ONE MANS HISTORY

By Robert Jennings

I wrote this book for many reasons. Most of all

I wanted to tell you how my background influenced

the whole of my life. How it leads me to become

part of a band of the most dedicated people and

dogs. The latter was superb in doing their job

for the services. It was an honour for me to see

them recognised.

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert W. Jennings O A M
• Release date: Feb 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9780645022261

Book preview

OUT OF THE BUSH

My earliest memories were of a place called Beetoota. This metropolis consisted of the Beetoota Hotel and those souls who worked and maintained it.

Beetoota is located east of Birdsville in an area that is more desert than desirable landholding. The Hotel serviced the social needs of several station properties as well as the stockmen and station hands who lived and travelled through that area.

Life would now be seen as very isolated. However, I do not remember experiencing such feelings because there was much to keep a young person occupied. There were many nights and days where raucous laughter, sing-alongs and bush yarns completely overwhelmed the famous silence of the outback.

On one occasion, my mother decided that a change in diet (something different from steak) was a requirement. So she asked Dad and some of the other menfolk to go to a local dam or waterhole that was noted to be stocked with freshwater crayfish or yabbies and to bring back enough for her to cook for all.

Now, of course, this seemed to be a trifling job for grown bushmen. Mum was informed that it would be better to take my sister and me down to the waterhole for a bit of a splash and set some nets while she was there also.

All assured her that they would pitch in when it came time to eat, and gave lots of advice on how to get there, along with the correct methods for catching this delicacy. It was also suggested that she should keep an eye on the nippers too (referring to us kids).

Mum had a driver’s licence, but it was obtained by simply paying the money and passing a written questionnaire. She had never actually driven anything but a stove in her life. So, the men got us all in an old Land Rover, showed her how to get the pesky thing going and pointed her in the right direction. Well dear old mum got us to the waterhole. We were quite excited at the prospect of a paddle and a fish.

As we got closer to our destination Mum became more and more animated. Her feet were dancing over the array of pedals. We jerked, leapt forward, slowed down and then finally leapt forward up the embankment (weeeee) over the top (yahhhhhoooo) and down (SPLASH) we were there.

Mum being the lady she was did not appear too distressed by this. She unpacked the nets, us kids, and an old wine flagon full of water. She then started to place nets with bait into the waterhole at any spot she could see the holes that indicated yabby homes.

We fished and splashed around all day. We had a wheat sack full of yabbies and a jolly good time in the water. Mum lit a fire as the sun started to set and explained to us that the men would be here soon.

Sure enough, just on dusk along came the truck from the hotel with dad and a couple of others with him. They ensured none of us were hurt. Then the ribbing started with comments like, Geez Missus never would have sent you if we knew the brakes were faulty.

Dad and the local stockmen had a view, not widely held, about the local tribal Aborigines, who would suddenly appear and make camp at the back of the pub.

On many occasions I would overhear the local men discussing the survival skills of these nomads. Dad often said any man, woman or child that could survive on foot with only the things they could carry in this country was the epitome of bushcraft. This was quite a compliment from people that were seen as hard men of the bush.

Mum used to tell me to go play and learn from the native children. I think she hoped that this interaction would be good for me and perhaps teach me a thing or two.

On one such occasion, I was sitting with a group of children and some older members of a tribe when I saw a snake in the sand nearby. This story has been told to me over and over by my mother through the years. Anyway, I picked up the fat little snake (this part I remember vividly) and proceeded to stroke and play with it.

The Aborigines were quite disturbed and tried to make me throw the snake away. This of course was out of the question. The elder male ran to the back of the pub and communicated his sorrow for my mother’s loss.

‘This snake (Australian Death Adder) is a bad fella and that boy is dead", he said.

Mother said she screamed out for help and ran towards me. I was still sitting on the ground and playing with the snake. According to Mum, she yelled at me to throw the snake away. Even though I made it known that this snake was mine, I finally did as I was told.

There was much fuss when the menfolk arrived after learning what was going on due to all the yelling and fuss. I was hurried off to the pub and to my embarrassment stripped and poked as everyone looked for the inevitable bite wounds. I was grilled to find out if I felt sick, dizzy or if I had a headache. There was of course no wound. I kept telling everyone the snake was my pet and would not have hurt me.

The old Aborigine that had raised the alarm had stood and watched the whole time. They all realised that I was indeed not hurt. The old man took mum and dad aside and told them I was different and they should not punish me, but they should be careful with me."

As I said some of this episode I remember quite clearly. Some parts Mum filled in over the years. I have experienced some unexplainable events over the course of my life. Mum puts it down to my exposure to the Aboriginal culture in those bygone days. Anyway, the next morning the group of Aborigines had gone, we never saw that particular group again.

Days drifted by and a few scenes remain firmly embedded in my memories, like the sports oval. This field was in fact a gibber flat, (an area covered in smooth, black stones). I remember these adults playing games in the sun and then retiring to the pub for after match meals, drinks and merrymaking.

Another memory consisted of mum’s goats. These were the source of our milk and butter. Mum had planted a fruit tree; the most precious of plants was tended to with loving hands. Well the goats also eyed this food source with greedy eyes. Mum had dad to erect a fence to keep the goats away. This seemed to be effective as the tree grew well. Then, just as the tree had reached fruit bearing age, disaster struck.

One morning we were all startled to hear dear sweet Mum yelling at something with gusto. We all raced out to see mum chasing one goat with her fearsome (to me) straw broom. Glancing around at the area I was very amused to see the other goat actually standing on its hind legs on top of one of the fence posts.

What a marvellous balancing act I thought. I cheered at the performance. Dad moaned and mum swung around to behold this wonderful act. All hell broke loose!! Mum screamed like a banshee, raised the terrible broom, and charged. Dad ducked and grabbed his hat, but she went straight past him. I yelled I didn’t do it, but she kept going past me. Great I thought, mum’s going straight for my sister. But NO! She sailed straight past all of us.

It was at this point you could see the look on the goat’s face. A face full of leaves, little forelegs folded and a look on its face like a puppy that realises the bed is not a toilet. THWACK!!! She got that goat at least a half dozen swats before the hapless beast could hit the ground. One look at dad as he shuffled off muttering about building a goat proof yard.

At some stage, my mum decided that I was becoming feral and so I started school. This was by means of the pedal radio and was in fact school of the air, a service provided for children in the remote areas of Australia’s Outback.

In 1951, I was baptised by the Bush Fathers, a group of non-denominational priests. This event happened in the front room of the Beetoota Hotel. The priest travelled from Quilpie, a good day’s drive even today. I believe that is odd enough to commit to paper.

Things went on with small events occurring regularly enough to keep me entertained, until a couple of events occurred that made quite an impression on me.

Dad was becoming ill, but in typical childlike ignorance, I don’t believe I ever realised that anything was different. I do remember that the year we left the bush turned out to be extremely wet. I was absolutely amazed at the number of frogs that suddenly appeared, they were everywhere, croaking and climbing. Seeing this was marvellous.

Mum was pregnant with yet another sister. I was told we were off on a great adventure to a place called Adelaide where I would meet relatives in great numbers, and that we would be living in a huge city with many buildings taller than the biggest trees I had ever seen. Also there was a thing called the ocean and a river that never ran dry.

On top of that there were many, many people that also lived there and cars, buses and a thing called a tram and it rained every year. The time came for us to leave.

I met another great Australian icon, giant of a man, that mum introduced me to as Mr Cruze. This was the same man who is immortalised as the famous mailman from the Marree to Birdsville track. As I said, this was an exceptionally wet year. Mr Cruze informed us that the roads to Birdsville and part of the track were impassable. He went on to reassure mum that there was no real problem. He would simply drive a direct path in that direction and that would bring us out onto the Marree-Birdsville track. His only concern was it would take a little longer.

Mum told me years later that if that had been anyone else she would have refused to put her family in danger (many folks had perished in that country).

But such was the reputation of this gentle giant that we all loaded onto the Blitz truck with mum and my sister in the front and me on top of the load where Mr Cruze had made room for us complete with overhead cover.

I do not remember a lot about the trip but one incident stuck in my mind and that was camping at the whispering ruins. These ruins are located on the track by a billabong and consist of nothing more than a crumbling stone building with not much other sign of having ever being inhabited. Well, Mr Cruz sat drinking his cup of tea and started telling mum and us kids about the history of this ruin.

It seems that a long time ago a group of Christian Missionaries came to this spot with the aim of bringing religion to the local Aborigines. To shorten the story, the Missionaries all perished. Mr Cruz then went on to tell us all that at dusk and in the morning if you sit quietly you can hear the voices of these longdeparted souls.

This intrigued me immensely and I asked if I could experience this phenomenon. Yes!! Was the answer and we moved over to the side of a standing wall, squatted down and waited. After what seemed like three lifetimes to me, I swear I heard what sounded like very faint chanting. This was at once both frightening and fascinating and I have visited this sight on just one occasion since as an adult for the same results.

THE BIG SMOKE

We arrived in Adelaide and moved into our new home at 115 Franklin St. This was as close to the centre of this city as you can get. The huge stone building known as the Adelaide Post Office (the geographic centre of Adelaide) is located on the corner of King William St (the main street) and Franklin St.

I remember being quite amazed at the numbers of people and vehicles and also being quite concerned that with so much movement of humanity there had to be some catastrophe about to descend on us all.

My feeling proved prophetic as early one morning the house began to shake. Dad got us all together and we scurried outside to stand in the road (Dad said we were safe from falling debris there).

I watched as people scurried around, all traffic stopped and as I looked, the front of the building that housed the local radio station (5KA), collapsed into the street. Great excitement this was, but it was all over very quickly and we had to return to normality.

These were busy times with mum enrolling us in school (way out of town, but near my grandparents) at Glen Osmond. She rode with me to school on the tram and showed me where to catch it both to and from school.

She made sure that I had two pennies tied in the corner of my handkerchief for emergency. These coins were the price of a phone call and I had to memorize my Grandmother’s phone number. Funnily enough, it is something that I remember to this day, UX2025. This number was to be used if I had any trouble or needed help.

By this time some evil force had taken control of my sister (or so it seemed to me) and she seemed to take great delight in trying her hardest to continually get me in to trouble. It was not possible that I was such a bad person or that I had a passion to try everything, after all the rules did not apply to me.

Yelling at her and refusing to play games with her did not work and she continued to make my life hell. She would have to go. The day my sister started school mum told me it was my responsibility to watch over my sister.

Mum packed a lunch and pencils and such in a nice new case for the evil sister and sent us off to catch the tram. My sister could not help herself and the evil demon inside of her manifested itself, every time I ran in front, hid around a corner or tripped her over (all of which are a sacred duty for an older brother) she would wail and threaten to dob me in when we got home.

This situation had to stop! I grabbed her new school case and threw it with all my might out onto the middle of the road. My sister screamed, turned, and ran after it. No head for traffic, that kid. Out onto the road she ran and I grimaced, on and on she ran and I could barely watch.

To my amazement she made it all the way to her case with traffic screeching to a halt, and even more amazing, she made it all the way back without a scratch. I would have to reassess this sister, she had very powerful magic and I would have to treat her more carefully until I could figure it out. Surprisingly, this time, she never mentioned it to Mum or any one. Maybe she was OK for a girl.

Mum had another child, and just my luck, it was another sister. Dad was becoming ill, and he would send mum and us kids to the movies on Friday evenings, (I think this was his way of getting some time alone).

On one Friday evening we had been to the movies and watched one of the first 3D movies, about witches and spiders and such, and we had all been issued with cardboard glasses that had one red and one green cellophane lens. What fun! I put them on as we were walking home and was instantly disoriented.

Absolutely fascinating! I would keep them as a tool for something, (they had to be valuable for some prank or other).

Soon after, we moved again, this time to Jane St in Frewville. This was a town house located opposite my grandparent’s home and only a couple of miles from the school. My Father did not accompany us and I was agitated about that until my mother told me he had died.

This period was not good for me as you can imagine, but to make matters worse, my teacher stood me up in front of the class and told everyone, you kids treat Robert nicely, his dad is dead.

I remember feeling embarrassed and fleeing the school. To add insult to injury, people would stop me in the street, pat me on the head and mumble about being the man of the house now and how I was now responsible for my family.

This was confusing and I remember asking mum and my grandparents if this meant I would have to leave school, get a job, and support the others. My mum and grandparents assured me that people were only trying to be nice, my life could continue, and such considerations were quite silly.

Life was a whirlwind of sitting and listening to stories of exploration, watching my grandmother whisking around the wood stove making the most incredible things to eat and exploring the giant mulberry tree that grew in the backyard. Grandad said it was over a hundred years old and you could actually paint yourself and your sister with the fruit.

Mum had gotten a job and my sister and I would walk with her over to Grandma’s place to have breakfast and wait until it was time to go to school.

I would watch Grandad as he sat at the kitchen table, sharpen his razor on the strop, mix up a soapy lather in a vessel and brush the soapy material all over his face and proceed to take it and the whiskers off with the razor.

Then I would be sent up the street to the bakery, give the secret knock, and enter the most amazing world of smells. Fresh bread and yeast buns. I would pick up the regular order of fresh bread and the baker would always slip in a couple of yeast buns for my sister and I.

We met all the mysterious relatives, travelled to the ocean (now called a beach), and generally looked around this huge city called Adelaide.

Life took another twist when Mum re-married a hard-working, hard-drinking man who proved to be quite abusive.

While I have to admire his work ethic, he worked two jobs six days a week to support his instant family. I was aware that the level of violence he unleashed on