Best Australian Yarns

by Haynes, Jim

  A new ‘open system’ was introduced and ‘B’ class licences were offered to anyone who wanted to have a go. The ‘B’ stations would have to generate their own revenue through advertising.

  Mr C.J. ‘Pa’ Stevenson owned an electrical business in George Street, Sydney, known as Electrical Utilities, from where he sold radio sets and electrical wares. He also carried out experiments in wireless transmission from his shop and from his home in Maroubra.

  He obtained a ‘B’ class licence, which enabled him to broadcast programs publicly. This could be financed by any means at his disposal. He took as his call sign 2EU, which represented the initials of his business. He soon changed the call sign to 2UE when he realised that 2EU sounded like a birdcall when spoken on air!

  The first broadcast from 2UE, on Australia Day 1925, consisted of two hours of recorded music from 8 p.m. until 10 p.m.. Many of Stevenson’s broadcasts utilised his pianola. Once a pianola roll had been played, Stevenson would leave the microphone ‘live’ as he removed the roll and replaced it with another, whistling while he completed the task.

  In order to relieve the silences and long pauses in the program, Stevenson obtained advertising. The first contract was with the butcher Harry Woods, from George Street, who paid one shilling for each advertisement.

  There was one ‘B’ class station that began before 2UE. This was 2BE; it began in November 1924, but it soon shut down, which makes 2UE the oldest operating commercial radio station in Australia.

  JH

  THE PLEASURE FERRY RODNEY

  Strangely, there are two famous nautical calamities concerning a vessel named Rodney in Australia’s history.

  On 13 February 1938, the police band was performing on Sydney Harbour, on the police launch Cambrai to farewell the visiting warship, the USS Louisville.

  Hundreds of ferries and other craft were on the harbour, including the month-old pleasure ferry, Rodney, crowded with 150 people waving goodbye to American sailors.

  As the Louisville passed Bradleys Head, the Rodney went across the wake and, as it did, the passengers moved from one side to the other. Normally, this would not have been a problem, except that the majority of the Rodney’s passengers were on the top deck of the ferry. This sudden shift in weight tilted the ferry dangerously to starboard. It poised for a few seconds, then it overturned completely.

  The Cambrai, on the other side of the Louisville, was hailed by an American officer and arrived on the scene in seconds. Eleven bandsmen dived in and rescued many stricken passengers, while others remained on board, resuscitating and calming survivors.

  In all, nineteen passengers drowned, but without the work of the police bandsmen, the number would have been higher. Band members were later awarded a special certificate by the Royal Life-Saving Society for their part in the rescue.

  JH

  THE ENEMY BELOW

  Real estate prices plummeted in Bondi, Rose Bay, Woollahra, Vaucluse and Bellevue Hill on 8 June 1942. After midnight, the Japanese submarine I-24, positioned about 6 kilometres offshore, fired ten rounds that landed in those suburbs. Four exploded, doing minor damage to buildings. In the general panic, house prices fell in the eastern suburbs and rose in the Blue Mountains.

  Twenty-seven Japanese submarines were known to have been operational along the east coast of Australia during 1942, 1943 and 1944, attacking around fifty merchant vessels. Twenty sinkings are confirmed to be from Japanese submarine attacks, another nine are officially unconfirmed but probably were. In the unprotected shipping lane where the hospital ship Centaur was sunk, the vessels Kalingo, Lydia M. Childs, Wollongbar, Fingal and Limerick had all been sunk by Japanese submarines in the previous six months.

  The attacks by Japanese submarines were part of a plan to destroy supply convoys to New Guinea, cut off supply lines to the war zones to the north and drive a wedge between Australia and the USA and prevent them operating freely in the Pacific.

  The three ‘midget’ submarines which made their way into Sydney Harbour weighed 50 tons and were over 24 metres long. They were carried on the decks of the large subs, which were huge vessels almost 122 metres long with crews of ninety-five men.

  A fleet of five ‘mother’ submarines was off the coast of Sydney; the two that didn’t carry midget subs carried seaplanes for reconnaissance. When the midget subs failed to return, the large submarines attacked at least seven merchant vessels between them and sank the Iron Chieftain on 3 June, the Iron Crown on 4 June and the Guatemala on 12 June. As a result, fifty lives were lost and escorted convoys introduced.

  None of the mother submarines that attacked Sydney Harbour survived World War II. The US navy ships sank four of them and one was sunk by two British destroyers off the Maldives.

  The two main targets of the midget submarine attacks in Sydney Harbour also failed to see out the war. The USS Chicago sank following the battle of Rennell Island in January 1943 and the HMAS Canberra was lost near Savo Island in August 1942.

  JH

  BUSH YARNS AND

  TALL TALES

  Bush yarns always seem to verge on the incredible. Far be it from me, however, to argue over the veracity of stories told to me by some of my good mates, like Paddy Ryan, Paul B. Kidd and Frank Daniel, let alone those spun by great Aussie poets like Banjo Paterson and Thomas E. Spencer!

  All of these things could have happened . . . couldn’t they? I have researched these yarns carefully, even interviewed some of the authors in depth, and I can assure you, dear reader, that these are mostly ‘tall but true’ tales, with a few ‘tall but untrue tales’ thrown in.

  After all, strange things happen all the time in the bush and I am sure that all the stories here could possibly have happened just as they are told . . . if every coincidence fell into place, if the planets aligned just right . . . if Murphy’s Law was in operation . . . if pigs flew!

  THE QUEENSLAND BORDER

  The scene is a tiny one-teacher school in the middle of the mulga. School is in session and one kid rides up bareback, ties up his pony and dashes into the building, clutching his satchel.

  He is obviously quite late for school and the teacher asks him why.

  ‘I had to make my own lunch, Miss,’ he replies.

  ‘Well, sit down and get out your book, and don’t let it happen again,’ snaps the teacher.

  Next day, it’s the same thing. School is well under way when the kid gallops up bareback, ties up his pony and rushes into the building, his satchel bouncing along behind him.

  ‘You’re late again!’ the teacher says in exasperated tones, ‘What’s your excuse today?’

  ‘Sorry, Miss,’ says the kid, puffing as he sits down, ‘but I had to make my own lunch.’

  ‘This can’t keep on happening,’ says the teacher severely. ‘If you keep doing this you will miss valuable lessons and I’ll have to punish you!’

  Next day, it’s the same thing, except the kid is even later and the class is halfway through a geography lesson, with the teacher pointing out the various features on the map of Australia.

  The kid gallops up full pelt, jumps off the pony, races into the class and dives into his seat, dragging his satchel along the floor.

  The teacher stops the lesson and calls the boy to the front of the class.

  ‘Why are you so late?’ she demands.

  ‘Sorry, Miss,’ says the kid, staring down at his boots, ‘but I had to make my own lunch.’

  ‘I can’t believe that you’re late again!’ the teacher says angrily. ‘You have missed a good part of the geography lesson and if you can’t answer this geography question you will have to be punished!’

  She hands the boy her pointer and asks him, in an icy voice, ‘Where is the Queensland border?’

  ‘In bed with Mum, Miss,’ replies the kid, ‘that’s why I have to make me own lunch!’

  JH

  MULGA BILL’S BICYCLE

  A.B. (BANJO) PATERSON

  ’Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cy
cling craze;

  He turned away the good old horse that served him many days;

  He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen;

  He hurried off to town and bought a shining new machine.

  And as he wheeled it through the door, with air of lordly pride,

  The grinning shop assistant said, ‘Excuse me, can you ride?’

  ‘See here, young man,’ said Mulga Bill, ‘from Walgett to the sea,

  From Conroy’s Gap to Castlereagh, there’s none can ride like me.

  ‘I’m good all round at everything, as everybody knows,

  Although I’m not the one to talk—I hate a man that blows.

  But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight;

  Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wildcat can it fight.

  ‘There’s nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel,

  There’s nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof, or wheel,

  But what I’ll sit, while hide will hold and girths and straps are tight:

  I’ll ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight.’

  ’Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that sought his own abode,

  Perched beside the Dead Man’s Creek, beside the mountain road.

  He turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray,

  But ere he’d gone a hundred yards it bolted clean away.

  It left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver streak,

  It whistled down the awful slope towards the Dead Man’s Creek.

  It shaved a stump by half an inch, it dodged a big white box:

  The very wallaroos in fright went scrambling up the rocks.

  The wombats hiding in their caves dug deeper underground,

  As Mulga Bill, as white as chalk, sat tight to every bound.

  It struck a stone and gave a spring that cleared a fallen tree,

  It raced beside a precipice as close as close could be;

  And then, as Mulga Bill let out one last despairing shriek,

  It made a leap of twenty feet into the Dead Man’s Creek.

  ’Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that slowly swam ashore:

  He said, ‘I’ve had some narrer shaves and lively rides before;

  I’ve rode a wild bull round the yard to win a five pound bet,

  But this was the most awful ride that I’ve encountered yet.

  ‘I’ll give that two-wheeled outlaw best; it’s shaken all my nerve

  To feel it whistle through the air and plunge and buck and swerve.’

  It’s safe at rest in Dead Man’s Creek, we’ll leave it lying still;

  A horse’s back is good enough henceforth for Mulga Bill.’

  BULLOCKY BILL IS MISSING

  It was during the big floods of the post World War I era that many parts of the Darling River basin were near impassable for weeks after the Darling had flooded.

  When the Darling floods, you wait weeks for the water to come down and then weeks for the inundation to subside. You get plenty of warning that the flood is coming, but if you miscalculate, you can be stranded for weeks on high ground.

  There are two types of soil out on the Darling. Where the river doesn’t flood, you get the typical inland red soil. Where it does flood, you get the famous Darling River black mud: gluey, sticky stuff that sticks to everything and will leave a vehicle stranded with its wheels coated. It’s thick, grey, slippery goo that simply means no traction is possible.

  You bog down in red soil, but with black soil you can be bogged sitting on the surface—going nowhere.

  The other thing about black soil is that it develops holes just under the surface. If you break through black soil at certain places you simply disappear into irregular shaped potholes and crevices that change shape once more water comes along.

  So, the story is told that, after the flood subsided, it was realised that no one had seen Bullocky Bill and his team for weeks. Bill had been taking a load of wool from an outlying station to the river at Menindee, where the riverboats could take over the task of getting the wool down to Mildura and then on to Melbourne or Geelong.

  Bullocky Bill, his team and load are missing in the floods, so the men from the nearby stations all ride out looking for poor old Bill and his team, following the route he should have taken.

  Bullock teams move slowly. Maybe Bill could not outrun the slowly advancing floodwaters. There were grave fears for the safety of the old bullock driver.

  The men look for days, across the red soil plains and then down into the river basin where the black soil is still treacherous and wet and sticky. Finally, someone in one of the search parties spies an object in the distance, conspicuous on a flat, black-soil claypan.

  The party rides over to investigate and the object is identified at a distance as Bullocky Bill’s hat, sitting there on the flat claypan. The men ride up and dismount. One man lifts the hat reverentially and—lo and behold, there’s Bill stuck deep in the mud with just his head showing!

  ‘ ’Struth, Bill, are you okay?” asks the bloke who lifted the hat.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ Bill replies stoically and matter-of-factly, ‘but I think the team’s in pretty deep!’

  JH

  HOW WE CASHED THE PIG

  JACK SORENSEN

  We shore for a farmer at Wallaby Bend,

  Myself and my mate, Dan McLean;

  And while we were toiling, an old bushman friend,

  Wrote saying the farmer was mean.

  We finished his shearing (the flock was not big),

  And imagine our wrath and dismay,

  When he went to a sty and returned with a pig,

  And said, ‘This is all I can pay.’

  We set off next morn down the long dusty track,

  In the blackest of humours I fear.

  I carried our pig in a bag on my back,

  While McLean trudged along with our gear.

  I talked as we journeyed—it lightened my load—

  And was pointing out how we’d been robbed,

  When we came to a shanty that stood by the road,

  And I turned out my pockets and sobbed.

  ‘Cheer up,’ cried McLean, ‘we will drink and forget

  That old blighter back at the Bend.’

  I said in soft accents imbued with regret,

  ‘Alas! we have nothing to spend.’

  My comrade replied, ‘What a dullard you are,

  We’ll drink and make merry in style.’

  Then seizing our pig he walked into the bar,

  And ordered our drinks with a smile.

  Our host filled ’em up and went off with the pig,

  As though the affair was not strange;

  We scarcely had time our refreshments to swig,

  When he came back with ten piglets change.

  We stayed at the shanty that night and next day

  (Good liquor was much cheaper then),

  And gladly rejoicing we went on our way,

  With a basket of eggs and a hen.

  BUFFALO FLY, GO AWAY

  LENNIE LOWER

  Ever seen a buffalo fly?

  Now, don’t lie to us! On Friday nights, for instance?

  Buffalo flies are causing a lot of damage in North Queensland. We have made a close study of buffalo flies, starting from the birth of the insect and working up through the calf-fly stages until we managed to secure fully-grown specimens of the buffalo fly itself with horns measuring 8 feet across.

  The flies live entirely on buffaloes. They fly to about the height of a buffalo’s back and then hover in the air, waiting for a buffalo to walk underneath.

  The method of egg-laying is of great scientific interest. You are, of course, aware that when a buffalo is pleased, it wags its tail.

  Taking advantage of this, the fly grasps the animal’s tail firmly between its two front paws and waves the tail gently from side to side.

  The buffalo thinks
he is pleased, and smiles. The fly then lays its eggs in the wrinkles. As regards ridding the north of buffalo flies, we think it would be better to get rid of the buffaloes. You can swipe a buffalo fly, but it takes a good man to swot a buffalo.

  However, if the extinction of the flies is insisted upon, we suggest that a lot of empty tomato sauce bottles be scattered about where the insects are most prevalent, they being very fond of tomato sauce.

  On finding the bottles empty, the flies would become enraged and smash the bottles.

  They would then cut their feet walking on the fragments, dirt would get into the cuts, and they would all die of tetanus.

  THE SHEARER’S NIGHTMARE

  ANONYMOUS

  Old Bill the shearer had been phoned to catch the train next day,

  He had a job at Mungindi, an early start for May.

  So he packed his port and rolled his swag and hurried off to bed,

  But sleep? He couldn’t steal a wink to soothe his aching head.

  He heard the missus snoring hard; he heard the ticking clock,

  He heard the midnight train blow in, he heard the crowing cock.

  At last Bill in a stupor lay, a-dreaming now was he,

  Of sheep and pens and belly-wool he shore in number three.

  He grabbed the missus in her sleep and shore her like a ewe.

  The fine performance started as up the neck he flew,

  Then he turned her for the long-blow, down the whipping side he tore,

  With his knee upon her back and a firm grip round her jaw.

  Then he rolled her over, like a demon now he shore,

  (She dared not kick or struggle, she had seen him shear before).

  He was leading ‘Jack the Ringer’, he was matching ‘Mick the Brute’,

  When he called for tar and dumped her, like a hogget, down the chute!

  Then he reached to stop the shear machine and put it out of gear,