Tjilpi

M*A*S*H

For Christmas, son Hugh gave daughter Julia a boxed set of DVDs containing approximately 45 episodes of M*A*S*H.  I have been watching them.  M has been away on the east coast with her family and I have had a few evenings to spend alone, eating left over barramundi and watching episodes of M*A*S*H.

 

So far, at the beginning of each episode, I have watched the same two Bell Helicopters fly over mountainous country which is remarkably similar to the West McDonnel Ranges.  This they do repeatedly prior to landing on the helipad at M*A*S*H  #4077.  I've probably watched 30 episodes by now, but the sound of the choppers and the theme music continues to intrigue me.

Download theme_mash.mp3

"Doo, doo, doo, dit, doo, doo, doo, Suicide is dangerous..."

Although I have flown in helicopters quite a few times, I have only ever flown in a helicopter twice on a medical retrieval mission.  Both of those flights were in the early 1980s.

Fixed wing aircraft are the go in Central Australia for medical work.  The distances are too large for small short range helicopters.  However, even if they don't go far, I've got a hankering to fly one.  Especially after learning to fly gliders, which also don't go far, or anywhere, if I am flying!  It's time to learn to fly something whose wings go faster than it does. The photo shows me sitting and waving from the right hand seat of a Bell on a recent joy flight. The guy doing the flying is on my left. 

I reckon it was 1972, while I was still studying Philosophy at the University of Queensland, that I saw the original full length M*A*S*H movie. The UofQ had a great film theatre and I liked to skip a class or tutorial or whatever, to attend the Friday afternoon movie. 

My parents wanted me to be a doctor but I rebelled and studied Philosophy for 4 years.  However, during those 4 years the pressure remained. Dad had served in the Australian Army Medical Corps as a Pharmacist.  There was general acknowledgement in our family that he had wanted to be a doctor; but that his parents didn't have the wherewithall to help him through Med School. 

When I was 4, my mother gave me the Little Golden Book "Dr Dan the Bandage Man".  I believe I can still hear my Uncle Peter saying then, that as I had the memory of an elephant, I ought to be a doctor.

In 1972 I was getting nowhere with Philosophy - having come out the same door as I went in.  Something had to give. 

The M*A*S*H movie made something click.  I remember watching it and saying to myself - I could do that. 

The next year, 1973, I enrolled as a first year student at the University of Queensland Medical School.

When the Jaguar tried to cross the Ford....

Bill is a true Territorian. 

He gave me the piece of barramundi you see in the photo.  I've kept it frozen until today.  For today is Christmas Day and my daughter Julia likes barra. 

There is nothing like Prawns and Barra for Chrissie Dinner.  It's almost becoming a tradition in Australia.

Bill gave me the barra; but I bought the kilo of prawns to go with it.

Bill caught the barra at Borroloola, up on the Gulf, and he gave me two slabs of it. They are both 1' x 6" in the old measure, or 300 x 150 in metric.  It's a bit like the patient paying the doctor with a chicken; but Bill simply gave them to me as a gift from a friend.  He's cashed up.  He doesn't need to barter.

Being a true Territorian, Bill knows how to tell a tale.  His best tales are the ones that are true.  A while back he told me a yarn about how he beat the first Jaguar in Alice Springs in a race to Tennant Creek, 500 kilometres to the north.

Bill has always had a liking for fast and powerful motor vehicles.  At the time he had a souped up Ford Ute.

The bloke who bought the Jag challenged Bill to a race.  The bet was 500 Pounds Sterling, which was a lot of money in those days.

Bill accepted.

Lets go then, said the Jag owner.

Sorry, Bill says.  I've got work on.  It'll have to wait.

Over the following months the same conversation took place many times on a Friday afternoon in a crowded bar.

Sorry, said Bill. I've got work on.

Then, one Friday near Christmas, Bill said: You're on. Are you ready?

Ready as I'll ever be, said the Jag owner.

Bill asked his mate if he wanted to come along in the Ford.

I'm with you, he said, but it's a hell of a way to lose 500 Quid.

Don't worry mate, said Bill.  This Ford will out do that Jag any day.

So, on Saturday morning, the race commenced.

Bill got off to a good start and was still ahead on the old road which wound its way through the hills to the north of town.  But when the road opened up into the straight run north of the hills, in the region of Bond Springs Airstrip, the Jag flew past.

Bill's mate said, We may as well go back to the Stuart Arms and drown our sorrows.

Hang on, said Bill. He won't win.

But, you've done your dough, said his mate.

Hang on, said Bill, and put his foot to the floor, following the Jag in the distance.

About 100 klicks up the track what should they see?

The Jag, bonnet up, with steam coming from the radiator. 

Bill took it easy and cruised into Tennant with a sure 500 Pounds in his pocket.

You see, he knew a thing or two about Jags.  And he knew a thing or two about the high temperatures reached in Central Australia around Christmas.

His Ford Ute was fitted up with an extra large radiator to cope with the local conditions.

The Jag was only used to crossing fords in an English Climate.

On being sucked into a ThunderDome...

Yesterday, Friday, it rained.

We have had drought conditions for months.  Last Saturday gliding had to be abandoned because all around were dust storms.

But yesterday afternoon it rained.  I logged onto the Weather Radar which is located at the Alice Springs Airport and saw that there was heavy rain in the vicinity of Bond Springs Cattle Station - and reasoned that there must have been heavy rain at Bond Springs Airstrip which is located within the boundaries of Bond Springs Cattle Station.

Today it didn't rain; but there were plenty of clouds about when Simon and I went up in the ISB28. The clouds were formed when the water from the rain on the ground rose in the thermals generated by the warming of the sun. 

The cloud base was at 8,000 feet and we went up just below the bottom of the clouds.  Cloud flying is prohibited in gliders as they fly by Visual Flight Rules - which means you've got to see and be seen.  No fancy crash avoidance radar is on-board and nor do we have Flight Control to separate one glider from another.

We climbed to 8,000 feet and were very close to the bottom of a black bottomed cloud.  For some reason that made me very nervous.

Doesn't the lift stop at the base of the cloud? I asked.

No - it continues right to the top of the cloud.  You can get sucked in and it can become very frightening,  Simon replied.

I was already frightened, and realized that I was in denial.

My right hand became white knuckled as I gripped the joystick.  As my grip became much firmer than required I also happened to press my thumb onto the microphone button, which is located on top of the stick. 

As Simon and I diced with death, those on the ground and the pilots of other gliders in the air could hear our conversation.  They couldn't talk to us as I had the channel open and was broadcasting to one and all.

Fortunately, neither of us criticized anyone within our club, nor each other, and there wasn't a single episode of "strong language".  All that was heard was Simon gently teaching me how to correct the mistakes I somewhat inconsistently, but consistently, make when I am flying.  I tend to let the aircraft yaw and often let the nose wander off the horizon when thermalling.  All of that means that I am not flying efficiently and so am not getting the best performance out of the aircraft.  Getting the best performance from the aircraft means that one has the skills to make the most out of any lift available.  Being able to make the most out of any lift available means that one can make cross country journeys and go far away from the strip and come home without having to outland on some lonlely stretch of road. 

I soothe myself by saying,

Simon is a much younger man than me.

What does he expect from a near 60 year old? 

Why am I not allowed to put the death grip on the joystick and turn on the microphone switch at the same time at 8,000 feet, even if I am directly above the strip? 

Why shouldn't I be frightened when I am about to be sucked into a ThunderDome?

Some years ago I asked Jim Brown, who was from the South of the US, what would happen if I got sucked into a ThunderDome.

In his Southern Drawl he said,

Well, Greg, eventually, you would come down. 

You might come down in Arkansas; but you would come down.

Independent Company Commando

The bloke in this picture is 86.  He is/was a bit younger than my Dad who would have been 88 had his heart not given out.

You can see Dad's heart on the Xray Viewing Box.  I brought that Xray from Maryborough after Dad died.  I use it as a teaching aid when I am explaining things about hearts/lungs/ribs/etc  to my patients. 

By careful questioning I have worked out that Dad and Terry walked on the same ground, although at different times.

Terry was a Commando in the 2nd/5th Independent Company deployed on the north coast of Papua New Guinea in WWII.  Operating behind enemy lines he caused havoc before having to be extracted, suffering from malnutrition and with an enemy price on his head. 

A bag of rice or a pig were the rewards offered to the locals should anyone tell the whereabouts of "Masta Terry". 

Terry tells tales of eating frogs in order to survive, and grins when he talks of stealthily killing enemy soldiers with a shortened but very sharp .303 bayonet. He says that at that time he was doing a job which had to be done but, to this day, he feels sorry for the frogs.

Terry dotes on his carer who tried to escape the camera and leaned away when I took this shot.

I'm not sure why I have such a keen interest in things concerning the Australian Military; but I know my interest is not unique.  Being born just after WWII has to have had its effect, and working out how, or if, to dodge the draft for Vietnam was another influence.

Last week an Australian Viet Nam Vet came to see me.  He is on a TPI Pension for PTSD. [Totally and Permanently Incapacitated for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder]. 

I talked to him about Terry.  He talked to me about his father and he also talked about his father's mate who was also in Papua New Guinea during WWII.

His father's mate was at Milne Bay when the Japanese invaded.  It was at Milne Bay that the Japanese Army was defeated for the first time on land.  The victory was won by Australian soldiers. 

Aussie diggers often say:    It wasn't the Yanks. We did it.

What I had not known, before the Viet Nam Vet told me, was that our blokes poured enough petrol from 44 gallon drums onto the beach to soak it and then let the run-off cover the sea.

When the Japanese alighted from their landing craft, our blokes opend up with Bren Guns loaded with tracer bullets to set the petrol alight. 

Someone with an independent mind must have thought up that trick.