Published: 10 Mar 2025

“Camping,” Kevin says, followed by a deep reflecting smile.

“Why do you mention camping?” Neil asks.

“What does the word camping conjure for you Neil?”

“I suppose tents, gas cooking appliances, folding chairs, pump-up matrices; things like that and all beside a gently flowing river, on a grassy verge with some true friends and a beer or two.”

“Have you ever been camping?”

“I’m not really the outdoor type Kevin. I’ve only been camping once during a school expedition; as I said I got food poisoning and bitten by bull ants.”

“Yes the modern idea of camping is a little different to what we endured during my last year at the hostel.”

“You say endured?”

“In some of the boy’s belief endured would be too kind a word, torment or torture would be a more fitting description.”

“Was torment your opinion?”

“Oddly no, I had a more basic childhood than most and cherished our little camping expeditions, besides as I have already said, my nature was layback and I simply went with the flow.”

“I guess I’m about to hear one of your camping experiences.”

“Why not.”
 
 
To give the kitchen staff a break, the hostel management came up with the idea being once a fortnight, bi-weekly for those no accustomed to the terminology, the boys from year seven would be sent camping. What may bring to mind are the Boys-Own books and the scout movement although what the boys experienced was so removed from anything resembling an organized weekend the modern parent would most likely hold the hostel management on a charge of child deprivation, possibly even a charge of physical and mental cruelty.

Friday night with dinner done, the older boys would travel a distance of about five miles, possibly more as with the rough terrain it seemed like ten, to a camping site on the Walsh River. The departure wouldn’t be orderly and after each lad was given a sugar bag carrying the weekend’s supplies they meandered mostly barefooted across the rough unforgiving topography and by reaching the outskirts of town darkness would be quickly approaching therefore the trip was often in moonlight.

The travel to the Walsh River camping site was over a rugged part of the mountainous terrain where Herberton nestles, on what could be described a goat track that even goats wouldn’t use, while keeping one’s wits not to take short cuts as the entire area was dotted with deep tin ore mines, some roughly covered, others gapping holes in the landscape. Once past Mt. Empress at three thousand eight hundred feet, it was a quick descent towards the Walsh River and quick was relevant as the decline was so steep you needed to run to remain upright.

Once the handover of supplies was completed it was time to find your camp for the weekend so the boys, most probably twenty in total, would break into favourite groups and settle in as best they could. If your group had been camping at the Walsh previously then there would be a favourite site but in most it would be on the bare ground and the only bedding a single blanket taken from you bed without permission. In retrospect I can’t recollect the blankets being laundered, so one can imagine their condition by year’s end.

Meals or what could be called meals were cooked at HQ and shared out at appropriate times, as supplement each person was given rations of loose tea, bread, jam and sugar. If you wanted a cup of tea, no coffee, no whitener, you boiled your own water in whatever you could find as no one had plates or containers, old jam tins sufficed, scoured out with sand from the river. I should think there was cutlery but have no recollection from where, more than likely stolen from the dining room leading up to the camping weekend.

The meals from HQ would be stewed whatever, on a number of occasions it was possum stew when some of the older boys found a tree with a hollow and in true aboriginal style smoked the poor little bugger out. On one occasion Kevin with his mate Tony McDonald caught a ten foot scrub python, bashed its brains out with a large rock then after cutting it into lengths, boiled it in an old jam tin. One bite was all it took to realise snake wasn’t worth the bother as old shoe leather would be preferable, so the poor snake lost its life for no valued reason. Possibly we should have approached the natives on how to cook snake, or possibly it would be similar to the recipe to cook a cockatoo parrot, that being boil the parrot with a stone and when the stone is soft, throw away the parrot and eat the stone.

The camping expeditions were ongoing throughout the year. In the hotter months it was fine camping out under the stars but Herberton can get mighty cold in the winter, one year there was a grass reading of twenty and that is Fahrenheit not Centigrade. Also as it is high in the mountains it often rained, so finding shelter was almost impossible. Some boys attempted to waterproof their camp by using grass tufts that kept of the sun but not even the slightest rain shower. There were many nights when it was necessary to sleep under soggy blankets on damp ground. At least with the morning sun everything quickly dried.
 
 
Entertainment was what you made of it as nothing was organised and at any given time during the day, or night, the boys could be anywhere in a five mile radius. The dangers were many, a slip on rocks while climbing a local waterfall, a dive into water without knowledge of its depth, or bitten by the numerous snakes about the area, not to mention more tin ore mining shafts. If one of the boys became injured the only way out was along that steep rocky goat track, unless you used an access dirt military road that added three fold to the travel over equally rough terrain.

There was one further danger that most simply ignored. During the Second World War the American and Australian armies had used that part of the Walsh River for heavy gun training and all about, even to this day, there are live unexploded twenty-five pound bombs and their like. Sometimes in the summer with bushfires, those from the local properties would hear a bomb explode.

On one occasion a live round was discovered by some of the boys and with precarious caution they brought it to HQ where the decision was made to have it detonated. Under rare supervision the bomb was placed beneath a large tree where a bonfire was piled high. With the bonfire ignited everyone moved to what was considered a safe distance. Some time passed without event then as it was considered to be a dud the bomb exploded, taking out the tree and showering a wide region with shrapnel and stone fragments. One boy had a grazed shoulder but it was accepted as good entertainment and proudly worn as a war wound.

It is time for the Winchester pump-action twenty-two rifle Kevin found while on holidays at the station to come into play and during the two days Kevin spent with Edith in Mareeba before returning to school he purchased a small box of ammunition. Without hesitation and in contradiction to his mother’s wishes Kevin had transported the rifle back to the hostel, taking it with him on the first camping expedition for the year.

Firstly it should be said a practice firing was suggested on arriving back at the hostel. Kevin met up with two of his class mates to brag about the gun when he was influenced to test it. Being in the hostel’s study block with the windows overlooking the railway line and the river to the hills beyond, Kevin decided it safe enough to test the gun, as you could fire a canon in that direction without hitting anything except trees.

Bang went the first round without the gun exploding in his face, as it had never been tested for safety.

Bang went the second.

Satisfied Kevin put away the rifle moments before Mrs. Biggs from the laundry approached the study.

“What are you boys up to?” she curiously asks.

“Nothing Mrs. Biggs,” Kevin answers displaying a high measure of confidence in his denial.

“I thought I heard the discharging of a rifle.” The woman had been a nurse during the New Guinea campaign against the invading Japanese and well knew the sound of rifle fire.

“Gun Mrs. Biggs?”

The woman remained unconvinced as one of the boys named Alan Coombs lifted the lid of a study desks then slammed it shut with a loud bang.

Coombs repeated the effort.

“It was the desk lid Mrs Biggs.”

“It sounded more like a gun than that,” the woman says.

The boys continue to assure her.

The women departed unsure, as Kevin congratulated his friend for his quick thinking.

Now at the Walsh River and after firing off the entire box of cartridges without hitting anything but a few tree branches, it was time to put the rifle away until he once again visited Mareeba to acquire more shells.
 
 
Neil interjects, “did you shoot any of the wildlife?”

“Not during our camping days but did a year or so later when I was on the farm.”

“What did you shoot?”

“A flying fox (giant fruit bat) that with its mates was devastating the bananas in a grove close by our house. I fired high into the darkness without aiming but there were so many of them it was almost impossible to miss. I wounded one and it cried out in pain, its sound was akin to a human baby. That was the last time I ever aimed at an animal.”

“I interrupted your time camping weekend with the gun, what happened next.”
 
 
While on the camping trip the only actual damage Kevin had caused was to self. With his very last bullet loaded and nothing interesting to aim at, he stupidly placed the muzzle close to a large tree trunk and pulled the trigger. Instantaneously there was a loud bang and pain to his stomach. Lifting his shirt he found a red welt on his skin, the bullet had gone into the tree then part of it or the tree made a return hitting him in the gut. Kevin cursed his stupidity while feeling more than lucky the bullet had lost most of its power to the tree.

After the tree killing incident and on return to camp Kevin met up with his classmate Tony McDonald who was seated on a flat rock beside the main swimming pond. They had been talking for some times when there was the sound of splintering rock as a slither of stone lifted, giving Tony a slight wound to his bare leg causing a light trickling of blood.

As the boys broke from conversation they noticed Will Harrington coming their way carrying a slug gun. He had fired a pellet that ricocheted hitting McDonald.

“Harrington you silly bugger!” McDonald cursed while wiping away the blood, “you could have taken my eye out.”

Harrington simply grinned and pointed the slug gun at Tony; “would you like me to have another go? Possibly at this distance my aim will be more accurate.”

“Don’t point that at me – or,” McDonald warned.

“Or what will you do McDonald?”

“Just don’t okay.”

“It isn’t loaded.”

Kevin lifted his twenty-two, “this is,” he says sending Harrington to scurry for cover.

“Stop it Barker,” McDonald reaches and turns the gun barrel towards the ground.

“It isn’t loaded either, I’m outa’ bullets.”

“I don’t care, you both should have enough sense not to point a gun at anyone, loaded or not.”
 
 
After the incident with Harrington, Kevin returned the rifle to camp and carefully hid it away before going to HQ to find out what had been done about the detonation of second bomb. Fortunately from the way the boy’s treated the second bomb it proved to be lacking its explosive material. Further around the swimming pool Kevin comes across Harrington with his class mate Peter Collins, both decide to give Kevin bother over the rifle pointing incident.

“Hey Barker what was the go pointing your gun at Harrington,” Collins demands.

“It wasn’t loaded.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck if it was loaded or not,” Collins growls.

“It was Harrington who fired first.”

“What do you reckon Harrington, do you think the cheeky little bugger could do with a thumping?”

“Chuck him in the drink.”

Both lads take control of Kevin who struggles but he is held firm, Collins has his feet and Harrington the rest.

“Ready?” Collins shouts.

“Ready, go for it,” Harrington laughs.

One, two three and heave sending Kevin clothes and all, into the cold water. Oddly except for his cloths being soaked Kevin was enjoying the attention, especially from Will Harrington.

Kevin weakly complains as he crawls out of the water on his hands and knees.

“Chuck him in again,” Collins shouts as both lads take control of Kevin.

Again Kevin is back on the rocky surface beside the water.

“I don’t like even numbers Harrington says as a third tossing eventuates.

If nothing else Kevin has determination and crawls out.

“Stay down kid.” Harrington warns.

“Why should I?”

“Come on Peter leave be he’s wet enough.”

“No I don’t like odd numbers, one more.”

Both lads laugh at Kevin’s soggy situation and depart without furthering their treatment. It was a warm day and Kevin’s shirt and shorts will dry in minutes leaving him disappointed his hero Will Harrington didn’t continue with the attention. Possibly they may meet up later, although by now Harrington had all but grown away from boy’s games.
 
 
“Was there much bullying at the hostel?” Neil asks.

“I suggest no more than you would find in a modern school yard. I would say our greatest weapon was the tongue, these days it appears to be the mobile telephone camera, or social media.”

“Do you mean name calling?”

“If any boy had a weakness or anything about his person that was different he became fair game.”
 
 
At the hostel the first to be noticed would be any lad who showed a higher than average attitude towards education. If you were to visit country Queensland in the fifties and into the sixties you could be forgiven in thinking you were back in the eighteen-nineties. For most a grade eight scholarship pass sufficed as it gave you entry into the trade, possible a lower grade clerical assistant but without any opportunity for promotion. For girls it would be secretarial or nursing or find a man in quick haste not to join the workforce. As for university it was for the rich with the closest University to the tropical north of Queensland a thousand miles and a century away in Brisbane.

If a lad showed aptitude towards study and not towards sport he would be considered sissy, if he didn’t join in with conversation about woman’s parts and conquests which were mostly nonexistent, then he was a poofter (gay). Then again you may call your sporting mate a poof as a title of endearment as you and he knew he was masculine enough to shake the title.
 
 
“What about higher education?” Neil asks.
 
 
In Queensland high school was divided between three classifications being Commercial, Academic and Industrial. Most took Academic spread over nine subjects but all three met for English, Math-A and Math-B and Science. In the main girls took Commercial giving them home science, shorthand and typing skills. If you were into woodwork and metalwork you took Industrial, depending on your measuring skills, with measure twice and cut once being the go.

In the grade eight year being the final year of primary school, the boys were given a weekly introductory class in trade drawing, metal work and woodwork as a precursor towards their choice in high school. Kevin would measure twice and still be inaccurate. By year’s end you had created a wall shadow box and little tin containers to take home to your parents to prove your developing skill.
 
 
“Did any of the girls take industrial courses?”

“Not in my time. I don’t think it would have been permitted even if they wished to do so.”

“What course did you take Kevin?”

“I took Academic but later on I was given typing with the girls as punishment, therefore missing Friday’s sport’s afternoon.”

“Didn’t you like sport?”

“It was rugby and the few games I played I was almost massacred due to my size. Besides it was as well, when I eventually joined the Post Office, typing was a must for sending telegrams and reaching third division in the public service. The only problem with my typing being by that time the training changed which fingers were used on certain keys. I was given disposition not to change as I could already type but I must say I finished the training a worse typist than I was at the beginning.

“Were you bullied Kevin at the hostel?” Neil asks.

“Sometimes but I managed to escape the worse of it. Also to my retrospective shame on the occasion I was a bully.”

“In what way would that be?”

“The usual name calling.”

“Why would you have done that?”

“I suppose mostly not to stand out, although it may have been attention seeking. If others are bullying then you joined in to be part of a group also not to become a target yourself. I remember one lad Peter Kent who believe it or not I considered my best mate and was dux of our class. Peter copped the name Mary because he wasn’t sports minded. I would also call him Mary but as I did I felt a strong measure of guilt but the pack ruled.” Do you remember my mentioning of a lad Peter Collins?”

“I do.”

“Collins was a sadistic bully and at times he could be quite violent with it. Even so I must give him credit for one thing, that being when I returned the rifle back to the hostel after that camping weekend he took it from me and locked it in his locker. He returned it at the end of the school term when we were going home.”

“Violent in what manor?”

“Peter could be passing by and take hold of your arm then grinning would give you what we called a Chinese-burn.”

“What is a Chinese-burn?”

“It is when someone takes you by the arm with both hands and twists in opposites directions.”

“Yes I know that one but we called it a Snakebite-burn.”

“Different states had different names, like here in Victoria you call a stone a Yonnie, in Queensland we call it a Gonnie, probably someone misheard a visiting southerner. Here it is potato cakes while in Queensland we called them scallops as the potato was cut with a scalloping iron. When I first came to Melbourne I asked for half dozen scallops and got some fishy things. There were other things that I would say in Melbourne that would confuse the locals.”

“Give an example.”

“I would say I’m going down town and would be asked why I wished to visit the city, or I am going upstairs instead of inside, very few Melbourne houses, unlike those in the north, had stairs but most of all I would confuse friends with my invites to dinner meaning during the day and not at night.”

“Tell me more about Peter Collins?”

“In the most I kept out of his way but I could tell you something that many would consider bastardry and these days could have you on a sex register.”

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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