The Complete Book of Australian Flying Doctor Stories by Bill Marsh Page B
Authors: Bill Marsh
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saw a promising place I’d call up Ted, the radio operator, back at the base.
‘Look, Ted,’ I’d say, ‘I think we’ve blown an exhaust gasket in the starboard engine and we’ll have to put down and take a look at it.’
‘Okay,’ Ted’d say. ‘Please give your location just in case you need us to send someone out to get you.’
Which I’d do. Joe would land on a suitable claypan. Then we’d take a quick look at the exhaust gasket, find that there was nothing wrong, radio Ted back and tell him that we’re okay and we’ll only be delayed for a while, then go and shoot some ducks for dinner.
Anyway, this particular day we were heading across the Simpson Desert at about 5000 feet. That’s about as high as you could get a Dragon to fly in hot weather, and we had a forequarter of beef on board which we’d picked up along the way, legally mind you. And, lo and behold, we blew an exhaust gasket, in real life.
So Joe throttled the engine back and sagged the Dragon down to about 500 feet. Then to lighten the load we chucked the bloody forequarter of beef out and hung the plane in at between 400 and 500 hundred feet.
‘Things don’t look too good,’ Joe said.
‘Okay,’ I said. So I called up the base on the radio. ‘Ted, we’re in a lot of strife out here,’ I said. ‘We’ve blown an exhaust gasket and we might have to put down.’
‘What did you say?’ he asked.
I said, ‘We’ve blown an exhaust gasket and we might have to put down.’
‘Oh righto,’ he replied, all excited, ‘so it’s duck for dinner again, is it?’
Then he went off the air.
Dog’s Dinner
A few years ago there was this feller out on a station who’d somehow got his hand caught in a piece of machinery and had lopped off one of his fingers. Amputated it, like.
So we got the call from this feller; pretty laid back about the accident he was. Like most bushies, real laid back. ‘Just lost me finger, doc,’ he said. ‘What do yer reckon I should do about it?’
‘Look,’ said the doctor, ‘just put a bandage around the stump to stop the bleeding. When that’s done get your finger, the missing one, wrap it in a tea towel which is packed with ice and we’ll see if we can attach it when we get out there.’
‘Ah, doc,’ replied the feller, ‘me finger’s pretty well, yer know, stuffed as far as I can see. It don’t look too good at all.’
‘Yeah, that may well be the case,’ said the doctor. ‘But, still and all, grab the finger, put it in a tea towel packed with ice and when we get out there we’ll have a good look at it. Right?’
When we landed at the station where the feller lived, way out it was, he sauntered over to the plane. One hand was bandaged up around the stump and he’s got a tea towel in his other hand. Both the bandage and the tea towel were soaked through with blood. A real mess, it was.
So we got out of the plane. ‘G’day,’ we said. ‘How yer doing?’
And he said, ‘Oh, not real flash.’
Then we asked if we could have a look in the tea towel, just to see how bad the severed finger was.
‘Okay,’ he said.
As I said, this feller had one hand covered in bandage and he was carrying the tea towel containing the severed finger in the other hand, making things a little awkward for him. Most of the ice had melted, which made it even worse. So when he went to pass over the bloodied tea towel it slipped out of his hand. Before we could catch it…plop, it came to land on the dusty ground.
Now, that wasn’t too bad. But with it being a station there were stacks of working dogs around the place. And all these dogs were kelpie-blue heeler crosses and they all looked the same and they all hung around in packs of about ten or twelve, gathered around the place.
What you’ve got to realise at this point is that on these stations they keep their working dogs fairly lean. They don’t like to overfeed them. That way they’ve got more stamina when it comes to mustering the sheep or
‘Look, Ted,’ I’d say, ‘I think we’ve blown an exhaust gasket in the starboard engine and we’ll have to put down and take a look at it.’
‘Okay,’ Ted’d say. ‘Please give your location just in case you need us to send someone out to get you.’
Which I’d do. Joe would land on a suitable claypan. Then we’d take a quick look at the exhaust gasket, find that there was nothing wrong, radio Ted back and tell him that we’re okay and we’ll only be delayed for a while, then go and shoot some ducks for dinner.
Anyway, this particular day we were heading across the Simpson Desert at about 5000 feet. That’s about as high as you could get a Dragon to fly in hot weather, and we had a forequarter of beef on board which we’d picked up along the way, legally mind you. And, lo and behold, we blew an exhaust gasket, in real life.
So Joe throttled the engine back and sagged the Dragon down to about 500 feet. Then to lighten the load we chucked the bloody forequarter of beef out and hung the plane in at between 400 and 500 hundred feet.
‘Things don’t look too good,’ Joe said.
‘Okay,’ I said. So I called up the base on the radio. ‘Ted, we’re in a lot of strife out here,’ I said. ‘We’ve blown an exhaust gasket and we might have to put down.’
‘What did you say?’ he asked.
I said, ‘We’ve blown an exhaust gasket and we might have to put down.’
‘Oh righto,’ he replied, all excited, ‘so it’s duck for dinner again, is it?’
Then he went off the air.
Dog’s Dinner
A few years ago there was this feller out on a station who’d somehow got his hand caught in a piece of machinery and had lopped off one of his fingers. Amputated it, like.
So we got the call from this feller; pretty laid back about the accident he was. Like most bushies, real laid back. ‘Just lost me finger, doc,’ he said. ‘What do yer reckon I should do about it?’
‘Look,’ said the doctor, ‘just put a bandage around the stump to stop the bleeding. When that’s done get your finger, the missing one, wrap it in a tea towel which is packed with ice and we’ll see if we can attach it when we get out there.’
‘Ah, doc,’ replied the feller, ‘me finger’s pretty well, yer know, stuffed as far as I can see. It don’t look too good at all.’
‘Yeah, that may well be the case,’ said the doctor. ‘But, still and all, grab the finger, put it in a tea towel packed with ice and when we get out there we’ll have a good look at it. Right?’
When we landed at the station where the feller lived, way out it was, he sauntered over to the plane. One hand was bandaged up around the stump and he’s got a tea towel in his other hand. Both the bandage and the tea towel were soaked through with blood. A real mess, it was.
So we got out of the plane. ‘G’day,’ we said. ‘How yer doing?’
And he said, ‘Oh, not real flash.’
Then we asked if we could have a look in the tea towel, just to see how bad the severed finger was.
‘Okay,’ he said.
As I said, this feller had one hand covered in bandage and he was carrying the tea towel containing the severed finger in the other hand, making things a little awkward for him. Most of the ice had melted, which made it even worse. So when he went to pass over the bloodied tea towel it slipped out of his hand. Before we could catch it…plop, it came to land on the dusty ground.
Now, that wasn’t too bad. But with it being a station there were stacks of working dogs around the place. And all these dogs were kelpie-blue heeler crosses and they all looked the same and they all hung around in packs of about ten or twelve, gathered around the place.
What you’ve got to realise at this point is that on these stations they keep their working dogs fairly lean. They don’t like to overfeed them. That way they’ve got more stamina when it comes to mustering the sheep or
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