Ginger In Australia

Chapter 9

What happened to Ginger

Gradually the mist cleared before Ginger's eyes and he surveyed his surroundings. His watch had stopped and he had no idea how long he had been unconscious. He became aware his head was throbbing and his face felt sticky. When he put up his hand and touched his forehead, he was horrified to find his fingers came away wet with blood.

He tried to think. He was lying in a wrecked car but what he was doing there and where he had being going he could not for the life of him remember. Awkwardly he crawled out of the wreckage and stood shakily beside the upturned chassis. Without warning he felt dizzy and had to sit down, his head between his knees. A wave of nausea swept over him and he was suddenly gripped by fear, realising that the bang on the head had been a serious one and he must be concussed. Did anyone know where he was, he wondered. Had he left a message? The last thing he remembered was flying up in an Auster and landing at some out of the way little airstrip.

Trying hard to marshal his thoughts, Ginger looked at the arid landscape. The sun was glaringly hot and he was thirsty. He knew he must have water. Hardly knowing what he was doing, he started to stagger toward the line of trees he could see in the distance, but somewhere in the back of his befuddled mind came Biggles' voice. "All ranks are to take a water bottle with them when leaving their machine." He had disobeyed that order once and only just lived to regret it1.

Ginger reeled back to the car and rummaged among the debris despite the alarming tendency of the landscape to sway. He gave a grunt of satisfaction when he found a canteen of water among the rubbish on the side of the car resting on the floor. He shook it, wincing as the action sent a shaft of pain through his head, and judged the bottle was half full. With shaking hands he managed to free the cap and took a drink, being careful to replace the stopper firmly. Despite the heat he felt cold and shivered.

Sleep, he wanted to sleep. The enticing thought almost caused him to lie down and give in, but he dragged himself to his feet although everything rocked sickeningly. He knew his thought processes were severely impaired. He ought to know what to do, but he could not get a grip on the information. His head seemed to be stuffed with cotton wool. Someone had told him something about being out in the outback. Who? Was it recently? What had they said? If only his head would stop aching he might remember.

What would Biggles do? The question ran like a refrain through his throbbing head. Get help, decided Ginger. Yes, that is what Biggles would do, he would get help. But where?

He looked about him again. He was surrounded by scrubby growth. The trees in the distance looked blurred in the haze. Or was it his eyesight? He was no longer sure.

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and stared at the blood on it as though seeing it for the first time. Bandage, he thought vaguely and tried to rip a piece off his shirt to staunch the wound. He was getting weak and the material would not tear. Nearly sobbing with frustration, Ginger groped in his pocket hoping to find a handkerchief but his fingers closed on something just as useful, his pocket knife. With failing strength he slit the seam and managed to split the material into strips. Crudely he wound the makeshift bandage around his head and felt better that at least it should help stop the bleeding that was sapping his strength.

He took another drink and nearly dropped the canteen. Soberly he re-corked it and told himself he must be more careful. His life would depend on taking regular drinks.

Although he was still confused, Ginger began to feel a little better. He felt sure the bleeding had stopped and his head did not ache quite so badly now. He tried to apply some logic to the situation he found himself in. He was in the outback. Clearly he must have been going somewhere for some purpose, else why would he be there? He looked in the car and found a map. It meant nothing to him. He was in the middle of nowhere with no idea of which direction he had been travelling.

But there must have been a road, he reasoned. It was unlikely he would have been travelling across country. The vehicle was not a four wheel drive. His view was obscured by the scrubby bush. If there was a road it could not be far away, he reckoned, but in which direction? Had he come off the road on the left or the right side?

He racked his brain but everything was a blank. He knew that memory loss was not uncommon with concussion.

He was suddenly convulsively sick and shivered again. He ought to try to do something, he decided. He could not just sit and wait for someone to come and find him. They might take days. Or they might never come at all. Staggering unsteadily he made his way towards the trees in the distance. At least they would provide him with some shade, he concluded as he ploughed on.

Had he but known it, he had chosen a path that took him further from the road, but by that time he was incapable of coherent thought. His one aim was to reach the stand of trees. Beyond that he could not consider. In some strange way, Ginger thought, the trees seemed to be receding rather than getting closer. By now reeling drunkenly, he stopped by a large bush. There was shade there and he sank down gratefully. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a movement. His mouth went dry when a snake slithered out, disturbed by his presence. He tried to get away but his limbs seemed no longer to obey him and the sky seemed to be turning a peculiar shade of purple.

"I wish Biggles were here," was his last thought as darkness engulfed him.