Operation Dam Busters

The Dusty Gulch Gazette – Special Dispatch from Dusty Gulch

The Trevorite Operation

By Roderick Whiskers McNibble, Chief Investigative Correspondent

There are times when a reporter must put aside the ordinary business of reporting and concern himself with matters of genuine scientific importance.

This was one of them.

Dusty Gulch was once again facing impending doom and disaster. The Water Distribution Pipes were unstable, the Wrong Tower was in danger, Maureen McFookit remained trapped, and the missing washer was still the key to everything.

Unfortunately, nobody knew where it was.

Trevor was trying to think.

He had put the washer somewhere safe. Of that he was certain. The trouble was that somewhere safe covered a considerable amount of territory, even by Dusty Gulch standards.

When troubled, Trevor had a habit of reaching into what he called his pouch.

For the benefit of readers unfamiliar with the medical history of Dusty Gulch, Trevor was a male wallaby and did not possess an anatomical pouch. His replacement knees, installed under the peculiar provisions of Section 14b of the Lower Limb Protocols, had been fitted laparoscopically. The procedure had left a small fold in his skin, which Trevor had discovered was useful for keeping small possessions.

He called it his pouch.

Nobody argued with him. Because Trevor was Trevor. 

Inside it he kept his most precious treasures, including a little piece of his mother's fur. He had carried it since his childhood brush with bureaucracy, holding it close in moments of distress, particularly when his sweat glands began working overtime.

He reached inside.

There it was. The little piece of fur he had carried for so many years, well loved, frequently sniffed and occasionally kissed.

But something felt different.

The fur was harder than he remembered.

Trevor examined it closely. Tangled among the fragments of his mother's long-gone fur was a small metal object.

The washer!

He stared at it for a moment, scarcely believing his eyes.

He had put it somewhere safe after all.

“I HAVE THE WASHER!” he yelled.

I am told the sound was heard as far away as the general store, where three customers immediately abandoned their shopping and began speculating about what had happened to their barcy sausages.

For the first time in days, there was genuine hope.

But this was no ordinary washer.

The Old Cassowary and the Old Emu subjected it to a thorough examination. They tested its composition, peered through their instruments and conferred in the hushed tones of scientists who had discovered something they would rather not have to explain to the authorities.

“Copper,” announced the Old Cassowary.

“Certainly copper,” agreed the Old Emu. “But there's something else.”

He adjusted his instrument.

“Trevorite.”

 Now, trevorite is no invention of the Gazette. It is a real mineral, a nickel iron oxide with the chemical formula NiFe₂O₄. It was named after Major Tudor Gruffydd Trevor, a mining inspector in South Africa, and has been found in Western Australia.

The scientific community has not, to our knowledge, identified wallabies as a source of trevorite.

Yet.

Dusty Gulch, however, has never been a place to let an inconvenient gap in scientific knowledge stand between a town and its survival.

The Old Cassowary and the Old Emu had established that the washer required a trace of trevorite to perform its stabilising function. Their experiments suggested that the particular material needed for the repair could be produced only through a process involving the remarkable perspiration of a wallaby.

More specifically, a wallaby named Trevor.

“How much do you need?” he asked.

The two old birds exchanged glances.

“Just a few droplets,” said the Old Emu.

Trevor looked down at the fur in his paws.

“I think this may help,” he said quietly.

There were traces of his perspiration among the little fragments he had carried for so many years. What had once been an ordinary part of his childhood had become, quite unexpectedly, the means of saving his home.

“Are you sure, young Trevor?” asked the Old Cassowary.

Trevor nodded.

Anything to save Dusty Gulch.

Dusty was busy taking readings and co-ordinating with Drac on the surface.

Trevor thought back to his days as an apprentice to Dracula, the Emu Plumber. It was time to put that training to good use.

He hurried over to Leonard the camel and rummaged through his saddlebags until he found what he was looking for.

His plumbing gear.

Trevor pulled it out and began getting dressed. There was a job to do, a washer to deliver, and an old teacher who needed his help.

" I can help Dusty. I know what to do. " he said. Dusty nodded. 

" That's the spirit Trevor. Just get that collection pot ready and we can forge the second washer. " 

After some expert work, a collection vessel was produced. The fur was carefully squeezed, the droplets gathered and measured, and the resulting material combined with the copper. The Old Cassowary and Trevor worked with the utmost care. The Old Emu recorded every step. 

Before long, a new washer had been forged under Trevor's expert paws. 

I recorded the entire proceeding for the Gazette.

Science, ingenuity and a little wallaby perspiration had achieved what a trip to Western Australia could not.

But our troubles were far from over.

A Remarkable Journey

The new washer had to reach Dracula the Emu, who was preparing to tackle the emergency at the Wrong Tower.

Dusty McFookit could not leave the cavern beneath McFookit Peak. The WDP needed him, and the entire town depended upon his efforts.

There was only one suitable courier.

Trevor.

The loyal wallaby tucked the precious washer safely away and bounded towards his old teacher.

I accompanied him.

Readers may wonder how a rat reporter managed to travel at such speed without an aircraft, a motor vehicle or even a bicycle.

The answer is simple.

I hitched a ride in Trevor's pocket. Not his pouch. His pocket.  

It was a tight fit, but the view was excellent once we emerged from the cavern and headed back to Dusty McFookit's place.

I kept my notebook dry, my whiskers clear of the washer and my observations to myself.

A reporter must learn when to ask questions and when to remain quiet. Trevor had a delivery to make, and I had a story to report.

This time, there were no mishaps.

Trevor reached Dracula safely and handed over the precious component.

Dracula examined it with the solemnity the occasion demanded.

“Well done, my boy,” he said.

Trevor stood a little taller.

Then Dracula turned towards the Wrong Tower.

There was no time to lose.

The Wrong Tower

Poor Maureen McFookit was still inside the tower, which continued to sway in a manner not generally recommended for public buildings.

The sabotage had left the WDP unstable. The missing washer had prevented the system from being properly stabilised, and the strain on the pipes threatened to undo everything Dusty and his helpers had worked so hard to preserve.

Dracula reached the crucial mechanism and fitted the new washer into place.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the machinery steadied.

The shuddering eased. The tower's movement slowed. The immediate danger had passed.

Dracula tested the mechanism again, listened to the pipes and inspected the fittings.

“This will hold it for now,” he said. “But the washer is only part of the solution. We still have to deal with the interference in the system.”

He looked towards Mavis Thomson.

“It's time to bring on the sonic pineapples.”

The washer had bought us time. The pineapples would have to do the rest.

Whether they were equal to the task remained to be seen.

Mavis Takes Command

Mavis Thomson required no second instruction.

She assembled the sonic pineapples, checked the preparations and made certain that every crew member understood what was expected.

The devices had been designed to restore the correct vibration frequency through the WDP pipes, helping to clear the interference caused by the sabotage.

The principle, I was informed, was rather like a metronome restoring the rhythm of an orchestra after somebody had replaced the conductor's baton with a length of garden hose.

I cannot personally vouch for the scientific comparison, but the Old Cassowary appeared satisfied.

The practical application was, as usual, somewhat unconventional.

The sonic pineapples would be carried by orange Ratty Airways biplanes, released on carefully planned runs and bounced across the Gulch River and the great field of pothole puddles beyond.

The intention was to send the correct vibrations through the system and restore some semblance of order to the WDP. 

The operation had acquired a name.

Operation Dam Busters.

The aircraft were prepared. The crews took their positions. The sonic pineapples were secured aboard.

Mavis made one final inspection.

Then the engines began to turn.

The Town Watches and Waits

Word had spread throughout Dusty Gulch, and the townsfolk gathered to watch the departure.

Nobody was making jokes now.

Baby echidnas clutched their mothers' aprons with their little paws. Possums stood aghast, their usual composure quite abandoned. Young kangaroos who ordinarily spent their days causing trouble behind the general store stood in open-mouthed silence.

Even the general store's customers had stopped discussing the sausages.

Somewhere, the Feline Force 5 were conspicuous by their absence. Their whereabouts remained a matter for a future investigation.

At the edge of the airstrip stood the Emu Troupe of Stilt Walkers from Moonlight Manor.

Their tall silhouettes swayed gently in the evening breeze as they began a slow farewell song. Its melody recalled those old wartime films in which young airmen climbed into their machines and flew towards an uncertain horizon.

The townsfolk listened.

Some clasped their hands. Others put their arms around those standing beside them.

Nobody knew whether the sonic pineapples would work.

Nobody knew whether the WDP would survive the operation.

And poor Maureen was still in the Wrong Tower.

Then they waited.

My mind went back to Trevor. In Dusty Gulch, a wallaby's perspiration can save a town, and the things we treasure are rarely the things we expect.

Far below, beneath McFookit Peak, Dusty McFookit tightened his grip on the sink spanner.

I closed my notebook for a moment and watched the last aircraft disappear.

The washer had been forged. Dracula had reached the tower. The sonic pineapples were airborne. The sun was going down over Dusty Gulch. 

The mission was under way.

Whether the pineapples would bounce as intended remained to be seen.

Questions the Gazette Has Yet to Answer

Will Tony ever open a restaurant?

How do emus walk on stilts?

Why sonic pineapples and not sonic grapefruit?

Who made the first washer?

Why was Trevor trained as a plumber?

Why Dracula and not Dusty?

And, most important of all, where is the Feline Force 5?

Readers with information on any of these matters are invited to contact the Gazette. Anonymous tips will be treated with the same degree of suspicion as all other evidence received in Dusty Gulch.

The Dusty Gulch Gazette will report further developments as they become available.

To be continued…