Warragamba Dam: Thank God There Were No Greenies

By Red Morgan

What did it take to build the mighty Warragamba Dam?
More than a mountain of concrete........gambling and fights and the ladies of the night, class distinction, rorts and wrangles, the infamous six o'clock swill, death danger, and hard yakka, dirt, floods, fire and sweat and hardships suffered by the pioneer work force and their families.

This is one man's reminiscences of his experiences working at the Warragamba Dam construction site from 1946 to 1960. Recounting his experiences with colloquial vigour, Red Morgan entertains with innumerable anecdotes of great times and mateship had by a hard working, hard playing work force.

Born into a poor working class family in Swansea, South Wales in 1925 and having spent most of his life in Australia, Red Morgan captures here the rough - and - tumble side of a vital episode in Australia history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 6, 1999
• ISBN: 9781483524702

Book preview

DAM

I was just twenty-one years old when I arrived in the town of Penrith, fifty miles from Sydney’s GPO, at about 9.00 pm on Monday, 25th February 1946. It was pouring, I was soaked to the skin, and my destination was another fifteen miles away.

I asked the railway station attendant what hope I had of catching a bus or cab to Warragamba Dam. He told me that at this time of night there were no buses, but if I walked to the corner I might spot Penrith’s only cab. I walked to the corner of High Street and Station Street. The rain didn’t worry me now; I was that wet it didn’t matter.

The main street was deserted, but after about twenty minutes a car came along. I was not going to let the only bit of life pass me by, so I flagged it down. It turned out to be the cab anyway, although it hadn’t the markings of a taxi. The driver stopped on the other side of the road and yelled out, Where do you want to go, mate? but already I was running across to him. I got my hand on the cab door and opened it, and was halfway in before I told him I wanted to go to Warragamba Dam. Jesus Christ, mate, you’re bloody wet, but jump in, he said, I won’t get another fare tonight anyhow. Little did he know that it would have taken a squad of commandos to get me out of that cab.

After a few minutes the cabbie revealed that he wasn’t sure where the dam site was, but if it was there he would find it. We drove for about half an hour over winding dirt road and old timber bridges, and eventually came upon a camp site. It looked like a cluster of old army huts.

Pulling up in the middle of the road – if you could call it a road, since it seemed more like a bog to me – the cab driver said, Well this looks like it, mate, and that will cost you two quid. I paid him out of the little money I had. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing out here, I confessed. I should come back with you to Penrith. The cabbie just said Arr, she’ll be right mate, and drove off.

She’ll be right mate. Here I was, standing in the middle of the road like a drowned rat, my belongings soaking wet, did not know where the hell I was in the dark, and that’s what I’m told. I started to walk through the mud, mumbling to myself, She’ll be right mate. The fucking idiot doesn’t know what he’s talking about, I grumbled as I trudged along.

I needed to find someone in authority who could organise me a room for the night but, except for a light here and there and a few lights shining in the windows of the huts, the camp was pretty well in darkness. After walking for about twenty minutes I finally found someone who could direct me to the camp steward, but by this time I was pissed off with everything and the only thing I wanted to do was get back to Sydney.

Tony, the camp steward, was a well-built man, good-looking and stood about six foot tall. He was not very happy being called out at that time of night and in the pouring rain, but at least he had a good raincoat and hat. I had nothing but my wet clothes. I explained my needs to him – a bed and a room. Tony walked with me until we came to an old barracks and a couple of tin sheds. He kicked open the door of one room, switched on the light and said, Well mate, this is your room.

I stepped inside and my arsehole dropped to the ground. The room was bare. One wall was lined with cane-ite, to divide the rooms. There was no lining on the ceiling or the other three walls, just bare timber. There was no wardrobe, no bed, no bloody nothing. This was another reason I should get out of here at first sun-up.

I asked Tony what the hell I was to sleep on. Come with me, mate, he said, and we headed towards two tin sheds. Tony pointed to the one on my left and said, That’s where you will get your palliasse. A palliasse was a long hessian sack; Tony pointed to the shed on my right and said, That’s where you will get the straw to fill it. He then informed me that breakfast was on in the mess room from 6 am until 7 am, I was to pick up my crib – a cut lunch – from the mess and then report to the works office at 7.30 am to get a start. With those few words he turned around and headed off, before I could ask him a damn thing.

I opened the door of the palliasse shed and groped around for the light switch, but after about five minutes of searching realised there was no power on in this shed. So I felt around and found a palliasse then went to the straw shed. Again, no power. The shed stank of wet straw, and as I started to fill the palliasse realised that the rain was pouring in from holes in the tin roof, which was why everything reeked. In the darkness I finally filled the palliasse – and I mean filled it. I thought that the more I got into it, the better it would be to sleep on. A few hours later I was to regret that notion.

I made my way back to my room, placed the straw mattress on the floor, got what was dry out of my suitcase – shirts, jumper, trousers, I didn’t care a shit what they were as long as they were dry – got my wet gear off, put on the drier gear, and laid myself out on the mattress to try and sleep. I lay there for a long while, thinking all sorts of stupid thoughts. How long would it take me to walk back to Penrith? Does the Lord know what he is doing to me? How the fucking hell do I stay on this thing called a bed? I am glad it was summer, because without blankets in winter it would have been hell. The last thing I thought to myself before finally falling asleep was, Mate, adopting the Australian term, Mate, you are going back to civilisation tomorrow.

I woke up with an aching back and sore head, having spent most of the night rolling off the mattress on to the bare boards. I couldn’t get the hang of sleeping on an enlarged jelly bean.

I could hear voices from outside and in the next rooms. Opening my door and stepping outside, I discovered activity all around. Men were making their way to the ablution blocks; some were walking toward what I thought was the mess hut. The rain had stopped and the sun was shining – a much better sight than last night! There were greetings all round – I heard G’day mate, and How ya going, mate, and of course the How ya going you fucking old bastard.

I made my way to the ablution block. It was packed with men, some washing, some on the toilets, but all in a good mood. The room was full of foul language and foul air. If it wasn’t coming out the top end it was coming out the bottom, and I can honestly say that if a match had been lit it would have blown the ablution block sky high.

I had a Pommy shower: I splashed my face with cold water. As I had no towel, I dried my face with toilet paper. If I was to stay on this job there were a lot of things I would have to buy with my first pay.

I closed my room door behind me and made my way to the mess hut – quite a large building on the side of the roadway into the camp. It was built high up on concrete piers with a broad set of steps leading into it. There was about ten or twelve men standing at the steps, and I thought maybe I was too early, but as I got close I realised that it was a queue. I joined it, with the greeting of Good day, mate, from the men.

As we chatted I noticed some of them were drinking out of tin mugs. In my ignorance I asked where they got the tea from. A man in a black singlet answered It’s not tea, Blue, it’s piss; here, have a swig. I thanked him and took a mouthfull, and immediately felt as if my mouth and throat was on fire. It was pure rum. I was to learn that, with hair redder than Scarlet O’Hara’s, I was therefore Blue – but I should have been more wary of the description of the liquid. I was soon to realise that this was where men were men and boys should be home in bed.

We moved up the steps slowly and eventually got inside the mess room. The scene was that of a fancy dress ball; you certainly wouldn’t have called it Savile Row or David Jones. There were black singlets, shorts and boots, Army greatcoats, gumboots and slouch hats, shorts, sandshoes, shirts with the sleeves cut off at the shoulders, woollen beanies and, for some, belts fashioned from an old piece of rope. The chain gang had nothing on this mob. In jeans, tee-shirt and shoes I was the best dressed there. Remnants from my seagoing days.

With the men talking, yelling at each other and the kitchen utensils being banged down at the kitchen sink, the noise was deafening. The language was worse. Everybody was referred to as an old bastard, or being told to Get fucked you old Pommy bastard – even though everyone was of a young age.

The queue to the dishing-out bench was about twenty-five men long, so there was plenty of time to take in the scene. On each side of the queue were timber tables about 12 feet long, with benches attached to them, five men to a bench.

They were mostly Australians, with a smattering of Poms, Irish, new Australians and of course the Welsh (among them, me). Breakfast was sausages and bacon and eggs with toast. To me it was damn good as I had not eaten since midday the previous day, but the thing I wanted most was a cup of tea. I had no tin mug; I had come to this job totally unprepared. The fellow opposite me seemed to have finished his breakfast, so I plucked up enough courage to ask him for a loan of his mug, but before he could pass it over the fellow next to him in a black singlet and woollen beanie saw my need and shouted out Here mate, have mine, and threw it across to me. He had not finished what was in his cup and it splashed from one side of the table to the other. From the smell of things I realised it was rum he had been drinking. I got my cup of tea and, although it was rum flavoured, I drank it down thinking I might not get another cup of tea until the evening meal.

I returned the cup to the owner, thanking him for the loan of it. He held out his hand for a handshake and introduced himself. My name is Brad, what’s your’s, mate? I said my name was Red. He said, Christ, are you a septic tank? I said no, not even knowing what a bloody septic tank was. I thanked him again and he said, She’s right, Blue.

Confusion was setting in. First I’m his mate, then a septic tank and instead of calling me Red he reckons I’m Blue. I made a beeline for the counter, picked up my crib and got out of there before I was totally confused and unfit for work.

On coming out of the mess hut I passed trucks with men sitting on the back on timber benches. I didn’t know where they were going and didn’t really care. I walked down the dirt road towards the works office, feeling pretty good. My stomach was full, I had had a cup of tea. All these fellows calling me mate, the sun shining. I was ready to take on the world. I knew it was going to be a good day. My ambition now was to get started on the project.

The works office was a two-storey building built on the edge of the cliff overlooking Warragamba Gorge. I filled out the necessary papers, was given my starting docket, informed that my mess account would be taken out of my wages, and four days’ pay would be held out of my first fortnightly pay until such time as I left or was paid off. That was to deduct any gear I held belonging to the Board, and did not return, such as gumboots, rain coats and the like on snatching it (that is, on leaving the job). Also I could ask for a sub, after working five days. I was told to report with my starting docket to overseer Jack Sullivan at number three camp. After being given directions to three camp, I thanked them and left the office for my first day’s work at Warragamba. Little did I know that I would be working for this firm for the next forty years of my life.

THE WORKS OFFICE, PERCHED ON THE EDGE OF WARRAGAMBA GORGE

The track to three camp was well beaten. I passed through tall timbers and scrub. I walked for about ten minutes and then I came upon a clearing of about four or five acres. The scene before me was unbelievable. There was activity everywhere – men were carrying timber on their shoulders, some were carrying floor sections, four men to a section, others were putting up timber frames, others were rigging canvas tents and flies over the frames. Nowhere could I see anyone giving instruction; it appeared that these men knew exactly what to do.

There were a few corrugated iron sheds standing, some with smoke coming out of the chimneys. I was to learn later that this camp had been in operation several years ago when the Warragamba Weir had been built – hence the iron sheds. It was said that Chinese labour was used to construct it, but nobody was sure, because no one could account for the disappearances of all those Chinese who were supposed to have worked on it.

I finally found overseer Sullivan. He stood about five foot ten, wore a felt hat and a well-worn white pinstripe suit. He was quietly spoken, and it didn’t seem as if much bothered him. I gave him my starting docket; after reading it he remarked, Well for once they have sent the right man to the right place. He explained to me that the tents they were using were very old and in a state of disrepair, since they had been used for the camp that built the weir and had been in storage for years. Being an ex-seaman I could sew canvas and splice rope, so I was the man he wanted.

He put me to work with three other men until he could get me the sail needles and thread, bees wax, a steel spike and rope needed for repairing the tents. Mr Sullivan introduced me to the three men: the first was Darkie, who was of Aboriginal descent. A lean, tall muscular man who seemed to be the driving force of this crew, his handshake was strong and sure, and you could tell he was a man to be reckoned with. Darkie was to make a name for himself in time to come. Smokey was six foot two, tall and skinny with a set of thick glasses, very well spoken, with a pleasant smile. He looked more like a university graduate than a labourer. His handshake was like a wet fish. Smokey also was to make a name for himself. Then there was Bill. Of stocky build and strong handshake, he was reserved and just wanted to carry on with his work. All three were Australians.

Our job was to place and level the floorboards for the tents. Then a crew would come along and erect the tent frames, and then another crew would place the tent and fly over the frames. Stack upon stack of floor sections had to be placed and levelled. These stacks had been on site and in the open for some months, and for that reason I was to get the shit frightened out of me for the next few days. It was a fourman-lift for each half of a tent floor, and it was all hardwood timber. My first shock came when we were lifting from a stack about waist high. We lifted the section about three or four inches off the stack, when one hell of a giant spider ran from under the floorboards on to the top. When it ran to my corner, I gave one hell of a yell and dropped my corner of the section. Then the abuse came thick and fast from my three workmates. I was told not to drop the floorboards again just because there was a fucking spider on it.

I was now standing about three feet away from the spider. One of the fellows got a piece of stick and brushed the spider to the ground. Darkie then explained to me that it was a Tarantula and would only bite if cornered. I asked him why he didn’t kill it, and he explained that they were okay to have in your room, since they kept the flies and other insects down. I wondered who the hell wanted one of them in their room.

The day progressed, and while floor sections were being placed and tent frames were erected, the conversation became very interesting. These men had been here for several weeks and were full of advice and information. I was told that the barracks, works office, post office, picture theatre, and houses were built where they were because it was the first site picked for the construction of the dam. When further drilling and testing upstream revealed a better site for the dam, the Old Township, as it was therefore called, was looked upon as a temporary holding camp until such time as the New Township was able to take all the men and families.

It was now lunch time. Everyone sat down where they could find a good spot – the floor sections being the favoured spots, since they were level and clean. Darkie had already lit a small fire; there were also other small fires lit for the different groups of men. The billy was put on the fire and the water allowed to come to the boil, then a handfull of tea was thrown into the boiling water and left to boil a little longer. The fire was giving out a lot of smoke, I then saw Darkie put a small branch across the top of the billy can. I asked why he did this, and he explained that a green stick stopped the smoke curling into the billy and making the tea taste smokey. He emphasised that it must be a green stick. I was learning the ways of the bush fast. I still had no tin mug for my tea, but there was no shortage of offers from others to loan their mugs after they had finished with theirs. By the time I poured my cup of tea you could stand the stick up in it, it was so black and thick – and no sugar or milk! The cut lunch was great, washed down with black tea.

Crib time over, it was back to work. We continued to set the floor sections in place. After laying one particular section, Smokey did a little tap-dance on it. I asked him if he was a tap dancer, he replied, No, just getting ready for tonight. He revealed that down in Wallacia, a town at the foot of the hill about two miles from where we were, there were fourteen guest houses full of girls and that one or two guest houses had a dance on every night and for me to get myself down there and have a ball.

I told him I couldn’t dance. He then grabbed my hand and said, It’s easy – look, just follow me. Smokey started to dance, I started to stumble. The impromptu lesson went on for a few minutes, until a voice yelled, What the bloody hell are you two doing? You’re supposed to be laying floor sections, not dancing! Get on with your work or you’ll dance all the way up the hill and out the gate. It was overseer Sullivan at his worst. So much for the dance lessons.

We continued to place the sections of flooring until we reached the last two sections in the stack. The four of us bent down to pick up a section, at the same time Darkie telling us that we had to lift a little stronger this time as the weight of the other sections had forced this last one into the ground a little and would be harder to lift. We did a good lift clear off the ground, then I looked down to see if the ground I was going to walk on was clear, and there it was – the biggest bloody snake I had ever seen, curled up like a piece of rope, but black. Panic set in. I dropped my corner, yelling that there was a big snake on the ground, and jumped backwards about two or three feet. Now, to drop a corner of a four-man-lift without warning, you can imagine what it would do to the other three men – just about break their backs. For a few seconds there was silence, and then I copped it. Darkie spoke first. In a very quiet voice he said, Blue, and then repeated ever so slowly, Blue, if you ever drop your corner again like that I will, and now his voice reaching a higher pitch, pick you up and spear you head-first into the fucking ground and use you as a fence post. Being only ten and a half stone I just stood my ground not saying a word, and waited for the other two to have their say. Smokey just laughed and said nothing. Bill also said nothing, but did not laugh. They must have thought Darkie had said it all for them.

Darkie then went about catching the snake. He picked it up by the tail and gave it a whip in the air which, he said, broke its back. He then threw it on an ant nest close by. I said that I was sorry for what I had done, and Darkie said, It’s alright Blue, forget it. It’s not your fault that you’ve never seen a snake before, you don’t have them in Pommiland because they sent all the bastards out to Australia. It was to be a few months before that one sank in.

We placed the last two sections and knocked off around 4.30 pm. The men started the walk up the hill back to the Old Township about half a mile away, all chatting and laughing. I was still thinking of the day’s events and hoping I wouldn’t be a fool tomorrow –I didn’t want to end up as a fence post.

The sun was still hot and the sweat was running off my body when we finally reached the camp. The men started to disperse in all directions to their rooms. Smokey yelled across to me saying, I’ll see you down at Wallacia tonight. I just shook my head and walked on.

My barracks being the furthest away, I had time to take in the area. There were new barracks on one side of the road, and ablution blocks. At the back of them a large number of tents, all new, on the other side of the road stood the mess building high on concrete piers. In the centre of the main road leading down to the works office, and homes of the engineers, stood the picture theatre. It was a very large building constructed of weatherboard and fibro with a galvanised iron roof. Then there was the post office and a scattering of old houses behind the mess building; these housed the overseers and inspectors.

On entering my room I found two spring beds with the straw palliasses laid out flat on them, and an open suitcase on one of them. I was inspecting my bed when a fellow came in introducing himself. G’day, I’m your room mate. My name is Sid, Sid Reed. I said, I’m Red, Red Morgan, and we shook hands. He told me he was a bulldozer driver and that he had done a lot of camping.

Sid had arrived at camp about midday so he had had time to find out about the spring beds stacked in a shed near the straw shed. He said he could see I was a new chum by my bed, explaining that the palliasse should be only half full of straw, so that it could flatten and cover the spring bed. Sid had decided to set up my bed for me. We talked for a while, telling each other where we came from. He was from the country, near Parks in western New South Wales. I told him I was Welsh and had just left the sea and that all this was new to me. If you can stand the heat, the dust and the flies, Sid said, you will be okay. If not, don’t stick around, because this job is going to be a big one, the biggest in Australia. I told him I was going to give it a go for a few months and then return to the sea in June. Half your luck, he replied, I’ve never been out of Australia.

We showered, put on some clean clobber and made our way to the mess room. This time I had a mug: Sid had two and offered to lend me one until I could buy one. He also offered me a blanket for a few days. We had only met a few hours ago, but you could tell we were going to be good mates.

The mess hut was crowded, hot and noisy. There was a choice of fish or steak with vegies, plus dessert. I settled for the steak and vegies. The food was good and there was plenty of it. Better still, I could have a cup of tea and take my time over it.

Sid and I stayed talking for a long time, meeting new fellows and getting plenty of advice and news about the dam that was to be built. Some said it would take fifteen years, others reckoned ten years, others six to build, but however long it took, it was going to be good.

There was still some daylight left when we left the mess hut, which enabled Sid and I to get a better picture of the layout of the camp. All roads were dirt roads, and apart from the buildings already mentioned there was also a small general store. (Being after six o’clock, it was shut.) The township was fringed by dense bush with just one road leading through it onto the main road to Wallacia and Silverdale. This road also was dirt.

We reached our barracks area there were men standing around in groups talking, some sitting on the steps to their room, others taking their washing to the ablution blocks. This area was set out in a courtyard style, the ablution blocks on one end, a set of barracks facing each other and a set of barracks facing the ablution blocks. They were all very old barracks buildings, transported to this site from previous works areas.

We stopped to talk with one group, telling them who we were, how long we had been in camp and so on. Some of the men had been at the camp weeks before me and where waiting for rooms in the New Township or a house to be allocated to them and their families to live in. They were a happy-go-lucky crowd, with plenty of cursing and farting going on.

The sun had set and the mozzies were beginning to bite, so we all decided to go to our rooms and get away from them. It was to no avail: the mozzies were worse in the room than outside.Don’t worry mate, Sid said, I’ve been in bush camps all my life; I’ll fix these bastards. With that he pulled out a brown paper bag, went outside and got an old ant cap and placed the contents of the bag on it. To me it looked like cow shit, I asked him if it was. That’s right, mate, he said, Dry cow shit, and at least you know the difference between shit and clay.What in the hell are you going to do with cow shit? I asked. If you can stand the smell, mate, I’m going to burn it. Then we’ll have no trouble with the mozzies tonight – the cow dung smoulders away all night, filling the room with a light smoke and one hell of a stink. The mozzies had all gone and I was sure we were the next to go but, as Sid explained, there was no shortage of air circulation in these old buildings and the smoke would get away out the open eaves.

After chatting some more it was time to turn in. Lights out and with the smell of burning cow shit, and damp straw in my nostrils I soon fell off to sleep.

I woke to the sound of men’s voices. It was another great morning – sun shining and warm. Most of the men were heading for the mess, others were cooking their breakfast in a small galley of corrugated iron and an open fireplace with a very long chimney. Breakfast was corn flakes, bacon, sausages, eggs, toast and coffee or tea. Breakfast over I picked up my crib. Sid his too. I headed to Number Three camp, Sid to the works office to get his start.

Arriving at the camp ten minutes early, there was time for a chat with the others. Smokey told me he had gone to Wallacia last night to a guest house called Westbourne and that it was full of sheilas (that is, girls) all waiting for the men from the dam to dance with. I promised I would go with him one night, but I would have to learn to dance first.

Overseer Sullivan was now shouting out for everyone to get off their arse and get stuck into it. It had been several days before the gear I needed was available, Overseer Sullivan then told me I was to start repairing the tents right away.

WESTBOURNE GUEST HOUSE, WALLACIA

The shed that had the tents stored in it was of corrugated iron, and very hot inside. The tents were stacked to the ceiling so there was no room to work inside the shed. My work room was to consist of a wooden box for a chair, placed on a level piece of ground, no walls, no ceiling, just the wide open spaces. You could say that all of Australia was my workshop. I was my own boss so to speak and now there was no fear of me being speared in to the fucking ground head first by Darkie. Working on my own the only one I could harm was myself.

I pulled one or two tents out of the shed and started to open them up on the ground to find the holes in them, and there they were! Dozens of bloody big spiders raced in all directions. They were Tarantulas – the biggest spiders I had ever seen. They had been breeding in the folds of the canvas in the hot shed. After brushing most of them away, I sat down on my wooden box and started to repair the tents and flies, first making sure that they were clear of any spiders. With Palmer, needle, thread and beeswax in my hands it was like being back at sea again sewing canvas.

A shout went out throughout the camp that the pay car was up on the road. In one motion everyone stopped whatever they were doing. Carpenters unbuckled their nail bags and with their hammers, dropped them to the ground. Men dropped their shovels and picks to the ground and headed up the hill. I looked around to see if Darkie and his crew had done the same thing, but they were already halfway up the hill. Remembering Darkie’s promise of what he would do to me, I thought to myself that the way those bastards moved when the pay car was mentioned, I would have been the only one holding my corner of the floor, and most likely flat on my fucking face.

The pay car had stopped in the middle of the road which led to Nortens Basin (a dead end). There were three burly fellows sitting in it and one standing alongside; behind them was another car with two fellows in it. Standing at the car window I was asked my name by one of the fellows in the back. Morgan, S. I replied. Ticking my name off a large sheet of names, he handed the fellow alongside him my docket, and he in turn gave me my pay and half my docket. I stood there trying to decipher my docket when I was told in an abrupt manner to move along and that if there was anything wrong, to tell my overseer about it. I now had clenched in my hand the grand amount of three pounds, ten shillings – my first pay at Warragamba. I was able to buy all the things I needed – blankets, mug, soap, towels, toiletries and so on.

Catching up with Darkie on the way back to work, I remarked to him that the pay car had more guards than Fort Knox.Yeah, mate, it’s like this. The Board lost a lot of money in a big hold-up at Captain Cook Graving Dock in Sydney Harbour. The robbers got away in a small boat and the Board’s taking no chances from now on. The bloke standing at the front car rides shotgun. Along with the two in the other car, they carry thousands of quid on pay day. They pick it up at a bank in Penrith to save carting it all the way from Sydney. They thought they were going to get robbed again a few weeks ago in Penrith. Usually, the guards stop anyone parking too close to the pay cars while they pick up the money, but on this particular day a car came racing down High Street and pulled in right behind one of the pay cars. After the panic was over they found out that the driver was a Judge from Penrith Courts who had drank too many whiskies. He nearly got his arse shot off.Should have had his fucking head blown off, chipped in Smokey.

It was now crib time. I sat down with Darkie’s team. They now had a new fellow, Kev, in the team. He had put some steak on the fire to grill for his lunch and the blowflies were zooming in at it.I’ll show you how to fix those bastards if anyone can catch one, said Kev. I think it was Darkie who eventually caught one. He explained that you had to place your hand in front of the fly and brush towards it as the fly takes off backwards, since flies can’t fly backwards as fast as your hand goes forward. I did’t know whether that was a lot of bullshit or not but Darkie was the only one who caught a fly.

He gave the fly to Kev without hurting it in any way, Kev then plucked a piece of dry grass out of the ground, at the same time explaining that it must be only a short piece of grass and very thin. I couldn’t work out what he was going to do with the fly and the grass. I was just about to take a bite of my sandwich when I found out. Very gently, he stuck one end of the grass up the fly’s arse, lit the grass and let the fly go. Well, the fly went in all directions. It looped the loop, went straight up and then plummeted to the ground. Apparently when the straw burnt its arse out.That’s how you fix those bastards, said Kev. I swallowed my mouthful of sandwich, washed it down with hot tea and thought, dead snakes on anthills, burning straw up a fly’s arse, spiders everywhere. What more was there to learn about the Australian bush?

The talk got around to the spiders in the tents. We all had our ideas on how to get rid of them and, would you believe, they were all good, clean and non torturous. We settled upon hanging the tents over the timber frames for the night and allowing the spiders to get away overnight.

Crib time over, it was back to work. Tents were going up, the ablution block and cooking galley were well on the way to being finished and the atmosphere was great. Knock off time and back to the Old Township.

After we showered Sid and I made our way to the mess. He told me that after nearly a week on the shovel he had scored a dozer driver’s job. The work was hot and dusty but it was what he wanted and the pay was good. While at dinner we met the two fellows who had just moved into the room next to us, one by the name of Kelly, the other Adam. The mess was now closing, so we all made our way back to the square outside our rooms and talked until the mozzies got at us again. Kelly was a big, fat, red-faced fellow who was very easy to get on with and could take a joke without taking offence. Driven into our rooms by the mozzies, Sid again lit another patty of cow shit. The stuff worked wonders, if you could put up with the stink. In the morning it was just a small heap of white powder.

We talked for a long time, Sid and I finding out more about each other. He was a boy from the bush, never married, just out of the Army, and as he described himself, a loner. I said we should go down to Wallacia one night and find out what it’s all about.No mate, he said. You can have that all on your own, for two reasons. I can’t dance, and women give me the shits. I get in a fight every time I’m near them, but we could go down for a beer at the pub one day. I’ll drink to that, was my reply. Lights out and sleep.

I had been repairing tents for several weeks now, and the construction of Number Three camp was coming to a finish. Tomorrow would be my last day at this camp. It was looking good. There was a cooking galley, ablution block, open fireplaces in the mess sheds. The tents were constructed of weatherboard walls up to three feet, then the canvas tops and then a tent fly, so they were pretty well constructed for the weather. Men were already moving in to the camp; the tents were filling fast.

With Number Three camp completed, the following day most of the men were instructed to catch the trucks over to the New Township the next morning. We were to be put into new gangs on arrival.

Friday morning, the last working day of the week. After picking up my crib I made my way out of the mess hut to find myself a seat on the back of one of the trucks lined up on the roadway. The first two or three were full, the rest had a few men on the back of each. I went to get on the last truck, seeing it was the closest.No mate, said Sid. Don’t get on the last one, whatever you do. Try and get on the front ones. I couldn’t see any difference in getting on the front one or the last one, since they were all going to the New Township.

Trucks loaded, the convoy moved off. We reached Silverdale Road, the main road, and for