The man of many battles. A naval legend. A leader of many. A reader of distinction.
Standing alone, strategising his mission, he waited for another veteran. Deep in the tunnel, the roar of a titan echoed, heralding the approach of the aging ironclad monster on rails. The musty damp of stale air punched ahead as his transport pulled into Town Hall Station. Our seafarer knew smells, and this one belonged to a train. He took comfort in knowing his decision to venture away from his warship was the right thing to do, but undercover meant no uniform—and that concerned him. Not a soul on that platform would suspect a hero stood among them.
He boarded the train. Documents stuffed in his battered old bag.
Once onboard the Chief Coxswain watched the doors slide back and forth of their own free will, never connecting with lock or latch. It was not up to him to shut them, but if he were a guard, he would ensure plebs closed the doors correctly. Perhaps hit them with a stick if they didn’t do as they were told. How he wished there was martial law to fix problems like this. But he was on a classified mission to Ingleburn. His ancestral home.
The jarring stench of rancid oil and tar wafted throughout the carriage. His keen sense of smell, sharp as a bloodhound, could isolate each layer: the burning dust from the overhead wires, the faint sweetness of half eaten lollies under the seats, and the metallic whispers of distant brakes burning inside their drums. They were pleasant and tolerable, but no match for a real man’s nose. He adored the scent of a ship with its aromatic diesel fumes, after-smoke floating from a fired 5-inch gun and the faint whisperings of cordite after battle. So many times he had to explain to peasants that a 5-inch was the diameter of the gun hole, not the length of the gun.
Nobody knew he was a Chief Coxswain serving in the Australian Navy and to them, he was a mere passenger. A plump passenger at that. Although he took up more space than the seat allowed, he didn’t care. Let them ask him to move and he’d be ready for them.
‘I happen to be the Chief Coxswain on the HMAS Mulga,’ he’d rehearsed long before the journey began—a baited mousetrap, ready to spring at the first hint of disrespect from troublesome civilians or sailors alike.
The train rattled out of the tunnels and into the dull expanse of countryside on its way to Ingleburn. The joys of travel were spoiled by only one thing: humans.
It was to be a short one-hour trip to his destination, but a necessary one. Whilst wearing civilian clothing was fine for some sailors, it caused him grief—especially in Sydney. In his ever-shrinking civilian attire, nobody recognised his importance to the defence of the country. And if they were informed, they would rightly question it—a man of his calibre should be in an official car, not a dirty old ‘red rattler’ bouncing the rails to Shitsville. He tried to mask his disdain for civilians, but it was difficult. To him, they were irredeemable barbarians, incapable of education. His first thought was to instruct with a gun. That learning tool would make them pay attention quick smart, and pity help anyone who didn’t. Perhaps a pistol whip would bring them to the right frequency.
The hot wind blowing in through the window reminded him of his ship and the fresh sea breezes squeezing in through his porthole—his thoughts returned to the HMAS Mulga and his responsibilities. Day after day, as the head of discipline, he was confronted with a multitude of challenges. Often brought on by stupid sailors themselves. To keep himself sharp he would imagine sailors committing heinous crimes, just so he could devise ways to fix them. Always ready for action was our Francis. Yes, his first name was Francis, but nobody dared to speak it. Worse than taking the Good Lord’s name in vain.
A lady with a walking stick boarded the train. He moved his eyes away from her knowing others should offer her a seat first. The Chief suspected it was a show for sympathy as she was not old. He wondered what he’d do if she tried to squeeze into the seat beside him.
She did.
He looked around the crowded carriage, glaring at each passenger with disdain. None had offered her a seat, but he twisted his gaze forward—he was out of uniform and needed to keep his low profile. They wouldn’t understand, anyway. Over the years, he had perfected a penetrating glare, one that could make sailors feel guilty even when they weren’t. He was feared by everyone on his ship, and that brought him comfort. But here, on this train, respect was absent, and today it was best not to rely on his special skills of control. Stay calm, Chief, he reminded himself.
The ‘Lady of the Limp’ (as he now thought of her) leaned against him, jostling for space, but he refused to shift closer to the bulkhead. He had a right to his seat, and as a Chief Coxswain, he knew that if it were wartime, he’d be the hero of the carriage. Civilians were so fickle. Some might even want to sleep with him out of gratitude. But not today. Today, he was on a mission.
The dreadnaught on rails thundered onward, its rhythm mirroring the monotony of civilian lives—unchanging and uninspired.
The Chief’s mind focused on the documents in his canvas bag. He was taking them to Ingleburn. As the town was an hour out of the big smoke, the limited population ensured few would notice the exchange. And he would be clear of prying eyes. Anyway, nobody recognised him in Ingleburn anymore. He had gained considerable weight. Plus, he wore sunglasses. But one should never become complacent.
As a military man, protector of Australia, a keeper of the peace and a one man fighting machine the Chief Coxswain allowed his mind to drift into what he did best. His mind was a battlefield of strategies, seeing problems before they arose. And the sound of a passenger moving from another carriage ignited his creativity. Another chapter for a book on the art of problem solving was forming.
What if the man opening the adjoining door was escaping a fire? And now the flames raged into his carriage? With people screaming to escape, someone would have needed to champion the disaster.
Without hesitation, he dived into the flames, fearless and determined. Not a wimpy approach but a full on thrust into the unknown furnace of torture. In the dark, he grabbed the fire extinguisher and poured the life saving contents onto the flames. He sprayed that gunk right at the source. He knew fire. As the flames weaken he grabbed the fallen lady, now holding a smoking walking stick, and carried her to safety. Away from flames and smoke, he settled her. He patted her head as she continued to cry (overacting he thought). Just then, a photographer from Life Magazine took a photo that became Life’s photo of the year. Every paper in the world used that image of the Chief Coxswain doing what he did best—saving life. In the crowded theatre of his mind he allowed the Prime Minister to award him yet another medal, adding to his long row of heroic achievements. The crowd roared. Even aboard ship, he had become godlike. A living hero who continued his fight for truth, justice and the Australian Way. Old jungle saying.
He was awoken, half stupid, by a ticket collector. One moment, he was a decorated hero; the next, rudely prodded into consciousness by a simpleton. Dozing in a stifling, non-fan carriage on a hot day, only to be rudely jolted awake, was no way to show respect. He was a Chief Coxswain on the HMAS Mulga, not some common commuter.
The ticket inspector was accustomed to gouging passengers for their tickets. Chief Coxswain Pigget, however, was unaccustomed to being on the receiving end of anything. While the Chief resented the man’s demeanour, he grudgingly noted the rail employee’s uniform. His character was revealed in his appearance: shoes polished to a mirror shine, a uniform ironed with razor-sharp creases that spoke of meticulous care, and a stance that radiated responsibility. Even his hat, worn with pride, suggested he was no mere lackey but a leader—a credit to the Railways. But that assumption changed when the Chief heard his tone of voice.
“Ticket!”
The Chief looked at him, ready to bash his head in. Nobody spoke to Chief Coxswain Pigget like that. Nobody.
“I’m the Chief Coxswain on the HMAS Mulga,” the Chief blurted.
“And I’m Robin. Now show me your ticket, Batman.”
If it was martial law, the Chief would have made an example of him right there and then. Perhaps smash his jaw with a quick uppercut and then a knee where it would hurt the most prior to throwing him out the open door and into the path of a speeding locomotive. Then he noticed the man’s beady eyes glance at his bag. He clenched his fists in anticipation, but forced himself to relax. He could not draw attention to himself. So he handed over his ticket without further incident. But he hated that clown. The ticket flunky clipped the butt and returned it to him as if he was a nobody.
No appreciation, no thank you, no respect. He cemented his mouth shut, reminding himself to not say another word. Let it pass. Forget it. He’s a moron. Don’t drop to his level. Face the front. Shut up.
The rest of the journey to Ingleburn resulted in the Chief’s mind working through umpteen scenarios on how to mangle the ticket collector. All resulting in death for the Railway Man but quite satisfying for the Chief. It was the only highlight of his journey to nothing.
He arrived.
To some, Ingleburn was the end of the earth. And to the Chief Coxswain it was as well. He just prayed that his mother would not see him. For sure, she would want him to come home for dinner or something odd like that. He hated Ingleburn and everything it stood for. But it allowed him to fulfil his mission in secret. Even with his sunglasses and cap, he took further precautions and walked on lesser streets to his destination. An out of the way newsagent with a shabby facade—the perfect front for the exchange.
With a wink and a nod, he opened his bag, scanning his surroundings before passing over the contents. The proprietor, clearly amused, returned the gesture and inspected the goods. As always, he allowed the overweight seafarer into the backroom, where rows of porn magazines—both old and new—waited in abundance. Being a regular, he was welcome to exchange his old collection, provided the magazines were in mint condition.
As he fixed his bill, his heart skipped a beat when the proprietor asked what work he did.
“Just a mere train conductor getting some magazines for my friend, who struggles with a walking stick. You know what they’re like.”
The proprietor didn’t, but just smiled. He often wondered why everyone bought for their friends, but he never questioned them. They weren’t reading anything illegal. Perhaps embarrassing, but not illegal.
But the Chief now had guilt all over his face. And on his walk back to Ingleburn train station, it felt like his face was a flashing neon sign: ‘I have porn in my bag’. He scanned the streets, convinced every passerby could see the contents in his bag. He felt exposed. That proprietor was getting too nosey. He’d have to find a new agent. Too close for comfort. His mind was a tennis match of scenarios. As a chief, he should read Naval warfare material, not this smut. But then another scenario had him looking forward to reading his fresh magazines while resting on his bunk in the Chief’s Mess.
He arrived back in Sydney.
Fortunately, the HMAS Mulga was near the entrance of the dockyard, in fact, its stacks were visible. He’d walked more than enough for one day. And he was glad to be home, even though the ship was full of stupidity. The smell of the sea air widened his nostrils as he approached the main gate of the Garden Island Dockyard.
He panicked.
For a moment he thought he’d lost his ID card, but sighed with relief when he found it tucked alongside two rail tickets and his ice-cream receipts. The naval policeman saluted him. Idiot. He was a chief, not an officer. A mistake like that should never be overlooked, so he corrected the fool, delivering a sharp lecture on Navy protocols. It felt good to assert himself once again—a day out of uniform had left him edgy. The Chief was back where he belonged. This was his territory, and the weight of his authority had returned—sharper than ever.
He passed through the dockyard security gates with a wide smirk. His ship loomed in the distance. The naval policeman called after him.
“Excuse me, Chief, could I check your bag please?”
Chief Petty Officer ‘Piggy’ Pigget had suffered too many fools for one day. And just kept walking. He had reading to do.
The Chief’s antics continue in my novel ‘Tuff Ship’ where it delves even deeper into his ‘modus operandi’ and the chaos he contributes to aboard HMAS Mulga.
