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Great Victoria Stories
Great Victoria Stories
Great Victoria Stories
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Great Victoria Stories

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Master storyteller Bill 'Swampy' Marsh travels our wide brown land collecting yarns and memories from the authentic voices of rural Australia. the people you will meet in these stories will touch your heart as Swampy brings to life all the drama and delight of life in the outback. By turns frightening, hilarious, wonderful, tragic and poignant, these tales are sure to get you in, hook, line and sinker.
LanguageEnglish
Release dateJul 1, 2011
ISBN9780730498674
Great Victoria Stories
Author

Bill Marsh

Bill ‘Swampy' Marsh is an award-winning writer/performer of stories, songs and plays. Based in Adelaide, he is best known for his successful Great Australian series of books published with ABC Books: More Great Australian Flying Doctor Stories (2007), Great Australian Railway Stories (2005), Great Australian Droving Stories (2003), Great Australian Shearing Stories (2001), and Great Australian Flying Doctor Stories (1999).

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    Great Victoria Stories - Bill Marsh

    All for Me Grog

    I was eighteen when I joined the army, back in July 1942. Then, after our initial training was completed at Woodside Army Barracks, the orders came through from higher up in the chain that we were to be transferred to Canungra, south of Brisbane, before heading up to Ravenshoe, on the tablelands of north-eastern Queensland.

    To that end we packed up all our gear and forwarded it on before catching the train over to the Melbourne suburb of Watsonia. All went exactly to plan so, when we arrived, we marched straight over to the railway station, ready and eager to board the train north. But, typical army fashion, there’d been some sort of mix-up from higher up in the chain of command and we’d arrived twenty-four hours early. So, with our gear heading north and us with nowhere else to go, we turned around and marched back to Watsonia, to spent the night without any clothing or anything.

    The trip up north proved to be a real experience, especially with all the changes of rail gauge. What a mess that was. Typical state government parochialism — something they could never sort out. Every time we came to a state border, not only us passengers but, also, all the freight had to be transferred. So, trucks, tanks, vehicles, everything had to be lifted off one train and placed onto another, and it was all done by a combination of rudimentary equipment and bare hands.

    Still, eventually we got to the Brisbane suburb of Indooroopilly, which was our last stop before we moved down to Canungra. There again, typical army, there’d been some sort of mix-up by those higher up in the chain and we’d been expected for breakfast at 5 am, but we arrived at 9 am, causing our much-awaited feast of bacon and eggs to be cold and congealed.

    Then after our stint at Canungra we stayed overnight at the Exhibition Grounds, in Brisbane, before heading up to the Tablelands. At that stage we thought we were going to Burma, but that never eventuated. Perhaps there’d been another mix-up. But we did head north and it was while we were passing through Townsville that we came across a southbound freight train that happened to be carrying grog. Of course, with typical Australian ingenuity, somebody nabbed an eight-gallon keg of beer. The only trouble was, the provos — the military police — somehow got wind that there was this keg of beer on our train. Anyhow, the provos pulled up our train and they decided to search for this keg. Of course, being wartime, both the army and the railways had a strict timetable to keep — as I said, everything had to run like clockwork — so, after the provos had boarded the train, they told the driver to continue on the journey.

    Now, in the Australian army, it was a matter of principle that the provos were to be ‘cordially’ hated. That was without question. They also had this reputation of not being a particularly bright mob. And it was this perceived lack of brightness that was just what we needed, because the provos decided to begin their search at the front of the train and systematically work their way through the eight or so carriages until they got to the back. Now, being Australians, it was out of the question that we’d ditch the keg while there was any grog remaining. So our only chance was to set up the keg in the last dogbox — compartment — in the last carriage then stall the progress of the provos while we got to it and knocked off the beer. Everybody was in on it. All for one, one for all, and all for me grog.

    As far as the stalling procedure went, the first delaying point — or blockage point, as I’ll call it — was that there were eight of us packed into each dogbox with all our gear and still the provos insisted on looking everywhere, even under the seats, which were not even high enough to conceal a keg. Also in our favour was, with the Queensland trains running on narrow gauge track, the carriages only had a narrow corridor and that also proved to be an ideal blockage point. The other blockage point was the toilets. The provos insisted on searching the toilets. So, suddenly, all the toilets were filled with personnel and, when the provos came knocking, they were greeted with a painfully muffled reply from within explaining how it was impossible for the occupant to vacate the unit because he was suffering from every diarrhoea-causing ailment known and unknown to mankind.

    At each change of rail gauge all the freight had to be lifted off one train and placed onto another — National Railway Museum — Port Adelaide

    Anyhow, while the provos doggedly worked their way back to the end of the train we relaxed and worked our way through this keg of beer. And a nice drop it was, too. And it was with almost a military precision that those higher up in the chain couldn’t seem to manage that we’d just finished the keg and had tossed it off the back of the train when, who should arrive: the provos.

    Bastard, Liar and Thief

    I’m ninety-two, though I haven’t quite made it yet because my birthday’s in a couple of weeks time. So that makes me being born in 1910, the year Comedy King won the Melbourne Cup, and I still live by myself in Branxholme, in south-western Victoria, just south of Hamilton. And they must’ve reckoned that I’ve lived there for so long that they went and they named the street I live in after me. So how’s about that.

    But when I was a youngster, see, I wasn’t too keen on school. I used to run away all the time. When I run away the first time I talked an old schoolmate, Bob Patterson, into running away with me, see. So Bob and me, we run away to a place and, oh there was a good garden there, so we had a big feed of loquats and then we went swimming. Then the next day, when we went back to school, we got a big hiding. We always got hidings. Oh yeah, that Mr Gunning, he used to belt everyone for anything, the girls and all, he did.

    But Bob Patterson only stood that one hiding. He reckoned that it hurt him too much so then I had to talk another bloke into running away with me, Jack Annett. Then I had two hidings, see. But Jack Annett went on to be five times tougher than Bob Patterson because Jack stood five hidings before he quit running away with me, while Bob only stood the one. But I was pretty cunning, see. One time when I run away I turned up the next morning with me arm in a sling. Then another time when the old feller give me a whack I fell over backwards, pretending I was out to it. That put the wind up him.

    So then Mr Gunning left school. And oh, I felt sorry for him because he was dying of cancer, see. Then a new teacher took over. His name was Mr Dunstan. And this Mr Dunstan, gee I liked him. I got on that well with him that I started to get a bit of confidence, doing better and not running away so much.

    Anyway, there was this Roy McKellar that I sat with whenever I was at school, and this Roy, gee he was good at arithmetic. He might go a whole three months without

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