By 7.30 am the morning sun had pushed far above a shimmering cloud line. Ignoring that it was final days of a bloody-hot Australian summer it still bit into the weathered necks of some thirty habitual punters who were already milling outside a locked security gate on the Eastern periphery of Sydney’s vast domestic airport.
Meanwhile, some 650 Kms. to the North West, in the NSW city of Armidale, officials were preparing for the 148th running of the Armidale Cup; a horse race that draws punters and good-time blokes from around the nation.
Through the chain-link fence and beyond the ragged grass awaited our chartered DC3.
“Rebel Air” stood in bold, red letters stretched along its fuselage. The poor old relic squatted, its tail barely held off the ground by a tiny wheel and its proud nose pointing defiantly toward the sky. Much the same posture of a SAM missile poised for the heavens. I had assumed we were going on a jet. Perhaps a turbo prop, certainly something more current than the very backbone of World War ll aviation.
That didn’t matter much; DC3s have enjoyed a wonderful safety record throughout their colourful history. What did it matter that the last one rolled of the assembly line in 1956? And this geriatric airframe, now wiggling its flaps, rudder and ailerons in readiness for action, was a mere 55 years old at that time.
The air remained still while a bitter sun began to draw sweat, particularly on the gnarled necks and faces of the more rotund and corpulent gentlemen. We were still outside the fence when the captain made his first appearance with a report that a thunderstorm was continuing to lash the Armidale area. With that, he elected to wait for an update weather report. This was a free admission to the preference of visual navigation as opposed to instruments. I supposed he was more comfortable following highways.
I had been invited on this venture by my brother’s good mate Ross—alias Rosco, the house painter. Rosco and his friend ‘Oyster’, a professional oyster opener by trade, had been organizers of this event for many years. They thought I might find the outing an interesting one, perhaps even worthy of a story. The agenda was a repeat of past years. Fly up to Armidale, have lunch and a few beers, place a couple of bets on the ponies and then fly back to Sydney. My brother, who had made one of these trips, recommended it as an ”experience”. Somehow, his tone left many words unspoken. Nevertheless, I ignored the fact that he also had the option of going but claimed to have pressing business that day.
By 9.am a searing sun had devoured the scant cloud cover and we stood restlessly by the gate awaiting further instructions. The morning drinkers in the group were beginning to lose composure—balding heads were soaking up the heat. At last, a lone hostess appeared in the doorway of the old warhorse, drawing hoots and hollers from the lads, for they knew the plane was loaded with cold beer. Immediately they demanded a case for compassionate relief.
The captain and co-pilot, whom I supposed had a minimum of 80 years flying experience between them, defused the situation by suggesting that the thirsty ones make the 15-minute walk back to the terminal and spend a comfortable hour at the bar—in the cool. During that hour the plane would take on extra fuel as the weather over Armidale was still mite dubious.
The fuel, however, came much later than expected and was smartly pumped into the wing tanks. A sight not often seen these days was when our aviator captain climbed a rickety stepladder, removed his sunglasses and squinted into the dark tank through the filler-hole to check the level. An accurate way of assessment, I thought, but not exactly state-of-the-art, as he gave us a wave and a grin of satisfaction.
Also curious was the co-pilot who stood on one of the wings emptying a four-gallon drum of oil into an engine. Then, as if to kill more time, the captain went about the undercarriage with a bloody-big screwdriver, apparently tightening dozens of whatever had shaken loose on the previous mission.
Finally, the gate was opened and those who were not still at the bar climbed on board. A young apprentice jockey who was hitching a ride was dispatched to the terminal to round up the remainder. With all accounted for the hostess handed out cold beers and Rebel Air roared, vibrated its way down the runway and clawed its cumbersome self into the air, all in slow motion, it seemed—more than three hours late.
From a not so lofty 7,000 feet the aircraft’s course seemed random as it weaved and yawed around the edges of the voluptuous but turbulent plumes of nimbus cumulus. The coastline of N.S.W. viewed more as a rolling post card of rich emerald foliage, golden sands, sprawling inlets and countless sparkling waterways. Such beautiful detail can only be seen from the low altitude and slow speed of a DC3 or similar aircraft.
Low cloud and drizzle hid the single runway at Armidale. After several low circles and swoops beneath the clouds our intrepid pilot caught glimpse of the mark. Without gaining altitude he made one pass over the runway to establish radio clearance and then a steep bank at the end worthy of fighter plane placing us on the deck without a jolt.
Officials from the Armidale Jockey Club were standing in the drizzle to give a big welcome to the city gamblers—and their money. One chap mentioned that ours was the only plane to land that morning. Other aircraft with all their electronic aids had been diverted elsewhere. Our pilot, as it turned out, had a reputation bordering on legendary.
The club had a small fleet of taxis on hold that whisked us directly to the Bishop’s House, a country restaurant, where we were supposed to have a leisurely lunch but our late arrival left only 45 minutes before the first race. Another official again welcomed us, and our cash, and boasted of their supreme betting facilities. We immediately hogged into the generous piles of fresh oysters on the half shell, chilled king prawns, cold meats, and salads etc. The eating was a binge, frantic enough to have us deposited at the track in time for the first running at 1.PM. However, experienced punters are cool customers who never appear flustered. In fact, they show no emotion about anything much as they stand quietly in groups sipping beer with their noses in the horse guide. It’s all done with a silent understanding. Almost unnoticed, they drift away and place a bet, just like going to the washroom. I, on the other hand, had never been to a racetrack and had no idea what totes, tabs and trifectas were—I didn’t even know how to place a bet—but didn’t let on.
While roaming around the crowded paddock area wondering why I had come in the first place, I happened to befriend a professional punter. From our conversation he quickly discovered my ignorance of the race game. Figuring that my muddling would pose small threat to his financial gain that day he swore me to secrecy and whispered the names of four horses that he claimed were ready winners.
A grandmotherly type at the betting window patiently explained how to put five dollars on each horse.
It took only a minute or two and the process was easier than I thought. Such betting activity and the possibilities of making a fortune sparked interest and sent me down to the paddock to admire one of my chosen steeds. Number four, there it was, being shown around the ring by its handler with a tiny jockey perched high on its back. Its loose-limbed walk seemed a bit too relaxed; it didn’t at all suit my impression of a champion thoroughbred. Its lack of enthusiasm reminded me of one of those tired, old horses used at country fairs. The smelly old-things that kids ride in a circle. During his promenade the poor beast stumbled on a tuft of grass and nearly fell over. Anyway, all my horses lost and so went my twenty bucks along with the thrill of punting.
The beer flowed and the betting continued unabated until the last race was run. The Sydney group began to saunter from the members’club lounge down to the paddock bar that remained open to appease the thirsty. Butch, a large ex-copper, formed a circle in the gathering mob and began the familiar Two-Up chant calling for bets.
“Who wants a bet?, who wants a bet?,” goes the call and willing gamblers push to the fore clutching money in their eager fists. Butch moved around the ring repeating the call like a high priest summoning the faithful to prayer. Betters place money at their feet and Butch rushes to match each player’s bet. Another call for “last bets—come on now, last bets gentlemen,” and then the final bark that seals the player’s fate. “Come in spinner!”
The “spinner” is chosen for his expertise in tossing the coins. Three, copper pennies are placed on a flat stick and hurled high into the air where they tumble and turn before telling their tale of “odds” or “evens” upon the floor. Money swaps between players and banker. When bets are settled the chanting call to further betting resumes and the coins pivot in the air once more.
The game of Two-Up is illegal, but in small country towns, and to placate the visiting city-slickers, authorities turn a blind-eye as long as there is no trouble. And that’s what sent our night crashing upon the rocks.
It all began when a rather toady race official (apparently liked by no one) took exception to the game. As the Sydney group was boarding taxis for the airport the official levelled a parting insult at Butch. Given Butch’s size, a person would have to be quite mad to hurl any invective. Whatever the fool said caused Butch to reply with a dreadful crash upon the official’s jaw. When the silly fellow regained his feet his only defence was a pathetic threat to have us all barred from the Armidale Race Course for life. Those are the sort useless words that babble forth from a person in shock. And, judging by the nasty cut on his jaw he had good reason to be in shock.
It was around 7 pm when we arrived at the airport. Being a country airport it was closed and we were the only souls there. Most of the group were feeling no pain while some were feeling nothing at all. That theory was borne when I saw more than one weary punter tumble from his chair to the floor like a sack of potatoes. The victim would rouse to partial sense and look about with complete surprise as if searching for the person who pushed him.
Outside the waiting room on the dark tarmac I could see a mechanic perched on top of a ladder with his head inside the engine casing of our DC3. As he had been there for at least an hour, I took it as a signal of trouble at hand. Something about the generator not working was greeted with much agitation. The tensions of a hard day at the track, the booze and large losses buoyed with minor wins began to work their evil.
Bickering did stop at the sound of the engine as it spat flame from its exhaust and roared in the darkness as the mechanic gave it his last shot. It was not to be and a feeble game of Two-Up broke out as the guys tried to amuse themselves. Close to 11 pm the captain cancelled the flight. He was afraid the batteries would not support the navigation instruments. Although I supported the captain’s sentiments wholeheartedly, I still believe he navigated visually by the highways anyway.
Upon this news, several of the gang sprang to action organising groups who would take taxis back to Sydney. A deal was struck and three cabs were crammed with tired and inebriated players started their seven-hour journey home. I could just imagine their state of health upon arrival. The remainder of us returned to town and took hotel rooms.
To my amazement, most of them turned up in the breakfast room by 8.30 AM although bleary-eyed and wearing the same smelly clothes of yesterday (as I was), but were freshly showered. Appetites were keen and throughout the meal accounts of the previous day’s folly were recalled.
The airport was busy that morning hundreds of school children had turned out to see their new school principal arrive. However, the old DC3 going through its pre-flight check of roaring and trying to shake itself to bits on the tarmac commanded their full attention. As Rebel Air taxied out the kids yelled and screamed with delight giving us a most fitting departure. During our flight back to Sydney, the serious punters were giving study and vigorous debate to the several race meets scheduled in and around Sydney that day. Clocks were being watched and arrival time calculated as to which track could be reached before gate time. For myself, I could only think of recuperating. I did, however, marvel at their stamina for yet another full day of boozing and punting at the racetrack.
I have never been to a race track again since that day.
Chaucer
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