patrick.net

#archiebutterly
A little over 38 years ago, I was in the intensive care unit of a Western Australia hospital. I was in a coma and in critical condition. Would I live?
This story starts on November 6, 1982. It was the last time that I ever saw my ex-wife, Maria. She was moving out of West Australia and returning to Northern California. My marriage was gone. My house had been auctioned out from under me. My car was gone. I was unemployed. Things were pretty bleak. The only people standing behind me and giving me support were the Seventh Day Adventist Church that I attended.

One member of the congregation was a woman named Shirley. She had a very typical story for Australian women. She graduated from high school. She got married soon afterward. She had three children in rapid order. The only job that she had ever held was a house cleaner. Shirley became my closest friend. Despite her lack of formal education, I found her to be a woman of bright intellect. I soon discovered that she had an incredible natural aptitude for business.

Shirley and I formed a company called American Natural Resources. It was properly registered with the West Australia Company’s Office. We never became rich with the company. But we did make a decent living that helped both of us.

In January of 1984, a Perth organized crime figure named Archie Butterly approached me. He demanded that I start paying him 20% of the company’s revenues each month for protection. I calmly told him that I only paid protection money to the insurance company and when I donated to the church. Butterly became enraged. He told me that he was going to have me permanently disabled.

In late February of 1984, I was waking up one morning. I was in bed. There was a small window above the bed. I looked up. I saw a young blond man looking at me. He slipped a plastic bag through the window. I later discovered that it was filled with acid. He threw the plastic bag at me. His intent was to hit me in the face with the bag. It would have burst on my face. I would have been hideously disfigured. I would have been blinded for life.

God was with me that morning. The assailant missed his target. The plastic bag landed on my stomach and burst open. The acid covered my stomach. My skin turned blood red.

I was blessed to have a special next-door neighbor named Bob Nicholson. In a past life, he had served 25 years as a sergeant-major in the British Special Air Services (SAS). I forced myself to go to his front door. I knocked, and He let me in. He looked at my injuries. He pointed out that he had dealt with many wounded soldiers during his military service. He warned me that the biggest danger was my going into deep shock. He had to get me to medical care immediately. There was a small medical clinic three blocks from where we were. Bob’s wife had left to do errands with the car. Bob threw my arm over his shoulder. He carried me three blocks to the clinic.

When I got to the clinic, they gave me morphine and tried to stabilize me. An ambulance was called. I was taken to a major hospital with a trauma center. I was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit. I lost consciousness. I was in a coma for several days. I was in critical condition. Bob Nicholson’s warning about going into deep shock came true.

A remarkable woman now comes into the picture. Her name is Claire Buckley. She was a nurse in the ICU. Claire had been born and raised in Belfast, Northern Ireland. Claire had gone into nursing. During her nursing career there, a civil war raged between the Irish Republican Army and the British. A favorite weapon of the IRA was the Molotov cocktail. It was a bottle filled with gasoline and with a cloth fuse that was lighted. This weapon was then thrown at some enemy. When it exploded, the victim suffered awful burns. Claire became a specialist at treating patients with severe burns. She decided to move to West Australia to have a peaceful and normal life.

During the days that I fought for my life, I was treated by well-trained and competent doctors. I doubt that they had much experience with burn victims. Claire did have that experience. I’m sure that she guided the doctors to make good decisions. Claire saved my life. There is no other way to say it. When I regained consciousness, Claire would spend all her shift at my side treating me and trying to keep my spirits up.

After two weeks, I was released from the ICU and sent to a ward. I was suffering the most excruciating pain that I have ever experienced in my life. In the ward were three Aboriginals from the Nungaar Tribe. One of them said to me: “This white man’s medicine is no good. Let us blackfellas take care of you.”

I agreed as I felt that I had nothing left to lose. These people assembled many bath towels. They would get a couple of the towels wet. They would wrap the top part of my body. I felt like a mummy. When the towels dried up, new wet towels were applied to the top part of my body. After two days the pain subsided. My burn injuries started to heal.

After six weeks in the hospital, the time came for my release. I went to check out. I presented my yellow Australia Medicare card. I was handed a bill for 17 Australian dollars ($17.00 US all those years ago.) Had I been in the US, the bill would have been hundreds of thousands of dollars.

A new residence had been arranged for me while I was in the hospital. There was concern that Archie Butterly might, shall we say, “send someone by to finish the job that he had started.”

Rarely does one see a law enforcement agency praised. I have nothing but praise for the West Australian Police Department. They put in a big effort into investigating the case and providing me with security. They were never able to find the blond assailant. The mere fact that Butterly had threatened me was not enough to bring a criminal case against him.

West Australia has a Criminal Injuries Compensation Commission. Its job is to compensate victims of violent crimes. I qualified for compensation under this program. A famous Perth criminal defense attorney named John Rando heard of my case. He stepped up. He offered to represent me at my hearing to determine my compensation for being a crime victim. On the hearing day, I found myself in court. The morning was spent laying out all the details of my attack and injuries. The judge asked me to return to the witness stand after lunch. After lunch, I was on the witness stand from one in the afternoon to six in the evening. The judge questioned me for hours. He was a true country lawyer and was always courteous to me. I was physically and mentally exhausted when I left the witness stand. I told John Rando that I did not think that we would do well on a ruling.

At that time, the largest award for criminal injuries in West Australia had gone to a motorcycle police officer shot and critically wounded by a criminal suspect. On the day that my award was announced, many people were stunned. I had been awarded the largest compensation in the history of the West Australian program!
Justice came for Archie Butterly in 1993. He was shot dead by a police SWAT team while he was committing a violent crime.
Archie Butterly hurt me badly physically. He almost cost me my life. Two things that he did not take from me were my dignity and self-respect. I will leave all of you to reflect on that.