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October 2006

Sunday, 22 October 2006

A Widowmaker

Widowmaker1 Gum trees are renowned for dropping large branches from a still healthy tree.  The wise camper always checks - if he plans on making camp under a gum tree - whether there are any branches which may be ready to drop.  Trees with such branches are commonly referred to a Widowmakers.

In 1982 on Riversleigh Station in the Gulf of Carpentaria I saw a caravan with its canopy crushed all the way to the floor by a huge branch which had fallen from a tree which was meant to provide shade to the van.  It was an impressive sight.  The van looked like a loaf of bread which had been taken to, in its middle, with a meat cleaver which was still sitting there on the chopping board.

This morning I did a session at the ASAP Walk In Clinic which is located at the northern end of the Alice Springs Hospital Visitors Car Park.  When I went in there was nothing amiss in the car park; but when I came out I was surprised to see the scene above. Widowmaker2_1   

Amazingly the cars parked on either side were unscathed.  It will be interesting to see what happens here in the legal arena.  There is a sign at the entrance to the car park which says that the Northern Territory Government accepts no responsibility for damage caused to vehicles parked in the Hospital Car Park. 

This sign was erected after a spate of car window smashing had be perpetrated by vandals [although they may have been Goths].

Widowmaker3 However, I can hear a Lawyer arguing that in this case it was the responsibility of the Hospital to make sure that the trees in its surrounds were not Widowmakers.  After all everything done inside the Hospital is done in a manner to make things Lawyer proof. One would think that the same rules should apply outside and that the person responsible for the surrounds of the Hospital might have been able to see this one coming. 

There must have been some outside sign that the tree was rotten to the core.

Thursday, 12 October 2006

The Barrow Creek Murders

Barrow_creek_otl In my mind Barrow Creek will always be associated with murder. 

The disused but preserved Overland Telegraph Station at Barrow Creek is pictured on the left.  On the far right of the photo a portion of the the Barrow Creek Pub can be seen.

Barrow Creek lies on the North Stuart Highway.  The Highway was named after the mid 19th Century Scots explorer John McDowell Stuart and runs, almost in a straight line, the one thousand miles it takes to get from Alice Springs to Darwin.

The Highway was sealed in the 1940s during WWII.  The road was a conduit used to refurbish allied bases north of Darwin in the South West Pacific Area.  General Douglas MacArthur was in overall command of all forces - including Australian forces - in the South West Pacific Area.   

Central Mount Stuart - named after the same John McDowell Stuart - is reckoned by some to be the geographical centre of Australia.  It was in the vicintiy of Central Mount Stuart that I undertook two stints as a District Medical Officer [DMO].  The first stint was in 1983 and the second began in 1998 and lasted 4 years.  All up, I spent 5 years as The DMO for the North Road

It was my job to attend to the medical needs of people who lived beside the North Stuart Highway or on Aboriginal Communities or Cattle Stations off to either side.  My patch, the name give to an area covered by a DMO, extended north to Neutral Junction Station and the adjoining Aboriginal Community at Tara, approximately 300 kilometres north of Alice Springs.  The patch also extended roughly 100 kilometres east, and 100 kilometres west of the highway. 

It was during my second stint, in July 2001, that a mysterious murder occurred near Barrow Creek. For several months after the incident I took a rifle with me when I did Clinic runs to the north. 

The story goes like this.

Two British backpackers driving a VW Kombi van were flagged down by a man driving a 4WD in the same direction.  He pulled alongside and indicated that something was wrong at the rear of the Kombi.  The tourists stopped and Peter Falconio got out and went to the rear of the vehicle.  His partner Joanne Lees remained in the passenger seat where she heard what sounded like a pistol shot.  Peter Falconio has never been found.  The man who pulled alongside the Kombi bound Joanne with electrical ties, but she managed to escape and and was able to hide in the bush.  The man searched for her but finally drove away.

It is not known what became of the body of Falconio.  Some suspect that he may still be alive, although a man is now in jail, convicted on DNA evidence that a blood stain on his shirt was that of Falconio.

After the man drove away, Joanne was able to make her way to the Barrow Creek Pub, which was already famous in my mind as the scene of murder.  I was closely associated with the events surrounding a shooting which occurred in 1983, during my first stint as a DMO. 

I was also aware of the killing of two white men which had happened at the Barrow Creek Telegraph Station in 1874. Barrow Creek was a repeater station on the Overland Telegraph Line which had been built in the early 1870s to connect Australia to England by overland and undersea cable.  Morse Code was the means of transmission of messages - and repeater stations with primitive but effective batteries were required along the line. 

The local Aborigines at Barrow Creek belong to the Kaiditch Tribe.  In 1874 the Kaiditch men became concerned about some frolicking between their women and the Telegraphers at the Barrow Creek Station.  They made a plan and enacted it on 28 February.  During the day a party of warriors infiltrated the Station and concealed themselves at its rear.  Toward dusk another party of warriors mounted a feint attack from the front.  The Telegraphers inside rushed to close the heavy front gates and barricade themselves in, little knowing that they had locked themselves in with their executioners.

As a consequence of the killing of the Telegraphers, a reprisal raid was made and 50 or 60 Aborigines were killed just north of Ti Tree.  Ti Tree lies to the south of Barrow Creek and was the administrative capital of my patch.  I have many fond memories of my time there.  However, when I travelled north from Ti Tree I had to cross Skull Creek - so named because of the many skulls which were found there after the reprisal raid in the 1870s.  An element of gloom always set in as I crossed Skull Creek. 

Barrow Creek was also central to the last massacre of Aboriginal people in the Northern Territory.

In the 1920s Mounted Constable William George Murray was in charge of the local Police Station and also the Chief Protector of Aborigines in the area. When an old dingo trapper, Fred Brooks, was killed by Aborigines on Coniston Station, Murray led a posse which killed an estimated 70 Aborigines in a series of bloody reprisals. This occurred in 1928. Coniston Station was part of my patch. It is amazing to think that 10 years after the end of The Great War in Europe, in which thousands of young Australians gave their lives, that massacres could still happen in their homeland.

The 1874 spearing of the Telegraphers at the Barrow Creek Telegraph Station never left the minds of the whitefellas who lived in the area. There weren't many of them.  Memories of what had happend at the Telegraph Station in 1874 might account for the state of mind of the white man who shot and killed an Aborigine in 1983.

A bunch of young intoxicated Aboriginal men had been refused service at a Pub farther north and so they drove down to Barrow Creek.  It was dark, and their first action on arriving at Barrow Creek was to cut the diesel generator which supplied electricity, and therefore lighting, to the Pub.  They then began an attempt to enter the Pub.

Inside, the occupants were understandably very concerned, and one began blindly firing a .22 semi-automatic rifle through a southern window.  He killed one man and left a .22 slug in the sacrum of another. 

The man who was killed had a wife who was 7 months pregnant. 

One of my duties as a DMO was to go to the 'sorry camp' on the west side of the highway, where the pregnant mother and her female relatives were located in the bush, to carry out an antenatal check on mother and the yet unborn fatherless baby.  I then had to cross the highway to visit the Pub on the eastern side and hand out Valium to the still shaking whitefellas. 

About a month after the shooting the man with the slug in his sacrum appeared at one of my Clinics.  He had urinary incontinence as a result of the bullet interfering with the nerves which control the bladder.  He accompanied me back to the Alice Springs Hospital in my Government supplied Toyota Landcruiser.  We changed several bath towels which I had brought with me, and which were placed underneath him on his seat, during that journey.

To this day I always drop into the Barrow Creek Pub whenever I am passing by on a journey along the North Stuart Highway - for it and its surrounds are full of memories - and ghosts.

Tuesday, 10 October 2006

Bedo

Bedo_and_shed In the Registrations of Births in the Parishes of the County of London there is a record of a Bedo Winterflood being born in 1839, and again in 1862 the birth of William Bedo Winterflood is registered.

I wanted to call my son Hugh, Bedo.  From long experience I know that it is better to have a short name in front of a long surname like Winterflood. 

It saves time when writing signatures,etc. 

I was dissuaded from calling Hugh, Bedo, but the name lives on on the licence plate of my town car.

Today Hugh turns 16 and this post is to wish him a very Happy Birthday.

Monday, 09 October 2006

It was the anniversary of Dad's Birthday today; and will be the anniversary of the birth of my son Hugh, tomorrow...

Cd50005_1 Time. Calendars. Dates. Anniversaries.

The Aboriginal People don't seem to have this kind of remembrance 'by numbers'.

Months decrease to weeks, weeks decrease to days, and then it is your father's birthday....but he is not there to receive the religious phone call.  For the first time in your life he is not there to answer the phone, so that you can say "Happy birthday, Dad." 

[Birthday presents went out the window years ago.]

It hurts.

But it also feels that I have inherited a Legacy.  None of us lives forever; but we go on with that which we are bequeathed. 

I feel very fortunate.  The Australian War Memorial has a mention of Dad here.

He was never the braggart his son is...he was  quiet...unassuming...he had been in the thick of it in the Papuan and Bougainville campaigns.  Being a member of the 2/7th Field Ambulance [part of the 6th Division, 19th AIF Brigade] he was only allowed the armament of a pick-axe handle; but he still had to face enemy fire and bombs.

The photo above, taken 5 years ago in 2001, shows him passing his gentleness and gentility onto Hugh - who will be 16 tomorrow - and who is already over 6 foot 3 and a half inches. 

Dad was taller than me by two inches.  He was 6 foot, one and a half inches. He was always someone I could look up to.

Monday, 02 October 2006

Stress

Knife I know when I am stressed. 

There is a sign. 

The sign is that the soles of my feet break out in blisters.  Then cracks and fissures [which are bigger than cracks] appear.  I begin to hobble.  People think I have arthritis - but the real diagnosis is "brainitis". 

The last severe attack of brainitis [and feet fissuring] I had was in the month prior to my going to Bali with my son Hugh.  It was after the first bombing there, but before the second.  During that visit Hugh and I had a magnificent lobster dinner on Jimbaran Beach - the place where the second bombing occurred a year ago. 

I know that my brain is out of whack when my feet blister, crack and fissure.  I thought of taking a photo of them, but a photo does not convey the smell of cracked and fissured feet.  Smell is one of the finer senses.  Instead I thought I would post a photo of the knife above.  It is set diagonally across a sheet of green A4 paper.  It is the largest clasp knife I have ever seen.  I keep it secreted in the bookshelves near the front door of my house.  The knife was given to me by a Security Guard, after he had taken it from a visitor to the local hospital.

Lately, when people ask - How are you?  I say,

"Great.  I feel just great.  My father died in March, my Mother lost her marbles in July, M's mother died in early September, and one of my patients stabbed someone to death on the 15th of September."

The stabbing followed an argument over some missing morphine tablets.  I had prescribed the tablets for the stabber, to relieve the pain in his neck.  You see, there was a car roll-over some years ago, and to this day the stabber has two small plates and four screws in his cervical spine.   

To add to my concerns I am now visited randomly, at home, by a person who has an addiction.  Coincidentally the stabber and the person who arrives unannounced  knew each other before the stabber went to jail.  The person who arrives at my front door knows I have a Licence to solve his problems and puts pressure on me to phone the Pharmacist and ask that extra doses be dispensed.  He is young, big, and brings a German Shepherd to my front door.

I can't imagine using the knife; but I do feel I am under attack. 

My feet are telling me so.  They are telling me that I am stressed.