N01 2002 words Don't hold your breath By John Gillard CHAPTER 8 Whether it had been in the pursuit of a couple of dodgy jingles to make a quid on or just a few days' hols away from it all, it seemed to Ade that he'd had the dubious pleasure of staggering through the dripping, clammy heat of Singapore at least a couple of times a year now, for longer than he cared to remember. Certainly for long enough to be aware of the incredible change that has come over the joint in recent times. Today's Singapore was so clean, neat and tidy that you began to forget you were in the mysterious East at all. It had become more like bloody Germany with the central heating turned up full. `Where were the bugs, filth and pongs of yes+teryear?', he wondered longingly as he stood surveying yet another hygienic, sanitised marble lobby. It was sad but true. The people here had developed such fervour about all things new and shiny that they couldn't wait to pull down the old parts of the town and they, of course, were the parts that had given old Singapore its wonderful, seedy charm. These days just about everything worth knowing about or doing in Singapore, that two-day town to end all two-day towns, seemed to happen in the big hotels and glittering shopping complexes. The street markets and restaurants were still there, of course, but they were becoming fewer and fewer and as everybody's standard of living went up like a rocket and people started buying Christian Dior clothes, driving Porsches, watching `Dynasty' and dancing to Michael Jack+son records, all they wanted to do was to forget all about that smelly native shit and get on with the last bit of the twentieth century. `You couldn't really blame them for wanting to move on to something that they thought was better, though, could you?', he mused. Come to that, could he, in his wildest dreams, see himself wandering Leyton High Road doing `street cries of olde London' like his fore-fathers? "Eels, live eels ... apples a pound pears". Piss off! Times change, Ade. And somehow he couldn't imagine all these Singaporeans eventually realis+ing the folly of their ways and going back to the bucolic bliss of rolling up camel dung and sticking it in their ears or what+ever it was that THEIR forefathers used to do, either. They were too far down the track to Civilisation to want to know about all that bollocks! When he'd first gone to Singapore in the late 1960s, he'd loved to stay at Raffles and ponce around in the white suit and straw hat pretending to be a card-carrying member of the Raj. He seemed to recall imagining himself as a kind of rock 'n roll Somerset Maugham. The unpalatable truth was, that in recent years that hotel had become so tacky that he'd finally given up and surrendered his knackered person, com+plete with credit cards, to the air-conditioned bliss of the tall, stately, steel and glass monoliths that have sprung up in nicely art-directed jungle groves all around the town. After Ade's little brush with the nodding Nips, he'd decided to spend the last couple of days of their stay there, taking it easy and regrouping before the long haul to Europe. The advantage of said air-conditioned monoliths, of course, was that they had every facility on hand and you didn't have to lift a finger. To Maggie, of course, the stay was absolute bliss. She leaped at the opportunity, as she always did in such places, to go and have the total beauty treatment - face massage, mani+cure, pedicure, everything-bloody-cure! In the end it took the little brown ladies almost those same two days to complete her body overhaul. "It's like going to bed with the bloody Torrey Canyon", he complained on their final evenings as she stood at the dressing table checking herself out in the mirror. Starkers and completely smothered from head to toe in greasy goo of every known variety, she'd just emerged from the beauty pits at the end of the female equivalent of a 50,000-mile service. "You are a totally unromantic person", she replied, squint+ing into the mirror. She often said that. With the light gleam+ing on her naked, oily body she looked like something out of a dike fantasy Sparticus. In the glass she saw him looking at her and smiling. "We've put on a bit of weight, 'aven't we?", he suggested daringly. The truth of the matter was that it was rather more the outrageously expensive bottle of wine that he'd just drunk talking than the usually tightly lip-buttoned Ade. He'd become bored and thirsty whilst waiting for her to get back from open-heart fingernail surgery and had succumbed to his old addiction yet again. "Not at all", she pronounced. "You obviously do not understand that I have a pre-Raphaelite body. I am simply a beautiful woman born out of my time." "If I was to leap out of bed like some halfwit matineee idol in one of those Stephanie Summers books you deny you read", suggested Ade, "and take you firmly and expertly in my strong, weatherbeaten arms and gently draw you close to my rock-hard, manly chest, do you know what would hap+pen?". She ignored him. "Well, I'll tell you", he said, propping his head up on one arm and grinning. "You've got so much of that gunge on you you'd go ... zzZZOOOP! Just like a bar of soap right through my long, sensitive-but-masculine fingers and end up on top of the wardrobe like bloody Tinkerbell." "You understand nothing about women", she said dismis+sively. She often said that too, and continued plucking her eyebrows. "You can say what you like", he continued, warming to one of his favourite themes, "but deep down, old Ade is a roman+tic". She stopped and turned sharply, glaring at him with a cutting look of pity. He waved his hands in front of him, shook his head as if to silence any argument and continued, "Yes, despite what you think, I, Ade, am, believe it or not, your true romantic, and precisely because of that, I flatly and totally refuse to believe that the great beauties of the world go to bed looking like that. It's like sleeping with a fucking cam+shaft". She made no response of any kind. Thumbing through his latest airmailed copy of the Beano, Ade surveyed his sexual prospects for the evening, eventually coming to the same gloomy conclusion he usually reached in those days, i.e., whichever way you looked at it, any kicks he was going to get that night were going to have to be self-inflicted. It was definitely all down to a Barclays! Wasn't life a crock of shit! Ignoring her, he slowly climbed out of bed and wearily made the by-now familiar, lonely trek to the lovely, new, shiny hotel bathroom. Being absolutely miles and miles from anywhere, Singapore, like Australia, obliges visitors to and from its shores to spend hours and hours cooped up in that shithouse little metal and plastic tube eight miles up in the sky that ordinary people apparently consider such a glamorous and exciting way for people to spend all their time. The lure of the jet-set. Well, bollocks to that. Despite all this marvellous modern tech+nology, it still took between twenty-five and thirty hours to get from Sydney to London and, notwithstanding all Mag+gie's clever ruses and wheezes to get the pair of them treated like fucking Rajahs, most of that time always seemed to be spent sitting next to some oaf who either weighed eighteen stone, distributed evenly across his seat and yours, or who talked endlessly about his or her hideous life and breathed halitosis all over you. But the main problem with air travel over such long distances is, of course, the all-prevailing bore+dom of it all. Wasn't it the Grand old Duke of Edinburgh who, when asked, "And what was your flight like today, Your Royal Highness?", had retorted, "Have you ever been on a plane?", and when the brown-noser had dutifully grovelled in the affirmative, HRH had added, "Well it was very much like that". Right on, Phil! When you've had a numb arse and swollen ankles on one airline, you've had 'em on 'em all, really! Ade always tried to sleep as much as possible when flying but on this occasion, his little doze was rudely shattered by the plane beginning to groan and make strange shuddering noises. After about thirty seconds, the noises stopped and nervous conversations began in the many and varied languages of the passengers. He looked gingerly up at the by-now still, calm and non-vibrating ceiling, and stretched. Maggie wasn't in the seat beside him. He peered around, but he couldn't see her. She had to be in the loo. She nearly always was. `There's something about a DC-10, isn't there?', he observed to himself. You can bloody well say that again! Especially when you're in seat 36C. That's the one right at the back by the karzi. The one where you can look over your shoulder and see `The Door'. Come on now, let's not beat about the bush; we're talking DC-10s. Everyone knows which door. Yes, that's right, the door that McDonnell Douglas assures us does NOT fly off in mid-air with such monotonous regularity. He was beginning to wake up now. He put his seat upright and watched a clutch of carrot-haired stewardesses sprawled across a row of empty seats some way in front of him gossip+ing and filing their nails, with fags a-puffing and drinks a-swigging. A clutch was about right, too. `Why were all their legs bruised?', he wondered. On this plane the entire complement of female cabin staff somehow managed to look like former nightclub hostesses who'd realised the folly of their ways and had given up hus+tling tables and settled for the old Cartier watch, a neckful of expensive jewellery and a couple of years shuttling to and fro to the Bahrein Hilton on stopovers. All they had to do was hang around long enough until some swarthy Mr Right with the stretched Mercedes and numerous business interests finally showed up with a bunch of flowers he'd pinched off a grave somewhere, slipped them a length of the old pork poker and eventually proposed holy matrimony and lived happily ever after. It certainly looked on the cards for these girls too. They weren't your ordinary air hosties. Not your big-boned Qantas girls, not your German trilinguists or even your Cathay cun+nilinguists. Oh, no, this flight was the triple dare ... DC-10, Seat 36C (that means that you're the first one to either get sucked out when the door comes off, or, by the look of the girls, sucked off if it doesn't) and, best of all, the aircraft was resplendent in the faded, tacky colours of ... TURKISH AIRLINES! Oh yes, surely we have heard mention of the legendary Turkish Airline DC-10s? Doesn't the very folklore of our times instruct us that the hedgerows of Europe are full of the gibbering, terrified bodies of farm workers diving for cover as the rear doors and often the entire delightful planes them+selves plummet down upn the cowering EEC rural sector? The other, lesser-known titbit about said airline is the new depth of uncleanliness that they dredge in every aspect of their service. Or, as Ade subsequently remarked, "You don't so much `fly on' a Turkish Airlines DC-10, it's more a ques+tion of `treading in' one". Maggie finally emerged from the toilet, complaining bit+terly about the buffeting she'd received and the generally filthy state of said closet itself. "I have NEVER ever seen a toilet as atrociously sordid on any plane anywhere", she told him "It was just like ..." "A Turkish karzi?", he suggested thoughtfully. One of her old flatmates, a `girl' she hadn't seen for years, was to be in Istanbul accompanied by her daughter and work+ing on a film. N02 2000 words Benson's break By J A Genoni In the dining room that evening a rather tired looking Fred asked Jim to come to the office after the meal, where they could have the promised yarn. Greg left the house after finishing his meal, informing Judy that everything in the jewellery department was progressing fa+vourably, and her pendant would soon be coming off the production line. In the office Fred sat down heavily in the big chair behind the desk and gestured for Jim to take the seat opposite. Reaching into a side cabinet he withdrew a bottle and two glasses. He looked at Jim enquiringly but the younger man shook his head. Pouring a double measure into his glass he drank slowly. He said, "That's genuine French cognac, laid down by Sir Henry himself, so it must be mature by now. I'm getting old and I needed that." Jim said nothing in reply. He waited expectantly. Neither of the men were smoking, so for a moment Fred sat there silently, apparently gathering his thoughts. Jim noticed how gnarled and workworn were the hands spread out on the desk. Yes, Fred was an old man, and a tired old man at that. At last Fred broke the silence. "Well Jim, what do you think of station life? A bit different to what you expected, I guess, eh?" Still Jim said nothing. He was here to listen to a proposal*propsal, a very important proposal which might have a great bearing on the course of his family's future life. Fred went on, "First Jim, I have to tell you how glad I am to see that Judy latched onto a steady fellow like you." He smiled slightly at Jim's embarrassed look. "I'm being straight with you because at my time of life there's no time to be aimlessly beating about the bush. I've got a big property here and it's on the threshold of bigger things to come. I've had my fun at building something up for myself, and I also feel as if I've done something for Australia as well. We feed a big part of the world, my boy, and that's no small thing in itself. As they say, I can't take it with me, more's the pity." Fred added this with a rueful grin. "I've got some good friends on this station, my family as I call them, who regard Glencoe as their permanent home, their country, as the black fellows have their way of saying. They depend on Glencoe and Glencoe depends on them. After I go I don't want the place sold to some syndicate whose only aim is to chase the almighty dollar. Syndicates have no feelings for people or what may happen to their lives. This place is not a gold mine to be exploited. Every cent has to be wrenched out of this land by more than just hands, it needs brains, judgement, business sense and plain old fashioned guts. Don't shake your head, boy. I know about Vietnam and the medal you earned. I was a soldier once and know they don't give them away for nothing. I know you came home in a wheelchair and what you did to get out of it. You don't know that Ben Jason and I were cobbers in the first world war, do you? Ben wrote back to me saying you were his right hand man in the business, steady and resourceful in handling difficult customers, always reliable." Jim felt himself flushing. So old Ben had given him a good write up indeed. Ben was a fair and considerate boss noted for his square dealing to everyone, and now it looked as if he had taken more interest in his staff than would have been thought. Fred continued, "I can see in you Jim, the potential leader, but you have to come out of where you're hiding. I believe you've gained confidence since coming up here. You look as if you belong in this country. You've learned to ride and you've picked up a lot from the boys in a damn short time. I'd be proud to call you nephew any time." Fred grinned, and they ceremoniously shook hands. Jim laughed, the tension going out of him, "Thanks uncle Fred, we could say it's mutual." Fred grinned, "Let's drink to it, eh?" This time Jim accepted the proffered glass. It was good brandy, there was no doubt about that. Out of curiosity he leaned forward to examine the old bottle closely. He could just make out the label. Courvoisier, the cognac of Napoleon. The date was obscured but he could see eighteen hundred and something, so it was genuine. Jim said, "Too valuable almost to drink. The Englishman never had anything but the best, it appears." "Cost me nothing," said Fred with satisfaction. "All thrown in free with the rest when I bought the place." Some of the tiredness went out of Fred's face. He went on. "I will say without bragging that we have a very smooth operation here on this property and it's mostly because of the people I have working with me. You get the point, Jim? I never say anybody is working for me. They're working for themselves and their own future on Glencoe. We all respect each other, but we also know who is boss. Jim boy, I want you to be boss here on Glencoe when I'm gone. I want some+one like you who can be trusted to keep this property, this land, this people, together and marching forward." Fred paused to replenish his glass f rom the cognac bottle before carrying on. "Before you make your final decision I'd like to tell you a bit about the place. Abe Jenkins gets out a balance regularly and he can tell you exactly about the financial side, but only I can tell you about the great years and the disaster years that can happen again. Such years you have to prepare against beforehand if you're to survive. I really had to battle it out early on to pay off this place. For+tunately for me black labour was plentiful and cheap to help round up the wild cattle that had over run the property in their thousands. I think I told you before that I helped to start the meatworks, and that turned out to be a smart move, even if I say it myself. After the cattle were thinned out I was temporarily free of debt, and the sheep did well, just as I thought. The Namultja used to go after the dingo scalps, and the dogs never bothered us much. Reminds me, a lot of scalps came in that didn't look much like pure dingoes, but it was one way of keeping the camp mongrels down. Dogs that go wild are always worse than true dingoes at killing sheep, I've found. They know too much about men and don't scare away as easily as the real dingoes. We were shearing a great many sheep when the Korean War sent prices of wool sky high. Near a million dollars for the wool cheque is not bad money, I can tell you. That's when I started most of the solid improve+ments that really made this place. New bores and mills, sub+divisional fencing, stockyards, staff houses, our first power plant and cool room. It was marvellous to at last have the capital to do things the right way." Fred raised the brandy glass again. "As our black labour faded away we started a mechanis+ation programme which we keep modernising with the times. Jock Angus was a real find for me, and now Daisy's boys have grown up and are sticking to the station we are getting by quite well with using contractors in the busy times of the year. I can remember the blacks we used to have here. Both men and women made damn good stockriders and as far as I could see were quite happy with the situation till the bloody do-gooders and trade unions had their blasted standard wage idea. Up to a hundred used to be on Glencoe, doing a bit of mustering, droving and stock handling beside the trapping. They did it when it suited them, then went on their walkabouts and attended to their initiation ceremonies and such. They were handy but few would ever settle down to steady work all the week. We supplied them with tucker, tobacco and blankets, and all their cousins and uncles and friends as well. It cost us plenty, but after all it was their country we were using, so we didn't mind. But big wages for what they did, and houses supplied for the whole mob, was out as far as we were concerned. If somebody died in a house they wanted a new one, and rather than go out far for fire+wood they'd chop up the furniture and use that on their campfire. A real black doesn't want a house. A windbreak and the dust to sleep in surrounded by his dogs for warmth is their idea of living. The chairbourne experts wanted to make him into a whiteman and a Christian but now that's all back+fired. He wants*want's all the whiteman has but doesn't realise that it has to be worked for. He wants the land he never made use of, returned so he can get mineral royalties as well as free social services. It's well ahead of what is offered to a white citizen, and is going to lead to plenty trouble in the future. The only word that's important to him now is `Gimme, Gimme.'" Fred laughed apologetically. "Sorry Jim. I'd better shut up. We old squatters are one-eyed on the subject. And, of course, I must admit there's any amount of good black people as well. Many of them have good jobs in Canagra. We've got a lot doing well at the meatworks. At home here we've Johnny and George, and old Annie and the younger ones, all belonging to Glencoe, all good friends of mine." Fred grinned as he remembered something. "Old George must have been quite a lad in his day because in his mispent youth he stole old Mary away from the Bundaru tribe when they were all having some big general corroboree*corroborie over near Ayers Rock years ago. They sent their kadaitcha man after him but George trailed out into the desert and circled around on him. He caught the Bundaru executioner asleep and settled his hash with a tomahawk. George dug into the side of a big anthill, put his man inside and left the ants to mend the hole. Swept out all the tracks, and came home with a clear con+science. The other mob must have had their suspicions but they never came after his kidney fat again. George told me all about it knowing I wouldn't give him away to the white police. Perhaps that's why he sticks so close to Glencoe." Jim showed his amazement, "You mean little old George, the gardener?" Fred chuckled, "Surprised you, eh? There's more to Glencoe than meets the eye, I can tell you that." Jim thought...Maybe even more than you know yourself, uncle Fred. Fred said, "That's my policy, Jim. I want to know all about everybody who shares a future on Glencoe. If you know them you can handle them. You know what you can get out of them. You know how they will react*re-act to every situation." Jim was impressed. This good psychology which uncle Fred expressed was based on a lifetimes experience in living with and handling his fellow men. A man could learn a lot by listening to him. One weakness was very apparent to Jim. It was damned hard to know everything about everybody, especially on Glencoe where there seemed any amount of secrets floating around. Fred continued, "After most of the blacks left, the dingoes gradually took over and now we're down to half the sheep we once carried. N03 2002 words Operation sea dragon By Ronald Botsjtsuk CHAPTER 4 On the Gun Line The next three days were sheer bedlam. We underwent round-the-clock, simulated attacks and emergency procedures as we gradually approached the recognised war zone off Vietnam. Every conceivable eventuality and strike method was contrived by the command. Codes, various attack patterns, and highly confidential - if not top secret - messages were analysed and discussed. Room for error was minimal. The unrelenting pressure, lack of sleep and continual rehearsed action stations made us feel like robots. Consensus replaced minor friction between rank and personalities as we approached the war zone. Personal gripes about duty rosters and pay scales seemed insignificant now. HMAS Hobart became an active member of the U.S. Seventh Fleet when she sailed for the Quang Ngai Province, relieving the U.S.S. Fechteler. It was hard to believe we were in hostile waters. One could easily have mistaken the not-too-distant coastline for any hilly terrain off Australia. "You wouldn't think that peaceful-looking place was at war, would you?" I commented drawing on my cigarette. "No, but those crafty buggers are out there all right. Probably having smoko," yawned Les, removing his sweat-stained shirt. Even late into the evening, the humidity was intense. "Talk about smoko, there is something burning out there." I pointed to a distant, incandescent fire rising from the densely vegetated horizon. "Yeah, I can just make it out," said Les, straining his googly eyes. Nightfall was descending on us rapidly like a black velvet curtain. All of a sudden we heard the distinct thrum of chopper blades and spotted two specially fitted Chinook helicopter gunships, darting menacingly about in the area. We also heard small arms returning their fire. Judging by the erratic firing, it was not easy for the Viet Cong to pinpoint the choppers, but we had no trouble seeing the rockets and strafing bullets being fired from the gunships. These looked like a series of red-dotted lines flashing into the forest. Next moment there was a loud explosion, followed by a massive, raging fire. The gunships had obviously destroyed their target and immediately returned to their nearby base. "This is better than watching a flick," reckoned Les before we returned inside. We noticed several duty watch ratings hurriedly fixing the opaque black covers over every porthole. This procedure was repeated every evening and was officially referred to as "blackening ship". In addition, all external lighting would be extinguished, except the one internationally compulsory steaming light right above our masthead. It was a clever security ploy, which in effect disguised the ship. For all the light we were emitting, we could easily be mistaken for a fishing vessel, a beacon, or even an aircraft carrier. No-one could be sure of anything in the pitch black darkness of tropical night. Except for emergencies, strict radio silence was imposed. While operating with ships and aircraft of the American Seventh Fleet, our secret codes changed daily. At 0600 on March 31 before anyone had a chance to relax or become complacent, the long awaited alarm was sounded for action stations; we were near Cap Mia. "Did he say for exercise or not?" Les asked leaping off his bunk. "No, mate, this is it! The real McCoy. Let's go," I cried, feeling my heart thump against my chest. Like many others I had high expectations and was full of enthusiasm. Hans had scurried up the hatch as if he were abandoning ship. I had never seen him move so fast. John was already on watch in the operations room. Upon entering the crowded ops room, which resembled a command centre in a movie scene, I couldn't help but wonder what was in store for us. Would we get hit? Who might get killed? Will I survive, I wondered as I manned my all-too-familiar radar set. "What's the target, Les?" I impatiently asked before the Captain told his concerned crew over the amplified intercom. "A Viet Cong assembly point, ammunition supplies and some of the bad guys," said Les, using humour to settle his nerves. Anxious moments later our gunnery officer shouted into his mouthpiece, "Fire for effect 2 salvoes - Fire!" This command historically ordered Hobart's two rapid firing guns into action for the first time in wartime conditions. It was also Australia's first direct naval involvement since Korea. After some minor gunnery corrections we obliterated the assembly area to smithereens in less than forty minutes of saturated shelling. "That's letting 'em know we are here," I proudly remarked to no-one in particular while our guns bellowed. Our debut on the Gun Line was brief and effective, like a boxer's knock-out punch. We remained unscathed and no+one returned our fire. At this stage of our involvement I wasn't disappointed. By April Fool's Day the following morning, HMAS Hobart had fired her hundredth round of high explosive 5-inch shells on enemy territory. Hobart's initial purpose was to provide naval gunfire support for U.S. Marines and ARVN Forces (South Vietnam's regular army comprising 410,000 men). Our main operations concentrated in the southern Quang Ngai Province, which was ninety miles south of Da Nang, the major port of the central lowlands. Our targets included Viet Cong supply points, truck convoys and ammunition dumps. We were frequently asked to give urgent assistance to outflanked marine patrols. On such occasions our gunfire had to be executed with pin+point accuracy. Often relying on a set of co-ordinates given to us by a cornered marine commander, who could, for example, expect our shells to fall as close as 20 metres away on a Viet Cong mortar position. The most significant engagement during that type of amphibious warfare was an operation code named "Beacon Torch". Bong! Bong! Bong! "Hands to action stations! Hands to action stations. Assume full condition one state Zulu" - Bong! Bong! Bong! came from the crowded bridge at 0430 hours that particular morning. All exposed personnel were wearing marine-type anti-flack jackets and protective helmets. "Come on youse lot, move it. We haven't got all day!" urged our Leading Hand keen to clear our mess deck. "Let's waste some `commos'!" came Hans' typical war cry. The whole mess deck was vacated and secured for watertight integrity in near record time. "L.W.O.2 long-range radar manned and operating," Hans reported, adjusting his focus and eager to cause wholesale destruction among the Viet Cong. "Short-range surveillance manned and operating," I snapped. "Gun-plot manned," came the reports from the rear of the now bustling ops room. Up and down the line, from every corner of the ship, came rapid confirmation of personnel closed up at their various positions. "This is the Captain speaking." We were now all ears. "Overnight we were joined by the U.S.S. Harry E. Hubbard and the amphibious assault ship U.S.S. Tripoli, which is leading a group of amphibious landing ships. "In approximately ten minutes, we'll begin our heavy shore bombardment on a designated Viet Cong stronghold and elements of the North Vietnamese Army. The bombardment should last thirty minutes. All guns will then cease, and an amphibious landing operation entitled "Beacon Torch" will be launched from the Tripoli. These forces will then be joined by an infantry battalion of U.S. Marines and supporting artillery ashore in two flanking positions. We will remain in the area until the operations is completed and will give available naval gunfire support when asked by units ashore. The time for action stations this morning was excellent, so keep up the good work. That is all." Our external communication frequency was amplified in the ops room as static background and instructions flowed continually. The enthusiastic Captain darted from the bridge and joined "Guns" by the illuminated plotting table for a final consultation. His index finger was poised like a trigger on his communication mouthpiece. "Open the hatch and have a sticky beak," Les suggested quietly, referring to the emergency exit near my bulkhead. After reporting another range and bearing of the Tripoli's updated position I opened it hesitantly. What we saw in those few seconds stunned us. There were countless landing crafts bobbing up and down like corks in a bathtub, laden to the hilt with frightened and heavily armed young U.S. Marines, about to hit the beach. The spectacle was awesome. I could not help but feel sorry for those poor fellows about to face direct enemy fire. We were so close that I could vividly see the pale, shocked expression on some of their faces. Many of them looked no more than eighteen years of age, and they clutched their carbine rifles with all their might. I quickly secured the hatch again and resumed giving accurate alterations. That scene on our action-packed starboard side made us appreciate the gravity of the situation. It made us more determined and eager to report every range and bearing with deadly accuracy, thus assisting the impending assault in whatever way possible. That's the least we can do for the poor bastards, I thought. "Stand by," the Captain said, waiting for the precise second. Then in a voice hardened by determination, he ordered, "Fire!" "Five salvoes fire!" came the spontaneous order from Guns who was in direct communication with the senior ratings in the gun turrets. They could not wait to release the venomous fire power of the forward and aft 5-inch rapid firing guns and become involved in this major assault. The barrels roared forth in ferocious sequence. Minutes later we received the necessary altered co+ordinates from a low-flying modified World War II Skyraider. These planes were used effectively in this rugged terrain for spotting and giving gun alterations. "Roger, left 20 up 15," acknowledged a senior gunnery rating on the same frequency, which was promptly relayed to the respective gun bays. When all guns were fixed directly over their targets, our stimulated gunnery officer immediately ordered, "Stand by - 15 salvoes - Fire." And off they blasted, virtually all on target. 51 and 52 were the call signs given to our forward and aft gun turrets respectively. Les wished he had some coloured pins to stab in his board, depicting enemy gun emplacements. "Where are those bloody gun batteries?" he cried, disappointed. "Don't worry, you'll get them soon enough, don't rush it," I predicted, not in any particular hurry to get shot at. "Think of those poor pricks out there in those lousy barges. I'd be shitting myself," I admitted. "All the bloody Yanks had to do was drop another A-bomb on Hanoi. This is doing it the hard way." Hans declared quite seriously. It was a radical view we chose to ignore. For the next nerve-racking hour the guns fired shell after shell, vibrating every millimetre of the ship's superstructure and our vulnerable eardrums. The only temporary reprieve came when they were firing consecutively rather than all together. The U.S. ships and our ship fired a blanket of steel in shore bombardment. "Cease firing! Cease firing 51 and 52," ordered our stoic captain. This brought a temporary lull and a chance for the red-hot gun-barrels to cool down. Communications frequencies were then monitored with the various wirelesses carried by the marines who were about to launch their assault. I was sure they would be hoping that the combined ships' fire power had effectively silenced whatever resistance they might encounter ashore. Our best wishes went with the marines as they ploughed their way towards the smouldering beachhead in that long line of barges. We were silent, waiting nervously for any instructions from the marine commanders who were now assembling their anxious men into a fighting unit. All seemed relatively quiet on the battle front as the landing barges lowered their front ends. The marines poured out and sought cover before regrouping and charging through the dense vegetation. Just when we smugly thought the ships' guns had destroyed whatever opposition the area contained, all hell broke loose. Concentrations of attacking Viet Cong emerged out of fortified concrete bunkers and foxholes like teeming rats. Many marines were slaughtered in a surprise assault while crossing a hill. N04 2001 words Pelandok By Kenneth Bullock Sydney Since the Melbourne had closed to within fifty kilometres of Sydney and flown off all serviceable aircraft to the R.A.N. Air Station at Nowra NSW, MacKenzie had been the victim of divergent influences. `Harbour routine' was an easy boring exercise and MacKenzie had virtually switched off from the `intruder' incident. There were few people left aboard interested in anything other than making the best out of shore leave and those interested in MacKenzie's adamant stand had heard enough, even Jaws! Commander Ferris had been the one person who MacKenzie avoided as much as possible. Ferris had conversely sought to raise the subject, but only if he could put MacKenzie down. On one occasion Ferris had tried to review the incident in front of two relatively junior Engineer officers. After a sarcastic resume, MacKenzie had stared at his pompous superior for a few moments then had left the wardroom without saying a word. He remembered telling Brenda that if he had stayed he would have smashed the bastard's face in. Brenda had frowned saying, `No one in the navy is worth throwing your career away ... catch him in a dark alley sometime.' ... and that had sounded like a damn good idea. He found himself seriously contemplating how he would demolish Ferris, but in more rational states of mind MacKenzie knew that there was less than a remote chance of him reverting to such action ... even to Ferris. When MacKenzie was ashore with Brenda, in their apartment, he tried to put the ship, aircraft and the `incident' at the back of his mind and concentrate on getting `high' on domestic bliss. Most of the time he was okay, but Brenda sensed his innermost turmoil and used every feminine trick she could conjure to keep her man from living `navy'. Sometimes it was just too hard and they talked problems out. One morning she read an article in her part of the morning paper. Doug had been coming ashore for the best part of a week: `Well that's interesting, did you know about this?' she said, pushing the paper towards him. `What's it all about?' `Looks like we're*were getting some Harriers!' He blinked and held his big right hand out ... As he studied the article, Brenda looked carefully at the man she had flown from Canada to join a lifetime ago. He's at that magical age, she thought. Younger women seemed to melt when he talked to them. And who the heck could blame them! His dark wavy hair was flanked by patches of silver. Tiny laugh wrinkles which used to disappear when he stopped laughing were now a permanent feature of his rugged face. He had always tanned easily and was still as brown as most of the surfies at Sydney's famous beaches. His big square jaw reminded her of the Gregory Peck she saw in him. Whenever she told him that he reminded her of a film star he just laughed and said she must be blinded by love. But he never seemed to tire of her and often said that she looked like the same little blonde tiger he had met in Canada. Well, she was no more ageless than him ... might be five, no, closer to six years younger, but she sure as heck had to spend a lot of time looking after herself to keep up with him. At least he didn't just plunge in the ocean and swim a blistering hundred metre dash anymore. Her thoughts drifted to their endless separations, which seemed to be harder to adjust to each year. But as some kind of bonus, they had no children, no pets and no direct relations in Australia. She laughed to herself thinking what a stupid way to put it. They didn't have any kids or pets anywhere else either, then she sighed thinking of her father in British Columbia. She hadn't seen him for three years and for that matter they hadn't seen Doug's parent's either ... `How the hell do these news hounds find out about hot stuff like this when even I don't know about it,' he said, thrusting the paper down on the table and staring at the article. `Probably because Ferris knew and didn't feel like letting you know?' she suggested. `Yeah, well that's about what the son-of-a-bitch would do ... Christ, six of the latest Harriers just like that. If we get any of our pilots back from the R.N., who took off when they stuffed us up, we might just take a few to sea with us next time.' MacKenzie seemed deep in thought. `Aw come on Doug, surely you have to train people up, not just the pilots, what about spares, people to maintain the aircraft?' MacKenzie looked at her in surprise, then laughed, `Sure taught you well, didn't I, that's just what I was thinking about.' `Yeah, I'll bet you were Lieutenant Commander ... now would you mind putting your thoughts down on paper and let me have them by say 1200?' her eyes twinkled and she thrust her face towards him in a saucy gesture. `YES MA'AM ... coming right up,' he quickly eased out of his seat and made a grab for her. But she was too fast and raced towards their bedroom. `Oh no you don't, I know what you're after,' she protested mildly in a trapped position on their bed, `You'll be late!' `So what, I'm in charge ... or at least I was,' he said suddenly, his mood changing. `He's coming back today?' `That's right Tiger and I sure hope the son-of-a-bitch got a bit while he was away!' They both laughed, but she knew Doug would be in for a rough time when he confronted the Commander. `Well, time I was off,' he told her, reluctantly. She was still in the bathroom putting on her face and thinking about the day's lessons for her mob of kids. Who said she didn't have any children ... he came into the bathroom: `Well at least you look like a well dressed civilian,' she said. He wore a light brown sports coat and tan slacks, but once aboard the carrier he would have to change into his uniform. `You look pretty good yourself,' he said grinning. She felt an instant warm glow and turned away from the mirror to kiss him: `Good luck!' `Yeah, I'll probably need it, call you some time later, okay?' `Sure.' `Okay, I'm off then.' Without another word MacKenzie left the apartment and walked to the bus stop in deep thought. The trip over the bridge to Woolloomooloo dockyard hardly registered. At 1025 MacKenzie left the Operations room feeling very uneasy, but he tried to lecture himself, thinking that he'd have it out with him if necessary and then see the Skipper. The Captain had given him an opening when he had asked MacKenzie if he was going away for Easter. `Yes Sir,' he had said. `Hobart, if I can be spared for the extra days.' `Well I don't see why not, you deserve a break the same as everyone else. I suppose Ferris will agree ... anyway why Hobart?' Captain Philips had asked, politely. `Well there's some kind of gliding regatta.' MacKenzie had remem+bered shrugging, feeling embarrassed. The Captain had frowned, knowing there was no love lost between the two officers, `Well, perhaps I might tell Ferris that you'll find time to drop in and see old what's his name?' `Barton Sir.' `Right, one of our oldest aviators Mac, and they have him stuffed away as Naval Officer Commanding Tasmania, as some kind of prize ... some times I don't think Personnel quite appreciate you flyboys.' God, what a difference between the two men, thought MacKenzie reaching Ferris' cabin. It was exactly 1030 and if Ferris kept to his harbour routine of retreating to his cabin to read the morning paper over a coffee, then he'd get him. `YES ... who is it?' `Operations Officer.' `Come in,' Ferris said condescendingly. They eyed each other for a few moments before Ferris spoke in the same tone as he used on junior officers: `Well, what do you want?' `Do you mind if I sit down?' MacKenzie replied, ignoring Ferris's question. `Suit yourself.' MacKenzie pulled the remaining chair close to the Commander's desk and casually sat a little more than a metre from him, appraising the musty smelling untidy cabin: `Well?' Feigning interest MacKenzie said: `Did you have a good week's break Sir?' `It wasn't a full week, it was only five bloody days. Anyway, get to the point MacKenzie, you didn't come to ask about my personal affairs.' MacKenzie toyed with the idea of challenging Ferris about the Harriers, but decided that all Ferris had to do was to say the information had come whilst he was away ... `Well Sir, it's only a small matter. I shouldn't really be bothering you with it but Captain Philips,' he rolled his words out slowly, hopefully creating an atmosphere of potential conflict, `he reminded me to check with you before going on Easter leave.' `It's not bloody Easter yet MacKenzie!' Ferris retorted, a fleck of spit leaving his mouth narrowly missed MacKenzie's knee. `Full marks Sir,' MacKenzie answered in an icy tone, `but I don't plan on a Sydney dockyard sightseeing tour during Easter plus three days annual leave, I need to confirm travel arrangements.' `I'm not interested in what you do on confirmed public holidays MacKenzie.' `I might remind you Sir that I haven't had any god damned annual leave in eight months, which includes standing by last Christmas ...' `All right MacKenzie, you don't have to give me a sobbing heart story,' Ferris interrupted. They glared at each other for several seconds, but MacKenzie was now determined to get the answer he wanted so he didn't avert his unflinching stare: `Is Sub-Lieutenant Jackson putting in for any leave?' Ferris demanded in a gruff tone. MacKenzie was elated, the bastard had backed down. Right, he would play along with him: `No Sir, he's had his leave at Christmas and I've laid the law down, if I'm away, he must be on duty every day. I'll give him my phone number and if an emergency occurs, I'll immediately cancel and return to the ship.' He was sure that Ferris knew his tubby assistant had been on leave at Christmas because their had been an argument about that as well. Ferris slowly and deliberately folded his newspaper and tossed it on his bunk: `Where, may I ask, do you intend going and for how long?' he sarcastically demanded. `Tasmania, Hobart, nine days, including Easter and the following weekend, starts on the Thursday before Good Friday.' Ferris reached in his desk for a small calendar and studied it without replying. Then he looked at MacKenzie: `So that puts*put's you back on the 14th ... having fiddled the weekend?' MacKenzie seethed but said nothing. `All right MacKenzie, just make sure you're "on-deck" by the 14th and that Jackson has the complete picture,' he looked away from MacKenzie, as if dismissing him and reached for his newspaper. MacKenzie didn't move. There was another matter that had been waiting for this kind of an opportunity. He was due himself to be promoted to Commander soon and he didn't want to precipitate an incident that would jeopardise his career, but he had to get something straight with Ferris: `Sir, I'd like to know what pisses you off so much about me?' Ferris looked at him, his mouth open in surprise. He was so used to being a bully and not having his authority challenged, that when it was he didn't know what to say. MacKenzie realised this and went on: `Sir, I'm not just a junior officer. I know my responsibilities and I cooperate one hellava lot better if I'm treated like the senior Lieutenant Commander I'm supposed to be?' Ferris's face turned a deep red as his blood pressure rose. N06 2020 words Southerly - April 1986 Where the pelican builds By Bruce Holmes BEING a city librarian (glasses and bike-clips, custodian of culture) promotes dreams of the wide-open spaces, release from entrap+ment, an atavistic yearning for the wilderness of nature - or at least for some kind of fulfilment in a pleasantly bucolic setting. Fragonard would do. Justine, enchafed in housewifery, at some neap tide of life, certainly needed a rest. When we went on our holidays we found ourselves in a tiny flat high up in a round tower that reared phallic-like from swarms of hot cars and the earnest traffic of the flabby: the fey gaudiness of those desperate for glamour. Prey to the brochures. Still, there was the sea. We went swimming every day, just beyond the creeping shadows of the tall buildings. The children had to be watched carefully lest they stray with their new rubber surf-floats beyond the orange and yellow flags, the strictly demarcated ken of the life-saver who sat risking skin cancer, high up in his spindly chair. Much as one feels on occasion like straying beyond the flags that common sense and our quotidian lives impose. The spirit seeks folly now and then, like a cat to eat grass for health. (I should put that in my diary.) One afternoon, curious at the growing crowd of people at the water's edge, we sidled closer and soon joined in the seeking out of hundreds of little fish caught in the rock pools; cried with delight or chagrin according to our measure of success as we hunted with clumsy predatoriness. One of the men, scabby lips, skinny wrinkled legs under voluminous shorts, told me they were pilchards, good for bait he intended to use in the lake. "Beyond the island, that's where the fish are, bream this long, no kidding." That night I told Justine and the children as we hunched over tea in the park (hamburgers for them but yoghurt for me) that we ought to get a boat the next day and go fishing according to the man's advice. Justine's shoulders, which I noticed those days were becoming more humped, shrugged not so much with assent as resignation. "I'm going to catch five fish, I have a feeling," Amanda said. Touching a new pimple on his chin, Andrew scorned quietly through a truss of teeth bracers, "Only fish you're likely to catch are fish fingers." Older than Scott by two years, Andrew was very different in looks and temperament. Whereas Andrew was fair-complexioned, sly and passive, Scott was dark, direct and combative. Amanda, two years younger again (Justine had planned carefully) was a chameleon of emotion, calculating with callous pragmatism what mood and line of attack were needed for each situation. The children were highly excited and got us up at the crack of dawn. On the beach we killed time by writing our names hugely on the sand with our toes, and watching the grim joggers in their gladiatorship with ageing, as well as the inane merriment of seniors on their way to the baths that nestled among the rocks below the new Kentucky Fried Chicken place. The waves came in remorselessly, their tops a lacy foam half of the air and tentative in their flirting, or fighting, with the dark muscle of water underneath. Thesis and antithesis; then the rodomontade of resolution, the climaxing shudder, and the seeking up the sands like desperate fingers; then the retreat, so flat and inglorious, to begin all over again. Finally we took off for the channel with the plastic bucket, newspapered and decomposing pilchards, fishing lines, sunburn cream, towels etc. and hired a boat, five dollars for the first hour, three for each subsequent hour. We climbed aboard and cautiously assumed a seat. Grabbing the oars I put on some show of expertness, conscious of all the fisher-folk lining the bank. It was easy going with the current and my strokes were in the main confident, though I tended to drift to one side. "You're drifting to the left," Scott warned. "You mean port, left is port on a boat. And what's right?" "Unport?" suggested Justine provocatively, smiling. "No, I'm serious. Come on - starboard! Starboard!" We left the channel and cut across shallow water with lots of weed in which my oars became entangled. "Have you kids heard of the Sargasso Sea?" "No." "Would you like to hear about it?" "No." One always tends to impart interesting lore to one's children - take the Greek myths, Ulysses and all that as an example. But what attempts are made are usually perfunctory for various reasons that no doubt relate to evasiveness. "Look!" cried Justine. "Pelicans. Aren't they lovely?" They cruised down from the air not far from our boat, in wobbly fashion, as if they might have a crash landing (although they didn't), and quickly resumed the elegance they had in the air. Exotic creatures, they had the shape of a squashed Z, and looked distinctly droll and knowing. Amanda enunciated, "A wonderful bird is the pelican,/It holds more in its beak/Than its belly can." And she added, "We learned that at school." "Know that. We learned that in kindergarten," Scott's voice was contemptuous. "There's the island," Andrew pointed, looking like a black-and-white minstrel with his zinc-creamed lips. It was a scruffy little island, but allured - as islands tend to do. "Look at the boats around," added Justine. "I'd say that's where the fish are." A huge launch zapped past, almost swamping our boat. "There's no doubt about it!" I hissed at the vulgar tableau: men grinning, with terry-towelling hats, sun-glasses, beer-bellies and a girl-woman sprawled on the cabin roof, in a bikini, oiled and roasting like some sacrificial offering. "You've got a fair way to go, dear," chirped Justine sweetly. "I know, I know." At last we broached the island, and I chose a place not far off where weed abutted stretches of sand. The weed swayed luxuriantly like woman's hair. Venus pausing on her way up. "This will do," I asserted, turning uncertainty into mystery. "Dad, can I have some bait?" Andrew piped. "Me too, dad," came Scott. "All right," My hands were already blistered from rowing, but I managed to saw off a pilchard's head with the serrated knife, and cut the body into four pieces. "Who wants the head?" "Me!" said the boys. "Here, Amanda, give me your hook for bait." Soon we were all sitting quietly with our lines in, our eyes whipped by the sun off the water. I thought of Descartes fishing in the canal at Rynsburg, unfettered, brooding on dualism. Then there was Izaak Walton, of course. And Sue Frayn. Such straying beyond the flags of propriety, backwards through the shifting foci of memory. Yes, it was the pelicans that did it. During the last year in primary school, for "Poetry" we had to copy a poem into our exercise books and then go outside to learn the thing off by heart. That was "Poetry". The poem for the Friday ("Poetry" was done, as though an afterthought, on Friday afternoon) was "Where the Pelican Builds its Nest" by Mary Hannay Foot. Most of the boys beelined for the peppercorns to have a quick smoke, but I, a would-be runner, found myself in the corrugated-iron lunch shed sitting opposite Sue Frayn and Debbie Robinson. The girls recited with noisy vigour, giving the lines a sensuous lilt that made me feel miserable. I was more interested in poking with a stick some papery egg-sacs of redback spiders in a groove of the wall. But suddenly I realized Sue was sitting with book on lap, legs open, not much, not enough for Debbie to notice but enough for me to glimpse her pants. It occurred to me she was doing it deliberately for me, since she cast quick, collusive glances at me, smiling. Thinking it very generous of her, I wished I could reciprocate in some manner that was not too reckless. I was going to ask her to come to the matinee on Saturday. "Twelve O'Clock High", but shyness or lethargy prevented. However, luck threw us together one summery night after the slides on Tongan missionaries in the Sunday School Hall. Some of us boys were chasing girls through the pine-trees in the park near the oval. At one stage I caught Sue who was backed up by accident or design against a tree. Hot and impetuous from running I kissed her on the lips, more like a peck really, as sensual as a clerk stamping a parcel. I marvelled at such abandon, nostrils dilated at her cheap scent blending with my Californian Poppy. Then she ducked away, giggling to the other girls, saving me. In the playground the next day the boys asked each other, "What number did you get up to?" Number one was holding hands and number six the ultimate debauch of intercourse (talked of boldly but hazily understood). My admission of three drew competitive glances and affirmation of sodality, notwithstanding my aversion to smoking. Sue's father, a bank accountant, was soon shifted to another town, and my interests turned increasingly to running and wattle-barking (this meant stripping bark of young wattle trees and sending it to Adelaide to be used in some tanning process - the pocket-money was quite attractive). But I did see her from time to time at High School sports carnivals and a footy grand final where she and her mother tended a copper for hot-dogs. She stood smiling, cheeks red from the raw winter's day, eyes lustrous like ripe olives, blck hair responding subtly to a caress of wind, her cable-knitted jumper undulant with suggestion. That I ought to have helped fate along could not have struck me as imperative enough, so I left the matter in abeyance, for ever, for ever regretting the loss. In her became crystallized all significance attaching to lost opportunity. Over which there is always such repining, fighting the present with the past. Much of our life is backward-looking, wistful for that will-o'-the-wisp completeness we aspire to. We would knit our lives whole with those stubborn strands of romanticism, which nevertheless corrupt. Often I've wallowed in speculation: where is she now? Perhaps family-ridden, soldiering on through the mire of generation; could have cancer, could be dead, dwindling limbs composed among the wet grains of earth. But that regimen of nibbling at the past, far from curbing our self-pity of the present, nourishes it, lets it flower froth in cankerous infestation. I revert to Ulysses with glass (Telemachus more likely) who noted with bland distaste that Justine had turned her back the better to hold her line - an unignorable back, inimical even. The pelicans decided to leave, hauling their limbs into the heavy air. I don't know where they nest, but I'm sure it's not as far as Foot suggests. At school her poem suggested to me adventuring far to somewhere near the South Australian and Queensland border. Yeats chose swans. For my part I would choose pelicans, they're such congenial creatures, rather mild and vulnerable like us moderns. Not like the aristocratic swans with their serpent necks and beaks that might attack, raping a patient Leda. (The word "patience", I'd noted in my diary, is similar in meaning to "suffering" and "passion". Interesting.) "Caught one, dad," Scott announced. "Squire. Too small - toss him back." "But dad, it's my first fish. Can't I put him in the bucket to look at for a bit?" "Oh, all right." "Can you get it off the hook, dad?" "Here, give it to me then." "Put your foot on it, dear, it's jumping all over the place." You could tell Justine was becoming fed up. "I know, I know," I muttered, pushing my thonged foot on the gasping fish. "It's mouth is bleeding," Amanda accused, throwing one of Justine's lipsticky Kleenexes at me. I wriggled and wrestled the hook backwards through flesh and cartilage*cartilege. More blood. The stare of its unblinking eye condemned me as I placed it in the bucket where it bucked in sudden vigour, only to become passive again. N07 2004 words Quadrant - November 1986 Kalgoorlie Alice By Shane McCauley IN THE DARKNESS of the lane-way the shadowy thing had looked like a giant toad squatting, hind parts against the brick. He had looked and stumbled into the same wall, fifteen feet away from the now gurgling shadow. He saw faint light coursing with the meandering trickle of urine. "What ya lookin' at?" asked the shadow, now gaining a third dimension as an arm appeared. The brandy tap-danced behind his eyes and he couldn't find an answer to the hoarse female voice. Raymond Christopher had arrived in Kalgoorlie the previous day, putting up at one of the cheapest hotels. The path which had brought him through this day to this particular alley-way had become even more confused in his mind than the purposeless reality. A little earlier in the evening he'd tried explaining to the tattooed roo-shooter who had asked him the inevitable question in the adjacent bar. "I came here because I wanted to feel clean. I wanted to feel that I could just be me and get away from the past. No strings. No letters to write. Nothing ... Thanks, I will - nice drop this Hannan's ... My old dream of standing alone on the mountain. And here I am, on the edge of a desert. When I was a boy I wondered why they changed the guard at Buckingham Palace. Why they changed anything. Here nothing changes. Except the shadows." Cornwall, the roo-shooter, had downed his brandy, belched, and turned watery grey eyes upon him. "How old are you?" "Twenty-eight. But that's not ..." Here Raymond had been interrupted by an old-timer crashing between them, bringing a whisky-flooded breath with him from out of the night. "I've jush had all me teesh out. Need drink." Overwhelmed by the dazed sadness in the man's eyes, and choked by the festering whisky smell, Raymond had barely managed to reach the outside lane-way before he was briefly, but unequivocably, sick. It was there that the amphibious female shape had clambered out of the darkness at him. "I said what ya lookin' at? Christ, but look at him! Ha, ha, ha, ha!" The laugh sounded more like a buffalo's death-throes. Raymond wiped his chin with the back of his hand and looked at the shape, an Aboriginal woman he now remembered seeing earlier sitting on some steps outside a house in one of the nearby back-streets. "You'd bedder sid down an' 'ave 'nother drink. Doan mine Alice, she's gotta piss somewheres an' 'can't go in the pub. Threw me out an' busted two of me fingers last time I wend in theres." She crumpled beside Raymond, hands still gripping a half-empty bottle of wine. He, too, slumped and felt the spirit of the surrounding desert pass him by, pausing only to ruffle his black hair with its blacker breath. I don't think I can walk, he kept thinking, floating out of himself and forgetting the presence beside him. A high-pitched yell came from a window near them and sliced up to the stars. "You call me a poofter again, and I'll cut your fuckin' throat!" Alice laughed again while Raymond threw up the remnants of his sticky brandy and beer. He turned and watched the powerful action of her dark, elastic throat as she sucked at the wine bottle. He vaguely tried to guess her age, couldn't and was tempted to close his eyes, resisting as he heard his brain chuckle menacingly at the prospect. This time last week I'd just finished a week's respectable work at the bank, he thought; now I'm seven hundred kilometres away, rapidly drinking up my dreams, sitting in a damp alley with an Aboriginal woman who's liable to rob me the minute I pass out, perhaps even helping the process along with her bottle. He looked up at the stars and suddenly, almost guiltily, felt irrationally refreshed, as if he'd awoken from a doze at the beach. He took the bottle the pink and black hand passed him and drank a little, tentatively, ready to stop at the first sign of his body's rebellion. None came. The night can begin again, you bloody fool. Inside the pub, Cornwall finished telling the story of his marriage and his "bitch of a wife", tore up her photo, and deposited the fragments into the warming froth of a beer glass. "What's your name?" Raymond heard himself asking. "Alice. Alice Rumsbody I was called. Funny, isn't it?" "Alice is a pretty enough name. I'm Raymond." "Raymon'. Never knew nobody called that. 'nother drink?" He refrained this time, beginning to enjoy the apparent revival of his senses. When in Perth he had become increasingly aware that he was losing his essential person+ality, becoming disembodied, or rather at the disposal of too many other bodies. Too often he wallowed in painful nostalgia, recurring images of himself at his first dance, of his first kiss, his first "adult" nights out with his friends. His spare moments had become so full of these mental images of the past that he'd become frightened, thinking he would never recapture sensations of newness and self-discovery. And then something about the gold-fields attracted him, perhaps that they, too, were remnants, leftovers, from a more bustling period of history. A friend had written a book on the Golden Mile, and this decided him on wanting to share the atmosphere suggested by the anecdotes and historical narrative. Unfortunately, a developing proclivity, a facility, for getting drunk had descended upon him at a similar time, combined with the frustration that comes with a failure to find sufficient self-excuses for the condition. Raymond edged his way back to the alley wall. "I feel like walking. Need to clear my head." " 'sallright. I'll come with ya." Even in the darkness he could see that teeth in the side of her mouth were missing. Yet there was some bluff, attractive quality about her that didn't seem entirely buried in, or unrecoverable from, blunted living. Raymond Christopher and Alice Rumsbody walked hesitantly into the street. The earlier, casual wind had fed upon itself and was now blowing strongly. Paper and leaves jumped up and twisted in the light that stained the street like tobacco-juice. Broken glass was scattered near a drain. Raymond had little idea of where he was going, just a vague thought that he would like to see the heaps of mineral waste, the mesas, in the dawn, hours away. Alice seemed to accept that this man knew his destina+tion; all of the others had. They passed some railway sidings. The railway cars carrying farm machinery looked as if they were being mounted, methodically raped, by their cargo. Alice drank again, while Raymond sang under his breath. "Christopher Robin went down with Alice, they're changing the guard at Buckingham Palace." "What you singing?" He repeated the lines. "Did you make that up?" "No. I remember my mother singing it to me when I was about five. It's funny how nonsense makes sense in the end. If you wait long enough. If you forget that you are waiting." "My mum sang to me, too. She made hers up. We was given a little book of songs by some white peoples, but she couldn't read. She sang a bit 'fore she died. Chubercu+losis, the priest said." Raymond accidentally kicked an empty can that sent a hollow sound echoing along the nearly empty street. A few youths passed, laughing, on the other side. One of them shouted something at them, but Raymond didn't understand it. Not that it mattered. A white ute drove past them, accelerating as it went. Cornwall was going home to an empty house, to commit murder again in his sleep. He recognised Raymond as he went past, and snorted to himself. "Black bitches is better than white. At least you don't expect them to stay with you." And he leaned forward to switch on his radio. The next day every kangaroo he shot would have mascaraed eyes and pouting lips. "Just a minute," said Alice. "I'll be back 'mmedi+ately." Raymond watched her half-run, half-walk into the absolute shadows of a street full of ramshackle houses. He kept on walking, slowly, almost hoping the woman would catch him up. He realised that he would soon be out of town. Several of the houses he passed had dim, furtive lights within them, and he wondered who lived there. At least this is not a city of concrete playing-cards, the Kings and Aces stretching up to grate and flick the sky; the humble neon here doesn't affront the stars too much. As he thought this, conscious of his own bombast, one little star streaked towards the invisible horizon and vanished, absorbed into night's blotting paper. Raymond began to feel cold and weary, but determined to keep walking, putting off the horrible inevitability of waking from drunken sleep. "Vulnerability," he muttered. From one front yard came the sinister sounds of washing hanging on the line. Like ghosts clapping. Then road forked and sign-posts mouthed names blankly at the night. Boulder, Kambalda, Coolgardie. Alice couldn't see Raymond ahead as she hurried along the street, a new and unopened bottle of wine in her hand. Her loose, claret-coloured dress hampered her. Wheezing, she looked down at the white flashing of her sneakers on the ageing bitumen. It was a bad, desolate night to be lonely, and she wanted to find this man again. Even though he had not given her anything. Sores on the backs of her ankles pained her, and her thighs felt watery and were stinging. Then she saw him walking, stumbling, by some bedraggled gum trees on the fringes of the town. The wine she had drunk hugged itself closer to her blood. She felt the evening conspire in her, hearing strange atavistic chants in her heart. She was aware of her own smallness, and her lips were arched in the defeated bow of a smile. Raymond heard the shuffling and panting behind him and waited. He saw the wide-opened eyes and approaching smile, not understanding them. Her motive+lessness pleased him. "Why doan we stop heres! Walked 'nough, ain'tcha?" "If I stop now I might never get up." "Eh? I went back for this." Raymond saw her raise the full bottle of wine above her head as it it were the head of a fallen foe. "Good girl." Her smell came to him on one of the pulsating gusts of wind. A smell of moist cotton, alcohol, and surprisingly gentle sweat that he fancied he could see forming between rich brown pores. It was an exciting combination, somehow combining fruitfulness and decay. On another occasion, at an office-party, he'd become aware of the smell of chicken on his fingers, cold and pale, and that odour had depressed him and been with him for days. He'd thought that death must smell of cold chicken and three-day old flowers. He took the bottle from Alice and drank. "Do you know how to get to those big heaps of waste that are near the abandoned derricks?" "Oh yeah. Near here. Why you want them?" "Might be a good place to sleep." Raymond lit two cigarettes and passed one to Alice. In the blackness near them a small marsupial swallowed a worm. They remained silent as they walked, stopping only once while Raymond turned off the road to urinate on a jagged clump of scrub. He'd only seen the great slabs of mineral waste before when driving, and had always wanted to come back to them. Without a moon it was difficult to determine their exact dimensions. As they walked toward the mesas, Raymond remembered what they reminded him of: the illustrations of a Sumerian city that he'd seen in one of his father's books. There was the same bland impassiveness about them, a defiance and potential strength that was coiled in the grey mud hearts of these abandoned pieces of sludge. There was something pointless and laboured about them that made them peculiarly man-like.