 140miles per hour, the flight should take around three quarters of an hour but we will be at a much lower altitude than in the Dakota.”
Moments later they were beyond Mareeba with the mountains far off to the east. Below the water of the Barron River caught the midday sun reflecting like a silver ribbon through a cloth of green then as if by magic the Barron Falls appeared as a scaring of black basalt dipping into the dark deep valley of the Barron Gorge, as the river carved its path through the jagged mountains, reaching the swampy flat lands north of Cairns.
“There isn’t much water over the falls,” Chip comments and turns the small craft towards the falls before doing a full circle for better advantage.
“Give it a month or so and it will be raging with the monsoons.”
“Wonderful country this and nothing like the flat prairie of the mid-west back home.”
“If you go but a hundred miles west of here you will find it flat and disinteresting and as dry as a ringer’s breath.” Owen comments, with his words sounding as an excuse for the interior’s dryness.
“I wouldn’t call it disinteresting, simply different, besides what is a ringer.”
“A cattle hand but actually it comes from shearing sheep.”
“I’ll leave further question for a later time, when I don’t have to shout over the engine.”
Half an hour on and the boulders that made Black Mountain were directly below, Chip brought the small craft lower to almost tree tops for a better view and made a second circle, “now that is what I call impressive,” he confesses while returning to their original course, “only minutes now, if you look ahead you can see the ocean and the Annan River and beyond that the Endeavour River, then the open ocean.”
Landing at the Cooktown went without event, with Chip taxing the small craft well away from the main defense facilities, towards a large corrugated shed on the field’s perimeter. It soon became obvious to Owen they were quite some distance from town, or the beach front and wondered how they would arrive other than walking.
“I’ve also thought of that,” Chip guarantees and points to a military motorcycle with sidecar parked near the shed, “one of the guys from the 51st Battalion has arranged our transport. Have you ridden a motorcycle before?”
“No, dad has granddad’s old machine but I’ve never seen it going.”
“Therefore it will be another first for you but as pillion.” Chip wheels the machine into the open and kicked over its motor, “dump our gear in the sidecar and climb on behind me.
Owen quickly conforms.
“Arms,” Chip demands as he revs the motor. “Put them around me, you don’t want to fall off.”
Owen places his arms loosely about Chip’s chest.
“Lower and tighter,”
Owen does so.
“Lower; “Chip laughs.
“What is that I can feel?”
“The vibration of a motorcycle always does that to me.”
“It’s starting to have that affect on me as well.”
They both laugh loudly as they speed into the haze of the late afternoon.
The town wasn’t large as most its population had been evacuated soon after the Japanese Emily flying boat dropped its load near Mossman some months earlier. Even so, before the evacuation there would have been no more than two thousand, with some hundred more natives in the local vicinity. Many of the houses from those evacuated were now used to billet officers and personnel from the airfield and military base, and the town’s small jetty was lacking the usual pearling lugers, instead governed by two 80’ Elco patrol torpedo boats.
Once through town it was only a short drive to a rare sandy stretch within a forest of mangroves and close to the mouth of the Endeavour River. Noticing a glint of silver through the scrub Chip spoke, “by directions that should be our home for the next few days.”
A small clearing opened onto what could only be described as a shed with a lean-to supporting an old wood burning stove and a galvanized sink on a rickety stand, all closed in on two sides by a brushwood wall.
Chip cuts the motor. “What do you think?” he asks.
“I think I’m gonna’ like it no matter what.
“Right, sleeping inside to avoid things that bite, cooking under the lean-to and shitting in the scrub – happy about the arrangements?”
“Scouts all over again, yes happy,”
“No shops,” Chip says.
“We will have to catch some fish.”
“I’ve even thought of that. If you look in the sidecar you will find fishing gear and army rations and I believe there are a number of fishing poles in the shack. The guys at the base did well by us. As I said it is called networking.”
Owen enters into the shack finding little other than a table two chairs, two bush stretchers and an old tallboy bedroom wardrobe, with a cracked mirror and a badly damaged door.
“Separate stretchers,” Owen comments.
“What did you expect; a double bed?”
“It would be nice.”
“Never mind we will soon rope them together.”
“Bedding?”
“In the wardrobe, so I’ve been told although in this weather we won’t need much.”
Owen approaches the wardrobe door, which almost came away from its hinges as it squeaks to open. Inside it is plastered with faded postings of semi-clad women from some state-side magazine, one of the photographs he recognizes to be Rita Hayworth. He gives a wry smile.
“Has she gotya’ going?” Chip suggests.
“It reminds me of Jim’s cupboard door back home. I’ve found the bedding and cooking utensils and a bloody big lizard.”
The lizard takes fright and dashes between Owen’s legs towards the open door, with Chip allowing it passage without hesitation by jumping sideways from its scamper. “Anything less appealing,” Chip asks with a nervous rush.
“Like what.”
“One of those nasty long things your country is known for.”
“Do you mean snakes?”
“That’s them.”
Owen rattled about and pulled out the bedding. “Now stand back,” he cautiously warns as he shakes out the blankets one by one outside the hut. “Doesn’t appear to be anything and I would say no one has been using the hut for quite some time,” he suggests with an ironic huff.
“What gives you humour?”
“The dust, mum would be onto it with a broom and duster within an instant.”
“Mine would be the same and mom’s favourite saying is cleanliness is next to godliness,” Chip recites.
“I’ve heard that one.”
“You haven’t heard the most of it with my mom.”
“You don’t appear religious Chip?”
“No, when it comes to religious instruction there is a tipping point; if you take a kid past it, he will be lost to god forever.”
“And did you pass that point?”
“At a very early age but I kept up appearances to please the folks and the church elders.”
“At home religion was seldom mentioned. At school we occasionally had religious instructions and the Anglican minister visited once a month giving us a lesson in the school’s science lab.” Owen pauses with a chuckle before continuing. “His name was Father Cousins and could curse like a trooper. I remember he once gave me a clout for fiddling with a Bunsen burner, during his narration of the Sermon on the Mount.”
“That sounds like divine retribution,” Chip humours.
“At home mum would become most vocal if we used the lord’s name in vain and even now when I curse, there is a slight notion I will be struck down. I do remember a time when I was no more than four.”
“Go on.”
“I was home alone with mum and bunging on a turn, as four year olds are prone towards and mum said, if you keep carrying on the devil will come up and get you. I then went outside and stamped my feet to the ground shouting, come and get me, come and get me.”
“Did Old-Nick come for you?”
“No but what I do remember while stamping my little feet and challenging him, there was the slightest fear he would do so, even if I didn’t believe.”
“Then you were a nonbeliever from an early age.”
“Yes, but with reservations.”
“I suppose even a small spark of doctrine remains in us all, no matter how we attempt to disregard it.”
Towards sundown and finding two fishing poles in the hut it was time to try their luck. While approaching the beach Chip noticed a large log floating in a southerly direction towards town, “it appeared to be a fallen tree trunk,” he points and suggests.
Owen laughs.
“What’s so funny?”
“I thought you were accustomed to everything Queensland tropical?”
“Some but not all.”
“Look closer, that isn’t a tree.”
As Owen spoke the assumed floating tree trunk makes a directional change. “It’s a bloody big croc and the Endeavour River is infested with the little buggers.”
“Big buggers,” Chip contradicts as Owen collects a large stone and tosses it with exaggerated effort. It splashes some distance from the crocodile. Immediately the reptile swishes its powerful tail and powers further out to sea. “Did you see any in Hawaii?”
“There isn’t any in Hawaii.”
“You have alligators.”
“True and they are equally dangerous but smaller and found so far from Hawaii and the mid-west I didn’t have to contemplate them. Besides Hawaii is in the middle of the Pacific and the alligators are on the other side of the American continent.”
“They can swim for hundreds of miles out to sea.”
“They would need to be Olympic swimmers to reach the Hawaiian Islands.”
“Here they are a little timid but soon work out any routine you have, so it is not wise to swim in the river, or go too far out from the sand and not at sunup or sundown,” Owen suggests.
“Good point.”
“Also there are sharks,” Owen gives a cheeky grin.
“I’m beginning to believe I made a poor choice of venue.”
“She’ll be jake; as long as we stick to a few precautionary rules.”
“Jake?”
“It translates as alright.”
“How do you know so much about the crocks?”
“Dad would take us camping and fishing down the coast to Innisfail during the school holidays. We often saw crocs but soon learned how to avoid them. Although on one visit my cousin lost his dog near the Tully River, a big bugger launched out of the water and took the dog from the bank, while we were walking close by.”
“Poor doggie.”
“Yes poor little D’fa’.”
“Was that the dog’s name?”
“Most believed it was short for D for dog.”
“So what was D for?”
“Defecator, it shat everywhere, even in the house. It didn’t even have time to yelp, one second the dog was trotting along the bank as happy as Larry, the next it was lunch.”
“Who was Larry?”
“A Bathurst boxer from New South Wales, Larry Foley and from the last century I believe.”
“And why was Larry happy.”
“You will need to ask Larry.”
“So it all happened that quickly and from the riverbank.”
“I’m told they can reach twenty miles an hour over a short distance but easily out run, as long as you have somewhere to run to.”
With the croc gone from sight they remained at the water’s edge surf fishing, with the tall forest trees trailing long moody shadows across the white sand but it was soon realized that fish would not be on the menu for the evening’s meal. With the last casting Chip made comment as the crocodile began its northerly run back to the mouth of the river.
“He is a big one,” Owen acknowledges.
“Chip makes a quick calculation eighteen feet in my reckoning,”
“They can grow even bigger, there was one said to be more than twenty foot that was shot before the war up near Darwin, it was taking the town’s dogs and a native kid; they named it Precious.”
“Umm, enough fishing for one day,” Chip brings in his line as the first
.lights from town began to twinkle across the narrow stretch of water. As he spoke one of the two patrol boats fires up its engines and moves out. Then with the last of daylight the creatures of the forest from beast to beetle commenced their serenading.
Noisy lot,” Chip perceives as he lit the lamp and commenced on preparing their evening meal.
Late evening was enjoyed seated on canvas beach chairs under the lean-to while listing to the night. On the occasion there would be splashing coming from the river and what appeared to be a poor impression of a dog barking.
“That would be a croc,” Owen explains.
“It sounded close.”
“I would say the sound travels in the still night air, I wouldn’t concern we are far enough away from the river.”
“Do they travel overland?”
“Can for short distances but prefer the safety of water.”
It became a moment for contemplation as the first of the stars appear in the ever darkening night with the carbide light hissing its brilliance at distance behind. Chip reached across the space between the two chairs, his fingers outstretched.
Owen emulates and fingertips touch.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” Chip quietly asked.
“I am.”
“I could live here,” Chip admits.
“Even with the crocs about.”
“I’d get used to them.”
Chip rose from his seat and walked a number of steps into the darkness until he was but black on black, soon the sound of urination is heard. “Ah I needed that,” Chip slowly exhales.
He returns, “I was remembering that night in Moresby,” he says.
“What sleeping in the plane?”
“Yes sleeping but I didn’t get much sleep that night.”
“Why not Chip?”
“Two reasons. Firstly I wanted you so badly, secondly after my action I feared how you would react.”
“That was the night I realized I wasn’t,” Owen pauses.
“Wasn’t what?”
“Is there a word for it? There are many words for the other but I guess the only word I can think of is normal.”
“Do you believe you aren’t normal Owen?”
“What is normal?”
“There lays the quandary of humanity as everyone believes their own brand of normality is the template for society,” Chip says.
“That is deep for you.”
Chip releases a low titter, “we should make up a word right here and now,” Chip momentarily contemplates, “how about straight. Yes if you are attracted to women then you are straight.”
They both laugh.
“Then what is the opposite of being straight?” Owen quizzically asks.
“Bent I suppose.”
“Are you attracted to women Chip?”
“My family believes I am, as far as I was engaged to be married when I return from my tour.”
“Will you marry?”
“I suppose I would have to, if only to keep decorum within family and with friends and of course the church.”
“I thought you said you weren’t religious.”
“Even so if you live within its framework then you need to -,” a pause a titter, “well I guess live to its direction of normality.”
“You appear to have doubt.”
“I recently got a Dear Chip letter. She married someone from town whose family has more money and more land than I will ever have.”
“Are you concerned?”
“I would say relieved.”
“What was she like?”
“Laura is a real good-looker, you know the type, cheer leader and popular, the life of the party but pushy – and spoiled – and demanding.”
“Then it is as well.”
“Yes as well and saved from a lifetime of regret by a guy with money and position in the town and ten years my senior.”
“You said you would have married to keep the peace. Then when you return you will still need to marry.”
“Return,” Chip softly says.
“What else can you do?”
“I have other idea’s but enough of me.”
“Pam who works with Winnie said Jim promised to marry her before he went to New Guinea.”
“What happened?”
“In my opinion it was more to get a root, I don’t think he meant it and Gavin is also becoming a little toey.”
“Toey?”
“Active, I found a packet of frenchies in his school bag but possibly they were only for bragging rights.”
“What are Frenchies?”
“You know rubbers – condoms.”
“What about you Owen?”
“Girls scare me and in the past, like you, I thought I may have to marry to keep mum happy, she appears hell-bent in having grandchildren.”
“And now?”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”
“How has Jim been since he returned?”
“Improving, although it is the nights and darkness that brings out the worse in him. He often wakes from a bad dream shouting he can see his eyes but won’t say what he means.”
“I can help you there.”
“How?”
“I have since learned about his wounding.”
“Who from?”
“As I said networking, do you know much about psychology?”
“Not a lot.”
“That unfortunately is the amount of what your army knows and Jim has been seeing a psychologist from the base. That isn’t to say our lot know much more, as military psychology is in its infancy. Most of the top brass believe shell-shock is nothing but weakness of mental spirit.”
“What has that to do with Jim?”
As I was saying networking and I know Chas Felton the base psychiatrist who has been treating Jim.”
“I thought there was confidentiality between doctor and client?”
“There is although at the time I didn’t know the connection between his patient and Jim.
“Can you elaborate?”
“I will for Jim’s sake and your understanding of his situation. Firstly you should realize that in the services a bond develops between men and in some instances it is stronger than one between a woman and a man,” Chip follows with a gentle laugh, “not to say they are bent, as we were discussing earlier.”
“I do understand what you are saying,” Owen agrees, remembering how Alf and Ken Francis had served together in the first war and remained the best of mates.
“As for Jim, he was given charge over a lad barely seventeen who lied about his age to enlist; to keep under his wing as if to speak. The lad had been with Jim for most of his tour of New Guinea but on that fatal day when a Jap sniper had them both pinned down, Jim told the lad to stay low but in his hast the lad stood and was shot in the head and as Jim stood to pull him down he was also shot.”
“What about seeing his eyes?”
“The sniper was soon wasted but the lad lay dead beside Jim and it was his eyes, those sad blue eyes that remained fixed on Jim and as the medic came to their aid, Jim tried to close the lad’s eyes but his hand wouldn’t move and now he is plagued with the last vision of his young friend.”
“That is sad,” Owen says.
“It is war Owen and similar story come from all sides.”
“Will Jim get over it?”
“In time it should lessen but possibly he will never completely forget and the lad’s eyes may remain with Jim until his final day.”
A loud splash from the river diverts the sadness and then another and again the barking sound. “Crocs fighting,” Owen suggests.
“We should call it a night,” Chip suggests.
“What’s on for tomorrow?”
“Whatever you like but tonight is another story so come on.”
Gary’s stories are about life for gay men in Australia’s past and present. Your emails to him are the only payment he receives. Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Conder 333 at Hotmail dot Com
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