The Complete Book of Australian Flying Doctor Stories (49 page)

Back in 2000, around the time of the Sydney Olympics, we got a call one night to go on a retrieval up to Oodnadatta, in the far north-east of South Australia. But the thing was, we were getting mixed messages from our local contacts up there about what had actually happened. All they knew was that there’d been an accident somewhere out in the sticks but as yet they didn’t have an exact location and they didn’t know the extent of the injuries. Now, to my line of thinking, there was no good in us rushing off until we had confirmation as to what the real situation was. But our doctor had the retrieval equipment ready, the nurse ready, and so he wanted to get going as soon as possible.

We all have our areas of expertise in the Royal Flying Doctor Service, and with me being a pilot, basically the care of the aeroplane is my concern, and that includes fuelling. I knew that we could get fuel when we got to Oodnadatta but that meant pumping it out of drums, in the middle of the night, and I wanted to avoid that if possible, especially if it turned out to be an emergency. So I thought, well, I might go via Coober Pedy and take fuel on there, then I can go up to Oodnadatta and come straight back to Adelaide with any of the injured.

But the doctor said, ‘No, I want to go straight to Oodnadatta.’

So that’s what we did. Off we went to Oodnadatta. We’d found out by then that it was a two-vehicle
accident and, being out in that desert area, we assumed it’d probably involve two four-wheel-drive vehicles. Then, when we start the descent into Oodnadatta, I heard the doctor over the intercom saying that as soon as we landed he wanted to get hold of a vehicle and drive straight out to the accident site.

‘Oh,’ I thought, ‘this spells disaster.’ Because, what really worried me was that it was a pitch black night and, to make matters worse, they still didn’t know the exact whereabouts of the accident.

So I said to the nurse, ‘Look, just don’t go with them, otherwise we’re going to end up with a retrieval team that’s lost. Then we’re going to have to get a search party to go looking for them and still there’s the accident to attend to.’

Anyway, I landed at Oodnadatta and there was no further news. But the doctor remained adamant that he was going to organise transport out to wherever this accident had occurred. By then I’d decided that the safest thing for me to do was to camp out in the aircraft and wait and see what transpired. So they went into Oodnadatta — the nurse as well — and the last I heard was that they were going to try to organise lights — flares — to be moved to an airstrip on a station property, which they believed might be closer to the accident site. Now we didn’t normally use the strip on that property at night, so once again I was pretty wary about going there.

Then at about daybreak a chap from the airport came out and when I asked what had happened he said ‘Oh, they didn’t go out. They’re still here in Oodnadatta and they’re having breakfast in at the hospital.’

When I got into the hospital I was told that the local people were also concerned about losing the RFDS
retrieval team out in the desert and they’d strongly advised the doctor to stay at the hospital while some of the locals went in search of the accident. As luck would have it, they’d come across the two vehicles, away out in the sticks, and they were going to bring the people involved back to Oodnadatta. We were informed that there was one seriously injured person amongst them.

Then while we were having breakfast they told me the exact location where the accident had occurred and I said, ‘Look, to save them coming all the way back to Oodnadatta, how about we radio them and say that we’ll meet them at Dalhousie Springs.’

And that’s what we did and, believe it or not, just as I landed the plane at Dalhousie Springs, they arrived. But while they were loading the patient I spoke to the guy who drove the vehicle out in search of the accident. He was a part-Aborigine who’d grown up in the area and he’d spent some time in the Army. So he was an experienced bushman who knew the area very well, and I said to him, ‘How did you go driving out to the accident site then back to Dalhousie?’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘actually I got lost a couple of times but I didn’t tell the others, just in case they’d panic.’

So the whole retrieval may well have been a real shemozzle. But thankfully the doctor had taken the expert advice of the locals and stayed put in Oodnadatta. Anyway, we transferred the injured patient to Adelaide. But he was okay. His condition wasn’t as bad as was first believed.

But this is the thing: see, you’ve got various people from all walks of life involved in all our operations. Not only the doctors, nurses and pilots, but there’s also
all the people on the ground. And it’s important that everyone sticks to their area of expertise and be very clear about where they stand. Very clear. The last thing you need is for a pilot to be telling a nurse how to treat a patient or for a doctor to be telling a local how to get to an accident site. It just doesn’t work. So essentially I think the organisational side of things within the RFDS is very good. The way it’s set up, there’s no grey areas.

Anyway, that was quite an unusual one for us really, because that type of accident is normally handled out of Port Augusta. But we’re always there to back each other up, just in case of aeroplane or personnel unavailability. And just as well, because with a lot more inexperienced people travelling out into the outback, they’re extremely lucky to have an organisation like the RFDS so readily and expertly available.

My name’s John Lynch. I’m the CEO of the Royal Flying Doctor Service’ s Central Operations and, if you’ve got a minute, I’ve got a few stories to tell. Now, due to the isolation of the outback, the local gymkhanas are a huge social occasion for station people and the like who otherwise would rarely have the chance to get together. And of course, while everyone’s in the one place, we usually set up a tent to run a medical clinic so that people can have a health check or whatever. Now I’m particularly talking about the blokes here because, you know, while they’re all in town for the gymkhana, it’s an opportune time to grab them where there’s less focus on them having to make a special appointment and come all the way into town to visit the doctor. You know what blokes are like.

So it’ll quite often be, ‘Well, mate, if you go across to see the doctor for a health check, I may as well go too.’

‘Okay then, let’s all go.’ That sort of thing.

And also the gymkhanas are usually designed as a fundraiser for the Royal Flying Doctor Service. So I’ve got a few stories about gymkhanas, and I guess that the first of these stories goes to demonstrate the huge excitement that a gymkhana generates. Now, we had a new doctor who’d never been to a gymkhana and, as I said before, a gymkhana is one of those rare opportunities when everyone gets together. What’s more, you must appreciate that some of these young,
single fellers and girls might never have had a lot of regular social contact, particularly with the opposite sex. So when they get together they sometimes get pretty — how can I say it? — ‘frisky’.

Anyway, one of our new doctors went up to this town to run the on-course medical clinic. He arrived on the morning of the gymkhana and the first thing he did was that he went over to the nursing station to introduce himself. ‘Hello,’ he said, ‘I’m Dr so-and-so from the Flying Doctor Service.’

‘Yep, no worries,’ said the nurse. They all knew his name.

‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ said the doctor, and he handed over a package to the nurse. ‘There you go; I brought along some condoms, just in case they’re needed.’

And the nurse looked at him and she said, ‘I reckon you might be a bit too late, doctor. The mob got into town last night and they’ve been having a hell of a good time ever since.’

So the party had already begun.

Then, after he handed over the condoms, this new doctor went off and he set up a little tent to do his medical checks and some of these younger kids, of course they run around all day and they have busters and so forth and so they’re always going to the doctor to get their grazes fixed up. Anyhow, one young kid arrives with a grazed knee and the doctor’s taking a look at it when a call comes over the loudspeaker: ‘Could the Flying Doctor come urgently to the finishing post.’

Instantly of course he thinks, ‘Dear me, someone’s fallen off a horse and injured themselves badly.’

So the doctor tried to hurry up with this kid but he’s interrupted by another call over the loudspeaker:
‘The Flying Doctor is very urgently required at the finishing post.’

‘Look,’ the doctor said to the kid, ‘there’s an emergency so I’ll just stick a band-aid over your graze and if it’s still bothering you, come back later and I’ll sort it out properly.’

Then he quickly stuck a band-aid on the kid, grabbed his medical bag and he took off like a rocket, out of the tent, through the crowd, under the fence, out onto the track and over to the finishing post, all the while preparing himself for the worst. Then, when he got to the finishing post, he ran up to the bloke with the microphone and he said, ‘Yes…(puff)…yes…I’m…(puff)…the Flying Doctor. Where’s the emergency?’

And the bloke on the microphone said, ‘Where the hell have you been? We’ve been waiting for you to come and draw the bloody raffle.’

So I guess that goes to show the social intricacies of a gymkhana, and what the responsibilities and the expectations sometimes are of the people from the Flying Doctor Service. And we’re ever so lucky that those outback people are also just fundamentally open and honest with you. In many ways it’s as if we’re one big family. It’s like that old bloke in one of the original promotional videos, or was it a film? But anyway, I saw this footage of an old weather-beaten bush character. He’s right out in the outback and, you know, he’s got the typical old battered hat — pushed back with sweat stains all around the brim — that’d been worn for that many years it’d become part of the personality. And even though you don’t see it much today because of the health risks, he’s got the roll-your-own cigarette,
hanging out the side of his mouth, he’s wearing the standard checked shirt, with a tin of tobacco stuck in the top pocket, sleeves rolled up, the RM Williams riding boots and the well-worn jeans, and they asked him, ‘What does the Flying Doctor mean to you?’

And the old feller, he said, ‘The Flying Doctor?’ Then he pushed back his hat and scratched his forehead, while he had a bit of a think. Then, with just the slightest glint in his eye, he answered, ‘Well,’ he said, ‘without the Royal Flying Doctor Service I’d reckon there’d be a hell of a lotta dead people livin’ out here.’

And, again, that’s just so typical of those people. Wonderful people. Wonderful humour.

But while we’re talking about gymkhanas and wonderful fellers with wonderful humour, I must mention Johnny Watkins, ‘Watto’ as he’s known. Watto just happens to have found the recipe for that weather-beaten outback look. He’s a terrific feller and just one of the greatest supporters of the RFDS. In fact, he’s a wonderful supporter of the bush. Watto was the Elders man and auctioneer throughout the north of South Australia so naturally he landed the job as the auctioneer at the William Creek Gymkhana, which is another great fundraising event for the RFDS. It was my first time up at William Creek and a lot of people from Port Augusta got together and formed a syndicate to buy horses for the day in an attempt to try and win some cup or ribbon or other. Of course, much of the money from the buying of horses goes to the Flying Doctor Service.

Anyway, being the CEO of the RFDS in that area, I thought that maybe I should buy a horse as well. Well,
the truth be known, Watto very strongly suggested that I should buy a horse. Now I didn’t have a clue about horses but Watto stepped in and he told me, in the strictest of confidences, that the next horse to be auctioned was a ‘real beauty’. Apparently it had some sort of ‘impeccable breeding’. Even the name Bart Cummings may have been mentioned. I forget now but Watto described it as being the ‘sleeper’ of the entire gymkhana.

‘Okay,’ I said, ‘I’ll bid for it.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Watto, ‘I’ll make sure you get it at a reasonable price.’

So the bidding begins and Watto calls out, ‘Who can start me off with $20?’

Well, I stick my hand up to put in my bid, fully expecting to get the horse for twenty dollars; it sounded like a bargain to me, even being a mug punter. But then Watto said, ‘I’ve got $30. Who can better $30 for this beautifully bred horse? Yes, $40…$50… Yes, $60 to Johnny Lynch the CEO. $70…$80…$120 to Johnny Lynch.’ And I’m just standing there. I haven’t even moved a muscle. I only bid $20 on this nag and the next thing Watto’s telling me that I’ve just bid $120 for it.

Anyway, I finally end up getting this ‘beautifully bred horse’ — this dead cert — for something like $150 and the only thing I’m dead certain about is that I was the only one to have put in a single bid. No one else even bothered. But anyway, I’ve got this horse, so I said to Watto, ‘What do I do now?’

And he said, ‘You need to go over and pay for it.’

So I started to walk across to where I had to pay for the horse and this young Aboriginal feller come up and he said, ‘You got a jockey, Boss?’

I said, ‘A jockey? No.’ I hadn’t even thought about a jockey.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘who’s ridin’ the horse?’

I said, ‘I don’t know.’

‘I’m a jockey,’ he said. ‘I’m the best.’

‘Oh, are you?’ I said.

He said, ‘You want me to be your jockey?’

I said, ‘Well, okay, then.’ I said, ‘If you want to be my jockey, then you’ve got the job.’

‘Yeah, Boss,’ he said, ‘I’m the best. You won’t regret it.’ Then he said, ‘Well, we’d better put the horse in the race.’

‘Yeah, no worries,’ I said. ‘What race will we go in?’

He said, ‘All of ’em.’

And so the relationship had been struck, and this young Aboriginal feller made it clear that because I was the owner of the horse, I was to be known as the ‘Boss’, and he was to be called the ‘Boy’, as, apparently that’s what jockeys are called by the owners. And he rode that horse — that dead cert — in every event that was on. There was the peg race. Then they had the distance race. Then there was a 400-metre race. Then there was some bloody race where the horse went around and around in ever decreasing circles. And we never got a prize; never even got a ribbon. Not even a placing. Nothing. In fact, there was one race where the jockey — the ‘Boy’ — had to go and pick up pegs then put them into a barrel, and I said to him after the race, ‘If they have that race again,’ I said, ‘is there any chance that the horse can ride you because the horse is too bloody slow and you keep missing the barrel.’

But, you know, he was a terrific little feller, this young Aborigine. I think he said he was nineteen, and
he rode in every race. And he never missed me because after each disastrous event he always came across to explain to me what had gone wrong with the horse. Then I’d thank him for the explanation and I’d pay him a couple of bob for the ride.

‘Thanks, Boss,’ he’d say. ‘We’ll have better luck next time.’

But we never did.