When the army rolled into Hermannsburg on that crisp, cold desert morning in July, fear spread through the community like wildfire. For days, people in this small Northern Territory town, an hour and a half's drive from Alice Springs, had watched news reports detailing claims of child sex abuse and violence in communities just like theirs. They'd heard the Prime Minister declare a "national emergency" amid military talk of "interventions" and a "taskforce" and swift, decisive action. Now, without warning, soldiers in camouflage fatigues had arrived in their town.

To the people of Hermannsburg, still haunted by memories of the Stolen Generation, there was only one possible explanation. "They were saying, 'There's an army team coming to take our children,'" relates local elder Mildred Inkamala.

Pulling on her clothes, Mildred, 50, half-walked, half-ran to the health centre a few hundred metres from her home to see uniformed men unloading equipment from an army truck. From the safety of a small sand hill, a group of frightened women watched, clinging to each other and crying. Many of their children had already run away to hide.

There had been no warning, no application for a permit to visit the community, no consultation with the traditional owners of the land. But on July 10, as Mildred discovered, Hermannsburg's health centre was being requisitioned by a medical team, the first group to be sent to the Territory as part of the federal government's crackdown on child sexual abuse.

Driving to Hermannsburg is a journey through a different Australia. The rough burnt-orange sand of the desert stretches as far as the eye can see, covered with bushes and spindly trees, and flanked on one side by the deep-purple hills of the MacDonnell Ranges. Occasionally, a wild horse wanders up to the side of the road - the same road the grog runners use to bring in alcohol from Alice Springs, 125 kilometres away.

Founded as a Lutheran Mission in 1877, Hermannsburg is the birthplace of famed landscape painter Albert Namatjira. It also has a few historic buildings to tempt passing tourists, but potential visitors are usually discouraged from wandering into the community by the need for a permit.

It feels small and sleepy. Roughly 500 people live here, but it doesn't seem that big. The pastel-coloured houses with corrugated roofs are in varying states of repair: some front yards are tidy and neat; others are strewn with rubbish. Their proximity to the urban hub of Alice means that the two local shops are well stocked, although prices are city-high - $2 for a tin of spaghetti, $3 for a small box of Weet-Bix - and there's a limited selection of fresh produce. Further-flung towns in the Territory such as Tennant Creek aren't so lucky; up there it can cost $7 for a capsicum, for example, and that's if fresh vegetables are available at all.

This morning the community is peaceful. There are only a couple of indicators that all is not quite as tranquil and idyllic as it seems: the heavy-duty grilles over the windows of the smaller shop, which makes it look more like a bunker, and the army tent strung up outside the health centre.

Stretched out in a picnic chair outside the tent, Dr Emil Djakic is enjoying the early morning sun. A tall, unflappable man in an akubra hat, Djakic is a Tasmanian doctor who volunteered three weeks ago to join the federal government's health teams. A week in, he seems settled, barely registering the siren that rings out through the town to signal the start of the working day - a hangover from the mission days.

A week earlier he wasn't quite so relaxed. "The challenge for us was to hit the ground running, building relationships and trust," he explains. "But when we arrived, the people here were uncertain, bordering on quite anxious. They felt the teams were here to accuse them and take their children away - and to be honest they had good reason to feel that way, given their history."

Djakic reveals he only knew that his team, consisting of a doctor, two nurses and the administrative assistant from his local practice, was being sent to Hermannsburg the day before they left. They were meant to be going to another community, Santa Teresa, but a funeral there necessitated a change of plan. That said, he doesn't think they should have delayed their arrival here by even a day. "In five months' time, the wet season will shut things down in parts of the Territory, making many communities inaccessible," he says. "The government boldly wanted to initiate a response to the health crisis and, at least, this is a beginning."

The army was useful in helping to unload supplies and set up the tent, he adds. Two reservists from the Norforce regiment remain in Hermannsburg; their main duties, reveals 23-year-old Brian Liddle, are ration runs, heavy lifting, and entertaining the local children "so they don't get bored".

Among the community, people aren't quite as understanding of the government's eagerness to act. Having lived in Hermannsburg all his life, affable local identity Kenny believes the officials should have consulted the elders. "We didn't know what to think, we thought there was a war out here," he comments, only half-jokingly, of the moment the army arrived. "What they should have done is come quietly to the council, sat down in the office there and said, 'Excuse me, can we put this to you?' And we would have said, 'Yes, that's OK.' But they never came."

Read the full investigation in the October issue of marie claire.

What do you think?
Should the government have acted sooner? Do you support its radical approach?