In Good Company Page 11
While I was talking to the Americans I noticed that some of the squads were preparing to put claymores out. This was of interest to me as I wanted to make sure none were pointed my way. The impression I was quickly gaining was that I would have to check on everything they were doing, or there would be an accident. One of the soldiers was told by his squad leader to site their claymore (they were only carrying about one per squad) out in front of their sector. He grabbed the claymore and the accessories bag and without picking up his personal weapon he wandered off out of the perimeter. He went about as far as the firing lead would take and he nonchalantly opened the folding legs, and from about waist height dropped the mine into the soft ground where it landed, firmly embedded. He turned around toward the squad leader inside the perimeter and at the top of his voice asked if the siting of the mine would do and then strolled back inside the harbour.
I was glad to leave and get back to my platoon. We were beginning to look like world beaters compared with these men.
The next morning the Americans moved to their blocking position. My platoon was to move to a position where we could see the river and its banks, which might be used as escape routes. We therefore had to move past the American position. It was a pigsty. Our policy was always to bury our rubbish in the toilet we dug in the centre of the position whenever we harboured. This did not disguise the fact that you had been in an area, but it did help to conceal how many people had been there, and also your nationality. The platoon standard operating procedure was to dig a latrine big enough to accommodate our needs for the night; before we moved out in the morning we would throw in any refuse from the platoon, and if possible we would have someone defecate on top of any rubbish—so that if anyone was keen enough to dig up our rubbish they got a nasty little surprise as well.
By mid-morning on 9 June I had found a suitable location for our new position. It was in thick scrub with large twisting vines hanging all over the place. However, it did have great fields of fire—and this time we could see whoever would approach our position. I wrote up a quick set of orders and went into the procedure for occupying an ambush. Once again we had no idea exactly how long we were going to be in position. So I went for a two section strength killing group with one section resting in our rear security/administration area. It was useless asking the diggers to stay 100 per cent alert in an ambush for days on end and so a rotation system was the best way to operate. The position was ideally suited to this kind of layout as the administration area was in a small depression in really thick jungle about 35 metres to the rear of the killing group. It took a long time to site this ambush, as the jungle was very thick and the many vines slowed our movement. Also, I was putting the groups of men down on the ground in pairs. But I was prepared to take the time as I didn’t want the position compromised: with our noisy friends on the other side of the river, I figured we had a good chance of the enemy bouncing off the Americans onto us.
By about 1500 hours the platoon was just about settled in, and so I started to get my own position in the middle of the killing group prepared. Because the vines were so thick we needed to cut our way through them to get decent positions where we could fire across the river. Noise was a prime concern so we used our bushmen’s saws to quietly cut our way through the four inch thick vines. I had been going flat out all day and was quite warm from all the running around I had been doing. I had cut my way through half of the vines when I stopped to rest and wipe the sweat from my eyes. A couple of seconds after doing so I started to get the most excruciating pains in my eyes. I was in agony. I moved back to the administration area to see Frank Wessing our platoon medic and see what he could do to help. I couldn’t understand what was wrong with me. Frank and Darryl tried to wash whatever it was out of my eyes but to no avail. The pain was getting worse. I had lost all of my vision and could see only a red blur. Darryl got on the radio and asked company headquarters to send a chopper to evacuate me.
As we did not want to disclose our ambush position we decided that I should move back toward 12 Platoon, who said they had a winch point near their location. With a small escort party I was led back through the jungle looking all the world like one of Damien Parer’s dramatic photographs of a wounded soldier on the Kokoda Trail. The going was pretty rough and I was falling over so often I was becoming a liability. Then the lads threw me onto a collapsible stretcher which our platoon carried, and before long I was saying hello to Graham Spinkston. An RAAF Dustoff (casualty evacuation) chopper quickly arrived and lowered a winch with a Stokes’ litter. I was unceremoniously bundled into the wire stretcher and hoisted up through the trees for what seemed an eternity. The crewman on board gave me a quick once-over as we flew back to Nui Dat. I had lasted all of eight days, had a smell of the enemy and was now a non-battle casualty. I was not impressed.
The doctor at the field ambulance examined my eyes and washed them with a solution which almost instantly reduced the pain to about the level of a toothache and restored my vision, albeit somewhat blurry. Then he gave me the bad news. I was going to have to spend about four days in the hospital with pads on my eyes. After I explained what had happened he believed my loss of eyesight was caused by the sap of the vines coming into contact with my eyes. He said that I shouldn’t suffer permanent damage but as soon as the anaesthetic he had washed my eyes with wore off, I would have to be sedated and made to look like a panda.
I had a quick shower while I could still see and was then stuck into bed and bandaged up. The pain returned with a vengeance and a nursing sister came in and gave me a needle which knocked me out for several hours—for which I was quite grateful. When I woke up I was greeted by my company 2IC Peter Schuman who was back in Nui Dat during operations. He asked me how things were going and told me he would write to my wife as my writing wouldn’t be too legible the way I was. He had brought down some shaving gear for me and made sure I wasn’t lacking anything before he left. Peter visited me several times during the next four days and even sent down a couple of my soldiers to see me.
After four days in the field ambulance I returned to our company lines in Nui Dat. I had to wear dark glasses and keep out of direct sunlight as much as possible. Peter Schuman brought me up to date on what had been happening out on operation Overlord. C Company had had one guy wounded in the leg during a small clash with Viet Cong who were trying to break out of the cordon. His wounds were severe enough for him to have to return to Australia. I thought I had had bad luck. An American chopper had been shot down to the north of where we were operating and a pilot and door gunner had been killed. The bunker system that 3 RAR had found was now being cleared systematically but would still take days to clear and then destroy.
The doctor had another look at my eyes and gave me the good news that I wouldn’t suffer any permanent damage. Peter Schuman kept me busy for the next five days sorting out administration and a few odds and ends. I travelled by landrover into the provincal capital, Baria, about ten kilometres south of Nui Dat, with the company laundry run to fill in my time. It was my first visit into a large town and I was fascinated. The traffic was absolutely chaotic. There was a mixture of military vehicles of all types, overloaded civilian buses, motor cycles and scooters by the score and bicycles by the hundreds. Everyone was busily going somewhere and the only road rule, apart from driving on the right side of the road, seemed to be that the biggest vehicles had right of way. Most of the houses were not much more than shacks and some were made out of the unpressed metal sheeting used for Coca-Cola cans. The government buildings and better style of dwellings were two storey affairs with usually a white or cream cement render finish.
There were a lot of Regional Force and Popular Force soldiers in the town who were undergoing field and weapon training in the nearby area. As we drove through the town to the laundry, I saw the local constabulary. These were Vietnamese who were highly trained enforcers of the law. They were known as ‘the white mice’. Their uniform consisted of black shoes or jackboots; tailored skin-ti
ght grey trousers or jodhpurs, a tailored white shirt and a grey Gestapo-style cap with a silver badge. Around the slender waists of these immaculately dressed men were black leather pistol belts complete with guns and bullets. Most of the guns I saw were 45 Colts or Smith and Wessons and the like. The frightening thing was that the white mice had a reputation for shooting first and asking questions later.
The local people in Baria were considered to be pro-government and consequently one could walk around the town fairly freely even though we still carried our weapons all the time. The Vietnamese women and girls who worked in the laundry were very shy and avoided direct eye contact. Most of the men working in the town were over 40 years of age and any males younger either were in uniform or were cripples of some sort. The more I looked around the more I began to notice the number of young men who were carrying the physical scars of war. The number of limbless people in the town was high and I suspected they lived in town as they would have been unable to carry out the normal agricultural work in a village. As we drove back to Nui Dat I noticed that life centred around a basic agrarian economy with the family plot of land and the sale and bartering of produce being the mainstay of most of the people.
During a short stint on ready reaction duty I was called out to an incident involving the Defence and Employment Platoon from Task Force headquarters on 12 June. They had been contacted by an unknown number of enemy in the rubber north of Nui Dat. Seven men had been killed when what was believed to be a rocket or rocket propelled grenade round struck their armoured personnel carrier and detonated an ammunition liner on top of the vehicle which was packed with claymore mines. We were sent to secure the area to allow battlefield clearance to sort out the horrific mess the APC and its occupants had been left in. The APC had literally had its back taken off and most of one side. The men inside had suffered a similar fate. The injuries to them were massive and probably instantaneous. We assisted in helping to gather the remains of the soldiers in a literal sense. Some of the soldiers had been torn apart by the explosion in the vehicle; so we combed the area in a big circle around the carrier looking for bits of the dead.
Indo-China
Phuoc Tuy Province
Phuoc Tuy Province
Operations 3 June - 12 July 1971
Phuoc Tuy Province
Operations, 28 July - 23 August 1971
Phuoc Tuy Province
Operations, 28 August - 21 September 1971
The 4th Battalion’s officers pose for the official record, after the farewell parade at Lavarack Barracks in April 1971. The New Zealand Second-in-Command, Major Don McIver, had joined the Battalion several weeks earlier; our Kiwi Company was already in South Vietnam awaiting our arrival.
During the crossing-of-the-Equator ceremonies the Battalion faced and conquered three Navy tug-o-war teams. Directly above my head in the photograph is Kevin Byrne. The short haircut on Pte ‘Simmo’ Simpson to the left of the photograph was in vogue at that time.
Day One in Vietnam—365 days to go. Men from Delta Company alight from a US Army Chinook helicopter into the muggy heat of the Australian Task Force base at Nui Dat, with the rubber trees of the abandoned plantation as a backdrop.
Patrolling in the shade of a rubber plantation north of Nui Dat, Corporal Paul Menner leads his section from 10 Platoon through an overgrown section of the plantation. Private Bernie Pengilly, the Company’s first fatality, is centre rear in the photograph.
The Commanding Officer Lt. Col Jim Hughes (far right), and the RSM WOl Wally Thompson (second from left) pay a visit to members from Support Company in the field. With the Battalion operating all over Phouc Tuy Province and dozens of kilometres apart, a personal visit was vital to maintaining the command link.
Gunners from 104 Battery load their Howitzer during a fire mission.
Sergeant ‘Butch’ Porter with his combat load in the bush.
The audience at a concert party at Luscombe Bowl at the end of the airstrip in Nui Dat, enjoy the sight of an Australian girl dressed for the tropical heat. This group returned back into the field almost immediately after the concert.
The Roman Catholic Padre, Father John Carde, celebrates Mass with men from Fire Support base Cherie on Courtenay Hill during operations in Phuoc Tuuy Province.
Private Doug McClelland signals to an incoming helicopter. Private ‘Jethro’ Hannah is at far left holding an M203 5.56 mm rifle and grenade launcher. Note how short the men wore their hair to stay cool and keep clean on the month-long patrols.
The moment everyone looked forward to, mail from home. Captain Peter Schuman (seated at right) and his radio operator devour their letters from loved ones.
An aerial view of the Australian Logistic Support Base at Vung Tau in the south of Phouc Tuy Province. One of the many bunkers protecting this large installation can be seen in the bottom foreground close to the perimeter wire running into the sea.
The strain of being ever alert for sight, sound or smell of the enemy showed on the faces of these two diggers from Delta Company during operations against the Viet Cong. In close country like this, contacts often took place at ranges of 15 metres or less.
The signallers from Company headquarters rest on the track made by the tanks after the bunker battle in July 1971. The close country was difficult to fight through but the tanks proved more than capable.
The Company Sergeant Major, W02 Huish (second from left) listens to the signallers sending in requests for ammunition after the company battle in July. Signaller ‘Paddy’ Leahy is talking on the radio.
The Australian Task Force Base at Nui Dat showing the rubber plantations surrounding the airstrip which could take Caribou short range aircraft. The hill (centre left) was known as SAS Hill after its tenants from the SAS Squadron who enjoyed its panoramic view of the flat countryside.
Two diggers from D Company resting after battle in July 71.
RAAF Iroquois helicopter passes over a troop of Centurion tanks from C Squadron 1 Armoured Regiment. For battlefield mobility the ‘Huey’ helicopter was second to none, and the Centurion quietened all its critics with its ability to fight in the jungle. Without the tank, our bunker battle in July would not have been the success it was.
The armoured personnel carriers move through the Province capital on their way south to Vung Tau on Operation Southward. This heralded the withdrawal of the combatant elements from Nui Dat and the gradual relocation to the departure point for Australian Forces in South Vietnam. Nui Dat was taken over by the ARVN the morning this photo was taken.
After more than four hours on the operating table and with 17 kg of plaster cast surrounding me, I was left out in the sun to dry at the 1st Military Hospital at Yeronga, Brisbane, in May 1972. I came out of plaster on 30 November that year.
The whole scene was incredibly gruesome. The men went about this grisly task in an almost trance-like state. No-one was saying very much and on several occasions men were physically ill. It was a stark reminder of the dreadful damage the weapons of war can wreak on the human form. I was sad; and at the same time I felt a quiet rage inside, wanting to exact revenge for what had happened. The frustrating part about it was that we would probably never know who was responsible for the attack. It could have been the very same civilians we had passed on our way to the destroyed APC and its passengers.
On my return to the base I was greeted by bad news that I would have to pass on when I returned to my platoon out bush. One of my diggers, Phil Asprey, was engaged—and his fiancée had been killed in a car accident. I would have to break the news to him when I arrived in the field. It was a part of my job that I wished I didn’t have to do. The whole battalion was redeploying after operation Overlord: we were now being sent to search for 274 VC Main Force Regiment, which was reported to be operating in the northern end of the province. It looked like the operation was going to be a long one and would probably last another three or four weeks.
Wet weather greeted my return to operations on 16 June and it was apparent the m
onsoon season was now really with us. Rain was falling regularly every afternoon and if we were unlucky, sometimes in the morning. I used to have a bet every day for a couple of cans of beer with my artillery forward observer’s assistant on what time it would rain. Bombadier Russ Pullen was the forward observer’s assistant and I was amazed at his uncanny ability to guess when it would start to pour down. By the time I was about 100 cans of beer down after ‘doubling or nothing’ and only having an occasional win, I began to suspect that he was contacting the artillery headquarters on the gunner radio net and getting the meterological data every day. I could never prove it but I smelt a rat. The one thing we did smell was a couple of dead Viet Cong that my platoon was tasked to exhume just after I arrived back on the operation. V Company had killed the Viet Cong in a clash about a week earlier and now the Intelligence Section wanted us to dig them up, photograph them, and search for documentation. I had trouble getting volunteers for this—it’s remarkable how the tough guys will sometimes pale away when jobs like this have to be done.