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and, other mementos of adventures in aviation archaeology. Each tells a human story of courage, dedication and endurance under unimaginable conditions of combat in the South West Pacific in the early days of World War II.
    On the walls hang prized examples of original art, including a stunning portrait painted by his sister of an Aboriginal elder depicting his life experience and wisdom. An Arabian Jezail, Indian matchlock musket and a Zulu Assegai stabbing spear used to hunt lion in the passage to manhood add historical contrast. There are also the antlers of Chamois taken in the wild mountains of New Zealand’s Westland, tusks of wild pigs hunted in outback Australia and a full body mount of a Tahr taken on the flanks of Mt. Sefton in New Zealand. On shelves around the room are some of his three thousand books covering aviation, ancient history, archaeology, cooking, firearms, anthropology and other subjects that have caught his interest.
    He hits the power button on the music system and Fleetwood Mac kicks in while he ponders the neat piles of books, magazines, slides and photographs spread across the floor. Among all his files he can find almost anything to do with aviation history. If he doesn’t have it, he knows where to look.
    Slowly piecing together the story behind Alexander’s photograph, he is filled with excitement about uncovering a story even he has not known about. A story that but for a quirk of fate would have become common knowledge and a matter of pride to Australians. Trying to identify the location of the plane will be the real problem with not much to go on in the photographs. Sipping the shiraz, he reflects on his day.
Process is important
, he concludes as he looks down at the photographs and slides spread across the floor.
Do what you do every day as a principal and make your own process.
He takes a pencil, a pad, and some books off the Australian shelf and sets to work. It is going to be a long night.
     
     
    April 14 1942, Overlooking Joseph Bonaparte Gulf, Northern Australia
     
    Even as a speck almost lost in the azure blue of the sky, the bird caught the attention of Ungondangery. His sharp hunter’s eyes picked it up far out over the big water, sweeping in from another time and place. For a long time it barely changed its position in the sky, slowly taking shape as it crept closer. As he waited with the timeless patience of his people, he could begin to see how its wings spread wide, straight and unmoving, slicing through the air to carry the bird on its journey.
    He stood tall, straight and strong as he studied the approaching bird. His left foot was clamped on his right knee as he balanced himself on spears clutched securely in his left hand. Three of them were war spears tipped with the dreaded shovel-nosed blades shaped from scrap iron scrounged from the isolated homesteads dotting the vast landscape behind him. The other two were hunting spears, with barbed wooden tips hardened in the hot ashes of a camp fire. The end of the shafts rested on the hard rock of the bluff on which he stood with statuesque grace. Around his waist was a belt fashioned from human hair. Leather thongs held a handy stone-headed tomahawk nestled securely at the small of his back, two boomerangs, a throwing stick to break the wings of flying birds or the legs of small game animals and a wooden-handled knife tipped with sharp-edged mussel shell.
    His skin was coloured with the sheen of charcoal, his chest and upper arms decorated with the ripples of ceremonial scars. He was a warrior-huntsman feared by all across the land, still living free and taking cattle any time he wanted. It was only a fair exchange for the occupation of his people’s land and the intrusion into his ancient culture. As he stood propped in absolute stillness, the breeze whispered gently between the rocks and scrub around him before sighing gently away to caress the rugged ranges and grassland plains that lay in silence behind him.
    His face