The moke was going so well from Adelaide up that I didn't stop for any longer than petrol and pies. Hit Alice Springs after twenty hours at about four in the morning. Had a bit of a kip at Miguel's, went to Tangentyere, picked up Bob number 2. Coffee at the Erinova and he filled me in.
"There's been two trips to town by the Galaxy," he said. "We went out to the airport both times, yelled our heads off, told the yanks to rack off. You know, the usual thing."
(The Galaxy for those that don't know is (was) the biggest airplane in the world. The Russians have since built the Antinov which is even bigger).
"There's two more flights, this Tuesday and the next. Hawke has secretly agreed to the septics building new attennae and the Galaxy is bringing in parts for it.
"The bastards laugh when they see the same old faces screaming abuse. Half the time there's more coppers and CIA spooks out there than the peace group. We've really got to do something that grabs attention." He said that some of the mob had discussed some crazy ideas like running out as the Galaxy came into land, driving some cattle onto the airstrip and like (or unlike) notions.
"What we've come down to," he said, "was maybe we could ride some bikes out. That way there's an element of surprise and it might be harder for the pigs to stop us. There's maybe half a dozen thinking about it."
"How about the black mob?"
"Some of the younger one's might if we ask but Geoff, Shorty, Marcia and others seem to think that blackfellers should keep out of it. After all, white mob put it there, white mob pull it down. You can't argue with that. They will give us support if anything happens."
"Like shovelling up the remains," I said, which sounded pretty bloody inane as soon as I said it.
"Something like that. We have to decide at Pam's place tonight."
There was quite a large group at Priest St. After general discussion the 'bikies collective' met outside on the front lawn.
There was a lot of discussion about 'morality.' What if we made the plane crash? What if the crew were killed? And I thought to myself - the crew? What about US! What were the actual dangers? Did we really know what we were in for and so on. Someone reported on landing patterns, on how long it took for the plane to circle and land from a certain spot once it was seen, the role of the control tower, how it had been arranged to check Richmond Air Force Base departure and when it might arrive.
Phone contacts, phone umbrellas (trees) to get people out there.
The legals talked about Civil Aviation Acts, Crimes Acts. It all started to look complicated and absurd. The homework was impressive though. Lots were involved.
Rumble (I think it was) suggested a contingency plan - race out when it landed and paint a symbolic sign on it. Things got more confused.
Then Gabriel, a Chilian anarchist, said. "Enough of this shit. We either do it or we don't. I will be in it but to hell with contingency plans. Once it's landed that's it for me."
That did it. A clear challenge. Gabriel mumbled something like "Pajaro". Wanker in Spanish.
So it was on. Boiled down, four riders, Laurie's truck with Rumble as driver. With Gabriel we had Bob, Brian (peace activist, ALP leftie, brung up by Cookie at Tranby) and faced with put up or shut up, me. I must have been pissed. An Anarchist, two Comms and a Social Democrat. Not a bad cross section. Early on I'd been introduced to a big bloke with a beard who looked a bit Nedkellyish. Brother Dennis Doherty, Marist teacher at Yarara Aboriginal College in the Alice.
He offered to come and photograph the action from the front line as it were, carry the water bottle, whatever. We agreed. Having a Catholic priest (of a sort) gave me a feeling of broadness. Maybe he could administer the last rites.
Anyway it would all turn out to be a fizzer.
Up at sparrow fart next morning we met in town, picked up the bikes, stowed them in the back of the truck under the canvas and headed for the airport 5k. out. Rumble drove the twin cab and we circled the terminal parking lot, checked out the various entrances, then headed south towards Santa Teresa mission, 100k. plus south. We drove past the end of the tarmac fence line and kept going.
Suddenly, Rumble, looking in the rear vision said. "Shit, there's a waggon tailing us."
"Put your foot down and keep going."
"I have got me bloody foot down. Fucking near through the floor. Bloody Laurie ought to get this old bastard tuned."
The cloud of red dust behind us got closer. Around a bend and we hared off into the desert scrub and into a lonely scraggle of trees. To our amazement the Budget hire kept going. A hurried and somewhat argumentive discussion and we wheeled back towards town. About a mile from the tarmac we off-roaded again and unloaded the bikes, told Rumble to keep going while we went for cover.
Ten minutes later, back comes the CIA mob and followed Laurie's beat-out towards town. Rather, its cloud of billowing dust. We couldn't believe it. We'd lost them. J.R. led them back to town, lost them and returned to the airport.
So here we are. Phase one over. More animated disputation. Then. "Let's go, we're in this far, we might as well keep going."
Carrying our conveyances we crept through the stunted coolibahs and spinifex until we reached the road once more. Over the barbed wire and towards the tarmac baking and shimmering in the heat haze of a Centralian summer. The terminal seemed miles away. A muttered curse behind us.
"What's up," to Dennis. "I dropped the water bottle and it broke," says our Catholic Comrade. "Stupid prick," says Doolan. Not a nice way to talk to a Brother, even if he taught at Marcellin College years ago where Brian was trained.
"To hell with the water bottle, keep going. They'll be back, get under cover."
We reached a small stand of bush shrubs, about 500 metres from the end corner of the runway and dived into the skimpy shade. Bob and me close together, Brian off to the right with his own bush and Gabriel to the left, still clutching the binoculars he'd carried all the way. The Brother was 50 metres to the rear. We waited. The sun belted down. We were hot, we were thirsty. Brian produced a can of drink from his bag and toasted us. Well chosen epithets convinced him to share. Suddenly a low flying plane skirted the edge of the runway and made several passes.
"We must have them worried," said Boughton. Got them worried? This is crazy. More time passed. Gabriel kept bobbing up to scan the surrounds through his binoculars.
"Keep your bloody head down you wog," I remonstrated. "And cover up those bikes with grass and dirt." The chrome was glinting in the sun. Another baking half hour passed. Then a car appeared along the runway. The airport security waggon deposited two guards at the far corner and the driver pulled over to our side. The driver got out. And still we waited.
Brian produced a bamboo stick from his pack and Bob and me watched bemusedly as he attached it to the back of his bike.
"What's that," asked Bob. Brian said, "Lukey made me a little banner last night. It's got peace symbols and other stuff written on it." He attached the calico to his little mast. No sooner fixed than it bent at the base and flopped over.
"Just like the peace movement," says Boughton. "You can never get it up when it's needed."
All frivolities stopped dead. "Holy bloody Mary," says Doolan, "there it is!"
Out of the south east a great rumble. Then this huge grey green monster appeared, wings swept back, heading towards the terminal like a thing from the past.
AWESOME!
We had four and a bit minutes, according to our researchers, before it hit the tarmac after a wide circle over the McDonnel Ranges (Yiperinya) and back towards us.
"LETS GO." And we went. Across the rutted flintstone and sandy gullies. Dodging the desert bushes. Sweat streamed into my eyes. Arse over turkey at the half way mark. Up again, cursing our stupidity. The guard at the station waggon saw us coming, waved his arms and yelled something incomprehensible, ran towards us then made his blue. He ran back to his motor and roared off to pick up his mates. Maybe he thought the odds too great with four crazy, yelling, stumbling lunatics getting closer.
We hit the runway almost together.
I looked up and tried to see through the blinding sweat and haze. There was the monstrosity. It had turned and was coming back to land. Huge, it's roar getting louder.
On the bikes we headed towards it. It towards us. Start praying for us, Brother Dennis.
Closer came the Galaxy. Time? What's time? An abstract, they say. Nothing abstract about the enemy as it dipped over and down below the Ranges. We spread out four abreast a few arms length from each other.
We yelled. We cheered. We'd done it. We'd killed them!
Punching the air with our fists in exultation! Almost, it seemed, the plane was upon us. It probably wasn't but nothing seemed to matter with our neurons scrambled and adrenalin pouring out of our ears.
What mattered was that it stopped descending, began to lift. Its engines on full throttle it screamed overhead, turned Westward then North and disappeared back over the Ranges. Landing aborted! Bikes had defeated their technology!
Looking back, the security mob were on our hammer. I was dimly aware Gabriel had disappeared. They'd got him half way down the runway. Ahead the tarmac swarmed with vehicles - the coppers, the security, the CIA. Bob did a wheely as the security waggon pulled alongside. They stopped and came at me. I dodged and whipped around the back of their car. Bob took off and I followed. A copper jumped out of his car to grab Boughton. Again we took off and he had to race back to his vehicle. This kept being repeated, one way or another. No wonder they had the shits with us back at the lock-up.
And where was Doolan? Not that I dwelt on it, me and Boughton still had our own problems. Ducking and weaving we almost came abreast of the terminal. A mob of about fifty peaceniks were cheering (and laughing) their heads off.
A bloody audience. We're not dead. And we stuffed the CIA. Would have been a great time to die.
Mind you, the local lawmen weren't thinking about the CIA. They were after us and would have gladly fulfilled the death wish.
Behind, his hands aloft and off the bike, Brian was being grabbed by the N.T. constabulary. A wave to our troops as I swept past. Bob must have been a gonner, nowhere in sight. 'The time has come the walrus said.' Two paddy waggons and a car encircled the lone survivor.
A copper jumped out, shouldered me to the ground and my foot caught between the front wheel and the handle bars. The big Sarg. started pulling on my shoulders and the rookie on the bike.
"Get up," said the Sarg.
"I can't get up. You're bloody mate won't let go of the bike." Finally we sorted it all out and into the paddy wagon I went. "Greetings, Comrade," one of the ensconced trio said. The four were a unit again. Christ knows, and if he doesn't, who does, where Brother Dennis was.
Driven away from our laughing, cheering supporters we sweated out a seeming two hours in the wagon, so dry and exhausted we gave up yelling "Close Pine Gap" and rocking our prison. Forty degrees in the shade and us in a tin three by two out in the sun. For the fourteenth time we were discussing how a cold green snake (or a white death or even a few fourexes would go) when our guardians climbed aboard and we went to town.
Meanwhile back at the desert, the Bruv had wended his weary way through the desert to the terminal. By this time the plane had finally landed and was unloading its cargo.
(I know all this because there's a video of the arse-end of the bike ride and much that followed. The black mob had done their bit. The Central Australian Aboriginal Media Association film unit turned up and shot the great event. The rest comes of real or embellished stories of participants or observers).
Dennis saw John Rumble leaning on the terminal fence that separated the demo-crazies from the Galaxy. There also happened to be a bloody big line of coppers shoulder to shoulder. CIA finks were standing about, looking like 007's, yakking into their walkies. Eyes swivelling like eggbeaters as the huge frames wheeled out of the intestines of the beast and onto GRACE BROS. low loaders.
"Rumble," says Dennis, dead eager to tell someone what happened out there in the scrub after we left.
"Fuck off, Dennis," says Rumble. "Something's on."
A bit taken back, Doherty found Debbie who was working for the A.B.C. He didn't get anywhere with her either.
"I'm busy, Dennis, have to interview someone," and ploughed on.
Feeling a bit defeated our rearguard trudged all the way back to Yarara College. More than five K. Walking into his staffroom he began to tell his story. One of his co-teachers said. "Oh yeah. Why don't you go and protest at the Russian Embassy?" As Doherty said later. "If I hadn't have been a Christian I could've choked the bastard."
At the airport Rumble's rumble went into action.
Suddenly, Jane and Linda went over the fence. Pigs came from everywhere. Within seconds the two women were hoisted high off the ground by the coppers and hustled away. There was a break in the police lines. Over went J.R. They say he was poetry in motion, like the great Magic Dragon himself as he side-stepped two wallopers, slipped behind their defensive line (he played for Cronulla once) and reefing a plastic bag of orange paint from his kick smeared all alongside the Galaxy and a sizeable portion over himself as well.
TOUCHE, Madam Defarge said as another aristocratic head lobbed in the basket. Touche's right. They hit Rumble like the wall of a brick outhouse. Another doll over!
While all this nonsense was going on the four muscatels were singing themselves silly, demanding lawyers (stopping short of 'guns and money', after all we didn't want to give the wrong impression). We had the watchhouse to ourselves. No blackfellers even. Cops all out at the airport and no time to do the rounds of the Todd River to get their quota for the day.
Exhausted from bellowing every song we knew and abusing our captors, we'd just about collapsed what with all the excitement and all when in comes Rumble between two coppers. Orange paint all over him. We were ecstatic as they slot him into another cell. We exchanged the usual pleasantries that one does under such circumstances then they cart him off to hospital to have the paint washed out of his eyes.
Four hours later one of our custodians comes to our slot with a clipboard and asked would we give him our 'particulars.' This brought more ribaldry, then:
"Why should we help you?", from Doolan.
"Because the sooner we get rid of you looneys and I can go home the better."
"Stuff you."
"Listen, sport. I was one of those who had to drive out on the tarmac to bust you lot. You cunts are crazy. I reckon I put my life on the line because of what you done. Why'd you do it?"
"You got any kids?" "No."
"Well he has and he has and he has and I have."
"Your olds alive?" "Yair, they live here. I'm local."
"Then don't you even care about them?"
After this quadruple sally from each of us he went to water, asked us nicely again for our stats. Seeing that we were more keen than him to get out, we told him what we wanted him to know and so were ushered out into the balmy air of an Alice Springs summer night.
It's funny when you come to think of it how ordinary life can sometimes be.
EPILOGUE 1. The following weekend a group of 'Kamikasi Catholics' broke into the Watsonia Base (part of the 'spy in the sky' set up in Victoria) and planted seeds of 'peace and friendship' alongside the 'devil's attennae.' All were busted. So too were others who later invaded the Richmond Air Force Base and did a similar action.
EPILOGUE 2. On the Tuesday after the bike ride the last Galaxy drop took place. People blocked roads, threw themselves in front of the low loaders en route to Pine Gap. 16 or 17 more arrests.
EPILOGUE 3. The next year saw the founding of the Australian Anti-Bases Campaign Coalition at a conference, would you believe, at Marcellan Catholic College.
EPILOGUE'S 4, 5, 6 etc. Continuing actions at Pine Gap, North West Cape, Nurrungar and other places that are part of the U.S. spy and war apparatus. Hundreds more arrested.
THE STRUGGLE CONTINUES.
"There's been two trips to town by the Galaxy," he said. "We went out to the airport both times, yelled our heads off, told the yanks to rack off. You know, the usual thing."
(The Galaxy for those that don't know is (was) the biggest airplane in the world. The Russians have since built the Antinov which is even bigger).
"There's two more flights, this Tuesday and the next. Hawke has secretly agreed to the septics building new attennae and the Galaxy is bringing in parts for it.
"The bastards laugh when they see the same old faces screaming abuse. Half the time there's more coppers and CIA spooks out there than the peace group. We've really got to do something that grabs attention." He said that some of the mob had discussed some crazy ideas like running out as the Galaxy came into land, driving some cattle onto the airstrip and like (or unlike) notions.
"What we've come down to," he said, "was maybe we could ride some bikes out. That way there's an element of surprise and it might be harder for the pigs to stop us. There's maybe half a dozen thinking about it."
"How about the black mob?"
"Some of the younger one's might if we ask but Geoff, Shorty, Marcia and others seem to think that blackfellers should keep out of it. After all, white mob put it there, white mob pull it down. You can't argue with that. They will give us support if anything happens."
"Like shovelling up the remains," I said, which sounded pretty bloody inane as soon as I said it.
"Something like that. We have to decide at Pam's place tonight."
There was quite a large group at Priest St. After general discussion the 'bikies collective' met outside on the front lawn.
There was a lot of discussion about 'morality.' What if we made the plane crash? What if the crew were killed? And I thought to myself - the crew? What about US! What were the actual dangers? Did we really know what we were in for and so on. Someone reported on landing patterns, on how long it took for the plane to circle and land from a certain spot once it was seen, the role of the control tower, how it had been arranged to check Richmond Air Force Base departure and when it might arrive.
Phone contacts, phone umbrellas (trees) to get people out there.
The legals talked about Civil Aviation Acts, Crimes Acts. It all started to look complicated and absurd. The homework was impressive though. Lots were involved.
Rumble (I think it was) suggested a contingency plan - race out when it landed and paint a symbolic sign on it. Things got more confused.
Then Gabriel, a Chilian anarchist, said. "Enough of this shit. We either do it or we don't. I will be in it but to hell with contingency plans. Once it's landed that's it for me."
That did it. A clear challenge. Gabriel mumbled something like "Pajaro". Wanker in Spanish.
So it was on. Boiled down, four riders, Laurie's truck with Rumble as driver. With Gabriel we had Bob, Brian (peace activist, ALP leftie, brung up by Cookie at Tranby) and faced with put up or shut up, me. I must have been pissed. An Anarchist, two Comms and a Social Democrat. Not a bad cross section. Early on I'd been introduced to a big bloke with a beard who looked a bit Nedkellyish. Brother Dennis Doherty, Marist teacher at Yarara Aboriginal College in the Alice.
He offered to come and photograph the action from the front line as it were, carry the water bottle, whatever. We agreed. Having a Catholic priest (of a sort) gave me a feeling of broadness. Maybe he could administer the last rites.
Anyway it would all turn out to be a fizzer.
Up at sparrow fart next morning we met in town, picked up the bikes, stowed them in the back of the truck under the canvas and headed for the airport 5k. out. Rumble drove the twin cab and we circled the terminal parking lot, checked out the various entrances, then headed south towards Santa Teresa mission, 100k. plus south. We drove past the end of the tarmac fence line and kept going.
Suddenly, Rumble, looking in the rear vision said. "Shit, there's a waggon tailing us."
"Put your foot down and keep going."
"I have got me bloody foot down. Fucking near through the floor. Bloody Laurie ought to get this old bastard tuned."
The cloud of red dust behind us got closer. Around a bend and we hared off into the desert scrub and into a lonely scraggle of trees. To our amazement the Budget hire kept going. A hurried and somewhat argumentive discussion and we wheeled back towards town. About a mile from the tarmac we off-roaded again and unloaded the bikes, told Rumble to keep going while we went for cover.
Ten minutes later, back comes the CIA mob and followed Laurie's beat-out towards town. Rather, its cloud of billowing dust. We couldn't believe it. We'd lost them. J.R. led them back to town, lost them and returned to the airport.
So here we are. Phase one over. More animated disputation. Then. "Let's go, we're in this far, we might as well keep going."
Carrying our conveyances we crept through the stunted coolibahs and spinifex until we reached the road once more. Over the barbed wire and towards the tarmac baking and shimmering in the heat haze of a Centralian summer. The terminal seemed miles away. A muttered curse behind us.
"What's up," to Dennis. "I dropped the water bottle and it broke," says our Catholic Comrade. "Stupid prick," says Doolan. Not a nice way to talk to a Brother, even if he taught at Marcellin College years ago where Brian was trained.
"To hell with the water bottle, keep going. They'll be back, get under cover."
We reached a small stand of bush shrubs, about 500 metres from the end corner of the runway and dived into the skimpy shade. Bob and me close together, Brian off to the right with his own bush and Gabriel to the left, still clutching the binoculars he'd carried all the way. The Brother was 50 metres to the rear. We waited. The sun belted down. We were hot, we were thirsty. Brian produced a can of drink from his bag and toasted us. Well chosen epithets convinced him to share. Suddenly a low flying plane skirted the edge of the runway and made several passes.
"We must have them worried," said Boughton. Got them worried? This is crazy. More time passed. Gabriel kept bobbing up to scan the surrounds through his binoculars.
"Keep your bloody head down you wog," I remonstrated. "And cover up those bikes with grass and dirt." The chrome was glinting in the sun. Another baking half hour passed. Then a car appeared along the runway. The airport security waggon deposited two guards at the far corner and the driver pulled over to our side. The driver got out. And still we waited.
Brian produced a bamboo stick from his pack and Bob and me watched bemusedly as he attached it to the back of his bike.
"What's that," asked Bob. Brian said, "Lukey made me a little banner last night. It's got peace symbols and other stuff written on it." He attached the calico to his little mast. No sooner fixed than it bent at the base and flopped over.
"Just like the peace movement," says Boughton. "You can never get it up when it's needed."
All frivolities stopped dead. "Holy bloody Mary," says Doolan, "there it is!"
Out of the south east a great rumble. Then this huge grey green monster appeared, wings swept back, heading towards the terminal like a thing from the past.
AWESOME!
We had four and a bit minutes, according to our researchers, before it hit the tarmac after a wide circle over the McDonnel Ranges (Yiperinya) and back towards us.
"LETS GO." And we went. Across the rutted flintstone and sandy gullies. Dodging the desert bushes. Sweat streamed into my eyes. Arse over turkey at the half way mark. Up again, cursing our stupidity. The guard at the station waggon saw us coming, waved his arms and yelled something incomprehensible, ran towards us then made his blue. He ran back to his motor and roared off to pick up his mates. Maybe he thought the odds too great with four crazy, yelling, stumbling lunatics getting closer.
We hit the runway almost together.
I looked up and tried to see through the blinding sweat and haze. There was the monstrosity. It had turned and was coming back to land. Huge, it's roar getting louder.
On the bikes we headed towards it. It towards us. Start praying for us, Brother Dennis.
Closer came the Galaxy. Time? What's time? An abstract, they say. Nothing abstract about the enemy as it dipped over and down below the Ranges. We spread out four abreast a few arms length from each other.
We yelled. We cheered. We'd done it. We'd killed them!
Punching the air with our fists in exultation! Almost, it seemed, the plane was upon us. It probably wasn't but nothing seemed to matter with our neurons scrambled and adrenalin pouring out of our ears.
What mattered was that it stopped descending, began to lift. Its engines on full throttle it screamed overhead, turned Westward then North and disappeared back over the Ranges. Landing aborted! Bikes had defeated their technology!
Looking back, the security mob were on our hammer. I was dimly aware Gabriel had disappeared. They'd got him half way down the runway. Ahead the tarmac swarmed with vehicles - the coppers, the security, the CIA. Bob did a wheely as the security waggon pulled alongside. They stopped and came at me. I dodged and whipped around the back of their car. Bob took off and I followed. A copper jumped out of his car to grab Boughton. Again we took off and he had to race back to his vehicle. This kept being repeated, one way or another. No wonder they had the shits with us back at the lock-up.
And where was Doolan? Not that I dwelt on it, me and Boughton still had our own problems. Ducking and weaving we almost came abreast of the terminal. A mob of about fifty peaceniks were cheering (and laughing) their heads off.
A bloody audience. We're not dead. And we stuffed the CIA. Would have been a great time to die.
Mind you, the local lawmen weren't thinking about the CIA. They were after us and would have gladly fulfilled the death wish.
Behind, his hands aloft and off the bike, Brian was being grabbed by the N.T. constabulary. A wave to our troops as I swept past. Bob must have been a gonner, nowhere in sight. 'The time has come the walrus said.' Two paddy waggons and a car encircled the lone survivor.
A copper jumped out, shouldered me to the ground and my foot caught between the front wheel and the handle bars. The big Sarg. started pulling on my shoulders and the rookie on the bike.
"Get up," said the Sarg.
"I can't get up. You're bloody mate won't let go of the bike." Finally we sorted it all out and into the paddy wagon I went. "Greetings, Comrade," one of the ensconced trio said. The four were a unit again. Christ knows, and if he doesn't, who does, where Brother Dennis was.
Driven away from our laughing, cheering supporters we sweated out a seeming two hours in the wagon, so dry and exhausted we gave up yelling "Close Pine Gap" and rocking our prison. Forty degrees in the shade and us in a tin three by two out in the sun. For the fourteenth time we were discussing how a cold green snake (or a white death or even a few fourexes would go) when our guardians climbed aboard and we went to town.
Meanwhile back at the desert, the Bruv had wended his weary way through the desert to the terminal. By this time the plane had finally landed and was unloading its cargo.
(I know all this because there's a video of the arse-end of the bike ride and much that followed. The black mob had done their bit. The Central Australian Aboriginal Media Association film unit turned up and shot the great event. The rest comes of real or embellished stories of participants or observers).
Dennis saw John Rumble leaning on the terminal fence that separated the demo-crazies from the Galaxy. There also happened to be a bloody big line of coppers shoulder to shoulder. CIA finks were standing about, looking like 007's, yakking into their walkies. Eyes swivelling like eggbeaters as the huge frames wheeled out of the intestines of the beast and onto GRACE BROS. low loaders.
"Rumble," says Dennis, dead eager to tell someone what happened out there in the scrub after we left.
"Fuck off, Dennis," says Rumble. "Something's on."
A bit taken back, Doherty found Debbie who was working for the A.B.C. He didn't get anywhere with her either.
"I'm busy, Dennis, have to interview someone," and ploughed on.
Feeling a bit defeated our rearguard trudged all the way back to Yarara College. More than five K. Walking into his staffroom he began to tell his story. One of his co-teachers said. "Oh yeah. Why don't you go and protest at the Russian Embassy?" As Doherty said later. "If I hadn't have been a Christian I could've choked the bastard."
At the airport Rumble's rumble went into action.
Suddenly, Jane and Linda went over the fence. Pigs came from everywhere. Within seconds the two women were hoisted high off the ground by the coppers and hustled away. There was a break in the police lines. Over went J.R. They say he was poetry in motion, like the great Magic Dragon himself as he side-stepped two wallopers, slipped behind their defensive line (he played for Cronulla once) and reefing a plastic bag of orange paint from his kick smeared all alongside the Galaxy and a sizeable portion over himself as well.
TOUCHE, Madam Defarge said as another aristocratic head lobbed in the basket. Touche's right. They hit Rumble like the wall of a brick outhouse. Another doll over!
While all this nonsense was going on the four muscatels were singing themselves silly, demanding lawyers (stopping short of 'guns and money', after all we didn't want to give the wrong impression). We had the watchhouse to ourselves. No blackfellers even. Cops all out at the airport and no time to do the rounds of the Todd River to get their quota for the day.
Exhausted from bellowing every song we knew and abusing our captors, we'd just about collapsed what with all the excitement and all when in comes Rumble between two coppers. Orange paint all over him. We were ecstatic as they slot him into another cell. We exchanged the usual pleasantries that one does under such circumstances then they cart him off to hospital to have the paint washed out of his eyes.
Four hours later one of our custodians comes to our slot with a clipboard and asked would we give him our 'particulars.' This brought more ribaldry, then:
"Why should we help you?", from Doolan.
"Because the sooner we get rid of you looneys and I can go home the better."
"Stuff you."
"Listen, sport. I was one of those who had to drive out on the tarmac to bust you lot. You cunts are crazy. I reckon I put my life on the line because of what you done. Why'd you do it?"
"You got any kids?" "No."
"Well he has and he has and he has and I have."
"Your olds alive?" "Yair, they live here. I'm local."
"Then don't you even care about them?"
After this quadruple sally from each of us he went to water, asked us nicely again for our stats. Seeing that we were more keen than him to get out, we told him what we wanted him to know and so were ushered out into the balmy air of an Alice Springs summer night.
It's funny when you come to think of it how ordinary life can sometimes be.
EPILOGUE 1. The following weekend a group of 'Kamikasi Catholics' broke into the Watsonia Base (part of the 'spy in the sky' set up in Victoria) and planted seeds of 'peace and friendship' alongside the 'devil's attennae.' All were busted. So too were others who later invaded the Richmond Air Force Base and did a similar action.
EPILOGUE 2. On the Tuesday after the bike ride the last Galaxy drop took place. People blocked roads, threw themselves in front of the low loaders en route to Pine Gap. 16 or 17 more arrests.
EPILOGUE 3. The next year saw the founding of the Australian Anti-Bases Campaign Coalition at a conference, would you believe, at Marcellan Catholic College.
EPILOGUE'S 4, 5, 6 etc. Continuing actions at Pine Gap, North West Cape, Nurrungar and other places that are part of the U.S. spy and war apparatus. Hundreds more arrested.
THE STRUGGLE CONTINUES.
