by Bill Marsh
So that was my small contribution to the RFDS.
Slingshot
Did you ever run into people by the name of Clarrie and Emily Pankhurst? Clarrie only passed away eighteen months or so ago, but he was the last of the Boss Drovers. I mean, this feller could be on the road for anything from six to eight months with fifteen hundred head of cattle from Wave Hill, which is in the west of the Northern Territory, over to Camooweal, just inside the Queensland–Northern Territory border, then all the way down south of Mount Isa, to be trucked from Dajarra. Camooweal was where they used to keep all their horses and that. So it was an amazing life some of these fellers had, wasn’t it?
Actually, a book’s been written for Clarrie and his wife, Emily. It’s called The Boss Drover, and it’s a great read. To tell you the truth, I know a lot about it because we lived across from the Pankhursts at Mount Isa, and me and my brother, we both went out with Clarrie, you know. So we know the guy first-hand. None of it’s fiction so if you give any credit to anybody for this story, I’d rather it be credited to Clarrie and his wife, Emily, formally of Mount Isa, because that’s where they used to live when they weren’t droving.
Now, I want to get this as close as possible; so this was in 1956. Clarrie and his ringers were yarding up some cattle out on a station property, well out into the Northern Territory, near Newcastle Waters, and this young feller come off his horse and broke his leg. It didn’t happen near the homestead because they were out a way. The young feller, he had a few rib injuries as well, but mainly the leg was badly broken and, well, they had to call the Flying Doctor to come in from Alice Springs. But all around the particular area where they were at the time, where the accident occurred, there was a lot of scrub so there wasn’t much room for a plane to land.
Anyhow, the pilot got the plane down alright, but because the airstrip was so short and because of all this scrub, plus they now had this young injured feller on board, the pilot needed a much longer run-up to get the aeroplane back in the air. So what they did was, they got three ringers to hang on to each of the wings and two ringers to hang on to the tail — that’s eight of them — and these ringers just dug in their heels while the pilot built up the revs on the plane. And they held on for as long as they could and then the pilot gave them a signal out the side of the plane and he just took off like a slingshot. Vroom, off he went and he just made it over the scrub. He wouldn’t have made it without them doing that, and they got the feller to hospital alright.
But, Clarrie and Emily, they were both wonderful people. And, you know, these sorts of things come because people are ingenious in times of trouble. It’s sort of like thinking outside the square. But as tough a life that those people had — and yes, Clarrie was a hard man at times, but he was always fair and honest — you know, once you got to know him well, he was a real friend and so was his wife, Emily.
Small World, Large Bruise
In the late 1970s I transferred out to Mootwingee Historic Site as a ranger and, basically, we — myself and the senior ranger — looked after the Historic Site and around the National Park district. Mootwingee’s in the far west of New South Wales about a hundred and something kilometres north-east of Broken Hill, as the crow flies.
Mootwingee’s known as a Historic Site because that was one of the classifications the National Parks used at the time. It was only a relatively small area and like the Kurnell area at Botany Bay was called Captain Cook’s Landing Place Historic Site. It was, in fact, part of the Sydney Metropolitan District, which included Sydney Harbour National Park, which was later called Botany Bay National Park or something similar. So, it’s just one of the classifications they had; you know, you had National Park, Nature Reserve, and Historic Site, and each was established under the National Parks and Wildlife Act.
But the Mootwingee Historic Site was very popular with visitors, especially in the cooler months. And during those cooler months one of the local tour operators used to bus visitors — tourists — out from Broken Hill on a day trip to the Historic Site. So, upon their arrival, first, they’d come into the Visitors’ Centre and have a look around at the displays and then they’d get back into the bus again and go down to a picnic area, where they’d have something to eat and they could go on a couple of designated walks and what-have-you.
Anyhow, on this particular day the bus arrived and the bus driver brought the tourists in and they spent their normal twenty minutes or so looking around the Visitors’ Centre, which basically had displays of Aboriginal relics and fauna and flora of the area. Of course, we also used to sell a book on the Historic Site plus other New South Wales National Parks publications. Then after they’d gone through the Visitors’ Centre their bus took them down to the picnic area. The walk they were doing that day was the walk up and around the dam and past Snake Cave.
Snake Cave was one of the most significant parts of the Historic Site. It was a very large overhang, with a huge painting of a snake on it. I’d say that it’d be a good 20 or 30 feet long. I’m not up with what’s happening now but, at one stage, I recall that they actually stopped people from going to Snake Cave unless it was by prearranged guided tours. So it’s a fairly significant site.
Now, basically, the bus driver used to leave the tourists free to go around the walks and he’d stay at the picnic area and have a rest or sort out lunch or whatever. But then, on this particular day, about half an hour after they’d left the Visitors’ Centre, the bus driver returned to the office and said that one of the elderly ladies had fallen over and she appeared to have broken her leg.
That’s when he added, ‘And she’s a very large lady.’
Anyway, my house was behind the Visitors’ Centre and there was a fairly large garage there also. So I went and got the Stokes Litter from the garage. I’m sure you’re familiar with what a Stokes Litter is: it’s a light aluminium-framed stretcher, where the patient actually lies into it, as opposed to a conventional stretcher where the patient lies on top of it. Basically, it’s designed for search and rescue. The idea is that, when you’re taking someone over rugged terrain or winching them up a cliff, they don’t fall off the thing.
At that time I had a Volvo station wagon, so I decided to drive that down to the picnic area because the alternative was to take the Toyota four-wheel drive tray top and I didn’t think that’d be really appropriate for transporting an elderly lady around the place in. The Senior Ranger was also there, so he and the bus driver and I headed back down to the picnic area in the Volvo and we set off on foot with the Stokes Litter.
As it turned out, the bus driver had given us a very adequate description because, when we arrived at the scene of the accident, I could see a very large lady lying on the ground. She must’ve been 18 stone. Her arms were probably as big as my legs and she was obviously in a great deal of pain and had a very swollen ankle.
So we enlisted the help of a few of the male tourists to lift this lady into the Stokes Litter and we started the slow trip back to the picnic area. I can’t remember exactly how long it took but, once we got back to the picnic area, I put the rear seat of the Volvo down and we slid her into the back, ambulance style. Then we drove the injured woman straight down to my house where I thought she’d be more comfortable.
There was a Flying Doctor radio in my house, as well as in the office, so we placed her on the lounge-room floor, as I’d intended, and got on to the radio. Now, on the Flying Doctor radio there’s a little emergency button and when you press that, it emits a high-pitched sound which alerts the nearest RFDS base that somebody needs a doctor urgently.
So literally, within thirty seconds, there’s a doctor on the other end. And what happens is, you press a button and a doctor comes on and says, ‘Broken Hill Flying Doctor Service’ to the caller who’s on the emergency button. Then you identify yourself. So I identified Mootwingee and the doctor then asked what the problem was and I explained that we had an elderly lady with what appeared to be a broken ankle.
Then we went through th
e consultation process where the doctor asked a series of questions and established that the woman was in quite a great deal of pain. In such circumstances it was usual for them to prescribe a pethidine injection. If you know the system with the Flying Doctor kits, they’re a large metal chest with a whole lot of numbered medicines and bandages in there, plus syringes and whatever. So on instruction from the doctor I removed one of the syringes and an ampoule of pethidine. I then proceeded to prepare the syringe by putting the appropriate amount of pethidine in it, then pressing lightly on it to ensure that there was no air in the syringe.
So there we were, with the lady on the floor and the Senior Ranger and I with this syringe. Now, I’d never given an injection before and, as it turned out, the Senior Ranger hadn’t either. But because he was the more senior officer, well, he got the job, didn’t he? In this case, with the patient being a rather large lady, we were instructed by the Flying Doctor that we were to give the injection into the arm.
Anyway, he went ahead and administered the pethidine which, after a short while, took effect as it obviously made the patient more comfortable. Because it was best not to move the injured woman, we kept her on the Stokes Litter all the time. Mind you, she filled it pretty well. But she seemed reasonably comfortable in it and we didn’t want to disturb her, especially after the pethidine kicked in.
In the meantime, the doctor had informed us that he was sending out a plane to pick her up. Now, because the airstrip was only about, at most, 800 metres from the house, we waited until we heard the plane buzzing around. Then, when it was circling, ready to land, we picked up the Stokes Litter and we bundled the lady back into the Volvo and I drove her down to the airstrip. The RFDS were using a Nomad aircraft at that stage. They had a doctor, a nurse and the pilot and, basically, they took charge as soon as they arrived. The woman was taken out of the Stokes Litter, put onto the plane’s stretcher, then into the plane where they secured her, and off they went to Broken Hill.
Then a few days later my wife, Robina, and I went to Broken Hill to do our shopping and, while we were there, we decided to call in and see how the patient was faring. We went into the hospital and found her in one of the wards. She had plaster on what, she informed us, was a triple fracture of her ankle.
And that’s when I asked her, ‘So, how’s the ankle?’
‘It’s not the worst bit,’ she joked.
Then she showed me her arm and, oh God, I could not believe that such a small needle could give such a large bruise. This bruise was a good 4 inches by 3 inches. It was huge. I mean, with someone who’s overweight, yes, they do tend to bruise easily, I know, but this one was the biggest, blackest bruise I’ve ever seen. I just couldn’t believe it.
But she was fine about it. She was in good spirits and was quite happy and she thanked us for all we’d done and we had a chat for a while. And though I didn’t find out until some time later, it turned out that the lady was related to a counterpart of mine, one of the rangers in the Blue Mountains. Small world, isn’t it?
Someone, Somewhere
I’m constantly reminded of the diverse types of people that we, in the Royal Flying Doctor Service, serve. And in doing so, it’s important that we respect and embrace those differing cultures. Of course, with so many of the Aboriginal people being ‘out there’, obviously, they are a large percentage of our clientele both in their traditional areas, where they’re more nomadic, as well as in communities or towns where they’re less so.
I remember when I went to Port Augusta for a Consumer Network Group meeting. That’s when we get together with our constituents to sort out how the RFDS can better serve their needs. And the majority of the people who attend those meetings are the station people, mostly white. Anyhow, it was the night before the meeting, so the few of us who were already in town were having a meal and there was music coming from the next room, a larger dining area that’d been partitioned off. So I opened the door and there was this Aboriginal group. Up front were a couple of people playing guitars and singing and another bloke was on the drums. As it turned out they were taking part in an Aboriginal workshop about Native Land Titles.
Anyway I introduced myself. ‘G’day,’ I said, ‘I’m John Lynch, CEO of the South Australian Division of the Royal Flying Doctor Service.’ Then I told them just how much I was enjoying their music.
‘Do you sing?’ they asked.
‘Oh yeah,’ I said, ‘I sing, alright.’
Well, I can’t sing, but I reckon I can. So anyway we did a couple of John Williamson and Kenny Rogers numbers together, then we sat down and we swapped a few yarns. And gees we had a good time. Then the next day they invited us into their morning tea, which was outstanding.
And that’s what we need to do. We need to share the cultures. That was John Flynn’s ideology: for each and every one of us within this greater organisation to serve the people who live out in the harshness, no matter what their colour or creed, in as much as nobody should be without access to health services, which was born out of the Jimmy Darcy story.
Now, are you aware of the Jimmy Darcy story? Well, it was big news back during the First World War when a young stockman by the name of Jimmy Darcy was working on a station property, up the Kimberley area of Western Australia, and he fell from his horse and was severely injured.
In those days there was no medical help available up in the Kimberleys. There wasn’t even a doctor. No radio. Nothing! So their best bet was to try and get Jimmy to Halls Creek, which was about 80 kilometres away, where they knew that the local postmaster, a feller by the name of Tuckett, had at least done a first-aid course. So they loaded Jimmy into a buggy and took him along a rough bush track to Halls Creek. When they got there, Jimmy was in such a bad state all that Tuckett could do was to give him a shot of morphine to try and relieve the severe pain.
Tuckett then decided to Morse code over 3650 kilometres of telegraph wire to Perth to get help. Then, from the post office in Perth the doctor diagnosed Jimmy’s injuries and concluded that it was a life or death situation and he needed immediate surgery. And, what’s more, because poor old Tuckett had completed a basic first-aid course, he was the unfortunate soul to be given the job.
So then, for the next seven hours the doctor’s instructions were relayed by Morse code all the way from Perth to Halls Creek while Tuckett operated on Jimmy with the use of just a penknife and razor blades. The only antiseptic that was available was Condy’s Crystals. The only form of anaesthetic was morphine, and that just relieved some of the pain. Anyhow, the operation proved to be a success but, unfortunately, complications set in so then the doctor decided to come up from Perth.
Now, it took six days by a cattle boat for the doctor to reach Derby. Then it was a day and a half by car out to Fitzroy Crossing, followed by a further thirty-six hours — including breakdowns — in a smaller car to get within 50 kilometres of Halls Creek. They then had to travel the rest of the way by horse and sulky, only to find that Jimmy Darcy had died just the day before the doctor arrived.
That tragedy made newspaper headlines all over Australia and it really brought it home to John Flynn that, if there’d been medical services in the bush, Jimmy may well have survived. And I’m getting right off the track here, but also, at that time, when aeroplanes were first being used in the First World War, a feller named Clifford Peel pointed out to Flynn that with the use of aircraft it was now possible for patients to be transported by aeroplane. Then, of course, add to that the communications expertise of Alf Traeger and so this wonderful organisation was born.
Since then, of course, we’ve developed and become more advanced, and more sophisticated. We’ve even expanded to include capital city inter-hospital transfer and organ harvesting. But we should always acknowledge the traditional owners of this land as well. We should acknowledge the courage and commitment of the people that’ve been prepared to go out and explore and develop the harshness of our outback, and who provide us with the wealth. And that’s something we must never lo
se sight of.
Then at the same time we should also acknowledge our own people, those who work within the RFDS. I see it as a privilege that’s been bestowed upon us to be able to carry the mantle of serving what we’ve created. Because it doesn’t matter what time of the day or night it is, or what the weather’s like — unless, of course, it’s absolutely foul and it’s impossible to get out there — there’s a courage and commitment from our staff to deliver services, above and beyond the call of duty.
And it’s not only the lifesaving adventures that should be noted. It’s also the day-to-day occurrences: the simple things. We had a community health nurse who’s now working in either Canada or Alaska where she drives sled dogs to do medical clinics. When she was with us at our Port Augusta base, every morning she’d go to the bakery and buy fresh bread to take to whatever clinic outpost she was heading to that day. She’d also take some daily newspapers so that the people out there could read up-to-date news, which was a real rarity, and sometimes she’d even take out icy poles or some such for the kids. And you know, that had nothing to do with her nurse’s training. None of that was in her brief. She just cared enough.
So I reckon we’re lucky to be part of this great organisation. To tell you the truth, I’ve got to pinch myself sometimes in the knowledge that I’ve been chosen, or that I’m privileged enough to work within the RFDS. Because I reckon that every one of us — all our staff — when we wake up we know that, at the very least, during the course of that particular day somebody within our organisation will make a difference to someone, somewhere. That’s our lot, and I love it.