Quarter-Cast Bastards

By Terry Mundey

Two of the brothers see their future and fortune in the booming coal mines of New South Wales.
They easily settle into mining life and eventually start their own business.Their lives are settled and prosperous until 1949 when they come into direct conflict with the powerful coal miners union which is controlled by the Australian Communist Party. Their brothers answer their call for assistance and for the next seven weeks they battle the brutality of the unions while at the same time planning their strategy to gain retribution and justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inspiring Publishers / ASPG
• Release date: Mar 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781922792082

Book preview

The First Encounter

Australian Airforce Daly Waters, this is US Airforce flight Navahoe – currently twenty miles to the northeast passing eight thousand five hundred. Inbound on route to circuit height, overhead ETA fifteen minutes.

Armstrong would repeat this call four more times with no response. We got the right frequency, Skip? Armstrong’s co-pilot remarked.

Ears, double check we’re on the right frequency Armstrong ordered. Almost immediately the radio operator came back Yes Skip, it’s all good. Armstrong would try again.

Bob Mundey walked past the airfield office, which also doubled as the radio shack come control tower, on his way to get the second truck to load with drums of fuel when he heard the crackle of the radio. He stopped and listened momentarily and then walked up the two steps and through the screen door to the radio. He had never used it before but had watched the Airforce chaps. He picked up the hand piece and pressed the send button and in his Australian drawl replied US Airforce, this is Daly Waters. The Airforce staff have gone on leave, must have not known you were coming. What can we do for you?

Who is that? replied Armstrong.

Ganger of the construction crew replied Mundey. I assume you’ll want fuel, so my boys are getting that loaded now. How much do you need?

Five hundred gallons for each of the five aircraft was the reply.

Shit! thought Bob to himself, half the day will be lost pumping fuel. Bob Mundey spoke into the radio again. We can do that, but it will be slow. We’ve got to hand pump it. And then he said I’ll get someone to boil the billy and get some bread and bog ready for your boys. They probably need some breakfast.

Thanks, Daly Waters. Can you tell me what the weather is doing and is there any other traffic in the area? asked Armstrong.

Mundey replied, No other traffic that I’m aware of, some high scattered cloud with a slight breeze from the north but it’s already eighty-six degrees.

Roger, over and out was the reply from the American. Bob put the hand piece down and walked out to get on with preparations.

The American captain looked at his co-pilot and said, Only in the Australian Outback would a flight of five of the biggest and most sophisticated aircraft ever built be met and refuelled by a construction crew. They both laughed. Chatter broke out between the flight crews discussing what was meant by boiling the billy and what the Hell was bread and bog.

Armstrong interrupted the chatter with Alright boys, let’s get our minds back on the job. At two thousand five hundred this ship will be placed into a holding pattern, the rest will descend to fifteen hundred, overfly the strip in your normal order of flight and turn south onto downwind at one-mile intervals and onto final. You heard what the man said. There are no air force staff on-site so probably no emergency backups so when you put them down, make them stick. I don’t want anyone busted up. Roger, the other four pilots replied in the affirmative. When everyone is down, we will follow you in. That would be Armstrong’s last instruction until the entire flight was on the ground.

As Mundey walked past the mess hut, he saw the cook through the open window. Hey Cookie he called out. The cook was a giant of a man in his early sixties with long grey hair and facial features displaying the ravages of time, too much grog and too many cigarettes. He didn’t lift his head from his work, he didn’t need to. He knew Bob Mundey’s voice. He liked the man, a straight shooter. What’s up, Bob? he replied. Got five Yank bombers on their way in for fuel, they’ll want coffee and I promised them bread and bog for breakfast. No fuckin worries, glad to help fighting men was the reply. Knew I could rely on ya was how Mundey ended the conversation.

By the time Bob had walked to the second truck and driven it to the fuel shed Jim and brothers Dick, Mervan and Burt had loaded the first truck with full drums and were setting up the pump and the rest of the crew were readying drums for the second truck. As he stepped out of the truck the first of the big Boeings flew overhead.

One by one the American bombers descended onto the airfield, rolling to a stop side by side at the end of the field. Lined up like birds of prey waiting for a meal, their giant propellers motionless in the sticky morning air. Jim had positioned his truck behind the wing of the first aircraft and the transfer of fuel had started in the second aircraft when Dwight Armstrong’s plane came to a stop.

Slowly and quietly the crews alighted from their respective aircraft, stretching from cramp, and yawning and rubbing eyes red from sleep deprivation and tension. Once on the ground it didn’t take long for the tropical air to be felt and the Americans began to remove their heavy flight jackets and gather in the shade provided by the wings of the B-17s, awaiting their commander’s instructions.

Armstrong looked around in order to try and ascertain who might be in charge. He walked up to a guy standing straight-backed and intently writing in a notebook. As he approached, Armstrong held out his right hand and announced Dwight Armstrong, US Airforce. Bob Mundey placed his pencil in his left hand and turned to face the visitor, taking his right hand in his and replied Bob Mundey. Welcome to Daly Waters. Thank you we certainly do appreciate the help. Always happy to help a friend, Bob replied. Sorry about the RAAF going AWOL but I guess you know what Government departments are like. That we do, Armstrong said. God knows we’ve got our share.

Mundey gestured towards the aircraft and said, We should have this done by seven and then his eyes moved to the other side of the airfield. The hut with the insect mesh is the mess hut, take your boys there. The cook will have something for them. The small hut on the right is the radio shack. Ring the handle on the phone four times and the girl at the exchange will put you through to Alice or Darwin. Thanks again, Armstrong said. One thing, my boys want to know what ‘boiling the billy’ is and what the Hell is ‘bog’. A billy is just a tin can we boil water or cook in on an open fire and bog is syrup made from molasses, we call it bog because it’s thick enough to bog a truck. Taste’s alright and your boys will get enough energy out of it to get you through was Bob’s answer. Armstrong smiled and said, You Aussies sure are different but I like your style. Bob Mundey looked him in the eye and gave a half grin. As Armstrong turned to walk away, he said Looks like we’ve got company. Mundey followed his gaze down the airfield to the dust trail from the approaching vehicle. Just another bureaucrat. I’ll take care of it, Mundey remarked.

As Armstrong walked past his men, he said Follow me boys, let’s get some breakfast. Airborne at seven hundred hours. As Armstrong walked across the field, he thought to himself Good man, that. Look you in the eye, strong hand, I could work with him.

Bob sensed someone beside him. It was Dick. He said, Here’s trouble. Stay out of it, Bob barked. I’ll take care of it.

Graham Reid was everything that Bob despised in a man. A short, fat bumbling bureaucrat whose primary concern in life was the preservation of his own position at the expense of everything and everyone around him, if necessary. Mundey knew that Reid didn’t like his type, but he was smart enough to know that Reid needed his knowledge of construction and his control over his brothers and men to keep the crew stable and to keep work progressing.

Without Bob’s leadership Reid knew it would all fall apart and so would his career. Like it or not, Graham Reid was the area manager for the Civil Construction Corps and as such was Bob Mundey’s boss and they needed to work together. Little did either of them realise at the time, this relationship would continue long after the war would end.

As the 1936 Studebaker bounced along the dirt road beside the airfield Bob Mundey braced himself for the impending confrontation that accompanied most meetings with Reid. He wasn’t in the mood to take shit off a government bureaucrat today and just as that thought flashed through his head the ’36 Studebaker took a left turn and disappeared behind the buildings. Where the fuck is he going?, Bob said out loud.

Then it dawned on him, the Blacks had a camp down that track and for some time his men had been telling him that Reid had been shagging one of the Marys. Told you so, casually remarked Jim. He’s a fuckin grub.

Trouble at Daly Waters

Under Bob Mundey’s keen gaze, the refuelling of the big bombers had proceeded smoothly, and the departure time would be achieved as promised. As his men began to pump fuel into the last aircraft Mundey turned to walk across the airfield to inform the American captain that refuelling would be complete in twenty minutes.

With half the trek across the dusty airfield behind him and lost in his own thoughts Mundey was snapped out of his mental vacuum by a howling scream and the crack of a gunshot. He took off at a gallop towards the mess hut. His men heard the commotion and looked up to see their boss at full gallop so downed tools and followed at the same pace in case they were needed.

Mundey’s feet never touched the stairs and with one long leap he was in the mess hut only to find it had been vacated. Shouting and high-pitched screaming was coming from the rear of the hut. He moved with some apprehension towards the noise and down the steps at the rear, expecting to find the Yanks bailed up by a Taipan or brown snake but he was not prepared for what he was about to witness.

Mr Arthur was six foot three inches of pure sinew and muscle. He was an elder and warrior of the Jingili people. His senses and body had been tempered by the elements and circumstances of this harsh land. He was born a survivor and leader and would kill or be killed to protect his people. The Mundey boys had befriended him and given him the name Mr Arthur because they could neither remember or pronounce his tribal name. The Blackman took a liking to the brothers immediately. They took the time to communicate with him through his broken English and helped him learn more of this language. When possible, Boss Bob would give them extra or left-over food as well as a little tobacco.

Bob Mundey’s eyes and brain were scanning the scene before him and was attempting to make sense of it all. Mr Arthur had the tip of a six-foot battle lance pushed into the throat of Captain Armstrong. It had broken the skin and a small trickly of blood ran down his neck and disappeared under his collar. Armstrong had his head cocked to one side because of the pressure of the lance. In his left hand was his service revolver pointing to the floor. Mundey looked to his left. Every American crewman had his pistol drawn and they were pointing them at Mr Arthur. One of the Americans sat on the ground hanging onto his right thigh. To the right of the Americans two young Aboriginal women, dressed in only lap laps, attended to a young man from the tribe who had blood streaming down his face.

What the fuck is going on here?, barked Mundey. The crew member sitting on the floor yelled back That fuckin nigger speared me, so I shot him. Bob’s next statement was deliberately calm and calculated. Everyone put your guns away, old Mr Arthur here could take your captain’s jugular out before you got the first shot away. Let me handle it. Do as he says, shouted Armstrong. The Americans holstered their weapons with a smattering of mumbling and reluctance.

Bob walked slowly over until he was right beside the big Blackman and looked him straight in the eye and said, What happen here, Mr Arthur? Dat flying boy grab that girl. He try to jump her so her fella spear him. Flying boy try to kill him, I kill Boss Fly Boy. That sound about right?, Bob asked Armstrong. Yep, pretty much, was the reply. Bob rubbed his chin as if in deep thought and said to Mr Arthur No good you kill Boss Fly Boy, they got bombs, planes, guns. They kill Jingili people. Let Boss Bob fix it. I’ll fix it so that crazy fly boy don’t come back, ok? Mr Arthur looked at him for a moment and then nodded. That alright with you Captain Armstrong? Sounds like a deal" was the American’s reply.

The Jingili warrior removed the spear from the American’s throat, turned to face everyone. He placed the end of the spear on the ground, lifted his right foot and placed it against the inside of his left knee and from the classic emu stance, watched proceedings.

Bob took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to Armstrong. Wipe the blood off your neck, he said. He then turned and walked to the injured flyer and inspected his wound. It’s gone straight through the flesh on your thigh. You’ll be fine. He turned and said to one of his crew Harry, show these boys where the Post Office is. Dawnie is a nurse. She will fix him up and tell her I want him out of here in thirty minutes. Bob then walked over to the injured Black and took his face in his hands and had a look at his wound. Merv, can you get the first aid kit and give this a clean-up. It’s only a scratch.

Dick remarked loud enough for everyone to hear, Hope these Yanks bomb straighter than they shoot or else we’ll all be in the shit. All the Australians laughed. Bob commanded Everyone back and finish that refuelling. Armstrong announced, All crew to your aircraft and prepare for departure.

Armstrong walked to Bob Mundey with his hand extended. Bob took his hand and the American said, Thanks, I owe you one. Not a problem. replied Bob. Just don’t bring that idiot back here again. Next time old Mr Arthur will use his balls as bait in a fish trap. Understood, said Armstrong. Maybe, Armstrong continued, when this war is over, we can have a laugh about today over a couple of beers. Yep, maybe replied Mundey with the slightest hint of a smile.

Armstrong turned on his heel and walked away to join his men and prepare for departure. As he walked towards his aircraft he mused, Yep, just as I thought – tough as old nails, that one.

Bad News Arrives at Daly Waters

The tropical sun had cleared the treetops and was now radiating its head across the land. Beads of sweat were starting to flow from the brim line of the men’s hats, flowing down their faces and necks. The Northerly Zephyr was starting to stir up dust-laden wind devils that danced back and forth across the lightly grassed airfield. Mervin had been watching intently, the birth of these dust devils, turned his gaze to the sky and then casually remarked to no-one in particular Another stinking bastard of a day by the looks of it.

The American bombers were fuelled and ready for departure. The speared serviceman had been patched up by the Post Mistress and was on board with the rest of the crew. One by one the big radial engines started in a cloud of oil smoke and were run up to operation temperatures as pilots and crew checked all their systems, and one by one they rolled out onto the strip and departed skyward in a smorgasbord of dust, noise, and gasoline fumes. Armstrong’s craft was the last to depart and as it rolled past where Mundey and his crew were standing, he looked out his port side window and gave Mundey the thumbs up. Mundey nodded in response and the flight of bombers was gone.

Righto boys, let’s get a cup of brew and some bread and bog for breakfast. We’ve got a shitload of work to do today and we’re already behind, Bob announced to his men.

Here comes arsehole again, Jim casually remarked to his brother. Bob looked up to see Graham Reid’s car bouncing up the road towards the group of men. Reid brought the car to a stop with a jerk and, pushing the door open with one foot, then slid off the seat to the ground. Bob Mundey could not help but think Reid looked like a fat little schoolboy. The overweight bureaucrat shuffled over to Bob, adjusting his hat and braces as he went. Reid was a control freak who wanted to know everything. It was his way of protecting his position. Each and every one of the Mundey boys had more knowledge and practical capability than Reid and could have finished the project quite easily without Reid and Reid knew it. As a result, his tactic was to know everything that was happening on site and to keep in constant contact with his superiors so as to give the appearance that he was all knowledgeable. He quickly became agitated if he thought something was going on without his knowledge.

Agitated was the state of mind that Reid was in as he fired off catch-up questions at Bob Mundey. What’s going on? Did they take fuel? Who authorised it? How will I work out how much they took? I’ve got to report this, Mundey. Heads will roll. Bob Mundey let him jabber on until he had to stop to catch his breath and then with purpose replied I’ve got it all documented and signed for by the American officer. Don’t go busting a valve, Graham, I’ve got it covered. Reid’s already flustered face turned an even brighter red. Reid’s ego demanded that he be address as Mister, especially in front of the men. Mundey’s use of his first name infuriated him. Here, he almost shouted to Bob, Seeing you’re so good with paperwork, here is some more for you. What’s that?, enquired Bob. It’s a telegram, arrived yesterday, was the reply.

Bob Mundey took the piece of paper, unfolded it, read it slowly and then read it again to make sure he understood it. He looked up at Reid and said, in a tone that could only be described as threatening, This arrived yesterday, and you give it to me now?

What is it?, enquired Jim. It’s Granny Smales, she has passed, Bob replied. Silence descended over the group. Bob looked around until he saw Jack Hobbs. Jack, my brothers and I have to go to a funeral. Can you look after things for me? Not a worry, was Jack’s reply. Concentrate on the culverts at Emu Creek and the other set at the Overflow. If you get them done you can start laying gravel on the road between them. We’ll be back in two weeks. Consider it done, Bob. Boys and I will take care of things. Thanks mate.

While this brief conversation was taking place Graham Reid stood with his mouth open, not being able to comprehend what was happening, finally he spluttered and coughed and screeched out You need not think any of you are going anywhere. Anyway, you haven’t even got a vehicle, I forbid it, I’ll report you all. I’ll not have my men leaving whenever they feel like it, especially not to go to some Black gin’s funeral. By the time Reid had finished the last word Bob had thrown one single powerful punch and as the bone of his fist smashed into the gristle of Reid’s nose and a dozen blood vessels burst, spurting the crimson liquid of life across his face, Reid gasped for breath whilst his mind was trying to work out what had just happened. Like some massive force that he couldn’t fight against, the black cloud of unconsciousness took hold of him, and he collapsed to the ground.

Bob Mundey stepped over the limp body of the bureaucrat and walked the half dozen paces to the rainwater tank, turned the butterfly handle on the brass tap and proceeded to fill his hat with water. Once full, he walked back to where Reid lay and threw the entire contents in his face. It was as if the water breathed instant life back into Reid. His eyes opened, he spluttered and spat in an effort to clear his mouth and airways and slowly raised himself onto one elbow. Mundey knelt down beside his superior with one knee on the ground with arms resting on his other knee. Without looking at Reid, Mundey fixed his gaze on the horizon and quietly said You listen to me, you fuckin arrogant little prick. She may well have been a black gin but she was our grandmother and we hold her in high esteem and we will pay our respects. I’m taking the small truck; some fuel and tucker and I will be back in two weeks. You give me any grief and I’ll be happy to make a detour to Bundaberg and tell that little schoolteacher wife of yours about the Marys you’ve been rooting. She, she, she wouldn’t believe you, Reid shrieked. Maybe not’, Bob replied, but she will believe Mr Arthur. He’s coming with us. Mundey stood, leaving the shocked and confused bureaucrat on the ground. He turned to where the big Black man and a few of the tribe had been watching proceedings with innocent curiosity and said Mr Arthur, you want to come see my country? The Blackman grinned with excitement and nodded his head. We’ll be back in two weeks. Bob then demonstrated with his fingers how many suns they would be gone. Yes, Boss Bob", Mr Arthur replied and then turned to his people and spoke in his language. One of the women started to cry and others spoke out, but the big man snapped back at them and signalled for them to return to the camp.

In one last act of defiance Bob turned back to Reid who was still lying on the ground and said, Two weeks, that’s my word and depending on your attitude then I’ll decide whether Mr Arthur should feed you to the crocs. Reid’s mouth fell open even further.

Bob Mundey was noted for making decisions on the run aided by an organised mind that could see and solve problems before they arrived. The next thirty seconds would see these attributes on show.

Mervan, can you go over to the Post Office and get Dawnie to send a telegram to Gordon and Allan in Townsville. Tell them what’s happened and tell them to jump the rattler to Hughenden and we will pick them up tomorrow night on the way through. Ok Bob, replied Mervan. I could have done that, Dick exclaimed. Yeah and wasted two hours trying to get into Dawnie’s britches, Bob replied. Everyone laughed!

Dick, I need you to go to the mess and get Cookie to give us enough tucker, tea and water to get us to Warwick and talk nice to him. Try to get the next two weeks beer rations out of him.

Jim, can you and Birt get the three-ton Chev ready and put on enough drums of fuel for the round trip. We’ll need a syphon hose, tools and a billy to boil water. Alright. They both just nodded and turn on their heels to get ready. Everyone get your swags, we’ll be taking turns at driving around the clock was Bob’s last order. As he walked past Jack Hobbs on the way to his tent, he thanked him once again. Good as gold, Bob. Good as gold Jack said and then Might get a different attitude around here now? Jack queried. Time will tell, Jack Bob commented.

Within the hour they were loaded and on their way. Initially there was a feeling of excitement that they were going home but it was replaced by silence as their thoughts wandered to Granny Smales.

Jim took the first stint at driving and as they crossed the first dusty creek crossing Bob yelled to him so as to be heard above the noise We’ve got to pull up at Newcastle Waters and send a telegram to Warwick, let them know we’re on the way. I forgot to get Dawnie to do it. Will do Jim replied. That’s if the corrugations don’t shake the vehicle apart.

Back in Two Weeks

They would reach the Barclay Highway by sunset, only stopping to fuel the Chev, boil the billy and have a feed of bully beef and bread. Once on the Barclay they would enjoy the luxury of smooth driving on bitumen until they crossed the Queensland border at the township of Camooweal where once again, the misery of the corrugations would return.

They had found Mr Arthur a pair of shorts and shirt for modesty and warmth. He sat at the back of the tray with his feet hanging over, intently watching this country that he had never seen before. I don’t think Mr Arthur is game to go to sleep Birt remarked to Jim and Mervan. Thinks he might miss something. It will be an eye-opener for him when he sees the Darling Downs Mervan added.

Daylight would find them at Mackenzie bore, a turkey nest, thirty-mile west of Mt Isa. The truck had run hot all night. It was only the cool night air that kept it from boiling. Bob knew that the radiator would need water, hence the stop at the bore. He didn’t want to use valuable drinking water.

Jim and Mervan proceeded to fill the fuel tank up and Birt found some wood and lit a fire to boil the billy. It would be black tea and jam and bread for breakfast. While Bob went to get water for the radiator Dick carried out an inspection to find the problem.

All the boys were natural bush mechanics, but Dick was the standout. He would often nut out a problem before it could do any damage. During his last driving stint before sunrise, he noticed the lights were getting weak. At first, he assumed it was just fatigue setting in but on consulting with Bob it confirmed his suspicions. The lights were powered by the battery and the battery was recharged by the generator. A belt ran off the crankshaft pulley around the fan and water pump pulley and then around the generator pulley. If the tension on the belt wasn’t correct slippage occurred, reducing generator performance and increased water temperature.

Dick lifted the side flap on the Chev’s bonnet and grabbed the belt with his left hand and it was just as he thought, loose. He undid the locking bolt on the adjustment arm and put a tyre lever behind the generator and pulled the generator tight against the belt and retightened the locking bolt. He leant against the mudguard for another couple of minutes, casting his eye back and forwards over the engine looking for signs of any other trouble. Satisfied it was all fine he closed the flap and then moved around to the front of the vehicle and looked through the grill. I’ll be buggered he muttered out loud. Mice had built a nest between the fins of the radiator and the grill, blocking the airflow. Dick climbed in under the front of the truck, reaching up behind the grill and pulled the nest of grass, leaves and twigs out.

Bob walked up as Dick was climbing off the ground. Find anything? he asked Dick. Yeah, loose belt and a mouse nest in front of the radiator. It’s all good now. When we get going get in your swag and have a camp. You did the longest stint last night Bob instructed.

Bob turned and said to Birt You’re next up Birt. Do you know the back way around The Isa through Soldier’s Hill? Sure do replied Birt. Good said Bob. I don’t want to be explaining to some copper what we’re doing with a government truck. They all nodded in agreement. He then turned and walked towards the fire at the same time waving to Mr Arthur to come and get his share of breakfast. Everyone was equal around Bob Mundey’s campfire.

Once underway the group rattled and banged their way around the outskirts of Mt Isa and the myriad mines and chimney stacks spewing out toxic fumes, all for the production of copper, lead and zinc, all destined for the war effort.

The bitumen road was far behind them, and the drive had become a bone-jarring grind. None of this discomfort had deterred Mr Arthur. His travelling companions had tried to explain the industrial landscape of Mt Isa as best they could, but it probably only confused him more and further ignited his curiosity and excitement.

Onward they pressed through the hundreds of mineral-laden hills covered with sparse ironbark and spinifex. A red hard landscape intersected and crossed by what seemed thousands of gullies and sand creek crossings, all dry. This was the land of the Kahkadoon. A fierce waring tribe who had withstood the advance of the white man as long as they could. Spear against gun was no match and eventually surrendering to the white man’s laws which carried the scars of his ways and his grog. A once proud nation of Kahkadoon warriors, self-sufficient on their own tribal lands, now reduced to relying on white fella’s handouts and the slow destruction of their family and tribal communities by the white man’s tobacco, alcohol, and disease.

The next town the Mundey’s would pass through would be Cloncurry. A small version of Mt Isa, Cloncurry sat on the eastern edge of the Selwyn Range. Minerals, cattle, and sheep grazing would be its contribution to the economy. A wild frontier town but there would be no stopping here. The Mundey boys held fear of no man, but Bob Mundey knew that many of the Kahkadoon had settled and camped around Cloncurry and they still held a severe hatred for any outside Black fella on their land. Mr Arthur’s presence may trigger a riot.

Jim was now behind the wheel and in the last half hour the hills had flattened out with the road and corrugations seemingly easier to pass over. With the change in the terrain came a change in vegetation from ironbark to sparse poplar gum, whose white trunk and large emerald leaves shimmered like ghosts on clear moonlit nights and danced like demons in the lightning flashes of a stormy dark night.

As they rounded the bend and down the steep incline onto the rocky crossing at the Cloncurry River, Bob was surprised to see clear water about six inches deep cascading over the causeway. Stop in the middle Bob said to Jim. We’ll fill the water bags and freshen up. Must have been a storm upstream a week or two ago Jim replied. Makes the place look like a bloody oasis Bob remarked. Leave the motor running, Jim he added.

As soon as the Chev was brought to a halt all hands were standing in the cool clear water washing themselves down, filling their hats with water to drink from. Mr Arthur simply knelt down in the flow and drank from cupped hands before splashing water over his head. He stood upright in one powerful movement with eyes taking in every detail of the country. An eye that had been trained to look for both opportunity and danger. His nostrils flared and his fists clenched. Bob noticed his stance and moved up to where he was. What’s wrong? he enquired. No good – Debil Debil place the big Black man replied. Not Debil Debil but bad Blackfella place. Up the other side Bob pointed to the far bank. Up there Whitefella town, Kahkadoon live there. Bad Blackfella. Mr Arthur nodded a nod of understanding. We won’t stop there Bob added. Mr Arthur had grown to trust and like this Bob. Bob Mundey had sat and talked to the big Black man when they first met and had explained the story of how their great grandparents had travelled over the sea from a place called England. A place everyone had sickly pale skin, a place of harsh winters but a place of beauty. Bob had told him that their father was only four when he arrived from England and that when he was a man he married a Black woman, a Yuggera woman. Mr Arthur knew these brothers understood his people and could be trusted.

Bob was on the verge of adding some more information on Cloncurry for Mr Arthur’s benefit when he heard a loud yelp behind him. He looked around and shook his head at the sight before him. Grown men, all married, engaging in a water fight. Stop fuckin around you lot, you’re not at school now he shouted. For Christ’s sake, get those water bags filled and make sure you fill that drum for the radiator. Dick, check that water level he barked. We’ve got to be in Warwick tomorrow night so pull your fingers out was his final instruction. Bob Mundey only spoke when he had to but when he spoke his brothers listened.

Bob shook his head again and then turned back to his Black friend only to find him standing there with a grin as wide as the river crossing, they were parked in. Mr Arthur put his hand on Bob’s shoulder and chuckled, Mr Bob’s pickannies. I think you’re right there, Mr Arthur Bob replied.

The moment would not be lost on either man. They would both reflect back on this incident during moments of individual reflection. Everybody, roll yourself a smoke and let’s get going. Road is gonna be too rough from here on in said Bob and then continued on. Mr Arthur, you in the front with Jim and I. By putting the Black man in the cabin, he was out of sight, not only of the Kahkadoon but also it was illegal to remove a Black man from his tribal land. The last thing they needed was to be pulled over by a nosey copper.

As soon as the truck crested the far river bank the buildings of Cloncurry were in from of them. At the first crossroad a sign indicated to turn right for the main street. Bob turned left and followed the stock route around the back of the town until he had crossed the rail line and then turned right, which would meet up with the main road again on the eastern side of the town. This detour would only take ten minutes and was conducted without incident. The only thing out of the ordinary was a group of Kahkadoon men sitting under the shade of a mimosa tree sharing a flagon of White man’s grog. Mr Arthur stared without comment and shook his head in disgust. He hated the White man’s grog.

Within thirty minutes of passing Cloncurry the country would change completely. Black soil plains in any direction as far as the eye could see. Jim commented to Bob I guess that is what the Yanks call a prairie. Yep was the reply. Covering tens of thousands of square miles, it was the bed of an ancient sea. Covered with Mitchell and Flinders grass, it was often said ‘In the good years you could grow bank accounts on this country and in the bad years it would destroy a dream’. A thousand feet below was an ocean of fresh Artesian water, ideal for cattle and sheep, provided you had a small fortune to drill for it. Jim slid the rear window open on the truck cabin and yelled to Dick Thousand foot to water around here, good spot for that business you want to start. When this friggin war is over he replied.

They were driving into a rising sun and by mid-morning it would be a hundred degrees. All forms of animal would seek shelter either underground or in the shade of the occasional tree or bush. Within an hour of leaving Cloncurry the men’s eyes would be the only body parts that weren’t covered in a thick film of talcum-like bull dust that the black soil had become. From his position up against the head of the truck Mervan could see most of the horizon. Clear skies, thank God he thought to himself. Turning to brothers Birt and Dick he said Wouldn’t want a horse to piss on this country. We’d be bogged for days! They both nodded in agreement, not wanting to open their mouths and suck in any more dust than they had to.

Idle chatter disappeared. Each man lost in his own thoughts as the hours passed. The group would only stop twice before they got to Hughenden to meet up with the two younger brothers. The sheep and cattle towns of Julia Creek and Richmond would offer brief respite from the jarring dust and heat. Each time, Bob would instruct whoever was driving to drive straight through town to avoid prying eyes and inquisitive questions, and then at a suitable location they would pull off the road. The stop was only for fuel from the drums on the back, a drink of water and to wash the dust out of their eyes and a change of driver. A lot of country had to be covered and time was paramount.

Mr Arthur hadn’t said a word for hours. At each stop he would take a drink of water and then stand quietly surveying the horizon with a look of wonderment as if trying to figure out how far this White fella land went. After the Richmond stop Bob had climbed onto the back of the truck and sat with him and explained as best he could, in their broken English, where they were going and why. Mr Arthur seemed to respond to Bob’s explanation and looked a little more settled after the conversation.

The sun would be low on the horizon when the dust-covered group would climb up the long gradual slope to Hospital Hill on the western edge of Hughenden. To the east they could see the outline of a line of low hills known as The Basalt, believed to be the ancient coastline of the inland sea. A low but rugged escarpment of boulder-strewn volcanic basalt caused by eruptions and movement of tectonic plates millions of years previous.

Hughenden considered itself the gateway to the Outback and Western plains. A railhead for the trucking of sheep and cattle to the coast, surrounded by vast grazing holdings and massive shearing sheds, some of which shore one hundred thousand sheep a year. All this wool went to the coast on rail. As a result, Hughenden was a busy little town with railway workshops, loading facilities, trucking yards for stock, established infrastructure including retail, schools and a substantial functioning hospital as well as a military presence. It was the latter that concerned Bob Mundey the most. Technically they were AWOL and if stopped by military police he knew they would get no assistance from Graham Reid and could well get some jail time or at the very least sent straight back to Daly Waters.

Bob slid the back window of the truck open and gave his instructions. "Turn right straight after the hospital then go past the council depot right to the end, take a left. That should take us up to the Winton Road and past the train station.

Heading for Home

Gordon Mundey was the youngest of the clan and there was no mistaking his heritage. Same long lean frame, darkish, complexion and a crop of thick black hair. He was born with blond curly locks but by the time he reached his teens his hair colour and texture were the same as his brothers’. But that was enough time for the rest to give him the nickname ‘Snow’ and from time to time questioned how they could end up with a blond. He took their teasing all in good humour and gave as good as he got. He had done well at school and at the one-teacher school would often look after the first and second grades. He loved and was a natural at arithmetic but, like the rest, grade six would be his last year. There was a farm to run, and the old man needed help. As the boys grew old enough to find their own work, they left the farm, and the young ones would have to step up. Gordon rolled the tobacco in the paper with expert hands, wet the edge with his lip, sealed it and passed the finished cigarette to his older brother Allan, and proceeded to roll another for himself.

Allan was the quiet one of the seven brothers. Tall and lean like the rest but he was the one whose facial features most resembled his mother Mary and his sister Mavis. He and Snow had both married Warwick girls and had been fortunate to have been posted to the coastal town of Townsville. At least the accommodation was such that they were able to have their wives with them. Both men had a son each and even though it was wartime in a construction camp they were able to live a reasonably normal family life, even with the constant threat of Japanese bombing raids. Allan, as with his sister and mother, took an active interest in the Church of England and its teachings, unlike his brothers who jokingly referred to themselves as Bush Methodists. They paid little heed or time to religion but out of respect for their family they were happy for the rest to have their beliefs.

The reality was that the commandments that their mother lived by were the same guidelines she utilised when bringing her children up and they now adhered to those basic principles, whether consciously or not. Their father was a different kettle of fish.

Flies, I’ve never seen so many fuckin flies Gordon exclaimed. Yep was Allan’s reply. Hope we don’t have to sit here all night. Did the telegram from Bob give any idea of when they would get here? Gordon added. Nope Allan casually commented. Then he added They’ll be here when they get here.

Both men sat on the verandah of the Hughenden Railway Station, protected from the intensity of the afternoon sun but not from the irritation from the masses of flies and sweat. Gordon took a long, deep draw on his cigarette then lazily blew the smoke skyward and in one motion stood and then walked to the end of the verandah to where a canvas water bag was hanging. He unscrewed the top, lifted the other end