Well Done, Those Men

by Barry Heard

  Just beyond our area in base camp, towards the wire, was a semi-cleared area that was a no man’s land. During that day, an American MASH unit set up a temporary camp in the area. In no time, there were tents, vehicles, and men pouring over the site. Late that same afternoon, quite a few Yanks came up to our boozer for a drink or two, or three. Apart from when I’d first landed in Saigon, I had had nothing much to do with the Yanks. Compared to us Aussies, the Yanks were different. They walked with authority. They were confident, loud, and articulate. By comparison, we mumbled. They showed no trace of shyness, and they really did chew gum constantly. Initially, they did most of the talking, calling one another by their surnames. Their conversations were about sport and topical things back in the States, or in the ‘boondocks’ (the jungle) in Vietnam. They called the VC ‘gooks’, and rattled off Vietnamese slang with ease. I hadn’t heard any since those kids had flogged my wallet.

  Slowly, with ever-increasing frowns of bewilderment, they took an interest in what we had to say. When Knackers walked into the boozer, Stacka greeted him mildly with, ‘Where’ve you been, ya ugly frig’n moron?’

  ‘Down the back, behind the tent practising my ballroom frig’n dancing, where else?’ replied Knackers.

  ‘Yair, that’d be bloody right, ya queer prick.’

  One Yank nearly choked on his can, then Booster piped up, ‘Wanta beer, Knackers?’

  Knackers threw an arm around Stacka’s neck and pretended to wrestle him to the floor. The Yanks were sick with laughter.

  ‘You guys, you’re so forney.’

  We weren’t laughing, just amused by this.

  ‘You think we’re funny? You should visit our Tankies’ unit. They spend an hour every morning putting on makeup, including lipstick,’ Snoggons butted in.

  ‘You’re having us orn?’ one of the Yanks replied. Stacka turned to us.

  ‘These Yanks are as thick as camel shit. They think we’re fair dinkum.’

  The Yanks just kept on giggling. Soon, our higher-alcohol beer started to take its toll, with two Yanks getting into a punch-up over where to get the best hot dog in New York. They were ushered outside, with a mob following to watch. After a lot of rolling around and grunting like two wild boars mating, they suddenly stopped, shook hands, and hugged each other. One of them burst into tears.

  ‘I’ll luv ya to the last drop of blood in ma body,’ he sobbed.

  ‘Likewise, brother,’ said the other.

  We all went back into the boozer, a bit disappointed. What a bloody fizzer.

  Then the poor old Yanks slowly became paralytic. Most of them had flaked by 10.00pm, or sat drooling. They’d been bloody good company. In fact, they were great, so to show our appreciation we stripped their classy uniforms off their backs, along with some fancy, two-tone canvas boots: these would be some souvenirs. Then we laid the drunken Yanks out, morgue-fashion, outside the boozer, clad only in their underwear. Yes, ready to be returned to their quarters the next morning.

  Later that afternoon, the MASH unit moved on. Quickly and efficiently, they packed up. It was more than just a MASH unit: it included several APCs, a tank-retrieval unit, two tanks, and a large contingent of infantry that travelled on the tracks. There was also a mobile operating theatre set up in the back of a vehicle like a large semi-trailer. It was an awesome sight, and showed how sophisticated and how modern the American units were. This was a mobile hospital with armed protection, and with equipment to handle most disasters. A mini army, it moved from one area of high casualties or high contact to another. The Americans certainly left an impression.

  Within days of the company’s first patrolling operation, back in camp we were briefed again, supplied, and ready to move into the jungle for a longer stay. I met the new Sig; his name was Kards. He replaced Walrus, whose time was over, as the battalion radio operator. Kards was precise, cool, and efficient, and he kept his bitching about the appalling weight on his back down to a minimum. He had a good memory, which was important when recalling grid references from other companies and positions. He’d had experience in Borneo twelve months earlier. Things were a little less tense as we moved out from the lines.

  All of that waiting and wondering what it would be like — will I be OK when it happens, and the other questions I’m sure new grunts ask themselves — were quickly answered. We encountered the enemy as soon as we entered the jungle. Sixteen contacts occurred within the battalion, and ‘A’ Company was ‘blooded’.

  Hostile fire added another dimension of reality. We used helicopter gunships and artillery extensively, and one engagement involving 2 Platoon lasted almost two hours. The radio was hectic. The three weeks’ experience I’d had with 5RAR was an enormous advantage.

  Our ambushes were successful, resulting in enemy contacts and kills. But the vigilance on piquet and the humid weather was physically and mentally draining. Very fit men were showing signs of exhaustion as war, death, and destruction became sudden realities. The heavy rain and oppressive weather not only drained soldiers’ energy, but it was also slippery under foot; I found myself on my knees on many occasions. Mud caked our clothes and boots. Now we were sleeping in lumpy red sludge.

  Then, in the lush green jungle, many new ‘bities’ appeared. Leeches became a major problem. They hung like lace just above the GP boot. It was the first bit of bare skin they would come across as they arched their way up if you were standing. I woke one morning with my left eye jammed shut. When I asked what was wrong, it was in fact a very full leech, the size of a golf ball, hanging off my top eyelid. I hated the horrible bloody things. In an ambush, lying down, or if you were having a sleep, they would burrow into armpits, groins, under chins, and any sweaty places. To overcome the problem we smothered our exposed skin with a potent insect repellent. It worked well. There was a report of one going up a bloke’s penis, which resulted in condoms being issued … although this sounded more like a furphy.

  On this operation, at times the jungle became almost impenetrable. It appeared to burst into new growth after the heavy rains. For the first time we entered the swamps. A swamp is very difficult terrain, as we quickly found out. We were forever quietly cursing the difficulty of remaining upright, and often simply struggled from tree root to tree root. This morning, Kards, with his long antenna up to maintain good communications, was bent over, struggling and stepping warily in the swamp. Then a bizarre incident happened. Kards, the poor bastard, disappeared right in front of our eyes. He stepped forward, missed his footing, jammed his foot in a submerged log or root, then arched over and sank completely into the swamp. It was hard to believe the evidence of our own eyes.

  Finally, reefing and tugging, we got him out. Kards was gritting his teeth and saying very little. One of his legs had become entangled amongst the mangroves, and I suspected it was broken. Then we pulled his twisted body across the leech-infested swamp to a small clearing. The medic was called up. Kards, conscious that he could have attracted the enemy with screams or shouts, simply pulled his contorted face, which was pale and dripping with sweat. Supported by the medic and others, he staggered back to an opening in the jungle where a dust-off helicopter was called in, and he was choppered to the hospital at Vung Tau.

  With Kards gone, I was the new battalion Sig. This was very scary. I hoped nothing too exciting would happen for the remainder of the operation. I stared at the new codebook, tuned into the new frequency, and listened to a much wider network that now included other companies and Battalion Headquarters at Nui Dat. Helicopters, gunships, jets, and other arms of the entire taskforce in our province were suddenly part of my new frequency. Fortunately we only had a couple of days to go.

  There were many things that jolted a young soldier and added years to his age while being in Vietnam. The killing was never clinical, planned, or covered by the training that we had received in Australia. Nothing but war can prepare one for war. It was during this operation that the new soldiers discovered there was more involved in a war than just killing the e
nemy. After a contact, the dead VC’s body was carefully searched. This routine enabled identification. Some of the enemy may have been in a VC regiment, or maybe they had come from local guerrilla forces from nearby villages. Others could be trained regular troops from up north. It required our blokes to carefully search the bodies. An inspection of clothes was undertaken, and any gear, weapons, and paperwork they carried was collected and documented. This information was then used to assist Intelligence back at BHQ and to help plan future operations. It had to be done, but what training covers searching a bullet-riddled body, with its intestines exposed or its head blasted off? Somehow it was done. Over time, it got easier.

  Then there was the shock of a contact. I was fortunate. Carrying a radio meant I would never be at the front. But speaking to those who were, it was the unexpectedness or unpredictability that caused stress, hyper-vigilance, and exhaustion. A contact in the jungle was usually brief, chaotic, and confusing. Sometimes it resulted in a couple of the enemy escaping, and it was hard to tell at times if those that got away were wounded or dead. Blood trails, screams of agony, or drag marks in the mud were all signs that would lead the army, where possible, to quickly call in its trained tracker dogs and handlers to locate the missing VC. Then, once the tracker found the enemy, our troops could follow up and kill them. During my tour you could see that the dogs and their handlers were good at their jobs, and that they successfully tracked the enemy on many occasions.

  At times, they would be travelling with us, usually with CHQ. On other occasions, they would be in base camp on standby. They would receive a call, then be choppered out and dropped into the area, which would be identified by a smoke grenade. Sometimes the first view to greet the dog and its handler would be the dead bodies of VC soldiers. The dog would quickly indicate the blood trail and the enemy tracks, and would be directed by the handler to follow them. Suddenly, the poor bloody tracker and his dog would be the forward scout. They would be followed by plenty of support. Once the trail became hot, the dog would indicate to its handler that the enemy was nearby. I recall one handler heading off, the dog pulling and keen, the handler constantly losing his balance in the mud due to the enormous pack on his back, and not only trying to look where he was stepping but to control and watch the dog at the same time.

  At any time, if any enemy got away, wounded or not, our position could be in jeopardy. The handling of the situation became much more involved, with decisions having to be made quickly: retreat, follow up, call in artillery, or maybe send out a small recce? Who would want to be a leader?

  For the first time, during this particular operation, which was very early in our tour of Vietnam, we used these tracker dogs to hunt down wounded enemy by sniffing a blood trail and recent getaway tracks. We’d had a typical brief, sharp encounter with a small group of enemy. Knackers was involved in the contact, in which some of the enemy were killed. A wounded VC had escaped, and the trackers were called in. They quickly found her hiding in undergrowth, where she was shot and killed. Unbeknown to those involved, she had been unarmed. She was very young.

  I saw Knackers shortly afterwards. He looked very grim, and didn’t acknowledge my nod. During this same operation I noticed that there were different reactions to the dead VC, which had been our first kills. Some blokes were quiet; others bragged. In army terms, we had done well. We had killed the enemy. I vividly recall the contorted bodies lying there, so young and so small, their skin very white against the black pyjamas they all wore. At the time, though, we mostly had a sense of success and pride at our proven war-like skills. We were doing what we had spent so much time training for … winning.

  However, for some soldiers, the tracker dogs’ presence in Vietnam was to cause other problems. My good mate Knackers was an example. After that operation had finished we returned to base camp. The routine by now was a quick clean-up, then down to the boozer. Predictably, the contact and its result was the centre of most conversations. The killing of the wounded female VC was the cause of some heated exchanges and pointless taunts amongst the blokes. Those who hadn’t come out with us wanted the gruesome details. Little was said by those directly involved. Soon, alcohol-inflated egos and ill-informed opinions led to a heated argument. Knackers handled it very badly. He appeared totally pissed off with the fact that the incident was even being discussed. It was a tense situation. Shortly afterward, perhaps there was a dissipation of a sense of guilt for some when it was announced that the young dead woman had been a senior member with rank within a VC unit. But this made no difference to Knackers. The contact and its aftermath burnt a vivid memory into his soul. He was never able to get over his guilt.

  Thirty years later, whenever he got drunk, the incident would raise its ugly head. The memory of the young woman whimpering and of her being shot didn’t fit into his deepest inner rules of what was right, even in war. Sadly, on his return to Australia after Vietnam, he never handled the taunts and crude screams that he, along with countless other Vietnam veterans, were subjected to from protestors. Thirty years later, whenever I shared his company, he would argue that using the dogs was unfair — it was an unfair advantage — and that killing in such circumstances was inhumane.

  So our second operation was over. There was much to comprehend, or to try to forget. It didn’t matter really: the boozer was open, and alcohol dampened our edgy emotions. Meanwhile, a new ritual was being forged outside the Q-store. The uniforms of dead Viet Cong soldiers, and parts of their battle webbing and other regalia, were strewn on the ground. Originally, we had sent them in from the jungle. The garments and equipment had been with Intelligence, were of no further use, and were now available as souvenirs. They were quickly snapped up. Enemy weapons from successful contacts were already hanging in the boozer. There were a lot of blokes sorting through the enemy gear; in fact, I would say there was a clamber for them. Somehow, we were changing. We were a team, we were winning and, in killing terms, we were held up as a very successful company.

  We had overcome our initial fears about killing, and about dealing with dead bodies. The taboo subject of ‘slaughtering’ other humans was dismissed, and replaced with a culture of bragging and self-belief. The emotive words used for returned soldiers by politicians and army leaders on ANZAC Day now seemed to ring true in our ears: ‘Courage … bravery … highly skilled … make us proud … remarkable young men serving their country … brilliant … doing a good job … good stuff.’

  Our spirits were high. Perhaps we had made it — whatever that meant.

  However, although our battalion had become more active in Vietnam, the press at home continued to report our activities in generalities, and summed up our operations by adding up the number of kills we achieved. These reports failed to acknowledge the more common reality of tense, close-quarter contacts that were brief but deadly encounters. The truth of our experience of jungle warfare — a series of messy incidents in which human beings were maimed and wounded — was reported scantily. According to some articles, we went from one contact to another. Vietnam was reported too often as a full-on war, when in fact a pattern in the jungle had emerged in which most of our time was spent on exhausting patrols. These would be interrupted with the odd brief contact. The papers wanted to report action, but it wasn’t like that in our province or most other places in the jungle in Vietnam.

  What the papers failed to acknowledge was the stress and energy-draining hours we spent looking for an elusive enemy. It was hard, tiring, and nerve-racking, and almost a relief when a contact was made. There was never a moment to sit, relax, put your feet up, and switch off. Apart from a short sleep at night, our time in the jungle required strong nerves, constant vigilance, and a pressure that few people have experienced.

  Then, suddenly, we received some detailed attention in the media and in the federal parliament. One of the tracker dogs died from what was described as heat exhaustion. This was big news. I have kept a newspaper clipping about the loss of this dog, whose name was Cassius. The story w
as given a lot of coverage, along with photos of the dog and his handler. It appeared that we, the human beings on the ground, didn’t have the same appeal to the public as a poor old dead dog. In fact, his death seemed to provoke continuing reporting about the tracker dogs and high-level political interest in them. An article on Cassius the black Labrador in the Melbourne Sun on 23 May 1967 concluded by saying, ‘Last night the Minister for the Army, Mr. Fraser, promised to look into the labrador’s death.’

  After the arguments about the tracker dogs and the dead VC, that night in the boozer wasn’t a happy one. Not much was said when we returned to our tent with the one empty bed. Yes, Kards was in for the long haul in a hospital in Vung Tau. I had spoken to a medic mate, and he told us Kards’ leg wasn’t too good. After reading my mail, I asked the boss for leave to go to Vung Tau Hospital and visit him. I was given an overnight pass. I also asked if Knackers could come with me: no worries. We were packed and ready in no time, clutching an overnight leave pass.

  Vung Tau was a large provincial city. There were major army bases, a hospital, and ancillary army service groups stationed there. I had been there before with my blood nose, but couldn’t remember too much. It had chaotic traffic, which was a hallmark of South-East Asia. There were numerous bars, along with exotic and erotic entertainment for the troops. I had heard some wild stories about the place.

  In the hospital, bloody Kards looked as fit as a Mallee bull. His leg had a huge lump of plaster all around it, and he was excited about having a slack time.

  ‘What the hell are ya doing here, Turd, ya dopey prick?’ he asked.

  We modestly suggested we were interested in his health and welfare. Kards didn’t buy that.

  ‘Bugger off! Check out the Blue Angel Bar and av’a gutful of piss on me.’

  After a warm, obligatory five-minute visit, Knackers and I took the hint. We hit the streets for the first time. Blue Angel Bar, here we come. In no time, we were socking down beer, buying Saigon teas, and letting our hair down. It was my first break in almost two months. We toured the streets, had a haircut and massage, and drank too much grog. We spent the night in the Grand Hotel, the best pub in Vung Tau. The accommodation was simple. It reminded me of a cheap hotel in a small country town back home. Even though it was late, somehow we managed to have the cook knock us up a good feed of steak and vegies. It was the worst steak I had ever eaten. The meat smelt and tasted like the appalling stench that was common around the markets and villages. We had been fed water buffalo. A mouthful was enough for me.