`This is a captivating true story of pioneering life during the last century. It’s a remarkable tale of desert and jungle survival, finding religion and losing faith, about discovering lust and finding love, about reportedly dying in aircraft accidents that didn’t happen. It’s an inspirational account of a man who set his goals in the sky and achieved them. His hard-working angel keeps saving him during his early travels and later while dodging mountains hidden inside clouds. Plus spears and gunfire in the third world. A must read action filled adventure.’
Ted Egan, OA. (Order of Australia)
Administrator of the Northern Territory.
Even before Phil Latz was speared at age four while growing up on a Lutheran Mission in Australia’s desert heartland his angel was working overtime. Join him and his ethereal guardian on a remarkable adventure as Phil makes the transformation from a feral outback kid growing up with Australian Aborigines, to a cosmopolitan high-flying pilot of the world’s largest helicopter.
His worldwide experiences may even inspire you to begin the career you always dreamed about while using his many travel hints and tips about different countries’ local customs.
“Navigating by the stars while hanging in the sky without any lighting in the cockpit or on my helicopter was not how I had been taught to fly. I knew this journey would end in either injury or death for me and my passengers - or finding our camp in the inky darkness of the invisible, rocky, uninhabited and isolated Kimberly Ranges below us.”
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Flying With My Angel - surviving religion, sex and helicopters
Phil Latz
The right of Philip J. Latz to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with Copyright, Designs and Patents Acts.
© P. J. Latz 2006.
Published by Phil Latz, at Smashwords.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
ISBN: - 978-0-9804451-2-1
Authors Notes
The christian names assigned to people may or may not be correct. Surnames are correct. The timing of undated events may be slightly incorrect due to imperfect recollection or lack of records.
I have tried to avoid causing embarrassment and hope I will be forgiven if this occurs. The exceptions being where events have been exposed by the media, or are generally known.
Some people may find what are now considered sexist or racist terms, but these words were in common usage during that time and locality. Some descriptive nouns may now be regarded as offensive - kanaka, gin, house Mary for example. I do not wish to distort history for the sake of political correctness so please read them in that context.
I have endeavoured to use the spelling of the era.
To my aboriginal friends, I regret the injustices that occurred to them but I was only a child at the time and accepted the actions and views of my peers.
I have used feet to show height above sea level in aviation stories, these being standard in the West. To convert to metres, multiply by 0.305.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1 - Spears, boomerangs and school of the air
Chapter 2 - Blackboards and bullying – boarding school
Chapter 3 - Screwdrivers, spanners and sex
Chapter 4 - Love and buried uranium but no sex
Chapter 5 - Aviation and broken hearts in Alice Springs
Chapter 6 - Helicopters, work and sin in Sydney
Chapter 7 - Big bad Darwin revisited
Chapter 8 - Flying high with spanners
Chapter 9 - Flying low in choppers
Chapter 10 - I’m married in tails, then find a Pacific Island
Chapter 11 - Chilly Bass Straight, warm Kota Kinabalu
Chapter 12 - Drinking cold beers in Asia
Chapter 13 - Murder and mayhem in Indonesia
Chapter 14 - Singapore globetrotting before disaster strikes
Chapter 15 - Desperation and privation in the Third World
Chapter 16 - More spears, bows and arrows
Chapter 17 - Flying high again and finding a nest
GLOSSARY
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PROLOGUE, 5th March, 1968
After regaining consciousness, I remembered the silence. It had chilled my soul. The bubble of the helicopter I was piloting lay smashed on the rocks and the instrument panel now lay at a drunken angle. I automatically switched off the battery and ignition even though the engine had stopped, either with the force of the impact or while destroying the rotor blades against the rock face to my right. I unfastened my seatbelt and stepped out of the wreckage to check the photographer, Boris, who was slumped in his seat.
Hearing a hissing sound, I saw its source to be petrol dripping onto a hot exhaust pipe.
“Boris, wake up - can you hear me?”
His eyes flickered open.
“Are you hurt, can you get out?” He nodded; I unfastened his belt and helped him over the ridge we had struck so he’d be safe if the helicopter caught fire. Blood was running down his right leg from a nasty cut on the shin. I ran back to get the first aid kit from the cockpit.
There was no sign of Beverly, the model we had been filming, or Bob, the producer - just the continuous array of sandstone ridges stretching away in the silence across the top of Uluru.(Ayers Rock)
I remember thinking, what a way for a local boy to make a hit!
My mind quickly returned to the present and wondered why this disaster had occurred to me. My guardian angel had saved me from injury or death, even though I had outgrown my religious upbringing, but why did I have to suffer this calamity? What had I done right or wrong in my past life on planet earth, a speck among billions in the cosmos? Did I deserve this catastrophe?
If nothing else, mine had been an interesting and often exciting quest. It began with my birth near the banks of the Todd River in the Australian Inland Mission Hostel in Alice Springs, Central Australia.
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CHAPTER 1
Every takeoff is optional. Every landing is mandatory.
~ The Aviators Guide Book
I’ve often imagined the setting for my first breath on this earth at 5am, on 21st of February 1937.
Not a leaf moved. The gums on the Todd River stood mute in the pale dawn light, magpies yet to sing their morning chorus.
The air refreshing, inviting breath, soon to be changed as the searing February sun fried all below.
My mother, Dora Latz, was one of the few white female settlers in outback Central Australia. She and my father were lay workers at Hermannsburg Lutheran Mission, 120 km south-west of the Alice, and I was their first born. Fortunately, my birth was uncomplicated. The only doctor within a thousand kilometres was away, the two resident nurses catering for us.
After two weeks Mother left the hostel and stayed with the Johannsen family in town while awaiting transport. We waited in the Alice for several weeks before being lucky enough to obtain a lift home in a vehicle driven by tourists.
My parents first met in 1934 when father was en-route to the mission to begin construction of a water pipeline. He stayed with the Lange family for several days. They lived close to my mother’s home, some 220 kilometres north of Adelaide in South Australia. By chance, my mother happened to be working at Lange’s. Her diary entry reads:
`He got out of the car in his great long navy overcoat and wearing glasses and a rather bewildered air on his face and my maternal feelings went to him immediately (up in the cow-yard milking I was too when that happened) and I think I must have fallen in love with him immediately. There seemed to be something about him that seemed as if he needed a bit of mothering (the coat was too big and the sleeves too long) and there was a sort of a finished – with – love affairs look about him that I sort of felt then, but could not analyse.
And then, because he did not suggest letter writing to me when he left three days later for Hermannsburg I was absolutely disappointed and to hide my hurt pride went and imagined myself in love with a boy 6 years younger than I and whom I really did like but oh how I hurt him when I broke off with him 13 months later.’
Mother suffered a period of ill health and was invited to visit Hermannsburg for a month’s holiday by the Mission Superintendent, Reverend F. W. Albrecht as the dry desert air was believed to promote healing. Also, mother’s sister Ruth Pech was governess of the Albrecht household. During this holiday my parent’s romance blossomed, culminating in a marriage proposal. Mother’s parents’ approval of the engagement arrived via telegram, in Morse Code, on the pedal radio on 4th November 1935. The engagement was celebrated at Rev. Albrecht’s house where father presented a token engagement ring he made from a sixpenny piece. My parents married in April 1936 at Appila, 220 km north of Adelaide in South Australia, returning to the Mission soon after.
Our house, one of the original buildings, was erected in the 1880s by Mr C.H. Eggars, an early Mission worker, with help from the local Aranda people. It is reputedly the second oldest house in the Northern Territory still standing. The metre thick outside walls were heaped sandstone, glued together with a slurry of red ant’s nest sand, spinifex spines and lime, with a coat of whitewash completing the job.
The floors were smooth river stones, arrayed like crazy tiles and held together by pouring a mixture of hot fat and ashes between the gaps. As children we sometimes bored holes in the floor with a hot poker from mother’s wood burning kitchen stove. Many a stubbed toe resulted from the unevenness of the floor, while getting furniture positioned steady and level was like asking a small child to sit still.
Initially, the ceilings of our house were whitewashed hessian secured to she-oak beams. In time, plasterboard replaced the hessian as small animals tended to fall through the latter.
The outhouse, a bucket under the seat, stood a few metres behind the house. Dozens of poisonous Redback Spiders lived beneath the throne. To my knowledge, no one was ever bitten. It was pointless trying to remove them, they were just part of the furniture in most Australian backyard toilets.
A cellar was built under the front bedroom. I can remember the darkness being suggestive of mystery and danger. It was also closer to hell as we were told at Sunday School. A carpet snake lived in the cellar from time to time. We had little fear of it as it was favourably regarded as an excellent vermin exterminator.
During the day Snake often slept coiled around the bars of the cellar vent, set in the wall just above the front veranda floor. We were not allowed to poke Snake to awaken it during our playtime, for fear of it finding another, less troublesome household.
Snakes of all kinds, most highly venomous, were regular visitors during the summer months and were quickly dispatched by parents or our aboriginal housemaids. A metre length of thick fencing wire, one end bent over several times to form a handle, was the usual weapon. It was cheap, effective and could be parked in various parts of the house. When a venomous snake appeared, an adult grabbed the nearest wire and broke its back with a swift blow, rendering it immobile. It could then be carried outside and killed.
One hot summer evening at dinner when the geckos were busy on the flyscreen and the Tilly lamp was hissing away as usual, someone said `What’s that under the table?’ Silence as several heads went down and then Mother said - `It’s a snake heading for the kitchen.’ Father grabbed the wire parked next to the sofa and after one quick step the 1.5 metre long snake was immobilised. It had been slithering around our bare feet! The snake was identified as a deadly King Brown and had no doubt spent the day coiled around a sofa leg.
We had minimal furniture. Most was made by my father from local timber, redundant four gallon kerosene tin shipping boxes and old tea chests. Some of Dad’s creations have been displayed locally and Interstate, at exhibitions of Early Settlers’ work, which showed the ingenuity required in adapting very limited materials to make furniture. For example, rawhide, untanned cow skin, was stretched over appropriately shaped and dovetailed hardwood tree branches, formed to make the base of our parents double bed. The frame of our sofa was of similar construction; the cushions fashioned by stuffing washed goats hair inside locally tanned kangaroo skin covers. This resulted in a comfortable sofa that was still in use 60 years later.
All the resident families on the Mission were assigned several female helpers. Our senior house-girl had the use of a detached room at the rear of our house. A young house-girl assisted during the day. That poor lass would be locked up in a dormitory with other single females and schoolgirls every night to ensure males didn’t get at them. The idea was to expose the Aboriginals to our standards of behaviour, hygiene, to teach them English and practical skills in cooking, cleaning and sewing. While the house-girls washed clothes, swept and ironed, wives attended to important communal tasks, providing welfare for the floating population of up to four hundred aborigines.
Consequently, during childhood, I did not perform mundane chores such as bed-making or washing dishes. The male kids ran wild in our 3,000 square km backyard, which contained the Finke River and James Ranges.
In common with other children at Hermannsburg, I grew up with three languages, in three different cultures, in three totally different societies. This was certainly not the norm in Australia in the 30s but we did not know that. I spoke German to my parents, English to visitors, and Aranda (the local aboriginal language) to the natives. Mother mentioned that one Christmas; carol singing around the tree utilised all three, sometimes simultaneously by different singers.
All of the original Mission houses were built on the north bank of the Finke. The main watercourse was a half kilometre away and only once in my memory did it flood to our vegetable garden, on the lower bank of the river. Several mature date palms and grapevines produced perennial crops. The dates, planted around 1878, were over 10 metres high and we began eating the fruit when the dates turned yellow, and when fully ripe, were obliged to pick them to share with others. Access was gained by a rope attached to the crown, which enabled us to `walk’ up the trunk by pulling hand over hand on the rope
This garden provided virtually the only vegetables available for our table, apart from onions and potatoes. In the early days foods not produced on the Mission were ordered from Adelaide, and could take up to three months to arrive. Refrigeration was not available, but this was of no concern as we pulled carrots, kohlrabi, corn or other ripe vegetables from the garden and ate them raw while barely missing a stride on our way to some new adventure.
Coffee was far too expensive so Mother browned wheat and barley grains in the oven and when ground, used them as a substitute.
To beat the summer heat we spent much time swimming. Underwear or bathing costumes were unheard of so being naked was a natural thing. This made it difficult for parents to have children decently attired for church on Sundays. I remember a photo session when Mission staff and their offspring were to have a group shot taken. Martin Albrecht, the youngest son of the Reverend, refused to be properly dressed and kept escaping. The orderly rows of adults and children slowly disintegrated amid parents’ cajoling, threats, and children’s tears. After much turmoil, Martin escaped to the high country, shedding his Sunday clothes as he fled. Ultimately, the photo session was abandoned. I suspect Martin got more than soup that night as a leather strap across the backside was the usual discipline for me, and the Albrechts used similar methods.
The Mission, having been founded by German Lutherans, employed dedicated Christians from South Australia and Victoria. Most Lutheran Church services were still conducted in German, although many of the congregation were second, and in my case, third generation Australian born. I suspect that few of us Mission kids understood much of the ecclesiastical nuances of German services. The Aranda language versions frequently preached on the Mission also did little - except try our patience. The mental torture was also matched by physical, after being forced to wear shoes too narrow for our wide, normally unrestrained feet.
The reward of a Sunday roast still seemed light years away at the beginning of the sermon. Much imagination and restraint was necessary to avoid being carried outside in disgrace amid the disparaging eyes of mothers who had taught their children to behave!
Naturally, grace was always said before and after meals. The evening meal was followed by reading from an approved devotion book. This was in German until the war years when it was considered politic to switch to English. I believe those whose education had been conducted in German found it hard to make the change.
During my childhood days the Mission contained four large houses for married staff and boarders, separate bachelor and visitor rooms, the church and a morgue. Also, an aboriginal school, workshops, tannery, meat house, dispensary and kitchen cum mess for aboriginal children. In time, permanent houses were built for responsible aboriginal leaders.
White staff oversaw the growing of vegetables for the aboriginals in a large dedicated garden. In my day I believe five or six cattle were killed and butchered every week. Free meat was distributed to the sick and aged, women, children and workers early on Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings. White families had a choice of free beef and so tongue, brains, heart, liver, kidney, as well as the normal fillets, were staple fare at our table. The disadvantage – there was beef or more beef unless an expensive tin was opened or one of Mother’s chickens lost its head. Sometimes a goat from the Mission herd was butchered. I remember one occasion when several visiting church leaders dined at our table.
`Delicious meal Mrs Latz, lovely lamb,’ commented one and the others agreed.
`Sorry, but there are no sheep in the Territory,’ my mother said innocently. `That was goat you ate tonight. It’s a treat for us, after months of beef.’
On hearing this, the guests rushed outside and vomited. We could not begin to understand such people.
When the men branded and castrated calves in the nearby stockyard we joined them unless constrained by schoolwork. The `rocky mountain oysters’, bulls balls were thrown over the rails, caught and cooked in the fire used to heat branding irons. They were a delicacy that my aboriginal friends and I greatly enjoyed.
Milk could only be obtained from cows in calf, or goats. I was fortunate to be weaned on goats’ milk, which is supposedly superior to cows. With no electricity or fridges, Mother’s homemade butter and cheese could be kept at a reasonable temperature in our cool safe. This cooler, also known as a Coolgardie or drip safe, comprised four walls about 10 cm thick containing lumps of charcoal, held in place by chicken wire inside and out. The top held a water tray with hessian bags draped over the outside edge of the safe. These acted as wicks, keeping the charcoal sides damp while evaporation kept the inside cool. One side of the safe was hinged to form a door. During humid weather, the cooling process slowed and food could go mouldy. Fortunately, this occurred infrequently. Meat was salted to preserve it. Originally, salt was gathered from dry lakes 320 kilometres to the south and transported to the Mission by camel.
Pioneer women had to be tough and enterprising. My mother suffered health problems all her life and writes of being very distressed when the mercury stayed above the century (38C) for weeks on end. Having only a wood stove on which to cook did not help either. Often, in the warmer months we slept on the front lawn; it was just too hot to sleep inside.
When mother received an inheritance from her father, it was used to purchase a kerosene refrigerator, which cost £65 ($130) in 1939. As Father’s salary was only just over £100 per annum ($200), it could not have been afforded otherwise. This was the first refrigeration unit on the Mission, and the Albrecht’s `rented’ one daily tray of iceblocks for which they paid sixpence (50 cents) a week.
My parents’ long working hours and other privations went unnoticed by us children as we were well fed, watered, much loved and enjoyed great freedom. Whether their Missionary efforts were misguided or not is for others to judge, we were just busy having fun as kids.
Mother recorded that at age four I began asking difficult questions about religion and the beginning of life. At this age I was also caught smoking, having `borrowed’ some of father’s cigarettes. A lecture on stunting one’s growth had no effect for the following morning I was dobbed in by the housegirls who saw me puffing away again. It seems I had four Red Capstans before breakfast, which did not blunt my appetite, at least according to her diary entry. Her next sentence deals with my punishment – the strap. I don’t remember getting the strap across my backside for stealing cigarettes but I do remember that a very careful climb was required to reach the cigarette tin, stored inside a cupboard on a shelf one and a half metres above the floor.
At about this time in my life, the Japanese bombed Darwin. The adults were very concerned. When WW II was declared in 1939, Hermannsburg did not hear of the news for weeks. Ration cards appeared and mother kept serial No. S 679585 for tea and butter, with my name typed on it. On one of our rare visits (the Mission now had a vehicle) to the Alice in 1942, air raid sirens sounded. I was five and can remember the town being evacuated. We drove some kilometres out and parked under a tree. I was disappointed when nothing happened – no Japanese aircraft, no bombs falling, no explosions in town, so I resorted to chasing lizards.
I now know that Alice Springs was beyond the range of Japanese carrier borne aircraft but the civilian population was probably unaware of this. Perhaps the Australian Military were rehearsing for a worst case scenario.
The bombing also resulted in Military Intelligence sharpening their pencils and visiting Hermannsburg to check on the German speaking staff. The local Head of Intelligence thumbed through the same diary I have quoted, but until May 1940 Mum wrote in German - with odd bits of English thrown in. She was asked to verbally translate parts of her own diary and letters from family. Honour was satisfied and Intelligence could report that the Mission had been searched, the staff interviewed and checked for evidence of subversive activity.
Hysterical speculation was mollified by the appointment of an Independent Protector of Aboriginals –a spy to spy on supposed spies. Mr Rex Battarbee, our Protector, was wounded in the First World War, took up art and became a respected watercolour artist. Prior to the bombing in Darwin, he had been our boarder for several years, between painting trips out bush.
As a child I remember Rex having a bent left wrist and a deformed hand. He was a gentle soul, sometimes giving us sweets. As chronicled in books on the aboriginal art movement, Rex taught Albert Namatjira to paint in watercolours. This occurred during a trip when Albert was Rex’s camel boy.
The Rev. Albrecht, arranged this opportunity to help Albert begin painting. The Reverend felt this could lead to a greater acceptance of aboriginals, even to providing them a source of income. During the early days of the aboriginal art movement my mother served on the Mission Arts Advisory Council. I remember our house being littered with paintings. Mission staff evaluated and priced them, before being sent to exhibitions in capital cities. This inevitably led to accusations that the Mission was profiteering from these works which was not the case. To avoid criticism, the Mission completely disengaged from aboriginal artwork sales and monetary affairs. Prior to his watercolour painting, I believe my father taught Albert Namatjira to blacksmith.
Christmas in 1938, saw Mother and I travelling south to Port Augusta on the weekly Ghan passenger service. This train had replaced the Afghan camel teams previously plying the route although there appears to be some contention as to why it was called The Ghan. Conditions in the third Class carriages were primitive. The only sustenance available was water – and even that managed to dry up on occasion. We carried food and bedding for the scheduled three-day journey. Only hard wooden seats were provided, so children slept under them, being safer. Others slept whenever and wherever they could, often treated to drunken behaviour and foul language by male travellers who indulged at the frequent hotels along the line. As the couplings between carriages had a lot of slack, severe jolting occurred with passengers thrown on top of each other. A hot drink could be hazardous, except when the train was stationary. Making tea entailed a two hundred metre walk through the dust to the front of the train, where hot water was passed down by the engine driver. Luckily, stops were frequent and often lasted for several hours.
With small children, 40°C heat and dusty soot blowing in the windows, it was stressful travelling for mothers. Sleepers and a dining car were available but we could not afford such luxuries.
It was an arduous journey for my pregnant mother, with me just 22 months old. Her sister, on leave from mission work in New Guinea, was already at the family home. Their happy reunion was marred by complications at my brother’s birth. An obstruction caused my first brother to be stillborn.
In January 1940 Mother had a curette performed in the Alice and became pregnant again later that year. One benefit of the war was that a fully equipped hospital was built in the Alice, supplemented with Army Doctors to cater for troops. X-rays taken at 7 months into the pregnancy indicated possible complications at birth. When Mother began having pains a few weeks later a radio call brought the Flying Doctor and she was flown to the Alice as a precaution. This occurred just before the Mission’s radios were confiscated for being a potential source of `spying’. It was her first flight; the aircraft being a specially outfitted Tiger Moth bi-plane. These aircraft normally had two open cockpits, one behind the other, which required occupants to wear a helmet and goggles in flight, as I did when learning to fly Tigers 18 years later. Connellan’s aircraft was modified to allow carriage of a stretcher behind the pilot and a perspex canopy enclosed both areas. Mother later wrote that she enjoyed the flight, even though the aircraft behaved like a bucking horse in the turbulence from thunderstorms.
I had been asking for a brother for some time and happily Peter arrived safely on April 5th, 1941, the same date as our father’s birthday. It was an induced birth and neither the Sister nor Doctor were present when Peter decided to appear. Mother wrote that she was very proud to have done it all on her own. She was now 32 years old and father 45.
After wanting a brother to play with, it seems I was not happy with the attention he received, becoming a difficult child. This is when I took up smoking and copped the strap after repeat offences. I must have sensed that father favoured my young brother who was gentler, more affectionate and less trouble. So I bullied and picked on him and got belted for it. Mother’s diary entry reads,
`With Peter, generally words are quite enough.’ `Talk about the many and severe thrashings Philip had to have.’
She also records that I was afraid of rain. It was such an unusual event that I rushed inside screaming after a few drops fell on me. I still recall that it, extraordinarily, once rained for 2 days and nights without stopping. Another unusual occasion was once having great difficulty finding my way home during a severe dust storm. I made it into the Mission compound before the swirling dust reduced visibility to several metres. The last hundred metres to our house took a long, long time – being largely a matter of feel. If I opened my eyes they filled with sand. It sounds rather silly to be lost fifty metres from home, but this incident taught me a valuable lesson.
Early in May 1942 Mother became pregnant but miscarried at eleven weeks. This happened at home with Reverend Gross’s wife attending. Mother wrote that thanks to a bedpan at least the bed was not messed up. Mother’s sister in South Australia also miscarried at about the same time and Mother mentions that sharing the knowledge of this misfortune made them both feel better.
After another pregnancy in 1943, Mother went to Alice Springs for the confinement early in January 1944. Again, her penchant for a quick performance resulted in neither nurse nor doctor being present at the 9 p.m. birth. While other patients in the ward tried to contact Sister Kerr, Mother sat up to look at her newborn. She noticed a purplish-blue raised blister on his spine. Sister arrived a minute or two after Norman’s first and only cry and immediately called for the Doctor. He arrived quickly and while examining the baby mother asked him what the blister was. He evaded her question. Then, after Sister asked for Mother’s religion, she queried the doctor again and he admitted that Norman was a spina bifida child.
Because it was thought that Norman might only live for a day, Kurt Johannsen drove out to Hermannsburg that night, collected my Father and Rev. Albrecht and was back in the Alice by 7 a.m. It was a valiant effort on his part. My twelve hour old brother was christened and Mother wrote:
`It was a great comfort to us to have our poor little darling received into the kingdom of God in preparation for the return to the heavenly home.’
A distressing conclusion to what should have been a happy event. My sad parents drove back to the Mission, waiting for the inevitable. Mother visited Norman in hospital several times over the next few months, only to see his condition worsening. She did not feed or nurse him, it was felt this would have made matters worse for her. Luckily mother’s brother, Adolf Pech, had been drafted into the Army and happened to be serving in the Alice at the time. He visited the hospital, checked Norman’s condition and reported to my parents.
Norman died ten weeks after birth and was buried in the Hermannsburg cemetery. I helped carry the cross and led the funeral procession through the parched sand to his grave. This event remains one of my early memories but I was not badly affected as I had never seen Norman.
Mother became pregnant again in mid year. It seems that was never a problem even with father frequently away from home. Being responsible for around three thousand head of cattle, father spent a lot of time mustering, branding and droving them to the Alice. He also often accompanied them south on the cattle train. General supervision of the welfare of the stock, stockmen and their horses left little time for us. He was also the general handyman at the Mission and was respected by the aboriginals. They worked well for him, which was not always the case with other supervisors.
Mother, as a good Mission-wife, spent much of her time working for the welfare of the community. Church dignitaries, V.I.P.s and ordinary visitors had to be `put up.’ We invariably had boarders living in the house and accommodated numerous visitors at our table. She also managed to maintain our vegetable garden.
Mother was also responsible for the school clothing of about 80 aboriginal children (they obviously could not attend a Mission school naked) and making soap for washing. At one stage, as a public service, she even catered for weekly tourist buses.
Then of course, there was the family. Bread and cakes had to baked, fruit and vegetables preserved, butter and cheese made, and the vinegar producing plant in the cellar fed. Tucker boxes had to be packed for Father’s constant trips away and it was left to Mother to organise aboriginal staff during his absence. She also had to care for, and keep us from running totally wild. Stocks of home remedies were kept to cater for gastric problems, sore throats and bung eyes infected by the myriad flies. Sometimes she supervised and helped with our correspondence school lessons. All this was mentioned in her diary and she sometimes despaired at getting through the day. Especially with the temperature in the 40’s and no air-conditioning.
In May 1945 my brother Melvin was born at the Alice hospital. The birth occurred in the middle of the morning shift change, so this time there were people everywhere. All went well, and soon Mother was home nursing him.
Early in September Melvin became ill and began constantly vomiting. The radio transceivers had been confiscated, so the Doctor in Alice Springs could not be called. After a few days without improvement Mother decided that Melvin should be taken to hospital. Father was away, so a man had to be sent out on horseback to find him and pass on the urgent message. Mother, Father, and Melvin eventually got to the Alice by road, where Melvin was operated on immediately.
It was too late. Their fourth baby son did not recover. It appears his gut had twisted and blocked. A bitter blow, a radio call would probably have saved him.
At the age of eight, I must have become accustomed to my brothers dying. I have no special memory of Melvin’s passing. However, some forty years later I visited his grave while on a visit to Alice Springs and bawled my eyes out. Mother’s diary is blank from the period after Melvin’s birth, until April 1947, when my brother Tony was born in the Alice. The memory of Melvin’s passing was obviously too painful for her to write about.
Growing up with the aboriginals we naturally learnt to use spears and boomerangs, to hunt animals, find water and other tricks of survival in the desert.
At age three, as described in my Mother’s diary, Paul Albrecht, (who was later to become Field Superintendent of the Alice Springs Mission area), and I were throwing kids’ spears during an outing to Palm Valley. While fooling around his spear hit me between my right eye and nose. A few millimetres difference and I would have lost the eye! I still bear the scar, and sometimes wonder what my life would have been with one eye.
From an early age all of us kids threw things, not at targets as in hockey or archery but at each other. This sharpened the reflexes and was a prelude to hunting. This illustrates, to me, how seriously the natives regarded survival training. This early grounding in mental attitudes served me well in later life, saving my skin many times.
Our spears were made from oleander shoots, straightened and tempered in hot sand under a fire. Green bamboo was cut to make a woomera or throwing stick, one end being sliced open to accept the spear that butted against the `stopper’ found in all bamboo stalks.
A rather nasty weapon was devised using a whippy young gum-shoot about one metre long, and wet clay. A small handful of clay was pressed on to the thin end of the gum shoot. Whip cracking this stick resulted in the clay `bullet’ flying off, emitting a whistling sound. With practise, reasonable accuracy could be achieved.
A `killing’ hit could not be disguised on the `whiteys’ as bruises remained for several days, evidence of failure to survive an attack. These games were conducted one on one or with as many boys who cared to join the battle. It was part ritual warfare, part hunting practise.
Our aboriginal friends taught us to hunt in the traditional way. Most of the white kids had a young aboriginal `boy’ companion who came with us when we went on our walkabouts. One of mine was Davey Inkamala, who later became an ordained Pastor in our church. For teaching us to track and kill game, find water, show us which plants were safe to eat and other bushcraft, they shared our lunch. The association probably also conferred some status in their own community.
We caught, cooked and ate lizard, snake, rabbits, fish, birds, witchetty grubs plus native figs, tomatoes and other edible flora. The cooking method for meat, when on walkabout, was quick and uncomplicated. This is what we did:
1.Catch and kill the prey.
2. Get a good fire going, preferably on clean white river sand.
Method:
Fish – push part of the fire aside and make a small hole in the hot sand. Place fish in hole, cover lightly with sand and push fire back over fish. Wait a few minutes (go catch another fish), then retrieve from under fire. Place fish on a rock or green leaves and peel off skin. The lovely moist flesh falls off the bones and into ones mouth. Delicious!
Witchetty Grubs - As for fish.
Birds – finches, budgies, parrots - as for fish but burn off the feathers first.
Lizards, snakes, rabbits, as for fish but remove the stomach and intestines and burn off the fur. Adjust fire size and cooking time to suit animal size and degree of hunger.
It’s that simple, and the food tastes wonderfully fresh when cooked in it’s own juices. The skin or scales keep the meat clean, while fish gut shrivels. I think it’s the only way to eat freshwater bony bream as the flesh does not stick to the hundreds of tiny bones as in most other cooking methods.
The trick in eating witchetty grubs is to grasp the head with finger and thumb, head up, body hanging down, then tilting ones head and lowering the grub into the mouth. Bite lightly just behind the head, and pull upward. The head detaches, taking the gut with it, leaving a mouthful of sweet meat, tasting something like a chicken omelette. Cooking is optional for grubs.
Catching witchetty’s entailed serious work. Standing under a gum tree, we looked for a small circular sawdust patch on otherwise smooth bark. Finding this, we climbed the tree, carrying a tomahawk. With luck, a circular bored tunnel is found above the sawdust, eaten out by the grub. When the grub is upstream, it’s necessary to hook it out by inserting a forked grass stem and catching the grub on the barb like a fish.
On occasion branches broke and we fell. The tomahawk presented the only danger so it was thrown clear and then we dealt with the descent. If unable to catch another branch, practise enabled us to land on our feet undamaged. We did not pursue the grubs that lived underground in the roots of a witchetty bush. Digging them out was traditionally women’s work.
Birds were killed with a slingshot when they came to drink at a waterhole. We sat still in a bush at the waters edge and when a flock of finches or budgies landed we let fly. At Latz’s Dam, thousands of budgies came to drink in the mornings and evenings; this being the only water for many kilometres. The flocks were so thick that we just stood on the dam wall and threw a stone in the air when they flew over. One or two budgies invariably fell at our feet, unable to dodge the stone before flying into it and knocking themselves out. Only the parrot family of birds were taken, they being vegetarian.
Rabbits were most easily caught by carefully placing a noose at the entrance to a burrow, which tightened around their necks as they ran in. When successful, the bunny was dragged out and cooked.
Fishing was rewarding when the floodwaters of the Finke River subsided. The previously muddy water became clear and fish travelled upstream between waterholes searching for mates or a new home. We waited for them at shallow patches of flowing water, armed with the wires used for killing snakes in the house. After sighting a school, our wires hit the water heavily, hopefully stunning some fish. We chased the school as they made for deep water, hitting wildly. After the fish escaped, it was time to collect and cook the stunned victims. This was great sport, as the Finke usually only flowed in summer.
At another time bows and arrows became the `in’ weapons. We made them ourselves. Mother’s oleander hedge yielded arrow shafts. Saplings were fire tempered and chicken feathers used as flights. With a bit of help from the garage, established to cater for increasing mechanisation, we became young Robin Hoods. This was one weapon we were not allowed to use on each other. Catching game proved elusive, as homemade arrows crafted by a child’s labour were rather unpredictable in flight.
Crows were a special hate as they spoiled some of Mother’s hard work in the garden. We caught them with a springy two metre long gum or oleander shoot, some string and a piece of meat. One end of the shoot was firmly buried, the other bent over, and using a bit of string, carefully hooked to a previously buried notched stick. The bait and a noose attached to the free end of the gum shoot completed the trap. When a crow pulled on the meat, the `trigger’ mechanism released the tensioned shoot, which usually lassoed the crow while straightening. It was not killed but securely tied upside down on a fence post. Crows don’t like this and shout, bringing their friends, who alight on the same post to see what the problem is. The inverted crow locks on to the visiting crow with clawed feet, refusing to let go. After forcibly removing the upper crow, it was dispatched. Usually, three of four crows were caught in this manner before the tribe departed, leaving the one tied to the post to fend for itself. This unfortunate crow was spot painted with any colour other than black and released. The confusion this caused kept crows away for weeks. Some will no doubt condemn our actions but it was either the crows or us that ate.
At around ten years old, I became seriously lost on one walkabout. Having been temporarily lost before, I knew that by avoiding panic, I would eventually recognize my surroundings. This time I was exploring alone in new territory and lost my bearings and landmarks, probably due to inattention. I was in the James Ranges, in a dry rocky area with the sun high in the sky on a warm day. My route had been mainly over bare rock, so back tracking was a waste of time. While climbing the nearest high hill, I fixed in my mind the small valley surrounding me. On arriving at the top of the hill, I could not recognise the landscape. The situation was becoming serious. I had to choose a direction to walk and be prepared to come back to my present position and try again. My first reconnaissance proved fruitless and I returned to the hilltop hot, tired and with an empty water bottle. The sun was now giving me a better hint of direction and I chose a route at 90 degrees to my first foray. This time I was able to travel further before losing my base reference hilltop. To extend my view, I climbed a tree. Imagine my relief as I recognised the black, burnt tree trunk I had passed mid morning. Careful now, keep your head and line up the best route before rushing off.
My memorising, identifying topography and navigating skills, developed at an early age, proved invaluable in commercial flying activities on many continents later in my life.
Eventually reaching my beloved Finke, I was parched, but in a dry stretch of river. Using my aboriginal training I chose a likely bend and dug into the hot white sand. Twenty centimetres down the sand became cool. Further digging resulted in water flowing into my hole - salty but drinkable.
I was subdued at dinner that night.
`Are you alright?’ asked Mother.
`A bit tired mum, I had a long walk today.’
I would not admit to getting badly lost for fear of restrictions being placed on my freedom.
We instinctively learnt to navigate during our forays with the aboriginals. Years later I read Harold Gatty’s book; `Nature is Your Guide,’ printed by Collins in 1958. He wrote that `primitive’ aboriginals in many countries use an entirely different system of navigation than that employed by `civilised’ travellers with compasses. Put simply, modern man relies on knowing where he is now, whereas aboriginals based their travels on knowing where they were in relation to `home’. The aboriginals’ remarkable path finding powers used highly developed powers of observation that Gatty, a famed navigator himself, said `civilised’ man has long since lost. For aboriginals, it was a life or death issue, both in finding game and when travelling in featureless and waterless desert areas.
Jared Diamond, the scientist and historical writer, in his book Guns, Germs and Steel, has this to say about Australian aboriginal societies:
`As of 40,000 years ago Native Australian societies enjoyed a head start over societies of Europe and the other continents. Native Australians developed some of the earliest known stone tools with ground edges, the earliest stone axe heads mounted on handles and by far the earliest watercraft in the world. Some of the oldest known paintings on rock surfaces come from Australia.’
He also says that `Stone Age’ peoples were on the average probably more intelligent, not less intelligent, than industrialized people.
Diamond mentions studies that show irreversible mental stunting associated with reduced childhood stimulation such as when children are largely entertained by television and radio. Also, in white societies, thanks to modern medicine, regressive genes may be passed on whereas in `primitive’ tribes these genes may not have survived adolescence, and probably only in rare cases were likely to breed. To put it simply, possibly only the intelligent and healthy genes were passed on in so called primitive societies.
As a child I found my aboriginal friends to be very intelligent. My acquaintances spoke two, and in some cases, three languages. They survived in an environment in which whites could not, without assistance from outside. Their society was structured to optimise this, to the extent of not allowing the weaker of twins to live, so the stronger had a chance of survival. All food was shared with the older members of the tribe. For it was they who passed on cultural and hunting skills to the young boys, ensuring continuity of knowledge.
We always went hunting barefoot as shoes cost money and never seemed to fit our wide feet. Some prickles penetrated our thick soles, but worse, during the cold, dry winters, our bare feet suffered. Some mornings, ice could still be found beneath a dripping tap at ten am. The cold ground plus not wearing shoes resulted in our deeply cracked feet bleeding and becoming very painful. I believe treatment with salve was the remedy but it took time for the skin to grow back over the raw fissures.
Conversely, in summer, the sand became so hot that long stretches were covered at speed between patches of shade. In extremis, we sat down and furiously waved feet in the air and hoped they cooled sufficiently before our bottoms were cooked.
During a visit by a group of VIP’s, I decided to show off my desert toughness. After finding a few large safety pins, I stuck them through the hide on the soles of my feet. When walking over our flagstone floors, these made a clicking sound.
`Philip, why do your bare feet make that funny sound?’ one asked.
`It’s the safety pins.’
`What?’
I showed them the soles of my feet and they shook their heads.
I scampered away smiling, leaving them to mutter about the strange habits of these wild Mission kids.
For people and the Mission to survive, every blade of grass and each gallon of water was precious. When possible, any animals we saw that were not our cows or working horses were shot. Kangaroos, emus, turkeys and any other edible game ended up on someone’s table. Old or disabled stock horses, having worked all their lives, were not put out to pasture, they were shot as well. I won’t attempt to explore the morality of this; it was just considered normal at the time.
Many visitors were keen to try their marksmanship on game such as brumbies (wild horses) and kangaroos. I remember one outing with a tourist keen to shoot anything. We came across a large scrub bull. Unfortunately, his first shot did not disable the beast and the angry wounded bull charged our Land Rover. Dad frantically accelerated while dodging trees, anthills and other obstructions in scrubby bushland. Our visitor shot wildly as we bounced over the rough ground. The beast gained on us, and with the rifle almost up the bull’s nostril, another shot sounded and the bull crashed to the ground. It was the last bullet in the magazine. Our visitor, after having such a fright, gave up shooting.
In 1946, Mother, my brother Peter and I went to the airstrip to be filmed as part of a United Nations documentary. The UN team were recording the modern way in which our school lessons travelled. A Connellan Airways De Haviland Rapide aircraft arrived as scheduled. The five man crew who had filmed us for the past week at the Mission, set up the shoot and recorded the handing over of mailbags and freight. On completion, the crew thanked us and boarded the aircraft. We remained to watch the aircraft depart.
It was a hot day and the heavily loaded aircraft barely cleared the mulga trees at the end of the strip. We were horrified to see it fall into the trees and disappear amid the sound of breaking timber, followed by a deathly silence. Thankfully, no smoke or flames appeared and on arriving at the wreckage, we found the passengers and pilot shaken and bruised but otherwise unhurt. The pilot, Cecil Parsons DFC, had put the nose of the aircraft between two trees, which mangled the wings and stopped the aircraft but did not damage the passenger cabin. My mother, as a witness, was required to give evidence to the accident investigators and we backed up her statement.
Strangely, years later, I was a passenger in a Connellan’s Cessna which would have crashed in virtually the same place had I not shouted instructions to the inexperienced pilot.
On occasion, American warplanes flying from Darwin to Alice drifted off course and seeing a large airstrip below at around their expected arrival time, landed to find out where they were. These were exciting occasions for us young children, looking at real bombers with guns sticking out. These exposures to aircraft early in my life planted seeds that eventually blossomed.
In April, 1947 Mother went to hospital for another confinement. She wrote that the day before Tony Latz was born she attended the Alice Springs races with the Heenan family. Mr. Casey, the former Governor of Bengal, was also present. On the following day Mr. Casey visited the hospital and met all the new mothers. `I’m a mother of men’ she said, having produced half a dozen. Mother recovered well and soon returned to the Mission. Her diary notes that Tony was a similar type to me and that we got on well. I did not persecute him as I had my first brother, Peter.
On one occasion I was required to make a statement and be prepared to give evidence in the Alice Springs Court. I was eight at the time and had witnessed, from a distance, an adult male aboriginal attempt to sexually assault a young white female as she walked home from a swim in the Finke. I waited in a small bare room with my mother, but was not called to give evidence. After being tried by our system, the aboriginal concerned was dealt with by his elders. The sentence was a public flogging, administered by a shamed relative, and that was the end of it. Painful for the accused, but less severe than a spear through the thigh, a common tribal punishment for such an offence.
That incident meant white girls now had to be accompanied by white males when bathing. Our usual swimming hole was a kilometre away, so this required some coordination. During hot weather, the boys swam frequently, as did a lot of the aboriginal kids. None of us had bathing costumes, and being pre adolescent, we all swam naked together. Gender or sex was not considered until one day when a group of us white kids were bathing and someone started the game of `You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.’ Innocent, but the awareness of sex began. This episode must have been mentioned to a parent, and after that mixed white bathing was chaperoned by an adult. This did not stop discussions about gender and all the girls said they would rather be boys, as men could pee while standing.
At times, fighting occurred among the aboriginals at the Mission. It often seemed to be among the women who belted each other with their hardwood digging sticks or `nulla nullas.’ These were about 60 centimetre long, pointed, and normally used for digging out bulbs, grubs and honey ants. I remember holding the light while Sister S. Lindner patched up a scalp that looked much like a skinned bleeding pumpkin. While being treated, the injured woman was still jabbering away about how she wanted to kill her opponent.
On another occasion I was Sister Lindner’s patient. While being chased, I jumped a fence and landed on a jagged stake, tearing a deep hole in my right thigh. I ran home with blood running down my leg. Mother controlled the bleeding and sent for Sister. I lay on my parents’ double bed and read the Chronicle while Sister pulled splinters out of my leg. I suspect she was more nervous than me as it was her first attempt at stitching a wound. Her hands shook while threading the shiny curved needle.
`Is it numb yet?’ she asked while prodding my thigh.
I felt sick all over and didn’t know how it was to feel numb so thought it best to agree.
Sister was a short slim lass who barely cast a shadow. I felt sorry for her as she struggled to push the needle through my tough muscles. It hurt like hell but I would not cry – it is not the aboriginal tradition. Pain can be ignored, which I had learnt to do to a large extent. Nine stitches were needed and the last few did not hurt much as the local anaesthetic had taken effect. I could not keep still so the scar stretched to two centimetres wide and the stitch marks are still visible 60 years later. When an official form asks for `any distinguishing marks,’ I invariably forget this scar and the barely visible spear wound on the side of my nose.
After recovering from my torn thigh, I resumed walkabouts with my aboriginal mate and badly grazed my shin while chasing game.
`Hey, better you stop that blood,’ my friend said.
`How?’
`You piss on it.’
The aboriginals’ knew all about survival so I trusted his wisdom. My urine stung a bit but the bleeding stopped. It was a useful trick to know and I have used it many times since. Deeper wounds were filled with mud or sand and we stood still for a few minutes until the blood clotted. It could be properly treated at home an hour or six later but in the meantime the wound would not be allowed to interrupt our days fun.
We climbed anything and scrambled up vertical rock faces using bare fingers and toes, to test our skills and sometimes to get at ripe wild figs. There was no kids’ playground; exploring the countryside and playing with spears or whatever was at hand sufficed. I recall getting into trouble once for ripping the bottom out of my shorts on a protruding nail while using our galvanised iron house roof as a slide.
Another game the aboriginals taught us probably prepared me for aerobatics. First we rolled an old truck tyre to the top of a steep-sided hill close to the Mission. Then one of us curled up inside the tyre while another held it upright. Tyre and occupant were launched down the hillside. The winner travelled the greatest distance before falling out of the tyre – up to sixty metres from the bottom of the hill on a good day. This speedy spinning must have either scrambled or strengthened our brains.
Us kids were happiest out in the bush and if a day trip with the men was possible, school was abandoned, lunches demanded and we went off for nature study. Correspondence School could be caught up with on another day. Our supervisor, Miss Mona Kennedy (now Kramer) kept order and organisation among the half dozen white children of school age. Our work was done in a spare room with attached veranda at the Albrecht’s house. Three months could elapse from the time we began an assignment until our corrected lessons were returned. By then, my spelling mistakes were ingrained and I continue to have difficulty in this area.