Well Done, Those Men

by Barry Heard

  ‘The army doesn’t let you be sad. We didn’t have funerals.’

  I swallowed. There was a pause. I wanted to stop. I wanted to cry.

  ‘We just got on with the job. Many years later, all that sadness comes out, and it’s terribly hard to explain just how sad I was,’ I added.

  My voice came out tired and shaky.

  The teacher put her handkerchief to her eyes and looked as if she was about to cry. I didn’t look up. I heard a sob, the kids went very quiet, and then the principal spoke softly.

  ‘Let’s have an early play lunch. Stand and move quietly outside.’ The Anzac biscuits were delicious. The talk was over. I’d made it. Then one of the older girls in the school knocked on the staff room door. She whispered something to the teacher, and a muffled conversation followed. They approached me. The students wanted me to give a little service at the honour board located in the community hall across the road.

  You must be kidding, I thought.

  I looked out the window — maybe for divine guidance, I don’t really know — and there was my answer. Outside, the students were being lined up. Two of the big kids had them organised, standing to attention: they were ready to march. They strode across the road with dignity and purpose. I joined them, and there was silence. I noticed some had grabbed small bunches of flowers from the garden, and were passing them up and down the lines. In the hall, the students formed a horseshoe. The two staff had said nothing through this remarkable display, and looked at me for some response. I took a very deep breath and said:

  ‘These names are names of men who have died at war. It would have been very sad for their families, friends, and their mates. The flowers you put here today say so many kind things. These soldiers on this board would be proud of your thoughtfulness, and content to know that you live in peace. Thank you for what you have done today. I hope you never have to go to war.’

  Several kids came over and said thanks. Others touched my hand. One young boy gave me some flowers. I wonder if those kids realised how much they helped me.

  It was after this day, standing in the community hall with them, that I went home and started to write. For the first time, I found there was a connection between my heart and the pen. I attempted to describe what it felt like standing in front of those kids. Hesitantly, I showed the effort to my new psychiatrist, who had encouraged me to put pen to paper. Now, he encouraged me even more. You have the result in your hands.

  The therapeutic value for me in writing this book can be summed up simply. It resulted in a major shift in my own sense of self-worth and helped me change my attitude to Vietnam. It allowed me to purge some demons. I wrote about what I saw, and about how I gradually changed. It was fascinating. The more I wrote, the more I separated myself from the events, and managed to look at the young man I’d been from a distance, like an observer. I could see and feel the pain of innocence and naiveté he continually faced. Then, perhaps the most iniquitous experience of all: coming home. Few of us would have imagined that an Australian public could be so scathing. Most seemed oblivious to the terrible conflict we had faced in Vietnam or to the fact that we had been sent there with little or no choice.

  Today I feel no bitterness, only sadness, as I move amongst my veteran friends and see their depression, poor health, isolation, and struggles. They now have opportunities to improve their lot, and are well catered for by governments. But, for many, the guilt remains. They are not like the Second World War veterans I saw as a youngster on those wonderful ANZAC days. I believe, for many Vietnam veterans, nothing will make them feel deserving enough.

  Many vets who read this book in manuscript form were amazed at my recollection of various incidents. In fact, retelling my experiences in that country has required little memory. As I have explained, I kept a diary for most of my time in the army, including the early months in Vietnam. However, after 6 August 1967 I never wrote another word. From that moment on, I acknowledge that I only have hazy recollections of what happened. Even my interpretations of the events on the sixth of August are from my own vivid memories that are mixed up with nightmares and my later reading about the contact. A letter I received from Burls confirmed this when he wrote that, during Operation Ballarat, he had been caught in front of a tree, when in my mind he had been behind it.

  Perhaps what is most remarkable is what happened to me when I was struggling with writing about the early part of that important day, 6 August 1967. The memory of wanting to be buried on the top of Connors Hill blasted back into my mind as if I was there, during the actual contact. I had, up until this moment, completely forgotten about that powerful thought. I’m sure I had even forgotten it by the time we returned to base camp days later. Like many things, I must have blocked it out. At first I was frightened, then amazed at the recollection, as I have driven up that hill and admired the splendid vista on many occasions since Vietnam, with nothing ever registering. Yet on the night I had my collapse and breakdown, thinking I was about to die, I believed I was looking out from the top of Connors Hill.

  Finally, when I wrote about the school visit above, it is almost word-for-word as you read it. I kept this to myself. Then I decided to write about Vietnam. I couldn’t stop. My first effort was over 100,000 words in length. I wrote this in a few months. At this stage, I certainly had no intention of publishing it, but felt it needed a tidy-up before I showed it to my family, friends, and mates. Their reactions were interesting. Great yarn, they said, but it needs some work. Most Vietnam veterans who read the manuscript gave me roughly the same feedback: it seemed to say what they wanted to say and to hear. For the first time, I thought about publishing my efforts.

  Professionally, it needed a lot of work. With that now done, I would be satisfied if maybe this story stirs other veterans to tell their story, to share their pain and suffering. This would be more than I ever hoped for.

  AFTERWORD

  IT WAS AUGUST 2006, a Monday night, and I was in Melbourne about to give a talk on this book. A woman came up quietly and spoke briefly to me. She was the wife of a Vietnam veteran, and wanted me to meet her husband. Naturally, he was the man standing alone at the rear of the room looking uncomfortable. As I approached him, he put out his arms and we hugged. In a disjointed conversation, he told me he had read the book in July the year before and, after reading it, had decided to give up drinking after 39 years … and he was still dry.

  Jesus, I had to go outside for several moments …

  Let me share with you the remarkable story so far of Well Done, Those Men.

  Long before it became a book, during the year 2000, the pile of paper from which it was to come — loosely called a manuscript — was being handed around Bairnsdale in Victoria. It was passed around the veteran community and then started to spread some, particularly into schools and other institutions. I received a lot of feedback, mostly from veterans and their wives. It was this more than anything else that encouraged me to seek a publisher for it. Veterans were intrigued at the similarity of my story to theirs. Then there were the academics; they often told me that every senior student should read what I had written. Yes, the signals were there … people were reacting to what I had written with either a sense of similarity or almost disbelief at the average story of a Vietnam veteran, but still I didn’t realise what was about to happen.

  Well Done, Those Men was published in 2005, and the early responses to the manuscript were quickly repeated on a larger scale. Not only has this book caused deep emotions in the reader. It has created another very unusual reaction — people feel obliged to respond in some way. Consequently, I have received letters, emails, and phone calls from England, America, and New Zealand, and from currently serving soldiers. Other readers have diverse backgrounds, ranging from teachers to politicians, police to priests, and the national president of the RSL to the secretary of the Department of Veteran Affairs. They include students and war widows, former Vietnam War protesters, and people who used to know a veteran and now claim they know him a
lot better. Contacts came from soldiers from other conflicts, from prisoners of war and their adult children. Then, finally, as you would guess, the response from the Vietnam veteran community has been overwhelming, powerful, and very humbling. I now hold up the book when talking to veterans and say, ‘This is not my book. This is our book.’

  Many people ask me about the words of the title, ‘Well done, those men’. When we first decided to go to print, the phrase simply popped into my head. My publisher immediately agreed to use it, and veterans love it.

  It is also important to mention that this book has helped me. I am healthier now, more confident, and feel the best I have in forty years. As you would guess, in 2003, when I first approached the publisher, my emotional state was still quite fragile, and I now believe I had no concept of the position I was about to put myself in as an author. I didn’t give the fact that a lot of people would read about a large part of my life a great deal of thought. I blanked out the fact that it could involve some publicity, and had difficulty realising I was actually going into print. Looking back, I realise I was quite daunted by the initial release process, and for a time was at a loss as how to cope with being the centre of attention. I would swing from soaking in the praise to wanting it all to just go away. Henry, Miriam, Russ, John, and, in particular, Sue at Scribe were a great support and now, like me, acknowledge that I have grown in strength emotionally and gained in good health as the book went along its unusual journey.

  Let me explain ‘the journey’. After the book’s release in April 2005 I had no idea of the mountain of letters, phone calls, and emails I was about to receive. Initially they started to filter in through via my publisher. Then, most came directly to me. I now understand that most vets could easily find me, as I stated in the book that I was 1st tour, 7RAR, that I am a member of our battalion association, and that I lived in Bairnsdale. Further, the TPI magazine, the RSL, many sub-branches, and Vietnam veteran groups did reviews or spoke in positive terms about the book. I believe that within a few months my name was well known throughout Australia in the veteran community, and most located me through the association.

  As a consequence, the feedback from those that read the book started within weeks. After two months the letters simply poured in. Some days my letterbox would contain up to ten or fifteen letters. To that time, they were mainly from vets and/or their wives. The most intriguing thing was that every letter was the same; it was not that they were the same word for word, but they all carried the same message.

  Veterans wrote such things as, ‘I laughed, I cried’ … ‘I couldn’t put it down’ … ‘You’ve written my book, Turd, now go and write your own’ … And some even wrote, ‘It’s the first book I’ve read in 35 years.’

  Grunts mentioned the fear they’d felt during contacts with the enemy, and where they had wanted to get buried … in sand dunes and by the sea was the most common. Many were disappointed I didn’t have a photograph of Connors Hill in the book (which now features on the back cover of this edition). The record for the most number of jobs held by a veteran after returning from Vietnam was 23. And all of them admitted to being either a workaholic or an alcoholic. The other element in the book most commonly mentioned in the letters was the story of Tom Cook, the wonderful farmer from Ensay, who had written to me whilst I was in Vietnam. Some vets still had their letters or mentioned that their mum or someone else had kept letters they wrote. Like me, they cherished the contact created by the letters in that era.

  Within a few months of the book’s release came what I now call the second stage. I guessed that the book was being passed around the family. Vets were being asked questions … somehow, the book was enabling vets to open up, to nod when asked that question and to offer explanations to family members who for years had been bewildered by their vet’s odd behaviour. The numbers of letters increased.

  Wives wrote very moving letters of thanks … of seeing their man differently … of a new level of understanding.

  Another interesting point was that most letters were written by hand. Although I’ve stated above that all carried roughly the same message, there were letters that brought me to tears or made me realise that this book was a catalyst for a change in vets or their families. Many wives said their vet had gone for help or assistance. That was humbling for me. But a letter that told of a family getting back together after over a decade of separation gave me a sense of satisfaction or joy that words could never fully explain.

  Then there were the interesting letters.

  How many authors can lay claim to the fact that their book has been attacked with a machete? At least the bloke involved — a vet — hacked his book to pieces, went and bought another, sent it to me, asked for it to be signed, and thanked me for having written the book. Note: I recommend this approach; it’s good for royalties.

  At least five letters reported the book having been thrown around the room or banned from the house. All were written with humour, but I guessed at the time it wasn’t funny. I had many books sent to me asking simply for a signature and then for it to be returned.

  After a few months I started visiting RSLs, veterans’ groups and the like, and many of the people in the audience wanted to talk to me. At the time I would have been emotionally drained, wanting some quiet time, and given out all the signals that hinted that I needed to be given some space. People did … thankfully. But later, within a few days, guessing that I had rested and that few people would bother to ring me, the opposite happened: the phone at home rang continually.

  Perhaps I should point out that when I first mentioned to my publisher the amount of feedback I was receiving from the book, it became very obvious that I was receiving almost twice as many contacts as there were books being sold!

  The first print-run was 4000 copies. By the time almost 2000 copies had been sold, I had received over 800 letters and over 2000 emails, and the phone rang every night. My guess would be that I’d had in excess of 3500 contacts. Many of the emails had attachments that included sites or links on the internet showing reviews or mentions of the book. I received over 100 newspaper and magazine clippings of articles on the book.

  It became apparent that those bloody lousy vets were lending the book to their mates, or others were borrowing it! I bet the main culprits were those bloody Tankies — bastards, buy your own.

  The national president of the RSL wrote a letter attesting to the importance of the book, and he mentioned it at every forum he attended and openly encouraged others to read it. The secretary of the Department of Veteran Affairs wrote me a glowing letter, stating that the book led to a better understanding of veterans’ problems and I could use his letter to endorse the book in any way I felt suitable.

  By December 2005 I had received over 1200 letters, in excess of 3000 emails, and countless phone calls from the veteran community alone.

  Then in 2006, from the wider community, particularly students, there were three times the figures above. The amount of contacts was nearing 10,000!

  Let me explain. After a slow start from the non-veteran community in 2005, by the end of the year and early in 2006 the responses started to increase. Emails began to outnumber letters by a ratio of five to one, and the phone calls were constant; little did I realise you could look up my address and phone number on the internet by simply putting in ‘Heard Bairnsdale Victoria.’

  As mentioned, emails started to pour in. The numbers were staggering. What was going on? Perhaps it was me, a naïve Vietnam veteran named Turd, who decided (not long after the book’s release) to send some emails to the 50-odd addresses I had in my address book of friends, family, and mates. I attached some snippets from the results of an internet search that a good mate had sent me. The recipients of these emails sent by me were forwarded onto other recipients and contacts. As well, after over a dozen radio interviews, I now had emails forwarded to me through each radio station. Naturally I answered them, and also added the email address to my ever-increasing address book. I might add here
that ABC radio received a lot of emails. Then it started. I was getting emails that were being sent to multiple addresses. I was becoming a part of other people’s address books that were also forwarding mail. Many of their emails were about the book. With all the emails I received, I added the sender to my address book — even those that included multiple addresses. Hmmm, little did I realise what I was setting myself up for.

  In March 2006, I recorded a reading of a condensed version of the book at the ABC studio in Sale, Victoria. The reading was going to be broadcast nationally, starting on Anzac Day 2006. It would be played every day for two weeks on ‘The Book Show’. It was all exciting, so in late March I sent an email to every address in my address book. There were hundreds of them … I think.

  In April 2006 I was in Perth for our battalion’s reunion. On the Monday before Anzac Day, after a very moving ceremony in Kings Park, I was taken to the Perth studios of the ABC to be interviewed by Richard Fidler on the ABC Radio’s conversation hour. It was going to be broadcast on Anzac Day as well.

  I missed hearing the first day of the book reading, but many of the wives, friends, and others who were in Perth said it was terrific.

  In late April I headed back to Victoria. As usual, I slept for almost two days when I finally returned home. Then I was tied up for a few days. I admit I had turned on the computer a few times and it did say something about emails still coming in. I read a few — all of them were about the book reading. Many liked the fact that I was the reader, as they could hear the pain or emotion as I read some of the sad parts. When I went to turn the computer off, it said there were emails still coming in … Oh well, so what? I had heaps of mail to read anyway, so I turned it off. Several days later, I left the computer on to do a complete scan and I noticed there were emails still coming in … I guess we will never know what really happened or how many emails there were. There were so many it not only stuffed the hard drive; it caused a bigger problem. I lost almost all of the emails I had received over the previous 12 months. It was very disappointing. I managed to retrieve a few of them as I had used different email servers.