Well Done, Those Men

by Barry Heard

  The phone would ring, several times, after 11.00pm.

  ‘Sure, Doris,’ Cossie would answer. ‘He left about an hour ago, he’ll be home any minute.’ Hanging up, he’d turn to the guilty party and say:

  ‘This one’s on me, Ern, then you is going home, OK?’

  Cossie rarely let things get out of hand, and most blokes left able to say their name and walk, even if it was backwards. The pub opened at lunchtime, and shut when there were no drinkers left. The local copper would ring every now and then to let Cossie know he would be down shortly. The place would be in darkness when Mr. Plod arrived. We would be out the back talking in hushed voices. ‘All clear,’ Cossie would hiss. Mr. Plod would have left, and the lights would go back on.

  Cossie was a man of deeds, not words. Every now and then over the years he would saunter up to me.

  ‘Believe you Scouts need a new tent?’ he’d say. ‘Next time you’re in Bairnsdale, get what you want and send the bill to me, OK?’

  He never asked for thanks or recognition. He was just a good bloke, keenly aware of the needs of the community and its voluntary clubs. At the weekend, his pub turned into a family affair, with kids made welcome and catered for, good meals, and a wonderful atmosphere amid singing and a piano playing. Cossie never had a holiday, and lived frugally with no signs of wealth or pretension. His passing was an end of an era at the pub.

  It’s funny but, even now, as I write about Tom’s wonderful letters, I vividly recall that era of fun and innocence whilst growing up in Ensay.

  Tom Cook died recently. At his funeral in the small remote community of Ensay there were several hundred people. During the service it was very moving for me to hear someone acknowledge that Tom had corresponded regularly to me in Vietnam, and had known that I shared his wonderful letters with quiet, homesick young soldiers. I thanked his wife on behalf of all of us.

  Ironically, at this time in Vietnam, during 1967, there were murmurs about our mail being left on the docks in Australia. It was a protest of some kind or other, the press said, by the wharfies and the posties. We reckoned it must have been bullshit, just another furphy. They were blokes just like us; no way would they deny us our only link with normality, our precious mail. For once, though, the press got it right. It was true. What the hell was going on?

  Things changed after August the sixth. The new reinforcements stuck together because there were so many of them, and because we’d done so little to include them. The rest of us gravitated to the boozer to the point that it became home. But, out in the jungle, it was business as usual. There was almost no conversation. Communication between mates was now by nods. A nod to another haunted face.

  There were a few fundamental shifts by the taskforce in their approach to the enemy in the province. First, there were to be leaflet drops over the jungle by Chinook helicopters called ‘Puff the magic dragon’ flying overhead. They also had blaring messages broadcast across the jungle from loudspeakers on the aircraft. The VC were encouraged to give themselves up, by walking into our position in the jungle with their hands above their heads, holding a leaflet that indicated what they had to do if they chose to surrender. This was a big change. Before, engagements with the enemy usually required that we take no prisoners. Another change was that the emphasis moved towards village searches in the hope of finding caches, or VC recruits or sympathisers.

  We returned to the village of Phuoc Hai on the beach, questioned all the villagers, and made a thorough search of their homes. In one hut, I saw a young boy suffering from what was described as elephantitis. His whole body was swollen, his head the size of a basketball. The interpreter attached to us said he was nine years old. He had no doctors or hospital, no phone or ambulance. He just lay there taking short, shallow breaths, with his sad mother beside him.

  This mother and her dying child had no professional support, no sympathy from us, and no hope. By comparison, Australia was a paradise. At home, I’d never thought about such things. I guess I took everything we had for granted. These people were really suffering. It left me somewhat confused, if only briefly. That sort of thing wouldn’t come up in a conversation; I didn’t question why we should be wrecking the homes of people we were trying to support. It appeared that one small find or indication of enemy sympathy led to the village being destroyed. Yes, hamlets were destroyed and their occupants re-located to new, galvanised corrugated-iron buildings built by our Ginger Beers. Was it possible to win their hearts and minds, as the press argued, by flattening their quaint huts and centuries-old villages with bombs? It didn’t bear thinking about really, for me, and I guess for most of the blokes. Alcohol was the answer.

  After the operation at Phuoc Hai, the boozer was the first stop in base camp, as usual. The crude humour was still there, but our youthful larrikinism was almost gone. At last, we got news of some of the blokes who had been badly wounded, and most of the news was good. Jock, the old bastard, had survived. Years later, some field-ambulance soldiers told me they had met the dust-off chopper that Jock arrived on. He’d shown no signs of life, not even a pulse, and was placed with the dead. Some tiny sign had made them look again, and he’d been ferried off with the other wounded, and saved.

  Kards left, his time up. His tour had been disjointed, and his brief times with the company had been a series of major incidents. I resigned myself to being back on the battalion radio. With some familiar faces leaving, farewell parties became ritualised — usually with the victim standing on top of a 44-gallon drum, and those left behind showering him with shaken-up cans of beer. Snotts had a classic farewell. A top bloke, he was a Regular, and a serious one at that, a corporal who took pride in saluting an officer. He sported a snow-white moustache and a full head of blond hair; a career soldier who no doubt would go places. For the moment, though, he was going home. We shouted him so many beers he didn’t know if he was a priest, a prince, or the prime minister. We shaved off half of his gorgeous moustache and put him to bed. He woke the next morning with a huge hangover but a broad smile — he was going home, after all. He took the joke involving his moustache very well, and sportingly shaved off the other half. Well done, that man.

  What poor old Snotts didn’t realise was that we had dyed the hair on the back of his head with Condies Crystals. It had turned bright red. We waved him off with affection, and wondered how many heads he would turn before some wowser broke the news to him.

  The remainder of my own time in Vietnam is a hazy recollection. I believe we had turned into emotionless soldiers, very old young men trained to kill, and simply doing a task that was routine. Were we carrying out orders for our politicians and our noble allies, the Americans? Saving our country from the communist threat? Whatever the rhetoric, it never once entered our briefings or instructions from the army. Perhaps they had the sense not to try to feed us meaningless bullshit.

  Out in the jungle, the new campaign, with loudspeakers attached to aircraft tempting VC to give up or surrender to us, was in full swing. The idea of having an enemy soldier simply wander into your area in the jungle waving a card above his head was unsettling. It sounded like a dumb idea that some bureaucrat would dream up. The leaflets that were dropped informed the VC in crude cartoons that it was essential that the allied troops be aware they were unarmed; they did this by holding a dropped leaflet overhead. It was a vague, risky new change. Our feelings towards the Vietnamese hadn’t changed, yet now we were expected to be the diplomats who welcomed them to the good side.

  Then there was an incident involving our company that had to do with a VC. An old woman was initially shot and wounded, but then it was decided that maybe she had tried to surrender. It’s only a vague memory now, but I recall the confusion. A chopper was radioed in to take her out for treatment, as she appeared badly wounded. Her pained, distraught face and obvious fear of us left an indelible imprint in my mind. A bubble Bell helicopter like the ones used in the TV series MASH was sent, and the old woman was strapped outside on the stretcher. It was a very d
istressing scene, as not only was she distraught but it highlighted the vagary of the new direction being taken by allied forces. Dealing with a captured live enemy was something that none of us were comfortable with. Could you trust a VC that suddenly appeared? Did he or she have a grenade under that garment? We all had experienced booby traps, and they were good at that. We’d heard that suicide bombers were becoming common in places like Saigon.

  That was the last contact I can recall in Vietnam. Later in my life, it was a muddled scene. It had become so riddled with intrusive flashbacks and nightmares that any recollection haunted me and left me feeling emotionally sick. I was never sure what exactly happened.

  LAST DAYS

  A WELCOME IN VIETNAM: we didn’t have many of them. Hundreds gathered at the top of the airstrip in base camp. Patti McGrath, Denise Drysdale, and the Strangers performed at a great concert. It rained, as usual, but nothing, not even sticky red mud, could stop me from going. Most of us were stripped down to our pants. We cheered, clapped, drooled, and all jammed as close to the stage as possible. I had done a large amount of bragging about my very brief previous meeting with Patti. I went up to her and introduced myself, and a lot of blokes had to eat humble pie when she remembered me from that night in KooWeeRup. Yes, she remembered, and it was wonderful. It had only been a year ago, after all. To me, it felt more like ten.

  A soldier due to return home would run a countdown of days until he could catch the plane or boat back to Australia. He would start by announcing: ‘Twenty-eight days and a wake-up.’ Over time, this familiar cry became famous. Now, my own countdown had started.

  ‘Nineteen days and a wake-up.’

  Then back home; soon I would be getting ready for my last time in the jungle. I was continually aching and sweating, and I couldn’t sleep. I was getting nervous, fidgety, like when I first arrived. I told myself that this time out I would definitely keep my rations to a bare minimum. I was experiencing a fear that was foreign. I didn’t want to go out.

  Nineteen days to go, then pack up and home. The dry season was setting in.

  Then we were down to the airstrip again. There were two new reserve Sigs, both of whom were competent. For my last operation, my network was going to run like a well-oiled clock. I would handle contacts, with information sent coldly and precisely back to base.

  Back in the jungle, things had been OK … whatever that meant. I almost refused to let any other bugger use the radio. Then one night we were harboured near a coffee plantation and I stuffed up, big time. Either through exhaustion or extra vigilance, I hadn’t slept for a couple of nights. At about two in the morning the boss tapped me on the shoulder.

  ‘Isn’t that your call sign, Barry?’ he asked. Yes, he never called me Baz or Turd.

  I was startled awake, and horrified. I had been sitting up on piquet and sound asleep, with the handset about six inches from my ear. I couldn’t believe it. That was slack, and bloody dangerous. Shit!

  Being a true grunt and a seasoned Sig, I’d called up Zero Alpha (BHQ’s call sign) on automatic pilot and said something like: ‘Zero Alpha this is One, radio check, over.’

  As I sent this message I flicked the button on the handset, which gave BHQ the false indication that I was in an area of bad communications or having trouble with the radio. Apparently, Zero Alpha had tried to call me several times over the previous five minutes. Thankfully, it was only a radio check … nothing serious … shit!

  Sleeping while on piquet is a serious, chargeable offence, but the boss had a smile on his face the next morning when he reminded me of this. I was visibly shaken and quite sick when I walked through the gate at base camp. I wondered what the other Sigs thought: I had let the side down, and all that stuff. So much for running things like clockwork.

  I remember those last hours before we arrived back in base camp for the final time, then heaving my body and taking that bloody radio off my back at long last. In future, I would be able to get up from a sitting position without the aid of someone pulling me to my feet.

  Seven days and a wake-up: my countdown was all consuming. Apart from an awful lot of drinking, I wandered around Nui Dat for the first time, and said hi and goodbye to a lot of blokes. I visited the Mortars and Artillery, and watched them in action. I shook hands with other branches in the services I’d talked to on the radio. I met blokes who I’d known only as voices. I shook hands with a drawling Yank pilot standing beside a fixed-wing Bird Dog aircraft that we’d used to direct jets when they were attacking. He slapped my back, gave me an awkward hug, and then laughed at the bullet holes in the wing of the aircraft.

  ‘I won’t let any motherfucker fix up them holes, buddy,’ he said. ‘They’re mah good luck chorm.’

  I dropped in to the Sallyman’s hut — always a good place to have a coffee and read some of the home papers. Like so many soldiers from countless conflicts, I have the highest respect for the Salvation Army. They were just there. Like our mail, they were a connection with home, a smile, a kind face, and a cuppa. Grunter still had his permanent smile when I found him. Blou looked old. On a visit to BHQ, I located Beebop. It was great to see him. He still flicked his fingers and muttered deep insights into the morale of the VC in the province. He worked in Intelligence! Bloody Intelligence, and bloody Beebop! I couldn’t believe it. No wonder we lost the bloody war.

  Someone from Signals Platoon was taking over from me, and TAA would continue on the company radio. It was in good hands. I gave him some of my gear, and offered him my bedside table and other crude furniture.

  ‘Anything you don’t want,’ I said finally, ‘just give to the Sallyman.’

  On my last day, a green snub-nosed army truck pulled into our company lines. The third intake of National Servicemen was due to go home. We were in neat uniforms, and anxious. In the company lines, there was quite a gathering to see us off. We represented a large part of A Company 7RAR. It was a piece of cake with no weight on your back to jump into the back of a tray truck. Then, there we were, standing there looking down on the blokes remaining. Some spread their arms and muttered kind farewells, almost drowned among the more familiar crude chants.

  ‘Get stuffed!’

  ‘Yeah, fuck off the lotta ya, ya useless pack a pricks …’

  ‘Go home to Mummy, ya ugly bastards.’

  ‘Shit, you’re ugly, Turd.’

  Then we drove away. I was in summer dress again — slouch hat, ironed shirt and pants, lanyard, and rank, standing outside the post office at Luscombe airstrip, Nui Dat, waiting for the Caribou to land. We’d been given a lot more attention and glory by the army when we marched out from Puckapunyal after recruit training years ago. Now there was no military band, no top brass, and no cheering. It was just our gang, finally going home. Lance Corporal Turd, Booster, Knackers, Snoggons, and the remaining blokes were there. I sat beside Blou in the aircraft, then jumped up and took a photograph. Years later, I was surprised at the lack of smiles, the solemn looks that appeared in that snap of time.

  In Saigon we boarded the civilian aircraft bound for Sydney, and drank it dry in thirty minutes. There was a lot of stirring when we spotted the first sign of land. The pilot announced we were seeing Queensland mountain ranges. Cameras clicked.

  It was hard to contain the simple excitement of relief.

  At Sydney airport, the prime minister or minister for defence must have messed up their engagements for the day, because neither of them was there to greet us.

  The customs officers simply smiled at us as we went through the gate to catch our Viscount airplane to Melbourne.

  Then, a few handshakes and the usual fond endearments.

  ‘Get stuffed, then.’

  ‘I’ll send you some decent piss …’

  ‘Up yours.’

  ‘Don’t forget to send flowers.’

  I won’t miss your ugly frig’n face, Turd.’

  I didn’t realise it then … but these were the last words most of us would utter to one another for a long, long time.


  PART 3

  HOME

  WHERE’S HOME?

  THE VISCOUNT TAKING off from Sydney airport was filled with a mixture of returning soldiers and civilians. We behaved like 10-year-olds given a free hand at a sponge-throwing competition. We wanted to get home. Couldn’t this bloody plane fly any faster? It was late evening when the plane landed. The airport was empty. This became a familiar pattern for future returning veterans … fly them into deserted airports.

  My girlfriend gave me a hug. Mum followed. Dad said ‘G’day,’ and that was about it. We hopped in the Holden, and headed for Swifts Creek. The conversation, which was once so familiar and mundane, seemed unreal to me now.

  ‘Wool’s up. Lotta talk about the floor price scheme …’

  ‘Had a good season so far, the cattle are selling well …’

  ‘The road to the top of Connors Hill is just finished …’

  ‘Your brother John’s working at the bank in Omeo now …’

  We stopped about an hour out of Melbourne for a meal. An hour afterwards, I vomited the lot back up. There were several attempts at awkward conversations, but I stayed quiet. I was stunned by the orderliness of people, amused that there was no Saigon rush of traffic snarls, no tooting, and surprised that the service station had separate toilets and toilet paper. I must have forgotten all of this. Everyone drove a car or was a passenger. There were no shuffling people, and no one squatting down in that familiar squat, smoking, looking at me with glazed, wary eyes. There were no swarming kids selling sex and picking our pockets. I was looking at my own country with fresh eyes. As we got closer to home, a powerful smell swamped my nostrils. It was freshly cut lucerne. I wound the window down and sucked in as much as I could, marvelling at the scent I’d forgotten.

  At home much later, my younger brothers and sister were excited to see me, and we sat awkwardly at the table for tea.