by Barry Heard
‘Gotcha,’ said the half-pissed Knackers.
Shit, Knackers: how to create a riot in one short lesson. We made a dash for the door as there were heavies coming from everywhere. Lopps was a bit stiff; he copped a good kick in the arse, and Grafter was nearly collected by a stool. The language coming out of the stripper’s mouth was ripe. Somehow, we made it to the door. Thank God the army had made us fit; we skiatled down the street and headed for a pub. Knackers, the instigator of the mayhem, was completely brassed off.
‘I’ve lost the frig’n tassel.’
Later, back on the train, there were many tales of erotic encounters and sleaze joints. What a great life!
Finally, we arrived at Roma Street station, Brisbane, Queensland, and then travelled by truck to Canungra. It is southwest, just above the border with New South Wales, located in dense rainforest. As a preparation for the Vietnam jungle, Canungra was a good location: dense, tangled jungle, referred to as rainforest; draining humidity; and heat. The army had devised a training course for us that would push us to the edge of physical endurance. The difficult terrain was a totally unfamiliar environment for most of us. The mountains were so steep that, at times, we had to pull ourselves from tree to tree to get to the top. There were plants that stung like stinging nettles, and tiny ants that had a bite like a bull ant. Yellow-tailed wasps attacked savagely if you brushed their bush; their sting swelled and itched for a week afterwards. For many soldiers this was the trigger for many hot-tempered outbursts. My ignorance of this environment annoyed me. I’d spent years in the mountains as a youngster. I always felt at home in the bush where I grew up. The Angora range, edging the beautiful Tambo Valley, was one of my old hunting grounds. I knew how to avoid ants and stinging plants, whereas the rainforest at Canungra was totally foreign to me. I crashed through the jungle like a wild pig, and cursed like the others.
The confidence course was our first training exercise. It had been developed during the Second World War, and it was famous. It did a lot of things, but giving us confidence was not one of them. We had to run along a path like a steeplechase. Logs were placed close together and others were laid longways. We had to crawl underneath barbed wire that was stretched just above the ground. Rope swings were looped across muddy, stinking bog holes; and, of course, once they were covered in mud, blokes slipped down into the holes. Logs were suspended from high A-frames that at first glance seemed impossible to run across. Walls that were eight and ten feet tall ended with a long drop into another deep mud hole on the other side. It was very hard. We were given a time limit to complete this obstacle course, and ammunition was fired over our heads to frighten the crap out of us. Give you confidence! Bullshit.
At the end of this long course we tackled the bloody tower. It had been constructed on the bank of the Canungra River. A narrow wooden ladder went vertically up thirty-five feet to the top. At the end of this heart-thumping run, you had to climb to the top of a tower, where there was a small platform. You were expected to run off into space, sailing through the air to finally plunge into the Canungra River below … poomffff. Water would go everywhere; and someone would haul you either up the bank or into a boat with a hook.
I recall one poor bastard getting half way up the ladder and freezing in fear. The instructor, a mean arsehole, clambered over bodies packed on the ladder. When he reached the frightened bloke, this ignorant instructor simply kicked at the fellow’s fingers, giving him the option of either dropping or continuing the climb. He was terrified. Finally, he made it to the top, where they picked him up and threw him off. We rallied and offered support; but, like many of us, he had a fear of heights.
Apart from the Confidence Course, other challenges were fun. There was a flying fox across the river that generated so much speed your feet had to be running flat out before you hit the ground or you came a hell of a gutser. We would run into bales of hay about twenty yards from the landing spot — or at least that was the theory. Some missed the bales and zipped off into the jungle like charging rhinos. We climbed cargo nets and ropes suspended high from trees. Other ropes were tied from tree to tree about twenty feet above the ground. Sliding across these ropes was difficult, as there was always someone else on them at the same time. Then there was Poddy: yet again the victim of being frightened of heights, he fell from one of these ropes, broke his leg, and was rushed to hospital. He received no sympathy from the trainers; in fact he was labelled as useless, not fit to be a soldier.
The Jungle Training Centre camp was located well into the rain forest. The only buildings were the administration; the rest were tents. The bridge near the tower led across the fast-flowing Canungra River. On the other side was an area set aside for moving-target practice with live ammunition; it was located in dense rainforest and was the next stage of our training. There were targets that suddenly swung out from behind trees as you walked alone along a track. An instructor, walking well behind, pulled a wire and, presto, a bad guy constructed of three-ply popped out. Bang! We had to shoot the bugger. We carried the famous Second World War Owen machine gun (OSMG) small arms machine gun with a magazine full of live ammunition. The aim was to get five rounds into the target. This was difficult because the OSMG had a hair trigger. We were told that it would go off if you bumped the butt on the ground. Consequently, most blokes edgily emptied their entire magazine into the first target and walked the remainder of the trail with no ammo.
However, TP took the award. TP, short for ‘teat puller’, was a dairy farmer and as thick as a brick. We played endless harmless pranks on the poor bugger. We’d already told him the condom you got with your pay was actually a balloon and that, when you got home on leave, you blew it up, and wrote ‘I love you Mum’ on it. We supplied the crayon and, dutifully, he’d obeyed our instructions. His irate mum had written a letter to our lieutenant. Naturally, we hadn’t had a clue what she was on about. Now our smiling TP was sneaking along the jungle path, machine gun at the ready and the instructor slightly behind. There was a bend in the track, and the jungle was dense. We sat in a vantage position further up the hill where we could just make them out. The instructor reached down, and quietly pulled the wire that released the target. TP stood frozen to the spot.
‘Shoot the frig’n thing, ya dopey prick,’ the instructor screamed.
‘It won’t go off, mate,’ said TP.
He called everyone mate. It always got him in trouble, but he wouldn’t learn.
‘Undo the safety slide, you dumb bastard.’
‘What?’ said TP in full panic mode, turning, flicking the safety switch, and pulling the trigger at the same time; good job he was a rotten shot. Bullets went everywhere. Fortunately, he missed the instructor and the target. The instructor had taken cover. Standing up, we were stunned. TP’s magazine was empty; we guessed the instructor’s pants were full.
‘Sorry, mate,’ said TP.
Silence prevailed.
‘All get ya arses down here,’ shouted the instructor. We made our way down,
‘The less said about this, the better. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sergeant,’ we chorused. Grafter offered him a cigarette. We just sat, had a fag, and talked about nothing for twenty minutes. Suddenly, the sergeant jumped to his feet.
‘Three ranks at the double’ he snapped, and we jogged back to camp. We were early. TP was transferred. We never saw him again, but we talked about him for ages, hoping he was OK and had been sent to a unit where his chances of being asked to shoot a rifle were minimal.
After all the camp training was completed, we saddled up to head into the jungle to undertake a re-enactment of an operation similar to one carried out in Vietnam. We operated as platoons of approximately thirty men. There was an enemy permanently stationed at Canungra, and it was their task to harass us during the re-enactment. On our third night in the jungle we hoochied down into a harbour position with point guards posted on piquet. The rest of us just flaked, exhausted. Next morning we woke to find the ‘enemy’ had had a
ball. Two rifles and a machine gun were missing, stolen while we slept. Worse was to come, however. Later that day, three of us did a short recce to locate water, and got lost. I had the radio, but how do you break the news that you don’t have a clue where you are? You say nothing. Ironically, we spent a most enjoyable night together. The lieutenant was a good, down-to-earth bloke; until that afternoon, I had never spoken to him personally.
The third of the trio was a new addition to the platoon. His name was Crotty, a reject from another part of the army: officer training. I’m glad they rejected him, because he became an essential part of our platoon. Crotty was very intelligent and cultured. He had a strong spirit and character. He had to, as he copped a lot of flack from the senior ranks. He wasn’t a smart-arse; just smart, which can be misleading, because in the bush he was hopeless. He had no practical skills and couldn’t even tie a knot. He was teamed up with Knackers. They were hilarious. Invariably their tent would collapse or blow away, and they cooked the weirdest meals with their rations. And they would argue; it was great entertainment. Crotty would use logic, big words, and his cool academic demeanour to irritate the hell out of Knackers, who would just shout louder, get very cranky, and threaten to punch the crap out of Crotty. They were good mates.
So there we were, three raw grunts, sitting in the jungle, lost, unable to find water when, suddenly, the enemy appeared out of nowhere. They showed us where we were on a map and, more importantly, where our platoon was located. We ‘found’ them within the hour. It remained an in-house secret.
I found it difficult to move through the rainforest. Jungle vines tripped or pulled as they hooked in our webbing. Mosquitoes buzzed irritatingly every evening, sucking blood from any exposed flesh. Despite the fact that we’d had intensive physical training prior to Canungra, most of us tired easily, and struggled in the humid conditions. It was a relief to cross the Canungra River on about day five. It’s a deep river: dirty, swift, and about thirty yards across in most places.
A tactical river crossing was planned, since we were pretending to be in a war zone. The forward scout and a rifleman emptied their water bottles and used them for flotation. Leaving most of their webbing behind, they jumped into the river and swam across, pulling six-foot-long nylon toggle ropes. They tied these to a tree on the far bank, and pulled them very tight about three feet above the water. Knackers, our intrepid M60 gunner, and his second were to be the first across and set up a covering fire zone. The idea was to hook the rope under his armpit, keep the M60 above water, and have the two on the other bank pull him across. Knackers leapt in, the rope stretched and stretched, and Knackers just disappeared. Bubbles appeared … the rope twanged to the surface … more bubbles. Just at the point of panic, whoosh! Knackers burst to the surface, with no webbing, no M60. He was very unhappy. Before anything could be said he quipped, ‘Get rooted, the lotta ya.’
The river was deep, and I don’t know if the M60 was ever retrieved.
The jungle was good training for Vietnam. It was rare to find an open area in the rain forest. Even on the ridge tops, the vegetation remained thick and the ridges narrow. The ground was riddled with tree roots. Even finding a small clearing to set up a hoochie and bed was difficult. Carrying the radio was hard; I had to continually duck, sway, and look overhead to find a path for the antenna. I was clumsy, and continually lost my balance and temper.
Slowly, we adapted to the oppressive humidity. At the end of Canungra, I was as fit as I had ever been in my life. We were given a short leave. We were trucked to Enoggera army base, and from there we went to Brisbane.
After the break in Queensland’s capital, we were on a train, this time heading back to Pucka. There was nowhere much to sleep in the carriage as our army gear covered the floor. It was a beautiful, clear, crisp morning as the train pulled out of Roma Street station, Brisbane. We were in good spirits. This wasn’t because of the weather, the Canungra experience, or the fact that we were heading for Pucka, but because we had learned a new skill — how to sneak copious amounts of grog onto a train without being caught. We were only encouraged by stern warnings that we would be dealt with harshly if we attempted this. Stacka a born leader, organised lookout scouts to be posted at either end of the carriage. The rubbish compartment behind a cupboard door had its bin removed and was the main storage area. Our water bottles held many well-known spirits: whiskey, the most popular, was mixed, and found its way into Coca-Cola bottles. Yes, we were allowed such healthy beverages. Basic pouches weren’t checked, only our backpacks. Out came the cards and the money; Pucka here we come. The further we went, the merrier we got, particularly Doggy Dude.
Poor Doggy couldn’t take a trick. Similar to Beebop, a devout Christian, or maybe a Buddhist by now, he didn’t gamble. He just sat and watched and, as the odd one out, he drank more than his share. We were just about to lay our bets when he announced from the corner of the compartment that it was time for him to have a leak. The card game had to stop to let him past, and he staggered up the passage.
A dubious, drunken eyewitness account later confirmed that not only did Doggy Dude take the wrong turn and open the wrong door, but that he’d actually unzipped and started to piddle before he realised he was outside the train, which was doing about forty-five miles an hour. Several days later, Doggy was returned to us at Pucka. Naturally, we were concerned for his health; we all loved the Dude, even if he was a pain in the arse. The tough bastard hadn’t broken a single bone, but had scratches that made him look like he’d been attacked by giant possums. He couldn’t recall stepping out of the train, but he reckoned he’d been sober by the time he stopped rolling.
We were given another short leave, and I went to Booster’s farm. He was a potato grower. I tried to display a little interest in the holy spud, but how long can you hold a potato and glow with admiration? Booster would almost genuflect as he placed the bloody thing back in the rich red soil. We enjoyed potato with every bloody meal. I believe we even had a spud sponge. On our second night, we went to a ball at the KooWeeRup Hall. There was top music, a talented singer with the band, and a good supper. Everyone was friendly, and it made me homesick. For me, as for most bush kids, it was almost compulsory to learn ballroom dancing as I grew up. My partner for the night won the belle of the ball. She was whisked off for a photo session, and I was standing like a wallflower when the singer, in her breaks, asked me for a dance. She was a honey. Her name was Patti McGrath. When she realised I was a Nasho she asked me if I was going to Vietnam, and I said I had no idea. Patti said she would be going late the following year, and added, ‘If you do go, look me up.’ I told her that, given half a chance, I sure would.
Back from leave, we were getting ready for a major training exercise in Queensland named ‘Barrawinga’. We would be gone for three months without a break. It sounded daunting, and was only a few weeks away. During our time with the battalion at Pucka, we trained Monday to Friday, with weekends off. One weekend I decided to stay in camp, and put my name down to work as a waiter in the Sergeants’ Mess to earn a few spare bob. I had promised our CSM I would organise two other helpers, but had left it till the last minute, knowing there were plenty of blokes from interstate who spent weekends in camp. On Friday, the CSM approached me about the other two helpers. In a corner, I fobbed him off. I knew there were blokes about, but still I hadn’t organised a thing; so, grasping quickly for names, I blurted out a lie. ‘I asked Booster and Snoggons, but they weren’t interested,’ I said.
‘We’ll see about that!’ grunted the CSM, storming off towards our hut.
Booster and Snoggons worked the weekend with me at the Sergeants’ Mess, and both treated me very coolly. It was the worst weekend I had had in the army. Snoggons gave me a well-deserved mouthful; he had a girlfriend in Melbourne, and Booster had been looking forward to going home for the weekend. By ratting on two of my best mates, I had broken the only code that made the army bearable, that of mateship.
EXERCISES BARRAWINGA AND NILLA QUA SHOALWAT
ER BAY, QUEENSLAND
THE DILAPIDATED OLD TRAIN that had brought us to Queensland moved its way slowly down the main street of Rockhampton. Yes, that’s right — the main bloody street! There were no barriers or fences, and vehicles travelled on either side. People stood within feet of the train’s windows, looking in at us curiously. Perhaps the train was rarely used in this sleepy northern town, or maybe it was because we were about to enter the largest peacetime land exercise in Australia. But we certainly attracted a lot of attention as we passed by the shops and pubs.
Army trucks were waiting for us outside the town limits in a large paddock, ready to transport us to Shoalwater Bay. The dust on the dry road reduced visibility to almost nil. After a lengthy drive through tinder-dry bush, we stopped in the middle of nowhere and got out. The bush was only lightly timbered, with no big trees like those from the high country down south. Long kangaroo grass grew in tussocks everywhere. That night, swarms of mosquitoes descended on us. I could believe there’d be mosquitoes in damp, humid Canungra; but here it was so dry that we should have been warned about bushfires. Where did the mozzies breed? Then blokes that had slept on tussocks were covered in ticks. After that first night, no one slept on the kangaroo grass, and the mosquito nets went up at dusk, but the insects were persistent. If you rolled to one side and your arm touched the net, the mozzies would suck away while they had the chance. We would go to bed in future fully clothed.
Again we started patrolling, hunting for the enemy. On the radio I was slowly gaining skill as the 3 Platoon Sig. The weight of my pack was still making me very unbalanced, but I was getting stronger. After only a week into the exercise, my platoon commander summoned me and delivered an unusual message.
‘Report to the boss at CHQ (company headquarters).’
On arrival, to my amazement, I was told that I would be the company Sig. Hell, I still wasn’t confident as a Platoon Sig, and now I was to be in control of the radio network that was linked to the three platoon radios. Naturally, it being the army, I wasn’t approached or asked my opinion; it didn’t work that way. Reluctantly I returned, packed, and headed for CHQ. My new boss was the big boss, the company commander. I felt like I had been picked to open the batting in cricket for Ensay against Swifts Creek, but their opening bowler was Wes Hall, from the West Indies. The boss was ‘it’ in the company. No one questioned his authority.
