The Complete Book of Australian Flying Doctor Stories (35 page)

I’m constantly reminded of the diverse types of people that we, in the Royal Flying Doctor Service, serve. And in doing so, it’s important that we respect and embrace those differing cultures. Of course, with so many of the Aboriginal people being ‘out there’, obviously, they are a large percentage of our clientele both in their traditional areas, where they’re more nomadic, as well as in communities or towns where they’re less so.

I remember when I went to Port Augusta for a Consumer Network Group meeting. That’s when we get together with our constituents to sort out how the RFDS can better serve their needs. And the majority of the people who attend those meetings are the station people, mostly white. Anyhow, it was the night before the meeting, so the few of us who were already in town were having a meal and there was music coming from the next room, a larger dining area that’d been partitioned off. So I opened the door and there was this Aboriginal group. Up front were a couple of people playing guitars and singing and another bloke was on the drums. As it turned out they were taking part in an Aboriginal workshop about Native Land Titles.

Anyway I introduced myself. ‘G’day,’ I said, ‘I’m John Lynch, CEO of the South Australian Division of the Royal Flying Doctor Service.’ Then I told them just how much I was enjoying their music.

‘Do you sing?’ they asked.

‘Oh yeah,’ I said, ‘I sing, alright.’

Well, I can’t sing, but I reckon I can. So anyway we did a couple of John Williamson and Kenny Rogers numbers together, then we sat down and we swapped a few yarns. And gees we had a good time. Then the next day they invited us into their morning tea, which was outstanding.

And that’s what we need to do. We need to share the cultures. That was John Flynn’s ideology: for each and every one of us within this greater organisation to serve the people who live out in the harshness, no matter what their colour or creed, in as much as nobody should be without access to health services, which was born out of the Jimmy Darcy story.

Now, are you aware of the Jimmy Darcy story? Well, it was big news back during the First World War when a young stockman by the name of Jimmy Darcy was working on a station property, up the Kimberley area of Western Australia, and he fell from his horse and was severely injured.

In those days there was no medical help available up in the Kimberleys. There wasn’t even a doctor. No radio. Nothing! So their best bet was to try and get Jimmy to Halls Creek, which was about 80 kilometres away, where they knew that the local postmaster, a feller by the name of Tuckett, had at least done a first-aid course. So they loaded Jimmy into a buggy and took him along a rough bush track to Halls Creek. When they got there, Jimmy was in such a bad state all that Tuckett could do was to give him a shot of morphine to try and relieve the severe pain.

Tuckett then decided to Morse code over 3650 kilometres of telegraph wire to Perth to get help. Then,
from the post office in Perth the doctor diagnosed Jimmy’s injuries and concluded that it was a life or death situation and he needed immediate surgery. And, what’s more, because poor old Tuckett had completed a basic first-aid course, he was the unfortunate soul to be given the job.

So then, for the next seven hours the doctor’s instructions were relayed by Morse code all the way from Perth to Halls Creek while Tuckett operated on Jimmy with the use of just a penknife and razor blades. The only antiseptic that was available was Condy’s Crystals. The only form of anaesthetic was morphine, and that just relieved some of the pain. Anyhow, the operation proved to be a success but, unfortunately, complications set in so then the doctor decided to come up from Perth.

Now, it took six days by a cattle boat for the doctor to reach Derby. Then it was a day and a half by car out to Fitzroy Crossing, followed by a further thirty-six hours — including breakdowns — in a smaller car to get within 50 kilometres of Halls Creek. They then had to travel the rest of the way by horse and sulky, only to find that Jimmy Darcy had died just the day before the doctor arrived.

That tragedy made newspaper headlines all over Australia and it really brought it home to John Flynn that, if there’d been medical services in the bush, Jimmy may well have survived. And I’m getting right off the track here, but also, at that time, when aeroplanes were first being used in the First World War, a feller named Clifford Peel pointed out to Flynn that with the use of aircraft it was now possible for patients to be transported by aeroplane. Then, of course, add to that
the communications expertise of Alf Traeger and so this wonderful organisation was born.

Since then, of course, we’ve developed and become more advanced, and more sophisticated. We’ve even expanded to include capital city inter-hospital transfer and organ harvesting. But we should always acknowledge the traditional owners of this land as well. We should acknowledge the courage and commitment of the people that’ve been prepared to go out and explore and develop the harshness of our outback, and who provide us with the wealth. And that’s something we must never lose sight of.

Then at the same time we should also acknowledge our own people, those who work within the RFDS. I see it as a privilege that’s been bestowed upon us to be able to carry the mantle of serving what we’ve created. Because it doesn’t matter what time of the day or night it is, or what the weather’s like — unless, of course, it’s absolutely foul and it’s impossible to get out there — there’s a courage and commitment from our staff to deliver services, above and beyond the call of duty.

And it’s not only the lifesaving adventures that should be noted. It’s also the day-to-day occurrences: the simple things. We had a community health nurse who’s now working in either Canada or Alaska where she drives sled dogs to do medical clinics. When she was with us at our Port Augusta base, every morning she’d go to the bakery and buy fresh bread to take to whatever clinic outpost she was heading to that day. She’d also take some daily newspapers so that the people out there could read up-to-date news, which was a real rarity, and sometimes she’d even take out icy poles or some such for the kids. And you know, that
had nothing to do with her nurse’s training. None of that was in her brief. She just cared enough.

So I reckon we’re lucky to be part of this great organisation. To tell you the truth, I’ve got to pinch myself sometimes in the knowledge that I’ve been chosen, or that I’m privileged enough to work within the RFDS. Because I reckon that every one of us — all our staff — when we wake up we know that, at the very least, during the course of that particular day somebody within our organisation will make a difference to someone, somewhere. That’s our lot, and I love it.

Queensland
The first base of the Flying Doctor Service was established in Cloncurry, in north-western Queensland, in 1928.

Victoria
The Victorian Section was formed on 9 November 1934 and was the first of the Sections of the Australian Inland Aerial Medical Service. Because there was no need for Flying Doctor services in Victoria this section went outside its state borders and took over the responsibility of providing medical services in the vast and remote north-west of Western Australia, in the East and West Kimberley. The section’s first base at Wyndham became operational in 1935.

New South Wales
The New South Wales Section was formed in 1936. Its Broken Hill base, in the far west of the state, was initially jointly operated by the South Australian and New South Wales Sections and became operational in 1937. It later became known as the South Eastern Section.

Central
Formerly known as the South Australian and Northern Territory Sections, this section was formed in 1936 and has since been changed to Central Operations and is administered from South Australia. Initially it operated (from 1937) out of Broken Hill, jointly with the New South Wales Section.
This arrangement continued until the Central Section opened its own Flying Doctor base at Alice Springs in 1939.

Eastern Goldfields
Although the Eastern Goldfields Section was officially established in 1937, in the Kalgoorlie area, the ‘Goldfields Flying Doctor Service’ provided a medical service for people in the outback as far back as the early 1930s.

Western Australia
The Western Australian Section was officially registered on 14 June 1936. However, a provisional Section Committee had already purchased a De Havilland Fox Moth Aircraft in 1935. The section’s first base at Port Hedland became operative on 10 October 1935, and the first medical flight was made on the opening day.

Tasmania
Although emergency medical flights were operated in Tasmania going back as far as the 1930s, the Tasmanian Section of the Flying Doctor Service was the last section to be formed, in 1960.

RFDS GROWTH STATISTICS

Well, all up, I was flying for forty-five years, and the last eighteen of those were with the Royal Flying Doctor Service. It was a marvellous time really, as well as a great way to finish one’s flying career and, I must say, the RFDS were a great crowd to work for. They were just wonderful people. And it goes without saying that the people in the outback were marvellous as well; a hardy variety of Homo sapiens. Then, of course, we also had great aeroplanes to fly, particularly the turbo prop ones. And what tremendous machines they were.

As far as stories go…let me think: well, there’s one that I’ve quoted before. Actually, it might’ve even appeared in a Flying Doctor publication at some stage of the game, but it’s one that really sticks in the mind. It happened before we received our first King Air, so it was back while we were still flying the Queen Airs, which probably made it about 1983.

Anyway, we got an emergency call one night to go to a place called Cape Flattery. Cape Flattery’s in far north Queensland, about 120 nautical miles up the coast from Cairns. It’s where they have a big silica sand mine. In those days they used to bring the larger vessels in as close as they could to the little bay area behind the hill, then they’d take the silica sand out on smaller barges, called lighters, and load it up onto the larger ships with cranes and so forth.

But one vessel that came in on this particular day had a lot of Korean seamen on board and one
of the unhappy fellers managed to get his hand and arm caught in a winch, which, I must add, is not something to be recommended. Actually, it might be more accurately described as exquisitely painful. So they called on us to go up there to get him. ‘This feller, he’s in a real bad way,’ they said. ‘His arm’s shockingly damaged and he’s bleeding badly.’

Of course, the weather had to be bad, didn’t it? You know, it’s Murphy’s law. You could put your money on it every time. I went with a nursing sister, Stone was her surname. So we took off in the Queen Air from Cairns, with this not-very-promising forecast, and as we got closer to Cape Flattery nothing improved. In fact, it got worse. When we arrived, the place was nothing but cloud and rain.

Now, Cape Flattery was just a sandy surface airstrip that ran sort of north-west/south-east, with a bunch of kerosene flares along each side to provide the light. There were no navigation aids there and by now it was about eight o’clock at night and, being night time, of course, that made it even worse. So I was faced with the immediate decision of: What do I do?

Anyhow, we went down to what they call ‘the lowest safe altitude’. That’s as low as you can go in cloud and still have a nice clear buffer from any of the surrounding high terrain. And, oh dear, it wasn’t looking too good at all.

We had the radar on, which I had in weather mode just in case there were any storms amongst all this stuff, which, luckily, there weren’t. It was mostly rain from stratiform cloud. So I turned the radar into mapping mode and picked up the coastline and the area around Cape Flattery and very quickly devised
a circuit and an approach to the airfield, using the radar on the aeroplane. This particular action was not approved, of course, not at all. But under the circumstances, considering the condition of the bloke, I figured that the risk was worth taking. It was a calculated risk, put it that way.

Of course, I had escape clauses all the way along. There was absolutely no point in compounding the tragedy by ending up with a crashed aeroplane and two dead crew members: myself and Nursing Sister Stone. In a case like that, the final analysis, of course, doesn’t help the patient at all.

So anyway, I worked out this circuit diagram and, by using the radar, I was able to track myself down to a downwind leg and a base leg and line myself up into where the radar indicated the runway should’ve been. So I started letting some flap down, and the gear extended, and in I came on a fairly low powered setting. So what you’re doing is that you’re bringing the speed back to — I forget what it was in the Queen Air — but it’d probably be approaching about 100 to 110 knots.

We didn’t have a radar altimeter on board so we were just using the pressure altimeter. I’d already made the decision that, when we got to the 300 feet indicated, then if I didn’t have visual siting it’d have to be, ‘Well, sorry mate we’ve done our best. We’ll just have to put on the power, pull the gear up, pull the flap up and go home.’

But would you believe, I was just about to say, ‘Well that’s it’ when lo and behold these dim runway lights appeared from these kerosene flares. So I plonked the Queen Air down, and I must say that it wasn’t the most
gentlemanly of arrivals. But that didn’t matter. It was still pouring with rain and we sloshed our way down the strip. Then we turned around and taxied back up again and, I can tell you, there was a tremendously grateful group of people there, waiting for us, with this very, very sick Korean feller.

So we took him back to Cairns and they saved his arm, which was tremendous because, I mean, I’m no doctor but I’m guessing that if we hadn’t been able to fly him out when we did, at an absolute minimum, he would’ve most certainly lost his arm, or else he probably would’ve been dead by the morning.