by Barry Heard
I had mixed feelings as I left the platoon. My mates were there, I got on well with the lieutenant, and it was my home. Most would see my new position as a promotion or compliment, but I didn’t. There was a nice, laid-back feeling in a platoon. Rank was there but, provided you did your job and didn’t get caught when the pranks were played out, personalities appeared almost superior to rank. Discipline had been so well ingrained that there was little need for the officer or NCOs to exert authority, so we were a happy bunch.
On arrival at CHQ, new faces were everywhere, and most of them outranked me. I was to share a tent with Walrus, the battalion Sig, and a highly trained operator. Our first task was to set up a permanent campsite and then build a command post, roughly copying the method being used in Vietnam at that time. It was a thankless job. The post measured about twelve feet by ten feet, and seven feet down into the rock-hard soil. We had to dig a large hole with entrenching tools, the small fold-up shovels that were part of our webbing. It might have simulated war conditions, but these tiny shovels were bloody useless when compared to crowbars, picks, or a decent farm shovel, and what should have taken six to eight hours took two very full days. Logs were laid on top and covered with sandbags, steps were dug in, and the interior was set up like a fully functional command post. It had maps, radios, a crude phone system, and lighting.
For all this effort it was rarely used, as in no time we were out footslogging, hunting for the enemy. As in Canungra, the enemies were Australian soldiers put there to harass us. We hardly saw them the entire time we were at Barrawinga. Pity, as the word got around quickly that if you were ‘shot’, ‘wounded’, or ‘killed’ you would be repatriated to the make-believe hospital where you could put your feet up, be fed, and have a shower every day. I’m not sure if the enemy was elusive, slack, or non-existent, but we were very keen for the first few days, and then it became tiresome. We were issued with blank rounds, but these proved too dangerous: some of the enemy were ambushed and shot at close quarters, receiving burns from the blanks. Orders came around not to use the blank bullets. Instead, we had to say ‘Bang! Bang!’ if shooting at the enemy.
Exercise Barrawinga was a slog. At times, it seemed like a waste of time. Every night we had to dig a foxhole, dug deep enough for us to hide or kneel in and return fire. It took ages, seemed pointless, and then the following morning we filled it in and moved on. Over time, my foxholes got shallower and shallower. On radio piquet of an evening, it was more work. Both the BHQ (battalion headquarters) and company radios had to be monitored. There was a lot of phonetic language, and the use of extra codes that were new to me.
Then our company received an instruction that made no sense whatsoever. Our water was restricted to two bottles per day and, with this, we were expected to cook, wash, be clean-shaven, and quench our thirst. We learned to ration ourselves, and share out what we had. Another way for the army to display authority and test our guile was to restrict cigarettes. Every smoker was limited to four cigarettes a day. Overnight, everyone suddenly became a smoker, and the non-smokers handed their four fags to their mates. Blokes mixed tobacco with tea leaves, and made rollies using toilet paper. Ingenuity prevailed.
My apprehensions about CHQ were misplaced, as the blokes welcomed me. We got on and, in no time, I was settled in. For the first few weeks we trekked long distances across flat, dry country in extreme heat. Navigation was difficult because it was so flat, but it was good training for Vietnam. I practised putting up high aerials, and used a static radio called a 510. It had a very-low frequency range and, of an evening, I would fiddle and see what I could find on the airways. Just on dark one afternoon, I had a fascinating radio conversation with a bloke way out in western Queensland who was riding a motorbike and checking on water troughs. He would have been hundreds of miles away. It was a freak reception.
Again, attempting to emulate the conditions in Vietnam, we were marched back to CHQ and prepared for helicopter training. It would be an elaborate training regime using a fleet of Wessex helicopters the British had on board a ship anchored somewhere off the coast. They appeared from over the ocean, and landed in a cleared open area. We had to line up in order and at attention, all sixteen of us, in a straight line. Then, on the signal, we knelt on the right knee with our left hand on the shoulder of the bloke in front. On a ‘thumbs up’ to the Pommy ‘stick’ commander, we rose in unison, stepped off with the left foot, and marched toward the helicopter. Our seat was allocated to us with a snap of the wrist and a flick of the head, like a ballroom dancer. Once inside and suitably strapped in, we had to hold our left hand in the air indicating our seat belt was secure. Then, the ‘slick’ commander would tap the pilot on the shoulder. He, in return, would give us a ‘thumbs up’, and the Wessex would start to roar into action, bumping up and down several times before slowly climbing into the sky.
The training exercise called Barrawinga took three months. We had marched hundreds of miles and dug numerous foxholes, and the consensus was that it was a ‘waste of bloody time’. Mind you, this was our opinion of all our training.
In reflection, though, it was good training for Vietnam: endless plodding, little contact, and then something would happen. It trained us to remain alert, and not to relax.
We were bussed back to Rockhampton, not allowed leave, and then we caught a long, boring train ride back to Pucka. It was weird to return to normality. I hadn’t spoken to a female, slept in a bed, or flushed a toilet for three months, so it was good to get some leave in Melbourne.
After leave, I was amazed to be promoted to lance corporal. This meant I would wear one stripe on my sleeve when in dress uniform. There was quiet talk around camp that we would soon be heading to Vietnam: the rumour had it that we’d board the aircraft carrier Sydney, sail to Vietnam, and relieve 5RAR, who had almost completed their twelve months’ tour of duty. But it was only a rumour.
One more training exercise saw the battalion return to Shoalwater Bay for a months’ further training. We returned to Puckapunyal to find it galvanised with new developments.
So much for security — the rumours had been right. We were marched to the big hall and received the secret message. There was a nervous excitement in the air. One more leave, then our battalion was to sail for Vietnam. A three-week trip on a large ship sounded great. Most of us were going home on the short leave. I was in our hut, packed. I had a lift to Bairnsdale, then I would hitch home for a quick break, come back, spend some time with my girlfriend … it was exciting.
Then a corporal appeared. There was a message for me to report to the company commander.
Tomorrow morning, early, I would be leaving for Vietnam by plane. There’d be no goodbyes, no leave, and only one phone call. I was part of the advance party. I would be leaving on April Fools’ Day, 1967.
PART 2
VIETNAM
WELCOME TO VIETNAM
THE BLOKES WERE STUNNED when they heard of my early departure. After a few handshakes, I grabbed my gear and left. It was very cold when we arrived at Mangalore airbase, a short distance from Puckapunyal. Sleet and light rain had greeted us earlier that morning, so we were all wearing our greatcoats. There was only a handful present from our company of over one hundred men at the airport— several officers, the company commander, a very tall corporal nicknamed Stretch, and me. However, our battalion was made up of four companies and other support groups. Small numbers from each of these groups meant that, in total, there was enough to fill the plane. We boarded the Electra Mark III civilian aircraft, and in no time it turned and roared down the airstrip. I looked out into the bleak, swirling mist, and nothing else was visible. I was still coming to terms with my rushed exit from Australia without any goodbyes. Already I was feeling isolated. No mates, no camaraderie, no joking or insults. Everything was very proper. This wasn’t fun; this was serious. The officers, who outnumbered the other ranks, sat together, nodding, referring to notes and other material. I sat with Stretch. I envied the blokes left behind. The boat
trip had been the centre of all our talk for that day. It was going to be fun. Plans were well advanced for mischief and skullduggery, the lucky bastards!
During the flight I was given some brief instructions. My job, once the advance party arrived in Vietnam, was to get radio experience with seasoned soldiers from 5RAR so that I would be competent by the time the rest of the company arrived on the ship in just over three weeks’ time. My new position of company radio operator was proving to be scarier than I had ever imagined.
After an hour’s stopover in Sydney, the plane carried on to Darwin, where we would be staying overnight. It was stinking hot in the northern capital. What a bloody waste bringing that great coat: in no time we were stripped to our shirtsleeves, and we headed for our barracks. Even walking to them was tiring. At least, we thought, a cold shower would fix that. But there was no such thing; even the cold water was warm. It was an awkward night in the boozer: no swearing, and muffled laughter, so I had an early night. At daybreak the next morning we boarded a 707 and flew the quick leg to Manila. As the aircraft descended, through the window I could see beautiful small islands dotted everywhere. Most appeared uninhabited, and were surrounded by clear blue water and a rim of snow-white surf. The small ones looked like sharp mountain peaks with little vegetation. It looked like Paradise.
On landing, this impression changed to the reality of grinding poverty. At Manila airport they were still doing repairs to bomb damage caused during the Second World War. We left the aircraft, had a brief meeting, and were given a short leave. Everything looked dirty, old, or rusted. There was rubbish everywhere. Stretch and another bloke beckoned to me, and we headed outside. The place teemed with people.
We hailed a taxi, and immediately there was an argument over the fare. Tempers quickly flared, and another taxi was quickly called. It was a blunt, crude encounter. But then, surprisingly, the original driver returned, there were smiles everywhere, and we drove off. Noticing my bewildered look, Stretch and his mate casually informed me they had experienced Asia before. Apparently, this was the custom when it came to money — barter.
The ornamented taxi, with polished buffalo horns on the bonnet and six chrome spotlights, took us into town. The driver drove like a bloody maniac. He would threaten every other driver with his fist, thump the steering wheel, throw his arms in the air, and then burst into laughter. He wore a blue-sequined cap with Elvis Presley-style silver-rimmed sunglasses. Stretch understood the man’s crude English, and shouted instructions in his ear. I held on tightly, giggling nervously like I would have on the Big Dipper at Luna Park. It was crazy: horns blared endlessly as we careered through the erratic traffic. Road rules seemed non-existent, motorbikes zipped in and out at breakneck speeds, and their riders wore no safety gear. Tiny bikes and scooters held up to four people. Ducks, dogs, and pigs were jammed into baskets or tied by the legs to the riders’ shoulders. Some animals hung across the seat. Then, just as bizarrely, there was on the side of the road a tiny man herding a mob of ducks that seemed oblivious to the mayhem of the traffic. He had a crook like a shepherd, and I imagined it was a scene that had been repeated for hundreds of years.
On the edge of the roads were old-fashioned pushbikes loaded with cane and other leafy produce. They were wheeled at jogging speed very close to the speeding vehicles. There were rickshaws as excessively ornamented as our taxi, being pulled by very fit men on foot or by pushbikes. They were popular with wealthy people or tourists, who perched up in the leather seats laughing at the chaos flowing around them. Everyone seemed in a hurry. It was as though the city had been ordered to evacuate rapidly.
Very old buses were packed to overflowing with people: kids sitting with their feet sticking out of the windows, and men hanging off the back and sides on running boards. On the roof of the bus were more people, goats, and cages of chooks, sacks, and bags. Everyone just held on tight. But the thing I noticed amid this mayhem was that people were laughing and talking. Kids waved enthusiastically, and everywhere smiles were predominant.
Manila was squalid and dirty and, above all else, poverty seemed to prevail. The place smelled like smog mixed with open sewerage. There seemed to be a lot of stray dogs and other wandering animals, all in poor condition.
The taxi pulled over, skidded to a halt, and there was further haggling over the fare; it had doubled since we left the airbase. For some reason, the driver had dropped us outside a ‘bar’ (brothel), where I had more propositions in ten minutes than I had had in my entire life. But I wasn’t interested. There was too much to explore and see.
In Australia, my height of five foot ten-and-a-half inches would have been slightly above average. In Manila, I was very, very tall. The majority of the locals could have walked under my extended arm and still had two inches’ clearance. After a short walk, we bought a local beer called San Miguel from a street stall. There I discovered new cigarettes called Salem and Lucky Strike. The blokes wanted to sit and enjoy a drink. After a time, I decided on a wander down the street on my own. An old man shuffled into my path and asked if I would like a young woman.
‘She’s a-good … does many things, velly clean,’ he assured me.
Mildly shocked, my Swifts Creek brain clicked into gear. Innocently, I assured him in return that I didn’t need a young woman; we weren’t allowed to have servants, and I could do my own cleaning, thank you. He shuffled off, bewildered. All that naiveté was about to change … soon.
I found a seat near a bus stop, sat in amazement, and soaked up the entertaining atmosphere. We’d come too quickly from the orderly, quiet, and tranquil setting of Darwin into the teeming chaos of Manila. I don’t mean the speed of the aircraft. Put simply, I was experiencing culture shock for the first time. Amazingly, in only a few hours we had gone from what I would call an organised, placid society of Australia to one that seemed in total disarray. No matter how much I thought I knew about other countries, I realised now that being there was the only experience that tells the truth. I enjoyed the stopover immensely.
We left the frenzy of Manila in the same aircraft. In no time, we were advised to put on our seat belts and prepare for descent into the Tan Son Nhut airport, Saigon. The descent was steep and fast; for safety reasons, there was a very narrow safe fly-zone for civilian aircraft. We walked down the steps onto a tarmac that looked as big as a huge wheat farm. As far as I could see, there were airplanes, army buildings, and huts. There were servicemen in green uniforms with funny haircuts and queer peaked caps that identified them as Americans. A finger with an air of authority pointed to a hut that seemed miles away. Lumping our duffle bags and other gear, we strode across the tarmac to a hut where inside we were given some local military currency and brief, vague instructions on security. Then we received that familiar army instruction — hurry up and wait! There was a delay until we could board the Caribou aircraft to Nui Dat: the Australian Armed Forces Base. After the briefing, with instructions to report in two hours, we split up. Most of the blokes headed for the wet canteen; it was sweltering hot and very humid. I grabbed a can and left. I was keen to have a look around.
Tan Son Nhut, the main airbase in Saigon, was awesome. It was the base for both civilian and military aircraft. Just like in Manila, I just sat on the steps of an army hut and soaked in the incredible scene. Twenty or more helicopters seemed to be simply flying around, and most were quite low to the ground. There were jets either taking off or landing every few minutes. Large C130 fixed-wing transport planes along with others were taxiing to another airstrip some distance away. A little higher in the sky were larger aircraft travelling in all directions. It appeared a miraculous feat of air-traffic control just to prevent them colliding with each other. On the ground were hundreds of planes, parked individually in the open and separated from the next plane by large tubular walls that protected the next aircraft if they were mortared or hit by rockets. Small vehicles were towing planes in all directions. For someone who had always like watching airplanes, this was the ultimate. Then, just
to my right, an aircraft with a difference took off. It was a Wirriway, I think, or a Second World War-vintage aircraft. It had taxied out from a large dome-like hangar that housed a number of these old planes. My curiosity couldn’t hold out any longer, and I asked the first bloke who came along what the strange plane was. He told me in an unfamiliar, drawn-out American drawl that it belonged to the South Vietnamese air force, and he was serious. He added that it was possibly going out on a mission.
The noise at the airbase was like a thunderstorm gone mad with the volume turned up — especially the jets, which took off at high speed and then blasted into the sky, in no time dwindling to just a dot. I was wishing I had a camera, but then again we had been warned about security in the briefing earlier. Come to think of it, the briefing had left me a bit confused. There was nothing mentioned about snipers, Viet Cong, and the like. No piquet, or digging in, and we weren’t even issued with live ammunition. Instead, we were told to watch out for the locals. They were touts and hustlers who dealt in the black market. What the hell was that all about? Don’t trust any of them, we were told. But I thought we were there to win their hearts and minds, to save them from a vile enemy? Further, I expected artillery fire, mortars, and rifle fire, but there was nothing. The war was somewhere else.
As I sat absorbed by the display, suddenly I heard, ‘Wotsya doing, buddy?’
