by Barry Heard
He was right. It had been a long time coming, and his comments meant a lot to me. It was as though we had turned full circle. In recruit training all those years ago, we had disliked the officers with their unquestionable power. Now they waited on us, and considered it an honour to do so.
1992
THE OPENING of the Vietnam War Memorial was something I will never forget. It wasn’t like our reunion. Instead, there were large numbers, large crowds, and a lot of pomp and ceremony. Our company had gathered on an oval, and the boss, along with a lot of people who hadn’t been at the reunion, were there. As usual, everyone was talking and laughing. Then it happened. How do you explain the power of a vision? A very familiar noise — for some, the most significant noise in our lives — rose above our heads.
Thumpa, tumpa, thumpa …
Hueys: a group of them, lifting into the sky.
They’d been our way out of the jungle, our lifeline, our fire support, our medical help. I remembered those brave, crazy men who flew them.
I broke down. The sound penetrated so deeply into my soul, my spirit, and my heart. Tears streamed down the cheeks of shaking, distraught men, faces were locked skyward, staring, as the choppers slowly moved overhead and then disappeared …
Silence. An awesome silence. A silence etched in hearts forever.
I have heard the description of the choppers rising over the trees at Canberra that day told, and re-told. It was the most powerfully symbolic moment in a day full of symbols that triggered the deepest emotions and memories of the men standing on the ground. It was like a time warp. I closed my eyes, and …
Tired, exhausted, hungry, tense. The jungle … thumpa tumpa thumpa …
‘One, this is Snoppy 22 … throw smoke … over.’
‘Lotta shit going on down there … out.’
‘One, this is … Dustoff … get him on quick, bloody quick … we’re outta here!’
‘One…’I’m back … he was hit real bad …’
‘Be there in three, over …’
‘One, this is Snoopy … I see yellow, over …’
‘Roger, Snoopy … we’re on our way… out.’
Then, scrambling aboard, reefed in, the feeling of relief, heading back to base camp … tearing along at treetop level … of coming in … tilted forward. It was always a thrill. I’d put on the earphones to hear:
‘On way to Porky 7, over …’
‘Thanks, Snoopy. I owe ya one …’
‘Ow yor gone, moity?’
Bloody Yanks. They could never get it right.
The opening ceremony went well, but was emotionally draining. True to male form, we imagined we were still twenty-year-olds and we drank too much. Knackers and I had travelled up together, and both beer and memories flowed profusely. In the back of my mind, there was a tiny hope I would find Blackie. I hadn’t heard a word of him since Hong Kong, and although I’d only known him for that one week, I wanted to shake his hand.
I did find him. I got a shock, and had to be on my own for some time. His photo was in a special supplement produced by the newspapers of over five hundred faces of those killed in Vietnam. He looked so young. I hadn’t known, because I didn’t read the papers after I got back. It was too painful. It still is, when it comes to war.
To date, I could somehow both hide and handle the August sweats, nightmares, and severe mood swings, but people close to me didn’t buy it. My wife said that when I first displayed abnormal behaviour she sensed a potential for violence in me. Initially this was annoying, as I claimed to be a calm person and never got angry. That was a lie, but a confusing one. I had loathed the stupidity of war for years. I would get angry and would snap back at the radio or television news. I did this with repeated annoyance and frustration when I often saw leaders puff their chests and not hesitate to consider war as an option … even the only option … yes, quite happy to kill masses of innocent people and claim God was on their side. What crap. If there was a God or Buddha or prophet or Mohammed or any other eminent figure, surely compassion, a gentle hand, and a sincere belief in helping everyone sort out the problem were their ways. I felt many believed their position of political head of a country wasn’t complete unless they engaged in a war of some kind. My opinion contained no logic or sound argument, and at times I became paranoid and overbearing around our house. Perhaps it was just a strong feeling of frustration with the pathetic role the politicians played from my being called up and its aftermath.
But Lyn was right. There were signs of instability in my behaviour. At work, I was starting to reluctantly admit there was a dark rage that I feared. It only reared its head when fools provoked me. I had never hit anyone since a frightening fight in Vietnam in base camp. I was drunk, lost the plot over nothing much, and had a fellow soldier jammed against a Land Rover and was quite content to bash him to death. Thank God for mates; they took me away, calmed me down, and naturally got me even drunker.
Over the years some people told me there were occasions when my wild-eyed stare would frighten them. I had turned into a person who couldn’t tolerate incompetence, particularly with people senior to me. I hated the idea that fools were in control.
Now my job was in an office, as a case manager. On 5 August 1992, at work, I was struggling, getting agitated and anxious. I was seeing familiar faces in flashbacks. About midday, I was sitting in my office when my chest started to suck in as if a huge weight was pushing against it. I rang my wife, who was a cardiac nurse. Her message was blunt: get to a doctor. I’d never realised this, but when you ring a clinic and explain you’re having severe chest pains, you get to the top of the queue. I was put on a machine that indicated my heart was fine. At the time I was a man deeply in denial, and desperate to appear bullet proof. The doctor asked my opinion about what my trouble was.
‘I’ve been doing a lot of gardening,’ I said. ‘I’ve probably strained a muscle.’
Doctors can only diagnose you based on your input and test results.
‘You look exhausted, Barry,’ he said. ‘Take it easy for a few days.’ He appeared curious, as I must have looked bloody terrible.
‘I’m giving you a week off work, and I want you to get some rest.’
I went straight back to work, rang my wife, and told her it was a false alarm.
1993
AROUND ANZAC DAY, a few vet mates marched. My guess would be that about 20 per cent of the local Vietnam veteran population was involved. Knackers and I marched together — it was my second time. We awkwardly talked about the few vets who’d started to have breakdowns over the last two years. They’d ended up in Heidelberg Repatriation Hospital, the psychiatric wing commonly called the mental ward. We couldn’t think of anything more humiliating. I also attended a funeral of a bloke from my battalion, my intake, my age. I knew something of his sad story. It had been a suicide, and it wasn’t the first. Both veterans and their children were taking their own lives. What was happening to people?
The pattern of chest pains was repeated in early August. This time the same doctor sent me for a full cardiac evaluation, and I was given a clean bill of health. I must have been a good actor; the only person linking the pains to anxiety was my wife. My doctor diagnosed exhaustion, told me I looked dreadful, and said I needed a break. He gave me three weeks off work. I went back to work the next day.
The night of the sixth of August, I went out and saw Knackers. He wasn’t travelling at all well, and confided his fear of August. He was open about his failure in Vietnam and his inability to cope with the dark thoughts that swamped his poor old head. At last, I could relate to another individual who felt the same, although I said nothing to this good mate. He’d medicated himself for years with alcohol, and he was not alone. Two other mates, both grunts, were spinning out with violent outbursts and trouble with the police. The cops were good. They didn’t exactly forgive, but they were compassionate, contacting other vets to take a mate home, get him off the road, or tell us what had happened and see if we could help ke
ep him in check.
I had met numerous vets in my area. Most were social misfits, only able to mix with other vets, and all of them struggled with holding down a job. But for all Knackers’ openness and honesty, I really struggled to talk candidly. It was enough that he knew what I had been through and understood what the life of a vet was like. I felt guilty because I believed I’d had it easy as a radio operator. Knackers had been a machine gunner, but he felt guilty that he hadn’t been a forward scout. It was obvious we both had a very deep guilt that we had survived while some of our mates had been killed and wounded.
If only the bloody thoughts and memories would go away. Surely, after nearly 30 years, they would start to fade or dissipate, or we could at least handle the memories? The advice or opinion that we should ‘just get on with it’ or ‘get over it’ was what greeted most veterans when we returned home. But now a lot of vets were getting sicker. Yet, for most of us, denial prevailed. The shared avoidance of the reality of our experience in Vietnam, and the associated emotional problems, reminded me of Stacka, a good mate and a forward scout. He was a typical example. I had bumped into him at Canberra. He felt unbearable guilt because he’d been totally exhausted in Vietnam, to the point that he’d been unable to sleep in the jungle and started to vomit after meals. His body reacted with severe headaches and ulcers, and appalling rashes all over that were very severe in his groin. After months as a forward scout, he was retired to base camp. Now, 30 years later, he told himself and his close mates that he’d been a wimp and couldn’t handle it, and was sure the other blokes thought he was a wimp, too. Yes, he’d become a drinker, unstable, and a loner. Anyway, he reckoned it wasn’t hard being a scout. The machine gun: that would have been too hard for him. And what about the poor bastards defusing mines?
The cycle of self-hate had no end. Knackers would tell me his problems, which was a start. I wouldn’t tell anyone. What was the point? It would bring about nothing but shame, guilt, and a release of something that scared the shit out of me. That wasn’t the male way. I had seen what happened to blokes who went for help. Their struggling seemed to get worse. Some of them ended up in Heidelberg Hospital, sometimes locked up. Bugger that! Furthermore, their life seemed to spiral down as the government put them through the wringer when they applied for assistance. Veterans had to prove they were incompetent, unemployable, and emotional misfits with few social skills. Many put in half-hearted claims and were rejected by a system that put the entire onus on the veteran. Now, how helpful was that? Then, as many were unsuccessful, they had to face the humiliation of an appeal, seek other help to put forward a more detailed, honest, and logical case, and try to remain sane. No bloody way. I’d work until I dropped. I bet most held that same philosophy.
1994
I WAS TIRING at work. I buried myself in projects without breaks, and continually pushed myself. However, my chest pains were different this year. They had started in April — earlier and mild at first, then had got slowly stronger, with no relief. The stomach problems increased and I had worsening wind pains. My doctor was at a loss. I was fit, very fit. I hadn’t been a drinker for many years. I was a social smoker: one a week. I ate well. I was having two medical appointments a month, and the doctor felt that a psychiatrist might be my answer. Again, he gave me three weeks off work; and again I went back the next day.
By late May I was becoming jumpy, and both my breath and bowels were giving me problems. I took a brave step; I dialled the psychiatrist’s number. Now, making an appointment with a shrink is not easy. Ask any vet. I had a referral, a supportive wife, and an obsession that I had no real problems. Oh, and I was a male. However, the guilt and recurring nightmares tipped the balance. My instability gave me some strength, as bizarre as that seems … I made the phone call.
Fortunately, after the first appointment, I found my psychiatrist was a good man who quietly worked around delicate issues. I didn’t lie; I just said I was not bad. What a stupid bloody statement ‘not bad’ is. It’s such a convenient cop-out for men.
Looking back, I’m sure I never consciously bluffed the shrink, but I usually left the bi-monthly session convinced I had shown him I was a competent, capable, and well-adjusted worker with no real troubles. In fact, I was petrified I would break down, pour out my true feelings, and blow my cover. Then where would I be? Mental frig’n ward … stuff that!
It was now late June, and I went to another appointment. I was told I looked old and tired … when pressed, I admitted that sleeping was a problem. He wasn’t surprised; it was common in vets. I finally admitted to having nightmares. I had heard that a good shrink could help. I certainly needed it as, lately, the nightmares were different. They happened nightly now, and were very intense. The GP boot with the foot inside it had disappeared, replaced by a terrifying scenario that was always the same. The gang — Booster, Blou and company, and all those familiar faces — would be in a plane, like the photographic slide I have. Every face was stark or tired. We were in the Caribou aircraft shortly after taking off from Nui Dat on our return via Saigon to Australia. There would be some frivolity after a time, even a little excitement, and a touch of joy, just like the memory of the real thing. Soon we would touch down, and Vietnam would be behind us.
Then, without warning, the plane would roll, spin, dive, and hurtle towards the ground. I would wake up screaming, just on impact. I was too afraid to go back to sleep. Together, the shrink and I discussed the nightmare. I would break into a sweat as I retold it. He would nod, encourage me, and ask how I felt. Slowly, he helped me to realise that the nightmare was a crude attempt by my muddled mind to interpret what it was like to come back home … which we hadn’t. It was as simple as that. In that brief time away, both Australia and we had changed markedly. Sadly for us at the time, politically active people in Australia turned on the soldiers. After their tour of duty, returning Vietnam veterans were a catalyst for the many social and political upheavals of that era.
Now I was having monthly visits. The psychiatrist enabled me to sift through the fog and see what it was I was actually dreaming. It helped. It didn’t go away, but I would wake up saying to myself, ‘It’s OK, Baz, it’s OK … they’re OK!’ Or something.
Then, as if to finally break me as August approached, for the first time I dreamed about an incident that had really happened in the jungle. It was something I had always tried to shut out if it tried to intrude in the form of a flashback. It had to do the shooting of the old VC woman. I think she’d been badly wounded. She had walked into our position in the jungle. Bang … shit. Then she was being carried to the Bell helicopter. The badly wounded woman would abuse me, and spit out vile accusations that seemed to ring true. Her comments about my arrogance and prejudices were very accurate. Finally, she would shame me in a way that would destroy my last vestige of self-respect. I would wake up swamped with depression and hopelessness — a hopelessness that could only be satisfied by my own death or suicide. I hadn’t contemplated the latter, but there were times when I wondered what future there was for me.
I was curious about the old woman’s recovery. Had she survived? What did it do to her life, her attitude toward us, to me? Did she have family? … At times, my mind would haunt me, until finally the incident manifested itself in the nightmare that centred on the VC woman’s abuse and taunts. Every utterance of the woman in the nightmare was a damning condemnation of Australia’s part in the war. Her argument had more logic than the political line trumpeted by our leaders. Sometimes I relived scenes from the demonstrations I had witnessed years earlier. My mind seemed unstable and irrational. The scenes were warped and unreal, but her ranting appeared to be the absolute truth. For the first time, I was frightened that my subconscious was no longer something I could deny and keep under control — it was starting to control me. It emerged only when I was asleep, when my guard was down. I didn’t tell my psychiatrist about that one … no bloody way.
No matter how strong these signals were, I was obsessed with the notion
that nothing would stop me from working. Stupidity, pride, guilt, and shame all worked together to make me gradually work myself into the ground rather than confront my own demons. My doctor was concerned for my health, and offered me an extended sick leave. I thanked him but refused to take it. At work, I was admired for my enthusiasm and output.
1995
I VISITED KNACKERS every week, and he often dropped in to my place after work. There was another battalion reunion organised; we both wanted to go, but couldn’t make up our minds. I can see now that we were exhausted, scared, and overflowing with insecurity.
However, this year I returned to my old habits. I enrolled in a post-graduate course at Deakin University. Naturally, I continued in fulltime work. My time had to be carefully arranged or I wouldn’t cope. I became socially isolated, and went back to four hours’ sleep a night. My results indicated that I was likely to get distinctions and first-class honours … Sound familiar?
For once, August almost snuck up on me. Then, suddenly, it was all consuming. For months now, the emotions that surfaced during my nightmares had begun to intrude into my waking hours. It was difficult to study, I was slower, and lacked the memory and recall I had with earlier studies. At work I was blurry-eyed and jumpy. People talking behind me would cause me to sweat and lose concentration. After work, I would go home exhausted, nap on the chair in front of the TV, and then bury myself in studies. But once I got into bed, I couldn’t sleep. I had chest pains …
An appointment was made with my GP. In his room I told him — not the psychiatrist — that I was having severe sleeping problems and prolonged nightmares. He gently enquired further as to their cause. He was a kind man, genuinely interested in my well being; he knew my wife and family very well. Then, without warning, I burst out with a deep, guttural roar. I screamed at him about a contact we’d had; I roared the vivid details of a wounded VC woman. I was on my feet ranting, ‘What a stupid bloody idea … walking into our lines holding up a leaflet.’ I blurted out a scene of a young child with elephantitis, with his mother sitting helplessly beside him. ‘We were so fucking heartless.’ I started to cry. It was a crude, wrenching, sobbing burst of agony. The doctor had tears in his eyes. Clearly distressed, he was shaken by my uncontrollable outburst and again insisted, even pleaded, that I rest, and take a month off work.
