Below them there was nothing but the seemingly endless plains that stretched for hundreds of kilometres in every direction. These were the Gulf Lowlands, that vast flood plain area of hundreds of thousands of square kilometres that stretched west all the way to the equally huge swamps and salt marshes along the coast of the Gulf of Carpentaria.
Willy knew that they had crossed the Red River—although it had looked just like all the others—and that the Staaten River was one of the distant lines of trees away to the north. But otherwise there was a worrying sameness to the terrain. The hundreds of small creeks and gullies and even the few rivers (except for the Mitchell) had all looked the same. They had little or no water in them, being just a bed of dry sand or pebbles. All had trees lining both banks. Between the watercourses was the yellowish-grey of savannah grassland or savannah woodland, dotted with scattered trees.
A few minutes later Willy noted a dark line of vegetation that crossed their route at almost right angles. Seeing those trees caused him to let out a secret sigh of relief. That’s the Lynd River, he told himself, placing his pencil point on the map where the pencil line denoting their planned course crossed the Lynd. Anxiously he scanned the country ahead searching for any prominent landmarks. The country changed abruptly at the river to tangled masses of small hills and dry gullies but there were no obvious peaks to help with navigation. Only the fact that to the south of the aircraft the river curved away to the east told Willy that they were close to being on their correct course.
The Lynd River itself was almost completely dry. It had a wide, sandy bed with braided flood channels and tree covered islands in its tree lined bed. Only one stagnant pool was briefly visible.
A typical stream for this region, Willy thought.
For the next ten minutes the aircraft flew on across the maze of small hills. These were seamed with hundreds of dry creeks and gullies with no obvious pattern and the whole area was still covered in a thin scattering of trees and dry grass. A couple of larger creeks helped Willy to keep track of where they were but in all that vast region he only noted one thin vehicle track winding its way across the landscape.
Turning to Mr Drew, he said, “It would be no fun having a forced landing here.”
“Too right!” Mr Drew replied. “You always want to keep scanning the country ahead and on both sides to note any possible emergency landing areas.”
“Have you ever had to do any forced landings sir?” Willy asked.
Mr Drew nodded. “Yes, I have. Two. But I’ve been lucky. In the first one I was able to put down on a straight stretch of country road. The only tricky bit was avoiding the power lines beside it. The second was a bit hairier but even then I was lucky. There was lots of open farm land and apart from tipping up on the nose and bending the prop there was no damage done.”
They discussed forced landings for the next few minutes. Willy had known Mr Drew for several years but they had never flown before. Mr Drew was obviously impressed by Willy’s enthusiasm. “What are you going to do when you leave school Willy? Are you going to be a pilot?”
“Yes sir, if I can,” Willy answered. “I’m going to join the Air Force.”
“You are an air cadet, aren’t you?” Mr Drew queried.
Willy was and was very proud of the fact. “Yes sir,” he replied. “I’m a sergeant and in my fourth year.”
Mr Drew shook his head. “The Air Force, eh? What sort of pilot’s job did you have in mind?”
The question embarrassed Willy as he was shy of revealing his private ambitions, but now he said, “A fighter pilot, if I’m good enough.”
“Fighters, eh? I hope you don’t have to kill anyone,” Mr Drew said.
Willy was surprised and shocked. “Oh, no sir. It’s not like that,” he replied.
“Oh yes, it is!” Mr Drew replied with a vehemence that quite amazed Willy. Mr Drew went on, “What do you think happens if a fighter pilot shoots down an enemy plane?”
Willy knew and had given it some thought but the glamour of screaming around the sky in an F18 and the thought of being able to tell people (girls!) that he was a fighter pilot had overridden any serious consideration of what the job might really entail. He understood in a general way that fighter pilots might be ordered to shoot down other planes—and possibly kill the people in them (Or get killed themselves) but he also knew that it had been more than half a century since the RAAF had been called on to do that. Now the idea lodged uncomfortably in his conscience.
“It would only be in defence of the country,” he replied.
Mr Drew snorted. “You hope! What if you got sent overseas, to bomb places in Afghanistan or Iraq or wherever the government said to go? You might not only kill enemy soldiers but also innocent civilians: little kids and old women and the like.”
That was an awkward thought and Willy grappled for an answer. Could I kill another person? he wondered. The idea that he could fly transport planes came to him but that was not his dream. And the notion of flying the Airborne Warning and Control planes did not hold up either. They direct the fighters so they are just as guilty, he mused. And the Maritime Reconnaissance planes are there to sink ships and submarines.
Mr Drew spoke again, saying, “Its not as simple as you thought, is it? It… Hey!” He stopped speaking as the engine suddenly cut out, then burst back into life, then began to run with an uneven rhythm.
Quickly Willy scanned the engine revolution counter and other instruments. “Heating up a bit,” he commented.
“Yes. I don’t like it. We might have an oil leak or something like that,” Mr Drew said. “How far to Muldarga?”
Willy used his ruler and notepad and quickly gave him an answer. “About fifty nautical miles,” he answered.
Mr Drew grunted and again anxiously studied the gauges. Then he peered ahead and Willy saw his jaw set as he settled to flying.
Willy also looked through the front windshield and studied the country ahead. In the afternoon heat haze it looked rugged and grey in the distance. Down below he noted a couple of lines of what looked like grey stones. That stirred his curiosity and he studied the map to see if they were shown. They weren’t but another big creek flowing across their route was: Boomerang Creek. Seeing it cheered him up.
“That’s Boomerang Creek; only about forty miles to go,” he said.
“Good. I hope this engine doesn’t give out now. I don’t want to have to try a landing in this wilderness,” Mr Drew replied.
Willy could only agree. The country had changed again so that below them the whole land seemed to be parallel ridges of jumbled grey stones. These seemed to extend ahead as far as he could see and spread outwards on both sides. Most of the ridges were almost in line with their course and Willy guessed at their average length being several kilometres. The ridges were studded with clumps of dense vegetation of a dark green colour. Between the ridges were savannah woodland and numerous small dry creeks. It was the most unusual country Willy had ever flown over and his curiosity was aroused. “What are those grey hills?” he asked.
“Limestone ridges. Terrible country, all sharp rocks and scrub full of green ants. It is part of the Chillagoe Limestone Province,” Mr Drew explained. He gestured to the shimmering heat haze through which sharp peaks and knobs were now showing. “That used to be the sea bed way back in geological time. These are the remains of coral reefs. The limestone is full of sea shells and the fossils of sea creatures.”
Willy again studied the map, noting that the pattern of the ridges was now shown on it. He studied the names with interest and then noted that the pencil line of their course went across a railway line. With his interest sparked even more he looked down and almost at once his eyes picked up the winding brown line that could only be man made. “There is a railway down there,” he commented.
Mr