by Bill Marsh
Anyway, the other flight nurse plus a doctor and one of the pilots had already been down at Balgo in the Queen Air aeroplane earlier that day, running a clinic. And while they were there the doctor had attended to a young Aboriginal girl — a nine-year-old — who’d apparently shown some tablets to her mother and said, ‘I’ve just eaten some of these.’
The little girl was a bit slow, you know, retarded. I guess that these days they’d say she was ‘disabled’. So the doctor gave the girl some medicine to make her vomit, which she did and, sure enough, the tablets came out. She was still a little bit drowsy, but the doctor thought, ‘Well, at least she’s got it all out of her system. She should be okay, now.’
Then after they’d finished the clinic at Balgo, they jumped back into the Queen Air and headed back to Derby. But unbeknown to everybody, the little girl had also fed some of the tablets to a four-year-old boy. I forget now, but I think it might’ve been her baby brother. Now, the four-year-old had gone to bed earlier that afternoon and when his mum had tried to wake him around five o’clock, he wouldn’t stir. He was right out of it, and that’s when we got the call in at our Derby base.
By this stage, the Queen Air that had been out at Balgo was about due back in Derby. So, with the Queen Air being faster than our second aircraft, the Beechcraft Baron, they said, ‘Well, as soon as the Queen Air arrives we’ll refuel it and send it straight back out there again to pick up this deeply unconscious little boy.’
So the pilot, myself and a doctor — a paediatrician — arrived at the Derby airstrip ready to go to Balgo. The Queen Air landed and, while they were refuelling it, the two pilots exchanged conversation about the weather. Being February it was wet season so, you know, there was a lot of lightning about and storms and it was pretty blowy and very wet. But from all reports, apparently, at that stage, Balgo, itself, was okay.
Anyway, we took off into this driving rain. It was horizontal rain. Very bad weather. Terrible. We were being buffeted all around the place. But we kept on going and going, and after a while, to me, it seemed that we were taking much longer than expected. Normally, it used to take us around two and a half hours to get out to Balgo in the Beechcraft Baron and here we were in the Queen Air, a faster aircraft, and we’d already been in the air for that long.
Now the pilot we had with us was one of our older pilots. Mind you, he was also a very excellent pilot. He’d flown in Vietnam and places like that, so he’d had a lot of experience. Anyway, we kept flying and flying and I was thinking, ‘Gosh, it’s taking a long time.’
So in the end, I went up front and I said to the pilot, ‘Where are we? Surely we should nearly be there by now.’
‘I know we should. It’s out there somewhere,’ he said, ‘but I can’t see the lights.’ Normally, when Balgo knew we were coming at night, they’d put on their big basketball court lights. ‘Perhaps we can’t see them because the rain’s so heavy between us and them,’ the pilot added.
‘Oh, okay,’ I said and I went and sat back down.
Then, sure enough, much to my relief the lights of Balgo finally came into view. And oddly enough, while it was still raining where we were, when we got over Balgo, there was no rain at all. None at all. Though, mind you, there was still a savage wind.
Anyway, the pilot managed that alright and we landed safely and were met at the airstrip. Then the doctor and I, we were taken straight into the Balgo Clinic to stabilise the child, the little boy. First thing was to put up a drip in case we needed to give him IV (intravenous) drugs. I think the doctor’s main concern was that, because the boy was unconscious, he might fit — you know, have a seizure — and the doctor just wanted to have a line in, just in case.
So we sorted out the little four-year-old boy. Then the doctor took a look at the nine-year-old girl and because she was still very drowsy he decided that it’d be better if we took both the children back to Derby with us. We had two stretchers so we laid the children down on those in the Queen Air. We placed the little boy — who was our main concern — with his head to the door of the aeroplane just in case the doctor needed to intubate him; you know, to breathe for him if he should stop breathing, which is always a danger when you’ve had an overdose of drugs. But the little boy seemed to be alright. We had the drip up and he was breathing by himself, though he was still right out to it. So the paediatrician’s sitting over there. I’m here, the baby boy’s just over there and then the older one, the girl, she was right behind me on her stretcher, and she was alright. You could rouse her but she was still very dopey.
By the time we’d got them both settled in the Queen Air the rain had started to come in again and there was also still a very strong wind blowing. But we took off alright, it was about nine o’clock at night, and I’m busy down the back, you know, taking obs and everything on the children.
Then we were only about fifteen or twenty minutes out of Balgo, on our way back to Derby, and, you know, when you’ve flown a lot you tend to get accustomed to the monotonous drone of the engine. Well we’d levelled out at about 6000 feet and I heard this funny noise in one of the engines. I don’t know how to describe it except that it was, like, it just wasn’t normal. Anyhow I’m still busy with the children but when I hear this odd noise I look up at the pilot and there he is, he’s sitting there in the cockpit, with these little half glasses on and he’s peering over them at his controls.
So I said to the paediatrician, ‘I think there’s something wrong with that engine. Can you hear it?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘I can’t.’
But you know, as I said, when you fly a lot, you just know these things. Anyhow, because I wasn’t backward in coming forward, and I wanted to know what was happening, I went up to the pilot and I tapped him on the shoulder and I said, ‘What’s wrong?’
And he was a really slow talker. ‘Oh,’ he drawled, ‘I’m having trouble with the port engine.’ He said, ‘It’s running a bit hot.’
Still and all, he didn’t really seem all that worried so I just said something like, ‘Oh, okay,’ then I went back and sat down.
‘What’s up?’ the doctor asked.
‘The pilot’s having trouble with one of the engines.’
And just as I said it, I was gripped by that fleeting fear of, ‘Hey, we could be in big, big trouble here. Someone’s got to know about this because if we go down away out here in the Kimberley, nobody will even know what’s happened.’
Anyhow there was a radio at the back of the co-pilot’s seat, which the nurse could use, so I used that to try and get in touch with Balgo. But there was no answer there. Then there’s the red button — the emergency button — it’s the same one the station people use in an emergency to get in contact with their nearest RFDS base. By this stage the pilot was talking to someone over his radio, but with all the racket going on with the wind and the rain and everything — I wasn’t sure whether he was alerting anyone or not. But we were really limping, so I thought, ‘Well, this is an emergency.’
So I pressed the emergency button and the wife of the Base Manager at Derby come over the radio and I said, ‘You know how we just had to go to Balgo and pick up these two children?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘we’re on our way back to Derby and we’ve run into difficulty. We’re having trouble with one of the engines in the Queen Air and I just think you ought to know.’
And the wife of the Base Manager said, ‘Thanks very much for that information. We’ll stand by if you need us.’
Then just as I’d replaced the radio, the pilot turned around to me and said, ‘I’m going to have to close the port engine down.’
Well, from then on we were just so worried that something very serious was about to happen. And it was so dark outside the Queen Air that I couldn’t see a thing, and I’m thinking, ‘Here we are in this big plane, which is now about to start flying on just the one engine, it’s pitch black outside, it’s raining, it’s extremely windy, and if we’re only travelling on one e
ngine then it’ll take at least two hours to get back to Derby.’
We were still flying at 6000 feet at that stage, but when the pilot shut the engine down I took a look over his shoulder and I could see the altimeter in free-fall. From 6000 feet it dropped down to 5000 feet and there he was, the pilot, trying to steady the thing. Then it fell from 5000 feet down to 4000 feet, down to 3000 feet, and we eventually pulled up at 2000 feet. From experience, I knew that the lowest safe flying level was 1000 feet and that was because of the mountains that were around us — the ‘jump-ups’, as they were known.
Then it suddenly hit me, ‘How will we ever make it?’
So I’m desperately trying to work out just how long it was going to take us to get back to Derby, on one engine and in these horrific conditions. Now, my maths was never that good but whatever way I tried to figure it out, the result always ended up as being an extremely frightening prospect, indeed. An impossible equation. And, you know, it was one of those times when your whole life sort of flashes before you and I came to the conclusion, well, like, I’m not quite ready to go just yet.
And it was about then that the pilot turned around and said, ‘I think we’ll try and get back to Balgo. It’s not as far.’
‘Oh,’ I replied, ‘what a good idea.’
So he turned the Queen Air around and we started to head back to Balgo. But by that stage we were already twenty minutes out and I knew that they only left the basketball court lights and the airstrip lights on for twenty minutes after a plane left. And that meant, by the time we got back there, all the lights would be out and we wouldn’t be able to find the place. So I tried to raise Balgo again on the radio to tell them, you know, ‘Hey, switch the lights back on. We’re in big trouble here and we have to come back.’
But again, there wasn’t an answer. So I continued trying and trying to get on to Balgo and still, nothing, nothing, nothing. Then I realised that the staff in the clinic there would’ve probably been so pleased to have seen the two children fly out that they would’ve said, ‘Oh well, they’re safe now so, with it being such a rotten night, we may as well just pack up and go home and go to bed.’
Then, for the first time that night, luck was with us because as we got closer to Balgo we could just make out the lights from the basketball court. Thankfully, someone must’ve forgotten to switch them off. What’s more, when we got closer, the airstrip lights were still on. And, well, I just couldn’t believe it.
Still, there remained the huge problem of trying to land the Queen Air on just the one engine, and in these terrible conditions. It was sheeting rain and you know how, when the pilots prepare to land, they fly across the airstrip then go around to line up so that the airstrip’s right there in front of them. Well our pilot went around once, then twice, then three times and so on until he reached his eighth attempt and he still couldn’t line up the airstrip to his satisfaction. He’d either lose sight of the airstrip lights in the pelting rain or the driving wind would blow the plane too far this way or too far that way, and by now I’m thinking, We’re never going to make it.
But the people from Balgo must’ve heard our plane flying around because, as we passed over again, we saw some cars coming out to the airport. They hadn’t got our message. No message at all. Nobody knew. They just heard the drone of our Queen Air so they thought they’d better come and see what was going on. You know, when the RFDS plane has been your lifeline for so long, it’s such a distinctive sound. You never forget it.
Now, back in those days, Balgo used to own Kingfisher Air and they had a plane sitting on the airstrip. So their pilot got in his aircraft and he was able to speak to our pilot. ‘What’s your problem?’ he asked.
‘Well,’ replied our pilot, ‘we’ve only got one engine. We’re being blown around all over the place and I can’t see the approach to the airstrip because of the driving rain.’
Then our pilot asked if they could park two cars with their headlights on at the approach to the airstrip so at least he could see where he was supposed to come down. So they did that and we were eventually able to land. And, oh, we were just so grateful when we finally touched down, just so relieved. Actually, we were all in a heap — a complete mess — absolutely spent.
But, you know, the wind was so bad that the windsock on their strip was blowing horizontal. So you really had to give it to our pilot. I mean, to keep his cool through all that and to make the right decisions, and get us all there in one piece. Well, as I said, you really had to give it to him.
So, we then unloaded the two little kids and the Balgo Hospital staff had to get up out of their beds and look after them overnight. We also stayed at Balgo that night, of course. Then the next day the RFDS sent out the little Beechcraft Baron and we brought the little boy back to Derby with us, in that. From memory, I think he’d started to regain consciousness by then. But we didn’t take the older girl. She was okay by then. So yeah, they survived, no problem.
But something really scary: first thing on that following morning, before the Beechcraft Baron arrived to take us back to Derby, our pilot went out to try and start up the Queen Air and — you wouldn’t believe it — but neither of the two engines would start. Not even the one that we flew in on would work. They’d both gone. And afterwards, when they had the investigation about it, apparently they found out that the driving rain had somehow gone in under the cowl — you know, the hooding around the engine — and it ended up wetting the magnetos, which put the engines out. And so that was the cause. That’s what they said.
So, you know, if we would’ve continued on towards Derby, well, who knows what might’ve happened. And that’s the experience that made me think, ‘Well, it must be about time to hang up your wings. You’ve been at it for a fair while now and I think somebody’s trying to tell you something.’
And not long after that I finished up with the RFDS. Actually, what also helped make the decision easier was that I got married. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’ve also got someone else to consider now.’
So that was it for me. There was no more flying.
NEW GREAT AUSTRALIAN FLYING DOCTOR STORIES
Contributors
New Great Australian Flying Doctor Stories is based on stories told to Bill ‘Swampy’ Marsh by:
Rhonda Anstee
Bob Balmain
Rod Bishop
Paul Brady
Chris Carter
Donna Cattanach
Jane Clemson
Ruth Cook
Dave Crommelin
Heather Curtin
Phil and Sue Darby
Sarah Fenton
Richard Fewster and Ann Ruston
Norton Gill
Jack Goldsmith
David Hansford
Wal ‘Dusty’ Harkness
David and Christine Harris
Robina Jeffs
Ruth Ko
Margaret Loveday
John Lynch
Susan Markwell
Bill ‘Swampy’ Marsh
David McInnes
Ian ‘Mac’ McKechnie
Barbara Meredith
Kevin Murphy
Shirley Norris
Stephen Penberthy
Peter Phillips
Bill Rawson
Cheryl Russ
Chris Smith
Howard William Steer
Kim Tyrie
Esther Veldstra
Nick Watling
Margaret Wheatley
Margaret Worth
Dedication
To Howard William Steer
— with many thanks for all your help and great spirit
www.howardsteerart.com.au
A Brief History
On a number of occasions people have mentioned that while they’ve greatly enjoyed the collected stories of the Royal Flying Doctor Service (RFDS), there’s never been the one story that gives a brief overview as to just how the RFDS came into being. For me, history isn’t just a list of dates that relate to a sequence of events.
I had enough of that back in school. But since then I’ve developed a great interest in the many and varied characters who have been involved in the making of our history: people like the shearers and the drovers, those who have worked and travelled on our railways, those who live and work in little outback towns and pubs.
The RFDS has been, and still is, full of people who are prepared to take on the huge challenges that working our outback regions presents, and for the betterment of all. As one person I interviewed for More Great Flying Doctor Stories said, those who are involved in the Flying Doctor Service, ‘on a daily basis…put their lives on the line for people who are complete strangers to them. They don’t care who these people are or what their nationality is, or what religion they are. And it doesn’t matter [that] those very same people probably wouldn’t take a similar risk for them. In fact, they wouldn’t even realise the risk. What’s more, the RFDS do it for free.’
So where did this amazing organisation have its origins? Who were the driving forces behind its conception? What sort of characters were they? Well, to begin at the beginning, the Reverend John Flynn was the person who had the dream of creating a spiritual and medical ‘Mantle of Safety’ for all remote and outback people, regardless of colour, race or creed. And what a large dream it was. As Hudson Fysh, the co-founder of Qantas, once wrote of John Flynn: ‘Flynn the Dreamer…who saw a vision of a Flying Doctor well before the days of practical flying, but kept it firmly fixed in his mind’.
John Flynn was born in the late 1880s, at a place called Moliagul in central-western Victoria. He went to a few primary schools, one of which had the rather uninviting name of Snake Valley. In 1898 he matriculated from high school; then, to help pay his way through his further education, he became what was called a ‘pupil-teacher’ with the Victorian Education Department. Following that he began training for the ministry. His time at theological college was broken up by two important events that ignited his passion for the bush and its people; the first being the couple of periods he spent on a shearers’ mission and stemming from those experiences was the publication of his Bushman’s Companion.