Up the Gum Tree E-Book

Susan Duxbury

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 405

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

A funny and poignant story of pioneers in the Australian outback, based on true facts. In 1960, two young tradesmen, a carpenter and butcher, leave the monotony of their German home. They travel to Australia in search of adventure and the reader is taken on a fascinating journey through the continent 'down under' of an earlier epoch. The adventurers become familiar with the Aborigine culture; the gangs of men known as 'the kangaroo hunters' and the ludicrous characters they meet in the outback. But disillusionment sets in and one of them returns. Will the other find his place in this fascinating country? Little does he realise that he is on the threshold of yet another adventure with this group of crazy Germans he has met in the pub. They work in the outback erecting farm buildings and return to Perth to spend their money on girls and their days on the beach. When cupid takes his bow, decisions must be made. The years have passed and they have become 'real dinkum Aussies'. Suddenly, they yearn for their homeland and the families they have left behind. Should they return? Where do they belong? Only one of them will know.

Leseprobe

Acknowledgements

I am indebted to Vicki Schwidden for helping me find the information I’ve needed. Also to Ronald V. Lind, previously of Koolan Island, for his letters and the information in his book ‘The Very Last Load’.

And last but not least, Fred, my husband and his mates ‘down under’, whose adventures in the Australian outback have inspired me.

TABLE OF CONTENTS:

PREFACE.

THE IMMIGRANTS

THE RAIL OFFICIALS

THE PLACEMEN

THE DAM BUILDERS

THE STEELWORKERS:

KOOLAN ISLAND:

A TRIP UP THE EAST COAST

DOWN THE TRACK

GO WEST, YOUNG MAN!

THE QUALIFIED CARPENTER

THE HOMECOMING

THE ROYAL VISITORS

AN EVENTFUL FLIGHT

THE PLAYBOYS

THE SUBCONTRACTORS

HOUSEHOLD PROBLEMS

THE ‘BACK OF BEYOND’

JOEY AND THE BIRTHDAY-PARTY

A CROOK JOB

THE WEDDING

THE LAST JOB

THE DECISION

THE BIRD OF PARADISE

HOW TO SPEAK ‘AUSSIE’

MAP OF AUSTRALIA

PREFACE

In 1950, when Germany was still recovering from the Second World War, little was known about Australia. Apart from Bavarian vine growers who had settled in South Australia’s Barossa Valley during the previous century, most of Australia’s 8-million white inhabitants were the descendants of British settlers.

During the war, Japan bombed the town of Darwin and a Japanese submarine entered Sydney Harbour. After the war, the Australians still distrusted their Asian neighbour. They saw them as ‘the yellow danger’ and feared yet another invasion; this time to gain control of Australia’s abundance of minerals and crude metal deposits, vital to Japans’ expanding industry.

The government’s slogan, ‘we must populate or perish’, was the beginning of an extensive migration programme to bring manpower into the country. According to the Australian Government’s ‘White Australia Policy’, immigrants had to be of ‘white’ origin and willing to adapt to the Anglo-Saxon mentality.

The indigenous Australia, the Aborigine, played no particular role in the industrial or cultural development of that time. Alternatively, white Australians showed little interest in the Aborigine culture and their ability to survive in an inhuman environment.

Because of the ‘White Australia Policy’, the lack of interest shown by Scandinavian countries and limited numbers of British migrants, the Australian Government started a campaign to bring German migrants into the country. Those Germans who were displaced or homeless and suffering from the aftermaths of war, were regarded as potential manpower; others were well trained and reliable tradesmen with families in search of a better life. The Australian government issued a brochure entitled ‘Ein Willkommen wartet,’ offering a better life in a paradisiacal environment and endless opportunities for those willing to work hard.

Manpower was desperately needed for three outstanding industrial projects.

1. The Snowy Mountains Hydro-Electric Scheme was a milestone in Australian’s cultural and industrial development, connecting over a hundred miles of tunnels and aqueducts; 16 reservoirs, 7-powerstations and pump stations. This project was regarded as one of seven engineering wonders of the modern world, irrigating the Murrumbidgee inland regions and generating electricity for a rapidly expanding industry and growing population.

2. Building tradesmen were needed for large-scale (migrant) housing development.

3. The Australian Railways needed lineworkers for the track over the semi-desert of the Nullarbor, connecting south-east regions with the west. This was generally known as Australia’s ‘worst place of employment’.

Prospective employers promised financial loans for ship’s passages to be repaid on arrival. Migrants were bound by contract for a period of two years’ work. In return, employers guaranteed food and accommodation as well as double the wages earned in their countries of origin.

However, ship’s passages to Australia in overhauled freighters were often uncomfortable. On arrival, migrants were already in debt to their employers and living expenses were also deducted from their wages. Living conditions in outlying areas and in a Victorian influenced society caused unrest, especially among married workers who were unable to finance the cost of bringing over their families. Qualifications were not always recognised. Language difficulties forced experienced tradesmen and highly qualified technicians into menial jobs.

Letters of complaint reached the German authorities who sent a delegation to Australia. Protests were found to be genuine and in 1952, Germany and Australia reached an agreement to prevent exploitation by subsidising the costs of migration. The German migrant paid ten Deutschmarks and British migrants paid ten pounds Stirling towards their passages – hence the name ‘ten-pound-Poms’. They were committed to stay in the country for two years; earn their own living and abide by the law.

Contrary to unfounded fears, Germans as well as other nationalities have settled in their new homeland. They have accepted and enriched the Australian culture with traditional food and festivities.

These days, a growing tourist industry is attracting visitors worldwide and a burning interest in the Aborigine culture – at last!

…………………………………………………………….

THE IMMIGRANTS

On the top deck of the ship, two figures gazed across the narrow stretch of ocean towards lonely coastal dunes bordering an interior of sand and scrub. The blond youth turned to watch passengers surge towards the railings, eager to catch a first glimpse of their new homeland and the yellow plains of Western Australia’s coastline, sliding past like an empty conveyor belt.

Like the unveiling of a monument, the harbour walls and port tower of Fremantle, the solid three storey sandstone buildings of an earlier epoch, and the ‘Roundhouse’ of the old town jail, came into view. Passengers talked excitedly and cameras clicked to capture first impressions. The mid-day sun glared at them like a vicious fireball, reflecting upon a chequerboard of town roofs.

A cluster of low weatherboard buildings lined the harbour. A voice over the loudspeaker triggered a sudden flurry of activity. All hands were needed to secure the ship carrying nearly a thousand passengers to Melbourne, and the immigration centre at Bonegilla.

The loudspeaker crackled endless announcements in Italian and English. Then, in flamboyant German, passengers were informed that customs and employment officials were boarding the ship. Those who wished to disembark at Fremantle and seeking employment should go to the purser's office.

The other, strongly built and with dark complexion in contrast to his companion who was decidedly Nordic, could hardly subdue his excitement. “Let’s disembark here in Fremantle instead of going on to Melbourne; it looks as good a place as any. I'd rather jump overboard than spend another four days on this miserable ‘pot’,” he added dramatically, having found little outlet for his excessive energy during the six-week voyage. “Spaghetti, spaghetti, spaghetti! I'm sick of spaghetti and noodles - noodles and spaghetti…! Can’t they give us potatoes for a change?” His companion knew it was useless to argue and so remained silent.

“The shit-house stinks too,” he continued. His companion agreed silently; toilets used as rubbish bins had caused malodorous flooding – a minor problem compared to brawls between those who had spent their money in harbour brothels or gambled it away, and others collecting lending debts.

The taller of the two remained silent, being accustomed to such spontaneous outbursts. “What’s the point of going on to Melbourne if we can find good jobs here? Why should we go along with the rest…?” His voice trailed off and his companion replied, “I suppose there's no harm in asking.”

“Names please,” said the Australian job agent without looking up. He wore a creased white shirt which stuck to his body, owing to the stifling heat in the temporary office - a cubbyhole cabin used by customs officials. The agent rolled up his sleeves and took a fresh sheet of paper.

"Manfred Altmann," said the dark-haired youth.

"Hauke Petersen," said the taller one.

The agent repeated their names, pronouncing them awkwardly as he wrote.

"Occupation?"

"I beg your pardon!"

"Worrrk," said the agent and muttered something about these goddamned wogs learning the lingo before entering the country, forgetting his Polish grandmother who’d arrived under similar circumstances and had seldom spoken English.

"Ah, carpenter," said Manfred.

"Butcher," said Hauke, feeling uncomfortable in the hot, airless cabin.

The agent said something they didn't understand. They immediately regretted having skipped the six-week course ‘English for Beginners’ in the ship’s cinema, for more pleasurable activities. He wrote the word 'none' against ‘knowledge of English language' and called for an interpreter.

The flustered interpreter said they could work for the Australian Railways and would be trained for the job. "English lessons will be provided free of charge," he added in fluent German.

The newcomers could hardly believe their luck. Back home, rail workers were public servants. Apart from having crisis proof jobs, they were provided with low rental housing, cheap insurance and low interest bank loans; but most of all, generous old age pensions. The interpreter grinned at their exuberance as they gratefully shook his hand. The employment agent smiled absentmindedly and pushed two sheets of paper headed 'Contract of Work' over the desk. Who cared if they didn’t understand the documents they signed? They had found good jobs and their new life could begin. The men shouldered their bags, walked down the gangway and turned to wave to the friends they had made during the voyage.

"Good luck!" somebody called as they took their first steps on Australian soil; a couple of souls among a whirling mass of people, searching for new lives, new homes and fresh roots.

Uniformed officials shouted instructions the immigrants didn’t understand. Mothers changed nappies on suitcases while babies cried and small children chased around piles of luggage solemnly guarded by weather-beaten Sicilian grandfathers wearing threadbare suits and flat caps. Confiscated food floated on the water; oranges, apples and bread rolls lapped against the side of the ship. Passports were stamped and their owners scrutinised. Questions were asked and they were told to join the group outside the terminal. A bus took them to an immigrant camp on the outskirts of Perth.

They thought it was a beautiful city situated on the wide waters of the Swan River with unfamiliar skyscrapers and spacious parks filled with tropical plants; the easy-going atmosphere; the abundance of luxury displayed in shop windows and restaurants offering strange foreign food. Somewhere along St. George's Terrace and past the Tudor-style buildings of London Court, they saw an American limousine parked outside an imposing entrance - the marble columns of a hotel.

"One day I'll own one of these cars," said Manfred, admiring the gleaming chrome fittings. He peered through the window at the cream coloured leather upholstery; gazed longingly at the polished wooden dashboard and rows of silver knobs. Hauke walked around it in circles with hands in his pockets; the protruding bottom lip signalled he was deep in thought.

"We'll have to get used to driving on the left-hand side of the road," he announced after a while, attempting to subdue yet another wave of homesickness, because he couldn’t get Anna off his mind.

He could see her now, the first time they’d met; the evening sun forming a halo against her silhouette - a tall slim girl with long blond hair, in the doorway of the cutting room behind the butcher's shop.

"I've missed the bus. Is my brother still here?"

"No, he’s just left. Can I give you a lift on my bike?" His NSU Max had stood gleaming in the yard. He thanked his lucky star he had polished it.

A few weeks later he’d lost interest in Australia.

"You can’t change your mind now," Manfred had said, confronted with his friend's dilemma. "I’ve just finished with my girl and now you’re going back on your word - that’s not fair!" So Hauke had promised he’d be home in two years and write once a month… Anna had said she would wait.

This is a wonderful country. Anna could join him as soon as he’d got settled. The idea sent his spirits rising. He thought about the places they had visited during the voyage; reckoned the trip hadn’t been so bad after all. He was glad he had come and besides, what else could they wish for? People were friendly and they were treated well at the camp where they shared a two-room Nissan hut. Food was plentiful and well cooked; lessons were given in ‘English for Beginners’ with information about their new country, its laws, customs, geographical characteristics, politics and climate. Yes, he was definitely glad he had come.

"Let's go for a swim." His companion jogged him out of his daydream. "I’ve heard there's a regular bus-service to a place called Scarborough Beach.

They returned to the camp, collected their bathers and caught the bus to the beach. This is the life, they said; this is how paradise must be. They ran into the water, clear and blue and dived into the waves as they crashed onto the beach.

But it never occurred to the two immigrants that Australian attitudes towards the human body might be inhibited by old-fashioned notions. How could they have guessed that the 'bulge' in their bathers would be the cause of a public outcry? An outraged matron threw her hands up in horror and commanded her daughter to look the other way. She called over a patrolling life-saver. The life-saver blew his whistle and gesticulated wildly at the two men as they were about to tackle another oncoming wave. "Come out of the water at the double!" he bawled.

Sunbathers sat upright and all heads turned towards two bewildered men with distinctive 'lumps' in their bathers. "You can't walk around indecently dressed," yelled the life-saver. "It's disgusting!" His voice rose to an indignant screech as he pointed to their bathers, and guided them towards a group of youths who had stopped kicking a ball to watch the commotion. "You must wear decent bathers like these here!" He made a sweeping gesture towards a type of garment they’d never seen before: bathers with a concealing front flap; a tiny skirt covering indelicate protrusions on men's bodies, which no respectable girl should have to see.

THE RAIL OFFICIALS

Manfred returned the knife to the sheath on his belt. It reminded him of the old hunting knife with a fishing hook on a long piece of string, tucked into the belt holding up the grey flannel pants which he’d hated.

"You can grow into them," his mother had said, making matters worse because he reckoned he’d be wearing them for the next couple of years. She had sewn him a winter coat out of a blanket and a confirmation dress for his sister out of bedroom curtains. With the exception of a handful of documents, they had lost everything during the flight from the brutality of a rapidly oncoming Russian army. They had been allotted a couple of draughty rooms in the house opposite the farm. Hauke’s mother had given them milk for the baby. Later, he had helped on the farm for a can of fresh milk or some eggs. After work, they had transformed the bushes around the pig-sty into an impenetrable jungle and the back turnip field into a desert. When they grow up they’ll be explorers, they said...

He adjusted his belt and finished packing his bag, ready to begin his new life. Most Italian immigrants had already left, to work in market-gardens around Perth and owned by their compatriots; a different type of immigrant who had saved themselves the trouble of assimilation by importing their own culture.

Two other Germans entered the room; a thick-set Bavarian and an easy going sport student on the look-out for something different. Soon, they would be travelling in the opposite direction, to the distant mines of the Northern Territories. "Have a good journey," they said, and the four men shook hands. "Perhaps we'll meet up again sometime," said the Bavarian bricklayer who talked about setting up his own business, and said judging by what he’d already seen, he could build a house single-handed. "Then you can get revenge for that game of 'Skaat' you lost," said his companion, a motorbike fan who dreamed about driving around Australia on a 'Harley'. They laughed and slapped each other’s backs, knowing there was little chance they would meet again.

The elderly rail-official waited outside in a van. He had been told to collect two Germans; to bring them to the station and make sure they boarded the carriage at the end of train. His boss had called them ‘poor bastards’ because they’d signed up as linesmen. He watched them pile their luggage into the back of the van.

"Ye'll be sent to Kingoonya," said the veteran as they drove into Perth.

"Ach, very nice," they answered politely.

"At the other end of the Nullarbor," the veteran nodded his head wisely.

"Very nice," they repeated. Their English was limited; it was all they could say.

"South east region of the country…" The veteran’s feeble voice faded as he parked the car outside the station. Then he accompanied them down the platform, handed over packets of sandwiches and a few tins of meat before pointing to a single carriage at the end of a freight train.

"Climb in there and good luck boys; two years’ll go by quickly!" he said, ignoring amused glances at three canvas-bags filled with water, hooked onto a rail at the end of the carriage.

"Hey, did he say two years?” It was frustrating not understanding what people said. “And are we supposed to drink out of these things?” Once more, they cursed their inadequate knowledge of the language, leaned out of the window as the train picked up speed, still unaware of how much they would depend on their ‘water-bags’.

Gone were the elegant buildings, watered lawns and bitumen roads. They had entered the country of corrugated-iron sheds, low scrub and sandy tracks. The pleasant breeze cooling the carriage had turned hot and dry. It transported clouds of sand through open windows. Swarms of flies buzzed around their heads and settled on their faces. Fly-swotting - the 'Trans-Australian Salute' - was already becoming a habit. They sat on wooden benches and stared at a lonely cluster of houses. An isolated homestead fled by, surrounded by sand and by scrub. The monotony dampened their spirits and lengthened the hours. Conversation diminished into an occasional remark. Soon, they fell silent.

Hauke stretched his legs and punched his bag into use as a pillow. Thoughts wandered, thousands of miles away, back to the world they had left; a butcher’s shop with white tiled walls behind a glass-paned shop-counter displaying sausages and other delicacies. He wondered if Australian housewives appreciated the fine art of German sausage-making. His imagination grew with dark shadows on flat plains. Night spread across the distant horizon turning the sky into a mottle of dark red and grey. He stared into the oncoming blackness and saw crowds of Australian housewives queuing in his shop; saw himself behind the counter with Anna. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Manfred stretched his legs on the bench opposite, and covered his face with a newspaper. It fluttered as he breathed. He heard his mother telling him for the hundredth time he was just like his father who also had the habit of falling asleep under the newspaper. It had annoyed him, being compared to the father he could barely remember; a train-driver who had died far too early. And what do you want to be when you grow up? A train driver, of course…

But colour-blindness had put an end to aspirations of following in parental footsteps and he’d become a carpenter instead. He reckoned Australians weren’t as strict about colour-blindness or they wouldn’t have given him a job on the railways. Logical, eh? That piece of news would surprise them back home! He recalled the clash of strong wills and stubborn dispositions. "You're out of your head! Why do you want to go to Australia of all places?" His mother’s face had been flushed with anger.

“They are advertising for qualified tradesmen."

"How do you know?"

Here!" He had flung a pile of brochures onto the table; brightly coloured brochures with pictures of golden beaches; a surfer riding the-crest of a wave, white foam and blue water; photos of industrial projects offering well-paid jobs; assisted passages for a minimum of two-year stay for those willing to work hard.

Two months later they had travelled to Bremerhaven, accompanied by two despairing mothers who had stood on the quayside and waved as the ship left its moorings. A brass band had played seaman's shanties and coloured streamers had flown through the air depicting the very last bond between land and sea which soon would be broken. Passengers waved frantically, shouting last promises to those they might never see again until they had been reduced to mere pinpricks on the distant horizon. There had been lumps in their throats and tears in their eyes: they were twenty-one years of age and impatient to start their new lives.

They slept in the carriage at the end of the train. Ghostly sidings lit by solitary electric bulbs slid by. Their steady breathing accompanied the rhythm of wheels and the fall and slam of linkages as the dark night changed into the grey shadows of early morning. Soon, the glowing yellow ball of a rising sun brought daylight to the wide and empty plains of the Nullarbor. They saw a treeless landscape of saltbush and spinifex-grass; a vast waterless desert against an endless horizon.

"Look, that must be a kangaroo!” yelled Hauke excitedly. They watched the big red creature bounding away in the distance. Later, a group of emus fled on stilt-like legs from the oncoming train; their heads stretched forward on long swaying necks as they raced across the plain.

The train slowed down in the middle of nowhere and veered onto a siding. It stopped at an isolated platform that suddenly sprang to life.

“You can get out and stretch your legs. Refill your water-bags over there. You fellas look flat out like a lizard drinkin’," said a lean and dusty-looking guard as he patrolled the length of the train. He pointed towards a group of rusty corrugated-iron water tanks standing on high struts at the end of the platform, before turning his attention to the unloading and re-loading of mailbags, parts of machinery, stocks of food and beverages, electrical appliances and packages containing every conceivable item needed by those living in the isolation of the outback.

People stood in the shade of a dusty weather-board building and gossiped, flapping absentmindedly at flies, waiting for the westward train to pass, along the single track connecting Western Australia with the Eastern States. A group of Aborigines squatted silently in the shade of a lonely gum tree some distance from the platform. A big yellow dog strolled over the track, casually sniffing for scraps.

A train whizzed past and hooted loudly. It brought a pleasant breeze and whipped sand into a yellow cloud before being swallowed up in the distance. People suddenly sprang to life. They climbed into the carriage and someone shouted, "See yer!" The train squeaked and groaned as it began to move past disused railcars and farm machinery.

"They must be lunatics living in this kind of country!" Manfred staring despairingly at another dusty corrugated iron building passing by, flanked by a dented metal tub in which a solitary geranium struggled for life. He took his mouth-organ. At the end of the freight train, two lonely passengers sang German sailors' shanties as they journeyed down the world's longest straight railway-track; across the endless emptiness of the 'Never Never'.

…

Joe, the chief Ganger, stood on the dimly-lit platform in Kingoonya, a small outback town on the eastern edge of the Nullarbor which served outlying areas as a central rail-depot. He had a responsible job; in charge of ten linesmen who were the maintenance team.

It was midnight. The platform was cluttered with sacks, equipment and machinery. A group of men stood nearby, ready to load and unload the train travelling east. None of them paid much attention to Joe. They knew he was a loner; sensed his lack of interest in their lives, their backgrounds, and the families they had left behind. He never asked questions, joined in their conversation or laughed at their jokes. He was a weird fellow, through and through. But they were there to make money, and not friends; would return to their families with well-filled pockets, like the two Poles who had just left. The men had heard that a couple of German immigrants were on their way to replace the two Poles whose time had been up, and Joe was there to meet the ‘poor buggers’.

Joe didn’t think they were ‘poor buggers’. “These bloody Krauts”, he muttered as he stood on the platform and waited. During the war he had fought against them, in a small but efficient group of partisans operating from the hills surrounding his native village. The atrocities he had seen had warped his mind and the stray bullet that had blown the two middle fingers off his left hand, had done the rest.

He could see the train's lights in the distance and the expression on his face switched to friendly benevolence. He was careful to disguise his feelings, proud of his achievements in this strange country, and had no intention of jeopardising his job.

The train drew to a halt alongside the platform. Joe stepped forward to greet the new linesmen.

After two days and two nights of travelling one-thousand two-hundred and fifty miles from west to east, the passengers had been lulled into apathy by the monotony of a never-changing countryside, the swaying movements of the carriage and the clock-like sound of wheels. Limbs ached, thoughts were muddled, bodies and clothes were covered with a thin layer of sweat and red dust as the train drew to a halt alongside the platform at Kingoonya.

Men moved around carrying lamps, shouting greetings at invisible figures as they loaded and unloaded the train. A tall man with a slight stoop suddenly appeared out of the darkness. “You’ll be the new linesmen and I’m Joe, the chief ganger,” he said without further ceremony, being a man of few words. "I'll show you your quarters."

The two German immigrants shouldered their bags and followed the stooping figure down the platform towards a lonely siding. They could make out the clustered shadows of railway buildings ahead, and a vintage locomotive coupled onto four carriages.

“Single men's quarters!" Joe announced briskly as they entered a carriage. "Leave yer bags ‘ere an' keep quiet," he whispered, pointing out two empty bunk beds among sleeping linesmen.

"See that light over there…?" he stretched a mutilated hand towards another clutter of dark buildings in the distance, "…the general store, just opened up for you blokes. Ye’ll need a mattress, a sun-hat, and eating utensils."

A sleepy woman, vaguely comical with her hair in rollers, stood behind an old-fashioned wooden counter in a shop that sold everything from clothing to cooking equipment. She folded her arms and waited patiently while Joe walked around the store, choosing items and allotting them to their new owners.

"But we have no money!"

"Don’t worry, it’ll be deducted from yer wages," said the sleepy storekeeper. She entered what they had bought in an exercise book and carefully spelt their names underneath.

"Get a move on will ya," said Joe, "…an’ don’t wake the others when yer get back, ‘cos work starts at five in the morning."

Hauke woke at dawn after a hot and restless night on a bottom bunk and lumpy mattress. Careful not to awake the others, he slipped into denim shorts, a fresh T-shirt, and jumped onto the platform. In the early light, he imagined himself in one of those Wild West pioneering towns he’d seen in countless films; a typical unromantic Australian outback community of about twenty-five buildings, uniformly built and covered with a fine layer of red dust.

He crossed the track and made towards a row of corrugated-iron sheds leading up to the main street. Most houses were simply built from weather-board; no fancy trimmings or neat front gardens in front of nicely curtained windows displaying rows of plotted plants like at home.

He felt a lump in his throat; another wave of homesickness. He’d made a mistake leaving his home just for this. He’d give anything to be back in the village, in the square where they’d hung out on a Saturday night wearing drainpipe trousers and boot-lace ties, ready for a jive in the local tavern, named 'Boxer's Booth' because of the bawls.

A scraggy dog wagged its tail hopefully and followed him down the lonely track which ran through town and dissolved into the plains. He walked past houses flanked with iron water-tanks; a shack-like building with childish pictures in dusty windows and made his way towards the general store of the previous evening. There was an electric fan in the wooden ceiling dispersing flies, attracted by cheese on display in a glass cupboard.

Outside a community building was a wooden board covered with faded hand-written notices which he tried to read but couldn’t understand. He studied the building, noticing that one half had been portioned off into a public bar, and the rest, according to the wooden cross above a sun-bleached door, was the local church. A convenient opportunity for those who had sinned in one half, to repent in the other, he thought, allowing himself to indulge in just a light touch of amusement.

Where the town ended and the empty plains began was the local cinema with a screen fixed to the fence on the far side of a compound. He sat on a bench and stared at the blank screen. His thoughts wandered to Perth and he remembered the golden beach and the clear blue water of the Indian Ocean. It was another world - a thousand times better than this.

On his return to the sleeping quarters, men were slowly rising, rubbing their eyes and scratching their heads: unwashed and unshaven, dishevelled and neglected.

“Hello!” he said, feeling anything but cheerful.

Nobody answered. Somebody farted and even that was ignored. “Where are we going?” he asked as the train started moving.

“Out bush!”

The men sat on their bunks, snorting and sniffing as the train picked up speed. It turned into a siding, about twenty miles ‘out bush’.

“Time for brekkie!” someone yelled.

“Come on fellas!” said a bed-neighbour standing up. “…get yerselves into the next carriage for a nosh-up’ A decent brekkie - a good start to another lousy day!”

“Come an' get it yer bastards!” bawled a thin Australian cook, who looked like he never ate. He stood behind the bar dishing out generous portions of fried bacon and eggs, slimy stuff they called ‘porridge’ and cups of black tea.

Later, gang-workers walked down the track in single-file behind the hand-driven buggy filled with new Jarrah-wood sleepers. Cork dangled from the brims of their hats to discourage flies, attracted by their sweat that trickled over a layer of red dust forming patterns on their skin. Their voices echoed over the silent plains like whispering ghosts. They stopped at Joe’s command, strained at rusty bolts with ring-spanners to replace cracked and termite-infested sleepers.

At mid-day they rested in the shadows of isolated scrub or lonely trees, or alongside the buggy.

“Time for a walkabout,” said a linesman, flung a bunch of rabbit-traps over his shoulder, and walked off. A herd of kangaroos appeared on the distant horizon and someone shouted 'roos’! Men grabbed their guns, fired and yelled like a bunch of heat-crazed warriors at the animals as they fled across the landscape in long rhythmic bounds.

In the late afternoon, the train returned them to Kingoonya. There were long metal troughs in the washroom; they were told to go easy with the water until ‘The Tea and Sugar Train’ arrived from Adelaide with water for the town and provisions for isolated communities.

…

Gang-workers played poker in the mobile canteen while the new linesmen sat on their beds staring dismally at the floor.

“Hell can't be worse than this place.”

“I wouldn't like to die here either.”

There was another long silence and Hauke said, “There must be some mistake. We’ve been sent to the wrong place.”

“Know what we are? Prisoners, that’s what we are!”

“More like workers on a chain-gang,” said Hauke indignantly.

“I'm not staying!”

“Neither am I!”

“This isn't what we came for,” said Hauke shaking his head. “We should talk to the boss.”

They found Joe in a dusty fly-blown office at the end of the platform.

“Waddayawant!”

“Excuse me please,” they stammered and nervously thumbed through the German-English dictionary.

Manfred stood firmly with his hands on his hips, and announced, “This work is 'scheisse'!”

“Not for us,” agreed Hauke.

“We are rail officials and not linesmen.”

“I am butcher and he is carpenter.”

“We are not working here.”

Joe listened patiently and regarded them dispassionately beneath heavy eyebrows. His nicotine stained moustache twitched as they waited and his lips curled into a humourless smile.

“Ye'll soon get used to it,” he said after a while and with an impatient wave of his hand made it clear that the interview was over.

…

When the ‘track-gangers’ had climbed onto the buggy and were ready to go, Joe yelled, “Let the 'Krauts' drive!”

“Get a move on will yer,” he yelled as they pushed the T-shaped leverage transporting men and equipment down the track. The buggy picked up speed and Joe stuck out his chin. “Rum-ta-ta-rum-ta-ta,” he roared in a raucous harsh voice, waving an arm to the rhythm. “Know what I’m singing? ’Radetzky March’,” he yelled without waiting for a reply, surprised that the ‘Krauts’ who enjoy a good March didn’t even know the name of the tune. “Join in fellas, join in!” he commanded and began arm-beating the rhythm once more. A faint ‘rum-ta-ta’ erupted from those who were amused, and then fell silent again, leaving Joe to his solo interpretation.

“Stop!” he roared, and the buggy drew to a halt. They jumped from the platform and walked behind the buggy in two columns at each side of the track. He lifted an arm and the men stood still.

“To the right!”

The left-hand column, wearing gloves to protect them from the heat of metal, shovelled their crowbars under the track. “Hau-ruck,” they chorused, as the rails were levered to the right.

“Too far, to the left!”

The right-hand column repeated the action until Joe was satisfied that the track was straight.

A whirling mass of sand spun over the ground like a giant spinning-top and crossed the lines someway ahead. They wondered what it was and watched it disappear in the distance.

“It’s only a ‘willy-willy’” said Roman, the Hungarian. “Happens often! Wait ‘till the next sandstorm - blow in yer teeth - sure thing mate - blow in yer bloody teeth!”

…

There were tiny townships with Aborigine names, such as Tarcoola, Malbooma, or Coondambo: outposts of civilisation along a track leading into the 'Never Never'; another Aborigine name for the never-ending countryside of sand and scrub.

A dark cloud appeared on the horizon and they could hardly contain their relief, having agreed that the cool wetness of their homeland was a thousand times better than this unbearable heat. Never again would they complain about the north German weather and should they ever return home, they wouldn’t even complain if it rained a whole year.

“No rain, no such luck!” said Roman, whose name had been shortened to 'Ron'.

“Sandstorm comin’ up!” yelled a Polish linesman.

The dark cloud was growing into a menacing blanket. The light breeze, a short but pleasant change from the heat, had developed into a strong wind, filling the air with particles of dust and transforming the atmosphere into a dreary yellowish grey. Joe grabbed a couple of water canisters, gave orders to tie everything down and get into safety.

A menacing silence, a sudden and threatening stillness descended upon them. The wind returned, howling like an angry dog. Sand lashed at their backs, whipped around their heads as they sheltered beneath sacks, huddled together behind a pile of strapped sleepers. Dry vegetation spun through the air and fragments of salt-bush rolled along at high speed, covering everything with sand.

As fast as it had come, it was gone. Men stood up and shook themselves, removed the sand from their ears, their noses and their mouths and spat on freshly formed dunes, swept with a giant brush. The sun reappeared and so did countless flies. A lizard scuttled from under the track and Joe took a spade to dig out the trolley. He let out a yell and suddenly jumped backwards with surprising agility for a man of his size, when he saw the black snake coiled beneath the trolley, head up and hissing towards him. Still keeping a safe distance, he killed the reptile with his spade, hung it over the handle and yelled at the troop to come over here and see what he’d caught for their dinner.

…

Apart from an occasional sandstorm and the silhouettes of kangaroos and emus appearing on the horizon, one day was the same as the next. They could find no pleasure in this hot and empty space. To them, it seemed that time was standing still and they were floating through space without hope of return. They had little in common with the other linesmen, who had long since resigned to their fate and were making the best of it until they had fulfilled their contracts and could leave.

The two German linesmen were as eager as any, for distraction in a monotonous existence. They spotted a distant figure walking down the line towards them. “Only a black fella,” said a linesman with a shrug.

The young Aborigine woman carrying a baby came into sight. They had seen groups of Aborigines on the outskirts of Perth, sitting on the roadside or on vacant blocks of land. But they wondered about the woman carrying her baby, alone in the outback and walking down the line. “Perhaps she has lost her way,” said Manfred to Hauke. They looked concerned.

“They’ll find their way blindfolded,” said the linesman with the flat nose of a boxer. He turned and whistled towards the dark figure who continued walking and showed no interest in the men who had stopped work to stare. Joe yelled and cursed at them to keep moving. They’d get the shit blown out of their heads if he had anything to do with it. The young mother kept walking. She had come to the meet the trains; to beg for cigarettes or the 'plonk', which misguided passengers would hand through the windows.

…

The two linesmen, unaccustomed to the loneliness; the silence of empty plains and the endless horizon, felt like prisoners, trapped in an open space from which there was no escape. Nothing could be worse than the dilemma they were in. Close friendships didn’t exist among the men; ‘everyone for himself’ was their motto. They said, if you don’t make the best out of two years in the bush you’ll end up like the ‘drongo’ who went berserk; rammed his head against a wall and never got to be a ‘real dinkum Aussie’. That’s all we want, said the men who had been peasants in their own countries; to fulfill the two-year agreement, return to the wife and kids and be a real dinkum bloody-great Aussie with a brick house and a pension when we’re old.

In the meantime we’ll have some amusement, they said.

Late afternoon, when they were returning to base, the trolley drew to a halt somewhere along the line and men jumped down to inspect the traps they had set.

The Ukrainian linesman, known to be gun-crazy, yelled, “A fox! Come and look at this! I’ve got a fox in my trap.” He hopped around like a kid having a treat. A crowd of men gathered around the trap and watched in fascination as the whimpering animal attempted to free a bleeding paw.

“He hasn’t been in there for long,” said the linesman with the matted beard who reckoned he knew a lot about animals.

“Let him out!” demanded the religious Dutch fellow known as ‘The Bibelthumper’. “That’s what I call cruelty to animals.”

“Give him a shot and relieve him from his misery!” Hauke the butcher, raised on a farm, had no patience with animal abuse.

“You must be bloody joking,” said Ron the Hungarian, an expression of mock concern on his face. He turned to the exalted Dutchman, uttered a string of blasphemous statements about god-damned saints, with the conviction of a man who had lost his religion.

“Thou shalt not kill!” The Dutchman’s voice echoed into nowhere.

“Let’s have some fun!” The Ukrainian linesman was getting impatient, fully aware they weren’t all on his side. But they wanted some fun and fun they should have…“Throw in your bets! Shillings against yards.”

Huh?

“…how far he runs ‘til he’s burnt out… “

“Ten-shillings on forty yards!” yelled the wiry Rumanian who had distinctly bad teeth and seldom opened his mouth.

“…three shillings on thirty yards…!”

“…ten on fifty…!” Big Bonny, the Italian, was an experienced gambler.

“Get a move on will yer!” Joe had nothing against a little deviation now and again, but showed little interest in the Rumanian, on his return with a canister of petrol. Hauke observed the proceedings with a mixture of apprehension and disgust. He noted the routine of their movements. It was clear they had done this before.

The Ukrainian sprinkled the animal with petrol, set it alight and opened the trap. The animal, now in full blaze, shot out like a bullet, yowling with fright and with pain. The men roared with laughter, considered it a great spectacle and clapped each other on the shoulder. As soon as the animal collapsed they could hardly wait to measure the distance by striding towards the rapidly shrinking and sizzling bundle. The Ukrainian opened his pants and proud to be the centre of things, urinated over the animal while they laughed and joked even louder, despite the sour odour of singed hair and burning flesh mixed with urine. They’d had their fun. Now it was time to get moving again.

The two German linesmen recalled, with sudden pangs of regret, the games they had once played with frogs, blowing through straws stuck into their backsides; amusing themselves over balloon-like amphibians; their vain attempts at plunging to safety, but floating on the surface instead. Hadn’t that been wicked enough? But what was that compared to this they had witnessed? Would they ever grow accustomed to such cruelty?

They sat silently among arguing men who settled their debts with the winner. Surely they couldn’t be more miserable than they were now. The trolley drew to a halt and Ron, the Hungarian, returned with a three-legged rabbit which had left one of its legs in the trap. He put the animal in a sack; would keep it as a pet, together with other animals in the pen. He had put a lot of work into building the pen, behind one of the storage sheds in Kingoonya.

…

Two emu eggs belonged to Big Bonny who was a man of great strength, explosive temper and fearful appearance, emphasised by a scar running down his cheek and into the corner of his mouth. His name was Bonifacio, which had been anglicised into 'Bonnyface', then shortened to 'Bonny' and somebody had added the ‘Big’.

Big Bonny had discovered a couple of huge dark green eggs under a bush of spinifex. He kept them in a cardboard box protected by barbed-wire during the day, and beneath his bed at night. He fondled them lovingly, listening for signs of an imminent birth. He had made plans to nurse two emu chickens by also fixing up a pen behind one of the sheds.

During a quiet Saturday afternoon in Kingoonya, people heard a roar and stopped what they were doing. A distraught figure ran down the track and through the middle of town, yelling incoherently about his eggs.

“Yer mean yer balls or yer eggs?”

“Shurrup you bloody idiot!” he panted. “Someone has stolen my eggs!”

“Try looking over there!” A rail-worker pointed to the dingo tethered outside the bar. It belonged to the Irish stockman who worked on a farm and came into town for regular booze. He had been attempting to tame it, but without much success.

The animal was licking with great gusto at a gooey mess between piles of cracked shells in the box; (nobody questioned how the dingo had managed to break open the eggs). The giant let forth a torrent of Italian abuse, stormed into the bar and reappeared, dragging the Irishman by the collar. A crowd was rapidly growing in anticipation of a decent fight; Saturday afternoons being generally boring. Bellowing with rage, Big Bonny shook the man, flapping him backwards and forwards like a wet rag. He clenched his fists, ready to punch him in the face, to the delight of even more spectators who were rushing to the scene.

“On the grave of me mother I had nothing to do with it!” stuttered the Irishman, lifted his arms helplessly and then like a blitz, to the back pocket of his shorts. Suddenly there was a knife pointing at Big Bonny’s nose, and a shocked silence among the crowd. Big Bonny roared even louder and pushed the Irishman away, who lost his balance and fell backwards still holding the knife. Somebody kicked it out of his hand and another picked it up. The giant Italian was in no mood for explanations and snorted like a wrestler in the corner of a ring.

Six men sat on top of Big Bonny, one on each limb and two on his chest. Then there was a ‘free for all and nobody knew who he was fighting, so they slapped each other’s shoulders and went into the pub for more beer.

"They’re all mad in this place," said Hauke.

The Australians call it ‘Bush Choler’.

…

After six weeks, they'd had enough of hot and inhuman conditions in hostile surroundings. Disillusionment had long since replaced the euphoria of starting a new life in another country with the promise of adventure and a better life. Hauke’s Nordic complexion had suffered under the sun and Manfred said if they didn't leave soon, they’d get as crazy as the rest.

They handed in their notices, written in Pidgin English on a scrap of notepaper which had taken much time and afforded more concentration.

Joe regarded them in mock astonishment. “You’re not goin’ nowhere,” he informed them, shaking his head.

“Why not?”

“Two years you both stay here, two years!” he shouted and held up the two remaining fingers of his left hand. “Here are yer contracts,” he added triumphantly, waving the two sheets of type-written paper they had signed before leaving the ship, committing them for two long years to the Australian National Railways.

“You cannot keep us here for two years like prisoners,” they replied indignantly.

“You either stay here or go to jail for breach of a legal agreement. You bloody German Nazi bastards should be locked up and the key thrown away; get treated the same way as you’ve treated others,” screamed Joe, red in the face and eyes bulging with hate.

“We're not staying here for two years,” Manfred replied and Hauke nodded.

“Wait and see!" yelled Joe, shaking his finger threateningly. “You just wait and bloody well see!” he repeated, yelling after them as they left the hut. Raucous laughter rebounded among corrugated-iron sheds and followed them down the platform.

“Nobody can force us to stay, not even that arse,” they said.

“Why did he call us Nazis?”

“What have we done wrong?”

“Do you think he's mad?”

“He's stark-raving mad alright!”

“Well, we can't just walk off we'll have to jump on a train!”

“Yes, we’ll jump on a train.”

“It's every man for himself.”

“The less the others know of our plans, the better.”

“They'll put us in jail.”

“They won't find us in Adelaide,” said Hauke.

Shortly before daybreak, when the freight- train going south was waiting to be loaded, two young men crouched behind a hut, waiting for the right moment to climb into the truck filled with the wooden sleepers they’d helped to replace.

“Now…!” They sprinted across the empty platform, tossed their bags over the top, climbed inside and disappeared. They heard the familiar shouted instructions of men’s voices; listened to the noises of goods being loaded into empty trucks; metal scraping against metal as equipment was pushed into place; sacks rolled onto the ramps and sliding-doors banged shut. The engine whistled and hooted as the long train moved, slowly down the platform, and gathered speed as it reached open country.

They were on their way to Adelaide. The Australians would say – "They shot through!"

From the open truck they saw flat desert country; dried out lake beds in an endless countryside, void of civilisation. Hauke yodelled and punched the air, enjoying the warm breeze, the sudden sense of freedom. "Goodbye you bastards!" shouted Manfred into the wind. Who cared about the past when there was a new and better life ahead! They were Hauke the butcher and Manfred the carpenter: good tradesmen and willing to work, wherever their destination might be.

The train stopped at every supply station down the line and fearing discovery, they hid between piles of old Jarrah sleepers until trucks filled to the brim with ore and coal from outlying mines, had been coupled on.