Published: 2 Jan 2023

Chapter 5

Mareeba had been buzzing with rumor and rumor, as rumor do, grew larger with each telling until it became quite preposterous. The first the Parker family heard of it was when Gavin returned from school on the Friday afternoon and he heard it from his school mate Lenny Carpenter, who heard it from his neighbour Billy Grafton.

At Gavin’s telling Alf became stern, “son you shouldn’t repeat that sort of thing as you can get people into a lot of trouble, especially with a war going on.”

“I haven’t told anyone, only you lot, besides the entire school knows, more than likely the entire town,” Gavin offers in defense towards his exuberant attitude.

“I know Frank Williams quite well and nothing like that has come up in any conversation in the past,” Alf assures.

“I suppose it wouldn’t, but who would believe he is a Nazi sympathizer and probably a spy,” Gavin is gloating.

“Settle down lad.”

“Lenny Carpenter said Billy Grafton told him some men in suits came and took Williams away in the middle of the night and found all sorts of Nazi stuff in one of his rooms, even a photograph of Adolf.”

“What of his family?” Alf asks.

“I don’t know but Lenny said Frank’s father was German and his true name is Francho Wihelm, also he had a radio transmitter in his shed and he was sending information about aircraft movements to the Japs.”

“I think you will find it is nothing but a simple wireless that Frank and I would listen to rugby matches, while having a beer and tinkering on his car,” Alf discredited.

“I’m only saying what I was told.”

“And you believe someone like Lenny Carpenter?” Owen gives doubt, while cranking his ear towards the conversation, so not to miss any of it.

“What do you think Winnie, you know Frank’s daughter Lucy?” Owen asks.

Winnie simply shrugged the question away not wishing to become involved in Gavin’s developing scandal.

“I’ve been offered work,” Winnie relates as the information on Frank Williams is put aside.

“Where would that be dear?” May cautiously asks; she hears the hall clock chime and digresses, “I suppose I should think of putting dinner on – any requests?”

“A nice big leg of lamb with rosemary roast spuds, pumpkin and runner beans would be nice,” Alf suggests and is all but salivating with the thought.

“I have the rosemary, so can anyone help with the lamb?” May proposes then reverts back to Winnie’s offer of work and repeats her question.

“Knowing you Winnie it is probably at the airfield’s kitchens,” Gavin loudly interjects and gets away with his unruly suggestion.

“Mrs. Jebreen offered when I was in the shop talking with Pam, as Joyce is leaving to care for her mother in Mount Surprise.”

“Who is Joyce?” May asks.

“Joyce Bennett, she works with Pam, her mother had a fall and with her father away at the war her mother is on her own.”

“How would you get in to work each day?”

“I would need to live in town.”

“What do you know about dresses?” Gavin discredits.

“Gavin,” Alf quietly warns then sends him to start the water pump to help Owen with the afternoon’s watering.”

“I wear them don’t I,” Winnie snaps back as she tires of her brother’s playful quips.

“I don’t like the idea of you living in town dear,” May cautions, bringing to mind scandal that freely circulate of impressionable girls becoming involved with military personnel. It had been that very morning May received a telephone call from Meg Rush, who gushingly shared yet another fall of a worldly innocent girl to offers of silks and perfume.

“A friend of Joyce has a spare room and said I could have it for six shillings a week.”

“Do I know this person?”

“Sarah Jenkins, you remember her family lived at Biboohra before moving into town and her father grew tobacco before the war.”

“Yes I remember she visited here on a number of occasions. So you would live with the Jenkins’?”

“No Sarah has her own house in town as she is working at the hospital. It belongs to a relation who is working somewhere down south and won’t be back for at least a year.”

“What do you think dad?” May asks Alf, who was allowing the conversation to reach conclusion before commenting.

“It is you decision May,” Alf wisely sidesteps the issue.

“If you take the job, when would you start at Jebreen’s and for how long?” May questions while realising Winnie was old enough to find her own way but a mother has difficulty in releasing a chick from her care, especially as Winnie is her only girl and confident.

“It will only be for a couple of months until Joyce’s mother is back on her feet,” Winnie says, although from conversation with Mrs. Jebreen the position would more than likely be permanent.

“Two months?” May remains concerned but is yielding.

“Possibly three.” The lie was blatant but Winnie believes a little white-lie was needed to calm May’s hesitancy.

“I suppose so; although I would like you to be home for weekends.”

So it was agreed. Winnie would become a shop assistant for Jebreen’s department store and take the offer of a room in town but May had one last question, “what is Sarah’s address?” she asks as Alf departs to allow the girls to work through the finer points of Winnies work offer.

“Pares Street – number thirty one, it is three from the corner.”

“I know the one; it doesn’t have a front fence.” May begins to chuckle,”

“Do you wish to share it mother?”

“I’ve just had a memory, as I once knew the neighbour, Grace Baston who lived at Twenty-nine.”

Winnie waits for the story as May commences to giggle. “It’s rude, maybe I shouldn’t.”

“Are you going to share, I promise not to blush.”

“Old Mrs. Baston would sometimes visit my mother, your Grandmother Jonsson and always when mum was putting on dinner. Your Gran would curse and send me to the door to say she wasn’t home then once the lie was issued, you Gran would come up from behind all happy and welcoming.”

“Did you live in town back then?”

“No we lived on a property out on the Cairns road and her son would bring her to visit in his old Ford truck.”

“I think I remember him – he was called Tinny Dale, if I’m correct.”

“Yes Bert Dale and as he had so much luck on the horses, everyone called him Tinny. He was Grace’s son to an earlier marriage.”

“Well go on,”

“I shouldn’t as it’s a little rude,” May reiterates.

“I can handle rude”

“Possibly it is more in bad taste than it is rude. Anyway Tinny was an untidy man, scruffy would be more suited and this day when he brought Grace to visit, his shirt tails were hanging out and obviously he had been to the toiled and his shirt tails become confused with the toilet paper.”

“Oh mum! Did Gran tell him?”

“No she didn’t have the heart and he brought some cake Grace had made, which mum declined and once they were gone she gave his chair a good scrubbing.”

“Tinny is still in town,” Winnie says.

“I should think he would be getting on in years, Grace has been gone at least ten, that would make Bert in his eighties.”

“He does use a stick and as you described, he is still scruffy.”

Owen had business to attend to in town but as fuel was rationed, there was only enough in the truck to reach the petrol depot and refill and that wouldn’t be until the Friday, therefore he had to be up early and go with his brother on the school bus, suffering ribbing from Gavin’s spotty adolescent mates.

The return trip would be more difficult as he would need to catch the afternoon Ravenshoe steam goods service, with the driver stopping long enough at the closest point to the farm to set him down. Such a mode of transport had been necessary many times over the years and knowing Smithy the driver, Owen would ride in the engine, even helping with shoveling the coal into the fire box.

With his business concluded Owen visited the Dunlop hotel for a beer while waiting for the afternoon’s rail service and no sooner had he arrived he discovered that war conversation had gone from topic to be replaced with that of Frank Williams, the so assessed Nazi collaborator and spy. By Owen’s departure he had obtained the actual story and not what had been fabricated to such an extent that Frank Williams was related to Hitler and Hermann Goring was his second cousin.

In simple truth, William’s father had been Prussian, his mother Dutch and they had arrived in Queensland with the infant Frank as a young lad shortly after Europe’s first big bash and Anglicized their name not to be conspicuous in their new country. There wasn’t any Nazi insignia at his house, only a large framed photograph of his father in Prussian uniform from the beginning of the century, nor was there a shortwave wireless in the shed only the simple wireless that had been suggested by Alf.

The authorities therefore decided seeing Frank was of German descent it was unwise having him remain so close to a major airbase, more brought about from social comment than from any fear of subversion. With some deliberation it was decided he would be interned for the duration of the war at Stuart prison near Townsville but acknowledging his service to the community, permitted to have his family with him to live freely and report regularly to the prison. What was odd, where Frank and his family were to be billeted was even closer to the Townsville air force base and the port than Mareeba to its airport, so if there was any fear towards his loyalty it obviously wasn’t smartly assessed.

Owen was about to depart after his second beer, when he received a gentle tap to his shoulder, turning he discovered his Uncle Ted and by his appearance had been in the bar for some time.

“Ted,” Owen simply greets with the slightest of head nod. He forces a smile.

“My favourite young nephew,” Ted says and introduces Owen to another who was obviously a drinking mate and by his glazed appearance had more than advisable to remain coherent.

“Do you know Stan?” Ted asks.

“No,” Owen half offers a hand in greeting but as quickly retracts, not wishing to become too familiar.

“G’day’ there young fella’,” the man takes hold of Owen’s hand without it being further offered, almost wrenching his arm from its socket.

“Nice to meet you Stan,” Owen gives his hand a shake once it is returned to his person.

“Stan once worked for your neighbour Len Joliffe when you were a little tacker,” Ted says.

“I’m sorry Ted I don’t remember.”

“You would run around the paddock as bare-arsed as the day you were born,” Stan loudly exclaims while gushing with comical glee.

Heads quickly turn and smiles given.

“Sorry, no I don’t remember you Stan, as you said I was only a little tacker,” Owen repeats the man’s description of his youth while cringing at the loudness of the stranger’s slant on his youthful nakedness.

“What’s your poison, I’ll shout you a drink,” Stan who-ever offers and slaps his wallet on the bar.

Owen quickly turns from the conversation, “I can’t stay talking Ted. I have to catch the afternoon train.”

“Are you avoiding me lad?” Ted asks and for the first time appeared annoyed with his nephew’s evasive attitude.

Owen is lost for an answer but for once faces his father’s problem with his brother. “If I am to be truthful Ted, I must say yes although it is not of my doing and I expect you already know that.”

“What has Alf told you about me?” Ted cautiously asks as his drinking mate finds conversation with another, Stan moves away and whatever he said brought both to turn towards Owen.

“Actually nothing except Gavin and I have been warned off from talking to you.” Owen glances at the bar clock, “really Ted I have t go, or I will need to walk home.”

“Someday we should meet up and have a long chat,” Ted suggests.

“Yes Ted someday – not this day, I really have to go.”

At the crossover the engine gives its usual three short blasts as a convoy of army trucks wait for it to pass. Off to the west smoke can be seen rising from what would be beyond the end of the north-south runway. The fireman points into the direction of the smoke, “it looks like some poor bugger is in a whole lot of bother;”

“Possibly it is a bushfire,” Owen hopefully suggests.

“Could be yet with the recent rain I would think not,” the fireman discredits.

“The smoke is too dark for a bushfire,” The driver gives credence towards a suggested aircraft crash.

Owen doesn’t respond. He thinks of Chip and feels a little relieved, as his newly found friend’s flight to Port Moresby had departed the previous day and wouldn’t be returning until the next.

“A B-29 came down in the scrub north of Laura on Wednesday with no survivors,” the driver recollects.

“Yes it was on the news.” Owen says.

“I hear you are interested in flying young lad,” the driver questions.

“I am, after the war Smithy.”

“Have you heard from your Jim?”

“Not for a while I suppose mail is slow from the front.”

“Did you know I was in the first big bash,” The driver relates as the fireman passes Owen the shovel.

“Your turn son, have to earn your trip,” the fireman says.

“Were you Smithy?” Owen says as he commences shoveling coal into the firebox.

“I’m telling you that was no picnic.”

“I supposed the same could be said of any war.”

“A Cooks-tour of Gallipoli and the Middle-East,” Smithy gives a pause towards memory, “then when we thought we were going home, they bundled us of to Europe for a go at the Boche in France.”

“Weren’t you told where you were going?”

“Told! We thought we were going home and while we were on the deck some bright spark shouted, that’s not Dover it is flaming Calais, were going to France.”

“Dad also served in Europe although hardly ever speaks of it, except in humour.”

“Most don’t but often the nightmares remain.”

“Were you a regular soldier Smithy?” Owen asks.

“I was in the British army and came out here after the war. I was a Batman, a manservant to an officer and dispatch rider. Even so I still saw much of the fighting and I was shot at on a number of occasions.”

“You were fortunate Smithy.”

“More to fact I had a heavy hand on the dispatch motorbike’s throttle.”

“What about you Wayne?” Owen asks of the fireman.

“I was too young for the first and too old for this one,” the fireman admits and points ahead, “your stop is coming up.”

Smithy slows the engine to a crawl as Owen jumps down.

“Thanks, see ya’,” he calls back and waves as the engine once again builds up steam.

On returning to the farm Owen’s thoughts were on his meeting with Ted at the Dunlop, while deciding to keep quiet, as there wasn’t anything to be gained by stirring up further animosity between father and brother. What was his opinion of his uncle? In truth he had none, although deep down he was developing a measure of fondness, as Ted had never displayed anything but courtesy towards him. Possibly one day he would accept his uncle’s offer and met for a chat but this day Alf was at the gate collecting the mail and such thinking was well placed aside.

“Is there anything interesting?” Owen calls and approaches.

“Bills, you can have them if you like.”

“Is there anything from Jim?”

“Nothing from Jim, did you meet up anyone in town?” It was a simple question and one that didn’t expect an answer yet one that drew a flush to Owen’s cheeks.

“No why?” Owen cautiously asks.

“Simply words of conversation son.”

“I did find out about Frank Williams,” Owen quickly replaced as topic, to avoid discovery of his unscheduled meeting with his Uncle Ted.

“What was the outcome?” Alf asks.

“As you believed it to be – nothing,” Owen then related what information he had gleaned from the bar.

“As I expected it would be.” Alf’s had fond memories of his visits to Frank Williams, enjoying the man’s strange Prussian humour, that didn’t sit well with the Australian laconic wit and would miss those lazy Sunday afternoons.

“I saw smoke towards the airdrome,” Alf says.

“Yes I saw it from the train.”

“Tomorrow morning you can go to the depot for fuel.”

“I thought it would be Friday?”

“I promised Goss a few bags of carrots when ready, so you can deliver and get fuel at the same time.”

“Chip is in New Guinea,” Owen says.

“Why do you mention Chip?”

“Possibly because of the smoke, it may be a crash, so it wouldn’t be Chip’s plane.” In truth Owen was planting a seed that would develop into a question he had need to ask.

“He’s a pleasant enough young man,” Alf admits as they reach the house. He calls through the kitchen door, “May you’ve a letter from your sister Lizzie in Bundaberg.”

May arrives at the door covered in flour; she accepts the letter and places it in her apron pocket, “nothing from Jim I suppose?”

“Sorry mother nothing.” Alf quietly responds.

“Meagan-may you do realize flour is rationed,” Owen says.

“I do but why mention it Owen?”

“There is more flour on you than in the bowl.”

“Cheeky,” May laughs, “Owen love, do me a favour and see if there are any eggs as I sent what I had over to the Joliffe’s yesterday.”

May then returns to her cooking.

“Dad,” Owen cautiously asks before going for the eggs. It was now time for that planting to germinate.

“What is it son?”

“Chip has suggested something.”

“Yes and what would that be?”

“It may come to nothing but -,”

“You better go for the eggs as your mother is waiting.”

“Chip said it might be possible to have me along for a ride to Port Moresby.”

Alf’s expression stiffens, “I hope you haven’t got the notion to enlist like Gavin has.”

“No not at all. Although the trip to Moresby would be experience and after the war I am interested in becoming a commercial pilot.”

“It could be dangerous up there; many don’t return and with Jim away without writing, do you wish to worry your mother further?”

“It’s only a thought, besides probably wouldn’t happen anyway.” Owen was backing away from his request.

“We’ll talk about it later son, go and get your mother’s eggs.”

Stumpy Jennings parked his vehicle at the farm gate and walked his delivery up to the door. Jennings name was Enrique coming from his mother being Spanish but sounding somewhat posh and difficult to maneuver around the English tongue; he therefore received the title of Stumpy as he had a birth defect, leaving one leg slightly longer, or shorter depending on your point of view, than the other.

Road-side, as country mail delivery was titled, was twice weekly. If you wished for a more regular service than it would be necessary to rent a Post Office box in town, although with the war the mail was somewhat slow and unreliable, even worse if it was necessary to correspond with another country, as aircraft were often lost, or ships sunk. So it was with the forces mail service, often placed aside for weeks at a time while waiting for opportunity to transport.

This day there were three items of mail for the Parker family. One of which carried more importance than the others, so knowing folk seldom checked their mailbox Stumpy decided to deliver the mail in person to the house.

At the door he is met by a most surprised May.

“Good morning Enrique, this is a surprise, is there something needing a signature?” May asks.

“Better than needing a signature May,” Stumpy relates with a broad smile and passes the mail.

On the top in prominent position is a letter from Jim.

“At last!” May cries while almost snatching the mail from the mailman’s grasp, “Alf we have a letter from Jim,” she calls back into the house. Realising her rudeness towards Stumpy she apologizes and invites him in for a cup of tea, “I have a fresh batch of scones just out of the oven,” she offers.

While Alf boils the kettle May quickly opens Jim’s letter, also inside there is a photograph of Jim in uniform leading along a jungle path. Jim appears as if he has lost weight and gone the innocence of youth. May reads aloud but as usual there is little information, only he is as well as could be expected and longing for a hot bath and a proper home cooked meal. He also requested a further package of May’s Anzac biscuits, as they are popular with his mates and don’t go far, also some eucalyptus leaves to

bring about memory of home. A postscript asks if his father still has his box brownie camera, if so could he get film, as he would love pictures of the family.

May begins to cry.

“What else does he say?” Alf encourages.

May wipes her nose and passes the letter to Alf before making the tea, “no sugar she apologizes to the mailman.

“No matter May, as it comes will be fine but I would love one of those prize winning scones of yours.”

“I’ll also wrap a couple for you to take on your round.”

“Half of what he has written is censored again,” Alf admits.

“It’s the way of the army and Anne Ryan over at Paddy’s Green said her letter from her Ralph was so blocked out, all that remained was dear mum and love Ralph,” the postman shares and although somewhat exaggerated it well suited the situation.

After a second scone and two wrapped in his pocket, Enrique was prepared to continue on his round but was delayed further with a request from May.

“I have a letter written for Jim, could you be kind enough to post if for me?” She finds the letter but firstly wishes to jot down a line a few lines, promising the biscuits and gum leaves. Finally she seals the envelope and gives it a secret kiss.

“That is a constant,” Enrique says while patently waiting.

“What would that be?” May asks as she offers up her correspondence for posting.

“The request for gum leaves, they don’t grow in New Guinea you know.”

“Not at all?” May questions realising the closeness of the island to Queensland’s top.

“Well maybe a few grow there but not the same as we have here.” The postman hesitates, “I Guess I better push along, can’t delay the King’s mail service.”

Receiving Jim’s letter brought to May’s mind Elsie Coyle from a neighbouring property and her excitement when receiving a long overdue letter from her son, only to receive a telegram later that same day, declaring his unfortunate demise. May well understood that elation can turn to sorrow in a wink but at least Jim’s correspondence gave hope and such negativity was soon put aside. She once again collects Jim’s letter from the table where Alf had placed it. Again she reads its limited text, then once more and with Jim’s photograph she sits aside and sheds a quiet tear of relief.

During that evening the Parker family shared many fond memories of their eldest and simply receiving correspondence without any actual news was enough to take away the building concern, remembering happier days when they were as one and a family. It was Jim did this, Jim did that and do your recall the day, while knowing Jim was alive gave Owen courage to again bring up Chips suggestion of taking him on a delivery run to Port Moresby.

As Owen shared his request, May keeps her peace, appearing to draw away. She was with Jim the day he enlisted, how proud, how handsome in his freshly ironed uniform and how silly his hat pushed to one side. There had been sadness in her pride and now the sadness was returning with Owen request. She then glances towards Alf, waiting for her husband to issue a stern rebuff.

Alf well understands May’s unspoken thought and questions Owen further.

“Only yesterday the news reported Japanese planes were almost daily bombing Port Moresby and there is the issue in the Solomon Islands, where the Americans are still losing men by the dozens, no I digress, in the hundreds,” Alf says.

“True but from what Chip said, with the fighting along the Kokoda and sinking of much of the Jap convoys, the war is on the turn and our boys should be home for Christmas.”

“Christmas for Christ’s sake!” Alf’s voice rises, “That’s what we thought in the last big one and were still up to our knees in muck, guts and blood five years later.”

“Alf,” May quietly cautions, bringing Alf’s tempered tone back to almost normal. “Even so it is a daily occurrence for aircraft to be shot down over New Guinea and what about the ships, only last week it was reported that a Jap sub sunk one of our hospital ships, the Centaur, with the loss of over three hundred wounded men and nurses on board.”

“Submarines don’t shoot down aircraft,” Owen says.

“Now you are being audacious,” Alf warns.

“Sorry dad but I would still like to go; besides if I was inclined to do so, I am old enough to enlist.” Owen had no intention in enlisting but was using the threat as a tool to receive favour towards his joyride, that being the lesser evil.

Alf takes a deep breath and with a head shake turns to May, “what do you think Mother?”

“You know what I think without asking.”

Alf turns back to his son, “is there any way I can talk you out of such a dumb idea?”

“No.”

“Then invite Chip around for dinner on Sunday and we’ll see what he has to say.”

“I’m beginning to regret inviting the young man in the first place,” May takes a deep breath, “would anyone like some supper before bed?” she offers as a break from her building concern towards Owen’s wish to enter into a theatre of war.

“Don’t blame Chip mum, it was my idea in the first place,” Owen fabricates to avoid discrediting Chip.

“As your father said, invite Chip around on Sunday and we will discuss it further, now can we get of the subject of the war, it is giving me one of my headaches.”

Chip was busy for the following weak and it was a fortnight before he accepted the invitation for Sunday dinner. By then Winnie had taken employment in town also the offer of a room, so she was absent when Chip arrived with his usual infectious smile, while carrying a small bag.

“What are you toting in the bag?” Gavin curiously asks and attempts to take a preview.

“It is a surprise, is Winnie about?”

“I’m afraid she is in town Chip, she has taken work and a room,” May relates while displaying obvious displeasure towards her daughter’s newly found independence. “Make yourself comfortable while I finish with dinner and Alf will get you a beer.”

“Before so, I have a few things for you,” Firstly chip removes two small packages from his bag and offers the rest up to May.

“What is this?” May asks as she peers into the bag.

“Only a few things I managed from our supplies.”

“I hope you won’t get yourself into trouble Chip?” May appears concerned but on noticing the bag’s content is grateful.

“Don’t you worry Mrs. Parker, they won’t be missed. I also brought a little something for Winnie but seeing she isn’t here, you will have to give it to her,” Chip passes two packages to May, “Nothing much only some perfume and a pair of black market silk stockings,” Chip laughs.

“Black market you say Chip,” Alf frowns.

“It was a joke Alf; I got them from one of men at the base freshly arrived from State-side.”

Nothing was mentioned during the meal about Owen taking a joyride to New Guinea but much was spoken on the progress of the war. It appeared that the Japanese supply line to the string of islands they captured in British Solomon’s had been well broken by American submarine activity but the fighting on Guadalcanal was intensifying and the marines had to fight inch by inch to gain supremacy, only to be pushed back once more towards the airfield.

“Mark my words,” Alf says and points an opinionated finger towards Chip, if it comes to invading the main islands of Japan it will be a bloodbath on both sides, the Japs won’t give up easily as they believe death brings them closer to the ancestors.”

“From what I hear that is also MacArthur’s opinion,” Chip agrees, “but there are whispers,”

“Young fellow, I hope you are not about to divulge military secrets,” Alf warns.

“If everyone knows than it isn’t a secret Alf.”

“What then are these whispers?” Alf asks.

“It is said the British and we Americans are working on some new kind of bomb.”

“Bomb!” Alf loudly contradicts; “it will take more than a flaming bomb.”

“It is said this one will be different.”

“Chip I’m a little uncomfortable with this subject and would rather not know.” Alf pours fresh beers, with Gavin offering up his empty soft drink glass. “It’s sarsaparilla for you young man until I see some hair on your chin.”

“That is a fair call Alf but in truth there isn’t anything else to say on the matter as the whispering goes no further,” Chip concludes on his telling of the mysterious new bomb, instead he commences on another item of news which is a little closer to home, “do you know a little western town of Torrens Creek?”

“Yes it is west of Townsville and I have a brother out that way. Tom is a saddler and lives in Hughenden.” Alf says

“Have you heard anything from him lately?” Chip asks.

“Not of late, do you know something about Tom?”

“No not of Tom. We are using a site near Torrens Creek as an ammunition store in case the Japs take over the coast. There was a bushfire and an explosion, it is said it left a twenty foot crater.”

Alf is obviously concerned, “was anyone hurt?”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

“I didn’t read about in the papers,” Alf admits.

“You wouldn’t have.”

“Should you be talking about it Chip?”

“It isn’t a secret as such, only not widely reported, well not to the news papers that is.”

Alf feels satisfied with the lack of injury but would be penning a letter to Tom at his first convenience. “Have you been out that way Chip?”

“No, I’ve been to Townsville and day trip to Charters Towers but no further west.”

“In the main it is dry and flat. It is sheep country to the south and cattle to the north with the road west to Mount Isa almost a dividing line, a sort of invisible fence between the two.

With the meal finished May calls Gavin to help with the dishes while Alf, Owen and Chip retire to the living room.

From a quiet moment Alf speaks, “Now Chip I do have some concern.”

“What would that be Alf?”

“Young Owen here says you have suggested taking him on one of your flights to Port Moresby.”

“That I did but not without your permission, even if he thinks he is old enough to make up his own mind.”

“His mother isn’t all that pleased with the idea.”

“What about you Alf? What are your thoughts on the matter?”

“I also worry although I would admit it would be more acceptable than him enlisting but how legal would it be having him tag along.”

Chip gives Owen a glance, noticing that his excitement level is rising, he smiles, “legal is a difficult word to quantify Alf, many things that go on around the base have a different interpretation.”

“Your meaning, Chip?” Alf asks.

“Well I guess there isn’t a word for it but in a sentence, if it isn’t reported than it doesn’t exist.”

“Would you like another beer?” Alf asked.

“If you are offering thank you Alf,”

Alf gives Owen the nod to get a fresh bottle from the kitchen.

“How would it be taking Owen along with you?”

“As I said if not reported it didn’t occur and I did hypothetically run it by my Colonel and he said much the same.”

“I almost agree,” Alf quietly says as Owen returns with a fresh bottle.

“What have I missed?” Owen asks.

“Nothing,” Alf says.

“Has there been much fighting at Port Moresby lately?” Alf asks.

“Moresby has suffered quite a lot of bombing and before we went into Guadalcanal, Moresby had been shelled from the sea, now it is mostly air strikes and becoming spasmodic.”

“Has your plane ever been hit?”

“A few bullet holes earlier but of late I’ve been in and out within a matter of hours and arrive in Moresby at a time before the Japs arrive from their northern base in Rabaul on New Britain Island.”

“What do you think dad?” Owen cuts across Alf’s questioning of Chip and how safe it would be.

“I will think about it lad. Let me speak further to your mother first.”

Chip slaps his hands to his knees and stands, “well Alf, I must be on my way, being late is more frowned upon than having someone along for the ride.

Owen follows Chip out to his vehicle, “I’m looking forward to the flight,” he admits.

“As I said Owen it won’t be happening without your parent’s agreement.”

“I think they will come around, as I used the enlist word as a threat.”

“What do you mean?”

“I suggested I was old enough to enlist.”

“Would you?”

“Na, with Jim away having a second son at the war would kill mum.”

“I’ll be going then and I’ll give you a call about the trip; but remember, only with Alf’s permission,” Chip promises.

“I’ll ride with you to the gate, it will save you stopping. When dad gives permission, when would it be?”

“When; you say and not if.”

“He will; I’m sure of it.”

“It would need to be soon but don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Once Chip had departed Owen remains for some time at the gate, contemplating the flight and what it would be like to wing his way across an ocean to a foreign destination. The night’s sky is clear and the moon low and dull. Twinkling with the stars are the lights of a lone craft, coming in from the north east, the distant droning of its engines is music to his ears and Owen’s imagination lifts until he is there amongst the stars with the approaching aircraft. His level of excitement is so powerful he can feel his heart beet quicken to become an audible thumping in his chest.

“Dad has to agree,” he loudly expresses as he turns back towards the house.

Owen had been working at the creek on the water pump when he heard his name called from the road. Looking up he noticed a lad with a bicycle. The lad again calls, waves then drops his bike into the long grass on the verge before crossing over the fence line.

“Ian Douglas what are you doing out here?” Owen greets and returns the wave as the lad approaches.

“On my way to visit Fred Howe at Walkamin, he and a couple of mates are going pig shooting.”

“I wouldn’t think you were into pig shooting Ian?”

“I guess it is something to do before I start my new job.”

“What job would that be?”

“I’ve been offered a position at the bacon factory, as a number of the workers has enlisted. If you’re interested there are a few vacant positions and from what I hear they now have women working there.”

“What women doing the slaughtering?” Owen asks.

“Mostly the carving and packing I should think but things are getting pretty desperate and now women are even working cattle.”

“There isn’t anything new in that, mum worked cattle with dad before I was born and would spend days at a time riding through the scrub rounding up the strays.”

“I haven’t seen you since our school days.”

“I’ve been busy the farm takes up most of my time. Especially now we have a contract with the army.” Owen admits.

“Got any smokes?” Douglas asks and takes an American arm forces Zippo cigarette lighter from his pocket. He clicks it to light a couple of times to prove its usefulness.

“You know I don’t smoke – where did you get that?”

“A Yankee fly-boy gave it to me.”

“How much?”

“It was a present of sorts,” he gives a smirk and returns the lighter to his pocket.

“I can guess what the of sorts means.”

Douglas releases a low chortle but doesn’t elaborate but without saying Owen realized his once school mate was obviously up to his old tricks.

A thought came to Owen, “what was your so called fly-boy’s name?”

“Stanley something I met up with him at the Royal bar last Saturday night.”

Owen takes a slight breath and releases it slowly being thankful it wasn’t his friend Chip.

“Did you hear about Barney Jones?” Ian asks. His eyes open wide as he gives Owen a light arm punch.

Owen flinches away, “possibly but go on.”

“He got Loretta Stokes pregnant.”

“That’s old news,” Owen admits.

“To you maybe.”

“What has he done about it?”

“He pissed off up north and Loretta’s old man said he’d have Barney’s nuts if he returns.”

“More stale news, what about Loretta?”

“She was down at Tip-top’s café on Sunday afternoon showing off Barney’s handy work as bold as one can be and when asked what she was going to do with it, she said, I’m gunna’ keep the little bugger.”

“What did she say about Barney clearing out?”

“She didn’t seem fussed and by her words she was more than pleased he wasn’t around.”

Ian approaches and picking up a stone he tosses it into the creek, “the water is up,” he says.

“There has been a bit of rain of late and the dam is overflowing.”

“How about going for a swim?” Ian suggests and by his beaming grin, it was obvious what he had in mind.

“I don’t think so.”

“I remember when Jim and your old man built that dam,” Ian recollects.

“You helped,” Owen says.

“I did eh’ and we christened it that afternoon.”

“And dad caught us skinny-dipping.”

“Your old man almost got more than bargained for. A couple minutes earlier and we would have been in right bother,” Ian proudly admits.

Owen ignores his friend’s memory but it takes him back to that hot summer’s day.

During the building of the low concrete dam the water had been given a new channel beside the workings, once completed the diversion was filled and with the flow from a recent storm, the dam filled in a single afternoon.

Who had suggested swimming, Owen could not recollect but did remember what happened after when they were naked and neck deep in water.

You’ve got a stiffy; Owen had observed of Ian.

So have you.

Mine is longer, Owen had bragged.

Mine is fatter and you know what they say.

What do they say?

Long and thin goes too far in and doesn’t suit the lady, short and thick does the trick and out comes the baby.

Both had laughed loudly, as post-pubescent lads like nothing better than a little smut.

The laughter had fallen back to serious.

Who reached out first was also lost in time to Owen but what happened next was the commencement of a summer of physical exploration that ended when Ian’s family moved to the other side of Mareeba towards the town of Biboohra and too great a distance for the lad to visit regularly.

“So you do remember those days,” Owen says with a condoning huff.

“I do, I also remember you had no hair.”

“Where on my head?” Owen scoffs although he well understood his friend’s suggestion.

“Not your head dum-dum on your dick, although I remember you did have very hairy legs.”

Owen laughs, “I made up for it the next year.”

Ian gives a shit-eating grin, his eyes lower towards the crotch of Owen’s trousers.

“No Ian, I’m not going to show you, if that is what you’re thinking.”

“Are you still at it?”

“What do you mean by at it Ian?”

Owen remembers their early teenage years when Ian would spend more time at the farm than at home and in those days they were definitely, as Ian suggested, at it. That is if what they experienced could be described as such.

“A quick you know.”

“We were only kids Ian.” Owen discredits.

“From what I remember you enjoyed it as much as I did.”

Owen was growing tired of his friend’s crudity and diverted, “what else have you been up to since school?” he asks.

“As I said I’ve been offered work at the bacon factory and I’m living back this side of town.”

“What about your parents?”

“They are still at Biboohra.”

“I thought you may have enlisted.”

“I tried but wasn’t accepted, something to do with my feet and ability to march long distances. Why didn’t you enlist?”

“Farming is considered a key industry and with Jim already in the army, I wasn’t expected to, although for a while we had a bugger of a time trying to prevent Gavin from enlisting.”

“He was only a kid the last time I saw him. So what would he be now fifteen?”

“No he turned sixteen some time back.”

“I remember he would follow us around like a puppy. Possibly as well you didn’t enlist, do you remember Rick Clark? He was in the class above us.”

“Yes, he was quite clever but didn’t talk much and was tall with blond hair and bushy eyebrows.”

“And he wore his brother’s hand-me-down trousers that were two sizes too large.”

“Yes I remember the dacks, with the braces and his big boots they made him look like a circus clown,” Owen laughs.

“Not anymore, he became a pilot and went to England. Lasted only a week, he was shot down over the channel on his first sortie, when a Kraut ME109 got him from behind.”

“Dead?”

“As far as anyone knows, as he wasn’t seen bailing out and his Hurricane sunk in a matter of seconds.”

“I may be taking a flight to Port Moresby soon.”

“Are you joining the air force?”

“It will be to get a feel for flying, I’m thinking of becoming a pilot after the war.”

“No thank you, they crash too often for my liking. Seeing I’m back in town possibly I could give you a visit on the occasion, or you could visit me.”

“Yes, I would like that,” Owen agrees.

“I suppose I better hit the track.”

“What’s your address in town?” Owen asks.

“I’ve a bungalow behind the Robinson’s at number seventy-four Martin Street but it is only temporary and I will have to find somewhere else soon.”

“I know the Robinsons,”

“Bruce was in our year and his older sister Valerie at one time was keen on your Jim.”

“Yes I remember Valerie; I’ll give you a visit sometime.”

“Righto’ see ya’.”

“See ya’,” Ian hesitates, “you will visit me?”

“I said I would.”

Owen kept watching Ian as he mounted his bicycle and headed out along the road to Walkamin. “Ian Douglas pig shooting,” he quietly says with a mocking huff, ‘now that is something I would love to see,’ he thinks, “he’d probably shoot himself.”

Owen once again brings to mind that hot summer and how he looked forward to Ian’s visits and how they made all kinds of excuses to be alone and away from Gavin, who, as Ian recollected would follow everywhere like a stray puppy. He also remembered he had enjoyment from their encounters and there remained a miniscule of fascination with the male form but with the war and hard work on the farm, such thoughts seldom came to mind.

Ian’s visit brought reflection but even with his agreement to visit his once school mate, Owen decided he would not do so. For the present what was more pressing being could his father talk his mother into allowing him to travel with Chip to New Guinea. As Ian peddled along the road, his old bicycle squeaking loudly at each turn of the wheel before disappearing behind a grove of trees, Owen soon forgot his promise to visit, that being a time he didn’t wish to repeat. At least not with Ian Douglas and his suggestive ways, although what had been enjoyed back then wasn’t entirely estranged to his developing character.

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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