Wally's War-Wally's Peace

By Wally Eaglesham

"This is is one of the most stunning stories I have ever read - I will never forget it"

An amazing and unforgettable true story of the adventurous life of the Australian entrepreneur, Wally Eaglesham. Raised in the harsh 1950s' bush environment o

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookTrail Publishing
• Release date: Nov 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781637675724

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 Wally Eagl2esham

Paperback: 978-1-63767-571-7

eBook: 978-1-63767-572-4

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021921719

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Ordering Information:

BookTrail Agency

8838 Sleepy Hollow Rd.

Kansas City, MO 64114

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Dedications

Author’s Note

Foreword

Introduction

Prologue: The Beginning of the End

Chapter 1: The Flogging Room

Chapter 2: Bodgies, Widgees, and Theo’s Picture Theatre

Chapter 3: I Will Kill You

Chapter 4: Gemfields

Chapter 5: Royal Australian Navy & HMAS Leeuwin, W.A.

Chapter 6: Fear A’hoy! 10 December 1966—A Fight to the Death

Chapter 7: Navy Dive: Disorientation

Chapter 8: HMAS Hobart on Voyage to Vietnam War Zone

Chapter 9: Dead Men Walking

Chapter 10: Deadly Sparrows 17 June 1968

Chapter 11: Unwelcome Home

Chapter 12: Safari Tours

Chapter 13: Snakes Can Fly, You Know!

Chapter 14: Endurance Horse Riding, World Record & The Pilliga Scrub

Chapter 15: Sapphires, Ron Deeley Tougher-Than-Goats-Knees

Chapter 16: Three International Movies French Television: June, July ’80

Chapter 17: Rail-Roaded By Multi-National

Chapter 18: Rocky’s Own Transport Company Is Born, March 1985

Chapter 19: Work Like A Captain—Play Like A Pirate

Chapter 20: Bouncing Off Walls

Chapter 21: Marriages No. 3

Chapter 22: The Enigma Revealed

Chapter 23: Philosophy and Lessons Learned

Epilogue: The End of the Beginning

Appendix: Wally Eaglesham… ‘Soft Heart Tough Seat’

Special Mention

Acknowledgments

Glossary & Acronyms

Note from the editor

Dedications

I dedicate this book and its content to my wife Jane

and my previous wives Marcia, Lesley and Elly, along with my children, Sheila, Mandi,

Claire and Luke.

True Vietnam veterans.

Jane, Lesley, Elly and Marcia

Mates for life

My wife Jane; A pillar of support and encouragement during the long and arduous task of writing my autobiography joins my best friend David Frost and myself in my dedication of this book.

Jack (David Frost) mentor and best friend

Careering along the highway of the ‘living’ towards destination ‘mortality’ I glance furtively into life’s revision-mirror and shudder at what I am seeing. This carriage way of history littered with the wreckage of my delinquency is most confronting. I shake my head in wonderment of how in the devils name I have made it thus far? Not by chance I admit to myself with a clarity born of late stage maturity. Sitting quietly beside me in the passengers seat, invisible but always available is my best mate Jack.

Mates always.

Author’s Note

Everything here is true, however, I cannot recall everything in the exact order. in some cases I’ve compressed events; in others I’ve expanded them. Chronology is subservient to the tyranny of time, memory, subject and location and—as I am looking down the barrel of 70 years—there will be, understandably, an acceptable level of chronological errors. This book is an autobiography: it reflects my present recollections of my life experiences. This is my story. in the interest of validation and reader enjoyment I’ve changed or omitted only a few names out of the book’s numerous characters and events. Some dialogue has been recreated from memory and I’ve done my best to tell my story as I remember it. I’ve validated the majority of my narrative by being transparent as possible, using the given names of most persons mentioned in this book. As an avid collector of historic information I’ve amassed a comprehensive collection of photographs. in the case of my time in I Corp, South Vietnam (when the country was still divided), standard 8 mm movies (recorded by a third party) depict my involvement in most traumatic events. These were viewed on board HMAS Hobart by my peers after development once back in Subic Bay, Philippines. in only a very few cases I’ve changed or omitted the names of characters (alive or dead) to protect their privacy.

I am not a psychologist, therapist, legal or financial advisor and as such the contents of this book are my experiences and should not be used as a substitute for advice from professionals in any such fields relating to these experiences.

In conclusion, it is worth noting that the large volume, scope and consistency of documented evidence—along with the public exposure of my life and times— supports the content of this author’s note, not withstanding the four years it has taken me to select and document the historic ‘guts’ of this story with its consistency of unarguable validation. Page after page. Enjoy!

Foreword

Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, poor man, rich man…self belief

– Jane Magon PhD.

In writing this foreword I had the dilemma of too many stories to tell. As a wife who has known him for 17 years I was aware no one person had known him continuously throughout his life, not one family member or friend. How could this happen?

Wally is not one person. He is not a simple man; he is very complicated and best described in terms of the nature and construct of a diamond. When a diamond is bought it usually comes with a certificate listing its specific characteristics—similar to a report card. At first glance Wally is like a diamond in the rough. it might be possible to polish him…but not in this lifetime!

CUT: He’s cut all over. Apart from almost having to cut off his own foot, he has 19 prominent scars from different incidents.

CLARITY: He sees most of his flaws—but not all of his flaws.

HARDNESS: Sometimes Wally appears to have the hardness of 10 (on Moh’s Scale of Hardness).

FACETS: He has more facets than any diamond. None of us knows all his facets.

VALUE: He’s a national treasure.

BRILLIANCE: Absolutely!

This most unusual man has somehow survived many years of life experiences as can be seen by the exploits recounted in this book. The maths is simple. At almost 70 years of age, Wally has lived the lives of 10 men which equates to 700 years of experience! As a child he was adored by his mother while being hated and abused by his father. This is probably the source of strong variations in his character: War and Peace. Few men can manage a fight faster than Wally, just as no one can settle the problem as quickly. His capacity to fight is matched by his capacity for resolution—and peace-making. I sometimes think his brain became addicted to the purging effect of angry outbursts. This is the exception to the rule, it’s the Wally I prefer to avoid.

There is another Wally. This is the one with whom I spend most of my time.

He is thoughtful, loving, appreciative, warm, funny, entertaining and generous; the person he would have remained without the early negative paternal input. However, the end result—the mature man—is without doubt a survivor; as it turned out his childhood in Central Queensland prepared him well.

As a wild child he quickly outgrew provincial Emerald, although the older people still tell stories of Wally’s exploits. By the time he was two or three, a power struggle of a profound nature emerged between Wally and his father. This war continued to the end of his father’s life. Did peace come? There are many stories of Wally’s escapades. The police were often called to assist in finding him, or break up his fights over girls, or his subtle opposition to racism. Wally’s parents were hard-working, successful business people with political talents—although their children ran wild. in the small town his mother was president of everything.

Wally’s talents, and his business and entrepreneurial skills, showed early; he often practised on his school mates. From his mother he learned about business procedures; while from his father he learned to argue, habits of relentless hard physical work, a never-say-die attitude—and anger. Neither ever gave in. The details are heart-breaking. When I see Wally operating in control mode, running a large, successful business, or entertaining a whole convention, I see a leader. I wonder if there is a gene for leadership? His ancestors were titled men and women. I see the talent for leadership in him. There must be a gene for leadership! He has employed his political skill everywhere—including his chatting up the nursing staff for water after his heart by-pass operation. He is a relentless charmer as much as he is a quick thinker and operator.

After some teenage issues Wally was given a choice most adults would have baulked at. At the young age of fifteen he went to the other side of the country, six days travel by train leaving behind everything he had ever known. He became a Junior Naval Recruit ( JR) at HMAS Leeuwin, Fremantle, Western Australia, where some cadets endured shocking cruelty. Many of Wally’s navy colleagues describe him as the much-admired central figure of a group of teenage cadets the others called ‘The Queensland Mafia’ who came up with schemes that often involved cheap wine, women, song—and fighting. His good navy mate, Bruce Challoner, told me a story of Wally following four hoods—Stompers, violent enemies of sailors—into a lift in Perth. Bruce was sure this would be the end of his mate. The lift went up and the lift came down. The door opened up and over the bodies of four Stompers stepped his mate, Wally.

His steely determination under challenging conditions contributed to his success. Curiously (when it suits him), no one can appear to lose control faster than Wally. He tells me his loss of temper is often as strategic as his control—and is used to suit his purpose! Watching Wally control a speeding boat on a rough sea in the dark early hours of the morning is an enthralling experience. His seamanship is phenomenal. in the last few years his poor health has curtailed his impressive boating and fishing adventures.

When I first met Wally I was very impressed that I had met a man who could make a decision—and a man who could get things done—NOW! That was revelatory. He was born an entrepreneur with a visionary mind; it’s a rare talent. He has been a wonderful mentor (as the military provided him with excellent mentors). He is as determined as he is enthusiastic to pass on his knowledge, helping hundreds of people solve personal, financial and professional issues over the years. He believes this is his social and moral responsibility.

Anyone who knows Wally longer than five minutes understands he is a marketing and self-promotions genius. Like Paris Hilton—but long before her—he turned himself into a product. Wally’s notion or ethos of sharing has possibly come from his pragmatic character as much as it has been formed by the Australian ethic and the idea of supporting your mates in the bush and during war. For these reasons his company stood apart from many others. The difficulty of knowing him is he’s a complicated study in contrasts—an Aussie bush boy and an informed, well-travelled citizen of the world; naïve and sophisticated; brave, yet vulnerable and shy. He’s known both poverty and wealth; he is peasant and a prince. He is vengeful and forgiving; patient and impatient, at times displaying an exception to the rule of unbelievable, yet what he calls ‘controlled’ anger; most of the time he is gentle and compassionate. He’s been Chairman of the Board, CEO, entrepreneur, diver, soldier, rodeo rider, seaman, cowboy, sapphire miner to name a few. A jack-of-all trades, a maverick. He can be chivalrous, well-mannered, considerate, yet deliver stinging responses.

Wally at times can also be a champion nagger. He is hard and soft, social and anti-social. He can make a mountain out of a molehill. He will not bury his bones, but gnaws them longer and with more persistence and vengeance than anyone I know. it takes years to learn to live with Wally and not tread on his toes too often. His attention to detail drives one mad (and I, with a Ph.D in Art History, am very detail-conscious!) yet it is the secret of his success. Hard-nosed in business, he can magnanimously wave aside large unpaid debts, give generous gifts, or snap one’s head off for wasting 50 cents worth of lettuce. Sometimes it feels a bit like being married to a confusing mixture of J Paul Getty and Robin Hood! Within a second Wally can cross the boundary into his dark side. He can hover between being an angel—and one’s worst nightmare. I like that he always says, ‘All my wives have been warriors because they have been strong enough to live alongside me’. My marital role is at times a bit like that of a volcanologist; he says with sincerity his ex-wives and I are the true veterans of Vietnam. He is very proud of us and his four children, and accepts full responsibility for his marriage failures. Our lives with this man, while tough, have also been a non-stop full-on adventure.

He is a quick and strategic thinker. Wally seems to have an internal meter that instantly computes the economy, finance and its risks, the changing circumstances around him: social, political and psychological situations (potentially dangerous people), as well as the city, weather and natural landscape. it is all rapidly processed…and one can see how he survived his childhood, youth, war and business, his many near-death experiences. You see a survivor and a remarkable but flawed man. I am reminded of Australian Dame Elisabeth Murdoch’s conversation with her husband. After spending evenings with Winston Churchill, Dame Elisabeth commented she was disappointed such a great man spent all night drinking and gambling. Her husband replied that, in his experience, ‘the greater the man, the greater the failings’.

Wally is the most entertaining and interesting man I have ever met. He has a boundless capacity for love. There is no one you would want on your side more than Wally. Similarly, there is no–one you would want less as an opponent. The most interesting facets of information about him are known only to him. He is my best friend, as he is to his extended family. We have the deepest love and respect for him, and like a good diamond we see his brilliance and value as well as his flaws. The years I have been with him have been the happiest of my life. We wish him all the success in the world with his incredible autobiography. it has all the hallmarks of a great future movie or Tv series.

Wally knows the deepest joys can only be experienced after paying the debt of the greatest pain. He has paid that debt.

Jane Magon PhD (Art History), BA Hons, BA, Grad. Dip. Teaching,

BA Art & Design

Introduction

As I journey along Highway Mortality, I arrive at a lonely T -intersection, signposted Self. Do I turn left to Heaven? Nope! Too risky, might not be allowed in.

Or do I turn right to Purgatory? Nope! Been there.

Maybe even backtrack to Senility via Mediocrity ? No! Never!

There is a fourth option, an unconventional and risky one—straight ahead into the unknown. Along life’s dry dusty beaten tracks with breathless distractions, no destination, wandering aimlessly in solitude through the twists and turns of an exhausted mind. This banishment of self into the near barren wilderness of my present mindset would certainly be a courageous journey of discovery of my past.

Who am I? I need to know.

The working title of my book: Wally’s War—Wally’s Peace: The Story of an Entrepreneur symbolises the fortitude of my life. My wife Dr Jane’s assessment is as beguiling as it is true, no one person has known me continuously from beginning to end. As I begin to write I realise I am in fact somewhat of an enigma, even to myself.

The course of my life has always been as curiously and furiously erratic as it has been wonderfully challenging—even erotic… or dare I say it, a little crazy. Its volatile trajectory has swung me across the world’s vast oceans and continents, through time, to the edge of death, financial despair and breathtaking success. And now, here I am, idling at the T-intersection of mortality; which way to go? I know I was born to fight—be it the proverbial elephant in the room, or slugging it out toe to toe with the tyranny of space, time and mediocrity. My life has been a non-stop fast and furious brawl with addictions, sanity, and any injustice that got in my way—up until my last drink in 2000 when I finally confronted and acknowledged my self-medicating. I must reassure readers: craziness is not catching. We have all suffered some form of crazy, and in my case it has kept me from going insane without blessing or blame, as we make our way along life’s highway. This fact allows me to be wholeheartedly candid in my treatment of individuals, alive and dead.

However, firstly allow me to introduce you to my father Don. I will remove his straightjacket from my mind as his death left me devastated—for all the wrong reasons.

The remembered chronology of my exhausting life commenced from around the innocent age of four. 23,725 sunrises—or 65 years have since passed.

Interestingly, it took me over 50 years to identify and finally to kill my worst enemy.

Prologue

The Beginning of the End

It was late afternoon during March 2016 when I drove slowly across the modern traffic bridge spanning the seductive waters of my childhood lover, the Nogoa River. I felt the river’s excitement as it welcomed me home, for we have missed each other terribly. A long time ago a bracelet of dry grassy paddocks studded with grazing cattle and horses once encircled the town. Not anymore. A huge Woolworths superstore, large truck-stop, petrol stations, shopping centres, restaurants, cafés and suburbs of new houses proudly stand. A feeling of sadness and abandonment overcame me as I drove aimlessly around the perfectly paved streets, kerbs and infrastructure of a modern, vibrant, regional city struggling with slow moving conga lines of irritable traffic. My hometown as I once knew it was gone forever. I’d driven to Emerald alone, on a pilgrimage. Ghostly images of men, women and children, outback heroes and heroines of the 60s, waved to me enthusiastically as we walked or pedalled past each other in the library of my mind.

It was to be a short but vital visit to the grave of my father. I felt the constant pain of his betrayal and cruelty fucking with my head, a tearful, angry pain that affected my vision as I slowly drove to his underground prison—the cemetery of the loved and the forgotten.

The spiritual presence of my mother, Cath, and sister, Judy—both dead—became evident as my car slowly rolled to a stop at the lonely cemetery gate some four kilometres out of town. I alighted haltingly from the vehicle as I recalled the tearful advice from my loving sister, Petrea, prior to my departure from Brisbane. ‘Wally, you must let go of the past, as it’ll then no longer have a hold on you. I’ve forgiven our father; you must also as there’s only you and me left. Please let go. It’s OK mate, let go. Please let go!’

The feelings of hate, loathing and anger for my father were so profound I couldn’t stop myself from speaking aloud as I slowly advanced towards his tombstone.

‘How could you, Petrea? How could you forgive the mongrel?’ I groaned as I moved hesitantly towards his grave half a dozen paces away. ‘I can’t go any closer, I just can’t, I knew I shouldn’t have come!’ I shouted.

I began to break down, covering my eyes with my trembling hands. Slowly, helplessly, I sank to my knees as images of my father overwhelmed me, and then! There it was! The low hoot of a steam train coming from the town’s long since removed railway workshops. How could this be? All of our nation’s steam trains had gone to the steel scrapyards of Japan. But I could clearly, barely, hear the long mournful cries of a locomotive’s whistle as it announced its self-importance in the tangled confusion of my tormented mind.

In a silent farewell, the stunning crimson-red of a dying solar-fireball could wait no longer as it melted through the leafy branches of the western tree line.

‘You still there, Petrea?’ I called. ‘Mum! Judy! Please don’t leave me. Where are you? Speak to me, speak to me.’

It was then I realised I was utterly alone. Just me, my father and the fading lances of struggling daylight. I arose from the dusty soil and approached the grave stone of one, Donald Roy Eaglesham, Australian Imperial Forces 1939 to 1945. Standing above him it felt as if my pounding heart was about to explode in my chest. I lowered myself to the ground beside his headstone, rested my left cheek on my knees, enveloped securely by my arms.

There was an embarrassing silence of minutes before I began with surprising clarity.

‘Gunna be dark soon!’ I said, by way of a nervous introduction. ‘I know you can’t talk. Shame really, because I’ve much to say and would be interested in your response.’

Then I surprised myself with a word which I’d seldom used.

‘Dad!’ I gulped, ‘I’ve come to the decision that ‘…resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die’¹. I’ve just had a revelation. I’ll forgive you, but I’ll never forget. You have single-handedly ‘killed’ my mother, my sister, my cousin, my nephew; not to mention the lifetime of misery with which you have saddled us. I acknowledge your war effort, the secrecy of unparalleled brutality, the pain of running a blade across another human’s throat is sickening, messy, very difficult, and yet that’s what your behaviour has done to our family.

‘I’m having a lot of trouble with this conversation, Dad, as you’d understand so I’ll leave you to your world, as I return to mine. I must tell you, however, I have forgiven you and I also love you as a father, but only in death.’

May both our tormented souls REST IN PEACE.

I stood and turned to walk away when I was abruptly stopped in my tracks.

Chapter 1

The Flogging Room

I  was born on 6 February, 1949, where the sugar-growing town of Bundaberg welcomed me to the state of Queensla nd, Australia—Down Under. Shortly after this joyous occasion our small family moved 700 km northwest to the dusty, bush town of Emerald, in Central Queensland. Located 240 km west of Rockhampton—Rocky—and Emerald, sit smack-bang on the Tropic of Capricorn.

My father, a professional, highly competent tailor, was also a master of masks.

My mother was crying as she shakily placed my father’s plate of food on the kitchen table. At such times I always felt I was somehow responsible for her tears and sadness; hence the punishment I was about to endure. He was very angry because he was very drunk and he was very drunk because he was very angry. I had long learnt the beatings would be less intense if I immediately made my way into the bathroom where I had been trained to close the door and wait for my drunken father to attack his dinner before he attacked me. Depending on his level of intoxication, mood, or otherwise, I would cop either a backhander, a lecture or a flogging.

I knew, just knew, tonight was going to be horrible because his drunken rage reflected how he spoke to my mother in her own hell. The crashing of a chair flying across the verandah was a bad sign, so I rolled myself up into a ball on the splintered timber bathroom floor, just like the echidna who had constructed his home at the base of the backyard custard apple tree. The creaking of floorboards were in menacing sync as my father’s footsteps neared towards the bathroom. He stood silently outside the green tongue and groove door. I watched, in breathless terror, the wobbly old brass door knob turn, slowly…ever…so…slowly.

My nightmare, with its invisible hand of impatient cruelty, had started to deliver—bit by bit, in all its terrifying form. With piercing blue unblinking eyes, my father would, with deliberate slowness, shut the door behind him as he entered the flogging room. Standing beside the wood-chip heater, legs braced, he fiddled menacingly with his belt buckle. Slowly, as if drawing a sword from its scabbard, he removed the leather belt from his waist until the end fell from the last loop of his trousers. Mesmerised, I watched with lip-trembling terror as the end of the wide flat leather strap floated with cruel ambivalence to the floor. With murderous expression he doubled the belt. Throbbing veins danced around the side of his neck. He commenced snapping the folded leather by pulling and releasing the belt.

His first strikes were intended to drive me back into my mother’s womb. Like the dingo he was, his manic attack and step-back flogging methodology was designed to repel my scrambling for his legs. I had long learnt that if I couldn’t cling to his legs, it was less traumatic and painful to stay flat on my back on the floor and kick furiously at him. When I was forced to stand, the strikes directed at the back of my thighs and buttocks were slow—and excruciatingly painful. Incrementally, the flogging became stronger as he could seldom get me to succumb to tears. On one occasion he completely lost the plot in a frenzy of slapping and punching. The effect was so traumatic he fell to his knees and pleaded my forgiveness.

Swoosh! Whack! Swoosh! Whack! The belt would strike viciously, again, and again, and again, but never enough to reveal the tears I held back. My ability to manage the pain without crying was achieved by intense concentration; I kept both feet rooted to the floor when the belt kissed my arse. I would follow the strap’s journey in preparation for its hot bite. All my strength and determination was to remain on my feet. Each strike of the belt was a victory for my future, if only my father had known. At times he would exhaust himself with rage when I found the strength to maintain silence during the attack. He would storm from the bathroom and throw the belt at my weeping, trembling mother as she waited nearby.

On one occasion I found the courage to stuff cloth remnants from his tailor shop’s bin inside my shorts in protective layers across my buttocks. I got away with this ploy for several assaults. He finally spotted a piece of escaping off-cut dangling from my shorts down the back of my leg. The look on his face was murderous. He threw the belt to the floor and, as he was raising himself to attack, I struck.

He was defenceless with shock as my fighting skills, even at such a young age, were tried and tested in the school battleground and the various ambush spots around town. Running away from one’s enemies in a country town was not an option. I don’t know who was more shocked as I delivered a quick flurry of punches to his stomach. Before he could recover, I took off out the bathroom door. Grabbing the old wooden hand rail on the rear steps, I leapt down many treads, desperate to get clear of the high-set house.

I shimmied up the huge turpentine mango tree dominating the rear of the house. I could hear his bellowing and sense his ominous presence as he dived at my disappearing ankle. Close, but not close enough. In the blink of an eye I was swaying in the safety of the canopy of the massive tree, its leafy spread covering half of the rear of our house. Hopeful he’d given up the chase, I crawled out along a favourite branch to await darkness and escape to another tree with a lofty cubby house. This wouldn’t be the first time I’d spent a night in the safety of a tree. After a few minutes there came the threatening sound of axe against tree trunk. In a rage, his drunken attempt to chop the huge tree down slowly gave way to a more sensible approach. He flung the axe away so violently he fell over.

With hands on hips and his head tilted right back like a cormorant, he staggered in ever decreasing erratic circles 10 m directly below me. Scanning the web of large branches and the leafy canopy above he bellowed, ‘I can see you, boy! You have one minute to climb down, or I’m coming up. By the living Harry, you’ve done it this time,’ he snarled. His next trick was to access the tree’s canopy by way of an old painter’s ladder. Finally, he became stranded on a thigh-size branch, horse-riding style, about two-thirds of the way along its length. I was out of that tree so fast and took off to the embrace of my sobbing mother. I held her trembling hand as she stood round-shouldered at the top of the rear steps. We watched, transfixed, as our tormentor began to develop, jerk by jerk, a slow motion tilting to one side, his legs hanging down either side of the mango-laden branch.

‘Cath! Cath!’ he pleaded.

I could feel Mum’s hand relaxing, and soon sensed her change of mood. I looked up and, much to my surprise, I caught the glimmer of a faint smile. His wobbly upright pose had finally succumbed to gravity—he slowly rolled around the leafy branch. Mum and I shared the humour of the moment forever. The bastard hung upside down, sloth-like, beneath the protesting branch. He was up shit creek in a barbed-wire canoe called karma. ‘Do something!’ he bleated.

Creak went the branch as it defied the law of physics. ‘Caaaath, Caaaath!’ came the panicked plea.

The next door neighbour, Gordon, came to the rescue. Shifting the ladder across to within reach of the stricken branch manager, Gordon yelled, ‘Hold on, Don! Hold on!’

In the cascading rain of an early evening summer thunderstorm he was rescued via the neighbour’s ladder. Alcohol, as usual, had got him to this place. My father was known as a big drinker. He was a cruel alcoholic whose public profile as a business person in Emerald was as respectable as was his hidden talent to flog and administer excruciating mental and corporal pain.

To the readers of my book who were raised in one or more of the thousands of small country towns and settlements scattered across this, our wonderful nation, I would take this opportunity to pass on what has been somewhat of a revelation to me since writing my memoirs. It is easy and enjoyable to recall and transcribe those happy memories relating to our knowledge of each other as we lived in tribal cohesion; however, not so the ‘dark side’. Everyone and anyone who knew me and/or my sisters would have been of the opinion that the Eaglesham family was reasonably happy—as we thought of others. They were wrong.

Between the ages of eight and twelve, I and my sisters, at great cost in blistered hands suffered from digging tools, dug a labyrinth of tunnels around the rear of the house between the mango and custard apple trees. These adventure subterranean playgrounds included small rooms for the storage of cigarettes, caramel chocolates, an air rifle, slingshot and crude maps of the large nearby swamp. Starting and finishing at the base of the large trees, the extensive network required enormous effort in clearing the surrounding tree roots. Many of the tunnels were really trenches with dirt-covered roofing iron overhead. Well camouflaged trapdoors concealed the access to the crawl-only, child-sized tunnels, illuminated by candle, torch or car battery. Every tunnel had its own assembly room where four or five children could sit in comfort. The underground engineering feat was an extension of the roped and nailed one-room tree houses accessed by either a rope ladder or toe holes carved into the main climbing branches. In time, these meeting places were used by the Swamp Rats where adventures, attacks and thefts were planned.

There were three large whites-only hotels and a railway refreshment room within slingshot range of our house on the main street. Indigenous Australians were banned from consuming or purchasing alcohol until the late 60s. My father suffered severe Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) from his three years fighting the Japanese in the world’s cruellest battlefields in tropical New Guinea during World War II (WWII). He was black-banned from entering Central Queensland hotels, many of which displayed his photo with an official ‘No Drink’ order. My father knew the best way to control his wife was to punish her children, and he did—in spades. I knew he despised me. Even more painful than the floggings was my awareness of my mother’s suffering during a flogging. Retreating to the long canvas squatter’s chair on the side verandah, Mum would welcome me into her arms as we shared our tears in silence, for to sob or speak could invite further torment. I could not understand why he wanted to hurt me; I tried so hard to impress him only to be constantly rejected. My Auntie Mavis just gave me a long, silent cuddle when I once asked her why our father was so angry. I convinced myself I must be a child of the state and had been adopted. I used to worry I’d been fostered out from Neerkol, the notorious orphanage outside Rockhampton.

I worked it out early—my mother’s affection and attention towards me angered him as he could not subjugate or love me. He hated me because she loved me more. He couldn’t control me so I was labelled uncontrollable, which let him off the hook for the neglect of his son.

On the wire

I have vague but bitter recollections of being put on the wire for what I believed— and still do—was a form of punishment and (further) child abuse by my father. An extended length of No. 8 fencing wire was secured from fence to fence across the entire width of the front yard of our house block. A steel running ring secured to a two-metre length of rope, attached to a leather body harness, ensured I could only move up and down the 20 m of wire stretched across the front yard. My parents defended the running harness as a form of security to stop me running away. Although how could they explain the host of nasties associated with being on the wire? My mother subsequently told me that harnessing and attaching me to the wire was not unlike trying to wash a cat. It wasn’t until somebody suggested clipping our dog on the wire with me the policy began to deliver benefits. The front yard was a dry, stubbly, thorn-covered home for the ferocious green ants, together with the dreaded bull ant, the bites of which register around number four on the pain chart of ten. There was little available shade after midday. I have memories of anger associated with this treatment, although understandably, I have little memory of being there. For reasons I couldn’t understand until later years, the subject was considered humorous social chat, along with other embarrassing stories of my unusual exploits. As my character and personality developed, I also became guilty of an Australian warped sense of humour— which is simply the ability to be able to laugh at ourselves.

To make life even more attractive, I was a Church of England altar boy. Interesting because, during the two mid-week services I was apparently the only available sidekick for the vicar, a great bloke. If it weren’t for his generosity of spirit, I would never have suffered the below freezing 5.00 am black frost trudges from my home to the church during the winters. We would dutifully fulfil the total show on most midweek services without another soul in the church. On Sundays, however, it was always a grand final crowd; I had to sit on the sideline as there were too many altar boys.

Ear! Ear! Queen Elizabeth, that’s enough of that

The misty memories of my childhood from around the age of five produced odd recollections. In those heady days in Australia you were either a Royalist or a Royalist. There was no escaping, as we were all under the watchful eye of the Queen herself. Photographs of our much-loved sovereign could be found hanging above every doorway and on most walls of every community hall in Australia. Our National Anthem was then ‘God save the Queen’ which we sang with gusto anywhere a gathering looked liked gathering. I was always somewhat confused; why was it that such a famous and influential lady would require being saved, and from what? (The anthem’s replacement has generally been disliked by Australians. What does ‘girt by sea’ mean?)

My Auntie Mavis once told me thousands of Queenslanders journeyed to Central Queensland in mid-March 1954 to meet and celebrate the arrival of the royal party in Rockhampton. I was five years of age when Queen Elizabeth II—and by association God—visited Rocky. Unsure of how, where, why and who was responsible for my attendance, I do have hazy memories of standing in a line with other children for the auspicious occasion. The most powerful woman on earth stopped in front of me. It was evident something of extraordinary importance had caught Her Majesty’s eye. While I don’t remember Her Majesty addressing me, Aunt Mavis relayed the dialogue as passed to her by my mother.

‘My! You have big ears for such a little boy,’ she spoke softly as she gently patted my head. Her hand was gentle, but her rings or bracelet clunked heavily on my skull. ‘Never mind, you will grow into them,’ she added in a royal whisper as my bottom lip quivered in childish response. I have never forgotten, but have certainly forgiven, those words of comparison of her own son and me—a moment shared.

Promises! Promises!

My father’s deceit and lies did not change. He’d ‘cross my heart and hope to die’ with convincing passion whenever he failed me in his promise of our canoe-building project. He would make sincere commitments, even calendar-circled dates, which he would break. I’d draw pictures of the river canoe my father had launched in the dopamine pool of my childish mind, dreaming of the time we’d spend paddling the scenic waterways fishing and hunting together. Father and son sharing the nightly embers of a riverbank campfire, its drifting smoke caressing the overhead leaves and branches of the huge river gums. He’d—convincingly—paint exciting adventures which promised to test even the hardiest river explorers. Such dreams made to an affection-starved boy by an unavailable father followed beatings or sexual advances when under the influence of his lover, alcohol. Drunken sessions of making plans and drawing up refined lists of camping supplies always ended in heart-breaking disappointment. It was always next week we’d make the canoe.

‘Soon, son, soon,’ he’d respond impatiently, as I waited in anticipation by the doorway of a local main street hotel.

‘But Dad you promised,’ I’d plead, only to be handed a palmful of copper coins as go-away money which I’d hurl into the heavens in tearful angry disappointment. Again and again my father’s empty vows inflicted deepening painful splits between us. Frustrated by the constant failed promises, I finally built the mighty dream canoe on my own. In a hidden grassy inlet beside my favourite fishing hole, I spent much time building it at the expense of my education. Wagging school by typing bogus notes of illness on my mother’s typewriter had me shamelessly presenting them to my beautiful and loving teacher, Miss Ruth, on whom I had a painful crush. I always felt I would confess all; once we were married.

After one particular torturous event, I was unable to attend school for several days. I can’t remember if this was due to bruising; however, I recall not being able to speak.

I remember a particularly terrible experience. Early one evening, as my father was halfway up the back steps he caught me by surprise.

‘Wallace!’ he yelled, ‘I know you are here, boy, so make it easy on yourself and come out onto the side verandah.’

Faster than a startled wallaroo, I scurried into the bathroom and dived into the large box of multi-coloured cloth offcuts. To my horror, he came into the bathroom for a bath. His habit was to light the chip heater (the water heater using wood as fuel) and then leave the bathroom while the water heated. During his absence, I would escape to my next place of refuge, usually up a tree or into one of the underground tunnels.

On this occasion, since it was winter, after he’d fired up the chip heater he didn’t leave the bathroom as usual. Instead he undressed, leaving me no option but to remain submerged in the bin of remnants. In his inebriated condition, he had loaded the heater with too much pine, generating enough heat to melt the North Pole and provide sufficient hot water to bathe the entire Inuit population. How he never spotted me in the remnants box still puzzles me. Although my body was completely covered, there were only a few pieces draped over my head. I was certain