Date: Tue, 28 Dec 2004 13:45:57 +0800
From: James MacMannis <james_macmannis@hotmail.com>
Subject: Aboriginal Farmboy / aboriginal-farmboy-11

Author: James MacMannis <james_macmannis@hotmail.com>
Subject: aboriginal-farmboy-11 (adult-youth, interracial, rural)
Archive; 'Aboriginal Farmboy #11'{James MacMannis}(BB, interr, rural)[]
Homosexual, young male sex
Adult-youth
Interracial
Rural setting


ABORIGINAL FARMBOY - PART ELEVEN

Copyright (c) 2004 by James MacMannis
This document may be downloaded for your personal pleasure; however, you may
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in any media whatsoever without my permission.  Please email me at
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Wayan had already told us in the account of his younger life that being
naked was not an issue for him.  Now he made the fact obvious to me by
stripping his clothes off before he went to brush his teeth and use the
toilet.  I did not get to see much of his body, except for the nutty
brownness of his skin, because we were busy with our various ablutions.
Connie led him in to my room shortly after, telling Wayan to get in to one
side of me while he slipped in to the other.  I lay between them not knowing
what was expected of me: Connie seemed to expect me to fill surrogate father
role and Wayan was totally unknown.  I eased my arms under their necks and
drew both boys to me in a loving hug.  "It is great to have you here, Wayan.
  Thanks for telling us your story tonight, although I guess Connie knew a
lot of it already.  And thanks for being there for Connie.  I know you mean
a lot to him, and because of that you also mean a lot to me."

The two boys had rolled towards me when I embraced them and I felt their hot
penises poke into me, Wayan as rigid as Connie and not at all self-conscious
in letting me know it.  Instinctively I reached down to take hold of them
both, their stiff rods pulsing in my grip, their hips surging with that
unmistakable thrust that signalled the need for eventual fulfilment.  Wayan
was equipped with an organ not at all unlike Connie's.  It was about 120 mm
long and felt as though it was about 90 mm in circumference.  I could not
determine any other critical details at this stage, but felt the impulsive
need to find out more and a confidence that I soon would.  I did not have a
clear picture of Wayans preferences or inclinations; Connie had never spoken
of their relationship any more than to say it existed and, in his narration,
Wayan had only said that he had enjoyed being with his cousin.  I was not
sure if I was expected to begin with Connie and see what developed, or to
just wait and let them lead for the time being.

Connie made the move to overcome this slight hiatus.  Talking quietly in my
ear he said, "Just do what you feel like, Dad.  Wayan and I do things like
you and I did together when I slept with you before.  I told him about you,
and it was his idea to do this tonight.  He really wants to be with you.
His father and he have never had any sexual relationship, so, in a way, he
want you to take his father's place."  I hugged Connie to me to let him know
I had a better idea of how to progress.  Getting up out of the middle of
these two, I brought them together in the space I had occupied and put
myself above and facing them, squatting on one each of their legs, my feet
between their thighs.  They lay partly facing themselves and partly facing
me, their penises just touching at the heads as a result of the angle I had
tried to achieve.

Bending down, I began to tease their rigid tools by licking across the top
of each one.  Wayan had a loose foreskin, quite different to my boys' tight
foreskins, and half of the head was already free of its protective cover.  I
let my tongue dwell on the glistening head of Wayan's penis, siphoning up a
little of the thin precum he was producing, exploring the topography of his
manhood with my own curious taste organ.  His foreskin slid easily down the
stiff shaft of his penis, exposing the head completely.  Connie received
equal attention when I had finished my cursory examination of the first
penis.  When they had both began to demand more serious comfort, indicated
by a more vigorous throbbing, I tried to take them both into my mouth at the
same time.  At first it was almost impossible to get enough of their length
to make the exercise worthwhile.  Thickness was not a problem as neither of
the boys was overly massive, but I just couldn't seem to get in a position
where I could get much of their shaft into my mouth.

Both of them perceived the problem, without a word spoken by any of us, and
they began to rearrange themselves so that more of their rods could be
shoved into me.  At last we found a way to get about two thirds or maybe
even three quarters of their length into my now impatient mouth.  The two
boys were feeling the excitement of being in the warmth of oral cave at the
same time as each other.  Gently Connie, then Wayan, began a rhythmic push
and pull movement, wanking themselves on each other while at the same time
receiving the attention of my tongue and sucking mouth.  I felt Connie's
body movement as he took his lover into his embrace and, as their other
needs were being met below, I could hear the sounds of what I imagined was a
beautiful kissing encounter.  Connie was a little slower than Wayan to
arrive at the final stages, but when he felt his companion swell and stiffen
to the approaching discharge, Connie, too, attained the mountaintop.  Wayan
first, then Connie, plunged into me, one naked glans and the other still
sheathed and, almost together, they began their orgasm.  Both of them were
moaning to each other, not in meaningful words and often muffled, but in
expressions of joy and rapture as the waves of their orgasm swept along.
Twin streams of semen poured out of these smooth textured dark skinned poles
and the fluid shot against the rear of my mouth in great gushes, ricocheting
from one side to the other as it mixed to form a copious quantity of manly
sap.  As I swallowed, more was produced and the process continued until they
had disbursed enough of the deliciously thick fluid to satisfy my need and
completely empty their reserves.

They lay gasping for breath when I let them go from me.  Wayan reached my
neck and pulled me on top of them both, my hard penis sinking into the
opening between their legs.  Reflexively he began to move his leg, the outer
side of his thigh caressing my leaking penis.  Connie felt the movement and
picked up the tempo of Wayan's intent, amplifying the sensation to me as my
organ began to be impacted from the other side.  They scrunched themselves
together to make a tighter fit, but not so tight that I was uncomfortable,
and, in this way, brought me to my orgasm with them.  My semen gushed out
and bound them together as theirs had so recently fused inside me.  The boys
continued their gentle but persuasive massage, their legs caressing every
part of my distended penis wedged between them, until I could not produce
any more of my juice.  I fell in between them, exhausted by the fervent
orgasm I had been subjected to.

I held them both once more as they lit their cigarettes and were smoking
contentedly.  I wondered if it was Wayan's influence that encouraged Connie
to smoke as much as he now did, although I did not know if he had smoked as
heavily before I knew him.  Not that the smoking bothered me in itself, the
fact that I enjoyed smoking had to be taken into account, but my concern was
the level of consumption.  Wayan seemed to be almost constantly smoking;
Connie not much less.  Both boys had smoked since they were very young and I
wondered what damage could have already been caused in their relatively
young bodies by the onslaught of so much pollution to their lungs.  Still,
my reasoning continued, I personally knew many people in their 80's and
90's, one over 100 years old, who smoked as much as these boys and had done
all their lives without any apparent ill effect.  My thoughts were
interrupted when I realised the two boys were hard and ready for a second
release.  This time I thought they could best serve each other's need, so I
moved over to the outside on Wayan's side of the bed.  The bedside light was
still on, illuminating the two golden brown bodies lying there, Wayan a
stronger colour than Connie, perhaps more of a woody brown than the honey
hue of my oldest boy.  Connie took Wayan's penis in his hand and began
pumping the virile organ, stroking it lovingly rather than impatiently.  I
was the willing spectator, my position so close I could have easily taken
either of these men in any way I desired, yet gaining a greater enjoyment by
observing their own expressions of togetherness.  Wayan lay there under
Connie's touch; his only movement being the occasional draw on his cigarette
as he continued to smoke.  I hadn't noticed if Connie finished his smoke or
had simply butted it out, but he was no longer smoking, concentrating
totally on carrying the feeling of his own heart to his fingers as they
worked their duty.

Wayan inhaled deeply on his cigarette and leaned towards Connie.  As they
kissed, Wayan exchanged the smoke from his lungs to Connie so that, when
they parted, it was Connie who exhaled the blue stream.  Wayan passed me his
butt and I extinguished it in the ashtray as he began to invert his body,
his mouth finding Connie's hard shaft.  Of course, Wayan's own penis was now
in front of Connie's mouth, so quite naturally Connie took him in.  The two
worked as one, thrusting and sucking at the same tempo, as if there was but
one organ being teased to release again the wondrous essence of the male
body.  Hands clenched firm, rounded buttocks in an attempt to maximise the
depth of each thrust.  Willing mouths accepted the fullest girth of these
extended penises as they slid deeply into the depths where an eventual
release awaited them.

Although I was totally absorbed by this display of love before me, my body
did not respond with another erection.  I was satisfied to allow the visual
stimulation placate me, my own physical need already satisfied and now my
emotional need being met.  The two came to their release gently and slowly.
There was never a sense of urgency, more like a craftsman bringing some
remarkable object of beauty to completion.  Their movements were gentle yet
positive, deliberate without being demanding of either party.  I almost did
not detect their orgasm except for a kind of shuddering that passed firstly
through Wayan and then, a moment or two later, Connie.  They remained firmly
embedded in each other for some minutes, soft swallowing indicating the
final ingestion of the other's gift.  At last they each wriggled free and
dismantled the flowing pattern their bodies had created.  Both curled
themselves into my arms, sharing the love they had for each other in equal
proportion with me, involving me in their tenderness and taking from me a
portion of my heart as I returned my love to them both.

Some moments in life are so precious that they are beyond the ability to
measure.  This was one of those moments, a portion of time that no longer
ebbed and flowed, but simply was.  In that moment I felt an inseparable link
forge between the three of us, although at the time I could not have
described it that way, nor could I have ever imagined what it meant.  I had
been given the most valuable gift of sharing in another's love, and I
treasured that offering immensely.  The three of us remained in a gentle
embrace as we found sleep enfolding us in a much deeper hold.

Sunday morning is when I play the organ at church.  Chris and Nick had been
going along to church with me at their own insistence ever since they moved
to my house, and seemed to enjoy the services.  It seems they had regularly
gone to church with Nikolas, their father, until his death but had dropped
off to an occasional attendance in the last few years.  Coming to church
with me was their first exposure to the sonorous tones of a pipe organ.
There are only 22 pipe organs in the country churches of Western Australia
and I was honoured to be the custodian of one of them, my organ playing
being a hereditary trait from my father, encouraged to bloom when I was
under the private tuition of my first lover in Indonesia many years ago.
The worship service at my church was traditional but not overly formal and
the people at the church were really friendly.  They welcomed the boys on
their first day and had continued to befriend them ever since.  Chris often
turned pages for me while I was playing.  He couldn't read music, but he
seemed to pick the pattern of the notes and managed to get the page turns on
cue, particularly if I gave him a nod at the right time.  Sometimes I would
coopt Nick to help with stop changes if I was playing a difficult piece.
Any organist would understand how helpful a stop changer can be at a pipe
organ that has no registration aids.

The younger boys were away this Sunday at Nick's running event.  I was quite
prepared to go off to church alone and was surprised when Connie told me,
while we were having breakfast, they would both come with me.  Connie had
been along to my church a number of times, but I was amazed that Wayan, a
committed Hindu, would want to come to a Christian church.  My arched
eyebrows must have conveyed my surprise to Wayan.  "Don't worry about me,
James.  I used to go to one of the Christian Fellowship groups at
University.  I am not converting to your religion, but I find no offence in
it and enjoy the opportunity to experience different kinds of religious
expression.  My feeling is that Christian people are very much on the same
wavelength as we Hindu's, despite some differences in our beliefs."

The service followed the liturgy of the Advent series, bright and cheerful,
the message for the day one of hope and faith.  I had enjoyed the music
selection for the service and felt that I had played reasonably well even
though I didn't have my page-turner with me.  Some of the church folks asked
where my two boys were and I explained the circumstance of their absence
while introducing Wayan to them.  We stopped for coffee and lunch at a café
on the way home and pulled in to our driveway just behind Chris and Nick who
had returned home in the Volvo.  Nick had run well, we found out over coffee
when we were sitting out on the front veranda, coming second on the Saturday
half-marathon and then coming first in this morning full length marathon.
They had run the longer race today because the cool morning was more
suitable for the competitors.  Nick showed no sign of having recently run
such a long distance, and was very pleased to give us his report on the two
major events.  The day passed quickly with Connie and Wayan returning to
their cottage after dinner, Conie having to take Wayan to Perth very early
the next morning so he could begin Wayan's registration for the coming year.
  They would be staying in Perth the next night and returning home on
Tuesday.

The fire started on the Monday morning with an insignificant spark of hot
metal from an angle grinder.  A neighbouring farmer was doing some
maintenance work on one of his outbuildings that involved grinding away a
small protrusion of metal from a steel frame section.  He had not taken
particular notice of where the flying sparks were landing as he went about
the job and suddenly was assailed with two senses at once: the warmth of the
fire near his legs and the strong smell of freshly burning grass.  The guy
was not unprepared: he did have a fire hose available nearby, but by the
time he reached it and activated the water pressure system the fire had
already began to travel.  He sprayed the areas he could reach and
extinguished the fire near the doors of his shed where it had started, but
the fire, driven by a stiff easterly wind, had already raced towards some
standing hay and longer grass somewhat beyond the reach of his fire hose.

He ran up to the house and flung himself into the utility vehicle that was
equipped with a 1000lt water tank and high-pressure pump, expecting to find
the keys in the ignition where he had left them earlier.  Unbeknown to him,
his wife had used the ute to collect the mail and newspaper from the village
store and had taken the keys indoors.  He raced inside, yelling to warn his
wife about the fire outbreak and trying to locate the keys.  It took just a
few moments for her to dig the keys out from her handbag and give them to
him and he quickly made his way back to the vehicle.  An awesome sight
confronted him when he rounded the workshops and headed towards the fire.
The whole area outside his shed was ablaze, the fire had developed a life of
its own and was greedily eating up every blade of grass and every stick it
could find in its insatiable hunger.  The fire was running towards a stand
of trees and he knew that beyond was a large paddock of high stubble.

Priming the pump was an automatic function for him and he had the machine
running in seconds, aiming the jet of water at the spreading blaze, trying
to locate and at least dampen the more combustible parts of the fire.  The
wind kept up its steady force. Feeding the fire with oxygen and pushing it
to the more combustible areas a short distance away.  He could not get to
the front of the fire to stop it advancing and his ineffective spray did
almost nothing to retard the blaze.  Hastily retreating, he tore back to the
house and telephoned the alarm through to the Country Bushfire Brigade
control centre, realising sensibly that the fire was already well and truly
behind his ability to manage.

Fast attack and light tanker units, all of them four wheel drive vehicles of
various description but each bearing the name of the local volunteer unit,
carried fire fighters into the fire that had now spread across the first
property and was already threatening neighbours and the nearby nature
reserve.  Other farmers, alerted by the fire alarm, began arriving with
their own private fire tender vehicles.  A motley collection of new and old,
large and small vehicles, each bearing the weight of a sizeable container of
water and a pumping device, most carrying another person or two, converged
on the fire.  The wind had, on this occasion, beaten them all at the game:
the fire was now totally out of control and rushing towards other farms and
bush land.

Chris, Nick and myself were working together in our lower paddock when the
fire began.  We did not know about the fire until we began to hear the noise
of sirens as the armada of vehicles arrived to fight the blaze.  Looking
over the southern fence line of my property, we saw for the first time the
towering pillar of smoke that drove fear into our hearts as we realised that
we were looking at a serious bushfire.  I have a 10,000-litre water tanker,
primarily used for watering my olive and fruit trees at times when my dams
are dry.  When it is necessary to do this, I simply drive to a standpipe on
a supply pipeline and fill the tank, noting the amount I have taken so that
local Shire can later bill me for the water taken.  The tanker was now
sitting in a shed near my workshop and, without a word, the three of us
began running lightly in our bare feet across the paddock to where the
tanker was parked.  It took us a few minutes to cover the half-kilometre to
the workshop and climb aboard.  I make a habit of keeping the truck in good
mechanical condition and it started at the first turn of the key.  We drove
off to the standpipe.

It was perhaps 20 minutes before we arrived at the scene of the fire, all
this time monitoring the progress of the fire and the efforts of the teams
of men working to control it on the radio installed in my truck for that
purpose.  When we were near the fire I called in to the Controller that I
would be arriving with the tanker to resupply the fast attack and farmer
units.  The controller asked if I could find some trained firemen and. with
a quick look at the boys who nodded their approval, I confirmed to him that
I would also have two fire fighters on board should anybody need an
offsider.  He positioned my truck in a roadway not far from the fire but in
a place where vehicles could easily access my supply pipes and the three of
us sat and waited for the first opportunity we would have of assisting the
fire-fighting effort.  Within minutes the first vehicle had pulled up
alongside my tanker and we were pumping water into his tank.  The driver,
already grimy and black-stained from the fire, thirstily drank from a
smaller hose before getting into his vehicle and heading back into the thick
of the disaster area.  Others came in dribs and drabs to do likewise.

The fire raged uphill from the original farm, through several properties,
widening as it travelled, and into a strip of timbered country where a
number of wealthy city-folks had built expensive weekend retreats on rocky
hilltops.  They were wonderful places for getting a view, but very difficult
to access in the case of an emergency.  Even from where we were, about a
kilometre away from the intensity of the fire, we felt the heat of it.  We
saw the first house catch as the fire swept across an untidy yard, into some
climbing plants and straight into the eaves and roof of the house, consuming
it from the top down.  Radio traffic was chaotic as the fire fighters tried
to appraise the controller of their own progress, or lack thereof, and the
condition of the fire.  It was quickly becoming apparent that this was not
going to be an easy fire to bring under control, and the local controller
was not foolish or proud enough not to know he needed help.  The FESA (Fire
and Emergency Services) regional office despatched their officers and sent a
helicopter aloft for aerial reconnaissance of the fire.

My truck was empty, having pumped all the water out to the smaller fire
units, so I left the scene and collected more water from the standpipe.  By
time I returned to the fire and had been repositioned closer to the current
action area it was very obvious that the fire was determining its own
direction, the efforts of the fire teams ineffective in doing all but
providing some minimal protection to a few houses.  The FESA officer called
in water bombers, converted fixed- and rotary-wing aircraft that could dump
controlled amounts of water on to hot spots within the fire, and within 40
minutes the first of the planes had arrived.  Everyone was ordered inside
vehicles to protect them from the massive volume of water that would soon be
drenching the area.  Even after several runs, the bombers seemed to be doing
little more than slowing the fire down.  Another house went up in a
startling blaze, cylinders of propane gas dramatically detonating as the
intense fire swept over them.

A farmer friend had taken Chris off to assist him before the water bombers
arrived, so it was only Nick and myself manning my tanker at this stage.
Every few minutes we would have to duck inside the cab of the truck and take
cover as another bomber ran in to the fire front, even though we were parked
some short distance from the real action zone.  We suddenly became aware of
a thickening of the smoke, at first confusing because of the acridity and
loss of vision, but then as quickly being welcomed.  The wind had turned,
the fire was no longer being pushed into the virgin bushland, and the fire
was now basically being pushed back into the area that had already been
burned.  Fire cannot sustain itself without fuel, and where the fuel had
been consumed there was nothing left for the fire's appetite.  The various
fire control officers saw the places where they could strike with maximum
advantage and, with the help of the water bombers, quickly established a
definite front to the fire, killing the ravaging beast the fire had become.

It was now late afternoon.  We had been at the fire front for eight hours
without a break.  Of course, for Nick and me it was not the hardship it had
been for most of the other fire fighters.  Men started to come back to the
truck as they were called out of the fire by the controller, not for more
water, but to have a rest.  The Salvation Army had set up an emergency
kitchen just behind where I was parked, so we were right where all the
dirty, tired men and women came to get a break.  Mostly they stopped by my
truck to wash off a little, and then they gratefully headed to the Salvation
Army van for a coffee, a smoke and a sandwich.  Soon they went back into the
fire zone and others came out for their break.  In a relatively short while
the controllers had given everyone a short respite while still maintaining
the important control and mopping up needed to totally douse the fire.  I
was worried that I had not seen Chris in all this time.  I knew there were
still units in the thick of the fire, so I guessed he was still to come out.
  At one time I thought I saw my friend who had taken Chris, but because
everyone was so blackened by the fire it was almost impossible to be sure if
it was him.  They were using a different radio channel to the one I was
required to monitor, so I could not follow any traffic about them.

Every now and again the fire would break out again as hot embers found
enough oxygen to flare up, but soon after midnight it was declared under
control.  Mopping up of the fire would continue for at least another day,
but that would not require the supporting infrastructure of an active fire.
In the early hours of the morning the Salvation Army unit packed up and left
the scene of the emergency, leaving behind only a small crew to continue
handing out coffee and packaged snacks to the remaining firemen.  I, too,
was no longer required and was thanked for my assistance.  Nick, somehow
still awake, helped me roll up hoses and prepare the truck for our short
drive home.  "I wonder where Chris is?" I commented when we were almost
finished.  "Don't worry about him, Dad."  Nick said.  "He is used to
fighting fires and he will probably stay out with the fire crews all night.
He is with Jimmy Perkins isn't he?"  Jimmy was the friend that had asked
Chris to assist him and I confirmed that with Nick.  "Lets go home, Dad.  I
am sure you are as tired as I am.  Chris will come home when he is ready."

We parked the tanker in my workshop and staggered inside.  Both of us were
filthy from the smoke and ashes that had been swirling around us all day, so
we shed our clothing in the laundry and made our way straight into the
shower.  I worked shampoo into Nick's tangled hair as he began washing my
abdominal region.  I was too tired to react to him when he took my penis and
washed it and then soaped up my buttocks and washed that part of me as well.
  When I knelt down so he could wash my hair I was able to wash his
mid-section.  Nick demonstrated that being young has its advantages, one of
which is that he immediately sprang to life when I handled him.  As he
continued massaging my scalp, I took him in my mouth, sucking him deeply
into me and feeling the last stages of his rigidity achieved as he grew
there.  Nick was as tired as I, yet he managed to rock slowly as I brought
him to a quick release.  His copious load flooded my mouth and I had to let
some of the creamy fluid go to waste, probably because I was too tired to
gulp it down.  Most, however, found its way to my throat and was ingested
hungrily.  Before we collapsed from exhaustion I shut the water off and we
towelled off the worst of the wetness before finding the bed.

Even though it was very early morning when we woke, it was already sunny,
promising another hot day.  Nick had slept in my arms and it seemed that
neither of us had moved since we dropped off to sleep.  His rigid penis was
digging into my groin and I was tempted to draw from it another draught of
that wonderfully tasty semen he had on supply.  As my mind moved from the
level of basic need to rational wakefulness I suddenly realised that I had
not heard Chris come home.  I kissed Nick briefly as I worked my way out
from under him, thinking that perhaps Chris was sleeping in another room.
Padding through the house, I looked everywhere, but there was no sign of
him, nor any indication that he had come home and perhaps gone out again.
Nick, by this stage, had also woken fully and was beginning to find clothing
for the day.  "He isn't here, is he Dad?"  Nick asked, an edge of concern in
his voice.  "No, so we better go find him."  I put on some clothing as I
replied.

Taking the 4WD wagon, we were soon at the scene of the control centre where
we had spent so much of the previous day.  There was a lot of smoke around,
but it was clear that the fire was in total management stage and that it
would not be long before it would be out.  There would be no need for my
tanker at this fire today.  I parked the car and went in to the control
unit.  "Have you seen or heard from Jim Perkins or my boy, Chris?" I asked
after greetings and update information had been exchanged.  The Controller
on duty was a friend of mine but not the same man who had been there
yesterday, so he had to look up the information before he replied.  "I have
a record of Jim coming in to the fire yesterday afternoon and another one
about 4pm saying he had picked up Chris from your tanker.  They were working
in the national park up in the hills behind your place.  According to the
control sheet, they are still there.  But that is a bit odd, because there
has been nothing heard from Jim since around midnight.  Let me get on the
radio and see what I can find out."

When a unit attends a bush fire, the personnel and equipment are logged on
in the main control centre.  Later, when they leave the fire, they are
logged off.  This way there is a permanent record of people and vehicles
coming and going and at the end of the emergency everything can be accounted
for.  This system has proven itself to be the most reliable mechanism for
keeping track of people under the arduous conditions of fire fighting and
other disasters.  The records the Controller had consulted were, in fact,
the movement logs.  The fact that Jim Perkins unit had not been accounted
for or reported missing was no fault of the system; it was simply that the
fire was still viable and had not been called off and everyone on duty had
been too busy to go back over the records up to this point.  No final
reconciliation had taken place.

I heard the radio traffic as the Controller checked units in the area where
Jim and Chris had been last seen, Nick standing beside me was equally
attentive.  A few of the units had started before midnight last night and
were still working the fire, waiting for their relief crews to take over so
they could get some rest.  They remembered seeing Jimmy's ute in the gorge
area of the park, but nobody had been back there for several hours because
the fire seemed to have already burnt out in that part of the bushland.  I
asked the Controller for permission to enter the fire scene and head into
the reserve, checking to see if any hot spots (places still reported to be
burning) were recorded.  I pointed out that I was in an unequipped vehicle
and that both Nick and myself were not dressed for fire fighting.  The
Controller handed me a portable radio unit with the instruction that I was
to keep it on and with me at all times and that he expected a situation
report (sitrep) every 15 minutes with a location update.  He knew I would
have my topographical reference maps in the wagon, so I could give him
accurate details of our location.

It was appalling to drive through the blackened countryside where only
yesterday had stood beautiful trees, well kept farm lots and, in some
places, very nice houses.  There was nothing to relieve the blackness save
some bare patches of dirt and rock, adding a poor contrast to the burnt
remains of the landscape.  The fire had travelled uphill and away from my
property, but not in the direction of the boys' property, more in a diagonal
direction that cut right across between our two pieces of land.  It was some
of the most rugged and inhospitable land in the region.  Fortunately, the
new roads cut through the area by CALM made it easier to navigate, even
though the going was difficult.

Nick kept his eye on the maps as we drove so that when the 15-minute
reporting sequence came up it was easy to quickly compile a report.
"Control this is Juliet Mike Zero Three, Sitrep, over."  I announced on the
radio, my usual call sign being Juliet Mike Zero One but that being for my
tanker truck.  I also had the call sign Juliet Mike Zero Two for Connie's
4WD ute.  Most of the farmers on our bush fire brigade used the Zero Three
call sign to indicate a mobile radio.  "Juliet Mike Zero Three, Control, go
ahead, over."  "This is Juliet Mike Zero Three, location ESD 372 Foxtrot
Seven, on the new track heading towards the creek line.  Nothing seen.
Continuing south.  Over."  My report had included the appropriate map grid
references so that Control could plot our progress and determine our
direction.  "Control.  Understood, nothing to report from this end.  Out."

It was not difficult to see where we were going because the fire had cleared
away all the grasses and low shrub growth, not to mention all the trees and
canopy of the bushland.  It was, however difficult to maintain a regular
speed over this rugged terrain.  The roads had been cut in a grid pattern,
traversing whatever happened to be along the way, and this meant for my
vehicle a difficult navigation of creeks, ridges, flats and gullies.  The
four-wheel-drive enabled the vehicle to access terrain that would have been
prohibitive to other types of vehicles, but I found that, without the low
ratio gears selected, I could not have made any headway at all.  The next
report schedule came and went without any change except out location
details, as did the one following.  It was almost an hour before we arrived
in the area near where Jim had last been reported.  A deep gully opened up
before us and I did not think I could safely continue through it with my
wagon.  I had an idea that we were very close to the direct access route
between our two properties, but the countryside had altered significantly
since my last visit to the area, especially with the devastation wrought by
the fire.

Smoke was quite thin in this part of the woods, most of the trees having
been stripped of their foliage and most of the undergrowth cleared in the
initial ravages of the fire.  We could not see far from the vehicle because
of the density of tree trunks, despite that fact that they were almost all
denuded of foliage.  "I can do a bit of a recce if you like.  It will only
take me a few minutes to scout around this gully and up to the next ridge."
Nick offered.  I was concerned about his lack of protective clothing,
knowing that there was still burning timber, razor sharp rock and jagged
branches around, forgetting momentarily that Chris had gone out the previous
night to fight the fire with no more protection than his younger brother.
We had not even considered bringing overalls and boots, more worried about
Chris than common sense dictated.  Nick wore a light t-shirt and shorts, as
did I, and we had no footwear at all in the vehicle.  When I expressed my
concern about the possibility of hot coals on the ground Nick said "I will
be fine, Dad.  You know I can walk on just about anything without it hurting
my feet.  My arms and legs might get a bit scratched, but it wont be a
problem.  You just drive around this canyon and meet me up the top there.  I
know where we are here because I come along here on my motorbike.  It is
only about 200 metres to the top."

Nick set off, scrambling down the side of the steep ravine, not noticing the
rough ground grazing his feet.  I saw him reach the bottom and begin his way
uphill towards the place where he would meet me in a few minutes.  Putting
the Toyota in low gear I began my short journey to the ridge, arriving there
without undue concern and parking the vehicle on a level piece of ground
where the track crossed over the now dry creek bed.  I walked over to the
edge of the gully where, during the winter months, there was a significant
and pretty waterfall.  From this vantage point I could see some distance
down the creek line, but I could not see Nick.  Expecting that he would be
five or ten minutes longer getting there than I had taken, I stayed in the
vicinity of the vehicle to wait for him.

When, after fifteen minutes, he still had not appeared I began to be a
little concerned about Nick's wellbeing.  The golden rule of any bush work
is that you do not leave your vehicle, yet I was sorely tempted to climb
down the dry waterfall and look for him in the creek bed.  I was not
concerned about my own lack of protective clothing because I was as much
accustomed to the terrain as the boys.  The vehicle had radio communications
to the outside world - in particular the fire controller - and it had water.
  I decided to wait another fifteen minutes before setting off to look for
the boy.  Making the scheduled sitrep to fire control, I also picked up news
that the fire had broken out again near the railway line some distance away
from where we were and that units not urgently engaged elsewhere were being
called to assist in the fire fighting effort in that area.  It crossed my
mind that the fire must be threatening the village store.

It was almost time for me to make the next sitrep when a soot-blackened Nick
appeared.  "Dad, you have got to move the car around the other side of the
gully.  I found them.  Quick, lets get going and I can tell you what I know
while we are driving."  He was breathless, and for Nick to be out of breath
indicated to me that he had really exerted himself to get to me quickly.  He
scrambled into the car and we set off.  Nick told me he had come across
Jimmy's car at the bottom of the ravine not far from where I dropped him
off.  The vehicle had toppled over the edge from the other side, hence we
had not seen the tell-tale scouring of the earth where it had left the
track.  We were, in fact, heading for where they had left the track right
now.  "But are they alright?  Is Chris okay?"  I interrupted his telling of
the story, impatient to know that news above all other.  "I think so," Nick
told me.  "I talked to Chris briefly and he told me they urgently needed
water, so I came and got you before I did anything else."

We found the place where they had left the roadway.  It looked like their
vehicle had somehow slewed in the roadway and had gone straight off the edge
of the track over the sheer drop into the creek.  A few small saplings had
been uprooted near the lip of the cliff, I guessed struck by the car as it
lurched off the track, but they would not have done much to arrest the heavy
utility as it veered away from the correct path.  Nick told me to pull up
just beyond the scrape marks at a place where there was an eroded crevasse
in the bank of the canyon.  He had worked out that this was the only
reasonable way up and down into the ravine at this point of the canyon.
Before leaving my car I called Control and told them what I knew to that
point and that I would call back in a few minutes with an update.



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