"Doc" Vernon, Mc, Of Papua, Is Dead

ON Friday, May 17, I received a letter from my old friend. Dr. G. H.

Vernon, It was written on April 9 it had been five weeks on the way from “Doc’s” isolated rubber plantation, in the Yodda Valley, in Eastern Papua.

“I am completely out of the world here ... a dull, vegetative existence, seem ingly, but surprisingly intriguing and satisfying to me. I would not exchange it for a daily copy of the “SMH,” and all the dismal news of the world, and the delights of Sydney.”

He had gone back to his plantation only in March, after four tough years of war, spent mostly as a medical officer attached to native labour units. They still talk about his bravery on the Kokoda Trail, in 1942.

On Monday, May 20, I received this radiogram: “Dr. Vernon died in Samarai Hospital on 16th instant—Wilkinson.”

His long letter had given no indication of sickness. But he was very sick and very tired, and he probably was ready to go.

Almost everyone in Papua, natives as well as Europeans, loved “the old Doc.”

His complete absence of swagger, his warm friendliness for all living creatures, human or otherwise, his eagerness to help, no matter what the circumstances, his cultured and inquiring mind, found friends for him everywhere.

“T'VOC” Vernon had been a world wan- J J derer. He went to Papua by way of Thursday Island, where he was in practice for a time. In Papua, he was partly a planter, partly a medical officer.

He was at Daru, in 1936, trying to grow kapok commercially, when the young explorers, Jack Hides and David Lyall, were spewed out of the Fly River, having floated on a raft from the far interior, half dead from beri-beri and hunger. “Doc” took them both into his house, and nursed them carefully. Hides recovered (only to die from pneumonia a few months later in the Sydney winter), but Lyall was too far gone, and “Doc” buried him there in Daru. I wish I had kept a copy of the letter “Doc” sent to Lyall’s mother, with a photograph of the grave.

Later, “Doc” went across to Misima, engaged by the goldmine company to care for the native labourers. He had bought rubber-land in the Yodda Valley, not far from Kokoda, and he dreamed of the day he could go there and shut himself

off from the world, with a few books, and his ever-restless typewriter. For “Doc” was a very shy, but a really delightful writer—some of his stories and sketches were gems.

War came while “Doc” was still on Misima. A decorated veteran of World

War I (Military Cross), he pawed the ground irritably, and snarled at the young bureaucrats who said World War II was definitely no place for “old blokes.” But his chance came in 1942.

“n° C ’” now - was a medical officer in U charge of lines of Papuan carriers.

The Japs landed at Buna, and slowly forced their way up the Kokoda Trail. Seasoned Australian units had not yet arrived in Port Moresby; a few Australians were doing their best in the Yodda, but were slowly falling back on Kokoda and the Owen Stanley Range.

Word reached “Doc,” along the lines of carriers, that there were many wounded around Kokoda, and only medical order lies to help them.

One foggy afternoon, while our guards near Kokoda were much on the alert, there was a sharp challenge, and then there came into sight a very tall, very thin man, in a nondescript uniform, strid ing alone down the mountain track. It was “Doc.” In each hand he carried a large bandage, folded triangularly— one held drugs, and the other instru ments. This 63-years-old man had walked across the mountains from the south, alone, scrounging food and shelter from the troops.

“I heard there was some action here and no doctor,” he said. “I thought I’d come along and help, until the others come. Now, where do we start?”

In a few minutes, he was at work on our wounded men. That incident was typical of “Doc.” 1 The story of what he did there on the Kokoda Trail was graphicallv told in the “PIM” (September. 1943) by Sergeant Jack Wilkinson, who was there and saw it all. I am happy to think that a Ser

Photo taken some years ago. Dr. Vernon on right.

viceman paid that warm tribute to the veteran. “Doc” hated publicity, and he threatened afterwards to do unmentionable things to “that young scoundrel”— they had been friends in pre-war days at Misima. But I suspect that “Doc” really was pleased.

It was Wilkinson who sent me that radiogram on Monday, rERE are some delightful touches in Wilkinson’s story of the Kokoda battle.

The Japs were pressing forward around

the village, and our men were getting ready to evacuate into the mountains.

“Doc” was busy operating in a native built house, with grass thatch. He could not hear the enemy’s machine-guns, or the lads’ yells to him to get out. “Doc”’ was nearly stone-deaf.

Bullets from a Jap machine-gun began to cut through the roof, and debris fell down upon “Doc.” “Doc” glanced up irri tably. “Damn those rats,” he said.

The boys got him away, almost by main force. He would not go until he was sure all the wounded were on the move, and as comfortable as circumstances allowed.

Some distance up the track (they now were retreating across the Owen Stan leys) they sat and rested. “Doc” began to think back. Then he asked: “Were those bullets that were knocking the grass down from that hut in Kokoda?”

“I’ll say they were!” said one of the men. “Millions of ’em.”

“Well, it’s an advantage to be deaf, sometimes,” said the “Doc.” “I might have been alarmed if I had heard them!” riTHE Japs came right over the top of the JL Owen Stanleys, and hesitated, and then began to run back, with the Australians in full pursuit.

“Doc” followed along, down to Kokoda, to Wairope, to Sanananda, to Buna, al ways at hand to care for the native car riers. and help the white soldiers. Men will talk for years of “Doc” Vernon —that incredibly tall, thin, deaf man, who operated under fire, gave them a smoke, put new dressings on. distributed tea and biscuits, and sent them on their way with a cheery word.

When the Japs were cleared out of Papua, Captain Vernon walked hundreds of miles in the service of ANGAU, caring for natives’ health. His influence with natives was amazing men apparently

dying would begin to recover as soon as he appeared.

EARLY in 1945, “Doc” paid his last visit to Sydney. He and I, and a couple of friends, had lunch together at the Hotel Australia.

Three of us, well-fed, middle-height civilians, served to throw into relief the exceedingly tall, very thin old gentleman in uniform. But what a uniform! In regard to things sartorial, “Doc” just couldn’t be bothered.

He had three pips on his shoulders, and the faded ribbons of two wars, in cluding the Military Cross; but the rest of him was—well, indescribable. His uni form hung in folds on his skinny frame; his belt had been loaned by a private; he had short leggings and enormous black boots; and he wore a very old Digger hat, flopping all round, like those of Blue and Curley, in the comic strip.

Officers in the hotel lounge looked and gasped—some, of more exquisite vintage, even giggled. I wished I could have told them of what our “Old Doc” had done

on the Kokoda Trail.

R. W. Robson.

From a Special Correspondent Dr. Vernon was only 63, but looked much older. He was born in England in December, 1882, the younger son of Colonel W. L. Vernon, and he graduated in medicine at Sydney University in 1905, and in surgery in 1907. He prac tised in various country towns in New South Wales and Queensland; but he “was born with itchy feet,” and he was a traveller all his life, visiting various parts of the world. He retired from the post of Government Medical Officer at Thurs day Island some 12 years ago, and had lived in Papua ever since. His Military Cross was won in desert fighting with the Australian Light Horse, in World War I, and not in France as has been reported.