The Long Way Home - Chapter 2 - Another Day in Rockhampton

We have a leak in the van. For the past few weeks we have been managing a trickle of water that appears under the sink in the ensuite area. It started when the fridge appeared to have started defrosting itself as it has in the past, but now having completed the defrosting process, helped along by an hour of no power, followed by removal of ice buildups, but now continues.

The sneaky leak, which while the fridge was defrosting was quite a puddle, now is nothing more than a moist area at the join between the back cupboard and the ensuite area. With the water turned off, both at the tap outside and the water pump, the leak seems to be curtailed. Because of the holiday period any chance of having an expert look at it will have to wait until after they return to work. In the meantime we can deal with it without too much annoyance.

By the time we have a shower and wash up, there will be a fine line of water which will evaporate in the heat of the day.

Rockhampton, like many towns, has its fair share of war memorials. In days gone past it was a staging point for battalions of our youth heading off to war. Our family has served, with many on both sides spending time in the military.

Thankfully conscription was scrapped. It was scrapped by Gough Whitlam well before my number may have come up. That doesn’t mean I wasn’t willing. I had always wanted to fly. During my final year at school in 1976 I applied for the Royal Military College at Duntroon to enter the military. Just before the commencement of the HSC period known as “Stu-vac” my father and I headed to Sydney.

At this point I had passed with flying colours all the entrance requirements. All I needed was to pass the physical.

The train trip was sleepless on the Spirit of Progress all the way to Central Station with the expectation of breezing through the tests and locking in my future in the skies. With an uncle as a Salvation Army Officer, dad’s plan was to stay at the Peoples Palace, which was a short walk to the building of our ultimate destination and close to Central Station. It was closed for renovations at the time so we found a closer motel and settled in.

The next morning, we found out early the military were only taking 5 successful applicants that year and the competition for spots would be fierce. By the end of day one, significantly more than half the applicants had fallen by the wayside but I was still confident.

Back to the motel, I suggested to the lift operator we were off to dinner and rather than taking us to the street, we were deposited on the restaurant floor. While I think dad’s plan (and budget) may have been to eat at a fast food outlet, but we still settled into the restaurant and ate like kings.

The next day, more and more physical tests, which meant more dreams of potential army officers dashed. Down to six, I feel like we are almost there.

The psychological tests are last on the list. The doctors are easy to talk to, asking questions aimed to understand the reasoning behind our applications, and with the need to remove that last applicant.

That last removal from the list, was me! Why? Because I recounted, after answering questions about talking in my sleep (which immediately failed me) , the time I had, according to mum, one one of my sleepwalking episodes. Relaxed from the pressure of competing for the final spot, and with the file on me closed, I was able to recount the episode where I had walked outside the house and bowled several overs, down the side of the house towards a palm tree which was used for that purpose.

It was exactly 22 yards from the path to the tree with enough room for a run up with the front foot landing just short of the concrete. Behind the tree was a 2 metre fence which captured the ball as it passed the tree. There were times when my brother Dave would practice wicket keeping. With no batter it was much safer that way. Having said that, the Buffalo Grass was never rolled and there was a great propensity to “take off” and many was the time we were wandering down the road after a cricket ball which had bounced over the back fence.

The devastation did not set in for a while. Given we were now at a “loose end” having checked out of the motel and waiting for the Spirit of Progress to leave Central Station, dad contacted Uncle Karl and we were taken to Dee Why to catch up with my father’s brother’s family. This was just as exciting to catch up with my cousin Phil was effectively an encounter with my “other brother”

The day finished and we were deposited back to Central Station and onto the Spirit for the trip home. It was then it hit me. 

I had failed in the endeavour of my life’s purpose. I would never fly on my own bat.

Back at school, there was no purpose any more. The HSC Stu-vac about to start and no direction, I resorted to making money and went shearing. Knowing the legendary shearling contractor George Johnson and washing worked for him previously in school holidays, I secured some work rouse-a-bouting in a single stand shed of a close neighbour which then lead to larger sheds after the HSC exams were finished. 

I would leave the shed for the half day of each exam, put in an appearance and return to the shed. If enough hours remained in the day.

Needless to say my results in the HSC were abysmal but that didn’t stop me. But that is a story for another day.

Today we are going looking for monuments and memorials as well as evidence of the military in Rockhampton. Exploring is what we do while we are travelling. Many of the things we see, reminders or prompts to memories of our past create stories to tell.

Stories like the memory of the funeral of my Uncle Harry. His eulogy hinted at his military service, a time in his life as closely guarded secrets to many as to the horrors he had seen. My cousin Roland (his oldest son) recounted one such story which resulted in Uncle Harry writing a report that resulted in the awarding of a Victoria Cross to one of his company. The quizzical quip to end the eulogy was that if someone else of higher rank had seen what happened next, perhaps Uncle Harry may have had one as well as they removed machine gun nests held tight by the enemy in front of them.

That story was very unnerving. 

You watch movies like Enemy at the Gates (2001 Paramount) or Saving Private Ryan (1988 Paramount) and you are disturbed by the massacres, yet in truth, given the incidence of PTSD, the nightmare is much worse. It would seem Uncle Harry dealt with it by compartmentalising the events of the war, rarely ever speaking about them.

We head out in search of places to see, things to do. Firstly evidence of the memorials to our servicemen and women. We head to a swimming pool named for the 42nd Battalion, Royal Australian Regiment to take the first photo, then just wander.

First we pass the Kendrick Tucker memorial velodrome. Although Robyn does not remember the name, I certainly remember his efforts cycling at the Olympics inter alia (among other things for those who have no latin knowledge). The thought of circling the velodrome readying himself for the Commonwealth (where gold was reaped) and the Olympics are brought to mind

The continuing travels take us to the Rockhampton Botanical Gardens which are adjacent to the Rockhampton Zoo. Both require no stipend to enjoy. We walk around the gardens and pay homage at the large war memorial set among the sprawling gardens and large fruit bat colony.

The sprinklers are engulfing the memorial and we get wet as we close in, which in the 34 degree heat is somewhat of a relief. We continue to walk and return to the Cruiser and then continue the wanderings in the comfort of the air conditioned vehicle.

Back at the van we chase up leftovers for dinner and settle into relaxation mode readying ourselves for the move to Gladstone tomorrow. In preparation I contact my cousins suggesting there may be prawns about to descend on them from the exploits of Mackay. Certainly the freezer will enjoy the extra space should we attack the two large bags while we are there.

We do however both have medical issues we need to follow up and a week or so in Gladstone will allow for a procedure as well as recovery time for Robyn.