And when we met up in Moresby just before I  for Sydney, I gave them quite explicit instructions.

“First I’ll be in Melbourne with family and friends for a couple of months," I said.

"I don’t want you guys spending all your free time guzzling beers and sinking rums at the Buena Vista before I arrive.

"There are things to be done.”

The Buena Vista in Mosman was the kiaps favourite watering hole since they had had been barred from the pub at Clifton Gardens. There had been one brawl too many.

“So while I'm away, line up some nursing sisters from the Royal Prince Alfred.”

Meeting party girls didn't happen every day out in the New Guinea bush. And we had to work at it hard on leave.

“Righto,” said my mates, “we’ll get onto it as soon as we’re in Mosman.”

So I flew down to Melbourne, my parents meeting me at Essendon airport and driving me out to their splendid property in the Dandenongs.

I intended to live the high life on leave and the next day called Ross Filshie, an old friend from my athletic days who at the time was the Australian pole vault record holder.

In an effusive 'what's going on' type conversation, I mentioned that I needed to buy a second hand car to get around.

“I’ve got just the one for you,” Filshie said. “It’s a red XK120 Jaguar convertible. Goes like the clappers.”

“I’ll buy it,” I said immediately, and arranged to pick it up the same afternoon.

Driving back to my folks’ place later, I wondered how fast the Jag could and wound it up to 105mph (170km) along Dandenong Road. I got plenty of stares.

Anyway, all good things have to be exchanged for other good things, and I'd told my kiap mates I’d get back to Sydney and that they should organise some nursing sisters.

When I arrived back in Sydney from the Dandenongs, I decided to make my base Kings Cross.

I booked into a musty and seedy boarding house which I dubbed ‘The Flea Bag’. No point wasting money better spent elsewhere.

Having no friends in Sydney, I made a beeline to the Darlinghurst police station and introduced myself.

The young constables on night duty were very impressed by my commissioned officer’s warrant card from the Royal Papua New Guinea Constabulary and saluted me: I outranked them by a country mile.

I didn’t draw attention to the fact that I was merely an officer of the field constabulary, not the regular police: there was no need to confuse them.

I took to joining the off-duty police in drinks at their local pub. I would regale them with New Guinea jungle action stories and they would tell me yarns about the Kings Cross criminal underworld.

They were a bit wary of me at first, concerned because I was an outsider, but became more expansive with my regular visits.

My favourite watering hole, just around the corner from my room, was the All Nations Club, which remained open until 4am every day. And the three weekend dance nights were always packed. 

Club manager Allan Bates and I became good friends. He told me the club was renovating the top story bedrooms which would be available for long and short term leases when completed.

I put my feet up in the club lounge and gave the whole matter careful thought. What does every single officer need on leave?

Answer: An ample supply of booze and a bevy of beddable female friends. The All Nations Club could supply both in spades.

It was conceivable, I mused, that an officer could arrive by taxi from the airport on Day One of his three months leave, book in and then return to the airport on Day Ninety.

All necessary business could be conducted via the club’s office.

For the fitness buffs, there could be morning constitutional walks around the block to work up an appetite for lunch.

And for fresh air fiends, the club could arrange a picnic hamper to be taken to Centennial Park to impress any partners he may have found.

I put my name down for one of the suites, and stayed a member for the next 25 years.

Kings Cross was fun but I had to spend the last 10 days of leave with my kiap mates over in Mosman.

On my arrival I marched straight into the Saloon Bar of the Buena Vista and, sure enough, there they were, schooners clutched firmly, ranting with other ASOPA kiaps on the school's long course.

After greeting them, I asked the question they must have been waiting for.

“So what’s the state of play with the nursing sisters?”

“We’ve just been too busy at the school, and settling in and so forth."

“Bullshit. You’ve been here two months, and you haven’t lifted a finger.”

“Well,” one said apologetically, “it all just lapsed soon after you left.”

I was told a kiap and a police officer had become romantically involved with two of the Royal Prince Alfred sisters.

We agreed not to attempt to try anything on - too many dramas. I heard much later that both liaisons resulted in marriage.

It was Friday evening, and the usual weekend parties in Mosman had already started.

But not for us.

“Right," I said. "At closing time we’ll load up the cars with a few cartons of beer and a box of overproof rum and find a party.”

Most of the other kiaps wanted to join in, so a four-car convoy led by me in the XK cruised the prosperous streets of Mosman.

It wasn’t long before we spotted a party.

I knocked on the door, and two blokes opened it, warily.

“We’ve been told by Albert to bring beers and stuff for you. They’re free”.

“We don’t know any Albert,” one said.

“Oh, must be some mistake,” I replied, making as if to leave.

“No, no, come in, we’ll sort it out. We’re just about out of beer anyway.”

Our lads were primed to get the males drunk and stay clear of the girls for the time being.

We didn’t want them frightened by any altercations or unseemly brawling.

The beers were de-cartoned to refill the laundry tub and the box of rum left in a corner.

As the evening wore on, we inveigled the males to try the hard liquor, and it wasn’t long before they were staggering around and speaking nonsense, much to the disgust of their girlfriends.

Now our boys began to move in quietly and started chatting up the girls, getting phone numbers and making arrangements for a weekend picnic.

Between us, we took home a few of the girls, their abandoned drunken partners passed out on settees, floor and anywhere they dropped.

By the end of the weekend, some of the girls had replaced us for their regular boyfriends.

'Albert Sent Us' was a good ploy for blokes on leave who needed girlfriends.

“It’s been a great leave,” I said happily, as the boys drove me to Mascot airport to get me on the plane.

I'd sold the XK to a used car lot for pretty much what I'd paid for it in Melbourne all those months before.

Travelling on my flight to Moresby was District Officer Dave Moorland, an impossibly handsome debonair kiap with dark curly hair, a tanned aquiline face and a flair for the theatrical.

He had three willowy stunners hanging off him to say goodbye. Despite my achievements on leave, I was just a bit jealous. Moorland never had to invent elaborate ploys like 'Albert Sent Us'. He just stood there.

When the first boarding call came, I walked across to the Electra, but such mediocraty was not to Dave’s melodramatic taste.

He waited until all the other passengers had moved off and, when his name was called for the third and final time, raised a champagne glass flamboyantly high, saluted his female entourage, farewelled the crowd, quaffed the bubbly and thrust the empty glass at a surprised bystander before bursting onto the tarmac.

At times turning to wave and flashing smile after brilliant smile with perfect iridescently white teeth, he eventually bounded up the aircraft steps.

At the top of the rise there was another bout of frenzied waving, arms flung high in final salute like a Papal benediction.

Then Dave whirled around to disappear inside the aircraft.

Two exasperated hosties grabbed him impatiently and hauled him unceremoniously to his seat.

We were on our way back home at last. Leave was over.

Back to another few years in the Territory.