I had never actually seen a real helicopter before, except on television, for they were rare in Australia. This was one of six purchased from the Americans and handed over to the RAAF, a sleek green Iraquoi or Huey, as they were called. The RAAF pilots were so keen to run up as many hours as they could that they were happy to fly anyone anywhere at the time.
    “You fucking idiot! Why didn’t you tell ‘em it was a fuck up!” he thundered as we crossed the parade ground to where our amazing vehicle waited.
    All around, sheepish MPs looked on, shaken and dismayed and glad to find themselves finally in Harding’s wake.
    “I did, but nobody believed me.”
    “That’s what you get to always being so fucking full of shit.”
    The man in charge of the prison was by the helicopter, perhaps wanting to make sure Harding and his charge actually left.
    “Sorry, Private,” he said to me. “I hope we weren’t too tough on you.”
    “Oh no, sir. Actually, I like it here. Nowhere near as tough as Canungra.”
    We paused to watch Duffy running along the edge of the parade ground, carrying a bucket of sand in each hand.
    “What could be tougher than that?” the Major asked.
    “At Canungra they use wet sand,” I replied.
    “That’s not a bad idea,” the Major was saying as Harding bundled me aboard the Huey before I caused any more trouble.
    “You are a really dangerous man,” Harding growled at me as we went.

They’ll tell you he took the child from the city when it was only three and the half and went to the backblocks and carried it on his shoulder, under his arm, and in a sugar bag that swung as a balance to his bluey. And that’s the truth. He still did it, for the kid was only six months older; though not so much—for it had been broken in to walking and Macauley in desperate resignation had shaped his travelling time and means to suit it. They saw him coming into town with the child asleep in his arms, or thrown up with its head on his shoulder, bobbing with the rhythm of the walk, dead to the world. They saw it trudge beside him, the two of them such a contrast in size it made you laugh…
D’Arcy Niland is one of those Australian writers who managed one excellent book and then wrote a lot of rubbish. In fact he wrote two great paragraphs, those quoted here, which was enough to propel you all the way through what was otherwise a quite mediocre book.
The child dropped back. At first glance it was hard to be sure of the sex. The stubby boots, the blue overalls, and kharki shirt were a boy’s. So, too, in a way, was the walk. In a little while Macauley heard the voice from some distance behind him. “Wait for me, dad.”
    He stopped. He sighed. Slowly, irritably, he turned.
    He saw the slow fumble with buttons, then the figure squatting, and standing up in an exasperating process of slow motion that maddened him.
    “Hurry up,” he yelled.
    “I can see the grass coming up already, dad.”
    He didn’t miss the excitement in her voice; it only annoyed him all the more for its time-wasting futility.
    “I’m going.”
    The little girl came running after him. She walked in his shadow, head down, stalking it, intent on keeping it under her stepping feet. She got tired of that, got abreast of Macauley and pushed her hand into his. He clasped it gently, though unresponsively, aware of its stickiness, letting her bear the responsibility for keeping it there.
    “Where are we going, dad?”
    “Nowhere.”
    “What are we walking for then?”
    He didn’t answer.
The Shirlalee, the title a swagman’s term for his swag, and the image of the bushmen and the little girl walking the dusty outback roads cemented itself powerfully into the Australian folklore, but the rest of the book is mush. Welfare workers wanting to protect what is plainly the most well-adjusted child in the country, a runaway mother who has changed her mind and decided to assert her maternal rights. But really, it's about the life of a swagman—the only worthwhile novel ever written on the subject. You go along for the ride—walk actually—and it is a fine thing to do, essential if you want to call yourself Australian. The Ealing studios made a first-rate movie of it with Peter Finch doing Macauley to perfection.