The Complete Book of Australian Flying Doctor Stories (48 page)

This was an interesting one. It was actually with the same doctor, Gary, I’d put the wind up on a previous occasion when he thought we were about to go up in flames midair. So even before we took off, Gary seemed a bit jittery. We were going up to Cape Flattery. Cape Flattery’s a mining place, on the eastern side of Cape York Peninsula north of Cooktown, not far from Lizard Island. It’s still operational today as a sand and silicon mine. I think Mitsubishi is the crowd that operates it.

Anyhow, one night we got a call to go up there to Cape Flattery to pick up a lady who was reported to be swimming straight out to sea. And because it’s full of crocodiles the local people were naturally getting a bit concerned about her welfare and so for her own safety they wanted her out of the place. Really, I think that basically she was a bit funny in the head, because apparently it was a yearly thing she did in an attempt to try and get the RFDS to give her a free trip down to Cairns ‘to do a bit of shopping’.

To explain what I mean by ‘to do a bit of shopping’… Well, I often think a lot of these people are a lot smarter than you and me. So they throw a bit of a ‘wobbly’ and do something strange or mad, which puts the wind up everyone, and so the community wants them out of the place. Basically, it’s all a set-up really. Of course, we don’t charge any of our patients so they end up getting a free flight to town. Then after they arrive in Cairns they’re taken to hospital where they’re fed and watered for a day or two. Then they’re released from hospital
and away they go, ‘off to do some shopping’, you see. Well, that’s just my take on it, of course.

But anyway, so it’s night time and the chap who normally put the flares out for us at Cape Flattery wasn’t there on this particular occasion. He was away somewhere, so they organised a replacement feller to do the flare-setting job. When we left Cairns we had a good south-easterly blowing. Now, with Cape Flattery being on the coast and normally blowing a gale, I had it in my head that we’d be landing into a south-easterly. It was only about a twenty-five-minute trip and when we arrived, there was a thin cloud cover at about 1000 feet. Of course, this happened back in the days when we didn’t have GPS (Global Positioning System) but the aircraft radar system was able to tell the difference between land and water. So I got myself over water by using that.

Then I let down — lost altitude — over the water, then came down under the cloud and over-flew the airstrip to check on things. Back then they had kerosene flares and I could see that the flares were all set out, ready for my landing. So I came around to position myself with the runway then on the final approach, at about 300 feet, suddenly all the flares went out. It was just like somebody had turned a light switch off. Every flare just disappeared like that — snap.

‘God, what’s going on here?’ I said to Gary.

So straight away I went around. I put the props up and the power up and the undercarriage up and then, as soon as I did that, I got this horn going off… ‘beep, beep, beep. So there’s this big red warning light flashing as we went back through the cloud. Of course, Gary the doctor, he’s thinking about a previous trip when the
fire alarms went off, so he’s immediately on edge and saying, ‘What’s going on here? What’s going on here?’

‘I’ve got no idea,’ I replied, which didn’t inspire him with one iota of confidence, I can tell you.

Now, it wasn’t that long before heading out on this trip that I’d been endorsed on this aeroplane. So while I knew the particular aircraft well, I wasn’t completely familiar with it, if you understand my meaning. So I rechecked everything and realised that I still had full flaps down. Of course, as soon as I rectified that, the alarms stopped and everything settled down nicely…except Gary that is. For some strange reason he seemed to be shaking a fair bit.

So then we’re back on top of this thin cloud layer again. ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘I’ll give it another go.’

As I said, it was night time. So it’s back out over the water again, down under the cloud again, came back again, and over-flew the strip again to check the flares and, yes, all was right there. And it was while I was doing that I just happened to notice that about 20 miles away to the north-west of us there was a thunderstorm, and lightning started to flicker.

‘Well, that’s okay. That should be no problem,’ I said. ‘Let’s attempt another landing.’

I came around again for the second attempt and as I was lining up to come in on final approach, I was getting blown around a bit. At the time I didn’t realise it but what was happening was that the thunderstorm was pushing a local wind system in towards the aerodrome. So instead of me coming in against the south-easterly, as I’d assumed we would be doing, by now we were experiencing more of a north-westerly. Of course, I only found all this out later. So down we came
again on final. I could see the flares, yes. I lined up, good. I could still see the flares, yes. In we came. Then at 300 feet, exactly the same thing happened again. Bang — all the flares went out. They disappeared.

I thought… ‘Oh, Jesus…’

Anyhow, we aborted the landing and up we went again. By this stage I sensed that Gary was feeling very uncomfortable about the whole situation.

But I thought, ‘That’s okay. Third time lucky.’

So I followed the same procedure for the third time and we came back in again. And suddenly the same thing happened. At 300 feet all the flares went out. Now I knew Cape Flattery quite well because I used to fly in and out of there pretty regularly and I knew there was a powerline we had to cross. So then I said to Gary, ‘Well, I don’t know. This time we’re going in further. We’ve got to investigate this.’

Gary didn’t answer me. He just sat there, stony faced and slightly grey. Anyhow, we continued on down and when the landing lights of the aeroplane lit up the powerlines and I still couldn’t see any flares on the runway, I said, ‘Well, that’s it, out we go.’

‘Great idea,’ Gary said, suddenly sounding a little more enthusiastic. But then, just as we’re going back through the cloud his enthusiasm turns to fear and he starts yelling out, ‘The right-hand side motor’s stopped. The right-hand side motor’s stopped.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘if this aeroplane’s climbing so well on one motor, I don’t really care.’

Now actually Gary had gotten a bit overly nervous and jittery because what had happened was that we’ve got the strobe lighting on the end of the wings and, of course, when you go through cloud, visually it looks
like the prop (propeller) has stopped. Basically, it’s just an optical illusion, with the strobing effect and the cloud. That’s all it was. But obviously Gary didn’t realise that. He thought the motor had stopped.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said. ‘Let’s just get out of here and go home.’

Then we were halfway back home to Cairns when Townsville calls up and says, ‘Oh, the mine at Cape Flattery wants you to go back again.’

And I took one look at Gary and he nodded his head in a very determined manner and replied, ‘Nope. Not again tonight. We’ll go back at first light tomorrow morning.’

Anyway, we landed back at Cairns and the next morning we were up early and back out there and everything went like clockwork. We sorted out the problem at the mine and we also brought the lady back for her ‘shopping trip’. And after that I think that some of Gary’s waning faith in me as a pilot was restored…well, maybe just a little.

But, after thinking about it, I finally worked out what had gone wrong. See, the new feller — the one who’d taken over the flare duties — when he saw the thunderstorm coming he became concerned that the north-westerly wind might blow the flares out. So to protect them from the wind, he placed the flares behind the witches’ hats — you know, those conical markers they use on airstrips and roads — and of course that meant when I came in to land and I hit a certain height and angle — which was the 300 feet level — the flares became hidden behind the witches’ hats. That’s why they all suddenly disappeared on me.

So that solved the case of the disappearing flares.

About twenty-five years ago my husband, Wayne, was a ranger out at Mootwingee Historic Site. That was before it became a National Park, later named Mutawintji. To give you some idea, Mootwingee is in north-western New South Wales, approximately halfway between Broken Hill and White Cliffs. And, as a ranger, my husband and another ranger looked after the district that went up to White Cliffs. So it was a big area.

But I was a city girl. I was a teacher and I’d come out to live there with our six-week-old baby. There was no television and no telephone and the only way of communication was by the two-way radio. So, as you might imagine, it was a very different life for a city girl, though I must add that it was certainly a very memorable time.

Basically, our only direct communications outside Mootwingee was with the School of the Air and the Royal Flying Doctor Service. The RFDS had medical sessions, mornings and late afternoons. That’s when anyone could contact the Flying Doctor base in at Broken Hill and discuss any of their health issues with the doctor. It was exactly like a normal doctor’s consultation but conducted over the two-way. So the doctor would listen to their symptoms then tell them what medicines they should self-administer from out of the medical chest that was provided for a small fee to each station property.

Of course, while these consultations were going on everybody else in the area was also tuned in, so everyone got to know all your intimate health problems. It was the same with the telegrams as well, see, because the telegrams were read out over the air every half hour — again, anybody could listen in. So then everyone got to know all your personal business as well as your intimate health problems. Then between the medical calls and the telegrams they used to have what was called the ‘Galah Sessions’. That’s when the lines were open so that anyone could have a chat to anyone else while, naturally, everybody else was listening in as well. So in such an isolated place, no one got away with anything and everyone out there knew everything about everybody else’s business.

Initially, I was unaware of all this. Then when we first arrived at Mootwingee, the other ranger’s wife came over and straight away she said to me, ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘if you ever get thrush for God’s sake don’t call the Flying Doctor Service because everyone’s always glued into their two-way radios and they’ll have a great chuckle about it.’

Then she told me that, if I ever got thrush, what number the medication was that I should use out of the medical chest we had.

‘Oh fine,’ I said, ‘thanks for telling me.’

But, coming from the city, I still didn’t quite believe her. I mean, you wouldn’t, would you? That was until our six-week-old got his first cold and, even though it was nothing major, we radioed in to the RFDS doctor at Broken Hill for some medical advice. Then after that, whenever my husband went out on his rounds
everyone would say, ‘Oh, and how’s the baby going? Is he over his cold yet?’

Anyhow, because there wasn’t much in the way of other entertainment I must admit that even I started listening in to these sessions. And that brings me to the time I overheard a medical session on the two-way radio with a shearer on an outpost, and this shearer had some sort of a boil. Well, the doctor quizzed him about his diet and suggested that he, the shearer, and the rest of his shearing mates should be eating more vegetables. Then the doctor said that the shearer should take a certain course of antibiotics from out of the medical chest. ‘But only take as prescribed,’ the doctor warned.

Now, I don’t remember the exact name of the antibiotics that the doctor mentioned because, as I said, everything went by numbers. You know, the doctor would just say, ‘Get bottle number sixty-five and number twenty-eight out of your medical chest, take one tablet from each twice a day with meals, and that should fix the problem.’

Anyway, soon after the consultation between the shearer and the doctor had finished, the station manager’s wife got on to the two-way radio and she called the shearer’s cook, the one who was out at the outpost where the shearer with the boil was, and she started going crook on this cook. ‘I hear that one of the shearers has got on to the doctor about his boil,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ replied the cook.

Then the station manager’s wife said, ‘Look, I’ve told you lots and lots of times that you have to give the shearers vegetables. Feed them lots of vegetables. You
can’t just give them meat. You really have to cook them vegetables.’

And this is all happening over the two-way radio and, as I said, there I was, a city girl, and as much of an experience as Mootwingee was, entertainment was a bit thin on the ground at times. But I’m just sitting back there listening to all this, with the station manager’s wife going on and on, giving the shearer’s cook a real ear full. And then in the end she said to the cook, ‘Now, I want you to go to the medical chest and get those tablets that the doctor mentioned and you be responsible for giving them out to the shearer. And make sure you only give him the prescribed one tablet at a time because if you give him the whole bottle he’ll more than likely down the lot in one go. You know these shearers — they’ll try to get high on anything.’

And I just sat there laughing because I just had a vision of this shearer woofing into these antibiotics in an attempt to get high. Then I imagined that now the news was out, everyone in the whole area would be rifling through their medical chests also in search of these particular antibiotics.

Clyde Fenton was one of the first real ‘Flying Doctors’. I say that because not only was he a doctor but he was also one of the very rare ones that actually flew the aeroplane. In fact, as a pilot during the war, he had an outstanding record and he was the Commanding Officer of Number 6 Communications Unit, out of Batchelor, which was about 60 kilometres south of Darwin.

Now, I don’t know whether he had a plane when he first went to Katherine as a doctor or whether he bought the plane after he’d gone to Katherine. I somehow have a feeling it was after he’d gone to Katherine that he bought himself a little plane. This is all second-hand, of course, but they say that Clyde was a real daredevil in the air. When he was up in Darwin he wasn’t adverse to doing a few loop-d-loops over the airfield or taking a low skim over the outdoor picture theatre at night, to put the wind up the patrons, or even dive bombing groups who were out having a picnic.

Really, it sounded like he was a bit of a frustrated adventurer and so he was prepared to take some pretty huge risks with some of the flights that he did. Now, don’t get me wrong: he was both a very good doctor and an excellent pilot and he saved many lives. I guess all those sorts of people took huge risks at some stage to get out into some of those more remote areas to help people who were in need. Still, it doesn’t help anybody too much if they crash the plane on the way out or on
the way back, does it? But that’s the way it goes and sometimes you can’t do too much about it.

Still, I find it interesting that when you look at plane crashes these days, very few people walk away from them, yet back then people did seem to survive more often, didn’t they? Perhaps it had something to do with the lesser speeds they travelled at, because the planes back in those early days were made from not much more than wood and canvas so they’d rip apart upon contact with the ground, which was something that Clyde managed to do on a few occasions. I grew up at Humbert River Station, in the central west of the Northern Territory, and I heard about the time when Clyde crashed a plane out on our neighbouring property of Victoria River Downs Station and the wreckage had to be packed up and put on the back of a truck and driven all the way back to Katherine.

It’s also well documented that Clyde had a running battle with anything to do with ‘the establishment’. In actual fact, he railed against anything to do with authority so, of course, just the mention of the Department of Civil Aviation, or DCA, had him seeing red. At one stage the DCA changed the licensing regulations and naturally Clyde steadfastly refused to go for this new licence. He considered it was just a whole lot of ‘red tape, mumbo-jumbo and hog-wash’. Then when they threatened to take away his licence he flew over the house of the boss of the DCA and dropped a few flour bombs on the place. They even tried grounding him on a few occasions. But Clyde never ever took any notice. He simply continued on flying with his old licence. He’d just fly off anyway. I mean,
nobody would dob him in if he was going out into the bush to help someone, would they?

So yes, Clyde was a real larrikin, alright. There’s even been a couple of books written about him and his exploits. Just an example of one of those was the story about when he received the medal. That was when he was in Katherine; he was decorated with some sort of bravery award or other that came in the form of a medal. Anyway, because it had to do with ‘authority’ he didn’t want anything to do with it. That’s how anti-government and anti-establishment he was. But anyway, all these bigwigs still insisted on coming down to Katherine to present him with this special medal. So when they arrived at the Katherine Hospital, Clyde had all the staff lined up to greet them, and that included all the Aboriginal staff. And, much to the bigwigs’ surprise and shock, Clyde had made mock tin replicas of the medal he was about to receive and he’d given one to every single member of the staff to wear on their uniform for the big occasion.

Of course, that didn’t go over very well. But that was Clyde, and he was tremendously admired up in the Northern Territory, not only for the good he did as a doctor and pilot but also because of his larrikin ways. He was one of those that always tried to buck the system, and we tend to admire people like that in Australia, don’t we?