Crocodyllus

"Crocodyllus" won a highly commended certificate in this year's Rolfe Boldrewood Literary Awards.
As there is now only a First Prize, this is equal to Second.

The judge enjoyed the change of point of view from the farmer to the crocodile.

CROCODYLLUS                                                     

 

The Buffalo Creek, the only pub in town, known to the locals as ‘The Wallow’, has the usual Friday after-work crowd. Four farmers and farm-hands are at the door-end of the bar, two council workers and the parks ranger are on stools, mid bar and two older men are at the far end, eyes glued to the Keno screen. Young Mickey with his tattooed arms and an ear-ring is playing a noisy game of pool with his mates and a couple of females are visible through the door to the lounge.

Bert leans on the door-end of the bar. The worry-lines on his weather beaten brow are accentuated by the sunlight streaming through the window. His face is drawn and tired.

“I lost another of my top heifers yesterday! The crocs are getting really bad.”

“It’s always the same just before the wet! They’re feeding up before the breeding season starts.” John finishes his drink and signals the barman for another.

“Pour one for Bert too! He needs it. He’s lost more stock to the crocs!”

Bert takes his fresh drink and raises his glass towards John; a tired smile on his face. Mickey looks up from the pool table, ears not missing much of the conversations around the bar.

“What yer lost, Bert?”

“Another one of my heifers went yesterday. I found the drag-marks on the bank where Two Mile Creek runs into the river.”

“It’s got to be a big croc to take a heifer down and you’ve lost three this month! I reckon you’ve got a killer croc there!” Mickey waves his pool cue in the air, and then grips it like a shot-gun as he runs across to the bar.

“Hey, guys, Bert’s got a killer croc! Let’s have a croc hunt this weekend!”

“Not so fast, young Mickey!” Josh, the National Parks and Wildlife Ranger slides off his stool and grips Mickey’s pretend shot-gun.

“First of all, the saltwater crocodile is a protected animal and secondly, we can’t have you and your mates ripping up the river bank with motorbikes and four wheel drives, while you’re waving loaded rifles and shot-guns around. That’s a sure recipe for a hospital-case, if not worse!” Josh gives Mickey a friendly push back towards the pool table.

The attention of the bar is centred on Josh. He looks along the bar to Bert.

“Bert, if you’re free tomorrow I’ll come out to your place and have a look at the river bank and creek. If it’s what it sounds like, I’ll see about setting a trap.”

 

***

I feel a comfortable warmth on my back as I lie on the bank at the edge of the river. My eyes almost shut in a lethargic half-slumber. The sun is low in the sky. I sense a movement. I open one eye and flare my nostrils to catch the scent. Cattle move towards the river. Four legged, plodding beasts, invading my territory!

I slither silently into the water.

The warmth on my back dissipates in the coolness. I am in my element. Without a ripple, I submerge and swim away from the bank. In the deeper water I rise slowly to the surface. My nostrils break first followed by my eyes. The small protrusions on the stippled surface are barely visible to an unsuspecting eye.

I can chase these creatures from my patch of river. All I have to do is swim ashore and rush up the bank. I am afraid of nothing! Deep inside me I feel the primal urge to hunt and eat. I drift, submerged, back towards the bank. I cautiously break the surface again and watch the cattle moving towards the water. A reflex flick of my tail keeps me in position against the slow movement of the river. There is no need to rush. The cattle will drink and graze on the river bank until the sun drops below the horizon.

There’s my mark! A sturdy young heifer; standing in the middle of the group at the water’s edge. Not too big but she’ll put up a bold fight when she feels my teeth. I am close to the bank. The late afternoon breeze makes swirling patterns on the river surface, aiding my stealthy approach. My front legs rest on the muddy bottom. I allow my rear to sink slowly until I have traction on the river bed with my back legs and tail.

I release all my pent-up energy in one violent burst. I leap forward with the water cascading from my head and shoulders. Cattle on either side roll their eyes in terror and bellow in fright as they buck away from me. My target stands mesmerised. She bellows and shakes her head as my jaws close over her upper foreleg. She attempts to back away and shake me free. I roll to the side and twist. She loses purchase as her body moves sideways and she rolls onto her back. I’ve done this before. Instinct takes over and I roll and drag my trophy into the water.

The river bank is clear. The other cattle have galloped into the bush and retreated from my territory. The river does not show the struggle for long. The turbulence like small whirlpools drifts down-stream and the surface returns quickly to its serene self.

 

***

The early morning sun sparkles on the dew clinging to the grass as Bert guides Josh to the mouth of the creek. The temperature and humidity are already rising, a sure sign of the approaching wet season. Josh stops the four wheel drive several metres from where the creek joins the river. Josh slings his camera around his neck as he leaves the vehicle and the two men walk to the river bank where Bert points out the drag-marks.

“It looks like you really have a big one here, Bert. No crocodile under four metres could drag a heifer like that! Look at the depth of those gouges in the mud.” Josh takes several pictures of the marks on the bank and then slowly walks along until he sees another sign.

“Here’s what I’m looking for. This is the spot where he lay in the sun before he took to the water.” Josh takes several more pictures. As he crouches down to get a close-up of the scratch marks, there is a swirling disturbance in the water less than a metre behind him. It goes unnoticed by the men as they concentrate on the signs on the ground.

“I’ll revise my estimate on the size of this fellow, Bert. There are the marks of his legs as he lay sunbathing. If you take away the scratch marks when he moved, the distance between those resting marks puts him close to six metres long!”

There is another swirl in the water behind them as the two men walk back towards the ranger’s vehicle. Josh stops and turns back. He takes a tape measure from his camera bag and lays it alongside the leg-marks on the bank.

“Nearly forgot that! I need something to show the size of this guy.” He flashes off two more shots before rolling up the tape and putting it back in the camera bag, along with the camera.

“Now we can go. I’ll send these shots of to head office with a request to trap this one and relocate him further away from a populated area.”

 

***

 

I like it when the sun comes up. I can go back to my spot on the bank and lie in the warm until it’s time to hunt and eat again. That cow was good last night. If I don’t catch anything else, it will keep me going for a while. What’s left is down there hooked under the rock shelf.

What’s that! I feel a vibration coming from the bank. That’s not normal! I cautiously break the surface. I see the source. It’s one of those steel vehicles.

The vibration has stopped. There’s movement. There are two men. They are coming into my territory! What are they doing? I submerge and wait.

I remember back to another time in another place. I reacted to the sounds of a fish in distress. When I got close I saw that the fish was being reeled in by a man at the water’s edge. He stepped into the water to reach the fish. It was too easy. I struck. There wasn’t much fight. I rolled under water until the man’s movements ceased. This was followed by a huge invasion of my territory. Vehicles were driving along the river bank and many boats with noisy propellers, ripping through the water. I moved downstream, staying well below the surface. When I reached the ocean I drifted with the current until I tasted the brackish flow from another river – This one.

I’ll have another look. My eyes just break the surface. One of the men is kneeling down, back towards me, an easy target. My eyes are assailed by a blinding, white flash. I can’t see! Submerge and cool my eyes. Go back to deeper water. My eyes slowly get better, I can see again. Swim back to the bank. Go slowly. Have another cautious look. They are walking away, back to the vehicle.

I’ll wait til the vibrations have gone before I get onto the bank.

The sun is warmer now. My nose is almost in the water. No intruders. The world is mine.

 

***

 

“They’re sending a trap down from the nature reserve. I’ll have it on Monday. I’ll come out in the afternoon and set it up.”

“That’s great news, Josh. This is one resident I won’t be sorry to see going somewhere else. See you on Monday.” The telephone goes dead and Bert hangs it back on the cradle.

“Trish, the Wildlife guys are coming on Monday to trap that croc!” Trish walks out of the laundry, throws her arms around Bert’s neck and gives him a loving kiss.

“That will take some of your stress away. I don’t like to see you like this. I hope they catch it quickly so we can get back to normal.” Bert disentangles himself from Trish’s embrace. “Come-on Trish, I’ve got work to do. I can’t stand here cuddling you all day!”

*

Josh and Bert watch Karl, the ‘crocodile expert’ from the reserve, as he paces the riverbank and the creek looking for signs. He walks back to where they are standing beside the truck.

“I’m going to tell you what you already know. This is a big one, could be six metres, but this trap will handle him, if we can get him inside. This bank and a few metres up the creek is where he has marked his territory. He’s taken at least two cows from that dip over there where they come to drink. There is no place on the bank or in the dip that we could conceal the trap effectively, so I’m going to set it up in the creek, where there is a bit of cover.”

The trap is pulled from the truck and man-handled down to the creek. Josh and the Wildlife team drag it into the creek where a small stand of mangroves is overhanging the water.

“That should hold him!” Josh clambers up the creek bank with mud up to waist level on his waders. Some other members of the team have even more mud.

“It’s a good job he didn’t come for a visit, some of you may not be here now!” Bert laughs uneasily.

Karl looks up as he peels off his waders.

“Oh! He’s been watching us. I saw several swirls just off the mouth of the creek. I was ready to call us out of the water if he got any closer.”

“Okay, what’s next?” Bert starts throwing the waders into the back of the truck.

“In the back of my ute I’ve got a young goat. I’ll tether him on the bank, just outside the trap. The trap appears to the croc to be a clear tunnel through the mangroves to the goat. When the croc is in the centre of the trap, both ends are triggered and he’s sealed inside. That’s the theory anyway.” Karl fetches the goat and tethers it on a short running lead, between two mangrove roots.

“With all this activity, he may not come in tonight, but you never know with saltwater crocodiles. They think they’re invincible! We’ll be back in the morning to check the trap.” The Wildlife team get into the truck and Josh and Bert climb into the ute with Karl.

 

***

They’ve gone. The vibration of the vehicles disappeared long ago. No signs of men anywhere along the bank. There’s a goat in the creek and the cattle are up on the hill. I wonder what they were doing in the creek. I’ll have a closer look. I swim carefully into the creek mouth. I surface for a look around. Nothing. There’s only the goat in the mangroves. It’s very tempting. I leave the creek and swim parallel to the bank, up the river. The cattle are still up on the hill. I’ll go back and see if the goat is still there. It is! Instinct takes over. I swim towards the goat. My legs are among the mangrove roots. I get ready for the lunge at the goat. Tail and back legs explode; my forward motion is stopped by a steel grid. I struggle to go backwards. I am stopped again. What has happened? I thrash around but I am securely held. I cannot escape! Eventually, I quieten down and lie still.

Men are coming. My trap is dragged from the creek. A rope is put over my muzzle. I thrash and roll. The rope gets tighter. A wet sack is put over my head. There is movement. I don’t know where I am.

Men are close to me again. The sack is removed and the rope on my muzzle is cut off. I open and close my jaws a few times. The front of the trap opens. I see water. I take a tentative step. I’m not attacked. I take another step. I rush for the water and dive down until I settle on a hard bottom. I stay there for a long time.

The sun is filtering down through the water. I surface. There is a grassed area. I climb slowly out of the water. There is a rock wall past the grass. A man appears. He has some meat hanging on a stick. He thrusts it towards me. I lunge at him. He steps quickly back. There are faces on top of the wall. They are making noises. The more I lunge, the louder the noise. I snap my jaws and grab the meat. I retreat into the water – my territory!

Maybe one day I’ll catch the man!

My new life in the zoo has its benefits.

Lake Illusion

I entered a short story competition run by "Aspiring Writers". USA.
Here is the message I received:

September 2014 Short Story Competition Winners

Ronnie DauberDirector at Paradigm Seed Publishers, Inc.Top Contributor

This month brought in some amazing imagination, and while all the stories were interesting there is one that caught the attention of all the judges right away. Two others followed not too far behind, and so this month we have three winners…….and they are:

First place winner: Lake Illusion by Ken Windsor
Second place winner: Grandpa Joe by L. H. Davis
Third place winner: The Souped Up Wildcat by William Pipes

LAKE ILLUSION                               Ken Windsor              

 “Hey Mitch, bring the tackle box in from the truck.” I bend to check that the old kerosene fridge is cooling down properly before I start to put our week’s supply of food in it. I had fired it up as soon as we arrived an hour earlier. It was a good run. The usual Saturday morning traffic out of town but it thinned out as we got into the hills.

“There you go, Bobby! What do you want it for? You checked it three times last week!” The box slides along the kitchen bench towards me.

“I want to retie a couple of those Red Butcher flies before we go out tomorrow. Did you check the boatshed when you went down to the jetty?”

“Sure did! I took the cover off the punt and the kayaks are still on the rack where we put them last season. I can’t wait to get out on the lake again!”

“We’ll have to check the outboard this afternoon and then we can get out and see if we can find that legendary ‘big one’ eh?”

“Your imagination runs away with you, Bobby. There’s plenty of fish out there but there ain’t no ‘big one’!”

“Yes there is! Remember the one Chuck lost two years ago. The one that nearly pulled his kayak under before it broke his line?”

“I reckon Chuck was just off balance and caught a snag that threw him. You know how he exaggerates!”

I return to stacking the food in the fridge. Mitch goes out to the truck, returns with the bedrolls and throws them onto the bunks.

“It looks like there’s a storm brewing to the west. There’s a thick line of black clouds coming up real fast and the wind is strengthening!”

“You go and make sure the boatshed is closed up properly, Mitch and I’ll check the window shutters on the cottage.”

As I walk around the west side of the cottage I am met by a window shutter slamming back at me with tremendous force. I turn my head and put my hands up to protect my face. The shutter slams into the side of my head and I drop to the ground.

I roll over onto my side and rub the side of my head. My hand is slick with blood. I sense someone approaching.

“Hi Bobby Winter, what are you doing? Getting yourself into trouble again?” I look up.

“Chuck! What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be away training with the army!”

“Looks like you need me here little brother – like always – I can’t turn my back on you, can I?”

With Chuck’s help, I stagger to my feet and we make our way, leaning into the wind, around to the cottage door. Once inside, Chuck slams the door shut as I drop into a chair at the table. Chuck takes a towel from a pile on the floor where Mitch has dropped them. At the sink, Chuck soaks it with water and dabs at the side of my head, washing away the blood.

“Don’t look too bad Bobby, you’ve got a cut on your cheek and you’ll have a black eye in the morning. Hold this towel on it ‘til the blood stops!”

“Can you see Mitch? He went to check the boatshed.”

“Mitch is okay. It’s you I came to see. I wanted to make sure you were all right and let you know I’m going away.”

The door opens and a blast of wind enters, pushing Mitch with it.

“The boatshed is all closed up – what the devil have you been doing, Bobby?”

“I got caught by a window shutter but Chuck helped me in here and washed it for me.”

“Chuck? He’s away with the army, you must have been hallucinating. Let me look at your face.” Mitch lifts the towel and examines the cut on my cheek.

“It looks pretty clean. You’ve done a good job.”

“But it was Chuck, he’s here!” I look around the room. There’s no-one here but Mitch and me.

The radio crackles: ‘Breaking news. Another soldier has been lost in the Middle East. Corporal Chuck Winter died today when his truck was hit by a road-side bomb.’

 

Transom Tales was commended in the 2012 Eyre Writers' Awards. In part, the judge said 'This was an entertaining read..... appealed because of its humour and personal touch.'

TRANSOM TALES

The afternoon race was over. The sailing club bar was seething with a mass of assorted shorts and shirts plus a selection of footwear that would make thongs look respectable, when he shambled in.

            The conversations were full of sailing terms like down-wind, the top mark, broaches and starboards. One lady sailor, wearing a mid-riff tee shirt and micro shorts, was complaining she was almost knocked overboard by the boom when the boat jibed at the wing mark.

He didn’t cause a ripple as he elbowed his way to the bar. He promptly called for double rum, in a voice, more suited to the deck of an eighteen ninety’s windjammer, than the club bar.

            It wasn’t his clothes that made him stand out, although his dark blue calico shirt, frayed around the collar and old style grey flannels, disintegrating at the bottom, did not exactly blend with the smooth, tanned limbs of the Saturday yachties. It was his face! The word hirsute could have originated just to describe this hairy, shaggy, untrimmed visage. The small amount of skin that did show on his forehead and below his eyes was like gnarled bark. On each side of his head, cauliflower ears pushed out, to be just visible through the unkempt hair. The most prominent feature was the nose. It started, as in most people, centrally between the eyebrows but then executed a twist and flattened, terminating an inch below his left eye! There is a story to each lump and bump on this nose – but not today. The mouth was less easy to define until the contents of the glass disappeared through the mass of hair of indeterminate colour.

            He bellowed for another drink and it was not hard to imagine the person who coined the phrase ‘Your shout’ must have spent some time drinking with this man! He took his fresh drink to a bench-seat near the window and wedged himself between the Club Commodore and his wife.

‘Hello’ said the Commodore, ‘Did you have a good run today?’

‘That I did Skipper! And I had fun watching the antics of some of your chaps!’

‘Oh come on! Be tolerant! You know we’ve got a few novices who only started with us this year!’

‘Aye, I can understand them not knowing the race rules, but some of them shouldn’t be out in a boat without some basic sailing training!’

‘Yes I know, but we have to make allowances for them.’

‘Allowances? They need more than that! I was two minutes behind the fleet when that clown in the blue boat went round the bottom mark. He speared diagonally across the course, out of control, with a spinnaker half set and nearly took my mast out!’

My youngest crew-member had been watching him intently since his arrival, ‘Who is he?’

‘That’s Transom!’

‘How did he get a name like that?’ He asked with incredulity.

‘It’s a nickname he’s had since he first started sailing with the club. His boat is old and heavy compared to today’s fibreglass ones and is so spartanly rigged, the only view he gets of the rest of the fleet after the start, is the sight of their transoms sailing away from him!’

‘He’s almost like an obstacle on the course! He’s still on the downwind leg when we’re beating to windward and have to navigate around him! Why does he keep racing?’ asked my interrogator.

‘It’s not so much the racing he enjoys; it’s going round the marks in company. He’s there, in the thick of it, at the start every Saturday. Even before our club was formed, he was sailing this area with the old Clipper Club!’

 ‘Come on lad; move closer and we will broaden your education!’

            By the time we had moved within hearing, Transom was vociferously holding court on the race post mortem.

‘Course I saw it! They were handling the spinnaker like a bunch of wimps hanging out their smalls in a force eight gale. They don’t even know they hit the marker buoy! They could have dragged it to the other end of the course and still not know!’

‘But they got a third on handicap Transom! Can’t we protest to the Race Committee?’

‘Not now you can’t matey! What do you think they gave you a little red flag for? It’s not for wiping the wine stains off the teak-work you know! C’mon, what’s the rule book say about fouling a mark?’

‘Well’ Said a fresh faced young chap, ‘If one accidentally hits a mark of the course, one should return and go around it again, before continuing to race!’

‘Correct!’ roared Transom, ‘That’s about the same as doing a seven hundred and twenty degree penalty. And if he doesn’t, you fly your red flag and yell at him and let him know why! And if he still ignores it, you put your official protest to the Race Committee! If he’d come in last, you wouldn’t have worried – but he got third on handicap, so it’s become a problem!’ He settled back on the seat and took another mouthful of drink.

‘I remember one race with the old Clipper Club, back in the fifties. Same sort of situation! The race leader cut the turn too fine and just nudged the marker buoy as she went round. The second boat saw it and called for him to go around again. The skipper of the offending yacht shouted, “Where’s your protest flag?” They didn’t have one! It probably got used for polishing the binnacle! Then one chap said he was wearing red undies! Well! You should have seen the scramble. He was sent below and told to “Get ‘em off!” Within seconds, they were tied onto the backstay – and the boat in front got penalised two places by the Race Committee!’

‘Hey Transom! Did you see the guy who fell off the red and white boat?’

‘Couldn’t miss it! I was working to windward when she went round the top mark. She was in the lead. Up went the kite, a really nice set and then the bowman slipped and went over the side. What a circus! There they were, one crew short, with a spinnaker up and the rest of the fleet hammering on their transom.’

‘Did they get him back?’ Asked one of the members who was standing close to Transom.

‘Well, there were only three left on the boat. They dropped the spinnaker straight onto the foredeck. As soon as it was down, the skipper put her about, straight into the oncoming boats. It caused a bit of mayhem for a few minutes – boats ducking and weaving to avoid him.’

Transom took another mouthful of drink, wiping his moustache dry with the back of his hand.

‘He did handle it pretty well. Just sailing on his main, he tacked around his man in the water. Then came up alongside him and one of the other crew grabbed his arm and pulled him up over the transom and into the cockpit! I kept an eye on them. As soon as he was on board, the recovered chap ran forward and set the spinnaker straight off the deck! It was a really nice piece of boat work!’

‘I’m pleased to hear you say that!’ Said Mick, as he stepped forward through the crowd surrounding Transom.

‘That was my boat! Now let me tell you what really happened! My wife came down to the club last weekend and started complaining it was costing a lot to race – too many things broken or lost overboard! A winch handle last week, a spinnaker sheet the week before! She gave us all a lecture before she got into a conversation with the Commodore’s wife. My crew really took it to heart! So this week when Tony set the spinnaker, the wind caught the spinnaker bag and it went over the side. He couldn’t get it with the boat hook, so he dived over the side and grabbed it!’

There were a few laughs and some gasps of surprise from the crowd, ‘Just for a spinnaker bag?’

Mick continued. ‘We got Tony back on board and he ran forward and launched the spinnaker. Once it was set and we were back on course, Tony came aft. He had cut his finger. When he reached the cockpit he went into diabetic shock. One of the guys got him below and wrapped him up. We sailed the rest of the race, keeping a watch on him. As we crossed the finishing line, Tony appeared in the companionway asking if we had won!’

 ‘The real story is much better than the bit I saw!’ said Transom.

As he stood up, the last of his drink disappeared through the matted facial fungus.

‘Gotta go fellas, early start tomorrow!’

With that remark, he hitched up his baggy flannels and headed for the door.

Hi All, I have tried my hand at short play writing. The first one is being performed in the Dubbo Short+Sweet festival on Sept 20, 21 & 22. I was also coerced into directing and acting. I will let you know how it goes after the 22nd.

My war won first in the emerging writers section of the Henry Lawson Literary Awards at Gulgong in June 2012

My War

I am warm and comfortable, floating without effort. Sounds are soft and muted. There is an overpowering sense of peace. I can see a blue sky with hazy clouds.

       ‘How are you Mate?’ An unrecognised face appears in my line of view. It is a young face, smeared with mud. The expression is sympathetic and the eyes show a measure of concern.

‘I’m fine.’ I have difficulty making my throat work. A guttural grunt rolls through my head.

The face disappears from my vision. My head is lifted slightly and something soft placed under it. My line of vision now included the branches of a tree somewhere in front of me. They wave in the breeze but they are not clear. They are fuzzy, as if I am looking through a poorly focussed binocular. I blink. The fuzziness remains.

‘Just rest for now!’

 The sun passes slowly above the branches and the light strobes down through the fluttering leaves. The bright, flashing light triggers a memory deep in my subconscious.

            To the right, mortars are firing into the morning sun. The staccato crackle of machine gun fire fills the air. Lines of tracers are visible arcing out into the distance ahead. I am at the front edge of the trench watching the scene across no-man’s-land to the enemy position. The man next to me props his rifle against the earth bank and lights a cigarette. As the smoke rises languidly to the top of the bank, it dissipates in the early morning breeze.

The lieutenant raises his sword. As he brings it down it flashes in the sunlight. He screams ‘Charge!’

There is no time to think. As one, the men of the Company leap over the trench and onto the flat ground. I am running as fast as I can over the muddy, slippery surface.

            My left arm feels numb. It is partly across my body and I can feel the material of my webbing belt around my waist. I move my hand across to the centre where the shiny brass buckle should be. All I can feel is the frayed end of the belt.

‘Don’t move Mate! They’ll be here for you soon.’

With a great effort I turn my head to the left, where the voice had come from. I can vaguely make out his shape, squatting on his heels beside me in the mud. As I move, my body shudders with agony. The excruciating pain is shooting through my right side. My agonised scream comes out as a gurgling screech.

            ‘I’ve got one shot of morphine left. You’d better have it now.’

I feel him gripping my left arm. There is a small sting as the needle enters below my shoulder. The feeling of euphoria sweeps over me again and I feel contented lying in the mud. The pain has gone.

            As the soldier moves back to his squatting position, a flash of sunlight reflects off his belt.

 I keep running, keep firing. Men are falling and screaming all around me. I look left and right. A machine gun off to my right is decimating our troops.

‘C platoon! Form on me!’

 ‘We need to knock out that machine gun!’ the sergeant said as we gather around him in a shell crater.

‘I can traverse across to the right flank and take it out!’ I say with bravado, still on an adrenalin high from the all-out charge across no-man’s-land.

 “How are you feeling, son?’

I recognise the Red Cross symbol on his collar.

‘I feel really good buddy!’ My mind is in much better shape than my voice. A series of grunts and gurgles roll around in my head. Why can’t I speak? I move my right hand up towards my throat. The nerves tell me that my hand is there but I cannot feel anything.

‘Take it easy son!’ I felt my left hand being restrained.

‘We’ll get you onto this stretcher and get you out of here!’

I feel hands around me. I feel a sucking sensation as I am lifted out of the mud. An agonising pain shoots through my right side. I gurgle again as another needle penetrates my left arm.

I reache the right flank of the machine gun post. I watch the team loading new belts of ammunition into the gun. The gunner trains it on our approaching troops. B Company is almost annihilated.

Using the edge of a crater as a rest, I raise my Lee Enfield and with one shot, take out the gunner. There is panic around the gun. I lever another round into the breach and take out a second soldier. I keep loading and firing until there is no more movement in the gun post. I hear an incoming shell, then blackness.

I am lifted onto the stretcher.

I feel the stretcher lurching as I am carried to a waiting helicopter. Through the blur caused by the medication, I can hear voices as I drift in and out of consciousness.

‘Is this one really worth it?’

‘Hey man, every one alive is worth it!’

My right side has been bandaged and strapped. My head is in a brace that keeps it immobile, I am looking straight up.

‘His right side is almost destroyed!’

They are not talking about me are they? There must be others on the helicopter.

‘What about my throat?’ I scream. Nothing comes out. I have no throat. I have no right arm. I have no right leg! Breathing is getting harder.

My mind is still working. Has Sally been told? The baby should be close now. I was home on leave eight months ago. Her first letter gave me the good news. This is my last tour. I’m getting out next year!

            It was a year later that a ceremony was held. Sally and her year old son attended. She was presented with the medal, posthumously awarded to her husband, for meritorious service.

Grandpa’s Bull

The afternoon peace was shattered. The car swung into the driveway like it was coming off the main straight at Bathurst. There was a cheeky toot-toot from the horn. The back doors flew open and my grandchildren came out at a gallop. Six year old Sally was in the lead, legs almost a blur in her haste. ‘Grandpa, Grandpa!’ Her high-pitched voice penetrated the air like a siren and made my ears ring. Not far behind was little Micky. Two years old and feet not yet fully coordinated. He was not helped by the latest fashion in long shorts, elastic waist up under his armpits and legs that terminated just above his ankles. I really love to see them. They’ll be gone in two days, Aaah! The involuntary sigh escaped.

They hit me like rugby tacklers, grabbing me around the legs. I stooped to give them a hug. ‘Come on kids, put grandpa down and get your things from the car!’ My daughter put her arms around me and gave me a peck on the cheek. ‘It’s lovely to see you again, dad and great to get out of the city for a while.’ Son-in-law John reached the step, dropped one suitcase and stuck his hand out. ‘G’day old fella. How’re you going?’ I shook his hand and we all went inside to the kitchen where Allison was up to her elbows preparing a gourmet dinner. ‘Mum, you shouldn’t be doing this. We could have picked up a takeaway on the way in!’

John stood back a little self-consciously. ‘Want a beer mate?’ His face lit up as I took two from the fridge and passed one to him. We moved to the lounge and left the women to sort out the food and the kids. ‘Good trip?’ I asked as we settled down into facing armchairs. ‘It was the usual for a long weekend. The traffic was heavy coming out of the city, but it got better when we got into the country!’ I switched on the television to get the late afternoon news. There were shots of all the arterial roads out of the city, with the vehicles almost at a stand-still. I’m really glad we live in the country.

Dinner was the usual circus. Some got eaten, some got left – but nobody starved. ‘Okay kids, it’s time for bed! Karen tried to round up Sally and Micky. Sally was kneeling on a chair at the table. ‘No. No. It’s story time.’ Micky’s echo came from under the table. ‘Storly time!’ Sally took control. ‘Grandpa you tell us a story!’ That little echo came again. ‘Glanpa storly.’

‘Okay, let me tell you about when Ma and I came to Australia.’ ‘Yeah, grandpa, yeah!’ ‘Sit down quietly and we can start.’

‘A long time ago…’ ‘How long ago?’

‘Many years ago in 1968.  We were the last of the ten pound poms.’ ‘What’s a ten pound pom?’ ‘Shush Sally, listen to grandpa!’

‘When we arrived in Australia, we bought an old utility truck and went out to work on a farm about fifteen miles out from here. I was the new chum. It was a totally different world to me. I was so green, I didn’t know wheat from corn, but I learned fast. We were put up in one of the labourer’s houses on the farm. Ma was going through, checking the bedrooms when I heard the loudest scream she’d ever made. I rushed into the room expecting to see her covered in blood, or at least being attacked by something bigger than her. I found her with her back against a wall, pointing at the open wardrobe door. Inside was the biggest spider I’d ever seen. I went to the kitchen and picked up the insect spray. I gave it to Ma and she didn’t just spray it, she drowned that poor old spider.

Because I had been an engineer in the old dart, I was put to work servicing the farm machinery. Tractors, ploughs, scarifiers, harvesters and then around all the bores, pulling up the pumps and fitting new seals and washers. Ma worked around the house, looking after the two kids – your mum and your uncle. We got there in the December and the temperature was up around the 95 degrees farenheit mark. We had just come from less than 40 degrees in the south of England, so it was almost unbearable for us. The only cooking appliance in the house was a solid fuel stove. It also heated the water, so it was lit most of the time. We did a lot of living outside on the veranda, under the shade of an old pepper tree.

We were out there one day when Ma saw one of the cats stalking something across the back yard. She moved in for a closer look and saw that it was a brown snake about four feet long. She was just like a cartoon character. She jumped in the air as she turned and her legs were running before she hit the ground. The snake continued its leisurely way to the wood pile. Ma never went to get wood from that day on. I had to carry the wood for the day up to the house before I went off to work.

When the rain came, all work stopped. As soon as the soil would support the tractor, the work started. This was another new experience for me, driving the Comfort King tractor, towing a 36 tine scarifier. Ricky the young permanent farmhand and I shared the driving. Twelve hour shifts. Ricky liked to go into town in the evenings, so he took the day shift, eight in the morning to eight at night. I did the night shift, eight at night to eight in the morning. Ma would bring out my supper at about eleven and breakfast at six and I’d stop for a few minutes break.

They didn’t have air conditioned tractor cabs in those days. You sweated in the evening and then froze at night. In the morning you got down from the tractor, covered in layers of dust, looking like the bunyip that they told us lived under the bridge across the creek.

It got really boring in the middle of the night going round and round the huge paddocks. I would sing songs to myself and there are limitations to I Spy in the dark! Sometimes I could see the lights of a neighbour ploughing five miles away, but most of the time it was just me and the tractor and the scarifier. Every so often I had to stop, lift the tines and clear the weeds that had accumulated. Then it was back on the tractor, lower the tines and keep going. On one occasion, I forgot to lower the tines and they just scratched the surface until I realised what I had done. I immediately lowered them back to cutting depth and kept going. I could see the scratch marks in the rear working light, no one would know!

I was soon to learn another lesson. Farmer Dave put a mob of sheep into the freshly worked paddock. The next afternoon, I got up to see the sheep huddled together on the firm ground that I had missed last night. I got a cynical look and asked how long I had been asleep on the job.

Ma learnt to drive out there on the farm. We had a second hand Holden FB ute. It had a manual gear box, with the shift up on the steering column and a dip switch for the headlights down on the floor beside the clutch pedal. The gear box took a bit of a hammering as she ground up and down the farm tracks, but she gradually improved.

She had a few interesting experiences. One morning my breakfast was half an hour late because she got bailed up by a big goanna in the middle of the track. It just stood there staring at her.  There were trees on either side so she couldn’t drive around it and she would have needed four wheel drive to go over it. She stopped well back from it and tried using the horn to frighten it into shifting. It just stood there staring at her. Then she bravely got out of the ute, picked up a big stick and beat the ground. It just stood there staring at her. In disgust and frustration, she threw the stick at it and got back into the ute. After many more minutes, it haughtily lifted its head and slowly ambled towards the trees at the side of the track.

Another time she was driving on the farm with the two kids when a huge huntsman spider came out from under the dash board. Little Karen screamed and climbed up onto Ma and hung around her neck, effectively preventing her from driving. Kevin jumped onto the back of the seat, pressing himself against the rear window. Ma stalled the ute, opened the door and bailed out with Karen still attached to her neck. She doesn’t know how, but when she turned around, Kevin was already outside standing behind her. That day, she abandoned the ute and walked back to the house. I had to go and pick it up later.

My farm transport was a Ferguson 35 tractor. It was very basic with a small rack on the back that could be raised and lowered with hydraulics. This was normally in the raised position when travelling. This is very important because one day, it saved me from certain injury.

We got our job list from Dave each morning and this day, among the tasks was moving the bull from the home paddock to a stubble patch on the other side of the farm. Ricky had been on the town the night before, so he took one of the jobs in the shed out of the sun. He told me that moving the bull was easy. Open the gate, get on the tractor, follow the bull through the gate and shut it after he had gone through. Get ahead of the bull to the next gate and open it. Follow this procedure across the farm to the final paddock and shut the gate behind the bull. That sounded really simple.

I didn’t know anything about bulls, except that this one appeared to hate me! Every time that I got close to him, always with a fence between us, he gave me a malevolent stare, tossed his head and snorted loudly. Well, I thought the look was malevolent. In my naïvety; he may have been trying to make friends.

The first gate was easy. The bull was at the other end of the paddock; I opened the gate, got on the tractor and moved around the fence line to take up position behind the animal. He gave me that well known look over his shoulder and shambled off towards the open gate. Once through, I let him get well ahead before I dismounted and shut the gate. I then had to drive quite quickly (for a Fergy) to get to the next gate before he did. I made it with a few seconds to spare. I opened the gate, got back on the tractor and drove away from the gate to allow him to go through.

He kept moving lethargically while I circled around and shut the gate behind him. When I tried to get to the next gate, it was obvious that the bull had worked out the routine. I increased speed to go around him but he worked up to a trot and then broke into a canter, keeping one red-rimmed eye on me, as he stayed parallel to the tractor. I slowed the tractor, hoping to change the pattern, but the bull only slowed to a jog. He reached the gate first and turned, just like a beast at bay. He lowered his head and made a menacing move towards me, pawing the ground threateningly.

I stopped the tractor. What am I going to do? I could drive along the fence line, jump off the tractor, over the fence and open the gate from the other side, but then, when the bull went through, we would both be on the same side of the fence and me with no tractor! Before I could decide, the bull charged. He rammed the hard part of his head, between his horns, into the front of the Fergy. The little tractor was pushed back several feet. I saw the bull lining up for a second run. I threw the lever into reverse and accelerated backwards. Due to the movement, the second charge had a lighter impact. I felt like one of those cowardly warriors who were reputed to have tanks with one forward and six reverse gears.

I came to a stop half way back towards the gate that we had come through. The bull circled around as if lining up for a charge at the side of the tractor. He had my measure; I could not reach either gate. There was a solitary tree in the centre of the paddock. The lower foliage had been stripped by generations of cattle grazing here. I slammed the tractor into gear and headed for the tree. The bull charged in from the side. I reached the tree, jumped off the seat onto the raised platform behind me and leaped for the lowest branch. I got my right arm over it as the bull hit the side of the tractor and pushed it into the trunk of the tree. The whole thing shook and I almost lost my grip.

Scrabbling with my feet on the trunk, I hauled myself up onto the branch and sat there quivering as the bull paraded below me, tossing his head and kicking up dust with his front hooves.

So that’s how grandpa got treed by a bull!

I sat there for over an hour before Dave and Ricky came to rescue me. I thought that I would be roasted by Dave, but it was Ricky who got told off.’

“You know he’s greener than a well-watered Lucerne patch. Why did you let him do it? You know better. Get a couple of cows and the bull will walk along quietly with them. You could have got him killed – or more importantly, the bull could have been injured!”

Little Micky was sound asleep in his dad’s arms and Sally was fighting to keep her eyes open.

Karen looked across at me. ‘I’ve never heard you tell that one before, dad!’

‘No luv, I keep the best ones for special occasions. Want a beer John?’

Memory

My profile states that I am a writer of fiction. 'Fruit Carving' was non-fiction.
'Memory' is a piece of fiction, inspired by a visit to Gulgong in NSW.

MEMORY

My memory plays tricks. Can’t always remember what I did yesterday, or, sometimes, this morning, but I can remember things from my childhood! They tell me its age.

I was ninety two last birthday! They look after me well here. Meals are good, even if they are a bit mushy. Just as well, my teeth don’t handle food like they used to.

Somebody’s coming!

“Hello Pop!”

Its little Janey. She’s not so little now; going to the university.

“I’ve bought you some chocolate, Pop. Are you up to talking with me for a little while?”

She’s a lovely girl. Knows I like a bit of chocolate. It’s one of the few pleasures that I have now.

“Are they still looking after you, Pop?”  She straightens the blanket over my knees and wheels me to the bench seat that overlooks the lawn and the flower beds.

            She sits on the bench and takes a writing pad out of her bag. She looks very smart, my little granddaughter.

“I have to do a university project on an item of family history. I was hoping that you could tell me the story about your grandfather. The one who came to Gulgong with his family in the gold rush days.”

That would be your great-great-grandfather, my grandpa Jed. I can remember my father telling the story on a cold winter evening while we huddled around the fire in the parlour, after dinner.

            It was eighteen seventy when gold was found at Red Hill in Gulgong. Jed was thirteen years old when his dad, Luke, was one of the first to hear of the find. He loaded up his cart with a tent, his mining tools and kitchen equipment. His wife, Elsie and young Jed sat on the folded tent behind the driver’s seat and they set off from the worked out lease at Hill End.

            Luke was one of the first to stake a claim on a lead close to Red Hill. Jed worked along with his dad, digging and carting the mud and rocks to the washer-box. His mum worked around the tent. She started a garden and put up some small fences to keep out the wandering animals. They did really well in the first two years. Found lots of gold that they sold to the agents who came round the gold fields every month.

            When that lead was worked out, Luke wanted to shift camp. By now, there were thousands of men in and around the area, all with high hopes of finding gold. One evening, as they sat in the tent, just before bed-time, Elsie spoke;

‘We have a tidy sum of money in the bank, why don’t we settle down and build a house. We don’t have to go chasing more gold!’

There was an almighty row. Jed sided with his mum. He was now fifteen and was sweet on a girl from one of the shops in town. He didn’t want to move.

            The result was that Jed would stay with Elsie in Gulgong and Luke would continue his search for gold. It was in his blood. He didn’t know anything else.

            Elsie put a claim on a block of land in Medley Street and Jed, along with a hired hand, built a substantial timber framed house. The walls were clad with weather boards and it was roofed with corrugated iron. Elsie and Jed moved in and rented out the back room to a couple of miners who were working a lead nearby.

            The money in the bank was earning a bit of interest and Luke’s regular requests for cash were moderate. Elsie realised that the boarders in the back room made a reasonable contribution to the household, especially when they asked if Elsie could supply them with meals.

Young Jed was now approaching twenty years old and wanted to marry his sweet heart. Elsie sat with him and they discussed several possibilities. After a long evening of talking, they came up with a plan to extend the house to include another four bedrooms, a sitting room and dining room. Then Elsie could run it as a proper boarding house.

Jed drew up the plans the next day. The Council was not as strict as they are today! So he registered the plans and started on the building. He found the bloke who helped him before and offered him a job again. Before Elsie’s house was complete, Jed was approached by a man wanting to settle in Gulgong who asked Jed to build him a house. Jed told him that he would start as soon as his mum’s house was finished. The man agreed and they settled on a price.

Two months later, as Jed was putting the final touches to the man’s house, the local butcher came to see him. Jed knew him and knew that he was working out of a temporary building, made of timber poles, clad with bark, under a corrugated roof. The butcher wanted a more substantial building. He had bought the block next door and asked Jed to build him a weatherboard shop.

Well, as you can imagine, Jed liked the work and agreed a price with the butcher. He decided to hire another man to help build the butcher’s shop. The next building that Jed put up was a brick structure. Bricks were being made in Sydney and had to be carted over the mountains. This made him think. He had another talk with Elsie. The upshot was that she lent him the money to start a brickworks.

As time went by Jed married his sweetheart, Alice. He also became the first full-time builder in town and was part owner, with Elsie, of the only brickworks west of Sydney.

Janey, it’s getting a bit cool out here now the sun’s gone, can we move?

“Pop, that’s a great story! I’ve got enough for my project and it’s time for your tea. Come on, I’ll take you inside!”