The Complete Book of Australian Flying Doctor Stories

by Bill Marsh

  Now, unbeknown to the people on the property of Bolwarra, we turned out to be flying virtually right over the top of them when we got the message. So within fifteen minutes of their call I had the King Air landing at their airstrip. And they were amazed. ‘For heaven’s sake,’ they said, ‘you wouldn’t get a faster service from the road ambulance in the city.’

  So we reckoned we’d made up for any perceived ‘tardiness’ we might’ve had in the past, just on that one ‘evac’. You know, to be able to produce the aeroplane, in front of an anxiously waiting group of people and a seriously injured stockman, within ten or fifteen minutes of them calling Cairns was just about unheard of. It was just pure luck, of course. As I said, we just happened to be returning from picking up another patient and were basically right over the top of the place.

  But the poor bloke — the stockman — he was really in a bad way. He had an extremely bad compound fracture, where the bone was actually protruding through the skin of his ankle. It was a shocker. Very distressing, really. But it was just typical of these outback people. I tell you, they’re as tough as nails and with an amazing sort of resilience, because when the stockman was asked, ‘Is it hurting?’ he gave a wince and replied, ‘Oh, it itches a bit.’

  Anyhow, we got him back to Cairns in pretty quick time and he didn’t lose his ankle or his foot. Mind you, I’m not sure he was able to run as fast as he had in the past but they were able to fix his foot up. So he could walk and that was great.

  In the…

  When I first went up to Cape York to work with the Australian Inland Mission, there was a story going around that went something like this. Now, you know how cooks have the reputation of being temperamental people. Well, one of the station properties had this rather large cook who, when he got into a ‘paddy’ about anything, would grab a book and go out and plonk himself down in the outhouse toilet and, depending on the gravity of the paddy he was in, maybe not come out for anything up to a couple of hours.

  Of course, back then there weren’t any septic systems in those remote areas so the type of toilets they used were the ‘long-drop’ type. For those of you that may not know, the long-drop toilet is basically, you know, a wooden box type of thing with a hole in the top where the seat goes, and that’s all placed over a very deep hole, which is where all the ‘waste’ goes. For privacy, it’s surrounded by a few sheets of corrugated iron, a roof and a wooden door. That particular style of toilet was well suited to Cape York because, being an old mining area, the actual toilet itself was simply plonked down over an old mine shaft, which saved a lot of digging.

  Anyway, early one morning this cranky cook got his knickers in a knot about something or other, so he grabbed a book and went out and plonked himself down on the toilet. Unfortunately, the white ants must’ve been very busy of late because when he sat down the toilet crumbled from under him and he, in turn, disappeared down this old mine shaft. Actually, you could liken it to what happened to Alice in the book Alice in Wonderland, except that this cook really landed in the…well, you can imagine what he landed in, can’t you?

  Now, seeing that all the ringers and stockmen and that who worked on this station property were well aware of the cook’s temperamental nature, when he hadn’t come out of the toilet by breakfast time they didn’t worry too much, and they just went ahead and helped themselves. Even by morning tea there was still only some semi-mild concern. But by lunchtime, some hours later, these stockmen were starting to get pretty hungry and even though the cook wasn’t what you’d call ‘a gourmet specialist’, at least he dished up a pretty hearty meal.

  Anyway, one of the younger ringers drew the short straw and he got landed with the job of going over to the outhouse to check on the situation. So he wandered over to the long-drop, knocked on the wooden door and said, ‘Cookie, are yer okay?’

  There was no answer so the ringer knocked a little louder, ‘Hey, Cookie, we’re getting hungry.’

  Still no answer. Then, just as the ringer was about to walk away, he thought he heard a very faint voice. ‘This’s a bit odd,’ thought the ringer and he called out for his mates to come over and offer a second opinion. They all gathered around the outhouse. ‘Hey, Cookie!’ they shouted.

  ‘Help,’ came the distant reply.

  So they broke down the toilet door and that’s when they discovered that the cook had disappeared down the old mine shaft.

  ‘Hey, Cookie, are yer down there?’

  ‘Yes,’ came the echo.

  Anyway, while someone went over to the homestead to get on the radio and call the Flying Doctor, the stockmen knocked down the outer, corrugated iron, toilet structure and then they got the ropes and all the rest of it and they hooked up a ‘windlass’ — a winch lift — to haul the cook out.

  Even though the cook had been extricated from his predicament by the time the Flying Doctor arrived, the poor chap was still in rather a smelly state. But the doctor, being the professional that he was, checked the cook out to make sure that he was okay and luckily, apart from a very bruised ego, the cook had survived the experience without too many injuries at all. But just to be on the safe side, the doctor decided to give him a course of antibiotics, because of the, you know, the particular situation he’d been in. And as the story went, the cook lost a little of his temperamental sharpness after that event and even when he did throw a paddy, just before he’d storm out of the kitchen he’d announce to all and sundry, ‘Won’t be long, fellers.’

  In the Beginning

  I got into flying in quite an odd sort of way, really. Back during World War II, my older brother, Bill, had been a flying officer in the Royal Australian Air Force (RAAF), Number Thirteen Squadron, up in Darwin. He was flying Hudsons. Then on 19 February 1942 he got shot down over the Timor Sea and was listed as missing. And that event changed the course of my life really, because at that stage I’d put my age up and had already enlisted in the Army. But then, after Bill went missing, I resolved to get into the Air Force when I’d reached their required age of eighteen.

  Finally, after being accepted into the RAAF, my initial training was held at Victor Harbor, which is south of Adelaide, in South Australia. After that I was posted to Narrandera, in south-western New South Wales, where I was instructed in elementary flying in the Tiger Moths. After eight months there, I returned to South Australia, this time to Mallala, where I built up one hundred and forty flying hours. I was then deemed ready for service with the RAAF.

  After the war had ended, I went back on the land and although I maintained my private licence through the Aero Club of South Australia, my flying career basically went on hold. But even then I still continued to explore any possible opportunities towards a flying career. To that end, in 1959 I purchased my own Cessna and started up as a charter pilot, based in the far west of New South Wales, at a place called Wilcannia. My main work out there came through stock firms like Elders, Goldsbrough Mort and Dalgety’s. But then the drought of 1963 put paid to all that and so I adapted my aircraft and began selling pest control products throughout South Australia, Queensland and the Northern Territory. As it turned out, there was an untapped market in those outback areas and flying the Cessna was a great way to reach them, because in those days you could land just about anywhere. So even though I wasn’t a salesperson by nature, because of the accessibility I had, I still had great success.

  Then in 1965 I sold my aircraft to Ross Aviation and joined their firm in Adelaide. Ross Aviation was a sales and charter company so I had a combination of work, with demonstrating and selling aircraft plus flying charter. That job took me all over Australia, and from Adelaide I was offered a job in Perth, doing charter flying in King Air aeroplanes. By charter work I mean, someone might come along with a group of, say, half a dozen people and they’d want to go to some place that would take them ages to reach by road, like from Perth to Darwin or Perth to Sydney. So they’d charter an aircraft. It was like a taxi service, really. That’s all it was, like an air taxi. Prices varied,
of course, and the clients were a mix of tourists and business people, and so pretty soon, I’d done 7500 hours, which included a lot of bush flying.

  Then one day in 1968 while I was in Perth I was talking to one of the blokes about flying and he mentioned that the Queensland Section of the Royal Flying Doctor Service was advertising for four pilots to replace their previously seconded TAA (Trans-Australia Airlines) pilots. There must’ve been some sort of change within the organisation there somewhere, and now the RFDS wanted to employ their own pilots.

  But I think that my interview for the job deserves some sort of mention. Now, because the senior pilot of TAA was on a trip to Perth, I had a preliminary interview with him to see if I was a suitable applicant for the job with the Flying Doctor Service. That recommendation was positive and it was relayed back to the RFDS Head Office in Brisbane. Then they, the Flying Doctor Service, got in touch and informed me that my final interview was set for ten o’clock, on such-and-such a date, at their Head Office in Queen Street, Brisbane.

  Well, that was good news, and so I just assumed that the interview was to be held at ten o’clock in the morning, as you would. But the thing was, I didn’t want my employers in Perth to find out that I was going for another job. That just wasn’t done in those days, and also my feeling was that there’d be a lot of excellent applicants going for the four RFDS flying jobs. So even though I’d got over the first hurdle and had been recommended, I wasn’t all that confident. Anyway, I made up an excuse as to why I couldn’t fly for the Perth company on that particular day — the day of my interview in Brisbane — and a friend of mine, who was also a pilot with the same company, he said he’d sub for me, for just that one day.

  So, with everything all organised on the Perth workfront, unbeknown to my current employers I flew off to Brisbane for this interview. It didn’t cost me anything. The RFDS saw to all that. Accommodation and flights there and back were all paid for.

  When I got to Brisbane, I rang the RFDS Head Office to let them know that I’d arrived. ‘I’m here,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.’

  ‘Well, no,’ they informed me, ‘we have interviews already organised throughout tomorrow, sir, and yours isn’t set down until ten o’clock tomorrow night.’

  Well, that certainly set the cat among the pigeons because I’d only sorted out things back in Perth for that one day. Anyhow, I stayed for my 10 pm interview and caught a flight back to Perth the following day — a day later than expected. So, in saying that it didn’t actually cost me anything, well, in a funny sort of way it did, because by the time I returned to Perth the company I was working for had found out that I’d been to an interview for another job. So it was a case of being welcomed back and being told, ‘Well, you’re finished with us now.’

  So, having realised I’d done my last flight with that mob, there followed an extremely nervous wait to see if I’d got the job with the Queensland RFDS. And even though I had all the requirements, including an endorsement on the Queen Air aeroplane, which I’d been flying in Western Australia, as I said, I still wasn’t all that confident of getting one of the pilots’ positions because I knew there were a lot of very strong applications.

  Anyhow, thankfully they gave me the job. That was in May 1968, and my first appointment was out at Charleville, in south-western Queensland. And during the following six or so years I worked at Charleville, I was on call seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day, except for annual holidays. Back then, I’d say that Charleville was the busiest of the RFDS bases. We ran clinics up to four days a week, with overnights at many a remote station property and also at towns like Jundah, Birdsville, Windorah, Thylungra, Bedourie and Thargomindah. On top of all that we then averaged one evacuation per month, to Brisbane.

  Then in 1974 I was appointed to the Cairns base, where I worked until my retirement in 1988. So my flying career for the Royal Flying Doctor Service spanned twenty years and, over that time, I clocked up over 20 000 flying hours. But really, because it was my first appointment, the township of Charleville is, and always will remain, very dear to me.

  In the Boot

  Actually, I got into the Flying Doctor Service in a roundabout sort of way, really. I’d been working out bush as a Remote Area Nurse and the girls from the RFDS knew me and they needed someone to do some relief work for them, so they gave me some relief work and it just followed on from there. I went part-time and finally I went full-time, which was great. That was at our Port Augusta base, which is in South Australia.

  Then, as far as stories go, there’s one particular accident I still remember quite vividly. It happened to a midwife from Adelaide. At the time she was visiting people on a station property, out along the Transcontinental Railway Line that runs between Port Augusta and Kalgoorlie. I’m not exactly sure how far out the property was just now, but we got an urgent call saying that somehow a brick fence had fallen on this midwife woman and she’d been caught and her lower leg was a mess.

  On that occasion we flew out there without a doctor; there was just myself and the pilot. When we landed at the airstrip on the property, there was a ute already waiting for us, so I just grabbed some gear and in we went to see the injured woman. In all, from the time we’d been notified about the accident till the time we arrived, I’d say it took us about an hour and a half to reach her. By then they’d taken the bricks off her and she was lying on the ground, with her foot going in a very odd sort of direction. So I just took one look and I thought, ‘What am I going to do here?’

  It was a real mess. The pilot even had to walk away from it, that’s how horrific it was. Anyhow, the woman was still conscious so I took her pulse and while I was holding her hand I was summing up the situation. ‘What am I going to do? How am I going to go about this?’

  The wall was a garden wall, and she’d been lying outside on the ground right next to it. Now, I don’t know what made it fall over — I didn’t actually ever ask that — but when it fell over it pinned her lower leg. It was just like, well, to be absolutely honest, it was a near amputation. Her clothes were even stuck between the broken bones of her leg. Oh, it was sort of all mashed up, mushed up, with the clothes wedged in the break, and I daren’t remove them without risking her bleeding more badly than what she already was.

  Anyhow, after taking her pulse I thought, ‘Well, to start with, I’ll cut her shoe off just to see which way her foot’s really going.’ So that’s what I did and when I took a look, I thought, ‘There’s no way I can reposition this. It’s just got to stay in the shape it’s in, and I’ve got to support it the best I can.’

  Actually, I was a bit worried about not trying to reposition her foot but, anyhow, I ended up deciding to stabilise the fracture as it was, in that awkward position. I put an IV (intravenous drip) in and gave her some pain relief. All this time the people that she’d been staying with were holding up a blanket to give her some shade. It wasn’t that hot. It was quite reasonable weather, you know, not too hot or cold, just reasonable. That was a good thing, and I don’t remember there being too many flies about either, which was also a very good thing, too. I just hate it when you go to an accident where there’s blood and there’s millions of flies about.

  So I got her as settled as I possibly could and then, when we went to move her back to the aeroplane, we laid her on a mattress — which would’ve been more comfortable than a stretcher — then we put her in the back of the ute and we drove her back out to the aircraft. To me, that seemed to take about twenty minutes. Then we returned to Port Augusta and from there she was taken down to Adelaide.

  And later on I felt justified in my decision not to try and reposition the foot because actually all the doctors and that, they even decided to leave it the way it was before they did the X-rays and everything. They didn’t try to do anything until further down the track. And, luckily, as it turned out, her leg was saved. Mind you, they had a lot of trouble with it. But they managed to save it, so that was a nice ending to a rather ch
allenging accident.

  Then, on a lighter note, there’s the story about the same pilot I went out there with on that particular day, when the wall had fallen on the midwife. I won’t mention the pilot’s name but he was just so funny to work with, which, mind you, is exactly what you need in some of those more serious and critical situations. But this pilot just loved his dog. It went everywhere with him.

  Anyway, one time we got this Code One out from Port Augusta. A Code One is an emergency. And when the pilot got the call he just grabbed his gear and ran out of his house. Then, just as he was about to get in his car, he noticed that the boot was open, so he slammed it shut, then he jumped into his car and drove flat out to the airport, where he started preparing the aeroplane for take-off.

  Then, just as we’re about ready to leave Port Augusta, I get this phone call from his wife saying, ‘Rhonda, I can’t find his dog anywhere. Is it out there with him?’

  Now, I’d seen the pilot arrive but I hadn’t seen his dog.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I haven’t seen his dog.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s in his car.’

  As it happened, I could see his car from where I was and it didn’t look like there was a dog in it, so I said, ‘No, the dog isn’t in the car.’

  ‘Well, that’s strange,’ his wife said, ‘because it always stays around the house when he’s gone. Look,’ she said, ‘just on the off-chance, would you mind asking him to check to see if his dog’s somehow ended up in the boot of his car?’

  So I went out and I told the pilot and sure enough, when he unlocked the boot of his car, there’s this sheepish looking dog, looking very pleased to see its even more sheepish looking master.

  Injections

  I’ve only ever given injections once and, unless it’s a life or death situation, as far as I’m concerned it won’t happen again. I just hate giving injections. I don’t know why. It’s just one of those things. I just can’t do it unless, of course, it’s an absolute life and death situation. I remember one guy who came into Gibb River Station, in the Kimberley area of Western Australia. He was up here working in a Main Roads Maintenance Camp, and afterwards he told me that he just knew it was an accident waiting to happen. They apparently had an urn placed out on a bench, with the tap poking outwards so, of course, when he walked past the urn, the tap hooked onto his short pants, didn’t it? Over it went and he ended up with boiling water all down his side.