Well Done, Those Men

by Barry Heard

  ‘OK, if that’s the game you want to play, there will be no more movies in this theatre until further notice.’

  ‘Whoopee-do. Who gives a shit? We’re leaving in four days,’ pipes up Grunter.

  Yes, our training had almost finished, and we would be heading back to Pucka. We had been posted to the Seventh Battalion, Royal Australian Regiment (7RAR), an infantry battalion.

  After the movie, back in the hut, I was learning just how inept my upbringing in the sleepy hollow of Swifts Creek had really been. My conversations about the farm, Rover my special sheepdog, and Swanee the horse must have been so boring. I had often noticed that my mentions of roustabouting or droving cattle induced exaggerated yawns. However, tonight, I was privileged to be part of a serious discussion amongst the more mature, well-educated young men. After watching the movie above, the blokes tended to go along with Knackers’ argument, and agreed that gum chewing led to erection deprivation amongst Yanks. But, more important, from an Australian perspective, the blokes suggested that the above incident should have enlightened any female doubting the intelligence of young men of our era. They claimed that their response to the movie was an accurate account of the goings on within the mind of a 20-year-old male Aussie. I quote Ditzy, ‘See, we are not air-brained dickheads.’

  Insightful observations and balanced views were perhaps the highlight of these often misunderstood, fine young males. That’s what Ditzy reckoned anyway, or something like that. It was way above my head. He suggested Snoggons and Grunter, in particular, were examples of ‘see it’ and ‘say it as it is’. Furthermore, Ditzy reckoned Booster and I were perhaps the only intellectually naive members of our group. ‘Let’s face it,’ he said, ‘Booster, you’re a giggler, and a spud farmer, and you’ve worked on a dairy as well. You just don’t take things seriously. Turd, ya bloody wuss, you still squat to piss.’

  Ditzy said Booster told him he had about fifteen sexual thoughts a day. Whereas the rest of them thought of nothing else all day, and that women should be honoured. I admit I was still confused at this depth of conversation. But I did listen carefully. It was all part of growing up, I guessed.

  I had a wonderful time at Singleton, one of the fondest times in my life. At the end of three months, we marched out. Some blokes were posted to 3RAR, some to 7RAR, and the remainder absorbed into the system in a variety of ways. I had made some solid friendships, and it was hard for me to say goodbye. Apart from those going to 7RAR, I didn’t think I’d ever see the other blokes again. I wasn’t the letter-writing kind, and knew I wouldn’t stay in touch. Good-byes were light hearted as we split up, but it was a sad drive back to Victoria.

  Infantry training had hardened us up. We could carry heavy loads on our backs all day. Again, we learned we had to rely on a mate for a meal or brew if we were occupied somewhere else. Back in camp, I enjoyed the hut. We could talk and play loud music, and our conversations were crude. Women were spoken about in a way I hadn’t much experienced before. Sex was a never-ending topic, along with bragging, naturally. At this stage of my training, I felt the army was just a brief interruption to my life. It was OK, but I looked forward to getting it over with and returning home to my girl, the farm, my dogs, and work.

  Before reporting to Puckapunyal army base, we were given a five-day leave pass. I headed home for the first time since I’d been called up. The only difference the locals noticed in me was the sun-tanned white line across my face, left from the chinstrap on my slouch hat.

  MY NEW HOME: 7RAR, PUCKAPUNYAL

  I HAD GROWN up in a beautiful area of Victoria and loved the bush, the remoteness, and country people. The city had no appeal for me. During my short stay in the army I had missed the area. It was still the prettiest part of Australia I had seen. It was perfect. As I headed up the Omeo Highway on the mail bus, I enjoyed the pungent scent of ancient eucalyptus cleaning the air and tingling my nostrils. My ears were filled with familiar birdcalls until dusk. I arrived at the farm late afternoon. The evening breeze smelled of freshly baled lucerne ready for carting. It was a beautiful smell. There was a five-acre paddock right next to the house. This was the first cut. It dawned on me just much how I enjoyed the isolation of the remote Tambo Valley with its lack of traffic and its one radio station, so different from the hut back at Singleton.

  It was good to get home and sit on the riverbank under a large weeping willow tree, just a stone’s throw from our back door, where the water was so clean you could see the bottom. The Tambo River flowed swiftly because we were so close to its headwaters of narrow creeks. I’d explored most of them over the years. Now I sat listening to its noisy gurgling interrupted by birds and the wind rustling in the tall river gums … it was good.

  Reality rapidly returned. Dad was standing behind me. ‘What are you going to do with those two pups, Baz?’ he asked.

  The two pups, Tucker and Tinker, were the only living memory of my wonderful sheepdog Rover, who’d died a year earlier. I had been training them as sheep dogs for six months when I was called up. Neither pup recognised me now; I had been away too long. Like many kelpies, they were one-man dogs and, because they weren’t fully trained, they would be nothing more than a nuisance to another farmer. My heart was heavy as I said, ‘I’ll take them up the paddock and shoot them.’

  I believed I had no choice. My parents, understandably, assumed I was just doing a job that had to be done. I’d gotten my first rifle at twelve and, like most country kids, I was a good shot and had been encouraged to use a rifle to shoot rabbits, roos, emus, eagles, foxes, wombats, snakes, and cockatoos. My idea of a perfect school holiday back then had been a horse, a swag, a bag of spuds, some onions, flour, a camp oven, the 22 rifle, a packet of bullets, and heading bush for a week with my schoolmates. Shooting those two pups hurt me way down deep inside. Poor little buggers. Their father, Rover, had been a special friend and a wonderful companion. Why, I don’t know, but I cut my stay at home short, and headed for Booster’s place. Maybe I could talk to him. I stayed two days at Booster’s spud farm, and then we headed for Puckapunyal. I didn’t have fond recollections returning to Pucka. I still harboured fresh memories of recruit training with its abuse, screaming, and the endless insults and uncertainty. But Puckapunyal was also the infantry battalion 7RAR’s first home, and we were billeted in old Second World War barracks built during that conflict. They had corrugated-iron walls and wire beds. The old gang from Singleton was in the same hut and the same company: ‘A’ for Alpha. I still had the same companions I’d met on my first night in the army. We were given time to settle in, to be introduced to our new staff, and to get to know the other new faces in the hut. ‘Doggy the dude’, a cheeky bugger, was a new face, and he was already holding forth.

  ‘Most of this army training and fighting stuff is crap, ya know. Kung Fu is the bloody answer. See this green belt? I’ll show you what I mean.’

  Looking in Knackers’ direction, he encouraged him to take a swipe. Reluctantly, Knackers shaped up, ‘Ayyyyyyah Koo!!’ screamed Doggy, ducking then hacking at Knackers’ wrist with chopping motions. We all squirmed. That must have hurt. Several high kicks saw Knackers diving for cover under the nearest bed.

  ‘Come on get serious. Someone take a good swing at me, give us a smack in the mouth,’ Doggy taunted, jumping around like a courting flamingo. Chunder had a crack, and Doggy fended him away easily with oriental chants followed by his strange Russian Cossack jumps.

  ‘You have a go at me, Turd, ya piss-weak farm boy’ said Doggy, coolly flicking his head in my direction. I stood up like a boxer and gave a right jab towards Doggy’s jaw.

  ‘Ayah hunk yeeeeeeep!’ came a high-pitched Japanese squeal. He kicked me in the ribs and slammed my wrist with a chopping motion. Yep, that hurt!

  ‘For gawdsake take a decent swing at me, Turd. This is kids’ stuff.’

  I circled him several times and led with a strong jab. Whack, another bruise on my wrist and thumped ribs … youch.

  ‘You dudes are piss weak
. Come on Turd, ya wuss.’

  To this point, no one had taken a serious swipe at the Dude. Bugger him, I thought, I’d had enough pain. I stood still, took a kick to the ribs which nearly winded me, and then I let out a straight left as hard as I could punch. Doggy’s nose went dink! Blood spurted everywhere as he fell on his arse clutching his face. We were all laughing. Bad move on my part.

  ‘You arsehole, Turd. What’s your game, man? You hurt me, brother. I’ll bloody-well kill ya, ya wanker.’

  He leapt up on his feet, screaming Australian noises, not oriental ones this time, and I took off. What upset him the most was the laughter: the hut was in an uproar. He couldn’t catch me and I kept running, through the hut around the side and back through the door again. Our Doggy spent the next week with his nose in a great wad of plaster. He never mentioned Kung Fu again. We poked fun at him.

  ‘Prickths and ar’thols,’ he complained. ‘Why donth ya thow a bit of thimpathy?’ It was hard for us to keep a straight face. We took Doggy the Dude to the boozer and got him drunk. It was worth it. The poor bastard couldn’t get the glass up to his face properly, and half the beer dribbled down his front. But he told us he loved us and gave us a drunk’s rendition of: ‘Thar anther ma frienths isth blowing in tha wind.’ Beebop was disgusted by the ruination of such a classic song.

  Very early in our training at 7RAR, we were being slotted into positions in our section — jobs like the forward scout, rifleman, machine gunner, and his second. Each position had specific tasks and drills. There was a lot of emphasis on the shooting of our weapons. We were expected to be good shots and to use our ammunition efficiently. One shot was one kill. Out on the rifle range, we zeroed our rifles, which meant adjusting them as we fired them until they were quite accurate. After the rifles, we were tested to see who was most suitable for the M60 machine gun. They were lined up on the mounds ready to test. We were given a belt of 100 rounds each. Somehow, I managed to get 80 rounds into my target, and suddenly I was the section machine-gunner. For the uninitiated, the M60 is a very inaccurate gun and it tends to spray the bullets. That is its strength: it keeps the enemy’s heads down. However, in my hands, strange but true, the bullets hit a target. I enjoyed the notoriety. We started to do small ambushes, patrols, and forced marches. And yours truly was the frig’n gunner. The gun was heavy, too bloody heavy. Next time I was on the mound firing the M60, I aimed my gun slightly to the left, towards Knackers’ target. Afterwards he squawked.

  ‘Ya dead shit, Turd. We all shot at your target the last time, bastard.’

  It appeared no one actually shot at their own target. Now, that’s grunt ingenuity, eh? Poor Knackers was the new section gunner. He carried the gun from that day on, right through Vietnam, and he bitched the entire time.

  One afternoon, after one of the live ammo shoots out at the range, the sergeant mentioned that the animals, particularly the sheep, were becoming a pest. We were lined up, ready to march back to the trucks, when he asked, ‘Can any of you shear sheep?’

  You little bewdy, I thought, as my hand shot up.

  ‘Sure, Sergeant. Done it heaps of times.’

  ‘Well done, Private Heard. You’re the new company barber, ya dickhead.’

  It was a job I had right through the army, and I bitched about it, too.

  During this brief time at Puckapunyal, we had every other weekend off. We would all head to Melbourne and, fortunately, I had an uncle to stay with. It was good to get away from the routine and hard slog that characterised infantry training. It only took a couple of hours to drive down. Booster, Knackers, Snoggons, and I usually travelled together. One Sunday evening coming back, we somehow decided we should become radio operators or ‘Sigs’, as they are more commonly known. It meant a two-week radio course, very intense. It turned out to be totally different from what we expected. We had to learn things like codes, aerials, protocols, and names for different ranks and parts of the army. Tuning a radio and putting up a dipole aerial were just some of the training we jammed into this limited time. Then we learned how to pack the radio into our haversacks, and headed out for some real work. Little did I realise the radio would turn out to be heavier than the bloody M60. After that training, I became the 3 Platoon radio operator, or ‘Sig’.

  To date, my time in the army had been very hectic. It had been recruit training, followed by a short leave. Then, after infantry training, we were given only a few days off. And now, after only a few weeks in Puckapunyal with 7RAR, we were told were would be relocated yet again. We were to be given a short leave, and then our battalion was about to head to Canungra in Queensland for jungle training.

  The gang piled into Beebop’s VW as Boosters’ was still out of action at the panel beaters. Halfway to Melbourne we were pulled over by the cops for speeding. The copper politely asked Beebop for his licence.

  ‘Fuckoff, pig’ said Beebop.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Beebop,’ said Grunter from the back seat. ‘You’re a moron. Give the cop your licence, and let’s get out of here.’

  Grunter had been a cop before he became a Nasho; he could see us getting into some strife. He flashed his badge to defuse the situation, and Beebop, our intellectual hippy, drove off, muttering more about pigs after copping a decent fine from the law.

  Leave was fun. We packed as much action as we could into our limited time, then staggered, exhausted, back to Pucka. We arrived back with twenty minutes to spare on the Sunday night. Curfew was 2000 hours, and being late meant an automatic charge. We had just got to the hut when I received a message to report to Company HQ for a phone call. The phone was located in the orderly room. This could be awkward; a lot of rank worked in there. But when I walked in it was empty except for the duty corporal. On the phone was Grafter from our hut, pissed as a newt. He was still in Melbourne. Being a Tasmanian, it was difficult for him to work out where he was. Apparently, some well-meaning passer-by had helped him make the call in a phone box.

  ‘Where the hell are ya, Grafter?’ I asked.

  ‘Buggered if I know, Turd,’ he said.

  ‘Go out and see if you can see the street name. Don’t hang up, ya dumb drongo.’

  I waited patiently until he returned.

  ‘I’m on the corner of Walk and Don’t Walk Street,’ he slurred.

  We were getting nowhere.

  ‘What’s the nearest building, ya flaming idiot?’ I snapped.

  ‘Young and Jackson’s. Good place ya know, Turd, me old matey.’

  ‘Don’t leave that phone box. Hang up and I’ll get some help, ya mutton head.’

  ‘OK, Turd me ol’ buddy-buddy. Luvya, baby,’ dribbled Grafter.

  I raced back to the hut and got Grunter on the job. He rang some cop mates in Melbourne, who picked up Grafter and had him delivered to camp. They told some long-winded lie, and Grafter got off being charged.

  With the leave over, our attention turned briefly to Canungra, a famous jungle-training centre that had been in operation since World War II. We had heard some far-fetched (I hoped) stories of entering a Tarzan-like training course of swinging through trees, crawling through mud, and living off a jungle that was so thick it was impossible to fall over. However, the main focus of our innocent young minds was Sydney. Yes, we were being taken in a train from just outside Puckapunyal to Brisbane. We were told that we would be given some leave in Sydney, and if half of what I had heard were true, it would be fun.

  Perhaps a little insight into my own character might help at this stage. To suggest that when I entered the army I could be considered naïve would be like asking Sir Donald Bradman if he played cricket. My short time in the service had already increased my vocabulary, particularly the colourful side of it. I had gained a taste for beer and discovered ‘pop’ music. I learned that a person or, should I say a female, smirking at me and batting her eyelids didn’t really mean she was about to pass wind. There’s a good chance she found me sexually desirable. Bragging was another thing quite foreign to me, but I believe I could now clai
m to have gathered the art of exaggerating whilst maintaining a convincingly innocent look on my face. I learned to limp off the footy field though I wasn’t injured and, perhaps, most important of all, I had joined the local Victorian beer-lovers who continually denounced alcohol from any other state.

  Privately I believed that my manhood had improved markedly. Consequently I was abuzz with anticipation when we were told that on the way to our next training exercise we would be travelling to the venue via the city with the harbour bridge. In our hut, the excitement was electric. Bragging and listening carefully at the same time, I couldn’t wait to get to the centre of Sydney and check out the strip joints.

  CANUNGRA

  IT WAS a very old train that chugged north across the Victorian border. We were jammed into carriages, and played pontoon until we reached the capital of New South Wales. Six hours’ leave had been granted, so Kings Cross was definitely our first destination. The yarns and tall stories about this place just had to be confirmed. Six of us jammed into the front row of The Pink Pussycat, a strip joint. Although none of us would admit it, it was probably a first. A rather large blond woman was strutting her stuff on the floor right in front of us. She had removed all her clobber down to a G-string. We were spellbound. She had a body that was like a very large jelly on a plate. When the music stopped, she stopped, but her body continued to wobble for ten or so seconds. Some cheeky louts up the back were giving her a hard time. Lopps, always the gentleman, turned around. ‘Keep it down will ya, fellas?’ he said.

  The stripper told Lopps to ‘Shut up, smart arse.’

  It went downhill from there. Knackers, besotted with the stripper’s next act, lent forward, turning his head in a circular motion. The woman had her boobs spinning around. There were tassels glued to her nipples, about twelve inches long: the tassels, that is, not her nipples. Suddenly, like a bloody tiger snake, Knackers shot out his right hand and pulled one of the tassels off.