Well Done, Those Men

by Barry Heard

  We didn’t get much sleep that night, but had a lot of fun. I rose early; Knackers was snoring, grunting, and farting. I went down to the beach for a quiet walk. An enterprising local with a horse and cart offered to take me for a drive around Vung Tau. He said the entire trip would be ‘400 Dong.’ I agreed and the driver, the pony, and I trotted off. It was pleasant, busy, and noisy for such an early hour (about 6.30am). The markets in particular were buzzing with energy and a lot of shouting. The smell was terrible: rotting vegetables mixed with general refuse and human waste makes a ripe mix. After a long scenic trip that included offers of a wristwatch, sex, a private full-on massage, haircut, and head job, we eventually headed back to the hotel. We both hopped out of the cart, and I pulled out my wallet.

  ‘600 Dong,’ said the driver.

  ‘Bullshit. You said 400.’

  ‘I go lot further than normal. 550 Dong?’

  I was all set for a good bartering session when the little bastard grabbed my wallet and zipped off at a great rate of knots. I have very few physical attributes. My mates continually reminded me how ugly I was, and the nickname Turd really suited me. But I could run like a rabbit and I was fit. It took me two minutes to catch the bloke. I held him by a handful of shirt behind his back. He was so light and small I could have lifted him above my head. He squealed and shouted, but the onlookers left us alone. I searched his pockets — no wallet. I shoved my hand down his shirt — still no wallet.

  ‘Where did you throw it, ya little prick?’

  He gave a shrug and a small smirk. I was just about to let him go when I grabbed his shorts and ripped them down; the wallet dropped out from under his crotch. I strolled back to the Grand Hotel past his horse, stopped, turned around, and went back to the pony.

  ‘Feel like a day off, mate?’ I said to this tired little pony.

  I unhooked the traces, slid out the poles, took off all the harness, including his bridle, and smacked him on the rump. He bolted for the marketplace about 400 yards up the road. He was in for a full belly of greens. Picking up the poles, I plodded off like a horse pulling the cart behind me. I took it around the back of the hotel. I woke Knackers carefully, as he had a good left hook if you were too close.

  ‘Come and see what I got down the street.’ He wasn’t impressed with the buggy, and went back to bed.

  Time to go into the jungle again. Since the wet had started, the leeches, mozzies, and other nasty biting insects were a problem. It was suggested we try a new method: soak our clothes in insect repellent. This worked well for a few hours for the first day until the rain or our sweat washed it out. As usual, like before any operation, we sorted our rations and got another briefing. Bad news: I was to carry the battalion radio. I hadn’t expected this. I’d assumed someone from Signals Platoon or with far more training than I had would take over. The battalion radio was as far up the chain as you could go. My confidence with the company radio was at a stage where I at last felt I was competent. But the battalion network?

  I’d learned that ‘patrolling in the jungle’ was, in fact, a lot of plodding, with 90 per cent inaction and 10 per cent mayhem during a contact. But what was constant was the stress and physical exhaustion. I could pack and be prepared for the jungle in no time, but deciding what rations to take was still a dilemma. It was always entertaining in base camp as we packed our gear. It was like a swap meet. Rations were spread all over the floor.

  ‘Swap ya two cheeses for a tube!’ This was condensed milk, which pulled the highest bargaining power.

  ‘Tea for coffee.’

  ‘Sausages for egg omelette.’

  Bloody egg omelette. Looking like a newborn baby’s turd and tasting only slightly better, it had very low bartering power. After the swapping, what to throw out? I could make the pack lighter by cutting back on the amount of meals, and compensate by gorging myself just before we headed out. But towards the end of the operation, I would be starving, cursing myself, and promising never to be so stupid again. After the food was organised and packed, came the grovelling. Our tent had three Sigs and a batman, and the poor buggers had enough of their own to carry. We’d venture out and ask blokes to carry a spare battery, which was as heavy as the rations. It was a big ask — but I never had a knock-back. I always remembered whom I’d conned the last time out. With that organised I returned to my tent and started to put my own gear together.

  The main pack, located on an aluminium frame high up on my shoulders, carried the spare battery and rations. The spare antenna, ground cover, tent, net, and hexamine stove would all be jammed into my bum pack. This was attached to the webbing belt underneath the main pack, along with a machete, shovel, and two water bottles fitted into a pouch. One bottle had an enamel mug jammed onto it, which was used for cooking, catching water, and brewing up tea. Then came the rounds or magazines and grenades that filled two basic pouches. These were located on the belt at the front. A torch with a slit for reading maps and decoding in the dark, a spare battery, and insect repellent were stored in yet another pouch slung beside my bum pack. Codes, a chinagraph pencil, and a plastic photo-album for writing in were folded inside a plastic bag and stored in my side pants pockets. I had to wear a watch — timing is critical in the army.

  One privilege of being a Sig was that we could carry a lighter weapon than the riflemen, because of the added weight we carried. We had the choice of a 5.56 Armalite that had smaller rounds and magazines, and a plastic body and butt, which made it lighter. But the standard-issue self-loading rifle was much preferred by most Sigs. It had more punch, and worked much better in the jungle than the Armalite which, unless regularly cleaned, tended to jam in the Wet.

  Finally, secured on the top pack in the centre of my back above the rations, was the radio. I hated the heavy bastard of a thing. To be fair, it was an excellent radio, far superior to the ones used in training in Australia. In my breast pocket were a box of waterproof matches and a special letter. I had removed the person’s name and address, and kept the envelope inside a waterproof bag. It was illegal to carry such things, but the contact with the outside world that letters gave me made the penalty, if I was caught, seem irrelevant. I read it every night. Finally, I would receive a second briefing. While the first had given us an indication of what to take into the jungle for the duration of the operation, the second involved the latest codes, any new call signs, and any instructions relevant to the radio in the area of operation.

  I’ve made it sound as if I was fully aware of what we were about to be engaged in, its location, and how long it would last. But, in reality, I had no idea of what we were going into, apart from the start time and an estimate of duration to allow me to organise rations, batteries, and codes. However, being on the main radio meant that, once we got into the jungle, there were times when I knew more than most in our company. This wasn’t through tactical or privileged planning, but through the radio. I listened to other companies’ reports of movements, sightings, and contacts.

  Normally, I just followed the bloke in front of me, the boss. That was my lot. The poor bastards in the platoons would mostly have no idea of the why or wherefore of most operations. Uppermost in the grunt’s mind would be when do we get out, back to base, a beer, and a bed? This is where I would come in, and the countless questions would begin. Mates would sidle up and whisper, ‘What the frig’n hell’s going on, Turd?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘When are we gett’n outta this arsehole of the earth?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘What was all that shit last night, Turd?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  Sometimes I could answer the questions if it had been shots or artillery in the distance. But, mostly, I would be no help.

  ‘What do ya do all day on that frigging radio, Turd? Listen to music, ya useless prick?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  A lot of the time, we were all in the dark.

  However, in Vietnam, being a radio operator was a totally different responsibility to being a
rifleman or machine gunner. First, it was important to maintain good communications at all times under any conditions, even when in contact with the enemy. Naturally, if hard pressed, I would use firearms, but it was paramount to keep the outside world informed about what was going on.

  Not only would I have communications with base camp, but with American accents in jets, helicopter gunships, and a variety of networks. The radio was critical when we were bringing in a dust-off helicopter or finding the correct location. A smoke grenade would be thrown, and the chopper would state the colour so that the operator could confirm our location. I heard conversations from other sources, and was generally well informed. This made any radio operator a prime target for the enemy. Most operators I met had stories of having to maintain radio contact at the cost of putting themselves at great risk as a target. Another difficulty was keeping good communications at all times.

  Normally the short antenna, called the battle antenna, was adequate; it was like a flexible, good-quality tape measure. It would rarely become entangled in the dense jungle and, even if it did, it would twang back into the upright position after it was yanked free. However, there were times the radio might not operate successfully. If you were flat on the ground, a kneeling position had to be taken. Then, in swamps, behind a hill or in jungle with a high, dense canopy, the signal would waver or disappear altogether. Most times, putting up a longer antenna solved that problem. The short or battle antenna was unscrewed and the long one put in its place. It was like a bloody fishing rod and a neon flashing light combined. It was easy for the enemy to spot. Also, the long antenna got continually caught up in vines and other foliage. Regularly I would be thrown off balance and crash into things or fall heavily.

  That was a minor problem, though, compared to what lay in the branches overhead. The long antenna would swish into a nest or colony of red biting ants, and they would drop down the back of my shirt, very angry and demanding revenge. By the time I got my pack off, slapping frantically at my shoulders and neck, I would look like I had been belted with a wire brush. I would be fuming. I was told my glare alone made most take a step back.

  But, without doubt, the main problem was simply the weight I had to carry. All up, the gear weighed about twenty pounds less than I did. My skin would chafe badly across my shoulders, and I had a continual sharp pain between my shoulder blades. It was a relief of an evening to slide the pack and radio off my back, and to have a stretch.

  However, there was more to the radio than just its weight and reception. There were codes, and I mostly had to speak using the phonetic alphabet. The cryptic code was developed or decoded from a book that every operator carried. There was a page of jumbled letters devoted to one day of codes, which changed to the next page at a designated time. It was very involved, and it took some time to encode or decode radio messages. Most messages sent or received were grid references that were a position on a map located by eight numbers. Keeping eight-number grid references in my head was OK, but recalling them promptly was difficult. Although it was illegal to write down important messages received, Kards and I used to take small photo albums with us. They were plastic, and could be written on with a chinagraph pencil, which worked in the wet. The message could be quickly rubbed off with the aid of a bit of spit. It made decoding a lot quicker.

  As mentioned earlier, a lot of time was spent in the jungle simply moving around without having any contact with the enemy. Apart from informing headquarters of our position, the radio would be quiet for long periods. This was the sign of a good network: no chitchat. But, every now and then, this efficient network would come under pressure — not necessarily from an enemy contact, but from another friendly operator. My first experience of this came from an American jet pilot. He was on a mission that had been ordered by our battalion. A village directly in front of us was the target, and I was his contact radio. His call sign was Leadslinger 12; mine was One. Our communication over my radio went something like this:

  ‘One … Ahhhh … One … Call sign One … Ah, this is Leadslinger 12 … I’m approaching your location. Ahhh … Snoopy 33 (a Bird Dog or fixed-wing spotter aircraft) is on the scene and ready to roll. Do you read me, over?’

  This took about fifteen seconds. I responded with my call sign.

  ‘One, Roger, over.’

  ‘Ahhhh … One … Roger, One, this is Leadslinger 12. I hear you loud and clear. Could you throw smoke, One … over?’

  I gave the signal to throw smoke, and informed Leadslinger 12.

  ‘One, Smoke thrown, over.’

  ‘Ahhhh … Roger, One, this is … Leadslinger 12, ahhhh … Gotcha, I see green smoke, confirm green smoke, over.’

  ‘One, Roger, over.’

  ‘Roger, One, I copy. Bird Dog has smoked the target, and I’m ready to rock and roll. Keep your heads down buddy, over.’

  I didn’t answer. There was no point.

  ‘One … ah, this is Leadslinger 12. Do you copy last, over?’

  ‘Roger, out,’ I said firmly, trying to get rid of him.

  ‘Ah … Roger, One, this is Leadslinger 12, Ahhhh … bombs gone … ah whoop, wheeee! Go baby, go … ahhhh, wait … wait … gotcha … ahhh … Bird Dog confirms a good hit, over?’

  Another 20 seconds.

  ‘One, roger, out.’

  ‘Roger, One. Ah … this is Leadslinger 12. You hang in there, you hear? Gotta mosey back now, buddy, kick more arse, over and out.’

  A well-meaning bloke, no doubt, but it was the wrong time for a chat. Then the jet was gone and off my frequency. Thank Christ. It had been pumped into us in the brief training we had in Australia that silence was the sign of a good system. The radio was not like a phone, where you picked up the handset and both people could talk at once. Networks of radios were joined by a certain frequency. It might mean ten radios were linked and able to listen, but only one was able to talk or send a message at the one time. If this was ignored, and more than one radio tried to speak on the same network, the radio jammed. You got what was called ‘fuzz’, an unintelligible crackle on the network. Consequently, messages sent had to be precise, short, and clear — and then you got off the air. This was crucial, as contacts happened when you least expected them.

  There was an added surprise the first time we used the jets. It happened to be the same talkative Leadslinger 12. During our communications, the jet circled at incredible speed and flew so high a couple of times that it almost disappeared. The Bird Dog meanwhile circled just above a village and then fired white smoke rockets at the target to give the jet a sighting by which to launch his rockets. These small aircraft had a legendary status for us. Not only did they fly directly over suspected targets, they were not deterred by enemy fire as all it did, according to the Bird Dog, was to confirm enemy presence. Crazy would be my description of such behaviour!

  With a cloud of snow-white smoke rising above the village, Leadslinger 12 reappeared, and tore around the horizon very low to the ground until he was directly behind us. He approached so fast the jet appeared to jerk through the air. Suddenly he let his payload of bombs and rockets drop from under the wings, a long way from the target, and directly behind us. Shit!

  We were already on the deck, holding our ears. Desperately, we tried to get even lower … and … nothing happened. The collection of rockets and bombs zipped over our heads and hit the target, spot on. Afterwards we worked out that the speed of the aircraft would mean he’d have had to drop his bombs from some distance away.

  During the conflict in Vietnam, Canberra bombers from Australia were used as well. Compared to the Phantom jets the Yanks used, the Canberra was quite outdated and very slow in the air, and I only spotted them on a couple of occasions.

  Along with other Aussies, I flew the flag for the RAAF and boasted that they were extremely accurate, although we had no idea really.

  IN THE JUNGLE

  BY LATE MAY, the wet season meant not only heavy rain but strong winds and storms as well. Fortunately, the rain was always w
elcome. It started late afternoon and continued into the night. It was like a wild, warm shower. Most mornings in Vietnam were hot, and the humidity at times was like being in a sauna. During this time the growth in the jungle was rampant. Vines twisted around other plants and trees. Bamboo would grow inches every day. Even in base camp the grass around our tents had to be hacked back with the machete every time we returned.

  This day, mid-afternoon, a dark, menacing storm was brewing. In single file, we tramped from the company lines to the airstrip. Choppers flew in six at a time and then gave us a rough ride in the heavy rain and swirling winds towards the jungle. The choppers bumped and jolted as they churned through the air. I put on headphones in the chopper and listened to their network. I heard that a gunship had shot a VC as he was attempting to cross a river near our LZ (landing zone.) On reaching our destination, with great skill our pilot allowed the aircraft to thump briefly into the mud. We had seconds to get out. He then tilted forward and disappeared into the grey sheets of pelting rain. As we quickly half-ran away from the LZ, I wriggled and shrugged my shoulders as I always did after I first entered the jungle. Back in base camp earlier I had yet again rearranged the backpack to balance the weight more evenly, somehow hoping it would be more comfortable. I did this continually during my tour of Vietnam. It probably never made any difference, but I thought it did — until I put it on, anyway.