by Barry Heard
This time out we would be staging an ambush. Although it could be sprung quite early, we still carried maximum rations and ammunition. This allowed for maximum time in an ambush and a spare day’s food if something went wrong. In some ways, an ambush was a subtle bonus for a radio operator, because the fundamental requirement was obscurity, no tramping in the jungle and, most important, keeping radio communications to a bare minimum. In an ambush, I would be in the middle.
The radio was my main concern. There was a function found on radios called ‘squelch.’ It proved very handy in these situations. By flicking a switch, the radio made a continual buzzing sound. It allowed the volume to be turned down low, with the buzz cutting out only if someone called up on the radio. I could hang the handset on my shirt epaulet, and keep my ear six inches from the receiver. When a call came through, the squelch cut out, I would push the handset on my ear, and receive the quiet message. It allowed me to relax a little, as I didn’t have to concentrate on the handset. However, it was tiring just being constantly alert for long periods. Even though most ambushes lasted only a short time, I found them exhausting.
But this time out, for me there was a bonus. Every so often we would have someone attached to us for an operation in the jungle, like the odd reporter and journalist. Then occasionally a base worker would come out for some reason. This time, the visitor was attached to me. It was Garbs, a clerk and a member of our company who was normally permanently based in camp. He was keen, asked endless questions before we moved out, and offered to carry my spare battery. Naturally, I obliged.
After trudging through the jungle, we reached the ambush position. Garbs, who should have stayed a visual distance of six to ten feet behind me as we moved, was inches behind. The ambush position was a good one. There were good sight-lines reported to detect the enemy, and there appeared to be a worn track. We had excellent cover. This was good, as meals, movements, and ablutions were done quietly at ground level. Wondering if Garbs realised this, I explained that he should remain low at all times. He frowned, and then nodded lent very close to me and whispered, ‘Roger, gotcha.’
I had also informed him in a whisper there was to be no talk unless absolutely essential. He answered with an even deeper frown. In an ambush, hand signals were used to pass on messages, including sightings of the enemy or any useful information. I could see him thinking, ‘What bloody signals?’ I told him to take it easy, as I would take care of things because, through the day, even though Garbs was my sidekick, the radio was entirely my responsibility. If nothing else, I had the luxury of him organising our rations. However, come evening, that was a different matter. I would grab what sleep I could. After organising a piquet of two or three blokes to listen to the radio for part of the evening, I would have a quick feed and crash. The blokes on duty were to answer with my call sign when BHQ called to check that communications were functioning. These brief checks required the person on the radio to answer with, ‘One, roger, over’ — nothing more or less.
While they took my place, I would be asleep in no time. I knew that, if it became a busy night, I would often be called upon to answer a coded message. On this occasion, I thought I’d get Garbs listening to the radio half the night. If anything happened, he would wake me.
This particular ambush position also had the familiar thick, red– black oozing mud. There was dense vegetation both on the ground and in the canopy. Also, as usual, as you settled down to do your piquet or laid in the tent, you could watch leeches hunch their backs, pivoting and swinging this way and that as they sensed out the heat of your body. They were thin, about as big as a two-inch nail, and I hated them. You couldn’t swat them like a mosquito; they were almost indestructible. Behind this ambush was very dense jungle.
After a quick meal of rice, sausages, and tomato soup mixed together, and a cuppa, I settled in for the night. Garbs had done well. The hoochie was slung just above the ground and high enough to crawl under. Its only purpose was to keep the heavy rain off my face. I’d made a crude bed just off the ground by pushing some roots and sticks together to get us above the mud, and then I quietly explained to Garbs how to wake me and what I expected of him. Pushing my bum-pack in front of me, I slithered into the tent. The pack would be my pillow.
For our newcomer, Garbs, evening would be a whole new world. In the jungle, darkness fell like flicking a switch. In the tropics, the rain was so regular you could almost set a watch to it. It was refreshing, but so heavy sometimes that, in the open, it was almost painful. In this ambush the overhead canopy had few gaps. Breaks in the rain would have the jungle canopy drip-drip-dripping. The darkness was so dense that the smallest sign of any light would be automatically spotted. There were many lights in the jungle at night. There were annoying insects called fireflies that emitted a flashing light as they flew around in the dark. Aware of this, the VC often took the opportunity to bewilder our troops. They recreated the movements of fireflies by waving a torch about some distance away. Many of the survivors from the battle of Long Tan recalled that the VC cunningly employed this tactic.
What I found most curious in the jungle of a night was the glowing luminous moss, lichen, and shiny minute growth on vines. On some nights, I have seen the jungle look like the view from a plane coming in to land late at night over a small country town. The longer you stared into the dark, the brighter the evening would become.
At night, in an ambush, soldiers would operate machine-gun posts and radios for two-hour or three-hour stints. I gave the first piquet to Garbs. He seemed keen when I retired for the night. Somehow, I didn’t think he would be dozing off. On most evenings I would tie the radio upright against a tree with the long antenna up. Then I would have a series of toggle ropes leading to my tent about ten feet away. The rope was attached to my foot in case I was needed in a hurry. But the rope was also handy, as it was so dark when you finished your piquet that the quickest way to find the tent was to follow it along.
The radio checks from BHQ in Nui Dat would come in about every half hour. I reckoned Garbs was really looking forward to pressing the handset and confirming good reception with our call sign. When his time finished at midnight, he would use my tent.
Around that time, Garbs crawled along the toggle rope to the hoochie. He put his head under the wrong end. ‘Turd,’ he whispered. He tapped my left shoulder, and my right hook missed him by inches. A tap on the toe or a pull on the toggle rope was usually the best way to wake the average edgy grunt, and then move back quickly. I apologised to the bewildered Garbs and made my way along the ropes until I found the radio. As usual, I was completely awake in minutes. I was ready to commence my two-hour shift. It had finally stopped raining. I made a cushion out of my hat and sweat rag, did a quick radio check, and then settled down.
A short bright flash of light from behind the ambush, roughly in the direction of my tent, was the first indication that there was something wrong. Whatever it was, it only lasted a split second. My guess was that it was a torch. Quiet, dark, drip drip … I was very edgy. The light came back again for two or three seconds … was it from inside my bloody tent? … Garbs? Shit!
There was a bit of stirring and movement from the blokes, and then the quiet returned. In the distance was a muffled ‘Turd’, and I could hear someone crawling towards me from the opposite direction. They wanted to know what was going on, but my interest was in Garbs. What was the dopey prick doing? Surely he wasn’t lighting a cigarette in the open? Dickhead, I’d deal with him in the morning; in fact, I thought I would temporarily assume an RSM’s role and eat some of his body parts. Then, bugger me, the light came on yet again. I crawled along the toggle rope trying to compose myself and not shout. My fists were clenched as I felt my way to the edge of the tent.
‘What’s ya flam’n problem, you dick-witted moron?’ I whispered.
No answer. I couldn’t see or hear him, but I could hear something. Suddenly the light came on again: it was his cigarette lighter. I was just about to knock it out of h
is hands when, in the bright light, I could see a huge snake. It zipped off. Jesus Christ almighty and shit. Here were Garbs and I, on our bellies, in my tent, in a bloody war … and what, my dear master of the universe, had I done to deserve this? A very frightened Garbs whispered in my ear.
‘Every time I put the lighter on the snake disappears, but then it comes back to the warm groundsheet when the light goes out, Turd.’
I think it was a python, probably twelve to fifteen feet long, with yellow patches along its back, and a head as big as a large thong. Poor, poor Garbs. I felt like hugging him, except that grunts don’t do things like that. Composing myself, I suggested he come down to the radio with me. I grabbed the groundsheet to cover him, and I suggested he try to get some sleep. I found a bloke on my radio, told him it was a false alarm but gave no details, and he passed the word about that all was OK. I thought I’d best leave the story-telling to Garbs, who sat very close to me for the rest of the night. In fact, too bloody close. Every time I received a radio check he let out a little squeak and grabbed me.
The following morning Garbs looked like he’d been in childbirth. You could see he wanted to tell anyone within hearing about his torrid ordeal. He had got a few dirty looks from those who had worked out he was the perpetrator of the light problem. But an ambush was not the ideal place to have a yak or spin yarns. Poor old Garbs had to wait two more days when we were back in base camp to finally tell his story.
Garbs burst into Henry Lawson mode the moment we walked through the gateway into our company lines. Boy, could he tell a yarn. That night in the boozer, by now the snake had a body as thick as a man and was at least thirty feet long. Apparently, it had attacked him twice and bitten him on the neck. The drunker Garbs got, the bigger the snake became. I went along with him to twenty-five feet, but drew the line at forty. Garbs went back to his camp job and never came out again.
There were certainly some enormous snakes spotted at times; once I saw a photograph of one killed in base camp. Perhaps twenty feet long, and as round as an inflated car tube with a very broad head, it lay draped from the top of a tip-truck cabin, across the tray, and onto the ground.
By now, most blokes, including me, were drinking very heavily. When the boozer shut, we returned to our tents with cans (although this was banned), woke up to a can, and preferred the amber fluid to water. Yet it was rare to see a bloke completely sozzled; that meant trouble with the law, and army law is blunt. For me, having rank and being in charge of the battalion radio meant I had to keep my wits about me. I felt I had my drinking under control — whatever that meant. I was responsible for organising piquet and other duties for the command post in base camp when we returned from the jungle.
As the months wore on, patrolling and brief contacts had become routine. I would never have believed the reactions that were produced in us after a contact. Enemy kills were exciting, satisfying, and something to boast about. Within the battalion a competition developed between companies to see who could be in front with the most kills. Most of the time, A Company was the leader. We were turning into hardened, focussed soldiers. We looked down on the local Vietnamese with contempt. Our hatred was total. Bugger that winning-the-hearts-and-minds bullshit. We saw any Vietnamese as VC sympathisers or inferior types who picked pockets and sold their daughters and wives for sex. In our defence, we couldn’t tell if the villagers were VC or South Vietnamese supporters; they all looked the same to us. Gone were the vague, rarely mentioned, ideals of protecting the locals or South Vietnamese from some communist threat. In its place was this blunt dehumanising of the locals. We ignored the fact that they were simply humans just like ourselves.
Our prejudiced opinions were fuelled by such things as the bartering pickpockets and the abundance of sex workers one found in Manila, Saigon, and Vung Tau. I had never seen such behaviour in Australia. I was unable to comprehend that the only way some people were able to survive their bizarre life in Vietnam was to pick pockets and pursue illegal activities. I had grown up in a conservative Country Party stronghold in Victoria. I was sure that any people short in stature, with coloured skin, and who ate with their fingers or with chopsticks, were inferior. The fact that they had no running water, sewerage, electricity, telephones, or health systems didn’t sway my judgment.
Schooling, which was available to every child in Australia, was almost non-existent in Vietnam, as most villagers were not allowed to travel too far from their homes. Even if they had been, there was the problem of transport. There were no modern vehicles — just water buffalo, motorbikes, and pushbikes. The few trucks we saw were tray-body types from the 1940s with a crude crate that would be packed with people and animals. People in Vietnam did it very hard. They were impoverished, malnourished, and unhealthy. None of this made any difference to my opinions. They were mediocre; I was superior. Consequently, in base camp, we spoke about the Vietnamese in cynical terms, never acknowledged their real plight, and generally hated them.
Meanwhile, we, the well-bred, well-mannered Australians, amused ourselves by drinking, gambling, and watching blue movies. Swearing was the norm here; my language would have horrified people at home. We had a picture theatre, but the boozer held more attractions for us. If the boozer was shut, grabbing a can and sitting in my sandbagged tent was the next-best option. I enjoyed the armed forces’ radio (the film Good Morning Vietnam, made many years after the war, brought back vivid memories of the radio station and the antics of the operator), and we also had a TV in the mess. It was rarely watched. It showed American baseball, basketball, gridiron, and all the marching-girl hype that goes with these sports. It looked so ridiculous. As I’ve written above, the remote area I grew up in did not have TV because there was no electricity. Now, occasionally, I watched I Dream of Jeannie. The only sin I would totally deny indulging in during my tour was drugs. I never saw any nor heard of any being used by Australians. We found some cannabis in the jungle once, and simply burnt it before leaving in the choppers.
For once, we were excited about our next time out; this operation was to be different. The APCs had formed up just outside the main gateway of the company lines at base camp. Those bloody ‘Tankies’ always looked neat and suave, like film stars, compared to us. We reckoned they wore mud repellent. In unison they cranked up their engines and thundered down the dirt road. They were taking us to the village of Phuoc Hai, located right on the beach.
Travelling by an APC was interesting. You entered it at the rear, where a large door was lowered. Once we were inside, there were crude bench seats to sit on, and when we were ready the door would be secured. It was noisy, and we had no idea where we were going unless the door was down and we could look out the back. It was quite comfortable inside, considering it was a heavy, tracked vehicle. At times the engine would surge, and the vehicle appeared to rear up like a horse and then sink down the other side; I’d guess it had just crossed a mound or a bank over a rice paddy. I’d driven a bulldozer before the army, and I recognised the skill of the drivers, who kept the trip fairly smooth. These troop carriers were designed to provide protection against bullets and medium-sized shells and rockets. The armour plating was very thick, so we were safe while travelling.
However, early in their use in Vietnam, it was discovered that, if the APC drove over an enemy mine or booby trap, the floor could be pushed up to within inches of the ceiling, and anybody inside would be mincemeat. Consequently, most grunts chose to ride on top of the APC, which meant you could be shot at, but would only be blown off if the APC went over a mine. It seemed hideous to have all that protection, and then to sit on top like toy ducks in a shooting gallery. However, if the VC decided to shoot at us, they would face the formidable return firepower of the 50-calibre gun mounted on the APC.
After a fast surging trip, we were dropped off on the beach at the small fishing village of Phuoc Hai. It was an idyllic setting of primitive dwellings with roofs capped by the familiar semi-circular tiles. There was a palm tree growing in every yard, and th
e fences were the brush types you see at seaside resorts in Australia. This stretch of beach had been the Riviera of the French in the past. It was wide, and covered in soft white sand. Narrow sandy paths linked the houses, and there was only one road through the centre of the shacks.
On the beach were beautiful old fishing boats with high bows, adorned in bright colours and symbols. A few aged fishermen were loading up the wire netting that was strung over old bamboo poles about three feet off the ground. Carefully, handfuls of small sardine-like fish were scattered all over the wire — a drying method that is used throughout Asia. The smell, predictably, was like rotting anchovies. As usual, the men were old. It was rare to see young men in any village. Most, we were told, had been recruited by the VC. Some were taken by force; others volunteered after the VC had harassed the village with cruel and convincing methods. At Phuoc Hai, the villagers were surprised by our sudden appearance. Small children, immune by now to war vehicles, came running up with bright smiles and wide-eyed curiosity. They were small framed, with potbellies indicating under-nourishment. They were oblivious to our rifles. With outstretched hands they begged for cigarettes, food, and money, while telling us of the availability of sex, and a balmy bar or rice wine.
On this operation, we were to help guard and construct two fences that enclosed a minefield. It was as wide as a freeway and went inland for a considerable distance. The mines inside were designed as a deterrent to VC movement along the beach or further inland. This blocking method was new, and the conglomeration of mines was being laid by our ‘Ginger Beers’ (engineers). It appeared quite an involved task, with areas designated for one type of mine and another marked area for a different type. Booby-trap devices were attached to mines to stop them being lifted by the enemy. As their work progressed, the string lines and markings were removed and the earth was returned to look as normal as possible and deter the VC from detecting the mines.
