The View From Connor's Hill (32 page)

Just to diverge here a little, Pete enjoyed running. On most occasions, he rarely walked from point A to B; everything was done at a jog. Any fence, gate, gutter, or steps he would leap with enthusiasm.

Now, it appears that on the evening of his inaugural date with Monica, on grand final night, he'd taken a taxi to the front of her house. Peter, who took a while to open up about this event — it took about five beers, I seem to recall — continued. ‘I didn't bother with the front gate. I just gracefully leapt the front brick wall with ease. Then, at a Herb Elliot pace, I ran up the footpath, leapt the next brick wall up onto the front veranda. Bugger the steps and the side entrance; I jumped up the porch. Bam! Shit, that hurt. Next thing I know, I'm lying on the lawn, stunned, flat on my back, holding my head.'

Pete continued. ‘You know, there was this bloody great pane of glass covering the veranda opening, and I hadn't seen it. I was in agony. The porch light went on, people rushed out from everywhere. Admittedly, there was a fair boom of noise as I collected that bloody window. They found me — flat on me back on the lawn, eh. I heard someone ask, “Are you okay, son?”' That would have been Monica's bloody father, I guessed. He went on.

‘Then I heard a female say, “Gosh, what happened?”' Being a female voice, I supposed that must have been Monica's bloody mother. He continued.

‘Then I heard someone say, “Good God, how stupid is that?”' Unfortunately, I reckoned that was Monica.

‘I ignored the flaming pain and leapt to my feet,' he told us, though by now he was having to shout … our laughter was out of control.

‘But, hey, you know, once inside, even though I was feeling like shit, I put on a brave face and sat down. In no time, I was hoeing into a generous mixed grill. Bugger me, what happened then. The silly old bastard, Monica's dad, he sorta looked at me and said, “You sure you're okay, son?” I told him, sure, that I'd just tripped. Dunno why but, for some reason, I touched my forehead. Shit — there was a frigg'n great lump the size of a duck's bloody egg sticking out. Yep, just above me left flaming eye. Christ, I ask you, what's a codger supposed to bloody well do now? Anyhow, bugger it, I mumbled about suddenly feeling crook, and asked where the dunny was. Once I found a mirror, I saw that I looked like a bloody freak … or the early stages of turning into a frigging unicorn. So I gulped down the meal and left … on me own.'

The bus was in complete uproar. The driver had to pull over for ten minutes. The laughter continued for ages, and Pete's only response was, ‘Last time you'll catch me in the big smoke.'

chapter seventeen

Endings and beginnings

MY JOB ON THE FARM AT ENSAY WAS A GOOD ONE
.
ALTHOUGH
much of this book doesn't deal with my life on the farm, in fact, the majority of my time as a young man was spent working Monday to Friday at Kanangra. It's interesting, looking back, because when I first went there I was concerned about the myriad of skills I needed to learn. In time, however, I realised that the owners were fine people, and that they were living within a wonderful community.

Then there were bonuses. What with Swanee and then Rover, I've always felt very privileged that I spent a part of my life with talented and unique animals. When I lost Rover, I grieved as if I'd lost a close friend. No wonder older people place such a high value on their pets.

The other thing that was continually increasing while I worked was my knowledge of how to farm. By coincidence, the people who owned the farm were very progressive, and they often experimented. Few other farms in the area dared challenge the locally entrenched ways of farming.

Instead of concentrating on breeding sheep that produced quality wool, my bosses introduced strong-woolled sheep that cut very heavy fleeces. Crossing these same sheep with a variety of rams, mainly Border Leicester, resulted in the first cross-lambs that had both meat and wool potential.

Further cross-breeding saw British breed sheep such as Romney Marsh, Southdown, and Cheviot joined to the first cross-ewes. This produced fat lambs for market after twelve to fifteen weeks, whereas most farms sold their lambs at 20 weeks or later. Further sophistication was introduced at shearing time: every fleece was weighed, and the sheep with the lighter cuts were sold off. It was the same at lambing time. Sheep that had had twins were tagged and used for the next breeding cycle. The following drop meant that our new lamb numbers were up — at a rate of approximately 120 lambs for every 100 ewes. The result of all this intensive selection and rejection of their breeding stock was a well-earned reputation for the bosses. At the annual sheep sales, their sheep were always in the top pens, and their fat lambs were highly sought-after by the top butchers.

The same applied to their cattle. Using different breeds, good-quality bulls, and good management saw the farm owners develop a similar high reputation to the one they'd gained with sheep. Today, the same farm boasts an excellent beef-cattle stud called Newcomen's Herefords.

Often, after good showers of rain, I would spend countless hours discing up paddocks, harrowing and, finally, sowing the paddocks with a variety of pasture. We tried several types of clovers, grasses, and crops like millet, rape, and oats. I realised that after several years on a farm like this I would be more than capable of running my own farm or managing a property.

Perhaps the other fortunate thing about working on the farm at Ensay was being able to work away from the farm for periods. I worked in woolsheds, carting hay, droving cattle, and at the annual sheep and cattle sales. Then there were the one-off experiences such as operating a harvester, and helping a local crop-duster pilot to locate boundaries to enable him to determine where to drop his load of superphosphate.

The owners of the farm were good people who treated me well. Sure, there's always an element of luck with employment. The job at Ensay, that wonderful community, and the era, when combined, offered me a unique experience. I never once recall feeling alone, depressed, or looking for a change in my circumstances. There were no computers, mobile phones, electronic games, takeaway foods, or television. For me, there was hard work, long hours, and a hectic social life. I'm not trying to sound honourable when I say that I believe the only thing that sometimes messed up this good life I loved was holidays. The farm at Ensay was my work, my base, and my point of contact, and my bedroom had ended up like a small office. Any permanent move away, like a holiday, required more than just packing my clothes.

Admittedly, the holidays enabled Bob and me to catch up on jobs at home and on the family farm. We often planned large projects if I had a couple of weeks off. Over the years, we fenced in many paddocks, and built roads and several dams with the 'dozer — we even completed a log cabin on the top block, as I've described. I thoroughly enjoyed the 1940's single-cylinder Flower Marshall bulldozer.

BY 1964
, my parents had 500 sheep and 40 head of cattle. Our first-ever shearing took place at the neighbouring farmer's woolshed, and I recall with pride the first bales of our wool that we sent to market. As Rover and I drove the sheep back to the family farm, the blue
BB
(Bob and Barry) brand on the newly shorn sheeps' rumps summed up the satisfaction of years of hard work. We used the same brand on our calves. The following year, a new woolshed meant that we were ready to shear at the Tongio farm.

Come 1965, little did I realise that I was about to face major changes in my life. The first was the loss my dear, sweet friend, Rover. At the time, I was devastated. I grieved and cried in private for a long time. Not long after, I lost both my job at Ensay and the good times on the farm at home. By early 1966, I found myself conscripted into national service.

Yes, my stay at the Ensay farm ended abruptly. To be honest, it was very overwhelming and I wasn't eager to leave. With the introduction of conscription, or national service, and my marble having been drawn from the barrel, I had a duty to perform … if I passed the medical. That's how it was in those days in the shire; it was an entrenched attitude in the Omeo area. I never experienced any dissent, objection, or ill feeling towards me for going into the army — only vague support.

My farewell at the Ensay Hall was a surprise. They were such warm and generous people, just like all the people in the high country — yes, even including those from ‘above the Gap'.

No doubt, there were many changes ahead for me. Somehow, I knew that the people would never change and would always be there for me. As for my farm friends … well, that was different. I knew I could never rekindle the special bonds I had developed with the horses and dogs. Something inside me told me that when I left I would never come back to the farm. I'd known Swanee for five years. On my last day on the farm, the dogs and horses got their pats and scratches from me. Of course, they treated it as just another day. I've always had a lot of affection for animals.

Then it was my mate's turn — Swanee, the larrikin I loved. As I said at the beginning, he was different. I walked over to him in the paddock and had a quiet chat. He stood there with his head down as I scratched behind his ears. No, he didn't try to run away, stick his rump in my face, or bite my bum. He nudged me softly several times, rubbing his face along my ribs. Finally, I remember I turned and walked away, overcome with wonderful memories of this unique animal. Slowly, I approached the gate. I felt a push, and I fell gently against it. It was Swanee. He had walked quietly behind me. His final nudge was like a handshake from a good mate.

I left the Ensay farm for the last time one late Friday afternoon on the Bantam. When I put the stand down on my motorbike to shut the front gate and turned to snib the chain, I looked up, and there he was — Swanee, at the corner of his paddock, alongside the driveway out of the farm, his head over the fence nodding slowly up and down. I'm sure he winked at me as I left. I never saw him again.

AFTER MY DISCHARGE
from the army, I returned to Ensay and the Swifts Creek area. The year was 1968. Most locals were aware that I had spent a part of my time away in Vietnam. They were hearty in their welcome. The people hadn't changed; however, I was a ‘born again' in the true sense of the words. My experience away had had a profound impact on my being. Many a time in Vietnam, I would describe myself as a drunk, an old man and, finally, as almost an animal. We lived like nomads, existing in the jungle in conditions so primitive that I wonder how we coped at times. Every morning out there, my job was simple: to survive, and to help kill other human beings. My youthful innocence had been shattered; I lost that delight for life and carefree spirit I once enjoyed.

The return from life in the army to ‘home' happened in less than a day, after boarding the civilian aircraft in Saigon and, much later that same day, arriving at Essendon airport.

It was too much. Too many familiar faces — Mum, Dad, and a girlfriend — were all talking in a way that was strange to me. I felt they were somehow foreign … my own family.

Once I was back home, I almost immediately realised that the new me was a stranger in the beautiful area I loved. I couldn't deal with the virtue and naivety of the local people, when it came to war. Within days, my world shrank rapidly. Silence was my best safeguard — I decided it was best I keep my opinions and my past to myself. I smoked, swore, and drank.

Consequently, I found out what true loneliness means. For me, I believe there was little choice. How was I to answer the blank, wide-eyed looks I received when I announced I was going away again? Yes, within weeks, I turned my back on my girlfriend, my family, my friends, and my past good life. Many people were stunned when I left the district. Even more wanted an explanation. ‘You must be kidding,' they said.

I wanted to hide away — to the point that, in the years that followed, I kept my recent past a secret. How does one measure the sadness that resulted after I decided to move away? Perhaps 30 years of absence might suffice.

To understand the soldier, you need to realise that he is a creature of blunt, crude training; a territorial beast intent on self-preservation at any cost. His needs are crude: to survive, and then to enjoy a brief rest swamped with food, beer, and blunt pleasure. Education, compassion, morals, wealth, and patriotism disappear … they become irrelevant.

To understand a soldier, ask another soldier. For a sanitised version, ask our politicians; they see war and soldiers in a completely different light than do I and my mates.

AFTER THE RELEASE
of my book
Well Done, Those Men
, many people wrote letters, sent me emails, or phoned me. Most appreciated the honesty, and acknowledged the difficulty I must have experienced in writing that book, which was true. Consequently, many of them had the same message: that it must have been good therapy, even healing — which was also true, but there was more to it than that.

Writing is more than my hobby; it provides me with an unseen confidant and friend. It enables me to be alone, and to ponder my life and its difficulties; then, most importantly, it gives me a sense of perspective. Now I write every day — always a diary entry, and sometimes a recollection. It might be just one sentence, but I know it will trigger a particular memory if it's needed in the future … when I hunger for the pen or keyboard.

Since the publication of
Well Done, Those Men
I have given many talks, mainly to veterans' groups and schools. The vets' talks are great; in no time, questions and their own yarns lead off into a night of reminiscing. The school talks have also been interesting. The students have always shown respect and have asked searching questions. Their knowledge of the Vietnam era is generally meagre, and many students are amazed that this country treated Vietnam veterans so poorly upon their return from that conflict. It's not that schools won't teach that part of our history; the answer lies with the lack of suitable resources, and the decisions of curriculum branches not to promote the subject.