Kevin Cassidy The Cassidy Chronicles

by Lindsay Johannsen

CHAPTER 39

  The Power Of Prayer; and Blitz Tracks In The Bush

  Sash’s disposition remained at a low ebb for some time after this, with little evidence of improvement even as the end of June approached. Then one afternoon Father O’Long took me aside and suggested that with a long weekend coming up it might be in Sash’s best interests if I were to organise some sort of excursion.

  “Get him away from school for a while,” he said. “Turn his mind to other things.” Father’s preference was a camping trip, “…up on top of the ranges somewhere or at a waterhole in one of the gorges.”

  By an interesting coincidence I had been toying with a similar idea, and not entirely because of Sash. Something I’d always wanted to do before leaving Gower Abbey was to revisit the scene of Hell’s Deepest Pit – the cave-in we jokingly referred to as Father O’long’s downfall. From memory a narrow tunnel had been revealed, most likely the original access drive to the now-collapsed cavern.

  No one from the school had returned there since that earlier visit, and neither, as far as we knew, had any one else – mainly I suppose because there was no real reason to do so. My own motives involved an intense curiosity about the passage and where it might lead. Often as I lay in bed waiting for sleep to come I’d think about what I might find there. One night I even dreamt I was exploring the old workings – on a bicycle of all things but you know what dreams are like.

  I realised the tunnel might go nowhere, of course – a few metres to another rock-fall perhaps, or a dead end. Whatever the case I was determined to find the answer, despite lacking any logical reason for doing so. It was much like a cave explorer exploring a cave, I suppose – to see where it goes, and for how far.

  I didn’t make the mistake of telling anyone of my crazy scheme, however. They might have recognised it exactly for what it was, that is to say: A Crazy Scheme.

  To encourage the idea of a camping trip up the valley Father O’Long volunteered the school ute. The old dear was still in his possession as it happened, courtesy of the Ingham Holden dealer. After accepting it as a trade-in on a new station wagon he’d given it straight back.

  “It can only be the power of prayer that keeps it going, Father,” he’d said. “It’d be no good to anyone else.”

  After getting everything ready Friday evening we set off early Saturday morning – me driving, Sash and Rocky in the front with me and Zack and Peter Rabbit on the back with the gear – and every one of us enthusiastic bushwalkers.

  The first stage of our journey took us through Angus Cross’ property and we called in to the house to say g’day and see how the old bloke was going. Father had requested we do this but we’d have stopped there anyway.

  Old Angus was an interesting fellow. For one thing, he didn’t seem a day older than when I first met him. And it wasn’t just Angus. Everything around him – his property and stockyards, the house, his old Blitz truck – all seemed to exist in some sort of stasis. It was almost as if he inhabited a special little part of the universe where the normal laws of ageing and change had been suspended.

  Something else that hadn’t changed since time began was the way Angus welcomed boys from Gower Abbey, with a typical visit proceeding like this:

  On receipt of an invitation (or after phoning to see if it was convenient), up to seven or eight of us would set off – mostly in our school bomb but sometimes in Father’s ute. On arrival Angus would greet us enthusiastically and check on the group’s makeup. If mostly junior boys were present we’d be given mugs of tea, but if the party comprised senior boys only (or seniors and a seniors-approved junior or two) we’d be offered a mug of his home brew. A large slab of corned beef would be on the table, along with fresh homemade bread, jars of his homemade mango pickles and his hot or mild chilli sauces. We were to help ourselves.

  A bottle of tomato sauce was always available for the less adventurous, but if any “less adventurous” happened to be with us we’d explain the situation discreetly and suggest that it was acceptable to forgo the sauce provided they at least fell with enthusiasm upon Angus’ pickles – something he found most gratifying. (And I say “at least”, here, because even his mild chilli sauce was a pretty grim challenge.)

  Following refreshments we would be introduced to the flat tyre on his old Blitz. Angus would then explain at length about his crook back and in a roundabout way suggest how we boys might like to give an old feller a hand by taking it off and mending it. As he reached this part we’d put on a little act and scatter like startled rabbits.

  Angus would then shout a few blunt words after us on the shortcomings of the younger generation and stalk around and past the workshop to the front of the house. There, out of sight to us, he would busy himself aggressively with some menial task.

  As soon as he’d gone a couple of us would set about dismantling the hydraulic jack to get it working properly, while others would wrestle with the big wheel-spanner to loosen the nuts. These were usually tight but they were never rusty, as we’d learned years before to keep their threads well greased – we being the ones who invariably attended to these things.

  Nor was it just a matter of replacing the flat tyre with the spare, because that usually needed mending as well. Anyway, even if the spare tyre were inflated, to do so would be impractical, for that would then leave the old fellow without a serviceable spare.

  After a time Angus would return to the workshop on the pretext of looking for something – all the while complaining loudly about having to do everything himself. He would then feign surprise on finding us getting on with the job.

  Next he’d explain how the puncture meant he’d not been able to get wood for the stove, so once the tyres were done we’d check the engine over and get the old battle-wagon going. Often we’d have to finish unloading it, or reverse it under his rickety old gantry and lift off the cattle crate. Whatever the case, as soon as everything was ready, we’d throw a couple of axes on board and drive out along one of his tracks into the bush. After a couple of hours we’d return with enough cut wood on board to keep his stove and the copper at the laundry troughs going for a month – or until another team of boys came by, anyway.

  By the time we’d unloaded and stacked the wood Angus would have some big juicy steaks ready for us. It was then simply a matter of eating as much as one could to please our host, following which it was mugs of tea all around and a good old yarn, with Angus doing all the yarning.

  Angus Cross had fought at Gallipoli and in France during World War One and, like many an old soldier, remained hostage to his nightmares and memories. And the carnage and the killing he’d witnessed in those places was almost beyond our comprehension. How could anyone have lived through such chaos, we wondered, let alone to return home unmaimed?

  Yet Angus did have scars, and each of them deeper and more painful than any wounded flesh. Once set in motion his recollections would follow a well trodden path, from the bungled landing at Anzac Cove, through the slaughter that was Gallipoli and their eventual evacuation, then on to the horrors of France. And his stories were so terrible and the images so graphic we’d be drawn into them – living as he had done; breathing-in the stench and feeling his fear in our guts.

  We’d lie face down with him in the mud of a carcase-filled crater; trapped in a field of crossfire, the Germans shelling our position to soup and machine gunning anything that moved. Come darkness we’d crawl back to our lines – just us and three others, the rest butchered in the mire.

  Then we’d be in Armentieres with him, on leave-pass with his two best mates. We’d rendezvous with some farm girls they’d met and join in their late night escapades. We’d drink too much wine and sing bawdy songs, dance in the street and beat up any luckless Pommy soldiers we came across.

  Later we’d see our fair companions home. They’d smuggle us in through their bedroom windows and we’d snuggle into their warm soft beds. Later again we’d get ourselves back into barracks via an arrangement with a mate on sentry duty.<
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  Eventually Angus would lead us down into the anonymous mud-wallow trench where his mates had died. And theirs was no heroic last stand or a soldierly sacrifice for a mate. Neither was there evidence or sign to mark their passing. They’d simply evaporated in a silent cloud of blood and flesh while he was talking to them and rolling a smoke.

  And silent it was, for though unmarked by anything deadlier than bone fragments and blood, he’d heard not a sound for five long months – and every conscious moment of it, yearning, heartsick, that the blast might at least have been merciful enough to take him as well, as it so enriched with their souls the dark soil of France.

  At this point his words would falter and Angus would get to his feet and wander away. Eventually he’d return and some more home brew would be opened. He would then propose a toast “…to the finest couple of mates a bloke could ever have wished for” – mates that had stood shoulder to shoulder with him through the terror and chaos and butchery, he would say. Mates he’d left behind.

  Then, so as to not dwell on such sadness (and aided by his quaff), he’d tell us of other times the three of them stood shoulder to shoulder. We’d meet outraged gendarmes who couldn’t understand a word of Australian, outraged military police and numerous outraged officers. All were aware they were being mocked and lied to and, often where the officers were concerned, swindled into the bargain.

  For us this part of his reminiscing was like a series of glorified Aussie Boys’ Own Adventure Stories – the trio lurching from one hilarious situation to another … except that we knew how it ended.

  Having relived and relieved the pain of those dreadful times Angus would brighten somewhat. After thanking us for being so helpful we would bid him farewell and set off back to the school.

  Traffic was never an issue as his property was the last one on the road. And we, of course, were never actually tipsy. Ever-so-slightly just the teeniest weeniest bit fuzzy-headed perhaps, but never actually tipsy.

  Our “reliable” junior – or someone who’d kept mostly to Angus’ ginger beer – would now be the driver. This boy would deliver us safely home somewhere around four-thirty in the afternoon, having first stopped half a kilometre before the school gate in order to wake everyone.

  On arrival we would alight from the ute with great decorum, then saunter with considered steadiness and decorum to the dormitory. And there, with further decorum and steadiness, we would lie down for an hour or so until teatime.

  The interesting thing about these trips was that, on our return, Father O’Long and company were never to be seen. We, of course, would be on the lookout for them, and always felt that hidden eyes were watching our every move.

  Also, thinking back, I find myself overcome with a deep and abiding suspicion that our parish priest had orchestrated these events from start to finish. In fact this would have been so much Father‘s style that it’s a wonder we never twigged to it – knowing him as we did.

  Father would have realised, too (despite Angus seeming to live in a no-time zone and being exempt somehow from the laws of aging and decay) that he was actually getting on in years, and that more and more he’d be in need of some help around the place. Clearly those two were the best of mates, but knowing of Angus’ war service lent Father a special appreciation of his situation – as both friend and spiritual guide. He’d be aware of Angus’ terrible loneliness and his need to ameliorate the black cancer those nightmarish memories could provoke.

  What better means of achieving this than by giving him opportunities to put those horrific events into words – and to an audience of attentive wide-eyed boys. This way the amusing and farcical would soon come to the fore, gently relieving the poor fellow of his crippling anguish.

  Also, via this same process, Father O’Long could allow selected boys an invigorating break from the school regimen. There they could relax for a time and forget about rules and responsibilities. At the same time Father would know, a) where those boys were, b) approximately what they’d be doing at any particular time, c) about how much they would be offered to drink (as well as what it was), and, d) – in that Angus could no longer abide cigarettes – exactly how much they’d be smoking.

  I mean he always did know these things, except at these times it was with his approval. And our “charitable works” there would earn us valuable merit points as well, we believed – totally imagining that Father kept account of such details.

  On this particular day Angus was in no mood to dwell on life’s losses and tragedies, however. He’d just returned from selling a consignment of young bulls in Townsville at a very favourable price and was glowing with satisfaction.

  “Well! You blokes certainly know when to turn up,” he said as he came out of the house to greet us. “I was waiting for someone to fix the Blitz’ radiator but I got it mended while I was in Townsville. I bought a couple of second-hand tyres for the old girl too, and some new tubes.

  “The bloke at the tyre place reckoned he’d never in his life seen so many patches on the one tube. When I told him who was mending me tyres he said there’s a job there for a couple of you any time you like.”

  “I’d be happy to never see another truck tyre,” muttered Sash.

  “Yeah, and car tyres too,” added Zack, thinking about the million or so punctures we’d had on the school bomb. “I don’t suppose you brung any back for us?”

  “Well, now that you mention it, I did have a scrounge around their rubbish heap,” Angus said. “I’ll dig ‘em out for you later.”

  He cast his eye over the swags and other gear in the back of the ute. “So y’se are clearing out from the school, are y’s? Well don’t worry, I won’t dob y’se in. Only I thought you’d know by now, but. You can’t make a getaway going this way. Y’se have to go down the valley first.”

  “Nah. We’re going camping,” I said. “At the water hole down from Hell’s Deepest Pit. But we could get you a load of wood first – before we go; if you like.”

  “Don’t worry about wood,” he replied. “I got plenty of wood.” He gave me a calculating look. “You’re going to the pit, aren’t you Cassidy. You’ll be wanting to have a look in that tunnel. Well, I’ll save you the trouble. It goes in about thirty feet to where the roof’s come down and blocked it.”

  “Gee Angus, what makes you think we want to look in the tunnel? We’re just...”

  “I wasn’t talking about them Cassidy. They’ve probably got more sense. I was talking about you. I know you better than you think.”

  “What d’ you mean? I just...”

  “You just reckon old Angus doesn’t think about things too much, as long as there’s plenty of wood and the Blitz hasn’t got a flat. Well that’s true enough and I certainly appreciate what you blokes do for an old feller. But don’t think I don’t know where you get to when you go out for a load of wood, because I generally get to see the tracks later on.

  “Somehow, though, whenever you’re driving the truck, I find tracks going half way up into the ranges. I used to wonder sometimes, too, about where you picked up some of those rocks you’re always bringing back, until one day I’m riding around up near the escarpment and what do I find? Bloody blitz tracks!

  “At first I couldn’t believe it, but then I says to meself I says: ‘Who in the name of fortune would be driving the old Blitz around up here? There’s plenty of easier places to get a load of wood.’”

  I could feel my ears starting to glow.

  “…And then I says to meself, ‘Who is it that always seems to bring back more rocks than wood when he’s around?’”

  I wanted to protest this outrageous exaggeration but Angus was playing me like a fiddle. Every time I tried to speak he’d cut me off.

  “—Not that I mind,” he said as I started to object. Then he paused again, watching me closely. “Just curious...” he added when I tried again.

  “...And it took me a while to work it out.”

  That time he missed. “What were you lookin
’ for?” I said quickly.

  “Same as you, I reckon. So what did you find?”

  “Nothin’,” I replied. “But it’s interesting following some of those old tracks.”

  “Not as interesting as it is following the tracks that go along some of those old tracks,” he said pointedly.

  The others were watching with half disguised smirks. Angus broadened the discussion to include them.

  “If youse boys can get up there in the old Blitz there’s no reason for not fixin’ me fence at the same time,” he added. “Over the years I’ve done half me cattle because of those tracks. They follow ‘em up and get into the school’s paddocks where a fallen tree or something has broken the wires.”

  I looked at the others. Their faces had become – by virtue of diplomatic nicety – inscrutable. It was common knowledge, after all, that Angus’ fences were totally transparent to wandering cattle. Two sides of his place adjoined the school’s holdings and at any given time about half his herd was in the station’s paddocks. At the same time, though, about half the beasts running on his little property were Gower Abbey cattle.

  In truth Angus and Father never concerned themselves about their joint fences. It didn’t matter anyway; it was all sorted out come the muster.