“G’day Jed! You’ve got two teachers away but I called Manpower for relief,” yells Trish, his ever loyal executive officer. She flicks wayward strands of dark hair out of her brown eyes and continues with her briefing. “Mrs Street wants to see you about Sophie being bullied in the playground. The ride-on mower blew up and the new one is delayed. If Doug would service and use it properly that wouldn’t happen! The architect wants to catch up about the hall today and the IT man is coming down to talk about the upgrade.”
Nothing like being away for a few days! The phone rings and Trish dives onto it while Jed makes a coffee and ponders his day disappearing.
Walking into his office, he sees the pile of mail lurking on his desk. Buried in that lot will be something worthwhile, but most will be filed in the bin. As he starts that job, he knows the emails will be building up for the daily assault so Jed fires up the laptop while ripping into the mail.
His day is unfolding with its normal unpredictability. He enjoys the challenge of the job and the intrinsic reward of watching students grow, but his sanity needs the regular diversion of adventure. As a principal, he is a problem solver extraordinaire. He has to be because the problems always keep coming relentlessly. His ability to solve problems on the run may be an asset in the job, but doesn’t always help in his relationships. It has taken him a while to realise that women don’t always like problems to be solved, just being listened to often seems to have more appeal.
On top of the day Trish has flagged, he has recess and lunch duties, a staff meeting and will need to find time to mix with students and manage a host of other unexpected issues. A lot of time spent on the small stuff important to other people along with big decisions involving money or people’s future to make in a few seconds, requiring tolerance and good judgement. In his world, every day is like this—multiple, interconnected complexities with accountability to all sorts of people but little freedom to make the decisions to support that accountability. No wonder the desert and jungle are so attractive! Jed thinks.
With the first day over, Jed walks in the front door of his home after a one hundred kilometre drive. He dumps his laptop, checks the slow cooker with the curried lamb shanks, opens a bottle of red and pours a drink. Medicinal purposes only.
The lounge room is huge and looks out over the park across the road and the Derwent River beyond through an expanse of windows that give a two hundred and seventy degree view. Around the room are mounted pieces of wreckage from a variety of wreck sites—a P-40 Kittyhawk from the 49th Pursuit Squadron that crashed on the way to defend Darwin in 1942; a piece of ‘Starduster’, a C-47 that had a wing torn off in a thunderstorm on a flight to Brisbane; a wing inspection panel from a B-17 shot up by Japanese fighters after a raid on Rabaul; and, other mementos of adventures in aviation archaeology. Each tells a human story of courage, dedication and endurance under unimaginable conditions of combat in the South West Pacific in the early days of World War II.
On the walls hang prized examples of original art, including a stunning portrait painted by his sister of an Aboriginal elder depicting his life experience and wisdom. An Arabian Jezail, Indian matchlock musket and a Zulu Assegai stabbing spear used to hunt lion in the passage to manhood add historical contrast. There are also the antlers of Chamois taken in the wild mountains of New Zealand’s Westland, tusks of wild pigs hunted in outback Australia and a full body mount of a Tahr taken on the flanks of Mt. Sefton in New Zealand. On shelves around the room are some of his three thousand books covering aviation, ancient history, archaeology, cooking, firearms, anthropology and other subjects that have caught his interest.
He hits the power button on the music system and Fleetwood Mac kicks in while he ponders the neat piles of books, magazines, slides and photographs spread across the floor. Among all his files he can find almost anything to do with aviation history. If he doesn’t have it, he knows where to look.
Slowly piecing together the story behind Alexander’s photograph, he is filled with excitement about uncovering a story even he has not known about. A story that but for a quirk of fate would have become common knowledge and a matter of pride to Australians. Trying to identify the location of the plane will be the real problem with not much to go on in the photographs. Sipping the shiraz, he reflects on his day. Process is important, he concludes as he looks down at the photographs and slides spread across the floor. Do what you do every day as a principal and make your own process. He takes a pencil, a pad, and some books off the Australian shelf and sets to work. It is going to be a long night.
April 14 1942, Overlooking Joseph Bonaparte Gulf, Northern Australia
Even as a speck almost lost in the azure blue of the sky, the bird caught the attention of Ungondangery. His sharp hunter’s eyes picked it up far out over the big water, sweeping in from another time and place. For a long time it barely changed its position in the sky, slowly taking shape as it crept closer. As he waited with the timeless patience of his people, he could begin to see how its wings spread wide, straight and unmoving, slicing through the air to carry the bird on its journey.
He stood tall, straight and strong as he studied the approaching bird. His left foot was clamped on his right knee as he balanced himself on spears clutched securely in his left hand. Three of them were war spears tipped with the dreaded shovel-nosed blades shaped from scrap iron scrounged from the isolated homesteads dotting the vast landscape behind him. The other two were hunting spears, with barbed wooden tips hardened in the hot ashes of a camp fire. The end of the shafts rested on the hard rock of the bluff on which he stood with statuesque grace. Around his waist was a belt fashioned from human hair. Leather thongs held a handy stone-headed tomahawk nestled securely at the small of his back, two boomerangs, a throwing stick to break the wings of flying birds or the legs of small game animals and a wooden-handled knife tipped with sharp-edged mussel shell.
His skin was coloured with the sheen of charcoal, his chest and upper arms decorated with the ripples of ceremonial scars. He was a warrior-huntsman feared by all across the land, still living free and taking cattle any time he wanted. It was only a fair exchange for the occupation of his people’s land and the intrusion into his ancient culture. As he stood propped in absolute stillness, the breeze whispered gently between the rocks and scrub around him before sighing gently away to caress the rugged ranges and grassland plains that lay in silence behind him.
His face was corrugated by deep lines of age and weather, matching the gullies and ravines of his country. Depending on his mood, those lines could tighten into a ferocious snarl only the foolhardy would challenge or relax into a spontaneous winning smile. His moods could change in a flash, keeping anyone he encountered on constant alert. His eyes reflected the accumulated wisdom of his people going back to the Dreamtime and the sharpness of the hunters who had survived in this country for tens of thousands of years.
With those eyes he watched the bird sweeping in, losing height as if it was reaching exhaustion and could fly no further. As it grew slowly in size, he could see the lumps on its wings like the tumours he had seen sometimes on the animals he hunted. He realised that this was a metal bird of the white man. He had only ever seen one close up at the mission, a small one with two wings and one engine. This one was bigger and even from so far away he could sense its power. He felt the anguish of its final throes, but was still in awe of the bird as it swept in lower and lower. It reminded him of a swan sorely hit by a throwing stick and staggering away to die.
He watched as the bird descended below his height. Just as the pulsating throb of the engine began to hammer at his ears, the sound died away. He saw the paddle blades appear from nowhere, like the magic of the spirits, as the propellers stopped spinning. The bird slowly raised its nose as it prepared to alight on the mud flats. Its tail kicked a spray of mud into the air and then the nose slammed down onto the mud. The bird slid across the mudflat and scythed its way into the trees and scrub with the ripping, vicious sound of snapping trunks
and branches before finally coming to rest.
After silence descended once again on his country he waited patiently, contemplating the invasion by the white man’s bird and the stories he had heard of the conflict happening beyond the horizon. Eventually, he detected movement below him as something crawled out of the bird’s belly. He heard a faint wailing cry of distress and fear.
Ungondangery, feared wild man, cattle hunter and man killer, now had a decision to make, one he pondered carefully before dropping his left foot back onto the rock of the bluff.
Chapter Four
Jamie Kirk leans his lanky figure on the bar and lifts a beer in salute before taking a long sip. Jed acknowledges him with a similar salute. Jamie is an ex-student, doing a Masters in Environmental Science at the University of Tasmania and heading for a PhD. His background is biology and geology. He has taken a couple of gap years to tour Northern Australia, first-hand experience that will be valuable in furthering his goals. The possibilities for him in the gas and mineral developments hold a lot of promise, but he also has a passion for research.
His jeans, long curls framing strong, chiselled features and patched jacket camouflage a solid personality and keen intellect. They swap stories about the desert and hunting. Jamie retells his favourite story about bow hunting wild pigs in the Territory and Jed responds with one of his own.
“She’s too young and immature for you Jamie,” Jed offers as he sees where Jamie’s dark brown eyes are focussed. “The brunette at your four o’clock has been watching you though. She could be a bit older than you but looks like she has a brain. Could match you or even do you over when you see the book she has in her bag.”
Jamie shakes his head to flick the long flowing curls out of his eyes and reaches around to slip out his wallet. He takes the opportunity for a quick glance. The woman meets his eyes briefly, giving a quick smile before looking away to continue chatting to her girlfriend.
Jamie turns back to Jed. “Nanotechnology! That I have to explore. Let’s do business so I can cut you loose,” he says decisively. “I took a good look at the photos and slides you sent me. The geology I can see in the pictures matches the coastline of Northern Australia, west of Darwin but not east, at least not too far east. If I had to be more specific, I’d say somewhere up to one thousand kilometres starting a bit east of Darwin and sweeping west.”
Jed feels a wave of disappointment wash over him. “That’s a bit of country Jamie! Any way you can narrow it down for me?”
Jamie is reaching back to replace his wallet to justify another sweep of the room, but stops and swings his eyes back to Jed. “The vegetation in a couple of the photos is more help. The microclimate they need suggests you’re looking for a coastal bay reasonably protected, maybe by a sand spit to reduce the influence of the open sea and with protection from sea breezes by a high bluff of some kind. The bluff would provide a good balance of shade and temperature control during the day. A couple of the plants tend to grow in restricted pockets no further than about latitude fifteen south.
Jed unfolds a small map of Australia, spreads it on the bar and puts his pen on top, leaving his question unspoken. Jamie picks up the pen and lets it linger over the map.
“In strict scientific terms you have to look in this area,” he offers, drawing a line around a large area of Northern Australia. “On the balance of probabilities and a gut feeling, I would narrow it down to this area,” he finishes as he draws a smaller circle. “Now I’ve gotta go, research to do! Call me anytime and thanks for the drink.” He slides the packet of photos across the bar as he stands to leave. “And by the way, the palm tree in this photograph here,” he offers, flicking through the pile to put his finger on the one he is after, “is not native to Australia. That’s Areca, the tree that produces the betel-nut and toddy, a liquor used by the Malays. It came with the Trepang fishermen from the Indonesian islands, so my guess is that closer to Darwin is more likely. If you want to locate this plane, you need to find places where people either haven’t been or are difficult to get to because the geography discourages visitors. Have fun mate, I’m off!”
He picks up his shoulder bag, gives his hair another flick and wanders across to Miss Nanotechnology to introduce himself. Jed finishes his beer and ponders Jamie’s information. It’s not too bad, he decides, trying to cheer himself up as he considers the navigation issues on a flight back from the Philippines. It’s time for a closer look at a map. He deposits his glass on the bar and leaves for home.
After parking the Jeep Wrangler in the driveway, Jed flicks on the lights to reveal the research documents scattered across the living room floor. Finding the map of Southeast Asia, he gathers up a protractor, ruler and pad and spends the next hour drawing lines and calculating flight times and tracks. He makes some assumptions about the range of the Japanese Zero and Ki-27 fighters, flight times out of Del Monte in the Philippines and the likely damage that could have resulted from an attack. It had to be a single Japanese fighter that attacked the B-25, he concludes. More than one and the plane most likely would have ended up in the sea. Nursing a crippled B-25 back to Australia must have been hell!
He imagines himself as Karl, possibly wounded, exhausted, flying by dead reckoning with instruments shot up and a dead crew sharing the aircraft. Jed turns the map of Australia upside down and studies it from a pilot’s perspective. Bathurst Island stands out as a clear landmark, just to the north of Darwin. Even when off course to the east, Darwin should be easy to find. Off course to the west and Bathurst Island could be missed and then it was a long flight down into the Bonaparte Gulf. Eventually, the late landfall would become obvious even navigating by dead reckoning. Karl would either spot land on the horizon to the east or turn east in the hope of making a landfall before fuel ran out. Satisfied with his logic he draws a circle around the coast on the eastern side of the Joseph Bonaparte Gulf. He excludes anything too close to civilization and marks the remaining areas with a highlighter. The result is a stretch of coastline that by his reckoning is possible for a forced landing on Australian soil.
Finally he sits down in the arm chair by the window looking out over the lights of Bellerive with a copy of Flightpath magazine in his hand. Over a Jack Daniels, he rereads the article on the Royce mission to refresh his memory and thinks again about the navigation issues. It is time to make a decision and he decides he is as right as he can be with the information available.
At one am he types an email to Alexander. ‘Your project has legs! Dinner in Hobart, any Friday night.’ He presses send. The adventure is rolling. He looks forward to seeing her again. There is little chance of sleep, so he takes his glass into the study, fires up the laptop and gets into Google Earth to scan the areas he has identified.
Chapter Five
Maldini’s restaurant on Hobart’s waterfront Salamanca Place; dark wooden floor scarred by an industrial past, sandstone walls reflecting warehouse history, modern subdued lighting and the busy murmur of Friday night conversation.
Jed arrives early, leans his briefcase against the table leg and orders two glasses of champagne. He puts the flowers he is carrying onto a chair so they are not quite so obvious. Is he planning a polite gesture or succumbing to something he is less certain of being able to control? As he stands to push the flowers further out of sight he senses a presence.
“So polite of you to stand when a lady approaches the table.”
He looks up. Right height and right shape, brown eyes and blonde hair, but hardly the same woman. What a hair-style! Stunning, cheeky and slightly wild, drawn to one side, falling in a cascade over her left shoulder, projecting an aura of control, power, danger and sensuality. A clinging black dress, left strap precarious on her shoulder, and high-heeled shiny black shoes exude confidence. He scrambles for the flowers, drawing the chair out for her.
“Are they for me?” she exclaims. “How sweet.” There is a hint of something in her voice. Amusement? Sarcasm? “Do you always give girls flowers first up?”
“I am only doing the polite man-woman thing,” he blusters. “My European upbringing.”
He notices a permed and powdered lady at the next table pricking up her ears, avidly following their exchange.
“That’s good,” Alexander teases. “I thought it might be code for after-dinner sex.”
Big Ears at the next table swivels her head abruptly.
“I’ve always believed that good sex with someone you love needs lots of foreplay and anticipation. Anticipation and expectation deliver the biggest punch,” Jed says, attempting to meet her challenge and deflect attention from the perspiration breaking out on his forehead. Lucky he flicked through the latest Men’s Health magazine in the newsagent last week.
He notices Big Ears nod silently at his words and lean toward her husband. Work on him, darling, maybe there’s some truth in it. Caught off guard by the unexpected turn of events with Alexander, Jed determines to rise to the challenge. He keeps a straight face.
Alexander’s eyes spark fire as she smiles boldly at him.
Relax, he tells himself. Take things easy fella.
As if in response, Alexander’s face instantly assumes a more businesslike expression. “After we’ve ordered, you might fill me in on what you’ve found out.”
Jed nods and points out the specials board. They pick up their menus and quickly settle on a seafood combination, garlic bread to share and a bottle of Pinot Grigio.
“And I’ll have a salad, a big one, and the grilled entrée,” Alexander tells the waitress. “And could we have it all arrive together please?”
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