The next seven days after Chook and I first had sex together went far too fast. It was more than just me fucking him in our tent morning and night, and sometimes in the afternoon as well. We were actually making love, with lots of touching, feeling, and kissing, and quite a bit of sucking thrown in. But Chook continued to refuse to fuck me, insisting that his cock was only for his girlfriend Molly. Still, I was pretty happy about the arrangement.

It had been a good month, both weather-wise and monetarily. There was not a day's rain in the month, not even a summer thunderstorm. It had been like that all over the south-west, and open campfire bans announced the day we were packing to leave. Forest wardens came round and made sure we extinguished our breakfast fire and told us that the campsite would be closed. We were were heading home just in time, but it was the end of an idyllic month for me in our tent, there on the beach.

The rumours we had heard about bonus envelopes from grateful parents was not exaggerated. During the year the Education Department had been paying us the absolute minimum wage. By today's standards, it would probably be the equivalent of about $400 a week. Health and Recreation paid us each 4 times as much per week, plus another $100 a week toward accommodations. And the parents – local farmers with a few bucks to splurge on their kids, and holiday makers who were glad to get their kids out of their hair for a few hours – were more than generous. Every Friday, at the end of a week's classes, parents would slip us a "little something." Not all of them, of course, but enough of them to make it very profitable for us. Apart from the Government payments, which we would get in the form of cheques in the mail after we arrived home, Chook and I split nearly $2000 dollars in "little somethings" between us. The figures are by today's standards and today's currencies, of course, not in those of 1961. It was more money than I had ever had at one time in my life.

On that Saturday afternoon in mid-January, right after a light lunch of crayfish we'd caught that morning, we packed up our gear, loaded Chookie's little car, an old Volkswagen, took one last swim, and set out on the long drive home. It was only a little over 200 miles, but the roads back then did not allow for high speed driving. It would take us 4 or 5 hours – or so we thought.

It was a pleasant drive, even though it was very hot, even with the windows down. The forecast had been for 102 degrees F. for afternoon. We had been travelling for about 30 minutes when we first saw the smoke, thick plumes of black and white smoke on the horizon as we crested a low hill. The smoke was billowing up in the distance. Even from this far we could tell that this was not little local burn-off.

It was soon after that the first of the country-town firetrucks came racing up behind us, passed us with sirens wailing, and disappeared down the road ahead. Soon after, and older truck from another town followed, with one of the passenger firemen clanging its bell as it passed. Two more passed us in the next few minutes.

"Must be a big one," commented Chook. "Do you think we ought to go see if we can help?" We were both members of the Land, Sea, Air Rescue Volunteers Group. We had joined through Chook's membership in his local Surf Club. We had taken training courses for volunteers in things such a St. John's First Aid, Triage, and Artificial Respiration.

"I think we'd better," I agreed. I was no stranger to fighting bushfires. There was at least one every year in the semi-rural area where I grew up. We continued a few more miles, and it became obvious that the fire did not lay in our path, but off to the east of us somewhat. Another fire-engine passed us, and a police car, and we rounded a bend just in time to see them both turn off on a road to the east. As we neared the turn they had taken, we saw signs directing travels east to the town of Waggerup.

I knew of Waggerup. It was a little mixed-farming town, nestled among low hills mostly covered in eucalypts, with cleared patches of dairy farms and orange orchards around it. It was a typical Aussie outback town, with a post office, a general store, a bank, a medical clinic, a primary school, a police station, and a pub all lining the main street. A couple of specialty shops complete its commercial district. There were two or three side streets with residential housing, maybe 200 people in the town. The rest of the population lived on the surrounding farms and orchards.

We followed the emergency vehicles eastward, and after a mile or so we could smell the smoke, the smell of burning gum trees. Another mile, and we were in the smoke, and the sky above was becoming dark with it. Several vehicles going in the opposite direction passed us — evacuees.

As we came down a low hill into the town, we were waved down by a cop standing by his car at the side of off the road.

"Are you just here to be nosy? Or are you here to help?" he demanded gruffly.

When we told him we were with Land, Sea, Air his attitude changed immediately. "Right," he said, smiling. "Good to have you. Just go on in. The Fire Marshall's outside the pub. You can't miss him. He'll tell you what he wants you to do."

The cop was right that we couldn't miss the fire-marshal. He was a big, very loud man, and obviously in charge, slinging off orders to the many volunteers, police, and firemen gathered around him. Eventually it was our turn.

"Got a car?" he demanded, after we had explained why we were there. When we told him we did, he directed us. "See that turn-off just past the post office?" He pointed. "Well, take that road. It'll turn into a gravel track after a couple of hundred yards. Just keep going. After about 4 miles you'll come to a gate. Go on through and keep going through the orange trees to the farm house. Tell Jimmy Thomson to get him and his wife and kids and farmhand the fuck out of there. The fire's coming his way, and fast!"

We did as directed, driving through thicker and thicker smoke. Although it was little more than about 3 pm, the smoke was darkening the sky, turning the sun into a glowing orange ball, and turning the landscape into a twilight scene.

Jimmy Thomson was standing in front of his farm house near his equipment shed with another man, who we presumed was the farm hand, when we arrived. They were both very handsome guys in their late thirties-early forties by the look of them. They had obviously been hard at work trying to prepare for the oncoming fire.

Jimmy Thomsone welcomed us as we pulled up. We gave him the message from the fire marshal.

"Sent the wife and daughters off to the city this morning," he told us. "Just me and Bill here now – and you two. It's a bit late for the four of us to leave," he added. "Fire's already got the road you come in on." He pointed back the way we had come. Sure enough, less that half a mile back flames were leaping up into the sky above the track we had driven in on. "Wind's whipping it about every which way. Turned it into a crown fire, I guess."

A crown fire is when the fire gains a second life of its own. Instead of creeping along the ground, it squirrels up into the treetops, and fed by the very wind it creates, leaps from treetop to treetop, often at breath-taking speeds – 50 km an hour is common.

"It's gonna be here pretty quick," he pointed out. "Drive on into the orchard till you come to a little shed," he told us. "We'll be right behind you." We followed his directions. It wasn't really a shed, just a tin roof covering a gas motor and a pump.

Bill and Jimmy were right behind in his Land Rover as promised. "This is the pump for my reticulation system. There's a small artesian basin about 90 feet below us. Plenty of water, " Jimmy told us. He pointed to an elevated grid of pipes which ran throughout the orchard, about 6 feet above the ground. "I use it to water the trees when there's a drought, or keep the frost off if the temperature drops too much. Today it's gonna save my trees — and us — I hope," he added ominously. It took a couple of tries, but Bill soon started the engine which ran the pump, and in a couple of minutes we heard the sprinkler system hissing and spluttering, then water sprang from the nipples, spraying strong streams in every direction.

"This fire's going to be all around us soon," Jimmy told us. "It's gonna suck the air right out of here. If we don't get cooked, we might get suffocated, but it's a chance we gotta take. We don't have any other options." He handed us a wool blanket. "Wet this down as thoroughly as you can, then you two lay down on the ground and climb under it. Best place is under a sprinkler. No Matter what, stay there till I tell you to come out."

Around us it was as dark as night by now, but through the orange trees we got frightening glimpses of the red and yellow and orange of the fire now surrounding us, and above the creeping ground fire, flames from the burning treetops leaping high into the sky. The roar it made encircled us.

A few feet away, Jimmy and Bill had wetted their blanket, and crawled under it. Chookie and I did the same, laying together in just the shorts we had donned that morning.

"You scared?" I asked Chook.

"You bet I am," Chookie admitted. "You reckon we're gonna die."

"Maybe," I told him, "but if we do, I'm glad we're together. You're my best friend."

"And you're mine," he told me, giving me a hug and kissing me on the cheek.

We lay there for the longest time, listening to the chug of the engine, the tinkling of water on the blanket, but most of all the terrible roar of the fire. At one point there was a loud crash. We guessed it was one of the farm buildings. It was maybe four or five hours we lay they, cuddled together. For a while it became very hard to breathe, and when we could it was pungent smoke and steam we sucked in. But eventually the roar died down.

Then we heard some movement, and the engine was shut off. Jimmy's voice called to us. "Look's like the worst of it is past," he told us, "but the air's pretty nasty out here. Nothing more we can do till morning. Best to stay under the blanket if you can. If you two are real good buddies, I figure you'll find a way to amuse each other," and he chuckled.

So we stayed under the blanket, talking about all sorts of things, but avoiding the topic of child-molester Wayne.

Eventually I told Chook, "I gotta take a piss." "Me too," he agreed, so we both climbed out of our blanket and stood together taking a leak. At spots though the orange trees we could see the flames and all around us the night sky glowed orange, and the smoke was still thick and hard to breathe in, but we were alive.

We heard a sound close by, and looking in that direction we saw the blanket that Jimmy and Bill were under bucking and heaving. Grunts and pants and moans accompanied the sounds.

"Are those two guys …?" whispered Chook.

"Yep," I whispered back, "they're fucking!"

Giggling, we both crawled back under our own blanket to escape the smoke which clawed at our eyes and throats — and to be alone together.

No sooner had we crawled back into the warm, wet darkness, but Chookie whispered. "Those two have made me horny. I want to bum-fuck you." We could still hear the moans and grunts coming from the other wet blanket and Jimmy pounded Bill – or Bill pounded Jimmy. Whatever the case, someone was getting soundly fucked – and enjoying it!

Under the blanket, I reached down. Chookie's hard, uncut cock was as stiff as I'd ever felt it, poking out of his nylon speedos. I slipped my own shorts down and off. I spat on my hand and slathered my spit along his rod, rolled over with my back to him, and with my hand guided his stiffy to my eager hole. He had never fucked me before, always saying it was for Molly only. As I felt him sliding easily into me, I didn't question the "why now?" – I just gratefully accepted that I was finally getting fucked by my surfing, football-playing hero. Only later did I realize that it was probably the release from tension, from coming through this inferno alive together, that prompted him to offer himself up to me. I accepted his offering into me enthusiastically!

There in the dark, surrounded by devastation, Chookie fucked me eagerly, and soon our own grunts and groans and moans joined those from the neighbouring blanket, where, from the change of the voices someone had come to a climax, and they had changed places – the fucker becoming the fuckee, and vice-versa.

It was not long before there were two more climaxes, two more orgasms , one under each blanket, and then four men drifted off to sleep, feeling secure for now.

In the morning, it was Bill who rousted us out. Jimmy had already gone off to walk the perimeter of his orchard. Bill was just wearing cotton boxer-briefs which looked like they had some seen some hard wear during the night, ripped and dirty and showing off his very impressive bulge.

"Guess you two guys heard me and Jimmy going at it last night, eh?" We chuckled and nodded."Well, we heard you, too. Good on yers! Jimmy and I have been fuck-buddies since we were in school together around thirty years back. If Verna – that's his wife – knows about it, she doesn't let on. So I guess we'll go on this way forever."

When we first crawled out of our blanket, I couldn't find my shorts. Bill chuckled at that. "Hey, cover up your arse before you get me all worked up again. I like a bit of fresh meat once in a while!" He laughed.

Jimmy returned soon after.

"How is it?" Bill asked him.

"Could be worse," Jimmy told us. "The bush all round us is pretty well burned up, except to the south, but most of the fruit trees are OK. Some of the trees on the north side are a bit scorched, but I think they'll survive. The house is OK but the equipment shed is gone, though – but we're alive, and we can always rebuild."

"My ute?" asked Bill, referring to his utility vehicle.

"Toast," Jimmy said, somewhat ironically. "So's my car and the wife's. Just the Land Rover left. But the insurance will get us all new ones."

We pooled some left overs from our cooler box with some food Bill and Jimmy had carted in with them, and while Bill cooked us all up a bit of a meal on a kerosene stove, Chook and I walked to the edge of the orchard. It was like a scene from hell. Nothing but charred and smouldering trees and stumps. But as I knew from experience, the Aussie bush was like the Aussie farmer such as Jimmy. They quickly bounce back from any adversity and flourish more bountifully than ever.

Later that morning, when we drove back to what had been the farmhouse and the equipment shed, we saw for ourself how quickly livelihoods can be reduced to nothing. We also saw how whimsical a fire can be. The farmhouse was untouched, with flowers still blooming in pots on the verandah, but less than fifty feet away the storage shed was reduced to a heap of corrugated iron and rubble covering the remains of a couple of tractors. Crouched beside it were the empty husks of beetles which had once been three cars.

Later in the morning, Jimmy and Bill in the Land Rover led the way back along the smoking, smouldering, blackened track to Waggerup. A couple of times we had to stop to push still-smouldering fallen trees off the road, and another time the charred carcass of a cow that had been caught up by the flames.

But Waggerup was the big eye-opener, because basically, there was no Waggerup. The only building still standing, right in the middle of town, was the pub. The rest of the buildings — the bank, the general store, the school, the police station were just still-burning rubble with cars, presumable belonging to volunteer fire-fighters, empty charred shells parked on the street beside where the buildings had been. Even the tar of the road was smouldering in places.

The Fire Marshall was holding court outside the pub, just as he had been the day before. He greeted Jimmy and Bill, and us, and informed us that a change in the winds had now blown the fire back on its own trail, and rendered it harmless. Amazingly, there had been no loss of life. We were free to head on home if we so wished. We so wished.

Having said goodbye to our new-found friends, we headed back up the highway to the city. Together Chookie and I had passed through the inferno, and emerged even closer than before.

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