Early one evening in the first week I was called to the casualty room. A young soldier had injured his shoulder during a game of football. After examining him, I had little doubt that the shoulder was dislocated. The usual method for reducing a dislocation requires a general anaesthetic for which I would need to send him to the Casualty Department at nearby Liverpool Hospital. However, first I had to seek permission from the CO. On the phone, Bill said,‘Give him a couple of Panadeine forte tablets and 20mg of Valium by mouth, Doctor. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
Curious to see what he had in mind, I did as I was told, and Bill soon arrived. Big, bad, bachelor Bill carried quite a presence in the small treatment room. He examined the soldier carefully.
‘Yes, you’re right, David. He has an anterior shoulder dislocation.
‘Now soldier,’ he said gently, ‘I want you to take your time because it may hurt a bit, but the Valium and pain-killers will soon kick in. Lie on your stomach and dangle your arm over the edge of the bed. Gradually, let all the weight of that arm be transferred to your bad shoulder. Then, just rest there with your arm hanging. The pain will soon ease.’
With groans and muttered obscenities, the soldier took some time getting into position. I watched the CO intently. Bill was unhurried and patient. He talked to the soldier quietly, from time-to-time laying his hand on the back of his head and neck, as you might do to calm a frightened animal. I was impressed that someone as apparently big and tough as the CO could be so gentle. You could see that he understood and respected the young man. The soldier became calmer; his left arm hung as a dead weight. He seemed to have relaxed, and was almost asleep. After half an hour, without warning, Bill suddenly reached forward and gave the arm a firm, downward pull with a sideways twist. There was an audible click and the shoulder swung back into its normal position.
‘Good!’ said Bill, ‘That was easy enough. Apply a triangular sling and get him a bed in the ward, David. He may need some more Panadeine forte in four hours. I’ll check him in the morning.’
I had read about this method of reducing a dislocated shoulder, but had never seen it done. The text books put it in small print. I thought what I had just witnessed was the art of medicine, which was so unlike the science I’d experienced in teaching hospitals. Bill Watson won my undying respect that evening.
If I had been posted to a teaching hospital other than Concord, the thought of enlisting in the army would never have crossed my mind, and my future medical career might have been very different. But, six weeks at Ingleburn made me want to join up. For the first time I felt I belonged in Medicine and that, in the army, I could make a contribution.
Of course, there was a deeper, unspoken reason for wanting to join the Army. I wanted to get close to other men. Despite my private reservations about the faith, I still adhered to and tried to live by Christian principles. These prohibited me from having sex with men, but I thought it must surely be permissible to provide young soldiers with a medical service. When I told my parents, sister, and brother about my decision to enlist, they were clearly puzzled. I’d never displayed any warlike or competitive tendencies before, nor any interest in joining the military. I had to give them some reason, so I said that, after my experiences at Ingleburn, I felt I needed to serve in Vietnam. This explanation could hardly enlighten them, but it was the best I could offer. My mother was much given to crying, so as expected, she cried a lot. I wondered how she would react on learning I had been killed or injured in the service of my country if she reacted like this on the first mention of my intention to enlist. But none of the family tried to dissuade me. Only one person, my brother’s best friend, an earnest Christian boy, himself a medical student, demanded a personal explanation. When cornered, I could only fall back on my father’s argument that I believed it was God’s will for me. In retrospect, who could say it was not?
The army was desperately in need of young doctors. If a doctor would commit to a year in Vietnam, he could enlist through the Citizens Military Forces (CMF) and wasn’t required to sign on for the mandatory six year term that applied for other soldiers Accordingly, I entered the army in January 1967 as a probationary Captain in the CMF, seconded to Full Time Duty (FTD) with the Australian Regular Army (ARA). Initially, I was posted to Healesville School of Army Health in Victoria, to join seven other doctors on a six-week course in military medicine and surgery. The course proved boring, out-of-date, and largely irrelevant, although the Healesville setting was delightful. It was a gentle introduction to being in the army. At the end of the course, we each had an interview with Brigadier C.M. Gurner, the Director General of Medical Services (DGMS), and received our postings.
‘Congratulations Captain Bradford,’ he said. ‘You’ve completed the course satisfactorily. You are no longer on probation. I am posting you as Regimental Medical Officer to the Artillery’s 4th Field Regiment.’
I was crest-fallen.
‘Thank you, Sir. But I had been led to believe that I would be posted to the hospital; that is, to 8 Field Ambulance at Vung Tau.’
‘That was the original intention, yes. But we need younger doctors with the fighting units. There are now enough older doctors to staff the Field Ambulance. Besides, I think you will get on well with the CO of the Artillery Regiment.’
This was a blow, because I wanted hospital experience with lots of trauma and excitement, but there was no point arguing. I was now in the Army. You did as you were told, and went where you were sent.
‘Where is 4th Field Regiment located, Sir?’
‘At present, the Regiment is at Wacol in Queensland, preparing to depart for Vietnam to join the Task Force at Nui Dat. That’s about thirty-five kilometres inland from Vung Tau. You’ll receive your written orders officially this afternoon.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’ I hoped I sounded convincing.
‘You won’t have to march in to the regiment at Wacol until the middle of next week. Meanwhile, enjoy your break and have a Happy Easter.’
I saluted as smartly as I was able and withdrew.
When I arrived home at West Pennant Hills on Easter Sunday, I joined the family around the table for lunch. As gently as possible, I broke the news that I was to join ‘a fighting unit’ at Nui Dat. My mother looked as though she would cry again. My father broke in quickly:
‘Tell us what an Artillery Regiment does exactly, Davo.’
‘To be honest Dad, apart from firing guns, I’m not too sure. I know they don’t have to go foot slogging through the jungle like the Infantry. They’re well back from the action.’
‘That’s a relief,’ said my mother bravely.
‘How many men will you be looking after?’ asked my brother
‘About seven hundred I think, but maybe more. There will be several Units, too small to have their own doctor, camped near the regiment at Nui Dat.’
There wasn’t much more I could tell the family. I knew little enough myself. At the end of the meal, my father, as usual, took out his Bible, read a passage, then prayed that the war in Vietnam might be successful and that communism would be contained. He prayed too for soldiers serving in Vietnam, and for me, that we might be kept safe. We finished, as we always did, reciting the Lord’s Prayer together. I drove north for Wacol on Monday afternoon. The closer I got to Wacol, the more nervous I became. But I needn’t have worried, because the officers and gunners were all on exercise at Tin Can Bay. A cheery driver took me to join them in the bush.
At Tin Can Bay, I was under canvas for only the second time in my life, sharing a tent with my medical sergeant, Bob Allen, whom I had just met. In the evenings I couldn’t help remembering those nights at the Scripture Union camp. I little realised that the strange obsession with male genitals I had first experienced back then would lead directly to my being in this place fifteen years later as doctor for seven hundred young soldiers. It was surprising how quickly I adapted over the next couple of weeks. It was as though I had been made for the job. Under the tutelage of Lieutenan
t-Colonel Reg Gardner, the CO, I gained a rudimentary knowledge of the artillery and how the regiment operated, and under the direction of Bob Allen I found out what my role as Regimental Medical Officer (RMO) involved. In retrospect, the Brigadier was correct. I got on well with the CO and I was well suited to the Artillery Regiment. It proved a fortunate posting.
* * *
5J Walker-Smith. Journal of the Royal College of Physicians of Edinburgh 2006; 36:355–361.
6Ross Dunn (Surgery) and Hugh Gibson (Medicine).
7Rita Quinn and Olga Anderson.
Chapter Four
Vietnam
In the company of the regiment, I flew out of Brisbane airport on 1 May 1967, en route to Vung Tau, via Darwin. I had been in the army exactly thirteen weeks. The sum total of army experience I had notched up included six weeks of ‘military medicine’ lectures, mostly irrelevant, at Healesville. I had spent a few weeks on exercise with the regiment at Tin Can Bay, then two weeks back at the regimental base at Wacol. Just before we left for Vietnam, I was required to undergo jungle warfare training at Greenbank, but after only twelve days even that had been interrupted so that my mandatory seven days’ pre-embarkation leave at home could be squeezed in. But on that course, I had learnt how to fire a rifle and pistol, how to lob a hand grenade, how to jump off the back of a still moving truck under simulated fire, how to be a member of a section on patrol through the jungle, and how to carry out guard duty at night from a weapon pit. Now, with a great deal of trepidation and considerable doubts about my preparedness, I was heading off to fight for Queen and Country.
The flight from Darwin in a RAAF Hercules aircraft was long, noisy, and uncomfortable. A good-looking, headquarter battery gunner, John Dickinson, sat next to me, calmly reading Emile Zola’s Germinal as if he were in the local library rather than on his way to war. I felt very inadequate beside him, and longed to feel the same lack of concern. I’d never read Zola myself, though I dimly remembered at school hearing about the Dreyfus case and J’accuse.The noise of the Hercules engines precluded easy conversation, but I managed to discover that John was a regular Army soldier, not a ‘Nasho’ (National Serviceman), so his taste in literature seemed even more striking. He also told me his hobby was drawing and painting. I decided there were hidden depths, yet to be revealed, in my gunner patients.
We were all on edge as we neared our destination. We had no idea what to expect. There had been no briefing, but, somewhat ominously, we had all been issued with weapons in Darwin. There were self-loading rifles (SLRs) for the gunners, and pistols for the officers. I had a medical haversack packed with first aid equipment. I remember hoping that I would not need to use it when we first set foot on Vietnamese soil. We disembarked at Vung Tau and then flew the short distance to Nui Dat in a Caribou aircraft. On arrival, Vietnam hit us in the face. The taskforce base was deluged in a heavy tropical rain-storm and the local humidity was about 98%.
Nui Dat was a shock to the system. We were confronted by rubber trees and thick mud, heat, and high humidity with sudden downpours, tents and pre-fabricated buildings, tangled barbed wire and weapon pits, and deep pit latrines and piss-phones.8 And there was the noise – planes, helicopters, guns, and generators – loud and unrelenting, even at night.
In joining the Army, I wanted to get close to men – well, here was my wish, granted with a vengeance! Up close and personal, in an all-male camp, a whole Task Force of young men. Initially, it was confronting. But, I soon settled down and got on with the job. There were daily sick parades, hygiene inspections, vaccinations, reports to be written, indenting for medical supplies, visiting the gun batteries, and regular briefings. I was supported by a medical sergeant, ahygiene sergeant, and three medics, one for each battery. I soon got to know my team well. Bob Allen, for all his wisecracking, proved a tower of strength, and ‘Chuck’’ Berry, the medic for 106 battery was a lovely lad, just nineteen, whose devotion to his gunners became legendary throughout the regiment.
I soon realised that as RMO I was privileged. I had the perks of an officer. I had a tent to myself, meals and drinks in the officers’ mess, and a degree of freedom not available to ordinary soldiers. If I wanted to visit a gun battery in the field, I could ring for a helicopter and mostly my request would be granted immediately. If I wanted to go to Vung Tau to visit a gunner patient in 8 Field Ambulance, I only had to requisition a Land Rover with driver, and an extra soldier as ‘shotgun’ and off I went. I had the authority of being a doctor. The CO had ultimate responsibility, but he and other officers had to pay heed to the RMO’s advice on medical matters.
My war was not conventionally exciting. I did no patrolling through the jungle. I was never shot at nor did I shoot at anyone. Soldiers wounded in warfare only came under my care on a few occasions. In my twelve months in Vietnam I spent two weeks on secondment to Army HQ in Saigon and less than a week on R&R leave in Taipei. For the rest of my time I was at the task force base in Nui Dat, with outside deployment only for large-scale military operations in the field, supporting the gunners at Fire Support Bases (FSBs). During my time in Vietnam I was out of the task force base about ten weeks all told on six different military operations.
The most unpleasant event during my time in Vietnam did not involve the enemy. The murder of Bob Birse, a lieutenant in the regiment with whom I had become friends, happened in December 1967 on a Fire Support Base well away from Nui Dat. Only one battery – 106 Field Battery – occupied the FSB. They were providingartillery support to a company of the infantry’s seventh battalion, who were out on extended patrol at the time. 106 Battery’s one medic, Chuck Berry, was with them. As was customary when only one Gun Battery was out in the field, I stayed back at Nui Dat.
One night after dark, a grenade had been thrown into the officer’s dug-out. It exploded right next to Lieutenant Birse. Chuck Berry was called at once. He did his best, but it proved impossible for him to control bleeding from a major artery severed by shrapnel from the grenade. Given the nature of the injuries, the need for security because of uncertainty about the cause of the incident, the thick darkness and restricted access to the injured man, it would have been equally impossible for me, or any other doctor, to have done anything more effective. News of the sudden death of the young officer caused great disquiet back at Nui Dat. At first, it was thought a Vietcong soldier must have sneaked into the base and thrown the grenade. But, next day, the CO informed me that the death was almost certainly murder, with one of the gunners being responsible. He ordered me to go to Vung Tau and obtain, as evidence, samples of shrapnel from Bob’s body, now lying in the morgue at the American army hospital. The experience was extraordinarily disagreeable. I was not unfamiliar with dead bodies of course, but it was unpleasant and emotionally challenging to have to dig around in the body of a friend and fellow officer, a man not much younger than myself.
I had liked Bob from the start. He was outgoing, happy-go-lucky, full of fun, and a little reckless. He was also cheeky and good-looking. We had got on surprisingly well. Bob often tried to shock me, and often he succeeded. I couldn’t help liking his ‘not give a damn’ approach to life, because, at the time, I wished I was less uptight, just like he was. For his part, I think he secretly respected me and my old-fashioned Christian principles.
I saw quite a bit of Bob during the first few months in Vietnam, mainly in the officers’ mess, but on a couple of occasions he would drop by my tent for a chat before turning in for the night. These chats, as far as I remember them, were a little more serious than our light-hearted banter in the mess. From him, I gained an appreciation of the strains and stresses all the young lieutenants felt, being responsible in a war zone for the men under their charge.
Bob’s death came as a huge shock to me as it did to most officers and gunners in the regiment. Murder made his loss seem monstrous and far less acceptable than if he had been killed by enemy action. I missed him and grieved for him. A few weeks later, a court-martial was held in Vung Tau at which I had to gi
ve evidence of my examination of his body in the morgue. The suspect gunner was found guilty and sentenced to five years’ imprisonment back in Australia. However, a court of appeal later dismissed the charges and ordered his release because the evidence was apparently circumstantial. The whole episode was highly unpleasant, and it undoubtedly damaged the regiment’s reputation and left most of the gunners in 106 Battery significantly traumatised.
Throughout the year in Vietnam, I had unfettered access to junior officers and gunners, except when they were actually firing the guns. I could talk to them anytime, anywhere. If I wanted to listen, and I did, they could tell me anything. Over a third of the entries in my diary for 1967–1968 record a conversation:
‘Talked for over an hour with Bombardier Banks (our postman).’
‘Interrupted in letter writing tonight by a gunner who wanted a chat.’
‘Long discussion in mess with lieutenants from HQ Battery.’
‘Talked all afternoon with Bob Allen.’
‘Tom Sullivan, the doc from the American Battery, dropped by for a chat.’
One on one, with two or three individuals, sometimes with groups, I talked my way through that year in Vietnam. I was never bored. Soon, I went out of my way to create opportunities for personal talk with the gunners. I was fascinated to learn about their different lives, backgrounds, outlooks on life, prejudices, likes and dislikes. I gave an opinion when asked, but mostly I remained a passive listener, absorbing information like a sponge.
Tell Me I'm Okay Page 4
