Published: 30 Jan 2023

Chapter 9

Eventually Tuesday arrived with Chip telephoning early regarding instruction for Owen’s trip to Port Moresby, reporting all systems ago and ready for is arrival, then with afternoon approaching Gavin was given the honor of driving Owen to the airfield.

“It’s gone two-thirty Gavin,” says as he enters into the tool shed where Owen is working on a broken bolt on a cultivator and by his mood and skinned knuckles not having much success.

“So?” Owen growls and throws the shifter he was using into the toolbox.

“Don’t you have to be at the base by three?”

“Four-thirty, I’ll leave at four, as I don’t wish to be seen hanging around the base for an extended period. I’ve already showered and only have to change my clothes.”

“You will leave at three if you want me to drive you.”

“Alright keep your hat on. I’ll go get ready but why by three?”

“I need to take Ruby for a ride; she’s getting fat and lazy and then I have to do your watering.”

“Can’t you do it latter?”

“Don’t blame me Owen; dad said because you are gallivanting across half the country, I have extra to do.”

“That’s a big word for a little fella’.”

“I’ve bigger ones I could use if you like.”

“Never mind I’ll go change; anything to shut you up.”

As the two walk from the tool shed they hear a vehicle revving the guts out of its motor at the gate.

“That looks like Brent Drysdale’s old bomb,” Gavin says on spying the black and rusting thirty-five model Ford Sedan as it paused at the gate, emitting copious blue smoke into the pristine country atmosphere.

“It is. I haven’t seen him since school; I wonder what he’s up to?”

The brothers divert to the gate, arriving as the driver exits his vehicle.

“Brent ya’ old bugger it’s good to see you?” Owen teasingly challenges while they are still at distance.

The three meet over the gate and hand greeting is shared between the once school mates.

“What happened to the back passenger window?” Owen asks.

“My dozy brother broke it.”

“And the radiator grill?”

“That was a tree stump down at Rocky creek last week, we were out pig shooting and crashing through the scrub after a big bugger with nuts like watermelons.”

“Did you get it?”

“Na’ the flaming stump got us and it pissed water all the way back to town, almost fucked the block through heat.”

“I suppose I should ask what you are doing out here.”

“I thought seeing I was passing, it was about time we caught up.”

“Just like that?”

“Actually there’s a group of the old class meeting up at Lake Eacham, I’ve a half dozen cold one’s in the back and John Reyne has a half dozen more and a bottle of scotch he flogged from his old man.”

“Where is Reynesy?”

“We’re to meet up at Eacham.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“To wish Wayne Glenn good luck, as the dumb bugger has gone and enlisted in the navy, do you want to come along?”

“I’m sorry mate I can’t.”

“And why not?”

“I have a prior engagement,” Owen declines but Gavin is obviously showing interest.

“So what is better than a few beers with you mates?”

“If I told you that I would have to shoot you.”

Drysdale then turns to Gavin, “well?” He demands.

“I’ll come.”

“What about exercising Ruby?” Owen reminds.

“She can wait until tomorrow,”

“I wasn’t inviting you kid, more to point, I was expecting you to tell me what your brother is up to.”

“Same here, if I told you then I’d also have to shoot you,” Gavin mimics his brother’s answer.

“You make it sound as if you are working for the military or something.”

“Who will be there?” Owen diverts.

“Sue Nelson for starters and it was Sue who suggested I should call by and collect you.”

“It is tempting but maybe next time.”

“Who says I’ll bother asking you again,” Drysdale says and climbs back into his vehicle. “Seeya’,” he calls and again revs the engine, throwing up a spraying of wheel grit as he reenters the main road in a cloud of smoke and by the sound of the motor, losing a couple of gear cogs on the way.

“He’s burning more oil than petrol,” Gavin suggests.

“I doubt he will make it to the lakes but it would have been a fine afternoon,” Owen softly says as the two slowly return towards the house.

“How long will it take you to get ready,” Gavin says.

“I only have to change, yet a moment ago you were willing to go to the lakes.”

“I was although dad wouldn’t have let me anyway, so I may as well dump you off at the airfield, then exercise Ruby and get on with the watering.”

“Sue Nelson,” Owen softly says.

“I know Sue.”

“Do you little brother?”

“I do.”

“In what way would that be?”

“I saw her tits behind the school bicycle shed.”

“You saw what?” Owen huffs in disbelief, knowing the difference in their age.

“She was asking about you and I said I’d tell all your little secrets if I could see her tits.”

“What was she asking about me?”

“She had heard you had big dick and wanted to know if it was true and I said I don’t hang around checking out your statistics.”

“And she showed you her tits?”

“She only showed me one but she wouldn’t show me the nipple and I didn’t say anything about you.”

“When was that?”

“It was towards the end of last year, during sport’s day, I ran my hand up her leg and she gave me a slap.”

“Umm, you are starting young and I’m surprised at fifteen you were even aware of women’s tits and just learning how to pull your dick.”

“I was old enough and I don’t do that.”

“Anyone who says they don’t is a bloody liar and if you do you’re a dirty bugger,” Owen suggests.

“Which one are you Owen.”

“Someone who knows not to answer dumb questions.”

“I guess of the Parker boys it’s up to me to carry on the family name.”

“Have you written me off as one of the Parker stallions?”

“You don’t appear interested, or that’s what Sue Nelson said as she tried hard enough with you.”

“She was too pushy and obviously has a big mouth if she is prepared to let the likes of you in on my business, besides you may be too late as possible Jim has already done that?” Owen discredits.

“Who with?”

“Never mind who. Are you active?”

“What do you mean by active?”

“At it, you know the old in and out, horizontal jogging.”

Gavin laughs.

“Well come on out with it.”

“Could be.”

“You have heard of VD?”

“What’s that?”

“Scabs on your prick and then it drops off.”

“Bull shit; I do know how to take precautions. Come on I’ll race you to the house.”

Gavin wins by yards.

Ten minutes and Owen is ready, meeting Gavin at the truck, with May following close behind Owen. She pauses close by as he climbs into the cabin. May stands on the vehicle’s running board, taking Owen’s arm, she has tears building but obviously holding them for fully forming. “You will be careful,” she says. There is a slight tremor in her voice.

“I will Megan-may, don’t worry. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

“Don’t you go taking any risks,” May forewarns knowing Owen’s lack of rationality. She appeared reluctant to release her hold on his arm.

“I won’t but then again, I’m not the one doing the piloting.”

“That is what concerns me.”

Gavin impatiently revs the motor and May steps back; now she is fully in tears and waving as the truck departs towards the road.

“Do you think Chip will take me sometime?” Gavin asks.

“You’re too young.”

“Kevin Long is only two months older than I am and he is up there in New Guinea fighting the Japs.”

“Kevin Long is an idiot.”

“Says you flying into a war.”

“While I’m away don’t forget to water the new lettuce seedlings,” Owen reminds.

“As if I’m likely to.”

Gavin is challenged by the guard at the airfield gate, who without showing urgency comes to the driver’s window and by his expression in need of a distraction from standing for hours in the hot afternoon sun, “hey kid you appear a little young to be driving, what’s your game?”

As the soldier speaks Owen leaned across towards the door, “he’s my kid brother Freddy.”

“I didn’t see you there Owen, what are you delivering today?”

“I’m here to see Chip Miller; he is one of the pilots.”

“Yes I know Chip you will find him over near hanger C, go in but park behind, as there is a flight of B-24’s arriving any minute,” The guard steps away from the truck and allows progress with an over exaggerated wage of his hand.

Owen finds the Dakota in the final process of being loaded and close by is the crew, with Chip obviously planning the flight.

“Drop me off here,” Owen suggests.

“I don’t have to say be careful do I,” Gavin says as Owen steps away from the cabin.

“Why? Will my little brother miss me?” Owen laughs.

“It’s not that you knucklehead; it is what I would have to endure with mum if anything happens to you.”

Chip breaks his conversation and calls, “you made it?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?” Owen turns back to his brother, “see ya’ tomorrow night.”

Gavin answers with something inaudible, probably rude and insulting then departs.

“Arty made a two dollar bet saying you would turn chicken,” As Chip spoke the first of the expected B-24s appeared then shortly after more above the tall trees at the end of the runway, their sound drowning out all conversation.

“I’d like to take a ride in one of those,” Owen loudly admits over the droning of the incoming aircraft, as he shades the glare with his hand for a better view.

“What the flying coffins?” Hank Wilson scoffs.

“Why call them that?”

“I flew them out of Guam just before the Jap’s took it last year and found their controls sticky and unresponsive,” Wilson admits.

“Enough of the sagas Hank, it appears we are loaded and as soon as these big birds are on the ground we’ll be off,” Chip turns to Owen, “we can’t have you looking like a civilian, come on we’ll get you out of your civvies.”

Owen follows Chip into the hanger where he is thrown an old pair of ground crew overalls. “Put these on,” he says.

“What strip?”

“If you like,” Chip gives a half smile, “no pull them over your civvies will do.”

Chip’s expression was noted by Owen and taken as meaning something a little more than humour, as if his friend and boss for the duration of the trip would appreciate seeing him naked. A quick surge like warm water traveled through Owen’s body to puddle in the pit of his stomach, similar to how he felt during his boyhood, while skinny-dipping with Ian Douglas at the farm dam. This instant he would had gladly stripped for Chip.

Owen returns the glance and pulls on the overalls.

“They fit you like hand in glove,” Chip comically remarks.

“They were obviously designed for a larger man,” Owen contradicts.

“Then like a loose glove. Come on and we’ll be going.”

One of the crew gives a cheeky wolf whistle. The others take to clapping and laughing as Owen comes back into the daylight from the hanger.

“You look the part of ground crew but I don’t know what to do about that dumb accent,” Chip continues as the last of the B-24s approaches for landing, its wheels bouncing as it touches down.

With his eyes trained on the distant northern sky, Ray Brenner gives a decisive huff, “Six,” he quietly says of the craft that had landed, the last of which taxies to stop in row at the far end of the strip.

“Six,” Hank Wilson the co-pilot repeats.

“Why six?” Owen asks.

“There should be seven.”

“Where have they been?” Owen asks.

Hank Wilson looks towards Chip for advice before answering and receiving a gentle nod he continues, “I guess it won’t hurt, they haven’t been anywhere as such but island hopping from Stateside as replacements.” As he spoke a distant speck appeared in the northern sky.

“Seven,” Ray Brenner says.

There is a collective sigh of relief.

“It is bad enough losing a flight in battle but not through aircraft maintenance, come let’s get our bird fired up and off the ground,” Chip clarifies with a nod towards the aircraft.

For an instant the crew of flight-136 pause with their eyes on the hazed northern sky as if in silent prayer. Eventually Chip exhales a breathy relief and turned towards Owen. There is silence for a few more seconds before he speaks, “So are you ready for your little adventure?”

“As ready as I can be.”

Chip gives a smile, “are you excited?”

“Very.”

“Then follow onboard and we will be away.”

Chip and Hank Wilson are first to board and take their position in the cockpit. Directly behind Chip and starboard was taken by Ray Brennan while Arty Cox had one of the two seats arranged in the space usually allotted for a forward baggage compartment.

“Comfortable?” Chip called back.

“Fine,” Owen answers as the engines fire up.

“What happens if you need a piss or something?” Owen asks.

“Do you need to take a leak?” Arty asks over the roar of the engines.

“No, only asking.”

“The heads are at the tail end but we often piss through the holes made from unfriendly fire,” Arty says.

“Really?”

“Just having you kid,” Arty laughs; “we’ve never been shot at on this run, although we did have a slight altercation with a Zero while delivering supplies to Goroka, north of Moresby a couple of months back.”

“What happened?” Owen’s curiosity rises.

“He must have been out of ammo, or felt sorry for us. He flew quite close and waved before disappearing to the north.”

“What did you do?”

“We waved back.”

Slowly the aircraft taxied to the end of the runway and turns.

“Hold off,” Brenner calls to Chip as a wireless message comes in from control.

“Holding, what’s up?”

“There are three P-51’s from Townsville approaching from the south and coming in for refueling before going on – five minutes at max.”

“Should we taxi off?” Hank suggests.

“No they should have ample room,” Chip idles the engines, “are you still excited?” he called back to Owen.

“Yep.”

“Once we are on the way and settled you can sit up front with me if you like. That is if you can leaver Hank from his seat.”

Hank Wilson laughs his agreement.

“I’d love to.”

It was a quarter hour before the last of the P-51’s were on the ground and another ten minutes before control gave all clear.

“We are going to be late in arriving,” Hank Wilson grumbles out his displeasure.

“Don’t worry Hank; the bar will still be open when we get there.” Chip assures and as the engines reach full pitch he turns towards Owen, “and here we go, hang onto your seat.” Moments later the aircraft is speeding along the runway and vibrating through Owen’s person, displaying power that he could hardly imagine.

Once in the air and gaining height Owen makes an observation, “we appear to be going north-west; I thought Moresby is north-east?”

“True, you seem to know your directions,” Arty says.

“It was from my time in the school cadets and doing orientation. They would blindfold us and dump us in the bush with a compass and make us find our way home, one year it took the police with a search party and sniffer dogs the best part of two days to find some of the group.”

“So you were lost?”

“Not me, I was among the first back but a couple of mates found Clem Jones’ homemade whisky supply in his shed over near Barron Bridge and were so drunk they couldn’t depict east from west, never mind find the door to the distillery shed.”

“We have to keep west of the dividing range in order to save fuel from flying over it, so we head north to the Annan River and at the Gorge we turn east to the coast and pass over Cooktown,” Chip explains and gives his co-pilot a nod, “come sit up front for a while and I’ll show you the sights;” he offers as Hank vacates his seat.

After less than ten minutes they had left the green of the Tableland far behind and are passing over dryer land that had but two seasons, the wet and the dry. For six months of the year it would be hot, humid days and clear sky, then as the heat built to unbearable, the monsoon would arrive from the north-west from out of the Arafura Sea, across the Timor Strait with thunderous voice and drowning rain and like magic the brown burnt land would once again be carpeted in green.

“From down on the ground you don’t realize how vast the country is,” Owen admits as he becomes seated to the front.

“Australia is almost as large as mainland USA, or so I’m told,” Chip says and points to a gouge in the earth some distance off to the west, “that will be Annan Gorge. Right now Owen you take the Yoke.”

“What is the Yoke?”

“Take the wheel.”

Owen nervously places both hands on the wheel, “now what?”

“Give it a two degree turn to starboard – for you, starboard is to the right.”

“I realize that but two degrees?”

“Ten past the hour on the clock face.”

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t worry, I can hold off if you bugger it up.”

With sweating hands Owen gives a slight turn but holds back on the turn and immediately the craft begins to bank away to the east. “Shit!” Owen cries and releases his grip on the wheel.

Chip corrects the banking.

“There you go, your first flying lesion,” Chip says.

“And his fucken’ last while I’m in this tin can,” Hank calls from behind.

They all laugh.

“Did I do right?”

“Almost perfect.”

A minute more and with a second slight adjustment in direction the aircraft banks to the north-east, “we will be over the coast in ten,” but before doing so Chip had one more landmark to share. “Look down there to starboard,” he says and points to a long black smudge upon the landscape.

“What’s that?” Owen asks.

“I believe it is called Black Mountain.”

“I’ve heard of it, my father worked on a cattle station, Trevathan Falls Downs, near there before he took over the family farm.”

“To me a station is a place to catch a train,” Chip says.

“The station originally was the homestead building itself but in time it became the property. Your ranch comes from Spanish and we had little to do with Spain out here.”

“Interesting, where did you learn that?”

“Gavin of course – where else.”

“I would like to visit Black Mountain before my tour is over,” Chip says.

“I wouldn’t climb it,” Owen warns.

“Why so?”

“I do have some statistics. It is twelve hundred feet of loose boulders stacked one on top of the other, with chasms you could lose a horse down.”

“What else do you know about Black Mountain?”

“The natives won’t go near, believing it to be haunted by the ghosts of their ancestors, as up close the wind howls through the chasms and it is said to have been formed by a long ago volcano.”

“That sounds feasible, still one day I’ll take a trip out there.”

Almost before conversation had been established on Black Mountain it was far behind and the tropical forest of the coast lays ahead and the open ocean of the Coral Sea.

“Look down to portside,” Chip points towards the coast where the jungle met the mangroves.

“It appears to be a town of sorts,” Owen says.

“Cooktown,” Chip says.

“My dad’s relations were at Cooktown during its gold days,” Owen shares as Chip performs a slight adjustment of direction. Soon they are over the ocean and as far as sight allowed, white tips of the open water could be seen breaking onto the coral shelf.

Now with the ocean far below and the white tips little more than specks on darkening blue it was apparent the last of the daylight was quickly fading. One more dot of land was observed in Lizard Island and then the last of the breakers across the reef and a dark vast ocean became samely as the night progressed.

“Are you feeling tied?” Chip asked.

“No, not at all, when will we reach Port Moresby?”

“Later than expected,” Arty Cox answered from behind.

“We have a head wind and it is slowing us down,” Chip concurs.

“Why do you fly at night?” Owen asks.

“No reason in particular, it is varied depending on activity over Moresby and if there is any it is usually early morning, as the Japs like to catch us in our bunks.”

“There is a tropical storm ahead,” Ray Brenner warns.

“What’s its bearing?”

“Nor-nor-west,”

“We’ll fly around it.”

“That will delay us even further,” Hank grumbles.

“Don’t worry there will be plenty of beer left when we arrive.”

“More like I missed lunch and now I’ll miss chow-up at Moresby.”

“Are you hungry Owen?” Chip asks.

“A little.”

“There is a box of sandwiches behind where Ray is seated, would you get them and share them out.”

Owen shares the sandwiches, returning to his seat as the aircraft enters into the tail of the storm and is tossed about like a cork on the ocean, dropping many feet before regaining course and altitude.

“Ooh,” Owen nervously sounds.

“Scared?” Chip laughs.

“More unexpected.”

“It’s only turbulence; we will be clear of it in a few minutes but change seats with Hank.”

“How’s your gut?” Hank Wilson asks as he returns to his position up front.

“In my throat at the moment,” Owen admits.

“Are you going to be sick?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Good then let’s dig into the sandwiches.”

Owen checks the contents of his, “what’s on them?” he curiously asks.

“Who knows, whatever is left over, mine tastes like pastrami,” Hank hopefully says.

“You wish, more like Baloney with pepper to give it guts,” Arty corrects.

“What is Baloney?” Owen asks.

“Finely ground pork sausage, probably made from what’s left over after the carving,” Arty explains.

‘Or off the carving room floor,” Hank adds to the mix.

“We call that Windsor Sausage,” Owen shares in relation to what could be purchased locally.

“It’s all Baloney if you ask me,” Hank growls, even so he quickly hoes into a second.

The turbulence soon ended while with the droning of the engines Owen became quite drowsy as his head began to lower.

“You have a bit of a kip kid and we’ll wake you on approach to Moresby,” Arty suggested as he listens in on air traffic. “Hey Miller, your girlfriend is on the air,” he calls.

“Rose?”

“You have it in one; she is reporting that most of Moresby has been destroyed.”

“Again, she made the same report last week.”

“Who is Rose?” Owen’s lethargy lifts towards concern with the news.

“Tokyo Rose, she is a Japanese American who likes to stir us with false information to brake our moral.”

“Would it be true about Moresby,” Owen tone quickens.

“Na, if it was, we would have heard word by now. You take a kip and I’ll wake you when we are close to Moresby,” Arty answers.

Owen was wakened with a touch to his shoulder.

“I must have dozed off,” he says.

“You have been asleep for more than an hour and a half,” Brenner advises.

“It’s the engines they make you sleepy; I don’t know how you can keep awake for hours.”

“You have to. For long flights the air force supplies Benzedrine but I’ve never used it. We are approaching the New Guinea coast and will be in Moresby soon.”

“We received a wireless message about Rose’s broadcast and there was an attack on Moresby earlier this afternoon,” Chip calls back to Owen.

“What a bombing?” Owen asks.

“It was only light and as she said they hit the airfield; no casualties although a number of buildings and aircraft have been damaged.”

“Will it prevent our landing,” there was concern in Owen’s tone as he views the New Guinea coast with its dark form snaking along the edge of a iridescent ocean, then as if by magic pin holes of light appeared in the distance.

“No, I’ll have her down in a few minutes.”

“There you go Owen, your first glimpse of Moresby,” Hank Wilson says.

“Shouldn’t there be a blackout?”

“It is only the airfield strip lights to guide us in and they will be turned off once we have landed.”

As the dark shapes of the town become obvious, pillows of smoke are perceived rising into the moonlight.

“I think the bombing was a little more than suggested on the wireless report,” Wilson admits as Brenner makes contact with the airfield.

“No problem with the field,” Brenner relates.

“Which runway?” Chip asks with a cheeky smile.

“East west,” Ray Brenner answers with equal humour as in truth there was only one.

Chip turns the craft towards the east and commences a wide circle to line with the runway while losing altitude in a gradual descent.

“More problems,” Brenner calls from his connection with the Moresby airfield.

“I dare not ask,” Chip cautiously answers as he dips the nose towards the airstrip.

“Our return will be delayed.”

“Why?”

“They are bringing a number of wounded Aussies down from the Kokoda who will need evacuating back to Mareeba for treatment.”

“Damn I have a date tomorrow night,” Wilson curses.

“I hope you don’t mind a short stay in Moresby,” Chip calls back to Owen, his tone lacking any level of alarm for flying in a theatre of war, thus giving Owen a measure of confidence in their safety.

“Not at all but is there any way in letting mum know?”

“I’m afraid not, there is a blackout of civilian usage of wireless and telephone in the area, possibly if the delay is extended beyond tomorrow, I could have someone from the Mareeba field pass on a message. Now tonight’s sleeping arrangements, once unloaded we will bed-down on the plane. I guess you don’t mind sleeping ruff?”

“No, it will be like being on school camp.”

“Landing lights aligned,” Wilson says.

“You take her in Hank.”

“Sure thing boss,” Hank laughs and turns back to Owen, “hold onto your seat young fellow, it’s gonna’ be a bumpy ride.”

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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