Was I him

 

Who Was Crocodile Dundee?

 

I ask this question because I think he was me. Now let me tell you why I think, I am the hero of the film. Back in the early 1970’s I lived in Western Australia and worked for a large trucking firm called Bell Brothers. My mate Don and I were one of the two-man driving teams that drove road trains delivering food to the town’s, plus cattle/sheep stations and mines in the outback of Western Australia.

 

All the roads in the outback were dirt, and with temperatures of a hundred plus, it was hot and dusty work. Nine hundred miles up the coastal highway, was a popular stopping place for us. Here there was a swimming hole, in what was a normally dry creek bed. The creek was almost a quarter of a mile wide, and had a thick concrete causeway across it, to give a solid base for traffic to cross.

 

This creek is one of the main water runoff arteries for the high country inland, which is called the Pilbara-Hamersley range. The creek is called Wimm Creek, and in the wet seasons, can within hours change from a dry river bed to a raging torrent. Not only does the creek change in appearance, but also the outback changes in the ‘wet’. As the rains come down, the miracle of nature takes over, and the red dust landscape becomes a carpet of flowers.

 

There was a large, flat parking bay on the south bank of the creek, which had been rolled hard by the continual use of the trucks parking there. Here you could safely park to bathe in the pool the raging water had eroded from the creek bed. As the water rushed over the concrete causeway, it had made a large swimming hole at least a hundred feet long by fifty feet wide. The depth of the water and the clarity of it would vary throughout the year. But it never became stagnant, because rainwater would percolate down from the high country just below the surface of the gravel, to gently trickle over the concrete.

 

This creek was two hours from our final destination at Port Headland, and as this was a weekly run for us we passed over it twice. Once on our way north, and again going south on our way home empty. Although it was only nine hundred miles from Perth, we had driven well over fourteen hundred miles to get there. We would get to the creek at about four in the afternoon but were not due in Port Headland until four the next morning. So we would spend some time swimming and bathing before we cooked a meal and bedded down for the night.

 

On this particular day, it was obvious there had been raining in the high country since we were here last, as the creek had a good deal of water running through it. And the water almost covered the two boulders that were in the pool, but it was not a torrent that was dangerous to swim in. So in underpants, we entered the water to cool off and wash ourselves of the sweat and dust of our three-day journey. Don sat in the shallow water at the edge of the pool to wash, as I swam towards the boulders.

 

As I neared them I swam into the quiet water behind the rocks, and the eddy they coursed saved me swimming ageist the current. In the gently swirling water, I turned my back to the boulders and propelled myself backwards to lean against them. Suddenly I felt a searing pain in my right buttock.

 

As I recoiled in shock I felt my underpants and skin ripping from me. I quickly looked over my shoulder and saw a long grey shape. Now I was swimming as hard as I could towards Don shouting croc, he backed out off the water and jumped up and down shouting back at me. I could not hear what he said, because my heart was beating so loud, and the blood pumping in my ears drowned out all sound. As soon as my hand touched the ground in shallow water, I was up and running onto the dry land. Then came to a panting standstill beside Don, who was asking me what all the panic was about.

 

I pointed to the water and said, “There’s a croc in there it took a bite at my backside.” Then turning around, I showed him my torn underpants and bleeding bum. We both scanned the water looking for it, and then Don pointed to the rocks twenty feet from us saying. “What’s that between the boulders, there’s something moving there.” We got as close as we could, without going too far into the water to look at it.

 

There gently swaying in the current, were the torn remnants of my underpants. They were firmly impaled, on the sharply jagged splinters of a ghost gum tree branch. This, in turn, was firmly wedged between the boulders, just three feet below the surface. It must have been swept down the creek in the torrent of water and became wedged, and just waited there for me to back onto it.

 

Don and I looked at each other and burst out laughing, and as the tension eased, the pain in my bum reminded me I was still bleeding. Don patched me up with plasters from the first aid box but said we had better get to Port Headland to get it looked at. As the port worked twenty-four hours a day, it had around the clock nursing station.

 

We had started our trip with a three trailer road train; we had dropped one empty trailer at Carnarvon. The second empty had been left at Dampier; we would pick them up as we returned south. The one we had with us was almost half empty, so we would be able to push the truck to higher speeds. We should make the hundred miles to Headland in less than two hours, so we could get there before six.

 

With the sun nudging the horizon it would be dark pretty soon. But with the array of lights on our bull bar, we could turn night into day, and frighten any kangaroo’s, or nocturnal animals off the road. You could do a lot of damage to your truck, by hitting something like a kangaroo or steer. We didn’t like hitting anything, but out here you had suicidal pea-brained emus to watch out for.

 

As we drove we reflected on what had happened at the creek, and both of us agreed we should have known better. It was far too south for freshwater crocodile’s to be, and they needed permanent rivers and wetlands to generate the food they eat.

 

Don drove straight to the port area and dropped me off at the first aid station, then went back a half mile to Bell’s camp and compound, to see if they would unload us. The duty nurse cleaned my wound and removed a splinter of wood, then put several stitches in the gash to close it up. By the time I got back to Don they had already unloaded the trailer, and I had my leg pulled by the chef as he tossed two steaks on the grill.

 

I was to have my leg pulled many times in the months to follow, as Don made it his mission in life to tell all we delivered too, the story of my run-in with the wooden crocodile. And Don being Don, every time he told it, the more colourful it became. Then many months later, we were in the Nanutarra roadhouse having a cup of tea with the owner after delivering his supplies.

 

I finished drinking and turned to Don saying, “Let’s punch it up to Damper then on to Wimm creek for a good swim.” As I stopped talking a chap on a table near us said, “You should be careful swimming in that creek, six months ago someone had their leg ripped off by a croc in that pool.” Don and the owner of the roadhouse both roared with laughter, as I walked to the door shaking my head.

 

When the Dundee film was released I was back in England, still punching trucks up and down the roads. One day I was in the Fleet services on the M3 motorway, I was waiting in line to pay for four hundred litres of fuel. The door opened and a chap came in and eyed the queue with disbelief. He approached a young lady that was in front of me and then asked if he could push in front of her.

 

I leaned over and tapped him on the shoulder saying. “The lady might be too polite to tell you where to go, but if you push in front of her you push in front of me. And I for one would like to see you at the back of the queue, which is where you should have gone in the first place.” “But you don’t understand,” he said, “I have someone famous in the car. If he is recognized we could be held up by autograph hunters, and we have to get to the studio for a take.”

 

“Famous is he, would he be as famous as let's say; Crocodile Dundee?” I asked. The lad looked at me with a frown and said, “I’m not sure I know what you mean.” “Well,” I answered, “you know the hero of the Crocodile Dundee film was based on a real live person! But his name was not Dundee, and the croc did not bite his leg, it sank its teeth into his backside.”

 

“The crocodile was killed, by thrusting a hunting knife through its eye, and into its brain. Then the jaws had to be prized open, to get my bum out of its mouth. When the doctor was treating the wound, he found a tooth wedged in it. I haven’t got the crocs tooth with me, but I can show you the scars.”

 

The lad just shook his head, as I went to unbuckle my belt. Then he passed a row of smiling faces, as he moved to the end of the queue. By now the young lady had been served, as she turned from the counter she looked at me and said. “That story was most convincing, and I’m inclined to believe that it’s true.” “Well,” I said, “It just goes to show, you never know who you could be standing beside.”

Then I just smiled at her then gave her a wink, and she walked from the shop with a wide grin on her face.

 

But what about you, do you think I am the inspiration for the character in the film? Or is there someone else out there, who can really claim to be; the real Crocodile Dundee?

 

Car delivery

 

One car delivery was to Geraldton, three hundred miles away. A car transporter was going up with six cars, and I had to drive number seven. I had to drive it with the speedometer disconnected. The car transporter driver carried petrol for the car I was to bring back.

 

We arrived at the first garage in Geraldton, late at night. Unloading all the new cars, we re-loaded three old cars onto the top deck and three new cars on the bottom, which had to be taken off at his next stop. I would leave the one I had driven here, and return with a used car.

 

We had started and fuelled an old car to make sure it was a goer, for my return journey before loading his cars. When we had finished loading, I waved to the driver of the car transporter as he left. I returned to the car I was driving and started it up again to pull off; and switched on the headlights. The engine stopped I had a duff battery; it didn’t have enough power for the engine and lights.

 

The car would not start again on the key, but luckily, there was a downhill slope so I bump started it. Switching on the sidelights, I was relieved to find that it kept going, so I drove out of town on them alone. Picking up speed, I tried the headlights again with my fingers crossed, it kept going and I was on my way.

 

About forty miles south of Geraldton, just off the main highway, is a town called Dongara. As I reached the turnoff for the town, a car switched on its headlights and cut across me, forcing me off the road. Before I could get out of the car, a gun was pushed into my ear. And I was told to step from the car by a police officer.

 

He was wearing his uniform coat over his pyjamas and told me I was under arrest. Someone had seen me leave the garage and had rung the police saying the car had been stolen. I had one hell of a job trying to convince him I was just delivering the car back to Perth. I had to get him to ring the garage owner, to prove that this car was one he was sending back.

 

Then I had a hard time convincing him, I had not stolen his car. But then I argued if I knew where the keys for the new car were, why then would I steal this old heap of crap. The policeman eventually lets me continued on my way, but would not help me get the car started again. I had to wait until someone came along who was willing to give me a tow. And that was a long wait, it was a good job it was Friday night and I had all the weekend off.

PONY EXPRESS

 

Bell Brothers had an express service to Port Headland; the main contract was the Royal Mail. The trip was roughly one thousand and fifty miles, overnight. They called it the ‘rocket service.’ We called it the ‘pony express.’ The vans were three-ton International Harvester’s, with three and a half litre V8 motors and were very fast. They had to be, to cover the distance required in the time allowed. There were four of them; three were coming south, as one was going up northbound.

 

A driver from Perth would drive a van loaded with the mail and anything else that had to go the three hundred miles to Geraldton. There he would meet the driver from Carnarvon and change vehicles and drive back to Perth. The Carnarvon driver would return the three hundred miles to his home base, meeting a driver there from Port Headland who had driven four hundred and fifty miles. This driver would drop off the mail for Dampier and then go onto Port Headland with the rest of the mail arriving in the early hours of the morning. That night they would start off again. Why am I telling you of this, well there's a short story to tell?

 

Don and I were on the Dampier fridge run. We had stopped at the Nanutarra roadhouse on the banks of the Nanutarra River. It was about one or two o’clock in the morning. The rocket pulled in as well to drop something off; I must say this was not a scheduled stop for it. But then we all did favours for each other, as it’s a long way to go for a small car part or the like.

 

We had a cup of tea and a chat with the driver then he was off, on the next one hundred and fifty miles of his run. We followed at a more sedate pace, almost half his speed to be precise. Just before daybreak, [the sun rises about four o’clock,] we saw a faint glow in the distance. When we got to the glow it turned out to be the ‘rocket’ with one of its wheels on fire.

 

We pulled past it, stopped and ran back to the driver who was standing some distance away from the van. He told us that there were gas cylinders in the van and he didn't know what to do. We said “let it burn,” but he was worried about the mail. Then when he told us what else he was carrying. I was in the van in a flash throwing out the contents.

 

When we got to Dampier we went to our depot to drop off the mailbags and reported what had happened to the ‘rocket’ then we went off to unload our fridge. As we were unloading the goods at one of the housing estates corners, our manager the Postmaster and a reporter from the local paper arrived. The Postmaster thanked us on behalf of the Post Office for saving the mail, and the reporter interviewed us so he could write a piece on the bravery of two Bell’s drivers.

 

And a very nice piece it was, pity it was not entirely true. I didn't think I should tell them I had to throw the mailbags out; because they were in the way of me getting to the box of ten thousand cigarettes. Don and I discussed what we should do with them.

 

We came to a decision to burn them, very, very slowly.

Someone from the past.

 

In the year 1969, I was in the Kelmscott pub one night, having a quiet drink, when I noticed someone taking a lot of interest in me. He was sitting several tables away from me. It was a bit unnerving to see him staring at me with an unwavering gaze. I wondered if he thought I had crossed him in some way, though I could not see how, as I did not recognize him at all. As he got up and approached me, I prepared to defend myself.

 

Many years ago, I was accused of a crime I did not commit. The police said I had robbed a bus conductress that I was sure my double must have committed because, at the time of the robbery, I was on board ship in the Bay of Biscay.  Was this a case of mistaken identity? Would I have to fight my way out of the pub for something I had not done?

 

"I know you from somewhere," he said with a smile on his face, as he arrived at the table I was sitting at. "Where do you work?" He asked, and then shook his head when I replied,

 

 "Bell Brothers, I drive for them."

 

"No, that is not it mate,” he said. “Where do you come from?"

 

 "Taunton in Somerset England," I said.

 

Again, it meant nothing to him, and then he asked, "What's your name?" His face lit up into a massive smile when I answered him with, "Henry Joseph Macey."

 

"You’re Joe Macey! I’m Simon Butler; we were in 4E2, the stoker's mess, onboard HMS Eagle together."

 

Hell, I had left Eagle ten years ago in nineteen fifty-nine; I could not remember seeing him before. He was right though. I had been in 4E2 mess on Eagle. I had joined her when I had finished training in September of fifty-six. I’d left her when she went into dry dock, in Plymouth I think, in July of ‘59.

 

He also remembered Jock Gallagher, Ockey Ockalton, Smedly Loather and Ginger Cook. My four going-ashore mates onboard Eagle; the Fab Five as we called ourselves. He also said he had joined the five of us, on some of our runs ashore.

 

"The six of us got kicked out of that bullfight in Barcelona, for cheering for the bull. I was with you that night. We all slept on that fishing boat in Naples that we thought was our liberty boat because it was just like a Navy M.F.V. (Motor Fishing Vessel).

Do you remember that night in Toulon when we had that sword fight with French breadsticks? We were supposed to be the six Musketeers, and remember that couple that hid us when the French police arrived?

God, we had some good runs ashore! I can't drink like that now mate - two pints are my limit now; she'd go nuts if I went out and got drunk without her."

He laughed and looked at his half-empty glass, then took a swig and laughed again. "Wish I could turn the clock back Joe. We had some good mates in the mob."

 

I knew exactly what he meant. The mates you made in the forces were your mates for life, even if you never saw them again after you left the service. They would always be in your head, always there when you thought of the good times, and some of the bad, when you stood back to back defending each other. We sat reminiscing about the good old days over another glass, telling tales of mishaps we had had, and laughing at tales of mishaps others had had. Suddenly a hand landed on my shoulder, rudely interrupting our merriment.

 

"I'm an off-duty policeman, and I'm arresting you for having pornographic images," this chap standing behind me said, with his fingers digging into my shoulder.

 

"I've just heard you say that you have a picture of yourself playing with pussy. Don't deny it! My wife heard you as well. So I'm also arresting you for using obscenities in a public place."

 

Simon and I looked at each other dumbfounded, and then he almost fell off his chair laughing. I was speechless. How could I be so misunderstood? Everybody around us was staring. What was the commotion about? As Simon could not stop laughing, I had to explain to the police officer.

 

"Yes, I did say that. We were talking about our old ship, and I said I had a photo taken on the flight deck. It is of me playing with Pussy; the ship's cat." I said it loud enough for all to hear, and the police officer's face went bright red as the whole of the pub burst out laughing. I got that photo blown up into a large print, and the pub owner hung it behind the bar, so everybody could see Harry (Joe Macey) in his uniform playing with Pussy.

 

Onboard H M S Eagle a fleet carrier sister ship of Ark Royal in 1958.

 

Malta

Malta

 

The grand harbour in Malta was the Mediterranean home of the British Navy for many years. Many sailors have landed on the shores of this island, and they had created a Maltese culture all its own. The sailors gave different names to many things, that I don't know if I am using the right name for the thing I want to describe. The word diso refers to a boat used to ferry people and goods on the water in the grand harbour. It was like the gondola's in Venice, with one oarsman with one oar to propel it. A Garry cart was a horse-drawn open carriage to carry four people.

 

 One run ashore in Malta always brings a smile to my face when I remember it. Four of us had just stepped off the liberty boat. When a lone marine enquired if it would be possible for him to share a gharry cart with us. I looked up at him because he towered above me, saying I had no objection but could the poor old horse pull our combined weight. All five of us climbed in and gave the driver our destination, ‘The Gut’. On the way there I asked the marine, why he was a lone ranger. He told us he wasn’t going to go ashore, and his friends had left an hour ago. He was not sure if he could find them, they could be anywhere between Valletta and Gozo.

 

As we alighted from the cart I asked this fine guardian of the quarterdeck, if he would accompany us on a mission that some had said imposable. The Brylcreem boy of the R A F hadn’t been able to do it. And the pongo’s even with the help of El duchy, and his blockade of this island had failed to achieve it. But tonight I was confident that the men of the fighting Eagle would succeed, in our quest to drink the gut dry.

 

In the true fighting spirit of this noble breed, he snapped to attention, and gave a solute and pillaged his allegiance to our cause. He smiled and said he would be honoured, to join such a fine body of men such as us. And so it was after a few stops to test the quality of the wears, of a couple of the many hostelries along the street.

 

We stumbled through the two half wagon wheel doors, of the Bing Crosby club. Lucky we found a table to sit the five of us and ordered a round of their finest brew. Our marine was hypnotized, by the songstress performing on the stage. He couldn’t take his eyes off the shapely leg that was visible through the long slit in her dress, or her ample bosom that overflowed her bodice. And there was the hint of far eastern promise, in the dusky hue of her skin. 

 

She also had not missed the entrance of this tall handsome stranger, with the high boot neck collar. When she had finished serenading him, she stepped down from the stage and swung her hip in our direction. Looking at only one of us, she said in velvet breathless voice. “Is there anyone at this table; willing to buy me a drink.” The marines arm shot into the air, and he snapped his fingers, then to the waiter that materialized beside him said. “Find nectar worthy to present to this goddess of loveliness. Then as there were no chairs for her to sit, he offered her his knee to sit upon.

 

She sat fluttering her eyelashes and giggled girlishly, as he showered her with praises to her beauty. When her scarlet lips whispered sweet nothings into his shell-like, he downed his drink, and they rose as one. We wished them both a happy bon voyage and him a very pleasant voyage of discovery. As he steered her loveliness from the building, with his arm around her tiny waist.

 

Barely five minutes had past when we all turned as one, on hearing a thunderous crash from the front of the club. There was our marine striding towards us, the doors he had crashed though still swinging. As he sat in his chair he announced he needed refreshment, so I pushed my half-empty glass to him; which he downed in a single gulp. Then I ventured the question that was on everybody’s lips.

“What’s up royal.” He uttered two words of profanity I can’t repeat, but the second began with a ‘B’ the first an ‘F’.

 

Then he began his tale of woe, “I got the ‘B’ in the bedroom, and got my hand in her ‘F’ knickers. I came up with an ‘F’ toggle and two, so I punched the ‘B’ lights out and left the ‘F’ in a heap on the floor. He should be out for an hour or two.” We were shocked 'Nay' stunned, for all at the table thought it had been the genuine article. There was only one thing I could say at such a revelation, “five beers waiter and make them tall ones.”

 

Epilogue.

 

The Garry cart drivers and disso oarsmen, of Malta, took a lot of stick from the men of her majesty’s royal navy. Quite unfairly I might add, as they did a great job in ferrying the men about. Late one night five very merry mariners, arrived at the quayside in the grand harbour. They instructed the disso oarsmen, to propel them to their ship. The oarsmen quite rightly informed them, that the disso could only legally carry five men one being himself. To keep within the law, the oarsman was tossed into the harbour and the five rowed themselves to their ship.

 

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 15.11.2017

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