by Barry Heard
Shocked, I stepped back. She opened her mouth and uttered something, and I staggered back another step. Inside her mouth were a few rotten, pointed teeth, bleeding gums, a blue tongue, pus, and putrid breath. Shit, she was rotting to death. I was finding it very hard to remain composed. Stepping forward, I went to give her card the briefest glance when she suddenly waddled off to the side of the track, squatted, peed on the grass, and then followed that with a custard-like turd. As she started to wipe her private parts, it all became too much. Horrified by what I saw, I rushed to the other side of the track and dry retched. The 5RAR blokes just stared at me in bewilderment.
Later in the boozer that night, it was explained to me that the locals chewed the mildly narcotic fruit called betel nut, which rotted their teeth and gums. It is widely used in Asia. Oh, and there were no toilets in much of Vietnam, either. So ended day two. It wasn’t a good start.
Over the next few days, reality started to set in. After another very brief meeting I was to carry the radio for a platoon-sized night ambush. I was very anxious. Already my excitement about Vietnam, about the adventure and fun of it, had faded. But at least another Sig was coming out with me, and he would show me the ropes. The briefing also indicated that we were to set up an ambush under cover, just on dark, outside a suspect village. Slowly, I was being introduced to more stressful and intense jungle operations. Even after all those months of training in Australia, and my cynical opinion of their value, I still wanted to be told how to prepare. What was the best way to set up my webbing? How much ammunition should I take out? How many rations? How much water?
‘That’s up to you,’ I was told.
Inside the Sig’s tent I practised my codes for an hour solid, and decided to take a second spare battery just in case. Again, I asked, how many water bottles? I thought two, maybe three. Then I noticed that most blokes’ webbing belts were ringed with six water bottles. That seemed far too many. Then again I roughly understood we were still in what was called the Dry (a season lasting about six months with little or no rain.) And yes, I was finding the oppressive heat very hard to cope with. It seemed more humid than Canungra. I checked and double-checked my gear. When I was finally loaded up and ready to move out, Holdy the Sig looked at the pack on my back and just shook his head. I was prepared for most situations and, hey, I was very fit. Looking back, I realise I must have looked a complete dork. Thankfully, two new blokes who had flown in on the same flight with the advanced party were coming out also. They had been given the jobs of machine gunner and second. They, too, were saddled up and ready. Yes, they were somewhat over-loaded as well. I have never seen so many M60 rounds or grenades. Shit, they looked funny.
We were ready and moved out. The 5RAR blokes looked casual and quietly serious as we walked to the gates of A Company lines. There, several APCs were waiting. Not a lot was being said. To my amazement, we jumped up on top of the armour-plated troop carriers instead of heading for the safety of being inside. Within moments, we roared outside the Nui Dat boundary. The machines surged and reared as they sped along the narrow dirt roads. Suddenly they veered left, rushing across a dry paddy field into light jungle. We dismounted, and quickly patrolled deeper into the foliage. Just on dark we returned back into the clearing further along, and settled into an undercover ambush near the village. Soon blokes were posted at strategic positions, and claymore mines were put in place. I had the first three-hour shift on the radio. Bob Down and Phil Mein, the two new blokes from the advance party on the M60, had the first piquet, too.
My senses were on high alert. I could hear frogs in the darkness, and what sounded like a dog in the distance in the village. Being knotted in the guts was OK; you’d expect that, but I seemed to be coping. Well, I wasn’t visibly shaky, but I believed I had never been more wide-awake in my life. When the first radio check from HQ came through the handset, the voice seemed to boom, although in reality you could just hear it from two feet away. I acknowledged the call and sat staring into the blackest black you can imagine. I might add that the Sig who had been sent to assist me was sound asleep, asking to be woken only if it was a real emergency.
After an hour it was even darker. You couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. I believed I could see flashing lights in the distance. As I was deciding what to do about the lights, suddenly I received a coded message over the radio. I deciphered it in seconds: the SAS had spotted some VC troop movement near our location earlier that day, and the VC was heading in our general direction.
I was so frightened I stank. It was the curious, salty-urine smell of adrenaline — something I would experience many more times during my tour. Taking a deep breath and giving myself a strict talking to, I attempted a calm voice. Zealously, I tried to spread the word amongst the troops. The reactions came back at me impatiently.
‘Big fuck’n deal.’
‘Fuck off! I’m trying to get some fuck’n sleep!’
The Sig was really pissed off: ‘We get three messages like that every frig’n night, ya fuck’n dick.’
But Bob and Phil, the machine gunners from my advanced party, were super alert. Then it went very quiet.
Boom!
There were several explosions … very close. I squeezed the knob on the radio handset and shouted, ‘Zero Alpha this is One. We’ve been b … shit, bombed, err … mortared. Or something. Err … fuck, wait out.’
Shit. What the hell BHQ (battalion headquarters) back in Nui Dat made of that message I don’t know. They must have been totally confused, but said nothing. Well, not over the radio anyhow. Now it’s worth pointing out that the radio operator in any contact is in control, and that radio was mine … Shit.
Some strong whispers flew around the perimeter, and I can assure you that the 5RAR blokes were very wide-awake and alert now. The Sig had snatched the handset from me. Then, after an hour, he gave it back with strict instructions to wake him if anything happened. He actually went back to sleep!
There was more of the terrible quiet you sometimes had over there. I felt sick in the stomach and bowels, and tried to put the brakes on my imagination, which had run riot. Maybe a major VC force was just waiting until daybreak and then it would be on? I felt very vulnerable. What if I was expected to handle the radio through a sizeable contact? I wasn’t sure if the 5RAR blokes were suicidal, slack, or just so cool you couldn’t faze them. As for myself, I was very scared, extremely vigilant, and hearing noises that I’m now positive weren’t there. I checked my rifle. One up the spout? Bloody oath! Should the safety be off or on? Off … no, on. I might forget and pull the trigger … The radio is too loud … I’ll lay down with my ear against the handset … what if they hear the squawk of the handset … should I turn it off?
But no way was I going to bother the other Sig. I think he would have snotted me!
We sweated it out until daybreak, when the first sign of light revealed the story. It appeared that our ever-vigilant Bob and Phil, the machine gunners, had lobbed a couple of grenades at ‘something out there’ without calling ‘Grenade.’ All that bloody training: what a waste. Daylight also revealed the evidence of the noises that Bob and Phil had heard. By lobbing grenades, they had successfully wiped out a large proportion of the village’s chook population, which had been perched in a nearby tree.
On return to base camp after the ‘chook’ ambush, I was told to learn the ropes in the command post. It was a raised tent surrounded by sandbags in the middle of the company. There was a switchboard, radios, and maps, and it was the hub of the company. Not much was happening during my first roster. Then, while I was operating the switchboard, I heard over a radio that another 5RAR Company had suffered casualties — one bloke killed and a couple wounded by mines or something. Although there were three others in the command post with me at the time, nothing was said by any of them. No details were given, sent, or asked for. It seemed weird. I waited to be told to connect them to Battalion HQ … nothing. The men seemed devoid of emotion. Their faces appeared almost expres
sionless. I assumed the reason that I was asked to do an extended piquet in the command post was to allow for some reflection or a service or something. I did notice that everybody packed the boozer that night. Perhaps something was said in there about the mine incident. By the next morning I was tempted to ask questions about what had happened or whether they knew the blokes killed or wounded, but I guessed it was none of my business.
Having only been in the country for five days, I was enduring a very painful bout of diarrhoea. Throughout my time in Vietnam, as for many others, this was to be a constant problem. I was to lose nearly two stone during my tour. Even at this early stage of my time with 5RAR, I felt like an outsider: not homesick, but alone. I wanted to be with my own company, my mates, to talk to someone I knew. After eight days had passed, I was thinner, older, and wiser, and on a steep learning curve. I was also now a heavy drinker. I found solace in a can. However, I was becoming calmer on the radio. I could hear almost any type of message, and show little reaction or emotion. My concentration was centred on my voice being low, strong, calm, and clear. I was becoming quicker with the codes. It was nothing for me now to sit in the command post in base camp and monitor radio messages as the bloody artillery boomed overhead. It was different from the first time on my own in there, when I spent half the shift on the floor. It had been daunting the first time: alone on duty in the command post. The bloody artillery started up, and in the panic I became entangled with the handset wire; it snapped, the radio ended up on the floor, and I copped a bucket full of abuse from the duty sergeant.
When I was in base camp, I had little time off and didn’t mind the extra duties in the post as I found it hard to sleep. But as soon as I did have time off, I headed for the bar, not the bed. Prior to being in the army, my idea of relaxing was spending time with my girlfriend, going on a good horse ride, fishing, walking in the bush, or having a run. But now, the moment I was relieved from the post I headed for the boozer. My original plan of writing numerous letters to my family and friends was now a low priority. Occasionally I would grab a quick nap through the day. I had a lot to learn. But one thing hadn’t changed: I was still on my own. I wasn’t part of conversations or ration sharing. At times around camp I saw a bit of the other blokes who’d come over with me, but I mostly kept to myself. I was always busy. The 5RAR blokes didn’t seem to notice me. They answered any questions I asked, but made no effort to bring me into their circle. Much later I understood why …
Oddly enough, I started a diary the day I arrived in Vietnam. Initially, it helped me remember the numerous things that seemed to happen all at once in this strange place. I wrote about many incidents and events. My girlfriend kept newspaper clippings as well, and years later both helped enormously when I began writing about my experiences there.
My next foray into the jungle would be several days on a small patrol as the radio operator — the only radio operator. In camp, I attended a briefing. When we were due to go out, I watched carefully as the others packed their gear. Most took the minimum of food, plenty of water, sufficient ammunition, grenades, and claymore mines. Setting up my gear and the radio was getting easier. I had swapped my A-frame haversack for a new Noggy (Vietnamese army) backpack that was popular with other radio operators. I had stopped wearing socks, started to use a long sweat rag that was wrapped around my neck, and I ditched my underwear and went without.
We plodded down to the airstrip. An American pilot with a snoopy cartoon figure on the back of his helmet choppered us out. He tried hard to practise some Australian slang on us: ‘Gor dey, moity! Ow yor goiwing?’ Bloody hopeless, but I was told that the Yanks had this obsession with acquiring our slang. Along with the others, I now sat on the floor in the chopper as it came into the landing zone on the edge of the jungle. The seats had been removed; there was no time to buckle up. No sooner had the chopper landed than it took off again. Shit, I just had time to leap off. It was so quick I was the last off and assumed there was something wrong. Maybe the pilot had to get out in a hurry?
Quickly, we moved away and then started on a patrol deep into the jungle. On my radio, there were messages of enemy sightings. Calmly, I passed this onto the boss. The first two days were tense. Artillery was called in on the second day in the early evening, due to enemy sighting and contact close by. The shells were very close, exploding just in front of us; their telltale whistle was very short. I was having trouble with radio reception. Again, the sheer power of the noise was so powerful you could feel the shock waves. It made operating the radio and reception difficult. I decided to half get up, and knelt on one knee to improve the position of the short antenna.
Thump!
No whistle. The shell seemed to have burst directly over my head in the jungle canopy. The blast of the noise thumped me on my back. Groggily, I sat up, blood pouring from my nose, and both my ears filled with blood. The shrapnel from the shell had blasted forward so no one was hurt, just shaken. I was given a quick cleanup and a pep talk from one of the blokes.
‘Next time stay down, ya fuck’n dickhead. Cover ya fuck’n ears. Fuck the radio.’
My nose dribbled freely for the rest of the late evening. The sporadic shelling continued, and I was feeling like shit. Just on dark I settled in for the first piquet. It would have been better to volunteer for the entire evening, as I couldn’t sleep anyway. I had a searing headache during the night, and I continued to cough up lumps of blood and vomit. It was difficult to do it quietly, so I put the bush hat over my face. Early next morning I must have looked terrible. The boss asked if I was OK. ‘Just a bad headache,’ I muttered.
My nose continued to bleed, and my ears were making a loud hushing noise. It was difficult to hear. Suddenly, with no warning, I vomited a large black mass like a pile of tripe, collapsed forward, and passed out. With slaps and encouragement I came to. They emptied one of my water bottles over my face, and I indicated I was OK. What utter bullshit!
My nose was still bleeding an hour later, and it was decided to call in a dust-off (helicopter ambulance) that took me to the helipad next to the medical tent at base camp. I don’t remember what happened there, but then I was choppered to 36 Evac’ Hospital in Vung Tau. I vaguely recalled being carried in, strapped to a dentist’s chair, and a Dr Kabaker cleaned up the blood and vomit, and peered and probed for some time. Finally, he announced that my ears had had membrane weeping, common after such a close loud blast, and that my nose would have to be cauterised.
With a large pair of long-nosed silver pliers, he pushed cotton wool filled with some painkiller up my nostrils. The relief was instantaneous. Then this bloody doctor produced what looked like an electric soldering iron and inserted it into my nose. I felt nothing, but could smell my flesh burning. With a headache like I’d gulped down a gallon of ice cream I was ushered straight out of the chair, put back on a chopper, and sent back to Nui Dat. Back in my tent at camp some hours later, no one seemed too interested in my ordeal. My guess was they were amazed that I’d been hospitalised with a blood nose. The patrol returned the next afternoon. Stretch came over to see how I was. Not too good, in fact. The stench of burnt flesh, followed by a putrid smell of rotting tissue in my nose, made me dry retch and vomit for three days.
I had been with 5RAR for two weeks. My confidence was low. What would these blokes think of someone who vomited in front of an old woman? Who had to get flown out with a blood nose? Who ran to the toilet every half an hour … that ever-willing good guy who did extra piquet instead of telling them to ‘Get stuffed and do your own’, as I really wanted to spend some time in the boozer? I was having doubts about my ability, credibility and, most importantly, whether I had what it took to perform the job of radio operator. I admired Holdy the Sig. He was calm and professional, and his voice was clear and strong. In a contact, he was in control. He had a brilliant memory and could decode a message in seconds and then, an hour afterwards, recall a coded grid reference. He was a genius. I have never seen anyone with such a brilliant memory. I could neve
r take over from him. All of them, the 5RAR blokes, were men. I felt like a boy.
For their last week in Vietnam the 5RAR blokes were winding down, ready to go home. I was trying to run the command post and trace drunken blokes when they were needed. Most of them were in the boozer all day. I warmed to the 5RAR ‘A’ Company boss. He was rough around the edges, swore just like his men, and did a lot of yelling, but was respected by the troops. The first time he used the radio in the jungle he muttered, cursed, swore, and bellowed.
‘Git me Shelldrake, you dopey prick!’ he shouted. ‘That’s bullshit, over!’
Later in my tour, I was constantly reprimanded for my own bad language.
Already, my short time with 5RAR felt like months. I was given little or no time off, had recurring bouts of diarrhoea and, perhaps most disappointingly, I had received no mail.
At last! The Sydney was about to dock at Vung Tau, and our blokes were due into base camp late the next afternoon. For the 5RAR blokes it was pack-up time. Holdy and the other blokes in my tent were having the briefest of clean-ups. He turned to me.
‘Keep me fuck’n tranny and fuck’n bed lamp, mate, and the stick books … anything ya fuck’n don’t want, give it to the Sallyman.’
‘Who?’
The Sallyman. You know, the Salvation Army bloke. They’re got a fuck’n hut, you know. They give stuff away to the locals and the like.’
‘OK. I thought they just brought you coffee.’
‘No, they’re fuck’n great, mate.’
As they packed and sorted through what little belongings they had, they all threw a lot of gear on my new bed — bits of webbing I would find handy, a plastic cover to keep cigarettes dry, and a hammock that turned out to be handy in the heat of the day. The other thing I noticed was that there appeared a sense of awkward sadness. I expected excitement, bragging, and relief. But there was nothing much, other than light banter. That night in the boozer it was like a farewell party, even though they would be leaving together. There was a lot of awkward half-hugging, handshaking, backslapping, and sculling of beer. I supposed that this was the end of a major event in their lives.
