Until more material comes in I’ll use this page to recall the many Furphys, yarns and episodes that floated around each Fire Section. Names will be left out and if you recognise or even find humour in the stories then make the most of it. Cos, you just may star in the next one. When I write in the method of the ‘first person’ you can be assured that I play the leading role - much to my chagrin. For the rest I’ll use the firies’ vernacular and I’ll write slowly - so you can keep up:) - here’s the first...

copyright Chas Adlard 2009

Iroquois Ride

From my starboard seat facing away from the Iroquois cabin I watched the ground recede through the

open door. I imagined the other members of the fire crew polishing the already polished fire trucks

below and grinned. The Search and Rescue helicopter swung away from the RAAF Base and I

relaxed as the oppressive tropical heat abated.

As our destination was some way off we had been issued with helmets that had the means to listen to

the pilot as he conversed with the Control Tower. I guess they didn’t trust us hitchhikers with a

mouthpiece, so our silence was assured. After some fifteen minutes had passed the chopper lurched

heavily left and right and my earpiece came loose resulting in heavy distortion in the form of static.

I cursed the pilot knowing full well that his perverse humour related entirely to the erratic behaviour

of the Iroquois. He’d done it before, several times on other trips. Then he really lost it and although

both the seat belt and inertia kept me inboard I felt a tightening in my loins. You bastard, I thought.

The static cleared to crackling and I could hear the abbreviated word or two. Mention now of engine

problems and…. ‘day…. Ma…y. Great, I thought, that’s the trip buggered.

As the Rescue chopper swung back towards the Base I could hear more radio traffic but of an

indiscernible nature.

I strained to observe the nature of the emergency but could not see any circling aircraft that might be

in trouble. Our pilot was throwing the chopper from side to side now vying, I assumed, for a better

position to spot the poor sod in trouble. I could see the fire trucks now with their revolving red lights

and wondered why they hadn’t been deployed to the regular crash positions on the airfield lazy-ways.

More static and more crackling offended my ears and then we were hovering over the chopper pad

only to fall out of the sky - literally. Oh, certainly not more than twenty feet but the impact rattled my teeth and that was really bad as my tongue was the inevitable target.

The chopper crew became suddenly earnest and I was signalled to leave the aircraft. My anger at the

pilot and his ancestry, although verbal, was lost in the scream of the engines. I released my seat belt

and jumped to the ground. Bent double I hastened, at an angle, away from the chopper and the

immediate danger of decapitation. My mate had left the Iroquois in the same expedient manner and

was now using his flying glove as a filter for copious supplies of vomit.

Thank God for that malfunctioning earpiece for I had been spared the terror of impending doom. Search and Rescue helicopters just weren’t meant to be the object of any ‘MAY-bloody-DAY.

Footnote: My fireman mate who accompanied me on that flight is prone to exaggeration therefore his

account of the incident is dubious at best. While I, on the other hand, recalled the events of that day

with a clarity that defies belief.

The Horticulturist

The look of satisfaction on the Warrant Officer’s face quickly turned to one of deep dismay. He’d only been on leave for a week and already the weeds had invaded his beautiful garden.

He had coerced the labour of many, from the Base gardener to his own troops, and had thought his wishes were clear. This wasn’t any garden – it was his garden – his absolute pride and joy. No, someone had to pay and pay they would…

Unfortunately the Warrant Officer had allowed his emotions to overrule his judgement and in doing so directed his ire towards the worst possible target. The Leading Aircraftman in question had often been the recipient of his attention with disastrous consequences. Too late now, his target set, the WOFF issued his command.

‘When I go to the mess for lunch you, LAC, will be weeding the garden.’

‘What garden’s that, Sorr?’ returned the LAC, feigning ignorance.

The troops privy to this conversation gathered closer, the history between LAC and WOFF had already proved entertaining on many an occasion.

‘What garden? What’d you mean WHAT garden? My garden – the Section Garden.’

‘Ah yes Sorr – sorry Sorr.’

‘I want every weed removed – do you understand, LAC? Every single invasive plant.’

‘I’m nae gardener, Sorr.’

‘That’s an order, LAC.’

‘Sorr.’

The troops felt cheated - they’d expected more from their champion.

At midday sharp the WOFF left the section and headed for the Sergeant’s Mess. In his wake a docile LAC left the Ready Room. His mates hardly noticed his passing, more intent on their own lunch. Forty minutes later the LAC returned, sunk into a chair and was silent. The troops gathered he was suffering somewhat from his easy defeat and left him alone.

Twenty-two minutes later the doors on the Ready Room were nearly torn apart by a raving lunatic wearing the insignia of a Warrant Officer. The troops, alarmed by the sudden intrusion, quickly weighed the situation and turned their interest to a certain LAC.

The LAC was at that moment in time examining his dirty fingernails seemingly oblivious to his WOFF’s sudden return.

‘YOU! YOU! YOU!’ The WOFF’s complexion had changed to a torturous purple and the veins around his neck looked in danger of explosion.

‘YOU! YOU! YOU!’ The WOFF’s vocabulary still lacked any credence.

The LAC stood up, stretched, examined his fingernails yet again and in a most apologetic voice said. ‘I said I was nae gardener, Sorr.’

When the episode moved to the WOFF’s office the troops almost finished the job on the Ready Room doors as they rushed outside. The garden, the WOFF’s absolute pride and joy was now a heap, A VERY LARGE HEAP.

Tit for Tat

I had been at RAAF Base Butterworth for a few weeks before the endless brown envelopes full of

advertising garbage started to arrive in my mail. The perpetrator of this act must have been slightly

annoyed by my lack of response for he struck again.

I returned one morning to my married quarter on Penang Island to find a large group of women all

applying for the job as amah. As my wife and I had already employed an amah some months before I couldn’t see the need for twenty or forty more and with apologies turned them away. Later that day

the unusual sound of heavy traffic drew me to the door to investigate the commotion. My gateway was blocked by numerous vehicles of dubious roadworthiness, their drivers all expecting an easy sale. This crowd was harder to dispatch but after a time the road was once again clear.

My return to work drew the inevitable mirth from my colleagues and my suspicions were confirmed and the culprit identified. I planned a shopping spree in his honour, although he wasn’t yet aware of my proposed good deed.

Georgetown, at that point in time, was awash with establishments stuffed full of every electrical

appliance. As the current vogue was the ownership of large hi-fis I shopped with certain zeal. COD

was not readily accepted by the retailers but after some negotiation they agreed to make an exception. I visited many shops and made many orders.

I had, it seemed, made a slight error with my orders – surprisingly the delivery address was incorrect?The recipient of that plethora of electrical merchandise must have been amazed that the delivery guys had expected immediate payment!

With Respect Sir

Sunday, that wet winter’s day in Victoria, promised little for the duty fire crew. After a cursory inspection the truck was forgotten and the three men sat in the Ready Room already bored.

When the Ready Room door opened they rose to their feet as one, in a manner quite military – for them. The officer who had entered their domain was not the usual ‘run of the mill’ Fire Officer, he was old school – an ex-member of the British Army.

The man had held senior rank in his homeland and had gratefully accepted a lesser position in the RAAF as trade for a life in Australia. As a soldier with battle honours many revered him but that was not enough for the members of this Fire Section. He had to gain their respect.

‘Morning Corporal, morning men.’

All three in unison, ‘G’day, Sir.’

‘A word Corporal, if you will?’ He turned and led the corporal outside.

‘I need the use of a vehicle – that one.’ He pointed to the red shiny Thornycroft.

‘Sir?’

‘On the job training, as it were.’

The corporal wasn’t really following the gist of the one sided conversation but offered lamely. ‘I can spare one man, sir.’

‘Admirable.’

Five hours later a mud clad, distinctly un-red fire truck, sat in the wash bay beside the section. The fireman who had driven the vehicle looked quite smug as he sat drinking his coffee. However his expression faded when his corporal told him to get out and clean the bloody truck.

The Flight Lieutenant was primarily engaged in Airfield Defence and his role as Fire Officer was a secondary duty. Training troops on the 25 yard rifle range was a priority and like all his given duties was taken seriously. This was a man who led from the front, gave no favours and asked for none. When his 25 yard range was threatened with closure due to the invasion of a golf green the Flight Lieutenant took umbrage. This was to his mind the beginning of a war and tactics were called for…

Although the weather had been inclement the groundsmen developing the new golf green had let the sprinklers run constantly for several days. The entrance to the rifle range was unusable and training programs had been severely compromised.

The fireman stood next to his Fire Truck and listened to his orders and as they were conveyed his grin grew wider and wider. The Flight Lieutenant donned ear protection and watched the big truck dig into the wet ground. Would his plan fail before it had indeed even started? He didn’t have to worry, in low gear, low range with six-wheel drive engaged the Thornycroft had little equal. Up and down went the truck leaving giant furrows in its wake, turning the ground into a quagmire. The fireman operator was ever mindful of his orders and would not encroach on land marked by the Flight Lieutenant’s pegs as off limit. This land was not dedicated, according to Base Planning, to Airfield Defence and as such would find the Lieutenant in breech of RAAF command  - AND that would be insubordinate behaviour, wouldn’t it?

Much later that ploughed golf green was completed but not on designated Airfield Defence ground. The 25 yard range survived for many years and that ex-British Officer did get the respect of his fire crews but at what cost? When questioned cautiously by one fireman about the episode the Flight Lieutenant was polite but succinct. ‘We move on, man – we move on.’

And he did, leaving the RAAF a short time later… Good luck, mate!

The Under Dak

The aircraft pilot was worried. The undercarriage when lowered was not locking in position. Strangely though, when tested, the wheels retracted and stowed as normal. If the C-47 had one fault it could rest with the undercarriage hydraulics. They had no option, that crew of four, they had to land – hell, but they only had one parachute and none of them fancied the jump.

Decision made, the pilot declared an emergency, knowing a senior pilot would soon occupy the Tower. With the airfield circuit clear of traffic the Dakota pilot started the first of many turns. Several circuits later and at the advice of the Tower the crew retracted and lowered the undercarriage yet again. When that failed the pilot carried out a low approach so the ground crew could examine the problem. This neither confirmed or denied a malfunction in the landing gear.

With the aircraft fuel rapidly depleting a formula had to be found. The ground crew knew that once the wheels were securely pinned all would be fine. Sets of these pins were stored on the aircraft, with the ground crew and with the Base Fire Crew. However the Dakota would have to land first and by then the whole plan could be superfluous, seeing that the bloody undercarriage might have failed and left a ghastly mess on the Commanding Officer’s airfield.

The runway on this RAAF Base was fitted with crash barriers at either end. Fighter jets landed at extreme speeds and deployed a parachute to counteract some of this pace. Some emergencies, such as chute failure, required the crash barriers to be raised as a safety net. A member of the Base Fire Crew had an idea and voiced this with the Tower.

While the undercarriage in question had to lock in position to effect a landing, the rear wheel was fixed in a lowered position. Although small in comparison to the main landing gear it had, to this particular fireman’s mind, the capabilities of a landing hook found on the Navy’s Carrier aircraft. The crash barrier would make the ideal braking implement not dissimilar to the cables found on those flat top ships.

The pilot, according to all reports, approached the airfield with only sufficient fuel for one more circuit. With the barrier already raised and the Crash Crew standing by the C-47 pilot started his descent. The main wheels were already down and for this reason the aircraft’s attitude had to be high in the front and low in the back. This was all done at a precariously low speed but at the last moment when onlookers thought the manoeuvre had failed the rear wheel snared the top two wires of the barrier.

Although the pilot had to struggle with his controls, maintaining engine power to stay airborne, the fireman’s plan had worked. The Dakota was suspended, caught at the rear with nowhere to go but hover.

That fireman, that brave ‘gun’ fireman, ran forward and placed the ladder in position. The engines roared in defiance but just as defiantly the fireman placed each wheel pin in position. As he descended he cut the top wires of the barrier and the aircraft, once free, shot forward to complete the circuit and land safely.

Later the fireman was commended for his initiative and then charged for the irreparable damage to the crash barrier. He took it in his stride – just another day in the life of a RAAF Firie… ‘Ain’t that the truth?

Gullibles Travels

‘Hey, Charlie – check the front left-hand locker it’s rattling like a bastard.’

So poor gullible me prepares to dismount as my mate, my trustworthy mate, slowed the Fire Truck to a stop. My feet had barely touched the ground before the truck moved off again leaving me choking dust.

‘You Mongrel,’ I shouted.

Now I’d better explain the scenario, we had been, justly, circumnavigating the airfield and although the ‘strip’ was active we were in radio communication. The Tower could direct us in the case of an emergency. My mate had picked an excellent place for an ambush. I was at the furthest point away from the RAAF Butterworth Fire Section and either had the pleasure of a very long walk around the airfield perimeter or a quick do or die dash across that active runway, an action that could have horrendous repercussions to my own good health or, in fact, to the many aircrews flying that day. The tropical heat haze made things worse marring from sight the entire length of the strip.

I had no option. I closed my eyes and praying ran at full speed across the runway to arrive, surprisingly, still alive at the other side. I assumed my foolhardiness would have detrimental consequences and expected the Tower to dispatch a vehicle in my direction. When this didn’t eventuate I wondered if flying had been cancelled? I was pondering this question at the side of the strip, once again fully relaxed.

I hit the ground – a very nervous reaction – as two Mirages roared past my position. I managed to rise, albeit with little dignity, to my feet and turned with a fluttering heart towards Fire Section. As I trudged along the taxiway I let my anger loose where nobody could hear my raving. My mate would already have spread the word and I’d be in for a lot of good advice about front vehicle lockers and airfield mapping etc, bloody etc. But I’d been around and wouldn’t bite. My mate, however, would keep – there’d be another day.

When I arrived back at the Section my Sergeant asked me where I’d been.

‘I got the trots, Sarge,’ I answered quickly.

‘Hmmph,’ said the Sarge.

A few months later, with no flying scheduled we were sent off base to carry out area familiarisation. I was driving – a Corporal sat next to me in the middle and my jocular mate to his far side. In the rear of the vehicle was a local fireman who would be our guide. We had been driving for over half an hour and I was totally bushed for every rice paddock and Kampong looked the same to me. Our guide had dozed off and without direction I just turned left, right, left right, left, left, left.

The Corporal, an old ‘chum’, told me to pull over and told my mate to drive. As my mate got out of the passenger door the Corporal slid across the bench-seat to take his place. I was about to follow when, with sudden clarity, I remembered a similar scenario. My mate, to his credit, managed to avoid being crushed by leaping hurriedly out of my way. The Corporal thought at first that I intended to stop having had a ‘moment’. Pig’s bum, mate – I kept driving. The Corporal was threatening blue murder but I was adamant. Anyhow, with the guidance of the local fireman we arrived back at the Section. I said nothing, the Corporal said nothing AND we waited…

Three hours later my mate made it back and as always a great grin was painted on his dial. A little later our Sergeant asked him where he’d been? He answered with the utmost gravity.

‘I got the trots, Sarge.’

‘Hmmph,’ said the Sarge.

Marathon Mate

Back in ‘73 – I’ve always wanted to write that, sorry I digress – I was extremely fit. When off duty I ran up to ten kilometres a day and swam another three. Hard to believe now, especially in my current form as a colossus. Most of the RAAF Butterworth firemen were up to par physically at that time, although some carried a bit of weight. Like my mate f’r instance – yeah, that mate.

I don’t know how he talked himself into it but he did. He always was a bucket mouth. Anyway, we agreed to compete in a road running race. This was a track I knew well and led over the Vale of Tempe and then swung back to the sea passing the RAAF Hostel to return eventually to my mate’s married quarter in Hillside.

To be fair my mate kept up with me for, hmm – er, twenty-five metres. Me, I just enjoyed the run and after a while I was in the hills leaving the houses and my mate behind. The small monkeys in the treetops seemed to be laughing at me, warning me and I started to worry. Why would my mate make such a stupid challenge? If he didn’t have a chance in hell…

The kilometres slipped by and I was back in the ‘burbs, as it were. A trishaw overtook me ringing his bell and this, as a usual occurrence, didn’t surprise me. What did surprise me was my mate suddenly at my side – looking rested and somewhat smug.

‘You bastard, you just got out of that bloody trishaw.’

‘What me mate? Nah, that’d be cheating.’ He grinned.

So off we went and he kept with me for another twenty-five metres or so. Probably less.

I had been running in new sneakers and that was a big mistake. By now, after eight kilometres the blisters were tormenting. I looked back and the road was clear with the exception of a taxi heading my way. This was not a big deal and I continued to hobble on.

‘In a bit of trouble, Charlie?’

That bloody grin!

‘Taxi this time, mate?’

‘Whot?’

The bastard took off like a jackrabbit and I had to work very hard to keep up. Now I used tactics, running at his shoulder I forced him to run harder. Bugger the pain.

We were just reaching the RAAF Hostel and I was hoping for a break. Luckily so was my mate. Anyhow, we got ourselves a couple of cold drinks and I sat down and pulled off my shoes and socks. It wasn’t a pretty sight – the blisters had blisters on blisters. I shuffled off to the showers to clean up. When I returned my mate raised an eyebrow and said.

‘We’ll call it a tie. Right, mate?’

‘What?’

‘A tie, mate – nobody won.’

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘If you think some trishaw, taxi going bastard is going to beat me, forget it.’

He looked at my feet and then at me. That mongrel grin! Again.

‘Well – we’d better head off.’ And with that he was gone. Now I was angry and blisters or no blisters I was going back in the race and I’d bloody well win. Or, so I thought.

My shoes and socks had mysteriously disappeared and so too was my wallet that I’d left jammed inside the left boot. Marathon mate, be buggered. I should’ve listened to the monkeys.

Bin there – done that

In my youth, a while ago now, we’d play a prank or three on the local constabulary. One I

remembered – I’ve still got the scars – it concerned a remedy of explosive ingredients. Oh no, no, no, no, NO! I wouldn’t hurt fly. Cop THAT Luey…

We were still in the old Fire Section at RAAF Edinburgh and morale, surprisingly, was good. The

terrible TWO were still terrorising each other and the rest of the crew were playing catch up. A bit first about these two lads - they’d compete, from a standing start outside of their Thornycroft Fire Trucks for a win at the end of Runway 18. One of ‘em would often come out in front – pulling the dump valve dropped 8000 pounds of water, didn’t it?

Another episode concerned a certain blue Datsun and a potato. Unfortunately, while we all waited

expectantly for the vehicle to crank and crank and crank – with the potato, of course, stuck up the

exhaust pipe – it started. The guilty party, a fair to middling backyard mechanic, took off like a

cheetah. We stood, looking perplexed as the Datsun disappeared around the corner of the Tower. The sound of the muffler system blowing apart is quite distinctive really. The driver came hurtling around the corner and took off after his ‘not so mate’, mate.

I’ll round off their story. The changing rooms at that time were in a dark and windowless parking bay. The prank took some engineering and was well executed. He’d rigged a vast bank of magi-cubes – the camera flash units of yesteryear – inside his mate’s locker, with a trigger to boot. His unlucky mate rocked up to work that afternoon only to open his locker to an explosion of light. Nice one, mate.

Anyhow these two galoots set a standard and we all played catch up. After a spate of ‘get Charlie’

gags I retaliated. I had a mate in Hygiene Section who just happened to have the two ingredients that I needed. I explained my plan and when he looked doubtful decided to give him a practical demo. For obvious reasons I’ll not identify the ingredients but when mixed together and allowed to dry they became highly reactive. So much so that only a pinhead quantity resulted in a loud explosive crack that gave off a purple vapour. We used to put a little bit under toilet seats, under the local cop’s pushbike saddle etc. with great results. Anyway I mixed a rather large amount and using a matchstick deposited the substance on a table for my practical demonstration. My Hygiene Section mate was unimpressed and I thought I must have forgotten something. Anyway I placed the wad of blotting paper in a metal dustbin that stood outside and jammed on the lid, just in case.

I returned to Fire Section with a small amount of the mixture and started spreading it around, as it

were. Under mats, near door handles, under seats, on locker doors and all this achieved without

detection. Then I waited, and waited – nothing – not even the slightest pop. So thinking I had failed went about my duties as normal.

‘Charlie, you’re wanted on the phone, mate. Hygiene Section.’

The phone was situated next to an external door. I had just put the receiver to my ear when the door started to open.

‘Yes, mate.’ I said into the phone.

‘Charlie, you won’t believe this – my dustbin just blew apart.’

The crack was very distinctive and the purple stain on the hand of the Flight Sergeant quite significant. The look on his face was a picture of anger and one of total surprise. For a moment he stared at the door handle and then at me. ‘What the hell happened?’

I guess this was one of those rhetorical questions but I answered anyway.

‘Buggered if I know, Flight.’

Footnote: for the rest of that nightshift the cracks were consistent. I told my crew about the incident just as I was leaving the RAAF in 81. However – although they tried – I didn’t give any of that motley crew the recipe. One terrorist in Fire Section was one too many.

Hermann

For those that suffer from arachnophobia you might want to look away now. This was a time when South Australia still got rain back in the olden days of cold wet winters. Most of the Fire Section personnel had pets – you know dogs, cats, guinea pigs and huntsman spider.

At first ‘Hermann’, as named by his owner, was rather puny – as hunts-man spiders go. Isopeda, Isopedella or Huntsman Spider live for two years or even more, although this life span is significantly reduced in the Adlard residence. My wife sees to that. I have seen two cans of insect spray poured on one helpless creature. Not happy with this she then crushed the remains with not one but two editions of the Yellow Pages.

As the name implies they don’t have a web address but happily live either outdoors or in our homes. Hermann was soon fattened on a diet of selective insects and after eighteen months, having moulted several times, was heading towards the fifteen centimetres mark. Not between the eyes, but from leg to leg. He was a hairy brute with exaggerated striped markings. I rather liked him.

My crash crew, at that time, were the usual crowd of misfits. On those cold late nights if flying had finished I’d let them go home thirty or so minutes early. As I rode a motorbike, or a poor excuse for one, I was always the last to leave by some ten minutes – much to the amusement of the crew.

One night, after being told by the Duty Controller that flying was over I decided to be first out, best dressed. So I donned all my motorbike clobber before poking my head around the Ready Room door.

‘Youse can go now, ladies.’ I said. At that I bolted out of the Section towards my bike. To be fair, they did yell out after to me as I left. Bugger them, I had thought.

The road was still wet as I approached the sharp corner at Air Movements. As I negotiated the turn a massive creepy-crawly appeared on my helmet visor. I instinctively swiped at the beastie with my hand and then again, and again. You got it! The bastard was on the inside.

By now I was experiencing the phenomenon that all motorcyclists tend to experience at some time known specifically as ‘freckle lock-up’. With the bike fish-tailing badly I managed to stop – drop the bloody thing on its side – and rip my helmet off. Hermann looked unperturbed as I emptied him onto the road. Before moving off I checked my helmet for other stowaways – several times.

We never did see Hermann again – thank God.

Canine Frenzy

He was driving – that Mate – with me praying the whole time to Saint Christopher for redemption. That old Popular car had sweeping fenders and as we swung, precariously, into Chulia Street we gained a passenger. My mate was outraged and verbalised his disapproval to the unwanted hitchhiker. I thought this a bit unfair, as the Georgetown local didn’t expect to be scooped up, without notice, by this ageing vehicle with its insidious driver.

With certain dexterity our passenger took his leave from the moving vehicle, hastened by my mate’s picturesque abuse. Our destination was a lunchtime rendezvous with our wives. We had arranged to meet at the Merlin Hotel but my mate had shopping plans en route.

Me, I just went along for ride. We drew up outside a shop and my mate left me in the vehicle to

vegetate. I was surprised when he returned carrying one those tiny school suitcases but said nothing. When we got into the hotel I noticed that my mate still clutched the case as we ascended to the top floor restaurant.

The Merlin Hotel, at that time, boasted an extraordinary smorgasbord of fine food including huge platters of seafood. This was a place that most of the R.A.A.F personnel and their families visited on a regular basis. While the food was great, the cost was comparatively insignificant.

After we had eaten, as we took our leave, I found myself following a trail of liquid and soon found the source, or to be precise – the sauce. My thrifty mate had put his suitcase to good use and, as a ‘doggy bag’ it was good to feed a canine frenzy.

I gave him heaps on the way home and what did he do? Bloody grin. Bastard.

Footnote: with his reputation for saving a buck well known we firies always threw the one and two cent pieces at him (not worth a cracker). At the end of his two and an half year stint he got the last laugh. He had saved them all in very large jar and got a great feed for his trouble. Where? You got it, the Merlin.

Faux Pas

The Air Show had attracted lots of media attention and the public had responded in kind.

It was in the late 70’s and I was at R.A.A.F Base Edinburgh. To greet the morning crowds we used our spare TFA as a static display on the flight line. The same vehicle was used later in the day for a wet drill display.

Unburdened by modern economic restrictions many aircraft took to the air, producing a crowd-

pleasing display. The Army paratroopers did their bit. Chinooks dropped the odd car or two while the ‘kerosene cowboys’ did their best to upset the locals.

A sonic boom has a devastating effect on market garden glasshouses and the repercussions of such an act disastrous. Culpability for the damage, although levelled at the R.A.A.F, was not proven. Break the sound barrier. Whot us? Never.

The crowd, unaware of such a distraction, had spread in ever increasing numbers along the edge of the taxiway, Luckily, a loudspeaker system informed the public of each display. A strong wind, that afternoon, made each announcement waft over the crowd giving an impression of a delayed broadcast.

With the Fire Section display imminent a senior fireman entered the Tower. His job was to announce the proceedings, via the loudspeakers, to the ever-vigilant public. He described the fire truck correctly as a TFA but then thought an explanation of this particular mnemonic was essential. That was, most certainly, his undoing.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he announced with clarity. ‘The mnemonic TFA stands for Fuck, Trire, Aircraft.’

Thanks to the effect of the wind the laughter washed back in ever increasing waves, all along the taxiway, towards the Tower. Faux bloody pas…

Here’s a few more very short tales:

‘Lightning Fast’

As one we hit the concrete and our only Vietnam veteran beat us by a millisecond. He’d been there, done that. Realising that we weren’t under attack we rose, with little dignity, to our feet and rushed to the front of the Butterworth Fire Section. The shockwaves were clearly visible but the aircraft had vanished for a new home at Tengah Air Base, Singapore.

Those Pommie ‘Lightning’ cowboys had left their mark and then some. Several of the Tower windows had broken on the staircase and most of the Base, like us brave firies, had eaten dirt. The 74 Squadron English Electric Lightning had vertically stacked (staggered) engines that boasted an amazing climb record of 50,000 feet per minute. Recently, an unclassified report suggested a ceiling height of 87,000 feet had been achieved in this aircraft.

So when they left Butterworth they had simply ‘stood on their tails’ and headed for altitude. The sound barrier had just gotten in the way. What a great ‘supersonic’ way to say ‘Hooroo’!

‘Pink Talc’

This is a tale of a tale and while not privy to the whole affair I hope the truth still attaches in some way to this account. As was the general practice back in the days of twenty-four hour shifts the evening was spent playing poker. The stakes were low so few went home broke but even so tempers were often vented.

On this particular night the ‘pot’ had grown to an unusual size, with two players holding good hands. Unfortunately the largest and most hostile firie lost. He kicked his chair back and after making some rather indelicate threats left the Ready Room.

Play returned to normal and the incident was quickly forgotten. That was until the Ready Room doors flew open to reveal a raging giant holding a double-barrelled shotgun.

‘Youse BASTARDS,’ he roared.

The referred to ‘bastards’ took evasive action, heading to the floor. The shotgun blast was deafening and those on the floor checked themselves expediently for damage. Thankfully none had received blood-spilling wounds, but they had turned a curious colour – pink.

The 12-gauge shotgun in this incident was kept on the Rescue vehicle to deter airfield bird life. That ‘raging firie’ had filled two cartridges with dry chemical powder for his rather bizarre joke.

‘Another Pink Tale’

While travelling on the back of the Dodge TER a RAAF fireman noticed that the safety pin on one of the carbon dioxide cylinders had come out. He was about to warn his companion on the rear of the Rescue – a local fireman – not to lean against the firing handle when the inevitable happened.

The Rescue was travelling at walking pace between the Mirage flight line and the hangars so the Aussie firie grabbed the ‘local’ by his shirt and both abandoned ship. One of the flight line crew standing near by asked, ‘What’s going on, mate?’

‘Just wait – you’ll see.’

A few seconds went by and then the Rescue, along with the driver and his companion in the cab, disappeared in a cloud of pink talc. Once charged, the dry chemical hopper had expelled its contents to the driver’s side locker, the aged hose and nozzle simply failed to resist – filling the Rescue cab with powder.

The tale didn’t end here. Later, while those two pink firemen were refilling the hopper with dry chemical, it started to rain. With a bit swearing and lotsa sweat they got the job done. With their minds set to their task they hadn’t given a thought to a vehicle parked close at hand – a Morris Minor.

Earlier that morning an Air Traffic Controller had parked his new toy by the Tower. He was extremely pleased with his latest acquisition. The Morris Minor was immaculate with a new coat of green.

Yes, he had something to smile about THEN, but did he ever get to like the indelible pink dots that overlaid that pristine green paint? I bloody doubt it…

‘Big Fire – Short Hose’

In the days when environmental pollution mattered not we firies were able to burn the worst possible mixture of flammable liquids without the fear of any repercussion. One such ‘big burn’ was planned for a display of our firemanship to a large group of VIPs.

Our Sergeant wore us out collecting dozens upon dozens of 44-gallon drums. Each drum held fuel oil or accelerants. Trip after trip we made to the Fire Ground dumping oil and sundry into a very large fire pit.

Finally, we were ready. Buses full of VIP’s arrived at the Fire Ground where they were given a safe but clear view of the coming fire-fighting display. We of course were still at Fire Section awaiting the Crash Alarm and practice, practice, practice…

The fire was lit, the crash alarm sounded and we responded. Even from a distance the fire was really spectacular and burnt at a fantastic rate. So much so, that we arrived just as the fuel burnt out. No, there was a flicker – it was still alight. One Corporal served us proud. In front of all those VIPs he leapt from the fire truck and strode quickly to the remaining flame. With a flash, sorry about that, he took out his member and voila, no more fire. The VIPs didn’t even applaud, but we did…

Charlie, late of South Australia’s southeast, had a hundred stories. He wasn’t a firie, but he was a warrior and a true Australian. Every tale he told was, of course, 100% true. I’d like to give him a small voice on our webpage.

Charlie, during the 1st and 2nd World Wars, had served in the Australian Army, Navy and Air Force on different battlefronts in various parts of the world ALL at the same time. Fair Dinkum, mate. He was, like all good yarn tellers, two thousand years old.

Charlie had two loves. His collection of ‘Phantom’ comics and his gun-dogs. Animals trained from birth in the art of retrieval, in fact - according to Charlie - while still devoid of sight the pups could handle any task or any hunt. A dog always sat in Charlie’s utility either in the cab or tray….

Double Headed Catch

‘I caught two good size snapper this morning,’ bragged the city blow-in. His audience in the small bar were both local and tourist.

‘Caught a double-header meself, mate,’ said Charlie, sipping his beer.

‘What? Two snapper?’ Queried the all-too-gullible blow-in.

‘I didn’t say that, son.’ Charlie was indignant and the bar hushed to his repertoire.

‘I said a double-header. One fish – two heads.’

‘Bullshit.’

Now suggesting that Charlie told untruths could cause a forty-degree day to instantly chill but to call him a blatant liar was, well – not done, NOT IN HIS OWN BLOODY TOWN..

Charlie’s chin grew several inches longer and he eyeballed the tourist tete to blooming tete.

‘I just ‘appens to ‘ave the bloody fish out in my bloody ute if you really want to see the bastard.’

‘Yeah – show me,’ returned the big-biting tourist.

So off they go and after a while they return and Charlie goes and finishes his beer and the tourist his and no more chatter on the matter was to be heard. Later, after Charlie had left, the locals queried the tourist on the turn of events.

‘Well,’ said the blow-in. ‘I followed him outside and he leads me to his ute where he starts to rummage around. His dog is in the back and watches every move until suddenly he is backhanded by his master so hard that he flips off the back of the ute to land in the road, shaken but not really stirred.

‘So what did Charlie say?’ asked the mob.

The tourist shook his head as if to rid himself of an horrible image.

He said, ‘Bugger me, mate - I’VE NEVER KNOWN THAT  DOG TO EAT FISH BEFORE.’

And...

Charlie had spent some time in Queensland cutting sugar cane, though not with the help of modern machinery. Charlie had, apparently, wielded double-blade axes – one in each hand. From first light until nightfall his arms swung at such a speed that he’d have to wait an hour for them to stop before having his nightly keg of beer.

One day while working his mates yelled a warning. Charlie turned in time to see the serpent – a fifty-foot Taipan – coiled for a strike. Charlie managed to get his left hand axe across his body in defence and as a result the snake missed him. The Taipan’s fangs dug deep into the shaft. The snake’s venom was so powerful, according to Charlie, that the handle swelled up and the head of the axe popped off to land six miles down the road. That wasn’t all - the axe head had levelled a stand of gums during its speedy flight.

And...

To cross the length and breadth of Australia on a regular basis Charlie’s mode of transport was an old bicycle with solid rubber tyres. Pneumatic tyres had not caught on yet and tyres without air made travel both hard work and uncomfortable. However, Charlie reckoned the bindii was so bad that he still fixed twenty odd punctures a day.

And...

Trooper Charlie was fighting the Turks at Gallipoli and doing quite well until he and his sergeant got separated from their own mob and found themselves pinned down by a machine-gun. His sergeant, a brave man, told Charlie to stay put and went forward with the intention of silencing this deadly menace. All hell broke loose and Charlie was horrified to see his sergeant’s head rolling down the hill towards him. The head stopped by him and Charlie recalled the incident after the war.

‘Sarge always cared for his troops and this was no exception he looked up at me and said ‘CHARLIE, KEEP YOUR HEAD DOWN, MATE.’ and then with a wink the sergeant’s head rolled away and I never saw it again.’

Charlie passed away some years ago and those who knew him, or of him, mourned his loss. Goodonyermate!

‘Like hell, Sir’

The WOFF sat at his desk and answered the knock with a terse. ‘Come.’

An LAC put his head around the door. ‘The CO’s just arrived for an inspection, sir.’

‘WHAT?’

Knowing his boss, the LAC beat a hasty retreat. All the firemen in this Fire Section revered their WOFF and were, justly, a little scared of him. This man had a reputation of finishing arguments in a physical manner and not too many had come out on top, if any?

The Commanding Officer had a habit of springing ‘surprise inspections’ but this was his first visit to Fire Section. He had, politely, remained with his driver in the staff car while awaiting the arrival of the Senior Fireman.

He was totally speechless when fronted by the Warrant Officer, Fireman, who not only failed to salute him but told him, in a most brusque manner, that his present was unwanted. Further to this, he was told to make a bloody appointment well in advance for any future inspections.

Unfortunately for the CO, many of the Duty Fire Crew were privy to this tirade. Most of them, at this time, were busy examining fire truck wheels, the ground or even the ceiling - feigning ignorance. Yeah, that worked?

To be fair, the CO behaved well and took his leave without further ado. Later, when his office ‘phone rang the WOFF was heard to say ‘sotte voce’.

‘I think I went a bit too far this time, lads.’

While that telephone call remained a matter of confidence, future inspections were always booked in advance. This was a WOFF that looked after his troops and was most definitely, ‘The Man’.

Two Dogs .......

Here are two short yarns about security dogs:

Lightning hit the airfield just as the Edinburgh fireman turned into the flight line compound. A disinterested security guard on the gate gave him a cursory glance before returning to his newspaper. The firie had been running an errand and with no spare Fire Section vehicle he had driven his own car - a Datsun 120Y, 2-door.

Leaving the compound he circumnavigated the Tower and in the poor light of a wet dusk nearly ran over the animal in his path. Stopping, he wound down his window and yelled at the dog.

‘Get outa the way, you idiot.’

Another bolt of lightning hit the main strip and the dog took off, it’s tail firmly between it’s legs, heading for the safety of the Fire Section hangar. The firie followed and stopped his vehicle in the spare parking bay.

He got out, flipped the driver’s seat forward, and called the dog. The German Shepherd was shaking with such intensity that rain droplets sped off in all directions. Not in this case with intention, but through storm-fraught fear.

‘You getting in, or what?’ invited the fireman.

The dog seemed suddenly to focus, took in the open door and the car interior and made a quick dash for the welcoming refuge. The firie got in the vehicle and shut his door. As he drove around the back of Air Movements heading for the Doggies’ Compound he was aware that the dog was panting, like a distraught marathon runner, happily licking his left ear.

The rain was belting down as he reached the main door of the Security Guard Section. Not wanting to get wet for no good reason he lent on the horn. And again. And again.

Eventually a ‘doggie’ did wander out and enquire. ‘Yeah?’

‘This dog belong to you?’

‘What dog?’

‘The one slobbering buckets of drool on me neck, mate.’

The doggie approached the car and with his face now lit clearly by an overhead light, turned a ghastly shade of pale. The firie noticed his pallor and his aghast expression.

‘Get out of the car, mate.’

‘What?’

‘SLOWLY.’

The firie responded to the doggie’s urgent tone. As he opened the car door he was surprised to see the doggie move quickly aside.

‘Shut the bloody DOOR.’ The doggie was obviously an idiot, but he shut it anyway - poor pooch.

‘Strike me lucky, mate - what’s the go?’ Queried the bewildered firie.

‘Luck? Exactly,’ returned the doggie. ‘That’s the worst bastard dog that we’ve got on this Base, he’ll tear you to bits and there won’t be any bloody pieces to spit out.’

‘OH,’ said the firie.

Footnote: the off-duty Security Guard responsible for said pooch was called urgently to the Base and then, only then, was the dog removed from the Datsun 120Y.

AND...

The duty fire crew playing cards that nightshift in the Ready Room took little notice of their visitor. The security guard was a common denominator in their routine and even his German Shepherd was cautiously accepted.

Like an idiot he made a rash enquiry. ‘Anybody want coffee?’

‘Yerp,’ chorused the firies.

That triggered the mood and for quite a time a steady stream of banter ebbed and flowed between the firies and their new servant. While this was going on the ‘duty dog’ sat by the double entry/exit doors evaluating proceedings.

Having enough of 9-1 odds the security guard decided for a quick ‘loo stop’ before making his retreat. Before leaving the Ready Room he issued an order to his companion. ‘On guard, mate - watch this mob of bastards.’

The firies carried on playing poker, not aware that they were now playing a real game of jeopardy. Moments later the crash alarm sounded and the squawk box, squawked.

Nine eager fireman rose to their feet.

The German Shepherd curled back his upper lip and growled.

Nine less eager fireman sat down.

On and on went the crash alarm. Squawk went the squawk box. The dog’s lip uncurled.

Nine brave fireman rose to their feet.

Duty dog curled his lip.

Nine not-so-brave fireman sat down.

By the time the security guard returned to ‘off guard’ his cantankerous canine the crash alarm had gone quiet. The squawk box, however, still squawked.

Luckily, the emergency had been attended by the aircraft’s crew prior to landing and the ‘pan’ cancelled. The Fire Controller eventually answered the irate Tower Controller on that proverbial squawk box. Only to wish he hadn’t.

The security guard never revisited Fire Section, banished forever. Bugger, thought the firies, we’ll have to make our own bloody coffee.

Blow away Dak

Woomera was never very welcoming and this gusty day was no exception. As the flight line crew from Edinburgh left the C-47 Dakota we three firies tagged along behind. The sergeant and myself made our way towards a hangar that housed the P4 Oshkosh fire truck. Our Leading Air-crafty-man headed towards the Ready Room and, most probably, a large cup of coffee.

We were part of a complacent team, that day. Routine was set and we just followed along blindly – in retrospect. As a general rule, this is how it played out. Get on Dak at Edinburgh, fly to Woomera, get off Dak, carry out A Inspection on the fire vehicle including wet test etc. While we did this, the Air Traffic Controller went to the Woomera Tower, opened up etc – tested his equipment including the crash alarm. We would then carry out joint radio checks and then settle down while some Mirage pilot blew the hell out of Range E, whatever... In the meantime the Dakota aircrew, having dropped us off, returned promptly to Edinburgh.

Back to that day, our LAC had joined the Woomera civvy firemen in the Ready Room. These firies,

with their own fire trucks, were responsible for domestic installations at Woomera and also attended the airfield for transport flights. The sergeant and I, by this time, were checking the P4.

When the crash alarm sounded I moved unhurriedly towards the cab for a radio check, in keeping with normal procedure. That was until some airman ran into the hangar and yelled. ‘The Dak just went in!’

Well, to be fair, we responded tout-bloody-suite. We came second though, as our LAC and the

Woomera boys were already there. Although the Dakota sat on its nose we weren’t, thankfully,

needed. A freak wind had lifted the tailplane, scaring the bejesus out of the pilot and navigator – the only crew on board. The aircraft was a little worse for wear and the aircrew looked thoroughly dejected. The paperwork, the paperwork!

Later that day, over a beer, we RAAF firies discussed the incident. Not wanting to wear any shame attached to the whole affair the Air-crafty-man and I became instant comrades. In unison we enquired of our sergeant.

‘You were in charge – WEREN’T YOU?’

Skip to the Loo

I can’t remember exactly why the LAC, an ex-Navy pusser, found reason to poison our Senior Fire Fighter, but he did. The concoction, as usual, was a large amount of Epsom salts in the communal teapot. The fire crew, knowing the contents, held our tea mugs with caution and no matter how thirsty, refused hydration.

Having only one toilet was generally not a problem, unless of course one had the proverbial trots. The nearest alternative loo was in the Control Tower some four hundred metres away.

Our duty ‘pusser’ had filled a pair of boots with some water and arranged his spare overalls around the boots. These were of course placed in the toilet cubicle and with this done he locked the cubicle from inside and clambered over the door top.

When, thirty minutes or so later, the salts took effect, the illusion was perfect. Said Senior Fireman skipped with some haste towards the loo, hammered urgently on the door – checked underneath, swore – and ran off in the direction of the Tower.

This exercise was repeated, repeatedly. What a rotten merciless act. Good One, pusser…

COPYRIGHT: JOHN McCOSKER

The following stories were sent by John McCosker.  Enjoy his great yarns:

 

Many moons ago, I was a firie before I transferred to aircrew on C130’s. I have never forgotten my time at Laverton and Pt Cook. I have enclosed a story or two which will sound familiar to some of those who were around in the 1969 to 1980 period.

Spirits, hic

  

One evening at Laverton the crew was held back for the weekly 3am departure of the ARDU Dak which did it’s run to Tassie and back. As we were bored, various topics were discussed in the crew room. A lot of people thought that the fire section was haunted as there was a lot of unusual and unexplained events which occurred.  Like footsteps in the Defence buildings even though the occupants had gone home and the building all locked up, faces at windows etc.

 

It was customary that the crews remained on standby for 30 minutes after aircraft departure. Everyone had on their minds the different stories of the night. About 25 minutes after the aircraft departed I climbed into the back seat of a mates car and covered myself with my skydiving parachute and waited.

 

At the call from the tower to go home, there was a mass evacuation of the crew room as everyone bolted for their cars to go. The driver of my car hopped in, started the engine and raced off. We had to drive past the section on the airfield side. As the driver slid into second gear, I gave a groan and proceeded to climb up from the rear of the car. I saw the look on the drivers face, he screamed in terror as he saw this shape in the back of his car and he bailed out of the vehicle leaving it in gear with me in the back which was heading across the dark airfield.

 

He was a gibbering idiot when I returned his car to the section and is still a good friend.

 

AND...

 

I was at stores section exchanging some fire hose. All of a sudden TFA2 pulls up outside and the firie driver, a new chum, raced into stores and asked for two Sky hooks. The stores clerk asked what he wanted them for. 

“They are needed to hold up the volley ball net!” 

“We gave the last of them to the Barracks carpenter, if you go and see them, they may give you a couple.”

To this the driver raced off to Barracks. I looked in amazement, the clerk who was now busy on the phone warning the barracks carpenter.

 

I returned to the section and joined in on the daily game of volleyball. Unknown to us, the carpenters sent the firie to the plumbers and they forwarded him to the electricians.

All of a sudden, TFA2 roared around the corner and the driver jumped out and he was furious.

‘You bastards, I’ve been all over the place looking for Skyhooks and you didn’t tell me whether they had to be right or left hand thread!!”

  

AND...

  

Bored at Laverton

 

I was given the task of discharging some small CO2 cylinders. The type which were used in the old water pressure extinguishers. On noticing that there was a lot of pressure I decided to make a Rocket.

 

I placed some grease in the back of the cylinder and deposited a nail in it. When dropped down a ten foot piece of pipe, the cylinder should head skyward. I called the others outside and we parked the trucks inside the hangar in case the uncontrolled missile should damage one. Defence and the Armoury were next to the Fire section.

 

I climbed up a ladder with the small cylinder ready to go and I figured as there is only a small amount of CO2, the missile should go about 20 feet, that is, if it worked. I held the pipe and let the cylinder slide down the pipe. There was this loud WHOSH , and the cylinder rocketed skyward and went out of sight.

 

“Holy #$@%!”

 

Staring skyward, I finally saw this object tumbling out of the sky. Keeping focused where it was going, only to see it vanish through the armoury roof in the area where the rifles were stored.

 “I’m dead!”

On inspection through the hole in the roof, I could see the missile in the roof space resting on cyclone wire which was above the plaster ceiling. There was no damage inside the building only this rather odd looking hole in the corrugated roof.

  

You know, Araldite and lead sheet from the toilet vents are wonderful products, it works just like No More Gaps filler.

  

AND...

 

The Old Dodge Power Wagon Rescue

  

I was sitting in the rear rescue set of the rescue. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed smoke coming up from between the back of the rescue and the drivers cabin. I climbed forward and saw that the brakes were on fire. I leaned over and attracted the front suit man and yelled that we were on fire. The truck screeched to a halt about 300 mtrs from the section.

 

The front suit man grabbed the 25 Lb Dry Chem from outside his door and attempted to douse the flames. It did not work so I grabbed one of the DCP hoses from the back and my partner discharged the powder.

There was this massive discharge of powder and we all disappeared in a cloud of powder.

Unknown to us, the tower thought the Rescue had blown up as all he saw was the cloud. He hit the crash alarm, the three of us emerged out of the cloud only to be met by some eager operators just dying to cover us with foam.

 

Note: to my old mate who was the TFA operator: ‘If you read this, always remember to open the main valve for the monitor before producing foam, ESPECIALLY when the cabin doors are shut.

END OF JOHN McCOSKER YARNS

Copyright: Pat Mildren

Here are two good yarns from Pat:

This incident, the first ‘bomb threat’ for RAAF Base Townsville, had a humorous side. The Qantas aircraft involved had taken off when the threat was made and so returned, landed. and was directed to the compass swing area. Well away from all other buildings and aircraft. The fire vehicles were positioned around the area with a bus located to the rear of these fire trucks. All passengers were instructed to depart the aircraft and to proceed directly to the bus.  On leaving the aircraft one elderly lady broke ranks from the stream of people making their way to the bus and headed straight to one of the fire vehicles.  

When informed by a Fireman that she was meant to remain with the rest of the passengers, this lady replied. “Sonny, this is my first aeroplane flight and I know that I do not have a bomb and I know that you do not have a bomb, but I do not know if any of the other passengers have one, so I’m staying with you.” 

AND...

Another amusing incident occurred when the Section was informed that a stretched version of the DC9 would be landing to re-fuel. The aircraft crew were on their way from overseas to Mt Isa and the aircraft would be carrying high explosive for the mines. Fire Section was informed that a mixture of avgas and this type of explosive would be disastrous and the fire vehicles were to be on immediate stand-by while refuelling was being carried out.

The Duty Officer was a certain Flt Lt who was well known by the Fire personnel.  In his usual manner this officer was running around the tarmac looking for any possible fuel leaks and giving instructions with the speed of  bullets leaving a machine gun.  This got all too much for one Fireman who made the statement that this Officer would not know fuel from urine and that he would prove it. With this he walked out under the aircraft wing and had a pee on the tarmac.

As if on cue up rushes our prey, points to the wet area, and states in a very loud voice.

“What is this, what is this? Is it fuel?” 

When all this was completely ignored he proceeded to jump up and down a few times and then ran his finger through the wet patch and gave it the taste test.  By this time, of course, there was not a Fireman within sight as they were all hiding behind their vehicles curled up with fits of laughter.

Well done, mate, you proved your point.

END PAT MILDREN YARNS

Copyright: Lee Croft

Good one, Lee

It was around August 1969, Basic Fire Course 21 -  personnel had completed course, had their

postings and we had a lag time of three days before proceeding to our respective postings.

In the meantime a black Desoto sedan in immaculate condition turned up at the fire school. Inquiries revealed that it belonged to a general hand on the base who could not afford to register it. He had not been able to sell the vehicle, so rumor had it that the school was going to use the vehicle as a training aid and burn it.

A young fireman came to the conclusion that the car was in too good a condition to burn, so it should be altered. He engaged the company of his fellow firemen to assist him with the task.

Nine pound hammers were quickly obtained and huey, duey and luey, set about the task with much energy and glee. A short time later the vehicle was a dented, glass smashed - a total wreck. After complimenting each other on a job well done we adjourned back inside the fire school for a coffee. At this point one of the school instructors came out of the Warrant Officer’s office and said.

"Listen in you blokes. Don’t burn that Desoto, the CO has just informed the Warrant Officer that he has found a buyer for it".

Needless to say it did not take long for the instructor to discover the state of the Desoto. I cannot remember his exact words but there were a lot of expletives from him and the Warrant Officer.

After being cross examined as to why we had destroyed the vehicle, we were told to immediately complete our clearances and piss off to our new bases. We we were not wanted at Pt Cook anymore. We were all looking forward to getting to our new bases so it turned out OK.

I still don't know to this day how the Fire School Warrant Officer explained the state of the car to the CO?

Hope you enjoyed this yarn...

END LEE CROFT YARN

Chas’ turn:

Run through the Jungle (I emphatically deny it has anything to do with the above author)

No sir, not the Australian bush. Malaysia, certainly – but, in all honestly, there was no need for a machete, not here – on Penang Island. High in the trees above us the monkeys were active, giving value to that tropical theatre of leeches, snakes and all around creepy-crawlies.

I was an old hand by now, eight months into the job, and had certainly trod this trail before. The way I saw it, the hill had to go up. Unless, of course… My companion on that day was a ‘new chum’, a wide shouldered Queenslander, who had the bearing of one confident and daring.

That was until we left the trail and headed via a short cut through comparatively dense foliage. My companion, while not exactly twitching, was extremely anxious. His demeanour had changed and with it, his aura of confidence. I noticed that his eyes were very active now, searching left, front and right – with the occasional backward glance.

Realising that my day had just got better I stopped and looked around. ‘Did you hear something?’ I asked. He paled, turned and stared at the scrub behind. I quickly picked up a stick and hurled it into the bushes on his blind side.

His neck definitely clicked as he spun around. ‘What?’

‘Nah, it’s nothing, mate – probably some animal.’ I returned.

‘A tiger?’ There, he’d identified his nightmare. He felt better for that I’m sure. I know I certainly did. Of course I’d go easy on him? He was after all, a new chum.

‘A tiger?’ I paused, making sure I had his attention. ‘Nope, I’ve only ever seen one and I’ll never see another – you can bet on that.’

His head turned a complete 360 before he just had to ask that totally inept bloody question.

‘Why won’t you see another tiger?’

‘Becos’,’ says I. ‘The next bastard will flaming well kill me.’

John McCosker sent these memories:

Who?

Laverton

Rescue, Dodge Powerwagon was called to the Tower to pick up the shotgun as there was two goats on the airfield.

Shotgun and ammunition was given to the rear suit-man.

The driver was in pursuit of the offending duo and just as the "Gunner" fired, the vehicle hit a ditch and the rotating beacon was surgically removed from the roof.

Apparently the noise inside the cabin was deafening.

The vehicle came to a stop and the driver was seen looking through the rear window with a very pale complexion.

The shotgun duties were removed from the fire section.

Who2?

Laverton

Tower called the fire section to go to the intersection and remove the snake that a Macchi pilot reported seeing on the runway.

The rescue responded and the two operators who were inside the cab made sure they were safe with all windows wound up.

The rear suitman who was fully dressed stayed on board.

The man of the day, an extra on board, forgetting he had on leg in plaster, hopped off the vehicle and captured the slithering offender.

Said snake was then taken to the fire section and as it was not happy with it's new surrounds, became quite agro.

Most of the crews watched from vast distance at the summary execution.

As food kept on vanishing from the fridge, said snake was skinned, cut into pieces, cooked by our local bush chef, and placed on a plate inside the fridge and left for the "Phantom Food Fossicker" to devour.

Said culprit did comment on how nice the fish tasted, but when told what he had eaten, turned green and proceeded to yodel.

Who3?

Laverton

The "Phantom Food Fossicker" strikes again.

The eggs out of the daily rations always ended up in the urn and were boiled. So as to cease this practice, I blew the eggs and refilled them with water and squeezed a little soap into the holes in the end to stop the water spilling out. The eggs were then returned to the fridge.

The eggs were placed in the urn by the Phantom and cooked.

When removed from the water and broken over slices of  bread, he could not work out why all that he got on his bread was water, what happened to the egg inside?

The rations eggs after that were still disappearing and it was discovered that he was placing the uncooked eggs in his spare fire boots in his locker. After work, he would just walk out the door with his boots in hand.

Mysteriously the eggs were crushed in his boots and the member became a mobile omelet.

Garry O’Bree sent these two yarns:

Fire Course at Point Cook in '69, and my Scottish mate had just been awarded seven days CB for something, I've forgotten the details but knowing him as I did it was probably alcohol related.  Anyway, he mentioned that there was a party at St Kilda to which he would like to attend, and he duly invited me along.  When I reminded him that he was on CB, he told me not to worry about it and that we could leave after he had signed the Guard Commander’s book at 2200 hrs. 

The significance of my role only dawned on me as I sat waiting behind the wheel of the Morris Oxford. I was the chauffeur – party guest too – but mostly chauffeur. The Morris was one of the few possessions that the Scotsman owned and as we left the Base he was curled up in the vehicle’s boot.

I stopped and let him out once we’d cleared the Base, but not before I allowed the Morrie to hit some large depressions on the road edge. I laughed when I heard the inevitable moaning – muffled certainly – but the language?

We partied to the wee hours of the morning and I warmed to the motley crowd. What a mixture – prostitutes, lesbians, villains and cops alike. My eighteen-year old eyes were widened by this experience.

We got back to the Base and grabbed a couple of hours of sleep. The Scotsman arose with all the energy of a zombie before heading off for his morning assignation with the Guard Commander’s book.

Webmaster’s note: I too ventured into deep darkest downtown Melbourne with that Scotsman. As well known drunks we’d sleep before returning to the Base. Three tired, off duty, prostitutes were gracious enough to share their be with me. It was a big bed and no, I wasn’t to become a client of these hardworking young ladies. My Scot mate disappeared into another room on these occasions. What for? He never said and I never asked. However, he did mix in extremely dubious circles.

***

Williamtown, about '71.  At times, it was known for us firies to have a drink or two after night flying had finished, and in due course, one of the dog handlers, who was fond of a drop, occasionally strolled across from the flight line to have a taste.  His dog, Skipper, however wasn't a beer drinker so we used to pour him some cooking sherry (or similar beverage).  There were some nights when the handler and his dog couldn't walk a straight line, so we had to drive them back to the flight line in a TFA.

Editor’s note: ‘Now hang on there, Garry – I never saw any firies drinking on duty. Ah, I get it – it’s just a fictional yarn…’

 

Me again:

Bundy & Bundy

That particular weekend at Point Cook in 1969 only four of our basic fire course still remained on Base. Of those four, two were suffering from intense head colds. One was a tall lantern-jawed bloke who had seen service in the Australian Army and the other poor suffering bastard, was I.

During the day we just moped around feeling sad but after tea decided to visit the Boozer. For a Saturday it was reasonably quiet and after a couple beers, that tasted pretty ordinary, we moved on to Bundy and Coke. Two more rounds came and went until I came up with a plan, to which my crook mate readily agreed.

Ten minutes later I arrived back at the Boozer with a bottle of Bundy, purchased at the ASCO canteen. Not wanting to appear too bloody cheeky we bought Coke from the bar.

After that bottle had been consumed we started to feel a tad better and I made another trip to ASCO. Just on closing time I was back for a third bottle of rum – just in case…

Well, the evening progressed and although I was escorted back to my room several times by a young Samaritan (one of the youngest members of our course) I kept going back to the Boozer. With two bottles lying dead beneath the table we started on the third. Now we had a problem. The bar was shut and we had no Coke. I solved the problem and carefully poured, according to witnesses, half the Bundy into an empty Coke bottle. From then on we simply mixed the two. S’right!

By now my mate, in his inebriated state, had decided to use my upper left arm as a target and continually pounded me with his fist. I seemed to remember making a decision to stop his attack but then everything went black…

I awoke the next morning wishing immediately that I hadn’t and when a misshapen head peered around my door was shocked at the image. Not only was my drinking buddy dressed in outlandish clothes but also the side of his head was swollen and bruised. ‘What happened to you?’

Luckily for me he had no recollection of his new found injury, as later I was informed of the incident. Apparently, after receiving a dozen or so hefty punches, I retaliated – with a Coke bottle. Mind you, those witnesses could have been wrong – couldn’t they?

That evening we discovered, over our second beer, that our head colds had completely gone. It was a bloody miracle. Ah, Bundy…

Peter Elliott sent this short yarn:

One morning in sunny Ubon a warning was issued that if you saw something unusual do not touch it as  a Yank had his hand blown off while picking up what he thought was a pen.

A few days later one of the troops reports to me that an unusual metal cylinder was lying on the floor outside the section and invited me to pick it up, I, in turn, invited the Defence Officer who brought with him ADGs and the WOD. At this time all the American Fireman gathered to see what the crazy Australians were up to. The ADGs placed a rope around the cylinder and withdrew behind a building from where they moved the cylinder the cylinder came apart and a spring jumped out pushing the cylinder apart. All concerned jumped for cover.

Then an American voice could be heard: ‘It’s a toilet roll holder!’

Red faces all around and Fireman were not the most popular people in the Mess that night...

Bob Ingle sent this story:

Bob Bull, as I recall, he was a direct UK entry at about the same time

as Frank Conyon (East sale). Bob joined us at Pearce in mid 1972,

about 6 months after me, in December 1971 ex basic course.

Great guy Bob, fitted in well with the crew (not a winging pom) loved

all things Australian even the F@@## flies in WA. His wife was

terribly home sick for her family and living in a little MQ in the

heat at Bullsbrook was not a help (1 shop, 1 pub, 1 servo) and as she

didn't drive and the only bus was the school bus in the morning and

back in the afternoon, she was trapped. We lived 3 doors up the street

from Bob and were on the same crew for awhile, doing days at Gin Gin

airfield. We socialised and the local wives sort of looked out for

each other for shopping trips and social meets. Try as they did they

just could not get Marlene (?) to settle, so that started to effect

Bob as well, not so much in his work but he was in a state of stress

all the time, waiting for the phone to ring etc.

He confided in me that Marlene had threatened self harm if he didn't

take her back to the UK. The Padre at the time was a great bloke so

he got involved with his wife and drew RAAF admins attention to the

problem. After Christmas 72 things got worse, so I suggested that Bob

take her and the kids home, plan a date for her to look forward to and

see how that went. To establish themselves they had furniture and a

car on HP so that added to the load of worry trying to save for

airfares. Then came the first Bankcards, anyone could have one!

Solution to airfares, only fly in the ointment was apply for leave to

travel overseas. By this time, almost Christmas 73, family situation

was desperate.

Book the fares to UK, put in a leave application for local leave and

go. I took them to the airport and sadly saw them off. Letters to the

HP companies were written for me to post once Bob had made up his mind

not to come back. I had a letter from him (with no address), saying

that all was well and they were staying in the UK, included was a

letter to the CO Base Sqn explaining the situation. I and others were

interviewed about Bob’s actions, padre put up the best story and all

was filed. A warrant was issued for Bobs arrest on charges of AWOL.

Bob, after he was gone a year turned himself in at Australia House

in London and was arrested, charged and dishonourably discharged in 8

hours. I had a letter from him telling me of this and that the RAAF

actually paid him back his DFRDB and for leave he was owed.

With more support for dependents and better councilling services, the

RAAF could have kept a good troop and Australia would have gained a

quality citizen.

Author’s Note: Although ‘No Farewell’ is a story of fiction I would like to dedicate my work to the memory of a young aviator. Pilot Officer A.J.C. Bierman of No.2 Air Trials Unit died on the 21st October, 1958, when his aircraft – Meteor Mk7 WN321 – crashed into Crouch’s Hill, Upper Hermitage, Houghton, South Australia

A funeral service for Pilot Officer A.J.C. Bierman took place at the Daw Road Chapel with full military honours on the 24th October, 1958

No Farewell by Chas Adlard © 1998    (published article)

It was worse now, the itch behind his eyes increased the tempo of his headache and dulled his presence of mind. The temperature of the Meteor cockpit was uncommonly warm and prickly heat caused further annoyance under his flying suit.

The trip out of Woomera had been good and the morning exercise to plan – his discomfort had started on the return leg. Buzzing the outback train was almost a ritual and he’d chuckled then, but afterwards his trouble started.

Pilot Officer Barry Morse, as a young pilot, knew the importance of set procedures and reported his dilemma to the Edinburgh tower. The duty controller, in turn, had the sense to alert his superior. The senior controller, Squadron Leader Mike Albright, questioned the pilot and asked for an instrument check. A disjointed and garbled  report from the Meteor cockpit gave the veteran controller cause for alarm.

Disorientation had rapidly become a jet pilot’s number one peace-time enemy, as Mike Albright well knew. When the young pilot complained about his own physical state, Mike declared an emergency. The Commanding Officer, as senior pilot, was called to the control tower. The pilot’s physical dilemma was consistent with oxygen starvation, which, unchecked, could have grim consequences.

In his cocoon of flight, Pilot Officer Morse was blissfully unaware that his report had caused so much excitement at R.A.A.F Base Edinburgh. In fact, he felt a little better now although his instruments had ceased to be reliable. Not a problem, he thought – a seat of the pant’s job.

He wished the controller would shut up though and suddenly, he did… was this a joke? Now his CO, a voice who he’d been trained to trust, started issuing incorrect orders, orders that could have detrimental effects on both his aircraft and, more importantly, on one Barry Morse.

To the people gathered in the Edinburgh tower, the lack of response from the Meteor pilot had grave connotations. Still the Commanding Officer pleaded with the pilot to follow his instructions, but to no avail.

The Meteor was well off the coast to the west and reports from another aircraft despatched for reconnaissance were unsettling. In the failing light of day the stricken pilot had inverted the aircraft as his visible horizon vanished.

Barry Morse had turned east and sought to gain ceiling height. The Meteor’s present attitude caused the aircraft to lose precious height and head west but later, on a leg of his own making, Barry turned due east. By some strange phenomena his aircraft was now headed directly towards R.A.A.F Base Edinburgh.

As the sea gave way to land and lights from the new city of Elizabeth twinkled their welcome, Barry Morse’s world came once more into focus. The Meteor was sluggish now, the engine vibrated in objection as the plane slowed to a dangerous speed. Suddenly, Pilot Officer Barry Morse knew he was going to die.

From the tower they watched as the aircraft came in from the coast. Although once more ‘sunny side-up’ the Meteor was travelling far too slow and at a perilous height. The Commanding Officer wanted desperately to scream out the order to eject – but now, it was just too late.

He managed to drag the nose up and his purpose was set. He must overfly the houses. He must not give his plane the chance to kill any others. The foothills were dangerously close now and the tall eucalypts seemed to reach out, like anxious fingers, at the aircraft’s exposed belly. Crouch’s Hill loomed up and as he fought the aircraft over One Tree Hill the flame went out.

‘I’m sorry, Daphne! I’m sorry, Mum – Dad! No time now to say farew……

Hi Chas, this one stems from my earliest Service experience:

at 18 and from a Catholic school and totally innocent, - I was sent by my sergeant to Q Stores to get a "12 inch populating tool…. I had never heard of one, and so I was asked to specifically point out a 12 inch version… The stores clerk looked at me quizzically, and asked if I got the size right…. I said yes, and I have an order slip to prove it….. the clerk went away, and came back with another order form for supply "outside", and said that i should try Permewan & Wright, the local hardware store…..

I saw there were 2 girls on the counter that day, and asked one if they had any such populating tools…. she grimaced, and said that they were a bit short of that these days, and suggested I try Dunlop across the road… as they heard that there were a number of sizes available there, but unsure about a 12 incher….. and asked me to inform them if I found one, so that they could order one too…

Dunlop's girls in the store said there were none available since the Americans left last war, and wished me luck, suggesting I try the Chrysler Dealer nearby….

At the Chrysler dealer, the young clerk could not answer the query, and called on the senior, who attended me. he said, go back and tell your store man that he knows such a size was as difficult to find as a VW brass Radiator cap for a beetle… and that sending such young fellows out on errands as this was costing money which he paid for….

I repeated this to the store man, in full view of the other 3 present, and they walked away…. and burst out laughing in the office…. I still have no idea why such size populating tools cannot be reproduced, if there was actually any demand for them!

True Story!

Bob Jackway-Koomans