Tag: Thoughts

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 5

I found this:

The innocuous explanation for this photo is that I took it at my grand daughter’s little athletics competition, now most sensibly being held on Friday evenings.

For those who don’t know how the weather can be in Brisbane, Queensland, it is generally hot, particularly from November when temperatures are between 35 and 40 degrees centigrade.

But not only is it hot but humidity, the real problem, is around 100 percent.

So at the moment we have reasonably cool evenings, ideal conditions for the young athletes.

But, where a photo could be innocuous there can a more interesting, if not sinister description.

Lurking in the back of my mind, and perhaps a lot of others, that there might be an unidentified flying object somewhere in the sky.

Of course, there might not be any, but it doesn’t mean that we stop looking, or assume, sometimes that a moving light in the sky isn’t a UFO.

And its been said that humans are quite arrogant in thinking that we are the only people in the universe.

Personally, I don’t think we are, and I keep an eye on the sky every time I’m out at night, perhaps the most likely time we might see one.

The only issue I might have is that if I am that lucky to see one, or that it lands nearby, what I would do when confronted by an alien.

And, yes, there’s definitely a story in that.

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 16

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now he faces questions, not only his own but that of his commanding officer.

And the answers might not be what he wants to hear.

Breeman returned later that day, an agitated look on her face, the sort that reminded me she was having a bad day, and more often than not after a secure video conference with the powers that be at the Pentagon.

At least this time I was about to speak but had still not made the decision on whether I should tell her anything.  It depended on if she had any questions for me, and how specific they were.  I would tell her the truth.

She sat and head hunched forward in her hands, she rubbed her eyes and looked at the floor for a minute before looking back up at me.

“Your disappearance has set off a shit storm.”

“Because we were in the no-fly zone?”

“You knew where you were?”

“No.  One part of the sky over the desert is the same as any other.  I had no idea where we were when we were shot down, but I figured there are not many civilians armed with rocket launchers, particularly wandering around in the middle of the normal desert just waiting for a US military helicopter.”

“I would tend to agree with you.  Did Jerry tell you why he was there?”

“Jerry doesn’t talk to us enlisted me, nor deems it any of our business where he goes.  He did say, however, he was on a training run to supplement his flying hours.  But, whatever he was doing or where he was going, he needed your signoff.”

Did I just say that in an angry manner?  Not the way to speak to your commanding officer, friend or not.  I should apologize quickly, and did.  It didn’t change her expression, in fact, to me, it now looked more severe.

“There’s a flight plan with my signature on it, but it’s not my signature, but a very good counterfeit.”

“Any idea who the forger is?”

“No.  But they are on the base, here, what could possibly be a traitor.”

“Does it show whether the pilot intended to cross into the no-fly some?”

“No.  It was a usual path on our side, following the boundary.  It doesn’t explain the wreckage 60 miles inside the border.  Did you see anyone?”

Now it gets tricky.

“Just a rocket launcher out the side of a Toyota aimed at us followed quickly by a rocket coming straight at us.  There wasn’t much time to think.”

“You jumped.  It’s the sort of thing I’d expect from you.”

“Aside from hitting the sand, that’s about all I remember.”  It was a direct lie, but it could be modified or rescinded later.  This room was not secure.

“Did you see anything else?”

“Other than desert and sky?  No.”

She gave me a very long and considered look, and yes, I blinked first.  I had the awful feeling she knew I was lying to her.

“There’s a camp out there, somewhere, and what happened to you proves it.”

It was as far as she got with that statement, whether of fact or supposition, she didn’t tell me.

Colonel Bamfield just walked into my hospital room.

© Charles Heath 2019

We’re out in the country

Or almost

When you venture out from the city, particularly, this city, you find yourself among the blocks that run to several acres, allotments that are ideal for keeping a horse or two.

Inner suburban living often runs to high rise apartment blocks, with no gardens, except perhaps on the roof.

Outer suburban living runs to individual houses on allotments that are from 600 to 2,000 square meters. We have not yet gone into mass building of duplexes or terrace housing because for the time being, we don’t have the population.

And, this is why you only have to go about 35 kilometres from the centre of the city to be able to buy acreage.

So, we are visiting, and on such a glorious end of winter day, it’s a pleasure to sit on the back verandah, spending some time soaking up the sunshine, breathing the country fresh air, and let the inspiration flow into writing.

It works.

I’ve manage to write another photograph inspired story, number 124, which will be published on my writing blog in the next day or so.

Also being tackled will be the next chapter of PI Walthensen’s second case.

Unfortunately though, the inspirational location didn’t afford me a title for this new case but it will have the opening three words “A Case Of…’

The rest, I’m sure, will come as the story unfolds.

Writing about writing a book – Day 16

As we now know Bill realizes that he had been captured and interrogated by someone, ostensibly Chinese, but not exactly from the Viet Kong

I’ve been pondering how Bill ends up in the hands of the Chinese, well, I know how he does, and this needs to be put down.

Some pieces of the puzzle are coming together.

”’

Davenport arrived at the airstrip where I was waiting in a makeshift building, with windows, easy chairs, a self-serve bar, and best of all air conditioning.  Waiting for the chopper that was bringing in my replacement from Singapore airport.

He didn’t normally come to see us off so I thought it either odd or just a change of heart.  He had brought the shiny Cadillac, an ostentatious piece of Americana that never failed to capture the local’s imagination.

Davenport was, I soon discovered, a man who liked to impress upon the world how great America was.  I hadn’t the heart to tell him it failed on me.

He had crisp fatigues on and looked as though he had just stepped out of the shower, very clean, very cool, and very refreshed.  The car’s air-conditioning would have helped.  We all got that first ride from the strip to the camp in that car, and it was memorable, to say the least.

The driver stayed in the car, engine running, as he stepped into the lounge.  “Chandler.”

“Sir.”  No snapping to attention, neither of us was in uniform.

“There’s been a change of plans.”

“Sir.”  This didn’t sound very good.

“Your replacement is not coming.  Some trouble on the plane over.  Can’t spare a man so you will have to fill in.  I’m sorry.”

I went to say that I’d done my rotation, but the look on his face told me it would fall on deaf ears, so instead, I shrugged, let the driver, who had appeared out of the car as if on cue, collect my case, and followed Davenport out to the car.

It was definitely cooler in the car.  Davenport slid in the other side, the driver closing his door, then got in himself.  I had to close my own.  We headed back towards the camp slowly.

“We need 6 men for this op, Bill.  I’ll find some way of making this up to you.”

I shrugged.  “If you say so.”

I’d been looking forward to getting out of the jungle and getting back to civilization, as well as Ellen, who had been waiting patiently for the last six months.  She would not be very happy when I finally got to tell her.

“Oh, but the way, I took the liberty of calling your wife and apologizing on your behalf and said you’d probably be another week at the most.  She didn’t seem to mind.  She sounds like a nice lady.”

“She is.  She has to put up with me.”

“Yes.  We all have that problem.”

I listened to the hum of the air conditioning, the only other sound inside the car.  Usually, Davenport had a symphony playing over the radio, but not today.  He seemed different, more aloof, but, then, after the altercation, I had with him recently, we hadn’t spoken much after that.  Not unless we had to.

“The job isn’t difficult,” he said when we were nearing the compound.  “Another prison camp, and this time the intel is solid.  Buggers were careless and we’ve got some pictures.  The only problem is getting there.  It’s going to be a bit of a hike.”

Another of his understatements.  I could remember the last ‘bit of a hike’.  “When do we leave?”

“First light tomorrow.  Chopper to the drop zone then a day’s march to the camp.  RV at the drop zone from day 4 till you get there.”

“Who’s in charge?”  I’d run the last operation so I was hoping it would carry forward.

“If you’d been staying instead of being a last-minute replacement, it would have been you.  Instead, we had to bring in a couple of specialists who have been on the ground here quite some time.  They know the terrain and the people.”

New guys.  I hated new guys.  Especially those who purport to have experience on the ground.  Invariably they didn’t and I’d had words with Davenport more than once about it, especially when we had such a high attrition rate.  I believed it was only a miracle that I had lasted this long, and I was now tempting providence this time around.

“I hope they are better than the last two.”

“They are.  I picked them myself.  At least you will be there to keep them on the straight and narrow.

Which was exactly what I didn’t want.

Damn.

Back at the compound, I dragged myself back to my old quarters, hoping they hadn’t given away my billet just yet.  It was a hut if you could call it that, which had seen better days, but it kept the rain out.

I shared it with another soldier, or ex, I didn’t really know, and he was not the sort of man you asked, and even less talkative than most.  I knew his name was Barry McDougall, that he was Scottish, he didn’t wear a kilt and had killed men with his bare hands, one in a barroom fight.

Allegedly.

I was not surprised.  He was six feet six inches tall, all muscle, and always surly, and unlike many of the English that had come and gone, didn’t complain about the heat.

I dumped my bag on the locker at the end of the bed and sat in one of the two well worn easy chairs.  Barry was in the other, reading.

He lowered the paper and looked at me.  “Back, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Miss the chopper?”

“No.”

“Beer’s cold.”

“Thanks.”

I got up and went to the fridge.  One of the perks of the job.  An endless supply of cold beer.

“Get me one too.”

I did and passed it to him, the sat down again.  He took the beer and went back to his paper.

“Seen the new guys,” I asked.

A voice from behind the paper, “Yes.”

“Any good?”

“No.”

“Another fun run in the jungle then?”

“Looks like it.”

We drank in silence.  What more could be said?

There is more but I have to let the words jumble around in my head while I sleep.  More on this tomorrow!

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2021

The perils of traveling: the last plane out on Friday night

Everyone knows that if you are on the last flight out on a Friday night the chances of you getting away on time are remote.

Yep.

We’re on the last flight out.

Yep.

There’s no way in hell we’re leaving on time.

But, here’s the thing.

Our incoming plane arrives 6 minutes late, so there’s every hope of getting away on time.

We are, of course, delusional.

Planes can’t fly without a crew, and part of our crew on another incoming plane, which is, yep,
delayed.

In fact, the whole arrivals board is lit up with the word “delayed” for every flight but our incoming plane and one other from Sydney.

And, no, our missing crew members are not on either.

So, it becomes a waiting game and placating messages from the gate crew first to tell us we’re waiting for crew and two more times to tell us we will be boarding soon.

The look on some faces says they’ve been through all this before.

Then, one of the gate staff, communicator in hand goes out to see if the errant crew members are coming. She waits a few minutes but it probably takes longer than that for them to finalize their duties on the incoming plane and get to our gate.

She returns to the gate counter just as an electric car comes towards us from one of the satellites.

Crew found.

Boarding starts.

We leave 35 minutes late. About the average time, all the delayed planes were, well, delayed.

Ah, the joys of traveling on a Friday night

Memories of the conversations with my cat – 85

As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.

Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.

For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1

These are the memories of our time together…

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This is Chester.  We’ve just got the news that our granddaughters’ dog had been taken to the vet.

It’s serious.

But it’s a dog, Chester mutters.  Perhaps I should get sick…

Don’t tell me you’re feeling unloved again.

He sits on my desk, again, giving me the steely-eyed look.

This is about the litter again, isn’t it?

We changed his litter for a cheaper brand.  For some reason, it’s getting more expensive to keep a cat, and the usual brand of litter jumped to nearly double what it was when we first bought it.

He just sticks his nose in the air and refuses to answer.

Well, I’m sorry, but we must economize.

Perhaps then you could use a cheaper brand of toilet paper.

OK, where did that come from?

Four-ply luxury while I get shredded paper.

He jumps off the desk and walks off, but not before saying, this isn’t over.

I can see this is going to be another test of wills.

And who is going to lose!

Searching for locations: O’Reilly’s guesthouse

Sometimes it’s not about the destination, but getting there, because sometimes the destination is not what you were expecting.

I have had some experience it staying in iconic guest houses, both here and overseas, and I guess those stays spoiled this one. I have a preference for old, creaky but warm and inviting old mansions mostly built around the early 1900s.

That was what I was expecting this time too, given what I’d read.

The road, from the turn-off from the Greenlee cottages, is narrow, winding, and not one you can go faster than 40ks.  Buses and trucks are restricted to 20kph, but as you get further into the mountains, it’s difficult to see how they can get along the road at all.

It’s difficult enough in a mid-size SUV.

But, in all fairness, these are the sort of roads that nearly always lead to that mountaintop retreat.

At times the road is so narrow that you wonder how trucks and buses could get between the trees, because the close you get to the guest house, the narrower the road. And, at times, the car has to scrape by the overhanging branches, especially when having to make way for oncoming traffic.

The road is definitely not wide enough for two cars, and there are a lot of points where you can pull off to the side to let them pass.

It is tarred, but being in the middle of a dense tropical forest, it’s pitted and rutted, and very uneven.  There is not one moment where can relax, or take your eyes off the road, as some of us do, to take in the surrounding scenery.

But, whilst most of it looks the same, it’s certainly not boring, and every now and then you break out of the darkness into a clearing. And, sometimes a house.

Yes, people do live on the side of a mountain, and, just to be clear, their view, every morning, from the back verandah must be spectacular

At the end of the three-quarters of an hour drive, we emerge onto a mountain top, and what is O’Reilly’s guest house, though, after a more investigative look around, the guests stay in motel-like rooms.

There is an old wooden structure, but if this is the original guest house, it doesn’t look like people stay there anymore.

But, it’s not the accommodation the people come here for, it’s the endless bush walks.  Of course, there’s other stuff there, but it’s more about communing with nature, discovering the wildlife, and taking in the fresh country air.

A shattered dream, perhaps, or just wishful thinking?

There was time, quite a few years back I had a dream, well, it was more wishful thinking than anything else.

I was going to run a bookshop.  You know, that quaint little storefront in a tucked away little town somewhere by the ocean, where the clientele would be both travelers and locals alike, people who liked to read.

It would have an area set aside, somewhere within the shelves where there would be a fire in winter, and opened windows and fresh air in summer, a place where you could drink coffee or tea, with scones or cake, and read prospective tomes, or start on that purchase you just made.

There would be not only new books but old, second, third or having been through many hands, books with the aroma of time seeping up from every page, hard covered books with crackly spines, pages that have the stains of age.

And perhaps the name of one of its owners scribble on the front page, along with the price, what it cost all those years back when it was new.

Of course, those places still exist, somewhere in the literary universe, but the idea of owning one such establishment now would mean that you had to be independently wealthy, with a pile of money in the bank, because you would not be relying on profits to keep it going.

If I was a successful author, yes, it would make sense, existing in a literary world where I could read, or write, or talk to other readers or writers, or just do nothing.

And, yes, there would have to be a cat.  There’s always a cat, somewhere, sitting in the window and looking out on the world passing by, or curled up by the fire, reliving those halcyon years of mice catching.

Hang on, where has my fairy godmother gone?

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 6

For those who are wondering what this is a photograph of, it is a tree bordered stream that runs along a long valley that runs from outside Canungra, in Queensland, to the Lamington National Park.

It’s near a place we like to stay for a few days when we want to get away from everything, and I mean everything. There is no television, and cell phone reception is awful if not non existent.

So, you can see the benefits.

Sitting at the table on the veranda overlooking the fields, and this stream, you have time to just think, or not, about what it might have been like before the settlers came.

What is was like when the explorers we seeking new places to live, and they chanced upon this valley. It it was me back then, I would have followed the stream.

But, as for a story…

I have read a great many stories for the explorers of this country, and the hazardous nature of their treks.

What seemed to be the most common theme was crossing from south to north, that is from Melbourne to the Northern most tip of Queensland, or from Adelaide to the Northern Territory. In both cases they would have to traverse a very dry, very hot outback where the sight of a stream, or river, like above, would have been very welcome.

For some, it became an impossible quest, and stuck in the desert, they eventually perished. That in itself, the trials and tribulations of an early explorer would make a great story.

Australia is a very fertile country around the coastal regions, but one you start venturing inland, it is dry, dusty and almost uninhabitable. Unless there’s water from rivers, streams, or underground, or mining settlements, there is very little else to see.

The exceptions to this are Uluru and Kakadu National Park, in the Northern Territory, Shark Bay and The Pinnacles in Western Australia, MacKenzie Falls in Victoria, The Simpson Desert, the Boodjamulla (Lawn Hill) National Park, and the Carnarvon Gorge in Queensland, to name a few.

One day I might get to see them.

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 15

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

But, it seems our hero has ‘escaped’ and had found his way back home.

Except not quite how he expected it would be.

 

Rest was impossible while so many thoughts about my recent experiences were swirling around in the back of my head.  Now, when thinking it through, it made sense that they make sure I was found alive, but in very bad shape.

Two reasons, one, to remind me that they could do whatever they liked to me, and the second, to appease Breeman, who, no doubt realizing a helicopter was missing, would send out search teams, a no-fly zone or not.

But it was a calculated risk assuming I would not tell Breeman, or someone else, about what had happened to me, whether they believed it or not.

That led to the next thought, why was I still alive.  It would be just as easy to kill me and be discovered after dying from injuries received in the crash.  Supposition, they still needed me, or, and this was a hail Mary at best, they needed access to the base, and Breeman.

Did that mean either of the two men I’d seen at the other camp would suddenly turn up?  My money was on Colonel Bamfield.  He was my first Commanding Officer, he had a keen interest in me from the get-go, and he was the one who facilitated my transfer to my current base before I knew he was working for ‘other interests’. 

I still didn’t want to think it was the enemy.

Another question popped into my head, what was his, or their, interest in Breeman because the line of questioning centered on her.

My best guess was that it was no accident I was on that helicopter, that she had directed the pilot to make a flyover, and wasn’t expected that we would be shot down and that she had assumed there would be no repercussions on either myself or the pilot.

It was also clear that if she had to explain how I came to be where they found me, and the fact no one had launched a similar attack of the rescue team, that what happened was simply a breach of orders, and a court-martial offense.

It would solve Bamfield and his new friend’s problem.  Whatever the outcome of the court-martial she would be sent home, relieved of her command.

It seemed the military, as always, had a mind of its own, and not always have the best interests of its personnel at heart.

I’d soon find out.

 

© Charles Heath 2019