BLADES II
High Country
(The autobiography of a rescue-helicopter pilot continues)
‘as told to’ J. William Turner
Copyright 2012 by (James) J. William Turner
Smashwords Edition
(Original version copyright 2004 by (James) J. William Turner)
As a boy, I had survived bereavement, homelessness, and severe burns. I had also saved a baby, and found myself a new home and family. Now in my late teens, I was finally able to begin a career in helicopter aviation, while saving the lives of three children and meeting a very special girl.
Chapter One - Learning the Ropes
Chapter Four - Waiting For The Lull
This story is fictional. Any similarity to historical events, or to any person, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional
Other works by J. William Turner:
Dangerous Days I (Storm Ridge)
Dangerous Days II (Paddle Hard)
Dangerous Days III (Outback Heroes)
Dangerous Days IV (Enemies Within)
Blades I (Street Kid)
Blades III (California Dreaming)
Blades IV (Aftermath)
Fat To Fast
Jake’s Magical Easter Adventure
CHAPTER 1 – LEARNING THE ROPES
Saturday, 6 July, 1996 - I moved into the Hill’s home in time for the start of the third term at my new school, Elwood Grammar, two days later. I had promised Arthur that I would study hard, and, having missed two terms, that is what I then did. With some extra after-hours tuition, I was able to catch up by the end of that term. I was grateful for all the support and care coming from the new adults in my life.
The best part of my new life, though, was visits with Brian during every holiday. We took turns to go and stay at the other’s house. Brian came south in April and September, and I went north in January and July. Shane and Maria became like an uncle and aunt, and I was permitted, after a while, to call them by their first names. And as we went through our teenage years, good old Brian was even more of a brother and best friend. But he could still irritate me at times. For instance, he went into puberty several months before I did, even though he’s three months younger. For weeks and weeks, I got explicit e-mails from him about various personal aspects of his sexual maturity and activities in bed before going to sleep as if the kid was obsessed. I didn’t know how much of it was exaggerated, so I would e-mail him back “as if,” and “in your dreams.” At least the bragging had stopped by the time my hormones kicked in.
And so it came as a surprise that throughout his adolescence Brian was like me when it came to romance. He seemed more interested in hanging out with his friends, instead of dating the several girls who flirted with him. For me, it was just shyness and my love of flying and fishing. For a show-off like Brian, I had no idea why he couldn’t be bothered. Neither did he, for that matter. The word ‘gay’ even came to my mind.
But that was then. Now I was seventeen, Brian was sixteen, and both of us were in Year Eleven. He e-mailed me that he had been going with a girl in his class, finally. Meanwhile, I had started on my aviation career. I could never have predicted the dangers, traumas, and personal crises that flying would bring my way over the coming twelve months.
Sunday, 9 April 2000 - Our small, four-seater aeroplane was shaken gently by the mildest of morning turbulence as it flew low over the wooded hills east of Melbourne. Dotted with small bush towns, the Dandenong Ranges were the last stretches of high country to be crossed before the city’s sprawling suburbs would appear beneath us. We had departed from Moorabbin Airport two hours earlier and enjoyed a brief sightseeing flight past the skyscrapers of Melbourne City. Following that, I had flown the aircraft along a two-hundred-kilometre oval-shaped return route via the ski resort of Mount Baw Baw. Most of this had been over rugged inaccessible areas of deep remote valleys. It was certainly not the sort of country in which to be lost, as two young boys from California were to discover later in the year. Although the season was too early for snow, the prominent bare-topped mountain had still been an easy landmark for my two passengers and me to pick out from the many lower peaks in the Great Dividing Range. The light cloud cover and bright sunshine had made for an enjoyable excursion for all of us over the high country.
I had begun my flying lessons on the very Sunday of my sixteenth birthday just over a year before. Under the instruction of a fixed-wing instructor recommended by Arthur, I had trained on small aircraft at Moorabbin. Every Sunday during each school term and almost every spare day during the holidays, I had been there. It was not that I liked flying Cessnas, but that I simply had no choice. Because of the high cost of helicopter flying lessons, Kath and Paul insisted that I first prove my commitment to flying by obtaining a cheaper full private aeroplane licence. If I showed enough enthusiasm in this, the much more expensive helicopter-endorsement training would then happen.
Overcoming my disinterest in fixed-wing aircraft, I had completed both the practical and the theory subjects of the course by the end of the January summer holidays. In my opinion, piloting aeroplanes did not offer the same flexibility and thrill as helicopters. But my new licence, at least, allowed me the freedom of independent flight. And now, five days past my seventeenth birthday and after sixteen hours of instruction by Arthur over eight weeks, I was making rapid progress through the Gold Star Aviation’s helicopter syllabus.
I had often thought about my helicopter training during flights in the previous few weeks, and this trip was no exception. Being at six hundred metres above mountainous terrain did not stop my mind from wandering as I remembered the flying I had shared with Arthur during our lessons together, especially the very first lesson.
Sunday, 6 February, 2000 - A light breeze was blowing across the airport when Kath drove me to Arthur’s hangar on that first Sunday morning in February. I had said very little on the drive to the airport, but my enthusiasm and impatience for the lessons to begin had been obvious over the preceding days. As I stepped from the car, I smiled at my foster mother. “Thanks, Kath. I’ll see you here at four thirty. Wish me luck, ay.”
Kath smiled back and chuckled. “You’ll be ‘right, Jules, have a good day.”
I waved at her as she departed, and entered the hangar. “Yo, Arthur, you here?”
“In the office, Jac!” Arthur’s voice echoed around the building’s steel walls. He rose from his seat to offer his hand when I walked in. Congratulating me on passing my flight exam the previous Sunday, he apologised for “missing all the fun.”
Having grown thirty centimetres during my adolescence, but still lightly-built, I stood nearly the same height as Arthur as I laughed and accepted the handshake. “Hah, you call landing a small plane in a strong crosswind during a licence test fun? I almost needed a big change of undies.”
“Well, I know the examiner and he said you did a top job,” Arthur continued. “Anyway, just wait until you start landing choppers in a gusty wind. You’ll need a lot more than a change of underwear.”
When I said it sounded cool, Arthur accused me of getting a bit cocky, which is how pilots often die. And with that in mind, he had decided to start me off in a two-seater for our first trial-instructional flight. He wanted to see what sort of real talent I had. His decision came with a stern reminder that it was nothing like a regular aeroplane.
Arthur led me from the office outside to the pad where the small training helicopter was parked. Here, he walked me through a procedure I was destined to repeat countless times. Together, we completed a thorough, mandatory pre-flight inspection of the aircraft prior to boarding. My heart was racing from a surge of adrenaline as I finally strapped myself into the pilot’s seat for the first time in my life. As a young kiddie, I had dreamt of this moment so often, and now it was here.
Doing my best to control the excitement growing inside my gut, I listened carefully and attentively as Arthur briefed me, before starting the engine. The whine of the motor grew in volume, and the overhead rotor blades began to turn. Their speed was very slow at first, but became faster by the second. I felt the familiar vibration of my seat as the blades’ rotation reached the correct rate to warm the engine prior to take-off.
Suddenly, Arthur’s commanding voice blared through my headphones via the intercom, overpowering the noise of the engine. He instructed me to take hold of the control column and put my feet on the pedals. He was first going to try me out in a hover, so I did as I was ordered. With nervous anticipation, I lightly grasped the handle of the black ‘stick’ (known as the cyclic control) with my clammy right hand. As Arthur increased the throttle slightly (using a twist control on the collective control lever between the seats), the engine noise became a low roar. The machine lifted gently off the pad to a height of two metres, where he held it stationary at that altitude. “Okay, Jac, your moment of truth. I’ll let go of the cyclic only first. Treat it gently.”
As he released his grip on the cyclic control, the helicopter tilted slightly to the left and moved in that direction. But I moved the cyclic to the right instinctively to correct, and it levelled immediately. I then easily maintained the hover that Arthur had started. He was happy and told me to take us forward a short distance. I pushed ahead ever so slightly on the cyclic to lower the nose of the helicopter. It then began to move slowly. Five seconds later, I gently pulled on the cyclic to return the nose to its original position. The helicopter stopped ten metres from its starting point with its altitude unchanged. Arthur was even happier, and said for me to do it again for twenty metres. I repeated the manoeuvre with ease and total precision. His next command was, “Now drift to the right using the cyclic.”
The helicopter banked in that direction by a couple of degrees. It slipped to the right for a few metres, before I levelled out once more. I reckon Arthur’s heartbeat was increasing with mild excitement. He said later that never before had he taken on a student who appeared to possess the innate ability that I was showing, but he wanted to be certain. “I’m going to take my feet off the pedals now, Jac. All I’ll manage is the throttle and rotor pitch control with the collective. You ready?”
The concentration must have showed on my face as I nodded and pressed on the pedals to familiarise myself with their feel. “Yeah, I’m ready.”
Arthur slowly removed his feet. The helicopter spun thirty degrees to the right. But without hesitation, I applied the correct amount of pressure on the left pedal to arrest and reverse the spin. The aircraft was soon pointing in its original direction. I then held the hover and Arthur’s reaction said it all. “Yes! Yes! Well done! Now, go forward slowly and turn to the left. Sock it to me, Jac!”
Again with little effort, I carefully piloted the helicopter across the ground and commenced a shallow bank and turn to the left, leaving Arthur ecstatic. He had me repeat the manoeuvre to the right, which I did with the same ease and precision. I learned later, that at that moment, there was no doubt in Arthur’s mind that I, a mere teenager, was not just a natural-born pilot, but potentially a very exceptional one. He was keen to test my skills in other aspects of flight.
Arthur took over control and we accelerated away from the helipad towards the sea. At two hundred kilometres-an-hour and an altitude of five hundred metres, we crossed the beach near my old fishing spot, the Mordialloc Pier. Once out over the water, Arthur guided me through a high-speed bank and turn to the right, followed by one to the left. He then took his hand off the cyclic while keeping control of the collective. He told me to repeat the turns without his help, which I did perfectly. After another series of turns, Arthur decided the lesson was nearly over, and with newly found confidence in his student, he told me to set course for the airport. It wasn’t until we commenced final approach that he took back full control for landing. It had been one of the best days of my young life.
Sunday, 9 April 2000 (continued) - The aeroplane banked and dropped suddenly as it entered a patch of strong turbulence. My mind was shaken from daydreaming about my first helicopter lesson. With Moorabbin now less than thirty kilometres distant, the flight would soon be over, and it was time to prepare for landing.
My photojournalist friend, Wesley Auld, was my rear-seat passenger who had come along to do some aerial photography. He was to drive my other passenger and me home in time for a delayed birthday barbecue in the garden. He told me how weird it was that I could fly passengers in an aeroplane, but was not old enough to go for my driving licence. He was not the first person in my life to tell me that back then, and would not be the last over the coming twelve months.
I glanced across at my front-seat passenger who was looking away from me through the window at the scenery below. It was the first weekend of the autumn break, and Brian had flown in from Darwin the day before. Having him down for my birthday, and going to Darwin in July for his, was so important to both of us. Not seeing him during my two months as a street kid and three months in hospital had made me realise my friend’s importance in my life. Like me, Brian had also grown to stand nearly a hundred and eighty centimetres, but had done so much more quickly, the lucky beggar, and it had taken me eighteen months to catch up. Now having him as one of my first passengers since becoming licensed was great and very special.
Ten minutes after commencing a slow descent at the edge of Melbourne’s suburban sprawl, I banked and turned the aircraft to the left. We were lined-up on the designated runway. It should have been a routine final approach, but air thermals were rising rapidly from the bitumen runway’s surface heated by the strong sun. These up-currents caused the aircraft to float down the runway a metre above the ground, stopping it from landing. Facing what is always a difficult situation, I finally had to apply forward pressure on the controls to force the aircraft onto the ground, causing it to bounce three times along the runway before settling into a smooth roll. “Happens all the time on a hot day, guys,” I grinned confidently in an attempt to conceal some mild embarrassment at the rough landing. “Just as well nothing’s damaged, ay.”
“Except my haemorrhoids,” Wesley muttered sarcastically as I turned from the runway onto a taxiway and headed for the aircraft parking area.
Brian and I looked at each other and smirked. We had both got used to the man’s habit of making smart aleck cynical comments about small things after years spent reporting and photographing wars, disasters, and political crises around the world.
“Cheer up, Wes,” I said. “At least no one was shooting surface-to-air missiles at us.”
I looked around to see Wesley grunting and smiling to himself at my equally sarcastic reply. In the three years and nine months since my transfer from hospital to Wesley’s uncle and aunt’s house, he had come to know me very well. He had observed my subsequent series of many painful skin-graft operations for the follow-up story he had been writing for a newspaper. I think Wesley saw in me much of himself. Both of us had faced death at a young age, Wesley from extreme cold and then a criminal’s bullets, and me from extreme heat. We had summoned from within ourselves a strong will to survive. But there had been some problems for me.
Tuesday, 27 August 1996 - I had coped fairly well with the pain of the treatments, the discomfort of the compression-garment, and the limitation on playing sport. But I had not coped with the cruel teasing from a handful of other students at school beginning on my first day there. Because I was never threatened with violence, I avoided using martial arts. At first, my new friends had stood up for me wherever possible, but the insults continued in the playground until the day I lost my temper late in the year, and hit back hard.
Kath was at home when the Principal’s secretary phoned and asked her come to the school. A boy had been sent to hospital after I punched him in the face. Until then, both she and the school authorities knew nothing of the torments. But three girls who really liked me, and were scared that I might be expelled, reported the teasing. As a result, I was given a stern warning and a three-day suspension to the end of the week. Except for my victim, who had a crack in his cheekbone, the other kids were also given warnings in front of their parents, plus a week of detention. The teasing stopped, and I guess I learned a good lesson about not letting problems reach get to the point of violence. It was a pity I was to forget this lesson at the end of the current year.
Sunday, 9 April 2000 (continued) - I returned the aircraft to its parking spot and cut the engine. The silence in the cabin when the propeller stopped spinning was broken only by the sound of our seatbelts being released. We alighted from the aeroplane, and I secured tie-down ropes to solid metal loops on the wing struts and beneath the tail. After returning the flight documents to the aircraft owner’s office, we walked to Wesley’s silver BMW. The motor of the expensive car roared to life, and we drove from the airport heading for my home. With a combined birthday barbecue and pool party due to start a couple of hours later, I wanted to help prepare for the arrival of my two dozen other guests.
The drive home took fifteen minutes, and Wesley turned into his aunt and uncle’s driveway at eleven thirty. True to form, he revved the engine loudly before turning it off. The noise from Wesley’s car-exhaust pipe echoing in the back garden must have attracted the attention of a special small girl sitting on the lawn by the pool with her parents. She knew that the sound meant I had arrived back, and always squealed with delight. Wendy Hill was almost five-years-old and full of energy. With the broadest of smiles and outstretched arms, she ran down the driveway towards the car as I stepped out. “Julesey! Julsey! Happy birthday!” she exclaimed gleefully as I gathered her in my arms so she could hug me.
Although having no memory of the fire that almost killed her, Wendy instinctively felt the close affection that only a small child could hold for a special grown-up person. And for me, this golden-haired little girl was also a cherished part of my new life. Whenever I was awoken by nightmares of the fire after my release from hospital, or was recovering from the many painful skin grafts, I had thought of my foster niece. The sight of Wendy’s cute smile and happy blue eyes, and the sound of her giggles had helped me cope with the trauma of recovery. And being able to watch her grow during regular family visits had given meaning to my agony. I loved her as much as she loved me.
“Hi, Wen-Wen,” I whispered affectionately in her ear as she rested her head on my shoulder, “you’ve come to my party.”
“Yes Julesy, and I have a present for you. Mummy’s got it.”
I smiled at her. “Ah, cool. Let’s go and open it.”
Followed by Wesley and Brian, I carried her back to the garden where Dwight and Veronica were waiting. Her mother kissed me on the cheek. “Happy birthday, Julian.”
“Mummy, give Julesy his present!” Wendy chimed in before I could reply.
I grinned, chuckled, and thanked them for coming. Dwight smiled as he shook hands with me. “You’re welcome, mate. We know how much she likes coming to visit, and after what you did for her…”
He paused before saying what he had said often previously. If I hadn’t heard her crying and looked in the car the day my Vietnamese friends and I were passing, then he did not know how different things would have been now. Kath told him once that I had experienced nightmares about it. Well, so had he, and still did, and Veronica, too, about what might have been.
“Dwight, it’s cool,” I said. “I’m alive, I have a new family and my special little foster niece.”
Wendy giggled as I kissed her on the forehead. “I still miss my dad heaps, but at least I’m learning to fly helicopters, which would’ve made him happy if he was still here.”
Dwight asked how the flying lessons were going. I told him how piloting helicopters was so excellent. “I love it…”
I was interrupted by a voice from behind. “He’s also very good, too.”
It was my foster father, Paul, who had spoken. Arthur Cameron had been giving Kath and him regular reports of my progress. Paul felt I should know that Arthur said I have a rare talent, a natural gift for it. His exact words to Kath and Paul had been, “Jac is the Donald Bradman of pilots.”
Listening-in, and cynical as ever, Wesley said, “I don’t think Australia’s greatest cricket player would’ve been too impressed by today’s very uncool bouncy-bouncy landing.”
“That’s only because of those great big haemorrhoids you told us about, you old hot shot journo, you,” I answered playfully in a successful effort at pay-back.
Unaware of what had happened at the airport, Paul appeared concerned. He even suggested Wesley should consult his doctor about them. Brian and I laughed aloud, and Wesley was slightly embarrassed. He told Paul that “Biggles,” that’s me, was just being smart, and that he didn’t actually have any haemorrhoids. Now it was Veronica and Dwight who were amused by all the teasing.
As the laughter fell away, cute little Wendy whispered in my ear, “Julesy, what’s a haem-haem-rrhoid?”
With a smile still fixed on my face, I whispered back, “Something not very nice that grown-ups get in their botties, Wen-Wen.”
By one o’clock, most of my guests, including Graham, Linda, Scott, Kim, Vinh, Ming, and Lee had arrived, and I had received a good range of gifts. Only Arthur was absent. With most of my school friends relaxing in the pool before the serving of lunch, I decided to join them, so took off my shirt. Many of the other teenagers present had seen me topless on the beach, in the pool at home or in the school-gymnasium changing room. But for some of my adult visitors, this was the first time that my new body had been visible. The permanent removal of the compression-garment had been three and a half months earlier, just before Christmas. With natural curiosity, their eyes turned for them to look with amazement at the final result of years of medical treatment to the deep burns on my back.
The large mottled patches of skin, slightly-discoloured red or pure white, covered most of its surface from my shoulder blades to the waistband of my board shorts, and beyond to parts of my backside. Although some small areas were wrinkled around the edges, the many skin grafts had produced a sound result that looked good. But worried at first about my body image, and despite the continuing discomfort, I had pleaded for the compression-garment to be left on until the end of the school year. I had wanted to delay any embarrassment until after the holidays. It also meant that I had been able to see Brian’s reaction, first, before any one else’s. This happened during my regular January visit, but I was still worried beforehand about what my best friend would say. The flight north had, therefore, been unusually anxious.
Saturday, 8 January, 2000 - The rain was falling heavily at Darwin Airport when my plane landed as sunset approached. The dark overcast sky blanketing the city had increased my nervousness about the response of the Bookers to my scars. The removal of the compression-garment was to be my surprise for them, and their reaction would be important to me.
“Over here, Jac!” The greeting as I entered the Arrivals lounge was loud and immediate, and the young male voice, very familiar.
Brian and Maria stood smiling among the many other people awaiting passengers. I walked quickly in their direction to hug both of them briefly. Brian felt the absence of any bulk under my shirt, and he asked me, “Where’s that pressure-thing?”
With a smile, I told them I didn’t need it any more. Maria exclaimed, “What a lovely Christmas present!”
She commented that I must have felt better without it. I nodded as we set off for the baggage claim area. It was great, especially in hot steamy weather like Darwin’s, and there was no more itching.
My case appeared on the carousel after a ten-minute wait. I wasted no time in grabbing it and following Maria and Brian to the exit. The heavy rain that had been falling when I arrived had eased to become just a light shower as we walked from the terminal into the humid gloom of the stormy late afternoon. Maria had parked a hundred metres away. The warm drizzle was of little bother to us as we walked towards the car, where I placed my bag in the boot, and sat in the back seat with Brian for the ten-minute ride to their house.
After many previous visits, I carried my bag to Brian’s room, where we would share, without being told to. I then returned to the kitchen for supper. Dinner had been served during the flight, but I was still hungry. When I entered, Brian asked how my flying lessons were going. I grinned as I said that I was nearly finished. My licence flight test was set for the last Saturday in January, so I’d be able to take him up in a Cessna when he came down for my birthday. Maria chuckled, as she prepared some snacks, that it all sounded “real scary.”
“Ah, Mum, don’t pick on him,” Brian protested. But as she handed me a sandwich on a plate, I said that it was cool, because she was only teasing. Maria smirked as she nodded and reckoned that I would be a top-gun pilot like my dad. I smiled my appreciation at her compliment about Dad, and tucked into the sandwich. We talked late into the evening, and the time was after midnight when us guys decided to go to bed. So we headed to Brian’s bedroom, where I knew the moment to reveal my back had come.
When the door was closed, I pulled off my shirt and walked to a spot in the room between him and a large mirror. I said to Brian that because he was my best friend, I wanted him to be the first to see what I was going to show him. I wanted to know what he thought, honestly. As I had spoken in a serious voice, Brian was puzzled and curious. “Sounds important, Jac. What is it?”
“This.”
I turned around quickly to look in the mirror so that Brian could see my back and I could see the reaction on his face. Brian raised his eyebrows slightly at the first close-up sight of the skin grafts. He then gave a quiet “Phew” and commented that it was just unreal. After the way I had been burnt so badly, he thought what had been done was awesome. “You’ve got some excellent, cool doctors in Melbourne.”
My friend’s positive response caused me to breathe a quiet sigh of relief. When I asked him to confirm that it wasn’t ugly, Brian reckoned it was just different. He added that he had a friend in his class with “some mega-acne scars on his face” that looked much worse than my back. I thanked Brian for his comments, and admitted that it was the reaction of the girls at my school I was worried about, how they don’t like things that look really gross. Brian shook his head and repeated that the scars were different not gross. He paused before continuing, at first unsure about whether he should make the unusual request on his mind. Then he asked if he could touch them. I was surprised, but shrugged and said to be careful due to some tenderness. Brian gently pressed his fingertips on the left-hand edge of the grafted area, before moving them over the surface to the other side. To him, it felt like normal skin, and he reckoned I had nothing to worry about. Any girls who didn’t want to be friends with me because of my back weren’t worth knowing, so I should just ignore them. I thought about Brian’s advice and sighed. He was right, but I really hoped there weren’t any girls like that in my class for the coming year.
Monday, 31 January, 2000 - Three weeks after showing my back to Brian, I returned to school to commence Year Eleven. My friends knew my compression-garment was to be removed permanently at Christmas. They were all keen to see the result, and it was not just curiosity that made them eager. Matured by my experiences, my quiet down-to-earth personality had made me popular in my peer group. Even the boys who had teased me when I first entered the school had grown up, changed their attitudes, and were my friends. I was also told most of the girls considered me to be quite handsome, and fun to hang out with. But despite Brian’s advice, it was still their reaction that would hurt most if it was bad.
Tuesday, 1 February, 2000 - My first P.E. class was scheduled for the third day of the term, but time-trials for the school’s swimming team were after school on this, the second day, so I was soon to know their reactions. There was no one present in the pool’s locker room when I swapped my school uniform for a pair of racing speedos and a tracksuit, before making the short walk from there to the pool.
The other students present sensed the importance of this moment as I waited with the other hopefuls to be summoned by the swimming coach. Finally, my name was called. Aware that every pair of eyes in the building was looking at me, I nervously rose to my feet, and removed my tracksuit pants. Then I unzipped the jacket, and dropped it onto my seat. From those within earshot, I heard muffled whispers of “Whoa” and “Awesome”. These comments were then followed by a round of applause. As the sound of the clapping rang in my ears, I glanced at the faces around me. But I saw no appalled looks of disgust or repugnance, only the positive smiles of students, both male and female. All were amazed and pleased at my recovery. Trying to appear relaxed and nonchalant, I casually grinned back at them and waved. Their overwhelming positive response, however, had lifted an imaginary load from my shoulders, and brought a deep happiness to my soul. As I took my place on the starting block at the water’s edge ready for the coach’s whistle, I wiped small tears from my eyes. When the signal came a few seconds later, I dived in and swam with as much power as I could muster from my lean lanky body. But my time was too slow to avoid the cut-off.