Blades 4 - Aftermath: Blades

By J. William Turner

Julian returns home to face a storm of controversy over the dangers he had faced at the fire front whilst under eighteen, originating mainly with California's child welfare agencies, and also a plague of bad memories of what he had seen and felt during that time. These memories lead to nightmares and a need to self-medicate with alcohol. All the subtle warning signs of a growing problem are there, but get missed by the adults in his life. And his requirement to give evidence to the U.S. authorities via a video link concerning his time at the fires does nothing to help his slide into binge drinking and alcohol abuse, and the deterioration in his behaviour that inevitably results. It is not until he seriously assaults his best friend from Darwin, Brian, on Boxing Day that he suffers a mental collapse, is diagnosed with a juvenile form of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and placed immediately in detox for three weeks followed by intense on-going counselling. With a lot of support from family and friends, Julian comes to terms with his demons. He passes Year Twelve, becomes a commercial helicopter pilot, and gets a U.S. Green Card. Finally, he marries the girl of his dreams at a wedding ceremony three years later in Melbourne, before working in America and Australia flying water-bombing helicopters, until their eventual permanent return to Australia to live with their children. Here, Julian commences flying rescue helicopters, having had enough of fighting major forest fires.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. William Turner
• Release date: Aug 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781466079663

J. William Turner

J. William Turner (aka James Turner) was born in Reading, England, forty miles west of London, in the late 1950's, and migrated with his family to south-eastern Australia in the mid 1960's. The youngest of three children James spent the last seven years of his education at a boys' private school in the coastal city of Geelong. During his time here, he became a senior N.C.O. in the school's army cadet unit, having undergone basic, practical military training for promotion, on a regular army base for two weeks in 1971, as a fourteen-year-old, at the end of the nineth grade. After finishing the twelfth grade, he attended university to study science, but discontinued his course after two years. In the early 1980's James gained his private pilot licence, was a volunteer operational member of St John Ambulance for ten years, and travelled to many parts of inland Australia and overseas, including two visits to the U.S.A.. He also penned the initial draft of Storm Ridge, the first of the four installments of Dangerous Days, in 1979, loosely based on a similar school hike he did in 1970 as an eighth-grader. Later, in 1989, Paddle Hard was drafted, based on an actual murder in Geelong in the mid 1970's, and his own experience at canoeing. Another ten years later, he drafted Outback Heroes after several visits to several parts of the vast Australian outback. Enemies Within was written just four years afterwards to give closure to the unanswered questions in Outback Heroes, and is set back in London, near to his ancestral roots. James has always liked putting pen to paper, and has had two articles published in Australian aviation magazines (1996 and 2008). Over a six-month period from January to June, 2004, James wrote the first three stories of another, four-part, fictional autobiography, yet to be published, entitled Blades, about the traumatic and difficult teenage years of a 'top-gun' helicopter pilot named Julian. Set in the late 1990's, in Darwin, Melbourne, the central Australian outback, and southern California, Blades also reinroduces the three main child characters from Dangerous Days, now adults aged in their late-twenties, and their relationship with Julian. These three stories are entitled Street Kid, High Country, and California Dreaming. The final story, Aftermath, was completed in two-and-a-half months just midway through 2008, to bring Julian's life story almost to the present day.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1 - COMING HOME

Thursday, 28 September 2000 – The doors to the restricted area for departing international passengers closed. My view of Alison Clifford, the girl I loved, as well as her parents and three younger brothers, was obscured. They were people I had come to bond with. But I had promised Alison to keep our intended marriage a secret, and keeping secrets was about to become a way of life for me.

My heart was still aching from our separation as I headed for Los Angeles Airport’s passport control area. As I passed through, I was given a nod of approval and respect by two officials who had recognised me from the cable-television broadcasts on the previous weekend. I acknowledged their gesture, headed for Gate 122, and was slumped down on a seat by ten past ten after a quick glance through the large window at my aircraft. This was an hour before my departure time.

Seat 41C, an aisle position this time, awaited me for at least fourteen hours of sitting. But I was quite content to remain where I was until boarding commenced, rather than go walkabout around the area. I even thought briefly about going to the bar for a beer, but dismissed the idea. The drinking age in America was twenty-one, yet eighteen on the Qantas aircraft, so I decided to wait.

But with the inactivity of waiting, came the recent memories of my time in California. Once again, I saw the flames and the face of a dead child, heard the crackling of the massive flames that surrounded the Furnace, smelled wood smoke, tasted ash in my mouth, and felt radiant heat on my face. I sighed, wishing desperately for the images to go away. Help only came, eventually, when the public-address system announced that flight QF100 was boarding.

As I rose to my feet, a happier memory came to mind. It was Alison and me on Venice Beach, and the smile on her face as I had my butt tattooed with her name in a little green boomerang. I strode along the aerobridge to the aircraft and took my seat, resigning myself to the expected, unavoidable bombardment of questions from family and friends to which I would be subjected upon arrival at Melbourne. I knew these questions would stir up the memories and cause me to relive some of the horrors.

Talking to the counsellor, Simon Black, at Matt’s base had not been difficult, as he was a trained professional, but it had not been easy, either. The grilling back home was something I was not looking forward to, and I hoped some more quick counselling sessions as soon as possible would help. For the coming flight, though, after the previous night with Matt, and having rejected the offer of alcohol at the now-destroyed hotel in Lake Isobel, I decided to bluff a few shots of bourbon from the flight attendants during the meal service. As the jumbo jet backed away from the terminal, there was no hint of the coming controversy that was about to erupt. It was a controversy both in Melbourne and California over my presence at the fires.

Saturday, 30 September 2000 – QF100 cruised quietly over the western suburbs of Melbourne, having entered the circuit pattern for Tullamarine Airport after an uneventful flight. The time was approaching eight thirty in the morning. The city was a welcome sight after thirteen hours of darkness outside as I peered across the two passengers on my left to look out through the window.

I had slept better than expected. This was due, I reckon, to the four Bourbon-and-Cokes I had ordered and been served without question by the flight attendants during the meal service. I was actually surprised that I had been so successful in obtaining alcohol. All the adults in my life had often said I looked younger than my seventeen years, despite being a hundred and eighty centimetres tall. Still, I felt slightly guilty about breaching the liquor licensing laws, but did not complain. I had enjoyed a relaxing journey home after some quite reasonable food washed down with very adult booze. I breathed a big sigh of relief when the aircraft pulled up to a gate and stopped. In less than half an hour, I would be reunited with the foster family I loved and my life could return to normal for at least the next eighteen months.

I cleared Customs and Immigration without incident. But I was also slightly mystified when the officer gave me an extra nod and a smile as I did so, like his two counterparts back at Los Angeles Airport. Had he recognised me? I shrugged it off and headed for the sliding exit doors that opened onto the public waiting area.

The first thing I noticed immediately was a cluster of television news cameras and security staff, and muttered, I wonder what celebrity they’re waiting for, before looking around for my family. I saw their welcoming faces as they waved to me a second or two later. They were all there; Kath, Paul, Wesley, Graham, Scott, Linda and Kim, both pregnant at the same time with their first child, Dwight, Veronica, also pregnant again, and, best of the best, little Wendy. As I unexpectedly felt my eyes moistening, and a lump developing in my throat, I hugged each and every one of them and listened to their words of greeting at my safe return. I even saw small tears in Kath’s eyes as she said, Will you ever be able to go on holiday without making news?

It was only then that I became aware of not just being the centre of my family’s attention, but those TV cameras, also. What was going on?

Thankfully, the security guards were able to shepherd our group from the terminal as the reporters began bombarding me with questions. They were asking about my time at the fires and the investigation that had been opened only a few hours earlier, whilst I has halfway across the Pacific Ocean, into my involvement therewith. Needless to say, I had no idea what they were on about. Quite frankly, I also couldn’t have cared less at that moment, and so resented their intrusion into what was supposed to have been a private reunion. But remembering my outburst at the Lake Isobel airport media on the previous Saturday morning, I kept my emotions in check, avoided eye contact, thought to myself, They can all get stuffed, and continued on silently to where our cars were parked. Once we had escaped the media pack, I asked Kath and Paul, What the heck’s going on? They didn’t know either, but Wesley Auld, always the journalist, had the answer. He began, It’s like this mate, and you’d better brace yourself.

A couple of hours earlier, as my flight was crossing Australia’s east coast directly above Sydney, he had received a long-distance phone call from, of all people, one of my journalist friends at KMAC, Dean Haggarty. Apparently, the man had started corresponding with Wesley while I was at the Cedar Grove fires. Thus, he had been able to give Wesley early warning of what was now unfolding.

There had been convened, not just two County Coroners’ Inquests into the fatal fires at Lake Isobel and Cedar Grove, but also my ‘recruitment’ as a ‘front line’ helicopter pilot whilst under eighteen-years-of-age, and a foreign national without a Green Card. It seemed that local agencies of California’s Child Protective Services (C.P.S.) had started to investigate the matter on the afternoon of my return to Los Angeles from Cedar Grove. But it had taken another day and a half before the Mud hit the fan! as Wesley said discretely. That was when the detailed official report of Gareth Stokinez, the Fire Chief at Lake Isobel became public. The fact of nearly being shot by the arsonist, later identified as a known psychiatric patient named Cody Bilson, and then seeing him killed by police had been bad enough in the authorities’ eyes. But it was the graphic nature of Fire Fighter Johl Ashley’s account of our dangerous extraction of the injured women in the burning CRV, and her dead six-year-old son from the Furnace of Lake Isobel that had really upset the C.P.S. Her name was Sylvia Goodall. The little boy’s name was Thomas (Tommy). Also, being exposed to the horribly-charred remains of the four young hikers at the Lake Isobel fire’s ‘ground zero’ by that memorable search-and-rescue leader from the Deep South, Zeke Gillespie, helped stoke the flames of outrage within this bureaucracy. By that time, however, I was well away from U.S. jurisdiction, cruising at ten thousand metres somewhere over Samoa or Fiji, and still in a sleep induced by those four shots of hard liquor.

The allegations were that I had been exploited by fire authorities at both localities and, also, by KMAC for ratings purposes. But worse, Matt and Susan Clifford’s names had been mentioned together with the word negligent, for permitting me to go. What a total load of nonsense, or so I thought! At the time, I had not felt like a child in need of protection, but a young adult who knew exactly what he was doing. The coming months, however, were to show the concerns of California’s C.P.S. to be quite valid, not just for my physical safety, but my emotional welfare, as well. But at that moment, I felt a lot of anger at the thought of my much-loved ‘American parents’ being so falsely accused of neglecting me, whilst I was in their care, by not demanding of KMAC my immediate withdrawal from the fire front. It was clear from the tone of Wesley’s voice, as much as his choice of words, that he expected no good would be coming of this. I said, This is a major over-reaction, Wes! I’m not a little kid! But events over the following weeks would show that Wesley was both right and wrong in his assessment of the C.P.S.’s action.

It was mid-morning when we turned onto my street in Brighton. The house I had called ‘Home’ for more than four years was a most-welcome sight. Some of the neighbours appeared briefly to offer their greetings, which I appreciated. Their comments included, You sure had a big adventure, and, You’re a real top gun, eh? But it was Molly Hopkinson, the very elderly, yet alert, English lady from across the road that I heard say to Kath and Paul, Something’s wrong. That boy has aged five years.

Now, Molly’s eyesight was pretty good, despite having recently celebrated her seventy-ninth birthday. But my well-meaning foster parents chuckled reassuringly and told her I must have bad jetlag. It was a pity they didn’t heed her early warning, as it seems that Wesley’s parents, Pam and Frank, had also noticed the subtle change in my appearance, but also shrugged it off. I found out later, that early in the previous evening in Brighton, as QF100 was accelerating down the runway in Los Angeles, Matt had phoned Kath to advise her of my safe departure. He had also advised of my need for follow-up counselling upon my return after my initial session with Simon Black. I don’t know whether, at the time, she misunderstood the exact nature of the traumatic incidents I had been apart of, or just went into denial about the potential for long-term problems. All I do know is two alerts that I may have been in trouble were ignored.

With my backpack slung over a shoulder, I led Kath into the house. We were followed by Paul, towing my suitcase, and the rest of my extended family. The first thing I really needed right then, however, was a quick toilet break. When I glanced in the bathroom mirror as I washed my hands afterwards, I noticed some lines etched in my face. I guess I did look older, which explains the ease I had found in obtaining alcohol on the flight home, but why? Where had these creases around my eyes and mouth, and on my forehead, come from? I decided not to worry about it. To me, being seventeen-and-a-half yet looking over twenty-one had an obvious advantage,