The Complete Book of Australian Flying Doctor Stories (11 page)

Old Bill McDougall lived in a dilapidated caravan at White Dam, about 10 kilometres out of the small opal-mining town of Andamooka, in central South Australia. And alongside the caravan he built a tin shed which became widely known as, amongst other things, the ‘Ettamogah Pub’. The reasoning behind that was the place looked in worse condition than the cartoon of its namesake.

Anyway, Old Bill and his Ettamogah Pub gained quite a reputation. They became a tourist spot. People from all over used to go out there just to visit. And, as a lot of these travellers were going around Australia, they’d ‘borrowed’ road signs and the like to specially deliver to Old Bill. So signs like ‘A new McDonald’s restaurant is about to be built here’ or ‘Black Fella’s River’ or ‘Beware of Crocodiles’ sprang up around the place. Quite a sight it was too.

Any time from 6 am through to midnight, if anyone dropped by, Old Bill was there to welcome them, dressed as he always was in his long Royal Flying Doctor T-shirt, shorts and a pair of ripple-soled desert boots without laces. And he’d greet everyone by calling them either ‘sonny’ or ‘lass’ or ‘girlie’. It didn’t matter who you were or if you were twenty or a hundred, a pauper or royalty, it was still the same, ‘sonny’, ‘lass’ or ‘girlie’.

Of course, the moment you arrived you’d be handed a schooner glass of port. It didn’t cost anything. Nothing. It was for free. But Old Bill was a crafty
bugger. There was a catch. And the catch was that you had to pay to play that board game, the one they have in pubs where the board’s had lots of holes drilled into it which have been filled with pieces of rolled paper, and on those pieces of paper there’s prizes written. In Bill’s case the prizes were souvenirs of the Royal Flying Doctor Service.

When we flew up there to do clinic, Old Bill was invariably booked in for a consultation. Then while the doctor was checking him over, out would come a couple of thousand dollars or so.

‘Here, sonny,’ he’d say, handing the stash over to the doctor. ‘Look after this.’

It was all cash. No receipts. So we can’t exactly tell just how much Old Bill raised over the years but it had to be in the hundreds of thousands of dollars, and that was for both the Flying Doctor Service along with the Andamooka Hospital.

They say that Old Bill started his working life as a engineer with the Merchant Navy. When he got out of that, he wanted to go to a place where he didn’t have to look at water. Sick of the stuff, he was. Andamooka was the perfect spot and he became very much a creature of his adopted environment. Loved it out there, he did. Why, I remember the day that Old Bill and I were philosophising about life over a few ports.

‘Bill,’ I said, ‘have you ever thought about where you’re going to go and what you’re going to do when you eventually decide to chuck all this in and retire?’

‘Don’t yer worry, sonny, I got it all sorted out,’ he said. ‘First, I’m gonna stay right here, as far away from water as possible.’ Then he stopped talking and looked lovingly out over the dry, dusty landscape. There
wasn’t a blade of grass in sight, not a one. Then he said, ‘And as fer somethin’ t’ do, I reckon I might start up one of them lawn mowin’ rounds. I reckon that should keep me more than busy enough.’

That was Old Bill. He had the vision to look beyond the normal plus the wit and cunning to go with it. Like the time he came up with the idea of raffling his caravan as a fundraising venture. He did that for about fourteen years on the trot. Year after year the raffle tickets came out. Mind you, it was the last thing that anyone wanted to win. That caravan was a total wreck. But still, everyone bought tickets. Snapped them up they did. The people didn’t mind. They joined in the fun. The reason being, they knew that every cent was going into the Flying Doctor Service.

Another incident that comes to mind was when he was awarded the OAM (Order of Australia Medal). The ‘Old Aussie Mug’, he called it.

‘Well, sonny,’ Old Bill would say, bursting with pride. ‘I’m officially an Old Aussie Mug.’

There was a slight hitch with that, though. Old Bill kicked up a bit of a stink when he was told that he had to come down to Adelaide to receive the award. He hated the city. He loathed the city, almost as much as he loathed water. He wanted the Governor to go up to Andamooka to hand over the OAM. At least, then, they could both sit back and indulge in a port or two in a more relaxed environment.

‘Cause I tell yer what,’ he grumbled, ‘I’m not too keen on all that pomp and ceremony they go on with at those sort o’ shows.’

Anyway, we finally talked him round and he accepted his fate on the assurance that we’d look after
him while he was in Adelaide. That was okay. So, when the time came, we went down to the Adelaide airport to meet him. When the plane landed, off steps Old Bill all decked out in his T-shirt, shorts and desert boots.

‘Where’s your suitcase?’ we asked.

‘What suitcase?’ he replied. ‘I travel light.’

‘You can’t rock up at Government House dressed like you’ve just wandered in off the opal fields,’ we said.

‘Why not?’ he reckoned.

Anyway, Jeff Cole, who was the General Manager of John Martin’s at that stage, as well as being on the South Australian Tourist Board, rushed him off to Johnnies and decked Old Bill out with a suit and tie, shoes and socks, jocks, the lot. He even had his hair cut and his beard was trimmed. I tell you, he looked an absolute picture of sartorial splendour by the time we dropped him off at Government House.

A few of us had arranged to meet him back at the Grosvener Hotel after the ceremony. Eventually Old Bill arrived looking like a million dollars. We were about to shout him a couple of drinks but when we looked round he’d disappeared. Nobody could find him. Then ten minutes later he appeared with a grin from ear to ear. There he was — he’s got his old T-shirt on, his desert boots, his shorts and he’s as happy as a pig in shit.

‘Okay, sonny, your shout,’ he announced.

That suit never again saw the light of day.

I tell you, he was a real character was Old Bill. Then later, of course, he got real crook. There were numerous things wrong by that stage, all the results of his free-and-easy lifestyle. I remember the day that we flew him out of Andamooka to bring him down to
hospital in Adelaide. The poor old bloke knew that it was his last flight. He knew he was dying. As we were loading him onto the plane, he leaned over and slipped a heap of money to Margo Duke, his great friend from the Andamooka Post Office.

‘This is fer me wake, girlie,’ he said.

And some wake it was too, I can tell you.

So that’s Old Bill, like I said, a real character. He’s been dead now for near on eight years. But he certainly hasn’t been forgotten because on every Easter Saturday people from all over set off on the 10 kilometres’ walk from Andamooka out to Old Bill’s place at White Dam. On the day, they raise $6000 to $8000 for the Royal Flying Doctor Service. Then when they arrive at the Ettamogah Pub site everyone gathers around and they have a few drinks and a barbecue, all in memory of Old Bill McDougall.

I reckon it must have been about four, or half-past four, on a Sunday morning. I was still in bed for some unknown reason. Anyway, the telephone rang. It was Big Joe McCraddok, the police sergeant from Birdsville. Mind you, I’ve changed names and locations here to protect the guilty.

‘Come quick. Come quick,’ Joe called.

‘Why, Joe?’ I replied. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Roota Kozlowski’s been bit b’ a snake,’ he said. ‘Roota Kozlowski’s been bit b’ a snake.’

Now you’d be able to imagine the sort of character Roota Kozlowski was, just from his nickname, but maybe you haven’t heard about Big Joe McCraddok. He’s quite famous around these parts. A real true-blue bush character. They did an article on him in one of those monthly magazines, a while back. The locals really gave him a stirring about that, especially the way he was posing outside the pub, in his uniform and all. Anyway, that’s the media for you. Because, believe me, Big Joe’s nothing like that. He’s as male as they come; a real man’s man, through and through.

‘What symptoms has Roota got?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Joe said. ‘He’s still about half an hour out of town but he’s on his way in so, if you come now, you’ll be here just that much quicker.’

That sent me into a spin. I mean, Joe of all people knows that it takes time to organise the plane and
everything, and there he was expecting me to be in Birdsville at a moment’s notice.

‘Look, Joe, you’ll have to give Roota first aid yourself,’ I said. ‘I won’t be able to get there within half an hour, you know that.’

‘Oh,’ came the disappointed reply. ‘Must I?’

‘You’ve done it plenty of times before,’ I said. ‘All you’ve got to do is to apply pressure immobilisation on him the moment he arrives in town.’

There was dead silence.

‘Where’s he been bitten?’ I asked.

The dead silence continued.

‘Joe, are you there?’ I said. ‘Where’s Roota been bitten?’

‘Look, Doc, I can’t speak too loud ’cause I’m ringing from the pub. There’s a few of the blokes here and all they know is that Roota’s been bit b’ a snake, but I haven’t told them exactly where.’

‘But I’ve got to know exactly where he’s been bitten, Joe,’ I said, avoiding the question as to what he was doing in the pub with ‘a few of the blokes’ at that hour of the morning. ‘Joe, can you hear me?’

‘On the penis,’ came the whisper.

Well, that certainly got me thinking. I mean, Roota’s Roota and the many and varied stories of his sexual exploits were known far and wide, but how in the hell a bloke could’ve got himself bitten in that spot defied imagination.

‘On the what?’ I asked.

‘You heard me. Roota’s been bit on the penis,’ came the answer, fractionally louder.

Well, that was clear enough. It also explained Big Joe’s apprehension about having to give first
aid. You could just imagine the comments from the blokes in the pub as they watched Joe apply pressure immobilisation to Roota Kozlowski, especially with it being in that particular region. And so soon after the magazine article and all. Joe’d never live it down.

‘Look, Joe,’ I said, ‘I know what’s going through your mind, mate, but you’ve got to forget all that rubbish. The point is, if you don’t give the treatment, Roota could well die. Do I make myself very clear, Joe?’

Silence.

‘So, Joe,’ I continued, ‘as soon as Roota arrives, get him to whip down his pants, then apply pressure immobilisation. And what’s more, hold onto it until I get there, right.’

Silence.

‘Do you hear me, Joe!’

‘Okay,’ came the reluctant reply.

As the story goes, Roota pulled into town not too much later, very groggy from the snake bite. He blundered into the pub and saw Joe over by the bar with a few of the blokes, all of them looking extremely downcast.

‘Have yer spoken to the doctor?’ Roota asked.

‘Yes,’ Joe mumbled.

‘What did he say?’

‘Well, Roota,’ Joe said, ‘doc reckons yer gonna die.’

This happened in a place called Boulia, which is 140 nautical miles south of Mount Isa, in the Diamantina channel country. And as in many of those places out that way, they’ve got very wide main streets. That’s because, in the olden days, they needed a hell of a lot of room to turn the bullock wagons around. Later, of course, they came in handy if there was some emergency or other and you needed to land your aeroplane in the town.

Boulia was such a place.

To paint the scene, it’s big sky country, not many trees, dead flat. You can see forever, and, as evening nears, it takes a long time for the sun to go down. It seems to just hang there, inching its way down to the horizon. Then all of a sudden, poof, and it’s gone. There’s very little twilight under those conditions.

Anyway, it’s late afternoon in Boulia and there’s this guy and his wife, or de facto, who’d had a few too many drinks in the pub and they have this doozey of an argument, a real donnybrook. ‘F’n this and f’n’ that.’ All the accusations, the incriminations, the whole works. The upshot of all this is that this woman storms out of the pub. ‘I’ll give yer a lesson yer’ll never forget, yer bloody so-and-so,’ she says.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ the bloke slurs in a smart-arse manner. ‘Yer wouldn’t have the guts.’

But little did he know that she’s on her way home to get the .22 rifle. So she grabs the gun and comes
back and waits on the diagonal corner about 150 yards down-sun from the pub.

Eventually, the bloke wanders out. And remember how I was saying that it takes a long time for the sun to set? Well, there he is, with the sun at his back, and he can see this woman with the gun as clear as day. Conversely, she can’t see him too well because the sun’s shining straight into her eyes. But she knows it’s him. She knows it’s the guy. And it’s her full intention to shoot in the general area of the guy, just to put the wind up him, like, to give him the lesson that she said she’d give him.

So he starts to move towards her, holding his hands up, and she lifts the gun to her shoulder and takes aim. No doubt she’s still a bit pissed, like. So then she pulls the trigger. Bang. One shot. Straight through the guy’s head.

Soon after, we get the call in Mount Isa. Now the doctor reckons that most gunshots turn out to be fatal. ‘Look,’ he says, as we rush out to the aeroplane, ‘if he dies, it then becomes a police matter and it’s no longer got anything to do with us.’

But the report comes through from the nurse at Boulia that this guy is still alive. So there we are — I’ve done all the checks. The engines are warming up. Everything’s just right. And I’m just about to open it up and head down the runway when the doctor gets a call through on the HF long-range radio.

‘Hang on,’ he says.

So I stop.

‘He’s gone.’

So I kill the take-off.

One of the first fundraising appeals for what was then known as the Australian Inland Mission happened back in November 1928. It was on that date that old Jock McNamara passed his hat around the front bar of Mrs Palmer’s pub in McKinlay. And, what’s more, he made a few quid too, or so I heard.

At the time old Jock owned Squirrel Hills Station which was situated halfway between McKinlay and Boulia, out in the north-west of Queensland. One day he and his son-in-law, Tom Lucas, were out mustering cattle in the Selwyn Ranges. Now, for those who don’t know, the Selwyn Ranges consists of some very rugged and mountainous country, most of which is impassable by vehicle. Anyway, old Jock was climbing through a particularly rough patch on his horse when all of a sudden the rubble gave way. The horse reared. Up it went, it lost its balance, toppled over backwards and thud down it came smack-bang on old Jock, squashing him and breaking his pelvis among other things. Very badly injured he was. Couldn’t move.

Now this happened before pedal radios existed. Alf Traeger came up with the first of his radios a year later, in 1929, so there was no way that Tom could call for help, not from out in the middle of the Selwyn Ranges, that’s for sure. What’s more, there were no telephones out that way either.

So Tom dragged old Jock under the shade of a tree.
‘Here, Pop,’ he said, ‘here’s some water and a bit of food. I’ll go and see if I can get some help.’

And that’s where Tom left old Jock, propped up under a tree, out there in the Selwyn Ranges, with some water and food and a gun to keep the dingoes at bay. Then Tom rode for ten hours straight until he came across a mustering camp. Mind you, that was still out in the middle of nowhere, but when he told the head stockman about old Jock’s accident the bloke offered to drive him into McKinlay, which was where the nearest telephone was.

When they finally arrived, Tom went straight to the McKinlay Post Office where he rang through to the Australian Inland Mission in at Cloncurry and gave them the details of the accident and the general location of where he’d left old Jock.

‘We’ll be there as soon as we can,’ the AIM Flying Doctor said.

Now the actual plane that was used for the evacuation was imported by Hudson Fysh of the then Queensland and Northern Territory Aerial Service, later to be known as Qantas. That happened back in 1924. It was a De Havilland DH 50, a single-engined four-seater biplane where the pilot sat in an outside cockpit. John Flynn had leased the DH 50 for two shillings per mile, plus a pilot, a chap called Arthur Affleck, and two engineers. There’s a big model of this very same aeroplane in Cloncurry, if you’re ever up that way.

Anyway, that aside, having now alerted the Flying Doctor, Tom jumped back into the truck and they drove to a nearby station where they organised an old iron bedstead to be used as a stretcher. Then along with a couple of volunteers they headed back out to old
Jock. When they’d driven as far as they could into the Selwyn Ranges, they grabbed the bedstead and set off by foot.

By this time Arthur Affleck, the pilot, had landed the small plane on an open patch of country, still many miles from the accident scene. But it was as close as he could get with the De Havilland. Now the doctor on that trip was a Kenyan chap by the name of Dr K St Vincent Welch. He was the world’s first Flying Doctor, meaning that he was the first doctor employed by the Australian Inland Mission. Anyway, Dr Welch grabbed his gear and along with Arthur he started to walk in the direction of where old Jock was supposed to be.

While Dr Welch and Arthur were on their way, Tom and his helpers had reached old Jock. As you might well imagine, after having been stuck out there for almost two days the old feller’s condition had deteriorated somewhat, but he was still alive and that was the main thing. So they laid him out on the bedstead, latched onto an end each and they set off, back out of the Selwyn Ranges.

Tom Lucas and his crew travelled for what was left of that day and into the night until, as luck would have it, they stumbled across Dr Welch and Arthur. ‘Dr Welch, I presume,’ Tom remarked. Mind you, he didn’t really say that. I just added it in because it sounded appropriate. Anyway, when the doctor saw the agony that poor old Jock was in he gave him an injection of morphine right on the spot. Then, as they headed back to the plane, to save all the time they could Dr Welch kept administering injections as they walked along.

Finally, they got old Jock into the De Havilland. Now the nearest hospital was at Cloncurry but
unfortunately at that particular time there was an epidemic of some sort going through there and so they decided to fly him to the Winton Hospital.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, old Jock McNamara must have been a terribly tough sort of chap because he made a remarkable recovery and, three months later, in November 1928, he came back home to Squirrel Hills Station. Of course, by this time the news of his accident and his miraculous survival had spread near and far. It’d been written up in all the papers as well.

But one of the first things that old Jock did on his return was to go into the local pub, Mrs Palmer’s pub it was, right there in McKinlay, and after everyone had welcomed him back he took his hat off and passed it around the front bar.

‘Dig deep, fellers, it’s for Flynn’s Inland Mission,’ he said. ‘Saved me life, they did. Who knows, it could be yours next.’