There was a rock at the top end of the firing-range where you could sit and, on a clear day, enjoy the alluring panorama of the distant white towers the luxury hotels of Surfers Paradise. If you cared enough, you could scale that rock and ponder over that inviting vista. If you cared.
    Apparently, Duffy cared    
    “It’s not far,” he said, “Ten miles at most, as the crow flies.”
    You sat at the bottom, not caring: “Crows fly over mountains. You have to walk up and down them. That makes it a long way.”
    “I dunno. I could get on the road further down and hitch a ride.”
    “Yeah,” you said mirthlessly, “and Harding would probably be in the first car that came along.”
     “You would need to be pretty stiff for that to happen.”
    “You could be that stiff, Duffy.”
    He considered that. “Yeah, I guess I could.”
    More likely, there would simply be a cordon of MP’s in Surfers waiting for the escapee to arrive.
    “You’re not seriously considering this, are you?”
     “If Harding puts me on mess duties for the weekend, I will I reckon.”
     “You’re crazy, Duffy.”
    “Yeah, I’m crazy. To take the shit they hand out you’ve got to be crazy. I’m crazy, you’re crazy, everyone’s crazy.”
    “Everyone except Harding. He’s just plain fucking insane.”
    Harding could sometimes be underestimated. Sadly so, as Duffy would learn. He did not simply put Duffy on mess duties for the weekend as a result of his failure to run, he also put him on a charge for calling a senior officer, Harding, a bastard.
    “You can get off it, Duffy. You can nail him for tearing up your medical chit. Say that you were under duress.”
    But somehow you knew Duffy wasn’t one to play silly games like that.
    “Say hello to the girls for me,” he said, and walked off head bowed.

When a movie declares itself to be The Greatest Story Ever Told, you can be sure it will fall on its arse, and this one did big-time. It was nowhere near as convincing as Samuel Bronson’s postcard and Sunday School version of the life of Christ. This was the heavy Catholic version of the matter and  rang true only in that it was as tedious and boring as your average three hour Latin Mass. The attempt at realism was utterly destroyed by using obvious Utah locations, and big stars in all the minor roles, such as Claude Rains as Herod the Great, Jose Ferrer as his son and Sidney Pointier weirdly walking out of the crowd as Simon of Cyrene.
    Charlton Heston did his best to try and instil life into the proceedings with his rampant John the Baptist but of course that character didn’t last. Swedish actor Max von Sydow was cast as Christ because of his resemblance to the depiction by Michelangelo in the Sistine Chapel, but he was too sober and uncharismatic, although appropriately pious.
    Of the disciples, only David McCallum was given anything to do as Judas—the rest (David Hedison, Roddy McDowell, Gary Raymond, Michael Anderson Jnr) were wasted.
    Tely Savalas, on the other hand, was quite impressive as Pontius Pilate while Donald Pleasance enjoyed himself as Satan, personally on hand to stir up the lynch mob.
    The film’s true highlight comes at the end. As Christ staggers along with the cross, there’s this huge Roman soldier in a full-face helmet escorting him, and you keep thinking he seems familiar. Then, just as the crucified Christ dies, the big Roman soldier is standing opposite and booms out “Surely this man was the son of Gawd.” in the unmistakable voice of John Wayne. Yes, in the crucifixion scene, the very height of tragedy, you are rolling in the aisle with laughter. A true shocker.