Well Done, Those Men

by Barry Heard

  ‘Those bloody long hairs should get a frig’n life.’

  ‘All one hundred of them.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Silence.

  Several parcels and many letters were spread over my bed when I returned clean-shaven and showered from the open-air ablutions via the boozer much later that same day. True, it took me three attempts to get in through the tent flap, but what a welcome sight: mail. It was better than Christmas. I sat and then lay on the bed. Three hours later, with a clearer head, I woke with the parcels and mail spread on the floor, still unopened. However, I knew before I opened them that there would be a certain amount of disappointment. It was my own fault, really, as I was too polite, or gutless, to tell people from home not to send food parcels to Vietnam. Mildew, like a plague, seeped into most things, particularly food. I had been sent shortbread, biscuits, cakes, and lamingtons, but the only food that seemed to survive the mildew was the humble fruitcake, particularly if it was sealed in a tin.

  I recall I nearly wrote to Mum to tell her about musty food smothered in green, stinking mildew like moss. But I was reluctant to interfere with that unwritten law that I had seen operating all my life in the remote high country of Victoria. Food was the language of caring in times of death, and of abundance at celebratory events. Supper after old-time dances was like attending a banquet, and a CWA afternoon tea would match the best the Queen had ever eaten. Now I received food parcels from people who had watched me grow up. They may not have written a letter, but food said a lot.

  Most parcels, I’m sorry to say, ended up in the bin. It wasn’t just food, either. At the peak of the Wet, it was impossible to get anything dry. Even things under cover were damp and musty with the constant humidity. I would go to bed of an evening feeling like I had run ten miles and, in the morning, wake up in a sweat as though I had run another ten.

  Meanwhile, there was a lot of activity around base camp. It seemed that we, along with the Yanks and Vietnamese forces, were off to destroy a VC regiment somewhere. It would be a major push involving thousands. So here we were, gear on, grumbling, heading down to Luscombe airstrip Nui Dat, heads down, nursing hangovers, and endlessly bitching.

  At the airstrip were hundreds of Yanks, outnumbering us ten to one. They had hard hats on (naturally, no chinstraps done up — about as useful as a bra with the clips undone), chomping gum, and talking loudly. They looked untidier than we did, which immediately made them go up in my estimation. Well done, those men. Armed forces’ radios playing Diana Ross and the Supremes blared everywhere from small transistor things that were new. Some blokes smoked cigars and chewed tobacco as they sat chatting. Like us, they had no real idea what was going on. Unlike us, though, they were eating chocolate Hershey bars. They were good blokes, and shared the chocolate around, along with gum, cigarettes, and porno magazines. A bond of friendship was growing.

  ‘Where’d you get this bloody stuff?’ we asked.

  ‘In our ‘C’ rations, buddy,’ they replied. ‘Not the porn, of course.’

  What great rations! Most of us tried them a few days later. They were heaven, except for the chewing tobacco; it was like curried cow shit. It was fun talking to the Yanks. We could understand them, but they thought we spoke in a foreign language. It didn’t matter; in no time, they would be laughing at our insulting barbs and endless complaining. They pleaded with us to keep on talking.

  ‘You Aussies, you’re so funny. Don’t you like one another?’

  ‘Ya got that right mate. They’re all frig’n dickheads, mate, apart from me, that is.’ Thank you, Snoggons.

  One other characteristic stood out. Every sentence that the Yanks uttered, no matter what rank a person appeared to have, ended with ‘Sir’. They even tried it with us.

  ‘Call me Sir again and I’ll knock ya stupid block awf, mate,’ snapped Bones.

  Thankfully, the Yank had no idea that he had been insulted or threatened.

  We only had respect for rank who met our criteria of being one of the blokes. Most of our officers and other ranks certainly fitted that bill. We bantered with the Yanks for some time when, buzzing over the rubber plantations, dozens of choppers appeared in the sky, flying in groups of six at a time. These were called ‘slicks’. The long line reached the horizon. Their time on the strip was minimal, and we were wrenched into the air. Looking back over Nui Dat, I saw the entire airstrip covered in choppers, and still more hovering in the air. It was a massive airlift of troops.

  Upon landing, we quickly moved through rubber trees to our positions, digging in to four feet and harbouring in for the night. For some reason, I expected that an operation involving Yanks would be full of shooting, action, and mayhem. Not so. We hardly spotted the Yanks, or the enemy. But, for the first time, we were issued with Yank rations. It was like eating at a five-star hotel: cookies, chocolate, bread bun, large tins of ham and lima beans, smoked cheese … those lucky bastards. I must admit, I would’ve hated carrying all that stuff, but on this operation our movement through the rubber was minimal, and the rations were more than welcome.

  The major contacts predicted by the intelligence reports didn’t happen. Yes, there were a few contacts and kills. Often, an operation was mounted on intelligence that suggested we were moving into an area containing large numbers of enemy soldiers or a VC battalion on the move. Yet they never seemed to be there, or else had just vacated their camp or tunnel complex. Our contacts with them were generally brief, and they appeared to move in small numbers and rarely as part of a major force. Yet history tells of very large troop movements south. If I had to give an analogy as to how I saw the VC in our province, I would say they seemed like rabbits at home on the farm. No amount of bombing, jets, artillery, or harassment from us appeared to deter them. They simply reappeared. Their network of supply and support appeared to function, no matter how we tried to interrupt it. No doubt, at times we would have stuffed up their odd plan, but only in a small way, would be my guess. They had sympathisers and supporters from one end of Vietnam to the other.

  Their tunnel complexes, in time, were seen as formidable, and were often right under our noses. There was a purpose to their involvement in this conflict … that was more than we could clearly boast. At no time did I see local villagers cheer us, thank us, or show gratitude. The army never mentioned a purpose or gave us rallying talks laced with patriotic fervour and about stopping those bloody communists. They never hinted at us winning. Only the politicians of the day seem to possess that language.

  The operation ended. No doubt the press back home would be disappointed. They, along with the upper echelons of the army, seemed fixated on the number of kills, and expended huge resources trying to achieve them. The Melbourne papers continually reported that we were pushing, blocking, or clearing the enemy from the province, and each article would be rounded off with the number of kills we had attained. I assumed from what little I knew before I went to Vietnam, and from what I learned from my plodding, that there were no actual front lines. There were no permanent VC camps, no declaring that an area was now ‘VC free.’ I doubt that would ever have happened.

  I have mentioned that I kept a diary whilst in Vietnam. I kept it in the command post, but it wasn’t private or even a real diary. It was a journal of events that ignored many realities. Sure, I recorded what happened on operations, the continual stress of a heavy pack, and exhaustion. But I rarely wrote about the things that left a permanent mark in my memory. Today I couldn’t be relied upon to report such events and incidents accurately; but, more importantly, at the time I chose to ignore them. Most contacts or incidents were frightening adrenalin rushes during which luck decided who survived. Almost never, after the event passed, would we discuss it, particularly if we had lost one of our own. Only on rare occasions would a hint of our true feelings emerge. Alcohol was the catalyst. It would be in the boozer, generally under the influence, that you would see a bloke struggling to come to terms with having witnessed an appalling scene. Occasionally, our feeli
ngs seeped out, but if we had killed some enemy as well this would give rise to the predominant reaction that we were good soldiers.

  But any incident involving a booby trap certainly stirred our feelings. Psychologically, it was a devastating device. There was no chance of retribution, no one to take it out on, no enemy present, just killed or wounded. It created hatred towards the Vietnamese, both generally and subtly. To us, booby traps weren’t fair play.

  Consequently there was always a mixture of feelings just below the surface after we returned from the jungle and attempted to return to some sort of normality. Perhaps it was this repressed stress or anger that emerged occasionally in places like our boozer. In my diary I never recorded the violent fights that took place in base camp mainly due to alcohol and arguments about morality. Then there were times when flare-ups started over absolutely nothing. My guess would be that they were due to a deep inner frustration due to us not really understanding why we were there.

  Life had turned us into robots with few needs. We did what was asked of us, and in return we seemed satisfied with the abundance of beer and the occasional opportunity for endless sex with no emotional contact. All too often, there were stories of crude behaviour that came back with blokes who went on rest-and-recreation or trips to Vung Tau. Most came back with a ‘load’, or venereal disease, and were pleased that the MPs hadn’t found out about the antics they’d got up to.

  On the rare occasion that the command stuffed up or there was dissatisfaction with those in charge, there were instances when the retribution was blunt, crude, and violent. It was like a law of the jungle. Sadly, some appalling incidents happened during the Vietnam conflict. My guess would be that this happens in any war.

  I recall one incident where we were all asked exactly what had happened after an altercation in base camp. The truth didn’t emerge, as we had collaborated earlier and all told the same lie. Again, although these were significant events, I never recorded a word about them in my diary.

  Finally, it just wasn’t my diary that disguised reality. Like the soldiers from Gallipoli, France, and later during WWII, I wrote home letters that avoided the truth and rambled on about the weather, the countryside, and the latest movie showing in camp. I promised my family that if I ever went shopping I would buy up big because things were so cheap. If, by chance, I wrote about something that had happened in the jungle it would be in vague terms, avoiding the harsh realities of death and horror.

  In a letter I wrote home to my mother after the next operation you will read about, the only hint of something going horribly wrong was when I stated ‘It was the worst day in my life.’

  Perhaps you will understand why I never entered another word in that diary-journal after August the sixth.

  OPERATION BALLARAT

  KARDS, NOW OUT of hospital and well rested, was back with us, having recently returned to base camp carrying a slight limp but with his drinking prowess intact. It was with great pleasure I had handed him back the battalion radio. He didn’t smile. To be honest, I was concerned, because he had been away so long from the rigors of the jungle that I thought he might struggle; he had actually put on quite a bit of weight. He was insulted when I offered to carry some stuff for him as we prepared for our next sortie into the jungle. I assumed my former role as the company Sig.

  The date was 6 August 1967, early in the operation. We were moving through dense jungle. It was morning, hot and oppressive. For me, the only thing out of the ordinary that had happened so far on this day was seeing a vivid green snake with bulging, jet-red eyes dangling from a vine. It was just above the boss’s head. The red, sharp eyes gave it away; otherwise, it was well camouflaged.

  Suddenly, there was a burst of small-arms fire. A thumbs-down (a signal that the enemy was present) was followed almost immediately by, ‘Contact, wait out!’ barked into my handset. The boss, Kards, and I ran towards the gunfire, across a creek, and up the bank. It was more than a burst of small-arms fire; it didn’t stop, and I was sure I’d heard the whoosh of a rocket or something …

  The tall, razor-needled jungle bamboo thrashed at our sides, ripped at my shoulder, and tore my legs as the firepower increased and we flung ourselves to the ground. I skidded, nose down, the bloody radio thumping into the back of my head, the antenna and the handset lodging deep into the slimy undergrowth. Pulling my face out of the mud, I noticed I was alone. The incoming fire was very close as I struggled to get the radio off my back. My shoulder throbbed. Carefully, I slid the radio off and stood it upright in front of my head; it wasn’t safe to kneel. In my first quick survey of the area I could just make out the boss only a short distance ahead. It appeared they were very close to the front line … shit. I turned up the volume on the radio: no sound, the antenna was almost non-functional, and the handset caked with mud. Great. I normally didn’t put on the plastic cover until the rain was about to start, mid afternoon. Now, one stuffed handset, bugger it. A litter of leaves and branches shot off by bullets rained down on me for what seemed ages but was probably only seconds. I raised my head and looked around to see what was going on. Shit, that was a bad move; I believe the enemy sensed my movement. I lowered myself hard into the ground and glanced to the side. To my left I saw one of our blokes, dead. The poor bugger had been killed by a direct hit to the head. His blank face stared at me.

  Edging my head around the radio, I again glanced slightly ahead. I could now clearly see that to my left were the boss and Kards, up to their necks in shit. To my right was Burls, a bloke from my own area of Omeo in the high country back home. He was in trouble, under very heavy fire. The spray from the bullets aimed at him splattered mud feet into the air. The noise was intense and very close; they had him pinned down, and it appeared several VC had him in their sights. It was sickening. The amount of firepower blasting in his direction had dug two deep trenches, but he was still alive. I was lucky because I was slightly hidden, with the antenna obscured. Rockets were being fired, then more small arms. We were under fire for what seemed an eternity. The enemy was close by, but I couldn’t see them through the dense jungle. Grenades were being thrown from both sides, and it was chaotic. From what little I could see, we were pinned down, under fire, in a defenceless position, and the enemy had the upper hand. I lay there for what seemed ages.

  Then my stupid bloody mind cranked into gear … This was it; this would be where I died … shit. I jammed that thought out of my head and started to knock the mud out of the handset. Again I became fixated with Burls. He was still copping in-coming fire from two directions. I could just see him as the mud continued to flick and splatter from bullets aimed at him. The trenches were now quite deep. I was waiting for the inevitable. No way could he survive … shit. The enemy, hard to pinpoint, seemed to be firing from a front, even dug in maybe? Burls had an M60, a vital part of our defence, but he was pinned down.

  ‘Four feet in front of a tree, every twig, and every blade of grass half an inch above my body was shot off,’ he told me recently in a letter. ‘Either side of this tree were two deep trenches in the shape of a ‘V’, about a foot deep, a foot wide and ten feet long.’

  By a miracle, Burls only received a wound in his shoulder. He managed to get off about 100 rounds with his M60; but, as his letter explained later, he couldn’t lift up to reload without getting shot.

  The radio was difficult to use, there was too much rifle fire, too much noise, and the handset appeared dodgy. I tried to clean off the mud and then jammed it against my ear. The garbled, halting message told me things were bad and that there could be a lot of casualties … Bastard handset.... By now I estimated we had been in the contact for maybe ten or fifteen minutes.

  For the moment, I had one option: to stay down and keep my eyes peeled. I was very alert and I was shit scared, but knew I had to remain calm and clear. The handset started continually whistling, which was good, even though it was being jammed in a way I had never experienced before. It meant I was getting communications. The intruder was very clos
e; but, thank God, the platoon radios weren’t too far away and their signal was fairly strong. It was barely decipherable, but that was better than no signal at all. I hadn’t fired a shot; there was nothing to shoot at, and I knew we mustn’t waste ammo. I ripped my sweat rag from around my neck and tried to wrap the handset against my ear to muffle the noise. It made no difference, so again I attacked the handset, this time with my can opener scraping out the mud.

  Shit … that about summed it up. My eyes flashed around like a hunting hawk, returning to Burls and the dead body. Then back to the boss, and Kards. I was in full detection-mode, operating outside my own self and completely absorbed in the jungle, attuned to the slightest sign of enemy that came within my sights. I lay for what seemed an eternity. Things were looking bad. For some reason, I stopped my intense vigilance and started again to contemplate my own death. It was bizarre. Suddenly, into my head blasted a totally-out-of-the ordinary scene.

  I want to be buried on top of Connors Hill, the mountain at the head of the Tambo Valley in East Gippsland. The view from the hill is spectacular, like standing on the edge of an escarpment. Looking north you can see most of the valley, with our house nestled on the river. It would be thirty miles from one end to the other. Old Jack Campbell had had his farm there. I must write to the family as soon as we get back to base camp.

  This was a fleeting, powerful intrusion. It probably lasted a split second, but its presence went to the core of my being — so far down that it didn’t appear again for a long, long time. Like a fright in the dark, it really scared me.