Mcinerney

By Peter England

(NOTE: Dr. Mclnerney, New Guinea's famed and loved flying doctor, was killed when his plane crashed into Vanimo harbour, near the Dutch border, in March, 1953.) TO-DAY we buried Mclnerney— John Valiant d’Artagnan Pim pernel Icarus Mclnerney. He had a little of each. And he died flying “too near the sun,” the sun of adventure, of dangerous living, of the full life, of looking Death in the face—and laughing.

He died as he would have wished, suddenly; and doing what he loved best, flying. He was a good flier.

If he took risks they were calcu lated risks, as a hunting man will take a stiff fence rather than go around through the gate. Mclnerney always rode straight ahead. What, do you want to live for ever? We owe God a death—he that dies this year is quit for the next. Death plays with loaded dice; but I know that Mclnerney laughed as he paid. . .

We stood on the airstrip at Wewak as the Dragon touched down.

All Wewak Europeans, Chinese, natives. The motors stopped, some body opened the door, and a squad of native “doctor-boys” sprang for ward.

The door was narrow, and the coffin a little difficult to get out.

They loaded him on to a truck, a battered old Army truck. They covered him with flowers, hibiscus, frangipanni, crotons, cannas, zinnias, big wreaths, little wreaths, crosses, sprays, and tiny bunches of New Guinea violets tied with frayed bits of string.

A long line of jeeps, and an odd car, moved in behind the truck, and we followed slowly to the cemetery.

X, who was driving me, one of Mclnerney’s oldest friends, blew his nose violently. The jeep in front slowed down and he nearly bumped it. He said: “Why the hell doesn’t that bastard keep moving!”

We reached the cemetery and pulled off the road and got out.

Somebody called; “Come on, you’re one of the pall-bearers.”

We carried him from the truck and rested him for a while on a few sticks of four-by-two, over the open grave. The Bishop started to read the burial service—a flying bishop burying a flying doctor, a mate burying a mate. There was moss on the sides of the grave. The prayers went on.

McINERNEY. I first met him during the war. In the Ramu valley. On one occasion I came home from a patrol with a hole through the back of my neck. We met Mac. a day out from the camp.

He was very annoyed—he hadn’t had any casualties for a couple of days, and had borrowed a Bren gun and was just starting out on a patrol of his own. To fill in time between

fighting, and swearing at the odd casualties, he climbed all the highest peaks in the Bismarck Range.

The prayers went on. There were eight pall-bearers, four on each side of the grave. Stretched across, under the coffin, were four pieces of new rope. The one at the foot was out of line.

Mclnerney. We had a few days together in Brisbane, once. On leave. We confided to one another our domestic troubles. I had a few at the time. Mclnerney always had them. He was what is sometimes called a “man’s man,’’ which meant that women would always fall for him, and rue it. We had one tremendous night out.

We took hold of the ropes. The two end pall-bearers had to adjust theirs—l knew the darn thing was out of line. The doctor-boys pulled the timbers away and we lowered him gently into the grave.

The prayers went on. The coffin was a plain box, wider at the head than at the trade lap-lap. I could see the heads of four small brass screws on each Slde - McINERNEY. I lost sight of him for a while. Later in the war he joined a parachute unit which, much to his annoyance, never got out of Australia. Then, in 1947, he came back to Wewak as DMO.

He learned to fly, and bought a plane. Live dangerously, live danger-

ously. He gave all his knowledge, all his skill, to the ingrate, scarce human people of New Guinea.

The prayers went on. There was a strong smell of camphor. Pro sently, they would fill the grave up with earth, and tamp it down, and outline it with coral rocks. But Mclnerney wouldn’t be there be cause he was flying—flying higher than he ever flew before, Last Sunday, at half-past eleven, I pinned a note to the steering wheel of his jeep in the empty hangar, asking him to fly me to Marienberg when he got back. But he didn’t fly with me to Marien berg, because last Sunday, at half past eleven, he did a vertical turn over Vanimo harbour, and side slipped to a crash in the sea.

The prayers were finished. The Bishop threw a handful of earth down on to the coffin. A bugle blew the “Last Post.” * * * This afternoon the B ishop flew me in to Marienberg. We took off in the duster and rose easily an( j s t ea( iiiy into the north-west breeze. Then he went into a smooth, steep, 180-degrees turn. He said: “That’s what Mac did, but he did it too low to the ground.”

Then he put the control stick between his knees, took off his white helmet, replaced it with a rather dirty baseball cap, and pulled a prayer-book out of the glove-box.