For two days the convoy rumbled west with very little respite. As they moved further inland, the heat became more and more unbearable. With no air-conditioning and a canvas roof, the back of the truck became an oven by 0900 each morning.
In each town the convoy passed through, crowds gathered. The welcome wasn’t always that of heroes going off to do battle. Some towns seemed to consider the convoy with disdain, as though it was a rude interruption to their daily lives. But most of the time, the townspeople were receptive and excited to see the huge trucks rumbling through their streets.
Once the convoy reached Broken Hill, it headed north and the roads deteriorated rapidly, making the journey even more strained. Another two days on the road and they hit the dry, barren Sturt National Park, at the juncture of New South Wales, Queensland and South Australia. Finn and the other soldiers didn’t see much of it, given there were no windows in the truck and the flap at the back had to be kept down to limit the relentless dust being blown in.
Their efforts at minimizing the dust were futile. The topic of dust seemed to fill the conversational void and quickly became their sole focus. Every time they stopped, the conversation always came back to the dust. They were constantly breaking down their weapons to clean them out. In the anticipation of going to battle, the dust became their obsession, their enemy — at least until they came face-to-face with the invaders.
From Sturt they headed northwest, which is when things got really interesting for the convoy. They were no longer on roads. They were travelling on dried-up riverbeds, unmarked trails and pure, untravelled country that only the sturdiest of 4WDs could handle. The convoy slowed to a snail’s pace due to numerous gear failures and vehicles getting stuck. It took them another week to travel the 700 kilometres to the eastern corner of the Simpson Desert. Along the way, it was hard not to comment on the Mars-like landscape. There was no denying it: the barren, red earth looked alien and unholy. It amazed Finn that Aborigines had survived out here in the desert for so long. What hard and resourceful people they must have been. The army was here, and even with all the technology and equipment, they were struggling.
At around midday on what Finn guessed was the fifth day of travel, their truck stopped. The men, who had been travelling for four hours, were already covered in red dust. Finn climbed down from the truck carefully. They weren’t allowed to jump off, for fear of a rolled ankle or some other lame injury. Finn looked about the expanse. ‘Where the fuck are we?’ he muttered to himself.
‘Hell,’ said Higgins from behind him.
‘Some say this is one of Australia’s greatest marvels, Sarge,’ said Dave, one of the older guys from the squad. He was scrawny to the point of emaciation, but tough as nails and a devastating sniper.
‘Bullshit, Dave,’ said Higgins. ‘Anyone who says that has only travelled through here in an air-conditioned, air-sprung 4WD mobile palace. Trust me, boys. This ain’t no place to relax in. The human body is not designed to last outside in these conditions for too long.’
‘Well the Aborigines managed pretty well, didn’t they?’ said Dave, unwilling to let it go.
‘Mate, the Aborigines survived off the land through generations of learning. How many generations of your family have been out here, living off the land? Fucking idiot.’ Higgins, as he had a tendency to do, finished the conversation by walking away.
‘Fuck me, I was just making a point that people can survive out here,’ Dave said quietly to Finn.
‘Don’t worry about it. I think Sarge probably has some pretty shit holiday memories from his last visit to the desert, don’t you think?’ said Finn tactfully.
‘Mhh,’ grunted Dave. ‘Whatever.’
Finn walked over to where Higgins was standing with some of the others, who were staring down the column of trucks in the direction they were headed. The column trailed off into the distance, evaporating into the heat haze. Beyond the trucks, though, was a break in the landscape’s uniform flatness. Out of the sand and dirt rose a long mound. From this distance it looked smooth and lazy — an easy obstacle for their 4WD trucks. ‘What’s going on, Sarge?’ he asked.
‘According to the map, we’re at the eastern point of the Simpson Desert, and this little lump of dirt is called Big Red. It’s actually a fuck-off massive sand dune that’ll slow the arse of the convoy down another day, at least. We might as well hunker down and find some shade because it’s unlikely we’ll be moving too far today,’ said Higgins. Big Red stood about 35 metres above the rest of the plain. But the height wasn’t the problem — the difficulty was in the gradient, and sand, which made it an extremely difficult obstacle to negotiate.
The heat was getting unbearable by 1400 hours. The squad had sought refuge in any piece of shade they could find, but the sun was high in the sky now, which meant the only shade was under the truck — so under they went. By 1500 they were on the move again, but not for long. A few hundred metres down the line and they stopped again. Higgins was right, thought Finn; it would take a damn long time to get every vehicle over Big Red.
That night they camped near the base of Big Red. The night was cold — in stark contrast to the heat of the day. Sitting around in a huddle, they were wearing their thick desert jackets to keep warm. The conversation had been the usual debates over which AFL team was the best in history, who was the greatest cricketer to ever swing a bat, whether General Stephens had any idea what he was doing. The usual stuff. One by one the men trickled off until it was Higgins and Finn alone.
‘So, Sarge. You were in the initial battle for Australia, weren’t you?’ asked Finn directly.
‘Yeah, I was,’ Higgins replied, squinting into the distance.
‘What was it like, if you don’t mind me asking?’ replied Finn.
‘It was a fucking massacre — you probably got a better view of it than me on the evening news. From what I hear the coverage was extensive.’
‘True, but that can’t really explain what it was like.’
‘Hunt,’ Higgins turned to face Finn directly. ‘It was a fucking nightmare. Let’s leave it at that.’
Finn stared back at Higgins in silence, regretting asking him now. Higgins held his gaze, staring him in the eye.
‘Err, yeah. Sorry, Sarge, didn’t mean to pry.’
Higgins broke his gaze quickly. ‘Yeah, don’t worry about it.’
With that, Higgins stood, hesitated, and walked toward his bivvy.
For the first time, Finn felt scared and lonely. He sat there in the cold desert night, leaning against his pack, knees pulled up to his chest, chin tucked into the collar of his jacket, feeling the warmth of his breath on his neck.
Pull yourself together, he thought to himself. This was the only way he knew to fight the panic that accompanied self-doubt and fear. He had never experienced pure, raw fear, but he could feel it creeping up on him now, and he knew it was inevitable. Right now, he just wanted it over: all the training, this horrendous convoy. It was all delaying the ultimate reality of the total fear Finn would soon experience. He had to know what it would be like: whether he would cope, how long it would last. Would it cripple him? Or would he master it, let it go and perform his job? Of course, he had no idea. He only prayed that he would deal with it and live to reflect on the feeling. He’d asked for a real challenge; now he’d gotten it.
Next morning after breakfast, Higgins called the men in around the back of their truck. ‘Right, I’ve got some info on where the hell we’re going and what we’re doing.’