by Bill Marsh
That’s what I mean about skills. Amazing.
Still and all, in that particular case things didn’t turn out well. The remaining critically injured patient unfortunately died while we were attempting to resuscitate him. We were able to fix up the not-so-injured person without too much problem. In that patient’s case, time wasn’t such a vital factor. So the police took us all into Ivanhoe, leaving the pilot free to take off with an empty plane — because of the safety factor once again.
So, as I said, the Royal Flying Doctor Service is all about working as a team where everyone uses their own particular skills to the best of their abilities.
Everyone relies on each other and, even then, you can have all the skills, expertise and teamwork in the world but time’s against you. It’s especially sad when there’s young children involved.
That’s a real tragedy, a tragedy beyond words.
Snakes Alive!
There was one poor feller who lived out near Lake Stewart, up in the far north-western corner of New South Wales.
Anyway, it was a very hot night. The moon was full. As bright as a street lamp, it was. This feller and his wife were sleeping outside in the hopes of catching any breeze that might happen to drift by. During the night he rolled over, and that’s when he felt something scratch his back, razor sharp it was. Initially, he thought it was the cat but, when he turned over to shoo the thing away, he made out the deadly form of a snake slithering off in the direction of the chooks’ coop. So he dashed inside, got his shotgun, charged back outside, and started firing into the chooks’ coop in an attempt to kill the snake before it got away.
Of course, all this noise woke his wife. When she saw her husband blasting away into the chooks’ coop, with her precious hens flying left, right and centre, and him calling out, ‘I’ll get yer, yer dirty bastard!’, she drew the conclusion that the poor bloke had finally cracked. He hadn’t been himself lately. What with the extreme isolation, the extreme heat, the extremely full moon, and the extremities of their current economic concerns — all these things had eventually caused him to go off his rocker.
So there was this chap’s wife telling him off, yelling at him to stop slaughtering her chooks, and him still blasting away, mumbling something about how he was trying to kill a snake that’d just bitten him.
‘Well, where’s the snake then?’ she shouted.
He stopped firing and when the dust had settled they peered through the moonlight. No sign of a snake. So he showed her his back. The wife took a look and saw a couple of deep scratch marks.
‘You’ve been scratched by the cat,’ she said.
‘It were a snake,’ he replied.
‘A cat,’ she said.
‘A snake,’ he replied.
This went on for a while, with his wife arguing that he’d been scratched by the cat which, in turn, had caused him to lose his marbles and shoot up her chooks, and him declaring that he was in full control of his marbles and that a snake had bitten him and, what’s more, he’d seen it slither into the chooks’ coop which was why he was shooting in that direction.
With both of them finally agreeing to disagree, he put in a call to the Flying Doctor. The doctor advised that the best thing for him to do was to drive into Tibooburra and get the nurse to have a look. ‘Okay,’ he said and he headed off to Tibooburra, leaving his wife behind to tally up the dead in her chooks’ coop.
But his troubles didn’t stop there. By the time the chap got to Tibooburra the snake venom had started to take effect. So when the nurse was disturbed at some ungodly hour by a bloke with a very slurry voice banging on her door, she assumed that he was drunk. It’d happened before. Blokes getting a skinful and knocking on her door. Usually, they weren’t too much of a problem. All she had to do was tell them to get lost and they’d wander off, most of the time not knowing what they’d done in the sober light of day.
But this drunk was different. No matter how many times she told him to get lost, he still wouldn’t budge from her door. Then when the chap started ranting and raving about how he needed to see the nurse because his wife didn’t understand him, she rang the police.
So before the chap knew it, he was being apprehended.
‘Yer got it all wrong. I’ve been bit b’ a snake,’ he protested groggily.
‘That’s the best one I’ve heard in a long time,’ replied the policeman.
While all this kerfuffle was going on, the doctor had been attempting to get through to let the nurse know that the chap coming in from Lake Stewart had a suspected snake bite, and could she keep him under close observation. The problem was that the nurse didn’t hear the call. It was only after the chap had been carted off that the doctor made contact. Yet, even then, the nurse didn’t twig. In fact, during the conversation she complained to the doctor about the hell of a night she was having. How it was as hot as Hades and then, just as she had finally got to sleep, some drunk started banging on her door and she’d had to call the police to come and cart him off.
Anyway, the chap went from bad to worse during the night which caused everyone to reassess his situation and he was flown to hospital the next day.
Nearly died, he did.
Spot on Time
It turned out to be the most wonderful experience. But it certainly didn’t start that way, especially with a neighbour’s wife ringing me one night, from out past Rawlinna, saying that her husband had come a cropper off his motor bike.
‘Well,’ she said, when I asked about the extent of his injuries, ‘fer starters, all his head’s scalped back, like.’
This didn’t sound too promising for the bloke, not at all. What’s more, I surmised that the chap had received multiple head injuries, which proved to be right. The thing was that, as a nurse, I could only do so much. For him to get the proper treatment for the injuries he’d sustained we had to get him into a hospital, and as soon as possible.
Timing was always going to be the critical factor as to whether he lived or died. So I got in touch with the Flying Doctor at Kalgoorlie and asked them to fly out to Haig immediately — Haig was the closest airstrip to the chap’s homestead, out along the railway track. The problem then was that it’d take me at least two hours to drive out to the property along the railway service road, then bring the patient back to Haig to meet the plane. Mind you, out along the Nullarbor the service roads are terrible travelling at the best of times.
But luck was with me. The Road Master at Rawlinna stepped in and offered his help. And that’s what saved the bloke’s life. See, the Road Master had a Toyota Hilux which, as well as having normal tyres for road use, had also been specially fitted with steel wheels so that it could run on railway tracks. So he put the Toyota up on the hydraulics gismo, which was situated under the vehicle, and jacked it down on the railway track.
Just before we headed off I asked my hubby to gather everyone together and go out to Haig and light the airstrip with little kerosene lanterns — ‘flares’ we call them — so the plane could see where to land.
The next thing I knew we were hurtling along the railway track at 100 kilometres an hour with the Road Master fiddling around, getting things ready to place the injured chap in.
‘Look, no hands,’ he said as a sort of joke. He must have seen the shock on my face because he was quick to add, ‘Don’t worry. It’s so flat out here that, from when you first see a train’s light until it reaches you, well, you can allow a couple of hours at least.’
Anyway, that particular problem didn’t arise because within twenty minutes we were as close to the injured bloke’s homestead as we could get by rail. So the Road Master lifted the Toyota off the track and onto its normal tyres ready to drive the couple of kilometres to the homestead.
When we got there the bloke was a real mess, worse than what I’d first imagined. Things were touch and go. I patched him up the best I could and we put him in the back of the Hilux before we transported him back across country to the railway line. That was the roughest part of his jou
rney. Once we were there the Road Master put his vehicle back on the railway track and we headed off the 30 or so kilometres to Haig.
I must say that I was deeply concerned for the life of the accident victim. But just as we were about to take the Toyota off the track at Haig, a bright light appeared in the sky, out to the north. I forget who was helping me in the back of the vehicle, but I remember saying, ‘God, what’re those lights?’ Then it dawned on me. ‘Oh hell,’ I said, ‘it’s the plane. It’s just coming in to land!’
So we dropped the wheels again and drove straight out to the airstrip. I tell you, with all the turmoil of that particular night, the arrival of the plane couldn’t have been more spot-on. It was like we’d rehearsed it a million times over. Then when the doctor got out of the plane, a female it was, she must have been pretty new to the game, well, she reckoned that the scene looked like something out of the television show ‘The Flying Doctors’. There it was, about half-past eleven, twelve at night, and there were all the neighbours who’d come along to help light up the airstrip with flares.
So they flew the bloke straight out to Perth where they fixed him up. And though he had a really bad time of it, with long-term memory loss and whatnot, he’s as good as gold now. No problems. He’s got two more kids and, what’s more, he’s back on the job, riding that bloody great big motor bike of his, the same one that bucked him off.
Squeaky the Stockman
It was a hot, still Sunday in Nappa Merrie when Squeaky the stockman and his mates began maintenance work on an old Southern Cross windmill.
As usual, Squeaky somehow managed to draw the short straw and was given the job of climbing to the top of the windmill to oil the blades, grease the bearings, and so forth. There he was, working away, when a gust of wind came out of nowhere. The blades of the windmill suddenly spun into motion and Squeaky was knocked clean off the top platform. Down he fell in a flail of arms and legs.
For those who don’t know, it’s a good distance from the top of a windmill down to ground level. In this case, the only thing in the way was a water delivery pipe, about a yard or so off the ground.
The rest is history.
Some say that the pipe saved the wily stockman’s life. But at what pains? I ask. Because a split second before impact Squeaky inexplicably parted his legs. Crunch! There he sat, motionless, astride that pipe, a loose leg dangling either side, his mouth rendered ajar, his eyes almost popped out of their sockets.
His workmates rushed to his side. ‘How are yer, Squeaky?’ they asked. ‘Are yer all right, mate?’
But Squeaky didn’t say a word. He tried to, mind you, but it was like there was an obstruction in his throat, somewhere just below his Adam’s apple, stuck in his oesophagus.
‘Ouch,’ said his mates as they gently extricated him off the water delivery pipe. After they placed him on the ground, carefully, they called the Flying Doctor.
‘Ouch.’
I don’t know if you know or not, but Nappa Merrie’s over in south-west Queensland so it took a while to fly out there. Then just as they’d settled Squeaky into the Nomad aircraft, another call came across the radio. This time a bloke down at Moomba had put a chunk of wood through his leg while chopping a log for the barbecue.
This left the doctor in an awkward situation. On one hand there was the bloke at Moomba who was in desperate need of help. On the other, there was Squeaky. Now Squeaky was a single bloke, a bit on the shy side with women like, but still and all there was the chance that he might want to settle down and raise a family some day. If so, an emergency operation might have to be carried out. Time was of the utmost importance and Moomba’s in the north-east of South Australia, well out of the way.
‘Well, Squeaky,’ the doctor said, ‘it’s up to you, mate. Are you well enough to make the trip to Moomba before we head back to Broken Hill?’
At that point the wily stockman gave a sort of half-throatal gurgle which the doctor took to mean that he was okay to do the trip to Moomba.
‘Brave decision,’ the doctor said, before loading Squeaky up with pethidine, just in case the pain caught up with him somewhere along the way.
So they arrived in Moomba and picked up the bloke with the chunk of wood through his leg. The doctor gave the Moomba chap a shot of pethidine, plus an extra shot to Squeaky, just in case. As they were about to take off, lo and behold, another call came through. This one was from my wife who’d contacted them to say that I’d scalded my arm and was in need of emergency treatment.
Now the bloke with the lump of wood through his leg was no real problem. He could wait. But Squeaky… Squeaky was a different matter.
‘Well, Squeaky,’ the doctor said, ‘it’s up to you, mate. Do you reckon you’re well enough for another diversion before we head off back to Broken Hill?’
Squeaky gave another half-throatal gurgle, which the doctor took as an assurance that he was okay to do the trip from Moomba over to our property, just south of Broken Hill, before heading to the hospital.
‘Brave decision,’ the doctor said, then loaded Squeaky up with another dose of pethidine, just in case.
The doctor radioed ahead explaining the situation and asked if I could be ready to board the aeroplane as soon as it landed. So my wife drove me to the airstrip and the moment the plane cut its engines I jumped aboard. But when the pilot attempted to boot the engine of the Nomad, it was as dead as a doornail. He tried again. Same result. Dead silence. All we could hear was Squeaky letting go with one of his gurgles.
‘We’ll have to call out another plane,’ said the pilot. ‘The Nomad’s buggered.’
So my wife drove us back to the homestead to escape the heat until the reserve plane arrived. There the doctor pumped some more pethidine into us all, just to tide us over.
Now perhaps it was because of the pethidine, I don’t know, but soon after, Squeaky began to lighten up. Not that he could talk, mind you, but his throatal gurgles began to rise in pitch. So much so that by the time the reserve plane landed, Squeaky was sounding like he’d had a triple overdose of helium.
‘Squeaky, yer getting squeakier and squeakier,’ the pilot remarked.
Now I know it wasn’t much of a joke. I guess you had to be there at the time, but it was enough to get Squeaky, me and the bloke with the lump of wood through his leg giggling like little kids, which was something we continued to do right up to the time we arrived at Broken Hill Hospital.
I don’t know what happened to Squeaky the stockman after that. We sort of lost contact. He went one way and I went the other. So whether or not his family jewels needed rectifying, I don’t know. But that was a fair while ago now and he still comes to mind occasionally — oddly enough, when I think about him I can’t help but wince a little.
Stowaway
There was an accident in the middle of the night. A car had turned over with two people in it, a husband and wife. The husband was dead. The wife, who was the passenger in the vehicle, was still alive but in an extremely critical condition.
It was touch and go.
We flew to the nearest town immediately. As I said, it was in the middle of the night so they had to line the runway with flares. It was a bit hairy there for a while but we landed and the ambulance drove out to meet us. We loaded the woman into the plane. Then the problem arose as to what we’d do with the husband’s body.
We looked blankly at each other for a while until the ambulance feller asked if we’d be able to take it back in the plane with us. Of course we could see the logic of the request. Taking the body back home with us was the most practical and economically feasible thing to do. The funeral was to be held there so it’d save another trip out. But, naturally enough, our doctor wasn’t keen on having the body in the aeroplane in full view of the wife.
‘She’s critically ill and extremely distressed,’ he reasoned. ‘If she saw her dead husband it could be a turning point and she could give up hope and go the same way.’
The only thing that we could come up with, t
o get around the problem, was to stow the body in the rear luggage locker of the Nomad aircraft. The problem was, the luggage locker wasn’t large enough to take the body lying down. So we got the ambulance feller to give us a hand to get the husband’s body into such a position that it’d fit inside the locker. In this case, we were forced to squash him up into a crouched kneeling position. After we got the husband safely stowed away in the luggage locker, we then took off to the nearest city where the wife could receive emergency treatment.
I’d say it took us about an hour and a half to get to the city. Turbulence was minimal, which was lucky. It’s distressing enough to go through a rough patch inside the plane itself where the air pressure is equalised and you’ve got safety belts on to minimise the bumpy ride. But there’s no such luxury in the luggage locker, and the last thing we wanted was to have the body thumping around in the back.
Things went quite smoothly. When we’d landed, the ambulance was waiting and the woman was rushed to hospital where she eventually went on to make a full recovery. But we were left with a problem out at the airport. With the wife now not in the plane, it would have been far better to have had the husband’s body in with us for the return trip. We all agreed on that. But it was a busy airport and, if anyone saw us dragging a body out of the rear luggage locker of a Nomad aircraft, a few questions might be asked, questions that we weren’t too keen on answering, considering the delicate situation.