Well Done, Those Men

by Barry Heard

  ‘And please tell the psych.’

  I needed a mate, so I sought out Knackers. I badly needed his company, and I knew the feeling was mutual. On the night of the sixth of August, I drove out to his humpy, a camper bus. It was located in a paddock near a dam. As I got closer, I could see there were no lights on, and I thought he might be asleep. Then I saw a dim light: it was his gas stove, burning very low. His van batteries were flat. He was having a can of beer, and I joined him.

  ‘I’m rooted, mate. I just can’t sleep. What are we gunna do, Baz?’

  I said nothing. I often asked that question of myself, and had no answer for it.

  ‘Why did they send me to Bangkok?’ sobbed Knackers, tears running down his face. ‘Poor bastards … shit, Baz … ‘

  I was struggling to remain composed. Knackers rarely called me Baz — only in moments of complete openness. When we’d first spoken after I came back from Hong Kong, he’d called me that. I’ll never forget the sadness of our awkward, disjointed conversation that day. Now, here we were, inarticulate and overwhelmed again. Knackers kept cursing himself for having gone to Bangkok on leave and for not being there when he was needed. I echoed him; I was distraught about my incompetence on the radio, my terror, my inability to cope, and my failure. And both of us were faced with added agony, as it was generally accepted by now that the war in Vietnam had been wrong, stupid, a waste, and a pointless exercise … we were both rambling.

  The pain in my heart that night was all-consuming, bottomless, and overpowering. I felt hopeless, unable to help or to accept help. At 4.00am, I left Knackers in his bus and headed back home, drunk.

  On the fourteenth of August, my wife answered the phone.

  Knackers was dead.

  I didn’t believe her. But I did. Surely, she had it wrong. But it must have been true. His heart was broken when I saw him last. Instead of going to work early, I sat in the lounge room, staring at nothing. A chunk of my being, the thing that made me myself, had been ripped out. The pain was excruciating. I couldn’t imagine life without him. Lyn was confused and scared. She didn’t understand. But how could she? I’d never shared anything with her about Knackers or the significance of the sixth of August. I’d never included her, or any members of my family, in my friendships with my army mates. She couldn’t know that he’d been someone who shared a little of my grief and guilt, and understood it.

  Poor Knackers. Poor Lyn.

  I went to work. I never stopped. I had shortened lunchtimes, and apologised to staff members and clients about the hay fever that made it look as though I had tears in my eyes. When someone asked if I knew the veteran who’d died, I rushed out of the room. I had never introduced Knackers to fellow workers. He didn’t want that.

  Some of the blokes — Grunter, Booster, and Beebop — were at his funeral.

  Every day after work, I visited his grave. I talked and talked and talked some more. It was too late now but, finally and uselessly, I talked about myself. I asked why and how.

  It was several weeks after Knackers’ death. I had come home from work exhausted. I went to bed late. I had written a 3000-word assignment and was in front with my studies. But, by now, Vietnam memories were always hanging about, whether I was awake or asleep. I was becoming hyper-vigilant again. Any noise outside the house was an intruder. Earlier in the week, I had sat outside in the dark, just near our letterbox, for over an hour, watching … in fact, I was quite happy not to go to bed. But, this night, when I finally went to bed, Lyn was sound asleep. I must have dozed off.

  I woke up terrified. It was the same nightmare: a wailing, screaming VC falling down, shot badly … accusing me of the filth that summed up my being. The scene was vivid, and it wouldn’t go away. It was in the room. The room was the jungle. I was awake in a nightmare … I was back in Vietnam, awake. I seemed to have lost reality.

  My shoulders and chest ached from the heavy pack on my back. My muscles started to cramp and contract. I tried to throw off the radio. The weight started to crush my whole body. I could feel it slowing down my heart and it knocking hard against my chest. It was slowing … I was going … I couldn’t get the weight off. But I remained quiet … this was my problem. Lyn was beside me, sleeping in the bed in the jungle. I was at the point of collapse, sinking, filled with the feeling that, all along, this had been meant to happen. Soon I would faint from pain. That was OK, but it got too much. My pulse was very low. I woke Lyn.

  ‘My heart is hurting, bad. I’m going to be sick.’

  She didn’t panic. I staggered with her help to the bathroom, and the jungle started to disappear. Instead, I was in a warm, soft place that was bright, peaceful, and beautiful, like the top of Connors Hill. It was where I wanted to be. If only the pain in my chest would stop.

  Lyn tells me now she knew I was dying, but at the time she continued to talk to me and encourage me to come back, to stay with her, to breathe deep, to not pass out. Her persistence was what saved me. I vividly recall making the conscious decision to focus on the pain and to fight to survive.

  Then I was on the couch in the lounge room with two MICA ambulance officers on either side. They were asking blunt questions with the utmost tact. Then the hospital ceiling was spinning as I was wheeled somewhere. I kept apologising to my poor wife.

  I heard the words, ‘His symptoms … major heart attack’. They were wrong. I had to explain.

  ‘It’s OK. My heart’s OK!’ I ranted to those trying to help me. ‘It’s not my heart. It’s all in my head. It’s full of shit!’

  Funnily enough, I was right. My heart was fine. Broken, maybe. It really was my head.

  I awoke to see my psychiatrist sitting next to me in the hospital room. I had slept for thirty hours. I was very weak and frightened. Later, I remember collapsing in the hospital shower and just being able to reach the red button for help. I had no strength. I had been diagnosed with severe post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). My condition was very fragile.

  Normally, I would have been transferred to the Heidelberg Psychiatric Hospital for veterans in Melbourne. It had a ward specifically for PTSD sufferers — the ward we’d all talked about as the mental ward, where you go when you’re stuffed. But that was for other veterans when they collapsed, not me. The thought terrified me.

  I believe that, knowing this, my wife and son had felt strongly that I should stay in my local hospital until my strength returned. I wasn’t ready for Heidelberg. Sadly, earlier that year, some blokes had tried to persuade poor Knackers into attending. He was deeply hurt by their concern, and disgusted that he was seen as a victim of PTSD.

  THE AFTERMATH

  I HAVE ALMOST no recall of the time I spent in hospital after speaking to my psychiatrist. That was two days after my collapse. There was a nurse I vaguely recalled I trusted. She was kind to me in a special way. Later, I found out that someone in her family had PTSD, too. She must have understood what I was going through. My poor children were shocked by the rapid deterioration in my health. Their dad had always been fit and strong, and now I had aged before their eyes. After some time, I returned home. I was sleeping. It was amazing. I would sleep 10–12 hours a night, and six hours more through the day. Admittedly, a lot of it was drug induced, but much of it was due to my complete exhaustion and the weakness of my soul, my heart, and my hopes. I would tire physically after ten minutes of walking, and after five minutes of talking.

  Lyn coped with work, running a family, and me. Perhaps the only decent legacy I had to offer her was the fact that I had amassed a year’s sick leave. She found a stack of sick leave documents recommended by doctors going back years. They were piled up in my desk in a drawer.

  I have to rely on what other people tell me to know what happened in the year after I had the breakdown. Certainly, I remember nothing of the first six months. Listening to the stories I’ve been told, I’m almost grateful for that. My wife says I cried almost daily. My right arm would shake if I became anxious. I had no visitors, and the backyard was my h
aven. Lyn had wisely asked my friends to stay away, but several vets saw me in the waiting room at the psychiatrist’s. What they saw, they told me reluctantly, much later, was an old man with little time left to live, shaking, and staring at the carpet. They told me I was thin and incoherent, that I looked about ninety, and was a dribbling mess. One said he’d been as cold and unemotional as I was, and no feeling seemed to penetrate him. He hadn’t shed a tear at his father’s death, he said, but he cried when he saw me.

  I had a beagle that, in the past, had never seemed to bond with me or show me any affection or obedience. Now the dog sat next to me all day, every day. I was very frail, and became run down after the smallest effort. Slowly, a hundred yards at a time, I left the front gate. At home, I had been a total recluse for a year. I hadn’t been outside the yard unless someone accompanied me. Now I was fitter, and had gradually been psyching myself up to go outside the gate. I had a bold plan, and was a man on a mission. It was important to me that I could leave our yard alone, unassisted.

  We lived about a ten-minute walk from the main city centre of Bairnsdale. But the thought of walking alone, to the end of the street, turning and heading away from our house, daunted me. Instead, I devised a better plan. I hopped on the pushbike and rode it up the town. I made it as far as the first shop. Terrified, I turned the bike around and sprinted back to the safety of my own yard. I’d have to work on another plan.

  I was visiting my psychiatrist regularly. He was an excellent physician, and I believe I was very lucky to have him. I was slowly gaining some sense of ‘self’, my general health was improving, and I could walk for up to 20 minutes at a time.

  A visit to my doctor was planned. It was to be my first major outing, particularly as I intended to return from the surgery on my own. The idea was for Lyn to drop me at the waiting room. She had organised it with them so that I would have the first appointment of the day, with no waiting and no crowd.

  Cautiously, I sat in the corner of the room to cover all movements. The planned journey home would be a quick eight-minute walk, following my regulation twelve-minute consultation … easy. I was ready. But when my name was called I panicked, and had to ask the doctor if he could ring my wife to pick me up instead. She arrived just after the consultation, as I was about to walk out into a busy road, in front of traffic.

  My breakdown had left me with some embarrassing problems. Shaking and weeping were daily events. The shaking was mainly in my right arm; I had little control over it, and I would sit firmly on my hand to try to curb the wobbling. As well, frights or stress would see me soiling my pants. Any minor thing would trigger it: a phone ringing, or a knock at the front door. A nurse taught me some exercises to help me control my bladder and, slowly, over a period of six months, it worked. During this time, I wore aids and pads to soak up the mess. But my bowel had a mind of its own.

  Over the next twelve months, I slowly gained more self-confidence, and I thought I could cope with some part-time casual work. This was important to me, and was my goal. I was aware I couldn’t return to my old job, as I didn’t have the strength yet. A vet mate lined up a job for me, painting a house. He took me to meet the owner, who was a kind lady. It seemed straightforward. I would be painting inside, so I needed a reassurance from her that I would be left alone, with no visitors or interruptions. She worked anyway and would be away all day. Everything was going to plan.

  My first day started with enthusiasm, then I crashed with exhaustion for two days. It was a week before I returned. Even then, the woman was kind, asked no questions, and I worked for six hours before going home and sleeping for fourteen straight hours. It took me a very long time to finish the first room. The owner would return home about 3.30pm. I would sit and have a cuppa, but then her niece would come around after school, and I would make some excuse and go home. What was probably a fortnight’s work was now stretching into a second month. Most of my time off I spent sleeping. I was averaging $60 a week for my work. It was pathetic, but I hung on, determined to get through.

  I was about to start the second room when two nieces instead of one dropped in after school. I was determined to stay, and I slowly learned not to take fright when they arrived every day. They were lovely girls. I was grimly proud of myself. Then a disaster occurred. Visitors arrived — a large mob of them. One or two people I could handle; not a crowd. I dropped my paintbrushes, raced out to my ute, and backed out of the driveway straight into a parked car.

  The ute wasn’t damaged, but the car was a mess. I went inside, struggling to remain composed, and gave the owner my address. Back in the ute, I soiled my pants and drove home trembling. The car repairs cost more than I had earned in months of part-time painting.

  It became obvious to anyone except me that I was unable to work. I accepted the fact reluctantly that I could no longer do work that used my academic qualifications or involved supervising people; and, in doing this, I gave up what had been my vocation for most of my working life. But I had been brought up on a farm. I had a practical bent: I’d built a house, and I had had training in practical areas as a teacher. I’d find something, even if it were part time.

  Meanwhile, my ex-employers at DEET saw things more clearly. They were doing all they could to support my case and invalid me onto a pension, which would be paid by the superannuation fund if the claim were successful. They supported Lyn in every way, and never allowed a single obstacle to get in the way of dealing with my pay and entitlements. All of them showed great compassion and support, even though they were shocked and bewildered by my illness. Lyn tells me I was invited to a staff party twelve months after I had left. The other workers hired a private room for my benefit. The support, love, and affection moved her deeply. I apparently shook and held back most of the time. I had to leave the event early because the shakes, usually confined to my right arm, started to affect my entire body.

  But for all the efforts of my ex-employers, I was wrecking my own case. When I visited psychiatrists for an assessment, I wouldn’t hesitate to tell them how capable and competent I was. Now willing to work in another field, I was flexible. A week later, I would read their reports affirming my desire and ability to work, and I would fume. Those bloody idiots. They never seemed to get it right. Poor Lyn bore the brunt of this perverse reasoning. There I was, convincing professionals that I could work; then, when they agreed with me, I’d be scared to death and infuriated with them.

  Deep down, I think I knew I was unemployable. My vanity and insecurity kept me from owning up to it, though. Baz on a pension: what a fraud; what a joke; what a bludger. I had always taken great pride in my work and my good reputation. I couldn’t stand the thought of people judging me badly, and maybe this was what led me to continually lie to the people wanting to help me or accurately assess my condition. Or maybe it was self-centred male arrogance that made me refuse to accept reality and admit to my family, even to myself, that I couldn’t cope.

  Perhaps everything had happened to quickly for me? One day I’d been at full-time work in a good job; the next, I was critically ill. I clung to my belief that I’d never displayed any signs of incompetence or an inability to cope in my last full-time job.

  Finally, a frustrated Lyn concocted a cunning scheme to have me blow my cover in front of a psychiatrist during a second review on behalf of my ex-employer.

  On the first visit, in Melbourne, apparently I had bluffed him with my usual meaningless and hearty reassurances, and convinced him that there was an employable future for me somewhere. I couldn’t even remember the appointment.

  On the second visit, my wife didn’t give me my usual assortment of pills that calmed me down, suppressed my anxiety, and placed me in a fog of unreal security. With the drugs, I could go to most places with her by my side.

  This time, Lyn parked the car and we started to walk to the consulting rooms. Buzzing and paranoid, I had to check out every face, danger spot, vehicle, and noise. Severe wind pains cramped me, and I felt faint. Crossing the road, I need
ed assistance as I had a mild fit — something the drugs usually suppressed.

  Inside, I staggered downstairs to a toilet, and exploded a foul, green soup of diarrhoea into the bowl before I was even able to shut the door. A young man stared at me in amazement and revulsion as I cleaned the mess off the back of my legs and flushed my undies and socks down the toilet. I finally made it back up the stairs, where Lyn held back tears at the sight and the smell of me.

  Then we arrived at the psychiatrist’s waiting room. A man called my name. He wore a smart suit, and I noticed his eyebrows lift as the smell wafted into the room with me.

  ‘Come in, Mr. Heard.’

  The room was too big. I sat in the middle. There was a large window with a view behind the venetian blinds, and behind the large desk sat the doctor. In front of him lay my file, thick with medical reports. He turned over the cover and started to read. I looked around the room, non-drugged and twitching. Above his head on the wall I believed there were two crossed, life-size swords. Good. They might come in handy, I thought. He turned another page. Thirty seconds had passed. My right arm was shaking violently, and I felt a terrible, seething rage. I was petrified. I had to speak, or the rage would take control. My language was appalling.

  ‘You fuck’n moron. Haven’t you even read my fuck’n file?’ I spat at him. ‘You expect me to fuck’n sit here whilst you casually browse for the next twenty fuck’n minutes, you slack bastard.’