Storm Ridge (Dangerous Days Series Part 1)

DANGEROUS DAYS I

STORM RIDGE

(The autobiography of a photo-journalist)

‘As told to’ JAMES TURNER

Copyright 2012 by (James) J. William Turner

Smashwords Edition

(Original version copyright 1984 by (James) J. William Turner)

I thought that I had come to terms with my traumatic past as I hiked with my year eight classmates up a mountain track. But history repeated itself in an ironic twist of fate, forcing me to confront fear, cold, and death again to save my friends.

Table Of Contents

Preface

Chapter One - Dawn

Chapter Two - Odyssey

Chapter Three - Mountainbound

Chapter Four - Revelations

Chapter Five - Deliverance

Epilogue

This story is fictional. Any similarity to historical events, or to any person, living or dead, is co-incidental and unintentional.

Other works by J. William Turner:

Dangerous Days II (Paddle Hard)

Dangerous Days III (Outback Heroes)

Dangerous Days IV (Enemies Within)

Blades I (Street Kid)

Blades II (High Country)

Blades III (California Dreaming)

Blades IV (Aftermath)

Fat To Fast

Jake’s Magical Easter Adventure

PREFACE

My name is Wesley Auld, and during the early nineties I was a war correspondent in the battlefields of the Persian Gulf, the Balkans, and Kosovo. During this turbulent period, my colleagues and I went to the front lines to see death and destruction, after listening to the watered-down reports of what was happening from politicians and military commanders we really didn’t believe. But as much as I accepted the harsh reality of war, and was able to cope with the deceit and suffering that I witnessed, I decided that the money did not justify the extreme danger after a bullet grazed my arm and killed a French photographer standing behind me. So, I became a photojournalist, a member of the often-despised international paparazzi. Nowadays, I travel the world chasing the rich and famous for those images that are worth thousands of dollars, instead of visiting trouble spots. Yes, the money is good, very good, because I know, somehow, what is likely to happen and where to go. I have the instinct possessed by only a few, and an absolute craving for action, safe action, that is, nowadays.

Why? Psychologists say the choices one makes as an adult are shaped and determined by experiences in youth and childhood. If my personal history is an example, they may just be right. From the age of eight, events in my life started to go wrong, beginning with extreme weather, bullying and an emotionally-disturbed school principal suffering from what I feel sure was post-traumatic stress disorder resulting from military service during World War II. Later, there was more extreme weather, crime, corruption, political fanaticism, vengeance, betrayal and lust for power. As a teenage boy, and like the young wizard, Harry Potter, I was a witness to it all.

So, this is the story of my adolescence, and the first of four, major, life-and-death incidents; a chain of connected events over an eleven-month period, which started on a tragic school camp a few weeks before my fourteenth birthday.

CHAPTER ONE - DAWN

Wednesday, 30 September 1981 - At the fork of two streams was the camp. It consisted of a collection of three, log cabins, accommodating sixty children and five teachers, surrounding a central, large courtyard of gravel. It was the location in Harrietville of the annual Year Eight camp for the Elwood Grammar School (Middle School).

My cabin near the creek at the western end of the courtyard was the first to be brightened by the dawn. Asleep in an upstairs room overlooking the courtyard, I was suddenly aroused by the sound of clinking glass. I leaned over the edge of the bunk, and tried to look through the partly-opened window. The pane, however, was covered with a layer of frost, and I was unable to see the far side of camp. Pulling my arm from my sleeping bag, I pushed the window open further. Across the courtyard, near the dining hall, I saw the milkman unloading crates of bottles, and loading the empty ones onto the van. My breath condensed into small clouds in the morning air as I watched the milkman complete the delivery, and drive back to the main road. As the milk truck passed through the gate, another, larger van entered the compound. I watched with interest as the second driver unloaded several crates from the back of the truck. Squinting into the dimness, I was barely able to distinguish ‘BREAD’ stencilled on the side of the van as it circled the courtyard before leaving.

After the baker had departed, I slumped back on my bunk, and stared at the ceiling for several minutes thinking about the activities of the previous two days, especially the short visit to Beechworth. It had reminded me of the small town in Canada where I had once lived. My smile faded, however, as I tried in vain to forget Canada. I could find no happiness in its memory; only pain, loathing and fear.

The boy in the lower bunk tossed violently from side to side as he awoke, causing the whole bed to shake. I leaned over the edge of the bunk, and gazed down at my bleary-eyed, bunk mate, Graham Finlay; my best and closest friend then and now. In a whispered voice, I asked him if he was awake. Graham stretched his arms above his head, yawned loudly in response, before asking if the others were still asleep. I glanced across at the second double bunk to see that the two kids we had been forced into sharing the room with were dozing.

Graham yawned again. What time is it?

Like any good journalist, I have always had a good memory for minor details, and clearly remember that it was just after six thirty. I told Graham this, and with the added comment, We have to get up in five minutes.

What? Why so early?

As a thirteen-year-old, Graham was not exactly a morning person, and the look of surprise as he raised himself up on his elbows was quite amusing, until he remembered that it was Wednesday.

Ah yeah, the hike, he moaned, flopping back onto the mattress, sighing and rubbing his eyes, no longer able to sleep, but not wanting to wake up. Like mine, his sleeping bag was too warm, and comfortable. In his drowsy state, Graham was probably thinking about the coming hike with mixed feelings. The kid welcomed what was to be a big adventure, but had some worries about how much physical effort was expected. It was to be a long walk to the top of the mountain, twelve kilometres, all uphill, and the first time that either of us had attempted such a feat. I tried talking to him, but Graham could only reply in a quiet, incoherent mumble for the first two minutes until his mind became alert enough for him to think clearly and respond. We knew from prior briefings at school some details of what lay ahead that day, and he finally decided that it would be worth doing, no matter how hard. At the same time, though, it must have occurred to him how disinterested I had seemed during those briefings. Our other friends had all made the hike an important topic of conversation afterwards, but not me, his best friend. Still, I reckon he had already decided that it was not his problem, and shrugged to himself as I leaned over the edge of the top bunk again, deciding, instead, to tell me a really dirty joke, and he could tell some absolute rippers, that’s for sure, and still does. So it was not surprising that the punch line sent me into fits of laughter, which awoke the other boys in our room.

Mark Coleman, on the lower bunk, was a real smart-aleck. He rolled around in his sleeping bag, and then sat up suddenly, blinking his eyes, and demanding to know who was making all the noise. Graham and I just grinned at each other, until Geoff Barret, another total pain, and Mark’s cousin, answered from the top bunk. It’s Auld having hysterics, as usual.

Mark couldn’t help but add a comment of his own scornfully, Yeah, happens all the time.

The childish teasing irritated me, so I told him to shut-up; so did Graham.

Geoff was momentarily taken aback by Graham's interruption, and said that he should butt-out. This led to a heated exchange ending up with a challenge from Mark to a fight. But Graham was brilliant in confrontations, and looked with contempt at him.

You wouldn’t have the guts, Coleman, he replied calmly. You’re all talk.

I suddenly became annoyed with the argument, and decided to put a stop to it, as well as giving Coleman a bit of grief by reminding him that the last time he caused a fight he was caned by the headmaster. He muttered under his breath when I did, which had Graham chuckling loudly. The subject of his caning was not one that he particularly enjoyed discussing, but all of our classmates did. Although recently banned in government schools back then, our school, being private, still allowed caning, and averaged two such punishments per month. But Mark's was noteworthy because he received six strokes instead of the usual three. The headmaster, unfortunately, had imposed his annual crackdown on discipline only the day before. The three, bright-red marks across each hand that resulted had stunned most of his fellow students, but not all, and some insensitive boys liked making jokes, which almost led to his involvement in another fight. As Geoff, Graham and I chuckled about the incident, Mark could see no humour in what happened, even now, and angrily yelled at us to be quiet, because it was not funny, until I spoke with my own cutting scorn. Now you know what it's like to be teased, don't you?

Mark scowled at me in return, and was about to reply when the door opened, and a teacher walked in. It was Bob Phelan, our senior, sports master and one of the most memorable characters from my school days; a bit like the teacher in ‘Goodbye Mr Chips.’

Boys, boys, what’s all this noise? They can hear you right back in Melbourne!

We were talking about today's hike, sir, Graham said quickly.

Oh, really? Phelan replied, pretending to look serious as he twirled his bushy moustache. And how does Mark’s caning relate to the activities of today?

There was silence, Graham blushed, and I smiled privately, as our teacher reminded us that breakfast was in three-quarters of an hour, and said we were all slackers. In fact, his priceless last words whilst exiting were, More action, less verbal wanking.

Phelan closed the door behind him as he departed, leaving the four of us in a momentary, shocked silence at this memorable, candid comment, which Geoff eventually repeated, to nobody particular. I’m sure Mr Chips never said that to any of the boys at fictional Brookfield School. Still, at least Graham and I had had the final say in our dispute with the others so it was game, set and match to us; a good way to start the day.

I’m going for a shower, Wes, Graham told me. You coming?

Yeah, I might as well, I said; anything to get out of here.

I was not to know that this fairly harmless decision about my personal hygiene was to lead to a chain of events that would ultimately save my life twenty nine hours later, plus those of ten others, and gain me a new friend second in closeness after Graham.

Graham and I gathered up our clothes, soap, and a towel each, and left the room. The showers were at the far end of the corridor, and the cold air in the passage caused us to shiver and break into a jog. The sounds of our bare feet on the wooden floor echoed through adjacent sections of the building, and mingled with the chatter of other boys waking up in nearby rooms. When we eventually entered the shower room, we were delighted to discover that we were the first to arrive.

Graham undressed quickly, and manipulated the taps under two adjacent showers. There were no cubicles for privacy there, or in the school changing rooms, for that matter. We had seen each other naked so often that we no longer gave our bodies another thought, unlike the first time. It was at the