SOARING WITH EAGLES

SOARING WITH THE EAGLES

My brother David.

A crazy, daredevil friend threw down the gauntlet for a seventieth birthday. Barbara was determined to go hang-gliding. I would surely baulk at that; but not Barbara. So, along with fearful family, cameras and witnesses, she trekked down to Stanwell Tops and defied the meek and faint heated and launched herself into the void, securely strapped underneath her trainer. You could hear he whoops and laughs from the heights as she revelled in this tour de force before hitting the beach.

Now, that took guts. I was not that risk-prone. I settled for something a little less dangerous. I went soaring…..or gliding, as the uninitiated say. I was surprised at the reaction of friends who seemed to be in a certain awe; like taking a jog flight with Wilbur and Orville! Actually, a little research would reveal that very few ended up crumpled in a head in a paddock. Very different for ultra-light flights!

But how organise it? I had no idea.

Just by good luck I was chatting with my friend, youth worker, Paul Ballard, and it slipped out that he was an ex-pilot. Not just light aircraft, he was master of the skies as he piloted big jets across the oceans, and drew a healthy cheque. How come he had been grounded? Unfortunately, he had got caught up in the Pilots’ Strike some years back. It was a stand-off as the pilots tried to muscle their way into a strong bargaining position. They had reckoned without the guile and muscle of the Prime Minister, Bob Hawke. He stood firm, wouldn’t budge, employed some creative strategies and the Aussie Pilots crumpled. That was the end of Paul’s career. Luckily for Marist Youth Care he came looking for a job, feeling some attraction to help kids in trouble. He was a winner. Over the years we became good Friends.

It was Paul who told me about his dad, still a keen “glider” at the age of 83! He had an impressive pedigree. In World War Two he had flown Kittyhawks against the Japanese in Papua New Guinea. That was surely bad for one’s health and many did not return as the Japanese Zero or Nakajima was clearly superior to all Allied aircraft till 1943! These days he thrilled in his regular “soaring” out there around Bathurst and enjoying the jaunt of taking folk up among the clouds.

It didn’t take all that long to organise a trip for Des. My brother, David, was keen to be back up and support the venture and so together we tripped over the Blue Mountains to Bathurst. The local Soaring Club was well set up with a club house and there were a range of “gliders” to whisk the venturous skywards. I found it all very stimulating. I enjoyed the hook ups with crop-duster type aircraft and trundling down the runway, roaring off into the blue with a glider attached. Around five hundred feet the tow was cup and the skilled pilot went searching for thermals. They rose and they rose and nearly disappeared from sight.

It was all a bit haphazard and ramshackle even. A small caravan with one side providing a counter was the business centre as various groups rambled in, took a look around, maybe decided they would give it a fling and lined up for a ticket. It was hundred or hundred and twenty dollars for half and hour flight. With some three aircraft operating you might have a little wait. It was obvious that I was getting special rates. Not just pensioner’s but also a special MYC, as I was a mate of Paul’s. So, for the princely sum of eighty dollars I was ready to reach for the sky. Paul’s dad was a winner. It was obvious these weekends were a treat for him. Since being “infected” with flying sixty years before there was no cure for him!

Dave and I roamed around to take the whole scene in, as well as plan some photo shoot so’s this event would be recorded for posterity. We settled in basic club room to await the call. While musing there, I detected some faint whiff of …..tobacco? Cigar or cigarette? NO, definitely someone  puffing  and chomping on a briar pipe. Mirages swam dreamily by as I was whisked back to childhood. I could make out some figures, grey-blue uniform with a fleecy lined jacket, looking so casual with the cap pushed back, lounging around, chatting and joking while they enjoyed the sporadic of fighter planes roaring off or bumping in. That summer of 1939 was almost hallucinatory. Little did they realise the coming cataclysm and how the ranks of these best and brightest were scimitared.  Their glory flights were often all too short, to end up in a funeral pyre.

“You’re on Des!”

I scrambled!!!

Squadron Leader Ballard had slid back the canopy of this dazzlingly beautiful, sleek, “born-to-fly” aircraft. I had learnt that most designs came from Austria and it was thee and Germany that those genius Nazis outwitted  the strict arms embargos and restrictions! While Meschermidts 109 might have been on the drawing boards, hundreds of young pilots were training in gliders and with those skills transformed, were able to wreak so much havoc over Europe. With a little help I slipped into the front seat while “Ace” settled in behind. A few posed shots before launch. Also a few instructions, though we were not expecting any emergencies. Out front stretched a stout cable some sixty metres being tightened by the launch sturdy, crop duster type plane.

There was a revving and a roar and we started trundling forward, bumping over the grass. I knew the drum and shortly we were lifting off and chasing our tow. After a few minutes I peeped over to find we were a few hundred feet. Suddenly, there was a lurch as the tow cut and we were suddenly alone and quietly climbing. How long would we stay aloft? Well, that depended on the updrafts or thermals that baked up from the plains. But we had to find them first. No problem with my veteran who could sniff them out from miles and we would surely swirl above the clouds.

Towed down the paddock

It must have been one of his off days. We were rising alright but with not great zest or assurance. Quite suddenly this little thermal slipped away and we’re circling down, chasing around where there should have been promising spirals! Captain was getting a little worried but not giving up. From near fifteen hundred feet we were deflating. Not even twenty minutes. It would be so ignominious and I hadn’t performed by tour de  force yet!!! Maybe he was foxing. Just when I was about to throw out the anchor he ferrets a ripper a mile or so over. Whoosh.

It was a glorious experience as we soared and spiralled and swooped, banked and side slipped. Maybe This was one of those cunning “answers to a prayer” but I can’t remember calling on Gabriel! There was but one slight disappointment- I was hoping it would be eerily quiet. No, we had to keep an intake open and a bit of whistling accompanied us. But no, it was such a rare experience. I rhapsodised over the clouds, the brown countryside, some pine forests and a river over there somewhere. And Bathurst was neatly laid out over to the east. I kept and eye on the altimeter and held my breath as we reached for 10,000 . From here we could have glided back to Sydney!

I could feel that Trevor was enjoying my thrill as well. But then I prepared him for a unique experience. I was going to share with him a poem that had inspired me and many students over the decades. I had even committed myself to learn it by heart. With drama and feeling I acclaimed  HIGH FLIGHT.



Before we caught that magic thermal



The poet was an American Fighter Pilot, one of thousands from Australia, Canada, New Zealand, France, Poland, South Africa and many other countries to oppose the great evil engulfing the world in 1939. This John Gillespie Magee was the son of an Episcopalian priest who worked with his family as missionaries in China. Rich, religious roots moulded this noble warrior. Sadly, he offered his life in that titanic struggle and mission of peace to save the world from Hitler’s thousand year Reich. I wonder how many times this young warrior burst with this poem as he  hurtled down the runway to join battle above.

High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things

You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung

High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,

I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung

My eager craft through footless halls of air....

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue

I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace

Where never lark or even eagle flew —

And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod

The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

Down those years since I first inspired young boys with POEMS OF SPIRIT AND ACTION in the 1950s, people past count had caught that fire. In the most memorable occasion, a whole nation was touched as their president, with sure inspiration, recited High Flight to mark a tragic event when Challenger, with five astronauts aboard blasted off from the pad and within minutes had exploded, disintegrated and with wheels of wild white had scarred the blue sky.

MIDWIFE BY MOONLIGHT

MIDWIFE BY MOONLIGHT

CLASSROOM AND COMPOUND

“How, in God’s name did I get myself into this fix?” kept repeating to myself  as I pushed through the high kunai grass at midnight with the moon staring on, quite unmoved…or was that a lunar smile?

It all began innocently enough with a knocking and an urgent voice calling from outside our little cottage. At that stage I was living with an Irish Marist, Nial Kernan out in the bush where we ran a training centre for village catechists. I bounded out of bed, went to the door to find a nuggetty Malaitan, dressed in shorts and very, very disturbed. He blurted out his story in pidgin English.

“My wife is having a baby and there’s trouble. You white man, you know all about these things, you’ve got to come and help!”

“Did you hear that Nial?” I suspected this visit had woken him.

“Don’t bother me, you look after it.”

While being chuffed at the “native’s” trust in the whiteman, I was decidedly miffed at Nial’s dismissive approach to this crisis.

A brief conversation followed where I got a few more details and found I could get pretty close in our little Datsun. With some trepidation but also with a certain gung ho attitude I bundled into the car and bounced off into the night. It was only about a ten minute bumpy drive along an old World War Two road, one of a web, network which served a former  enormous military base. With many migrants from Malaita they would squat on local land and find shelter where they could.

“Stop here.”

I followed him through high grass and scattered trees.  That’s when I expostulated:

“Dear God, why do you get me into these situations?

We came to an old iron shed- his home, where several people were standing around a fire in this “furnace”. How did they ever survive here? I thought.

“Now, you follow this girl. She will take you to my wife.”

It then clicked. In these traditional people, the “curse” of blood is feared. Menstrual blood, blood from birth can “sully” men and need some purification. Hence you find these small clusters of very basic huts outside villages to cater for menstruating girls, women!

DINNER FROM GARDEN

So, I followed the girl. That’s when I became aware of the moonlight and I started praying.

As we approached a river bank I could hear a baby cry. I was relieved. So what was the problem? I could make out the mother sitting on the bank with the new-born baby in her hands and rocking and moaning in pain. There were two women in attendance but just standing inert.

With my flashlight I carefully examined the pair. There was the problem- the umbilical cord had not been cut and there was much more trouble.

I seem to get strength from somewhere. I knew I needed some utensils, as images of some distant TV shows, like DOCTOR CASEY flitted back. I started back. Suddenly, the “dad” yelled out.
“You must not come back this way!”

Of course; I would bring ritual uncleanness to them! Alright for me; we white men were immune.

Damn! Where was the car?

Over there,  somewhere I think. I stumbled down the bank, across the creek and luckily found the road and the car. Somewhat excited yet fearful I jolted back to the Centre.

I would need some boiling water, scissors, string or twine, towels, bandages and ……

It was then I got a great inspiration. Just across from our house was a very simple dwelling, where out cook girl, a competent, cheery Philomena resided. Not wanting to scare her, I quietly knocked and whispered

 “Philomena, it’s Br. Des. I need your help”.

She gave a yelp. What sort of man would be sneaking around her house at this hour? She did take a little convincing! Once I explained she was more than willing. I’m sure back in Ata’a in Malaita she had taken part in many births. There were certainly no doctors on tap and the nearest simple clinic could have been hours’ walk away. Bringing her was the smartest of moves.

CHAPEL AT BACK AND LOCAL KIDS

Again, we had to thrash through the bush and across the creek, not wanting to upset the local spirits. Poor mum was still moaning and groaning; so there were other problems as well as an uncut umbilical. By flashlight we set up our “surgery”. Philo was assured, even if she let “Doctor Des” take up the running. ( I did whisper my little prayer for help but did not think of another dark delivery in a cave all those centuries ago!) While  Philo took the baby, I cut and tied string at two points along the cord. Then, holding my breath I deftly cut through with sterilised scissors. “Nurse” Philo wrapped the baby in a clean towel. There was no relief for mother and it would get worse. How to get her across the creek? We had no stretcher and we certainly could not carry her. If we were to get her to Honiara hospital, some forty minutes away, she was going to have to get herself to the car. So, with a little help, much struggle and anguish she dragged herself across that creek.  I marvelled at her toughness as she made those painful yards. She was in quite a state when she reached the Datsun. We lay a towel on the back seat and as gently as we could along that bumpy road we drove to the hospital.



THIS ONE WAS CALLED DESI.



When we arrived, I dashed inside to alert staff of our situation. I was shocked at a certain callousness. There was no stretcher provided. With a little persuasion and help they actually walked her up some six steps and into the ward. For about an hour I walked up and down, like some expectant father. I had no fear about the baby. She had taken on the world out there in the dirt and darkness and would surely live. When a nurse and Philomena appeared they seemed satisfied that mum would be alright. She had lost some blood and there were complications caused by the after birth not coming away; but all would be well.It was near four o’clock when, in a turmoil of thoughts and feelings I arrived back at the centre, somewhat exhausted but ever so grateful that all was well.

I popped into the hospital a few days later and both mum and baby were doing well. No, they did not call the girl “Desdemona” and I can’t remember dad coming along with a coconut in thanks. But then, this sort of “delivery” is something that white men are doing quite regularly!