28 June 1934

SNATCHED FROM THE JAWS OF DEATH 

Narrow Escape In Ninety-Mile Desert

Scattered throughout the sun scorched deserts of Australia are many heaps of bleached bones— grim reminders of the men who have tried to cross them but have failed in the attempt. 

Who can describe the hours of agonising torture they endured before death relieved them? Such tragedies are to be expected in the little-known and practically unexplored parts of the continent, but one would hardly expect to come across cases between Adelaide and Melbourne nowadays. 

Such a fate might have befallen my brother four years ago, however, but for the Providential fact that he was discovered by a passing motorist—the only one to use that track for two years. 

Four years ago my brother decided to walk to Melbourne in search of work. He left Adelaide at the end of January and, partly by walking and partly by getting lifts from passing motorists, reached Wood's Well, on the fringe of what is known as the Ninety mile Desert [Coonalpyn Downs since 1949], three days later. 

At Wood's Well he became possessed of a burning curiosity to see what the desert was really like. He did not believe that it was as bare of surface water in summer as it was reported to be. More over he was quite confident in his ability to cross it, even if he should not strike any water for a couple of days. He was also of the opinion that it was the shortest way to the Victorian border, and would save him several days on his journey. 

Discussing his experiences later he said "Would to God that I had taken people's advice and reasoned things out for myself, rather than light-heartedly yielding to my curiosity. What suffering I would have been saved! Still, such is experience, and today I thank my lucky stars that I am alive to tell the tale." 

The next day, Sunday, February 2, equipping himself with as much water as he could carry, he set out into what proved to be the jaws of a living hell. He estimates that he travelled between 15 and 20 miles that day, for the going was hard. Time and time again he felt the urge to return to Wood's Well, but he kept on, determined that the desert would not best him. 

As the day wore on and the scorching summer sun beat mercilessly down on him, he began to discard his clothing. First his coat went, then his waistcoat, finally his shirt, and he was walking in singlet and trousers only. He had not been trained to do without water, and by nightfall had only about a quart left— and he was 60 miles from the next waterhole. 

Under such circumstances mere was only one sensible thing to do. That was to retrace his steps to Wood's Well, and give up his ridiculous idea of hiking through the desert. But a spirit of obstinate determination, always characteristic of him, urged him to push on. 

Sunday night and Monday passed, still without any fresh water, and Tuesday morning found him lost— half-dead with thirst and weak from the lack of proper nourishment. He had food, but was unable to eat it; his tongue was too swollen, and his lips parched and dry. 

He tried to rise, but, the effort was too much for him, and he fell back in a half faint. How long he last like that he does not know, but when he came to be made a further attempt. This time he managed to scramble to his feet and staggered for ward for about 100 yards. Then he pitched forward, completely done in. He knew then that the end was not very far off; so taking out his pocket Testament (a keepsake from his mother that he had promised her he would always carry), he scrawled on the fly leaf who he was, when he perished, and a few other details, with a request to those who found it to forward it to his sister in Melbourne. Then he closed his eyes and waited for death. 

The next he remembers was being in bed in the Meningie Hotel. It transpired later that a doctor had left Milang, intending to follow the railway line through the desert to Bordertown. Some unexplained impulse had caused him to change his mind, and to make use of the faint and seldom-used track my brother had followed before he he came lost. 

Seeing what he thought was a dead kangaroo a short distance from the track, he investigated and was horrified to find a human body. There was life in it; but it was apparent that the man was far spent, and that in an hour or two he would be dead. 

Lifting him into a sitting position, the doctor poured a little brandy down his throat; but it failed to revive him. He therefore placed the unconscious man in his car and started on a 40-mile dash to Meningie— the nearest township. There my brother was put to bed, and was so well looked after that within a fortnight he had fully recovered. After having been fitted out with clothes and food, and a little money, through the generosity of persons who were complete strangers to him, he once more set out for Melbourne— this time in the car of a passing motorist who kindly offered him a lift — rejoicing in the fact that he had been literally snatched from the jaws of death.— 'L.A.H.,' Adelaide.

First Government House Destroyed

The site of the first Government House in South Australia is commemorated by a bronze tablet on the outside of the old watch-house at the entrance to the present residence of the Governor. 

The original house, known as 'Government Hut,' was built soon after 1836, and Governor Hindmarsh lived in it for some time. There was nothing elaborate about it— it was made of wattle and daub. 

By 1841 a Government House, built 'of the best stone work' at a cost of £10,000, had been constructed, but Government Hut was used as a private secretary's office, and as such housed a number of valuable records. On the night of January 12, 1841, the thatched building caught fire, and almost all the documents were destroyed. They had been placed in security in Government House until a few days previously, when they had been removed to make room for Lady Franklin. 

Interesting comment on the fire-fighting arrangement at the time came from a correspondent to 'The Register' at the time. He said that although it was urged that the frail walls should be battered in with posts, so that the roof would fall to extinguish the blaze, the proposition 'did not meet the approbation of the men of stripes (police men), who preferred exercising themselves with the fire engine, which they only succeeded in bringing into operation after the roof, doors and partitions were almost gone.' 

Incendiarism was suspected, and, after examining several witnesses, Captain O'Halloran, the Commissioner of Police, and other magistrates, committed a half-witted guest at Government House to stand his trial for arson. The jury, however, found the man not guilty.— H.

Mother's Ordeal

The coffin had only been gone an hour. It contained the forms of her two bonny girls. Now the other three children, two boys and a girl, were squirming on their beds in the agonies of diphtheria. 

The mother moistened their lips while the tears ran down her cheeks, and prayed, "Oh! God, send help; let not my children be taken from me." The doctor had said that anti-toxin was the only chance for the two children who were gone. It had been applied, and yet they had died. She had refused that day to have these other three take it, and the doctor had left her, saying angrily, "They will all be dead tomorrow." She prayed "God, forgive me if I am wrong." Then "Oh! my poor husband, toiling away on the Kalgoorlie goldfields; what a blow for him. No hope of reaching South Australia in time to see any of them."

A knock came at the door. A nurse stood there. "I hear you are in trouble. Diphtheria case. Have you ever heard of kerosene to relieve pain? I have cured several cases of diphtheria. Will you let me try with your children?"
"Yes," answered the distracted woman. "Do what you like. I think God has sent you."

 
The nurse brushed the children's throats with kerosene. They became sick, a good sign. Then great strings of stuff like chewed orange peel came away from behind the tonsils, and the children cried, "More, more, put more on; it takes the pain away." 

After a while they were exhausted, had a drink, and fell asleep. The nurse spoke to the mother. "The worst is over; they will live. But they are very weak. They must have no food, only a pint of milk a day in water, for each one; also some barley water. The reaction is great. They must sleep and rest for a week. After that they will quickly improve."

Next morning the doctor called. "How are the children?"
"Come in and see, doctor," said the mother.
He looked at the children in surprise, felt their pulse, then said, "This is marvellous. They have no sign of diphtheria. What happened?" She told him. "Marvellous, marvellous. No need for me to come again; you know what to do."

Six months later the elder boy, chopping a limb of a tree for firewood, was knocked to the ground by the branch and killed. That night the mother wrote to the father. "Money is not everything. Come home, and let us share our woes and responsibilities together in the future." And so they did. They were never parted again while life lasted.— 'S.M.J.'

A Useful Crowbar

When this incident occurred there were only two or three motor cars on the West Coast. My father owned one of them. 

He was driving a newly-married couple, Mr. and Mrs. Jimmy Thompson, to their home at Talia. The trio started gaily enough, but seemed doomed to mishaps. 

Three or four miles this side of Mount Hope one of the back wheels of the car came off. The car was pulled up, passengers and driver got out to look for the wheel, but there was no sign of it. It had absolutely vanished. After searching the scrub on one side of the road, my father decided to try the other. He followed the car track back to where the wheel had come off and discovered that it had shot off at right angles, run straight across the road through the low scrub, and had finally come to rest against a fence. 

The party set off on foot for Mount Hope. Garages were few and far between. The mending of a broken axle was a major operation. Necessity is ever the mother of invention, and my father cast about for ways of getting his cripple car home. The only thing of steel about the place was a crowbar. With the aid of Mr. Tom Speed the ends of the crowbar were tapered down, fitted in the car, and it was ready for its return trip to Lincoln, over 60 miles of rough roads. 

The night before my father was leaving on his homeward trip, the mother of the proprietress of the Mount Hope eating house (Mrs. Watherston) died. The trip that had started out so happily with a honeymoon couple finished up rather tragically, for he brought the mourners down to Port Lincoln to the funeral. The crow bar continued in its capacity of back axle for several weeks. — 'D.O.N.'

Drank The Lot

Years ago, in a mid-north country district, in the little Methodist Church, a communion service was held once a month, for which a small bottle of unfermented wine was provided (sufficient for one service). 

One Sunday, the worshippers were joined by a Cornishman, who was rather a 'hard case.' He was a farmer in the district. In those days, the wine was passed around in one large vessel, each taking a sip, instead of the present-day method of using small, individual glasses. 

When about half-way round, the wine reached the Cornishman. "Thank, ye. I be tharsty," he remarked. Taking the vessel he tipped it up and drank the lot.— M. E. Maitland.