And there Was Light, When War Came To the Gulf, Border Patrol

THEN THERE WAS LIGHT

WE were a pretty mixed mob on the searchlight station but the V.D.C. was like that in those days. I'm talking about the time when they let us loose on some real operational work after a couple of years of picking up odd bits of information about soldiering, which ranged from stripping down a converted Maxim machine gun to how to live off the land in north-eastern Victoria.

It was about the sixteenth or seventeenth reorganization of our unit, if I remember rightly, and the blokes up top decided to let the V.D.C. man portion of Melbourne's antiaircraft defences. That sounded pretty good to us, so of course most of the boys volunteered immediately. Our bunch was drafted into a detachment to take over a searchlight in a suburban park near Melbourne.

Well, to make a short story long, eleven of us were transformed from corporals and privates into bombardiers and gunners. It was rather confusing in a way, because we became corporals and privates again when we went back to parades with our old unit. You see, the searchlight job meant that we were attached to an ack-ack battery and the Little Red Book had laid it down that an ack-ack battery was an artillery unit. Our old unit was officially infantry. Then, to make matters worse, most of the full-time duty chaps on the station had been trained as engineers and could not get out of the habit of calling themselves corporals and sappers. What with one thing and another, the only thing we were reasonably certain we weren't, was soldiers.

However, we had lots of fun with the big lamp and every one of us hoped in his heart of hearts that Melbourne would have an air raid, just to give us an opportunity of getting the beam on a hostile aircraft or two. Of the eleven of us, only four had seen service in the First World War, and the others were younger chaps in essential occupations or munitions. The old soldiers did the talking and the young fellows did the work.

The setup was that we were to put in one night in eight on duty, taking our turn with seven other detachments from the same battalion. We were supposed to be on duty at 1830 hours, have an evening meal at the Army's expense, put in the evening training and being instructed by full-time duty bombardiers; or sappers or corporals or what have you, and then walk around the park all night with loaded rifles seeing that somebody did not steal the concrete out of the Distant Electrical Control pit or the cook's giggle suit left out to dry on an improvised clothesline stretching from the washing sheds to the latrine. We did this chore in turns, taking two hours on in pairs and spending the rest of the night sleeping-or, at least, trying to-in a couple of Yankee army tents scrounged somehow for the Aussies through Lend-Lease.

Very comfortable those tents were, except that they were fitted with Australian-type floorboards which did not match their size. The result was that there were great canyons and pitfalls at odd places in the tents, a fruitful source of barked shins and bad language when men were trying to move about in the darkness. The tents smelled of canvas and stale straw and blankets and tobacco and beer and hurricane lamps and sleep. Through the long stretches of the night the only sounds to be heard were the creaking of steel mesh beds, snores, the telling of rough stories and much swearing when the guard was changed every two hours. We were informed that some of the other detachments used to play cards during the night but we didn't.

Then, as the old picture shows used to have it, came the dawn. In theory, we were supposed to spring blithely from our couches, fold up and store the bedding and sit down to a luscious breakfast before going home for a shower and a day's work in our civilian jobs. In theory we were also supposed to be paid a day's pay at C.M.F. rates.

But it is axiomatic that surprise is the supreme factor in war. It proved so in this case. When we arrived to do our first evening's work we were surprised to find that there was no meal for us. The cook was surprised at the sight of eleven gaping maws. The Q.M's store had been taken by surprise and had forgotten to issue rations. But the most pleasant surprise was when a couple of Salvation Army lassies turned up with hot coffee and cakes and sandwiches to fill the aching voids.

Good old Salvos! Always in the right place at the right time in two wars and not too proud to look after even part-time civilians in uniform. After that we tactfully omitted to report for the evening meal and, when the rations did turn up, the full-time duty boys on the station did themselves proud until somebody woke up to the racket.

Breakfast was a horse of another colour. The cook at our station was good on breakfasts. He was a diminutive Militia chap, somewhat hard of hearing and the very devil to get out of bed in the morning. It was the last night guard's duty to light the cookhouse fire and wake the cook. Lighting the cookhouse fire was a comparatively simple job.

But when the "babbling brook" got going he would turn out a meal of such quality that chaps who toyed with a piece of toast - and marmalade and a cup of tea at home wolfed the table clean. The quantities of bergoo and hash and tinned bacon and coffee and bread and butter and jam that we got through must have contributed largely to the food shortage.

On the job of manning the searchlight we started off with lots of enthusiasm but no skill. After three months we had a fair degree of skill but not so much enthusiasm. The drill was that every one of us had to learn to do any of the jobs connected with manning the light and they jolly well made us learn.

That meant running the pie cart - er, the generating set - operating the projector either by hand control or by distant electrical control, spotting, working the sound locator, giving directions when trailing an aircraft in the sky co-operating with other lights plotting a course and changing the carbons in the arc. Those of us who had previously served only in the infantry found themselves in a new world of warfare.

It was exciting but somewhat humiliating. Fellows who thought that they were efficient soldiers discovered, for instance, that sound location did not depend on efficiency but on some trick of the individual hearing organs. Listening to the hum of aeroplanes through stethoscopes attached to great wooden trumpets called for a natural gift which no amount of training would instil. Anyhow, sound location had already been outmoded by radio location.

Similarly, a loud, penetrating voice became i prime asset. A searchlight detachment in full working order was spread over an area of not less than 5,000 square yards and to make oneself heard and understood over the whole of that area on a windy night meant plenty of strained lungs and red faces. Then, inserting the upper half of one's body through a small sliding door into the body of the projector to change a couple of red hot carbons called for a steady hand and a delicate touch, especially as the job was usually done with a cumbersome, fingerless sheepskin glove.

But all of this must be boring you greatly. The human touch is what is wanted ...

Very well, then. Let us glance over the human side of the outfit and gradually work up to the human incident which was the reason I started to write this story.

First, there were the full-time duty lads. They were nearly all about twenty and they surveyed us with the bored indifference of seasoned veterans looking over a bunch of rookies. Most of us were old enough to be their fathers, but while we had been drilling, maneuvering, and reducing our waistlines over suburban parks and vacant allotments they had been hearing the whine and crump of Jap bombs in Darwin and New Guinea. The fact that several of us wore medal ribbons only made us look more middle-aged and obsolete.

We seldom saw any commissioned officers at the station, so that our fidus Acbates, our deux ex machina, our paterfamilias and our in loco parentis was a startlingly photogenic young man named Dick. Dick wore two chevrons on his right arm, well-cleaned gaiters, belt and puggaree-when he had finished with us. On the job he wore a well tattered giggle suit and talked learnedly and efficiently in strange technical terms. Among men, he was a friendly chap and a very good soldier. But we all had the idea that he had Clark Gable and a U.S. technical sergeant beaten to a frazzle among the girls and we used to wonder whether he spent all night of every night on the station. Men on guard duty, of course, never saw anything. They wouldn't have, anyway.

Dick had a number of offsiders with stripes up who used to appear at odd moments from distant places "up north" and from other ack-ack stations round the metropolitan area. They were uniformly of a fine type, not a blankard among them. They staggered the old-time soldiers, with their concentration on the technical details of their job. They would even talk shop off duty; possibly because they enjoyed the deference and attention with which their remarks were received, but more probably because they were enthusiasts.

Among our own crowd, Jack was the oldest. His hair was snowy but he was vigorous and did not mind the chores. He had served right through the last war as an infantry private and he refused to take even one stripe in the V.D.C. The only concession to vanity or ambition that we ever knew him to make was that he turned in his old green uniform when he had the chance of getting a khaki one.

Les was bald and wore gold-rimmed glasses. He was something 'in a bank in civvie life and was of rather serious mien. On a brigade headquarters Job in the last war, he was nevertheless a keen soldier. His only fault was that he would talk about his daughter on every possible occasion. She was a crackerjack secretary to some industrial big shot.

Little Jimmie, on the other hand, talked about his son. Jimmie was the third of our old soldiers. He was so short that it was a wonder that they let him get away with what he did in the last war. He barely hit five feet but he sported the colour patch of a famous Second Dlvvy battalion and the ribbon of a Military Medal. Jimmie's son, surprisingly enough, turned out to be the pilot (commissioned) of a Lancaster bomber. The whole detachment hoped and prayed that he would not become a casualty; it would break Jimmie's heart.

The fourth old soldier was a large, fat person with a red face and a taste for ribald stories. He was not really an old soldier as he had only scraped into the A.I.F. at the end of the last war and had seen no fighting. But about that he preserved a certain humility mixed with defiance.

Of the younger chaps, two were making aeroplanes, one was a surgical - instrument craftsman, one chopped up pieces of building fabric and had been stopped four times by his boss from enlisting in the full-time duty army, one owned a sizeable business of his own, one was a schoolteacher. The last one was Bob, who is the hero of this story. At least, he might be called the hero. Or he might be the villain. But let us be charitable, and call him the victim.

How it came about was like this. Our particular station was one of the outer ring of ack-ack defences and the suburban park in which it was situated was in a quiet part adjoining a certain area where cars used to park at night. What with the shortage of petrol and the dangers of having gas producers running on closed cars, we did not know what they did there. We looked innocently at the rows of red tail lights and surmised the worst.

Now, it was a very strict order that when the projector was in operation the beam was not to be brought down lower than 3o degrees from the ground. Between "Expose" and "Douse" that powerful stream of light was to be kept well and truly about its business in the heavens. There might be a war on but we were not going to be allowed to scare the wits out of the civilian population by throwing blinding flashes into private houses or along public thoroughfares at ground level.

This meant, naturally, that everybody had an itching, burning desire to do so. Such a marvelous expanse of light stabbing into the empty heavens seemed to be wasting itself. Why, a beam which began with a diameter of five feet at the projector was five hundred yards wide ten miles up in the sky on a clear night.

The most tempted man among us was Bob. The others were either too afraid of the consequences to try it on, or were too well disciplined, but Bob was a rebel at heart. He was the type that used to call out irreverent remarks from the rear ranks on parade, or make a book- on the bad shooting when we were in the butt party at the rifle range.

The impulse to play about with that beam grew stronger and stronger in Bob and one night the fatal opportunity came. We were just about to douse for the night and go back to the mess hut for some of the Salvo lassies' coffee. Bob was acting as Number 4 of the detachment, which meant that he had hand control of the projector.

The boys had gone through their job pretty well that night and the instructor was feeling a bit pleased with himself.

"Aircraft out of range!" he roared. "Douse! "

"Hold it! " muttered Bob to Number 5, whose job it was at this command to throw the switch and put out the light.

Bob brought the beam down with his wheel control and swept it maliciously along the line of parked cars with the pole. Slower and slower it went as the rest of us looked on with horror, until it came to rest on a particularly luxurious sedan. There were signs of confusion within the car, a woman threw open the door, peered for a second or so into the light of the beam, and then scampered to the shelter of some nearby bushes.

"Crumbs!" ejaculated Bob. "That's my wife!

Then the fun began.

"V365463"

When War Came to The Gulf

On the 29th March, 1942, the Karumba detachment, V.D.C., went out to resist a Japanese landing on the of the Gulf of Carpentaria - but the "Japs" were only some Dutchmen and a handful of A.I.F.

"CRIPES, I'm getting fed up with this place. Nothing to do but guards. Can't go anywhere, no beer, and takes you all your time to get a flaming smoke. Besides the Jap 'ud never come here; he'd starve. Fancy sticking the V.D.C. up in this place!"

"Yeah, guts-ache, the A.I.F. ain't quite ready yet, so they sent us up. Anyway you volunteered for it."

"Yes, but I . . ."

The phone rings and the sergeant picks up the receiver.

"Hullo; yes. V.D.C. here. Who? Pilot station; yes? What's that? Two large craft -working down the coast that look like aircraft carriers.... You sure?"

The voice crackles back over the line.

"Well, they are about twelve miles away with this heat there's a strong mirage effect on the water but they appear to have a long flat deck aft. You'd better stand by."

"O.K.," says the sergeant. "I'll hang on. Keep me notified of all that is happening down at the point. Have you any rifles down there? "

"No, not a thing."

"Righto, we'll see what we can do for you. I'll ring back in a few minutes."

The sergeant turns from the phone.

"This looks like what we have been expecting. An attack from sea-borne aircraft. Lay all charges and stand to. I'll try and get some more dope from the pilot station."

He picks up the phone again.

"Hullo, V.D.C. here. How are things going now? "

"They are taking soundings as they come along, and are evidently strangers to this place. No, I don't think they can be aircraft carriers now, but they appear to have a high covered-in deck aft, with well-deck, but the after deck has me beat. They are about five miles off now, and coming in ten miles north of the ten-mile buoy, which proves they are strangers here."

The sergeant hangs up the phone and comes across to us. "How are you going? All those charges set?"

"Yeah. We're ready. How are things down at the point?"

"They're keeping an eye on the boats, whatever they are. They are coming in north of the ten-mile buoy. . . . Well, you're all ready, then?

He rings through to the station again.

"How are they going now ?"

The voice coming back over the phone is excited. We can catch the excitement in the tone even through the crackling of the wire.

"They've dropped anchor about three miles out and are launching a landing party!"

"Hell's bells! We'll be down with the Vickers in two ups!"

W.O. Richards, the R.A.A.F. meteorological man, has been listening to the conversation and wants a rifle. We give him one; every man who can handle a rifle may be needed. Private Treadwell is left in charge of the phone with specific instructions what to do and if and when to fight.

Into the truck goes the Vickers, 2ooo rounds of 303, and four rifles. Another volunteer, Mr. Norris, asks for a rifle and away we go flat out.

We arrive at the place where they must bring the boat in and take up a position with the machine gun mounted in the truck at a vantage point in case of a quick retirement. We set up the telescope and through it get our first sight of the landing party. About a mile away, a motor-boat, filled with dark skinned figures in straw hats and green uniforms, is making for the point.

"Wow! What are you going to do, Sergeant? "

"You two get along the coast under cover about fifty yards apart, you two the other way. Don't fire unless you are certain they mean business."

"O.K., Sarge."

Now the motor-boat, with its powerful Diesel engine, is about 1,200 yards away, thump-thumping along, parallel with the coast.

Up go the sights ... 1,000 yards? ... No, water's deceptive. Give her 1,200.

A burst about six lengths in front . . . . Nothing happens. Strange!

Now about 1,000, another burst about three lengths in front. . . . Still no notice. Voices from right and left. "Give it to 'em !"

The men in the boat all have rifles and plainly look Japanese. Well, here goes for a burst right across their bows. We let go and there are little white spurts in the water. Up jump two of the men in the boat and off goes the engine. Then we let them have another short burst to let them know it's no mistake.

One big fellow stands up and waves his hands and we signal them in and along the coast to the river entrance with the machine gun training them up in the lorry and four itching fingers on the riffles.

Presently they run aground.

"Who are you? You speak English?"

"Yes, we are Netherlands East Indies .

"Phew! "

"How many are you?"

"We are a hundred and sixty-five Dutchmen and several A.I.F."

"Oh, where are they?"

"They are in the other two boats. They will be in to-morrow."

"We thought you were Japs."

"What, me? I am Captain V--, of the Netherlands Army. How many times you shoot at us?"

"Four times."

"We only hear one, when we stop. Then you shoot again."

"No one hit?"

"No, but very close . . . about two feet behind my boat."

"It must have been near, seeing that I aimed in front. Well, come along-"

"I haf a box here.... Looks bashed about a bit, yes? It was blown up, along with over 3,000 guilders, but we get it all again except a few. They are all here. Haf you any food? My men haf been on only a little rice for over six weeks. They are very thin."

"Well, we haven't much but plenty of biscuits and bully."

"That will do nicely."

About that time the other two vessels were sighted and proved to be two armed Dutch Government patrol boats, but owing to the falling tide they could not enter the river. However, all available food, especially tinned

fruit (very scarce up here at that time) was sent out and a good feed promised on arrival.

The Australians landed next morning. Were they thin? And did they eat? Baths were made ready and changes of clothes, where possible, and fortunately we were able to get them away on a flying boat about noon.

These men had worked down from - - from island to island, landed on the north coast of New Guinea and trekked overland, worked along the coast in dugouts and native canoes and existed on native diet.

The Dutch vessels, which had special awnings erected to keep the sun off the men,

giving the high after-deck appearance, would have been a very tough proposition armed as they were and with so many men aboard. Our own strength was then one sergeant, four O.Rs, and the volunteers, W.O. Richards and Messrs Norris (Civil Aviation), Edmondson and Bryde (Pilot Station).

After getting away the Australians, Captain V-- and six Dutch airmen, billets were found for the remainder, who stayed for about three weeks and were then flown south in batches of thirty in the Dutch Dornier machines.

"Q140103"

WHAT ? SHOT HIMSELF ?

THE BORDER PATROL

BEFORE I ask you to saddle your horses and ride with me on a day's "recce" let me tell you something of the setting of our border patrol.

The heavily timbered rampart of the inner coast range runs in a semi-circle from north to south through west. It is a clear morning and the sprawling ridges, running up to the flat-topped summits, sweep away from a hasty river rushing down to a rendezvous with the sea. Twenty miles to the north, Green Cape lighthouse, like an ivory minaret, watches over the seascape. Big rollers smack the cliff faces and spurt as high as twenty feet in sheets of spray. Unexpected plains, placidly watching the ranges and the heaving sea, extend a mile or so inland and run for five or six miles parallel with the coast. They are carpeted with flowers-little blue and purple orchids, scarlet heath, boronia, and white-flowered shrubs patterned against a dense background of white daisies. Whiffs of pittosporum scent from stray trees, scattered through the scrub, drift by on a lazy wind.

An improbable-looking lake, flower blue, with green tea-tree heaped on its southern shore, laps at a slim, clean beach that cuts it off from the sea. To the south, smooth, pale sandhills rise in tall w1nd-sculptured ridges and enclose here and there small depressions where one almost expects to see Bedouin and date palms. But there is no one except the border patrol within fifteen miles.

We turn out, water and feed the horses, and have breakfast. Lunches are packed, prismatic compass and map cases strapped on, and we are in the saddle by seven-thirty, for we have a long way to go in difficult trackless country that we have not hitherto traversed.

We cross the river at its mouth, as the tide is out, and splash through shoals of small mullet glinting in the shallows which remind me of a Japanese picture, "The Thousand Carp". We come out on to the flower plain, gay as an embroidered bedspread. Suddenly a fox is started! We race to cut him off from the timber line but he swings his tail and, turning, makes for the sea-cliffs. Thorne and I check our horses ten yards from the brink of a narrow, unsuspected, 100-foot cleft, running in deep from the sea. Bob swings out wide in an attempt to intercept the fox where

the beach and tea-tree meet half a mile away but the fox dives among the thickets to sanctuary.

We ride on down past the Pink Morass, a mile and a half long by a mile wide, dead flat, and impassable to man or beast. It would bog a duck with a shingle on its feet. Picking a leading spur we turn towards the tall, timber-clad mountains and sliding down a steep declivity ford a scrub-choked mountain creek. Here the scrub really begins. It is so thick that one could not open one's pocket knife in it but we eventually strike a grass tree slope, and choosing a leading spur come out, after a couple of hours, on the crest with the kingdom of the earth spread before us.

We can see for miles in every direction. Turning our gaze from a jumble of unknown peaks and mountains, away down in Victoria, we see Mount Dromedary, 120 miles to the north standing pale and blue against the distant horizon. Gabo and Tullaberga, float like picture islands on the wide shield of the sea. Mallacoota dreams on the shores of her lake and the Bastion Rocks beyond her ignore the imperious pounding of the waves.

A lighter streak and a few white dots in the hazy distance are all that we can distinguish of Genoa sitting by her road and watching her river flow by. The rest is a blue sweep of endless mountains and the bluer expanse of the endless sea. More than 10,000 square miles lie within the range of our vision but most of what we see is primitive wilderness. We spend some time taking observations, making panoramas, sketching in detail, making calculations-and then set to and boil the billy.

This is practically virgin country. A few cattlemen occasionally ride through it after stray stock, and the ubiquitous fossicker, like the flies on Liza, "has been and gone". We press through country undisturbed since the Creation, killing snakes and identifying animals as we go. Before emerging we plot the complete course of one river and the best part of another, neither of which had ever been shown on a map before and in doing so savour the ecstasy of discovery.

Mid-afternoon finds us tracing a crooked creek down to the spot where it debouches upon a quiet lake. Forests of tall grass-trees stud the slopes. I measure the tallest. It is twelve feet six inches high and represents considerable value in amber gum content. At the lake edge creeks that peter out in marshes retard our progress and we have to swing back along the course of one that winds through dense prickly scrub, four feet high and as thick as a paddock of wheat. Thankful that there is not much of this stuff we cross the creeks on the firm, higher ground and head towards the open sand dunes that skirt the beach. But before we can attain our goal we have to negotiate a mile-wide belt of dense scrub, masking tumbled up sandhills and a number of swampy lagoons. The chances of getting through without cutting a path are practically nil, so we turn parallel with the scrub-belt, select a leading ridge and travelling down to the lake cross it and follow its eastern shore. The sun is still above the mountain rampart but we have three miles of lake shore to skirt before reaching the open plains five miles from camp.

The lake, wide and clear, curves to a narrow, reed-dotted lagoon at its top end. A flock of teal watches us warily from the centre of the water and an occasional stately swan swims into view. Farther up in the reeds sentinel swans guard their nests and an odd duck is nesting too. It is a splendid sanctuary for birds here.

We ride over two huge black snakes but they escape into the reeds. Every Eden has its serpent we are told, and also its Eve. With this in mind we keep a sharp lookout, but without result. This, apparently, is an Eveless Eden.

As we leave the lake and emerge into the open a little mob of kangaroos watches us from the far side of the plains. The sun has slipped behind the hills and the windy sky is red. It is a scene that would enthrall an artist, the sweep of plain, the sunset-stained lake, and the notched blue ranges standing stark against a scarlet sky. To the right, on the edge of the timber, three big 'roos watch us pass in the failing light, like the three wise monkeys on the mountain-top in Valmiki's Ramayana.

Over the next ridge we come in sight of the sea, and crossing the Salt Lake entrance, emerge on to the flower plains. Scanning the vast expanse of ocean we sight a big convoy out near the distant sky-line. A plane circles around and finally disappears.

Suddenly Stan exclaims sharply: "Look! What's that?"

About a mile and a half offshore, a long, dark, slender hull is lifting, barely clear of the waves.

"Holy Nellie! A sub!" I focus the glasses and identify her shape in the failing light. She is moving towards the convoy, which has now clustered into two groups. The escort vessels have detected her presence and are racing in.

We gallop to the cliff edge and light a fire. I race down to the beach, a quarter of a mile away, and return with some light pine planks which we thrust into the flames.

Night is closing down. Plucking a blazing plank from the fire I use it as a flag and send a Morse signal to the ships. If they see our fire they will be able to pick up our message. I inform them of the submarine's presence and state her position and direction. They do not respond as probably they do not wish to disclose their own positions to the enemy. Maybe it is not news to them but it will show them that we are alert and doing our job.

Shortly afterwards the muffled roar of the depth-charges tells us that they too are on the job.

We wait and listen and speculate. I look at my watch in the light of my torch.

'It's ten-thirty. Something must have happened. Anyhow, we can't do any more. Come on, let's go."

We mount and ride off into the black night that has quietly possessed the earth. The white masses of flowering shrubs show pale in the gloom but the daisy quilt has disappeared entirely as the daisies have all closed their eyes lest they see something dreadful pass in the night.

We decide to follow the cliff edge down to the river mouth and risk a crossing as the tide is out. It is two miles to the camp by this route as against five by way of Wombat Creek, whose scrubby ford is difficult to locate at night.

We find the entrance to the scrub, but once we are in the tea-tree the darkness is intense and after blundering for thirty yards we find ourselves in a cul-de-sac, our progress barred by fallen saplings. Dismounting, I hand over my horse, and picking my way through the gloom, hear waves pounding below. Cautiously parting the scrub I look down upon the sea creaming a hundred feet below me. We are out of our course; we have come too far to the right. I grope my way to the left and eventually feel a track beneath my feet. Striking a match and lighting a few twigs I call to the horsemen and we file down to the beach where, the tide being out, we splash along the water's edge. A half-mile farther on the friendly timber of the camp looms up and presently we rein in at the silent buildings. I send Bob and Stan inside with instructions to prepare supper while Alan and I take care of the horses.

A quarter of a mile through the velvety blackness of the plain lies our waterhole. We are familiar with the track and, skirting the bog, bring our horses to the pool where they drink greedily. Their long thirst quenched they are soon back in their yards, rugged and eating contentedly. In the daylight to-morrow we will scrape the scrub-ticks off them.

It is excellent technique to tell a woman, a horse, or a dog, that they are the best in the world. No harm has ever come of it. We tell our horses that they are so, and, leaving them, pick our way towards the glowing rectangle which the door of the fire lit hut makes against the blackness of the night-cloaked timber.

The tucker smells good. I am hungry enough to eat a drover off his horse and to look over my shoulder for his cattle.

"N452039"