by Patrick Ford
Unlike the Americans, the Australians did not trust the trails through the jungle. They were too easy to use. They could be ambushed, mined, and booby-trapped. Using them gave Charlie too much information and too much time to prepare his own ambush.
Since Long Tan, Charlie had been reluctant to take on the Australians in any kind of fixed engagement. These men knew how to fight and they were very good at it. Charlie preferred a quick ambush, a few bursts of fire, a few grenades, and then to hightail it before his targets could mount any kind of effective action. The Australians aimed to dominate their territory by aggressive patrolling. Just as their fathers had denied Rommel at Tobruk, and their grandfathers had terrorised the Germans on the western front in 1917, Eleventh Battalion, RAR, did the same. There were always patrols out, some in section strength, some in company strength, and some, as on this night, in platoon strength. It was never safe to move through their territory, day or night. The Aussies were playing Charlie at his own game.
These men, of 2 Platoon, A Company, 11/RAR, had been doing this for almost three months now. Some of their patrols went out for ten or more days at a time, completely self-contained, moving quietly through the jungle, wading through swamps chest deep, always on the lookout and not just for Charlie, for these forests and swamps had an impressive assortment of poisonous snakes, centipedes, and scorpions. They left no evidence of their passage; all refuse and excrement buried, no one smoked, there was no idle chat. They communicated almost entirely by hand signals.
This night, their patience was being tested. Their scouts had picked up a trail late yesterday. They had set up a perimeter and spent the night, waiting for dawn so they could follow. Charlie was good, but he could not always cover his tracks. This one contained some distinctive boot prints and sharp-eyed scouts had even spied a few grains of rice, so this was more than likely a supply party, a valuable target. Two Platoon had cut across country to intercept, but so far, they had had no luck. Andy McGuire was feeling frustrated. Let’s get this over, he thought. We’re due for a five-day leave when we get back in. C’mon you little yellow bastards, where are you?
There was a very faint lightening of the gloom in the east. Dawn was coming. If Charlie didn’t show up soon they’d have to break cover and start on their homeward leg. Then Ron placed a hand on Andy’s arm, put a finger to his lips, and held a hand to his ear. He pointed to his left front. Now Andy could hear something, a sibilant rustle of vegetation. The bastards were coming! Andy tugged the cod line connecting him to the next position where his section’s gun group crouched. The gunner looked at him as he indicated the direction of the enemy, nodded and passed on the signal. Then he hauled the bipod of his M60 around to get the best field of fire and snuggled down on the gun, eyes on his sights. Movement! Andy could see shadowy forms flitting across his line of sight. The Looey would have received the signal by now; he would give the order to open fire. He waited… waited… waited… waited… then “FIRE.”
Two of the M60s and about twenty-five rifles opened up, the rifles with their “Thwack…thwack of aimed and controlled fire. The M60s spewed hundreds of rounds in short bursts. Then grenades began to explode. That would be Mario with his M79. The jungle lit up with the combined muzzle flashes and the light grew murky with cordite. There was a flash as a rocket propelled grenade fizzed past, exploding as it hit a tree. Then, as quickly as it had started, the gunfire ceased. There was a curious afterglow on their retinas. They heard the platoon sergeant call out, “Stand fast; reload!”
There was the clink of M60 belts feeding into breeches, the clicks of rifle magazines, and cocking handles ratcheting, then silence. They waited five minutes, then the Looey said, “Right, let’s see what we’ve got here. Andy and Ronnie, move forward. Eyes open now. Prepare to give covering fire.”
Andy and Ronnie pushed carefully forward. There was enough light to see by now. They spotted several black clad figures lying still. “All quiet here, boss,” called Ronnie. “Ok,” said the Looey, “3 Section move through 1 and 2 and advance.” There was no need for covering fire. Two men moved to left and right for about one hundred yards parallel to the direction the VC had been moving, to keep lookout. They needed no orders for that; this was a well-trained platoon. Lt. Jack Riordan looked at the destruction his platoon had dealt out. There were twelve dead VC; blood trails led them to a further two, badly wounded. They piled the bags of rice in a clearing, slashed them open and buried the spilt grain, mixing it thoroughly with the earth to make it unfit to eat.
There were two Australian wounded. One had some RPG fragments in his shoulder and back, but was not badly hurt. The other was more serious. A bullet had pierced his upper thigh, creasing bone and causing a large exit wound. He was lucky. His femoral artery was undamaged. The medic slapped a field dressing on the wound. They made an improvised stretcher and looked for a place where a helicopter could land.
“2 section, go back and fetch those VC,” said Jack, there’ll be room on the chopper for them.” Soon a medivac chopper clattered down towards their yellow smoke and flared out. They loaded the two prisoners and the wounded. The crew chief called Jack over. “Your skipper wants you back as soon as possible, sir. You are to hand over to your sergeant and catch a ride with us.”
The rest of 2 Platoon watched the helicopter climb away. “Lucky bastards,” said one of the men. “They’ll be in clean sheets and fondling the nurses in half an hour.”
Corporal McGuire looked thoughtful. “I hope they’re not going to pinch our Looey,” he said, “We’ll never get a better one than him.” All his men nodded agreement, but they were destined to be disappointed. “Okay, boys,” said the sergeant, “Let’s move. Bluey, take point, 3 section lead, 2 section, arse end Charlie.”
* * * *
Major Forbes was seriously pissed off. They were going to take away his best young officer. Good platoon leaders were hard to find. The boys coming out of the National Service OTU at Schyeville did not lack courage or knowledge. They lacked man management skills and maturity. Riordan had come up through the ranks; he knew how to get the best out of his men. Who would have thought it? His best platoon leader starting as a private, and a reservist at that.
Riordan pulled aside the tent flap and entered the Company HQ. “Skipper wants to see me, Rod,” he said to the CSM.
“Yep, he’s waiting. Go right in.” Jack had come straight from the hospital after seeing his men treated. He still wore his webbing, carried his rifle, and was filthy and stinking from ten days in the field. Major Forbes looked at him, thinking, why do those HQ pricks always take my best men?
“Jack,” he said, “We’re losing you.” He pushed a signal form across the canvas table. “You have been promoted to Captain and mentioned in dispatches. Congratulations. Take five days leave and report to the big boss in Nui Dat. Good luck, son, we will miss you.” Jack made his goodbyes and got a lift to the airfield, where he cadged a ride in a US Army Iroquois to Saigon. There, he got a jeep ride to town and found a hotel room. He showered, shaved, and fell into a deep sleep. When he awoke, the sun was going down. It was very hot. He had another shower and went out to find a bar.
Worcester, Massachusetts, USA—1967
Jacqui Susan had been gradually learning about her Daddy. She knew about Bowinwobe, about Helen, about the finking place. Susan continued to teach her daily about Australia, about its animals and its birds—and its spirits.
Marci was in a constant worry about Jimbo. She glued herself to the television nightly. What had happened to Karl? What might happen to her Jimbo? Her daughters had disgraced her. But he would never abandon her, why had he not written more? She still did not realise she had alienated herself from all her children. Marci decided that Susan should forget all about Australia and marry some local boy in order to start a new life.
Susan had told her, “Mom, I will marry only Jack. If I cannot have him, I will have nobody.”
“Think about your child, Susan. I cannot keep you forever. It’s ti
me you did something about your future. Susan did nothing but think about her future, filled by a little bush kid with dark hair and green eyes. Marci kept at her. She put forward a number of suitable suitors. Susan laughed in her face.
However, there was a problem for Marci. Jimmy had left her well provided for, but she had not invested her money wisely. Bob Phillips had died two years ago. Corporate regulators had found serious irregularities in the procurement processes for Defense contracts. It was rumoured that Worcester Electronic Inc. was in trouble. The stock went into free fall. From a market value of $50, it fell to $10. Marci called a stockbroker who advised her to hold the stock; a week later, the company filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy. The stock was worth nothing. She had lost nearly half a million dollars. She was devastated. How would she survive? Who would take care of her? Jimbo might, but he could be dead tomorrow, he could be dead now and she still had no information. What if he went missing, as Karl had? What if no one ever found out what happened to him? He had contacted her only once since he had left home, a short note to tell her he had joined the army.
Sarah was no use at all. She cried and cried over her lost husband, the one she and Marci conspired to drive out. John still refused to have anything to do with her and her mother. Marci tried to contact him. He was an accountant; he might know what to do. He refused to speak to her when she tracked down his office number. He instructed the switchboard that he would not take her calls. Finally, she wrote to his lawyers. How could he abandon his sons? They replied on his behalf. He would gladly accept custody, if Sarah would agree. She would not agree; she retired to her room with a fresh bottle of gin.
Oh, God, thought Marci, I did what I thought was right for them. I protected them; now they have all abandoned me.
Saigon, South Vietnam—1967
Saigon was a typical Asian city—crowded, filthy, and effervescent. The streets swarmed with motor bikes and scooters, touts and hawkers, drug dealers and prostitutes. The war had changed the city. With the influx of American troops, the big three industries, drugs, cheap whiskey, and girls, had flourished. Every bar was full of them; they were there to induce the patrons to drink more, pay for their drinks at grossly inflated prices, and to sell their bodies to the round eyes. All manner of sexual perversion was available. In fact, everything was available, at a price. The Americans had built huge bases and supply dumps. Venal quartermasters abounded. Conscripts decided that, if they had to be in this stinking place, they might as well profit from it. The streets thronged with Vietnamese youths of military age. If your family had the right connections or the right amount of money, it was easy to avoid the draft.
Doctors wrote spurious health certificates; bogus corporations gained exemptions for their alleged essential staff. The ARVN was composed of the poor, the ignorant, the villagers, and others who could not avoid conscription. Corruption was the growth industry. In a few more years, it would all come tumbling down. It was no wonder that some US troops were so disinterested. They did not want to sacrifice their lives for corrupt politicians and officials.
* * * *
On his second night in Saigon, Jack made his way to the Grande Hotel, a focus for journalists and foreign troops. Usually he could expect to find a few Aussies there. To his pleasant surprise, he found most of his platoon surrounded by a growing mound of 33 beer bottles and a growing coterie of bar girls. They greeted him warmly.
His sergeant said, “What’s going on, Boss, what have they done to you?”
“I don’t know. I have to report to HQ in a couple of days, and then I’ll find out. Maybe they’ll punish me by sending me home.”
“Pull the other one,” said Bluey.
Corporal McGuire said, “We heard you’d made Captain. Congratulations.”
“Thanks, they must have something especially nasty planned for me.”
Jack looked at his men, no, not his men anymore. He loved these tough soldiers. They had endured much together, protected each other’s lives, gone on leave together, and shared almost everything else. More importantly, he had not lost a man, only three slightly wounded No matter what, they would always be his brothers.
The bar was filling up. The girls departed, empty-handed. Maybe later, they thought, after they had one last drink with their Looey, their mate. Shit, thought Andy McGuire, we’re going to miss this bloke. I hope we get another like him. Maybe our lives will depend on it.
A group of American soldiers joined them. There was always friendship between the Americans and Aussies. The American boys respected them for their skill and their dry sardonic wit. They were happy to share a beer with them anytime. Tonight, they were on a shopping expedition. They wanted to buy the Aussies’ slouch hats. They were invariably disappointed. No one was going to give up such a prized possession at any price.
McGuire looked up. One of the Yanks was staring at Jack. He continued to stare, growing red in the face, appearing hesitant, wanting to do something, not quite knowing what it was he wanted. McGuire went over to talk to him. “What’s up, mate? Why are you staring at our Looey like that?” The American turned. McGuire could see he was very young and very drunk. “What is that officer’s name?” he said.
“Jack Riordan, the best officer in the army.”
The entire colour drained from the boy’s face. He pushed his way through the crowd of men and stood swaying in front of Jack. “You bastard,” he said, “You bastard Riordan, you fucking low bastard! I have been waiting near three years for this. I’m going to kill you, you son of a bitch!”
There was a stunned silence. Jimbo took a drunken swing at Jack who stepped back and avoided the blow. By then, Andy McGuire had Jimbo in a bear hug. “Steady on, mate,” he said. “What do you think you’re doing, you silly little prick?”
“I know him,” said Jimbo, “I know that bastard; I know what he did to my sister. Let me go, he’s going to get what’s coming to him.” He was near to tears.
Recognition dawned. “Jimbo,” said Jack, “Jimbo Baker. Thank Christ. I’ve been trying to find you for so long. How is Susan? Where is she?”
“As if you care, you bastard. You abandoned her. You left her to suffer on her own.”
“No, No, Jimbo, that’s not what happened. Please I have to know.”
“I’ll be waiting for you, you son of a bitch. Next time you won’t have a platoon to protect you.” He turned on his heel and stumbled to the door, followed by his companions.
“Jimbo,” cried Jack. “No! It was not like that, No. Come back, I want to talk to you.”
But Jimbo Baker was gone.
The radio on the bar began to play ‘Brown Eyed Girl’. Jack looked at it for a minute, and then he strode to the bar, took out his Browning, and blew the radio to smithereens. His platoon rushed to him. “Fuck’s sake, let’s get him out of here. This place will be crawling with bloody MPs in a minute. Grab him, Ronnie, out the back, quick, there’s a friggin truck of ours out there.” Andy and Ronnie bundled him into the back of the vehicle and jumped into the front. In seconds, they were driving sedately away. As they did so, two Jeeps with flashing lights, crowded with MPs in white helmets, careered past them. A mile up the road, they stopped. Bluey said, “Are you okay, boss?”
Jack said, “Yeah, I’m okay. I apolgise for the fuck-up in the bar. That song has been giving me hell for a couple of weeks. I once had a brown-eyed girl, but she’s not around anymore. Now, let’s find another bar and you can give me a proper send off.
They did.
Nui Dat, Phuoc Tuy Province, South Vietnam—1967
Captain Jack Riordan saluted the Brigadier, CO of Australian Task Force Vietnam. “Good morning, sir, you wished to see me?”
Brigadier Freeman looked at this young officer, and liked what he saw. He saw a lean and hard looking man, handsome if it was not for the grim determination he saw in his eyes. A man on a mission, he thought. Well, I have a bigger mission for you, young man. I hope you are good enough. “Sit down, Captain, would you like a drink,
I’ve got some Black Label somewhere?”
“No, thank you, sir. Bit early in the morning for me.” His stomach recoiled at the mere thought of alcohol. He had breakfasted on aspirin.
“Well, let’s get down to business. Firstly, let’s talk about the report you, Captain Donald and Mr. Scott lodged earlier in the year. There was some good stuff in there. The Americans were interested in what you had to say about their troops, their problems, and the leadership at field level. The report went right up to the top man, General Glover, and that is really something. The Yanks will not admit it publicly, but privately, they know they have a major morale problem. This goes right back to their basic training. Unlike us, they have a larger proportion of conscripts, poorly integrated with their regular soldiers. Their regulars don’t trust the conscripts and the conscripts don’t want to be here.
“They have big problems with discipline and drugs. There have been reports of outright mutiny and of junior officers killed by their own men. In the end, the problem is a societal one. Their people believe more and more that this is a war fought by the poor and disadvantaged on behalf of the rich and the draft dodgers. They may well be right. However, our job is not to get involved in politics. Our Government has sent us here to do a job. We have been doing that job jolly well, and we will continue to do so until our Government decides otherwise. Your comments about the bottom-up conduct of operations in the field impressed General Glover. He wanted to know more about you. He was particularly interested in your patrol from Fire Base Romeo. I am afraid we gilded the lily rather. We couldn’t tell him you were a reservist, and three years ago, you were a humble private soldier, well, maybe not so humble.”