Artist's sketch of Flight Lt Norman Quintrell, New Guinea, 1944

  CONTENTS

1. CHILDHOOD YEARS: 1902—1916

My father was born at Naracoorte, a country town in the southeastern corner of South Australia. At the beginning of the 20^th century, it would have been a small town in the middle of sheep and dairy country. A hundred years later, it has grown into a prosperous centre where vineyards and pine forests have replaced much of the farmlands of an earlier time. Great river red gums are common trees in the area and, until the drainage channels of recent times, the low-lying land was often under water throughout the winter.

My grandparents, Stephen and Edith Quintrell (nee Long) had married in Mt Gambier, the main town of the region, in 1894 and Norman was the youngest of their three sons, a brother to Roy (b. 1894) and Ralph (b.1898). Both he and Ralph seem to have been sickly children and did not handle the cold, wet winters of the southeast well. I remember my grandfather saying that they had to keep the infant Norman 'wrapped up in cotton wool'. As a child, not understanding the metaphor, I puzzled over the image of my father swathed in rolls of cotton wool. Gramp was actually referring to Norman's and Ralph's propensity for winter croup, and in a letter dated 9 April 1904, he wrote to the Superintendent of Railways requesting a transfer to a warmer climate. In his covering letter he writes that 'if I could get a transfer before winter sets in it would save me a great deal of worry'.

I most respectfully beg to apply for a transfer from the SouthEastern Division to Adelaide or any division North. My children suffer from croup & the climate of Mt Gambier does not suit them. I think if I could get a transfer to a warmer climate it would be beneficial to their health. Hoping my application will receive your favourable consideration

I remain

SW Quintrell, Cleaner

It is possible that Gramp used his children's illness as a lever to move to a more favourable financial situation. The economy was in recession and, in a cost-cutting exercise by the South Australian Railways, he had been demoted from fireman to cleaner, with a subsequent reduction in wages. With a wife and three children to support, he may have seen the transfer as an opportunity to get his status and salary improved, and other correspondence during the same period addresses his wish to be reinstated. His strategy seems to have been successful, because within a year, he had regained his former status, 'at nine shillings[1] a day'.

From 1905 to 1911, the family lived at Port Pirie, an industrial town just over 200 km north of Adelaide. Its main industry is a large smelting works, and some of Gramp's work was running the ore trains between Port Pirie and Broken Hill (to the east). Norman would have started school at Solomontown Primary School during their stay at Port Pirie. Roy had begun to learn the trumpet and an excerpt from the Port Pirie 'Advertiser' of 1905 (when Roy would have been 11) records that

  The solo 'Buttons' by Master Roy Quintrell was a capital number. The song was well rendered and the dramatic effect was excellent, and the young performer thoroughly deserved the hearty applause which followed his abrupt exit.

Norman and Ralph Quintrell, about 1911

      While they were at Port Pirie, Gramp's younger brother Clarrie came to stay with them, so Norman would have known his uncle well. In 1911, Gramp was transferred to Petersburg (now 'Peterborough), a small farming town and, at that time, a main railway centre, east of Port Pirie and about 250 km north of Adelaide.

  PETERSBURG

  The family settled into one of the railway cottages close to the railway yards. Steve was on a regular run from Petersburg to Cockburn, a small town on the South Australia — New South Wales Border. It is likely the trains carried ore from the mines of Broken Hill in New South Wales to the smelters at Port Pirie. In his memoir, Steve writes much about his experiences on the run.[2]

The newspapers of the time report a visit from the governor of South Australia, Admiral Sir DH Bosanquet in June 1913. In my imagination, the day is one of the clear bright days of the mid-north under an endless sky. The horses of the Light Horse Brigade are stamping and snorting at the station as they wait for the vice-regal party to arrive. The soldiers are resplendent in their khaki dress uniforms, the leather of their belts and bandoliers shining with polish, the plumes in their slouch hats feathering in a light breeze. A bugler sits astride his horse, sun sparkling off the polished bronze of his bugle. The train steams into the station, the engine decorated with bunting in the red, gold and navy blue state colours. Perhaps Stephen is driving the train. My grandmother Edie is standing proudly at the station with her three sons, and a little apart from them, among a group of railway workers, is Stephen's younger brother Clarrie. When the vice-regal party has descended from the official coach and been greeted by the mayor, the town band strikes up the National Anthem. People stand to attention, the men remove their hats, and all sing 'God save the King' with patriotic fervour. The governor and Lady Bosanquet are escorted to their car and the procession to the showgrounds begins, the Light Horse leading the official cars, and the town band trumpeting out a military tune. The townsfolk straggle along behind.

            My uncle Roy is struck by the glamour of the Light Horse and he detaches himself from his mother's side and runs on ahead of the townsfolk with some of his mates. They pass the vice-regal cars and with whoops and cries run alongside the horsemen. One of the officers gives them a stern look and, chastened,  they fall back muting their cries and chattering among themselves.

            At the showgrounds there are speeches by the Mayor and the Governor, and the band plays some popular march tunes. The women of the town have prepared afternoon tea and under marquees there are trestles, covered with starched white table clothes, carrying a huge assortment of cakes, sponges, scones, home-made jams and country cream. A seemingly endless supply of cups of tea flows from big teapots. Behind the grandstand, some of the working men and local lads are drinking beer. Roy joins them and, although under age and aware of the presence of the town policemen at the showgrounds, ventures a couple of glasses. Among the general conversation, there is talk of war. Conflict has broken out again in the Balkans, and there are concerns about the plans of Germany.

            In February of the next year, with a hot wind blowing from the north and whipping red-brown dust across the town, the residents of Petersburg get their first ever sight of an aeroplane. There is a drone in the sky to the south and a plane takes shape against the dirt-smudged sky. A Cauldron biplane flies low across the town and banks to land in a field on the edge of town. School has just ended for the day so the young boys, my father among them, rush out to see the plane. They stand at a respectful distance from the new marvel, tongue-tied in their awe. Later they quiz their fathers and older brothers about its capacities. How fast can it fly? How high? How far? Is it true that they will be used in a war to drop bombs? Norman is dazzled by the new contraption and wishes that he too could fly high over the countryside, seeing the whole world laid out below.

            Six months later, Britain is at war with Germany and the peace of Petersburg is also shaken. The railways lay off workers and require permanent staff to take holidays. The train service from Broken Hill to Port Pirie is cut by half. There are murmurs of discontent in the town against the Germans and agitation for renaming the town begins. A Military Sports Day is planned for June 1915 amid news of the terrible Australian losses at Gallipoli. The two organising secretaries of the Sports Day are of German descent, and posters advertising the day are defaced calling for, and eventually securing, their resignation. The Sports Day begins with a procession from the town, led again by the Light Horse, with the Federal Band and the School Drum and Fife Band as part of the procession. Roy marches with the Federal band as a trumpeter, and my father with the school band. At the showgrounds, there are foot races, three-legged races, hurdles, relay races and long jumps. There are patriotic speeches and an enlisting officer of the Australian Army is present urging young men to enlist for the defence of the Empire. Would this be the day Roy volunteered for the Light Horse?

'Clarrie was always at the kids about the war', Stephen records in his memoirs and, when Roy enlisted in 1915, Clarrie decided to enlist also. However, Clarrie was not assigned to the Light Horse but to the infantry and sailed for France in 1916. He disembarked at Marseilles on 12 June 1916. Two months later he was killed in action and is buried at Mouquet Farm in France. Roy had a happier outcome, being posted to Palestine and surviving the war. In my imagined story, it is Roy who sounded the charge for the last great cavalry charge of warfare, the charge at Beersheba in 1917.

            In 1916, Stephen and his family moved from Petersburg (its name now Anglicised to Peterborough) to Adelaide. Norman was 14. By the end of the war, he had seen three of his father's brothers go to war and none return — Clarrie and Dick dead in France and John, after a traumatic war, buried at sea on the way home[3]. Roy had served with the Light horse and lived to tell the tale. I wonder what stories he told his impressionable younger brother on his return from Palestine?

From 1918-1920 Norman underwent basic military training in the Citizens' Military Force. I am unsure whether this was, as in 1955 when it was my turn, compulsory for all fit 18 year olds, or a voluntary exercise. What I do know is that in 1940, when there was war again, my father decided that it was his turn. He enlisted before Japan had entered the war, so it was not out of a belief that there was an immediate threat to Australia and his family. I have to imagine that it was out of a belief that he was part of the British Empire and that it was his patriotic duty. I wonder what contribution childhood memories made to his decision. What stories did Roy bring back of the daring of the Light Horse? What burden was laid on an impressionable young man by stories of the heroism of his three dead uncles? And what influence did recollections of the Light Horse brigade marching to the brass band, and of a biplane dropping down out of the summer sun?