In Good Company Page 12
We were now patrolling west of Nui Dat in an area called the Chau Pha (pronounced Chow Far) Valley, trying to locate elements of a Viet Cong unit known as the Chau Duc District Company. We didn’t know it at the time but we were now on an operation called Hermit Park. Quite frankly the names of operations meant very little to us as all we were interested in was where we were going, who the enemy was in our area and how far and how long we would be patrolling. For over a week our efforts were largely unsuccessful as most of the sign we found led away from us heading north and it was old. The sign was usually footpads and tracks left by the enemy in the soft ground. Occasionally we would find a spot where enemy transiting through the area had slept for the night. Our other companies and the APC troop were having more success to the north and closer in to the villages. The APCs sprang a very successful ambush on twenty or more Viet Cong, killing thirteen and capturing four and one surrendering. V Company was back in the thick of it and got stuck into a bunker system with the aid of the Centurion tanks and accounted for about another two dozen. Luckily they had only one NZ soldier killed and about eight troopers and soldiers wounded in action.
The platoon was becoming pretty exasperated at our own lack of contact as we had now been out on patrol continuously for over four weeks. On 24 June things started to look up. We were operating as individual platoons again and the company was sweeping up the Chau Pha Valley either side of the Suoi Chau (River Chau) about 15 km west of Route 2. This put us a long way from the civilian access area in a ‘free fire zone’ where the only people you were likely to meet were enemy. Then one of my scouts spotted some reasonably fresh footprints on a footpad near the river. The country was a mixture of jungle and savannah scrub, with occasional clumps of thorny bamboo. I halted the platoon and took a couple of men from the lead section with me and went for a look around. I was certain I could smell the same smell that I had experienced before and was taking no chances.
Our reconnaissance group carefully made its way through the bush until we came to a large patch of thorny bamboo that must have been about 100 metres across. I wanted to stay close to the river to pick up any sign of water parties or the like, so we moved in towards the creek. Just as we did, I spotted movement to my front. I gave the signal for enemy and to go to ground. About ten metres in front of me I could see the back of a woman in black pyjamas who appeared to be cutting bamboo shoots. I crawled forward to try to see into a depression in the middle of the bamboo clump and ascertain if any more enemy was around.
My sergeant had come forward by now, as we had been gone for longer than I had anticipated. I told him to quietly move the platoon around to the flank of the bamboo in case the enemy tried to get out of the area. I continued to reconnoitre the area of the bamboo, which was around and over a depression in the ground. There were several other enemy in the bamboo whom I glimpsed but couldn’t see for long enough to positively identify as male or female. They appeared to be preparing a staging camp as they were stockpiling firewood and bamboo shoots. After about half an hour or longer of sneaking around this camp I decided to put a machine-gun covering a track leading out of the camp to the west. We would sweep through from the south. I returned to the platoon, gave quick orders and reminded everyone that I hadn’t seen any of the people in the camp carrying weapons, stating at the same time that these may have been left on the ground while they were working.
After ten minutes or so we started our sweep and moved into the camp. We were going slowly as it was difficult to move through the bamboo and scrub. We swept into the camp to find that the women had gone. I wasn’t sure if they had heard us or whether fate had robbed us of our first real crack at the Viet Cong. We searched the camp and determined that they were probably a caretaker group setting up transit camps for groups of Viet Cong who used the valley as an infiltration route into the south of the province.
In the hope that the enemy hadn’t seen or heard us, I asked my company commander if we could ambush the camp for a day or so, in case the caretaker group might return or in case Viet Cong transiting through the camp could drop in. After getting the go ahead, I decided to occupy the camp. It gave good cover and had a water supply handy; and it was easier to cover all the tracks coming into it from the inside. We allotted sections to cover sectors of the camp and laid claymore mines out along the tracks coming into the camp and covered them with machine-gun fire. The forward observer’s assistant registered targets around us to act as ‘cut-offs’ if a big group hit us and covered some minor tracks we couldn’t adequately cover with small arms fire.
The camp had been used about a day before by about a dozen enemy and we were hopeful some more guests would arrive. 10 Platoon had also found a camp further up the river and a pattern was emerging along the river line: 10 Platoon were then moved to try to cut off the enemy that were moving from our location towards them, but to no avail. We settled down to wait.
After three days we still had had no luck. So we used the camp as a base and sent section strength patrols out to look for the enemy. The rest of us were kept busy killing six inch long scorpions, probably the original landlords of the camp. When the scorpions had been disposed of there were always the leeches to keep one amused. The leeches were in epidemic proportions. Being so close to the river didn’t help, and it became a constant battle to keep the buggers off you. Some men had woken up in the morning and had a leech under their eyelids or in their mouths. With the lack of enemy and the leeches’ propensity to want to dine on us continually, I had no choice but to opt for a return to patrolling. This was a lot harder work but it was better than being bored to death and sucked dry.
We moved to rendezvous with the company as our rations were just about out; we also needed a resupply of clothing and various other odds and ends. The company commander was keen on the company not disclosing its whereabouts to the Viet Cong and insisted that we move to a common point to take a single helicopter resupply instead of three independent platoon resupplies. My platoon and 10 Platoon had no trouble getting to the rendezvous with company headquarters but 12 Platoon were having problems. One of Graham Spinkston’s section commanders, Cpl ‘Tassie’ Wilkinson, was unwell and was continually collapsing. Graham could not go fast through the bush with Tassie, so he had lightened the sick man’s personal load so that he was only carrying his rifle and basic webbing. This didn’t help too much; in fact his condition worsened. I was listening to all of this drama on the radio and could feel that the company commander was getting more and more upset as Graham’s platoon struggled towards the rendezvous point with a sick man in tow.
Eventually 12 Platoon asked for a helicopter to evacuate Cpl Wilkinson. However, it appeared the company commander was worried about giving away our position by having a chopper come in and take out a soldier. By now Graham was 5000 metres from the rendezvous and he was worried about Tassie’s condition. By this time everyone was listening to all of the message traffic between 12 Platoon and company headquarters on the radio and the tone of voices on the net was becoming increasingly strained. The moment of truth came when the commanding officer, Lt Col J. C. Hughes, who was coming out to visit D Company in his personal chopper, then landed at our rendezvous. He had been unaware of the drama that had been going on, but quickly released his helicopter to evacuate Cpl Wilkinson.
We spent the afternoon taking a resupply, which was flown in by RAAF choppers, and getting orders for the rest of the operation. The resupply was a fairly slick affair. The company secured the landing zone by surrounding the position with the platoons and posting sentries on any likely tracks. The choppers arrived and while one came into the pad one would circle above to act as cover in case the other took ground fire. A work party from the platoons unloaded all the items; a backload several hours later took out all our unwanted, broken and replaced stores.
Every five days we needed to take a resupply of rations. These were broken down into about three days of US Army C ration, one day’s worth of dehydrated long-range patrol ration a
nd a day of Australian ration. The rations came in 24-hour packs, and except for the US C ration, they were reasonably compact. The American ration was bulky, produced a lot of rubbish from its packaging and was weighty. However, it had a good variety of cans, which meant you didn’t often get the same meal three days in a row On long patrols we had a larger resupply every ten days. Apart from the normal ration resupply we were also given a change of clothes which had been laundered in Baria, a couple of pairs of socks and what was known as the supplementary ration pack.
This sup pack contained cigarettes, tobacco (including chewing tobacco), shaving cream, toothpaste, writing paper and envelopes. I wouldn’t let the diggers use the foam aerosol shaving cream as it had a strong perfumed smell which carried for some distance. In addition to the combat rations our cooks back in Nui Dat made up fresh bread rolls and salad and sent them out on the resupply. But I think the one thing that we looked forward to most of all was a cold carton of milk. Everyone would sit down and open the mail that had come in and slowly drink their milk. It was great to be able to drink something cold and wasn’t warm like the water in our water bottles or a hot brew.
While we packed our rations away and distributed the sup pack, the mail and the other goodies, my medic would go around the platoon and check out the diggers when they shed their filthy greens for clean fatigues. He was on the lookout for tropical ulcers, tinea, and a multitude of other diseases which living in the jungle without bathing for weeks on end could produce. Sometimes we got extra ammunition or grenades to replace ones which had been used or which had become unserviceable through wear and tear in the damp conditions. Radio batteries were always at a premium; I liked to carry at least four of these in the platoon for the two radios plus the mortar-fire controller’s set. It was no wonder our packs were bulging when we took a resupply, as we stuffed everything we could into them. The pack was good for holding about five days’ worth of rations, but add in spare batteries, claymore mines, extra linked ammunition for the machine-gun, grenades, spare socks, waterproof gear and you soon had a pregnant pack.
The diggers would write letters home during the period while we waited for all the administration to be done. The mail was sent out on the choppers which would pick up our smelly greens and other rubbish. Sometimes our RSM, Warrant Officer Class One Wally Thompson, would come out on the resupply chopper and return on the backload. His visits were always welcomed by the diggers as RSM Thompson was an experienced and well-liked soldier. He had a great knack for being able to sit down and chat to the lads, and he knew within a quarter of an hour if anything was astray or what the morale of the platoon or company was like. I had great respect for this man; once I had overcome the initial uncertainty of how to talk to him, I found in him a great store of knowledge on how to handle different situations.
Our resupply day was now almost over. We were then given orders for the next ten days of the operation. We were to continue to sweep north up the Chau Pha Valley, and to clear the area as we went. The day was again punctuated by an incredibly heavy downpour of rain that added to the already high humidity. We therefore spent the night in the company rendezvous, planning to move out at first light the next morning. It was company policy to dig in shellscrapes but as we hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the enemy, none of the platoons had been digging in at night. My thoughts on it were that if you went to all the trouble to conceal your night harbour, why advertise your presence by digging in with a lot of noise? The CSM, Warrant Officer Huish, came around to see the soldiers in the company just before stand to and noticed that my platoon hadn’t dug shellscrapes. He asked me why I hadn’t. I told him; he said I would probably get into trouble if I didn’t dig in.
The next morning just as we were about to leave the company rendezvous, the company commander called me on the radio and asked me to come into his headquarters. This I did and when I walked into his position I couldn’t believe my eyes. Not only was company headquarters well dug in, but Kudnig was sitting in his shellscrape under a hootchie in about a foot of water! I thought he was having a go at me, but when he started to give me a blast for not digging in I knew he was dead serious. The other problem with digging shellscrapes in the wet season was that if you wanted to fight out of one you sometimes needed a snorkel.
Anyway, I took my rocket from the company commander and noticed that the company sergeant major had avoided my eyes as I left to return to my platoon. When I mentioned to my sergeant that I had just seen the company commander sitting in a shellscrape full of water and taking notes, he thought I was pulling his leg.
The next couple of days were memorable in that the company commander was applying pressure on us all the time to cover a lot of ground. It wasn’t easy to keep up the pace that he wanted. We weren’t always in under the canopy of primary jungle and the bush had opened up into areas of woodland with high kunai grass. Patrolling was extremely arduous in this type of scrub. The forward scouts were tiring after only 200–300 metres of bashing their way through the six foot high grass. Before long everyone in the platoon had had a go at breaking the trail. We moved not unlike some African safari in a Tarzan movie. I went forward and had a go at leading. It was damn hard work. The tall grass had to be forced aside by pushing at it with your whole body and when you did that your feet would entangle and make it even harder to stay upright. As one pushed against the grass and opened a passage the hot air trapped at ground level would escape upwards and hit you in the face like a blast furnace being opened.
By two o’clock on the first day of scrub-bashing, I called a halt for the day. We were so exhausted we couldn’t concentrate on what we were doing, and our security was non-existent. I sought shelter from the broiling sun under a copse of trees in this sea of grass. The whole platoon was jammed in an area suitable for about only ten men but I was desperate to get out of the heat and rest the platoon. I was prepared to take the risk.
Major Kudnig was pressuring all the platoons to cover more ground than we were physically able to in these conditions. When he asked me why my locstat hadn’t changed at 4.00 pm, I told him I was looking for a place to stop for the night. He nearly exploded at this remark and told me to continue my patrol, giving me a grid reference to get to by last light before he would consider letting me stop for the day. He wouldn’t accept how hard it had been for us in our area; so we pushed on. Luckily, we broke out of this nightmarish grass plain and back into cooler bush and got to only a kilometre short of where he wanted us when I harboured for the night. We had sacrificed security for our dash through the bush that afternoon and I wasn’t happy about the way the company commander hadn’t accepted my word on what it was like in our area. We weren’t the kind of platoon to swing the lead or bludge; and I was disappointed that indirectly he was criticising our progress. Most platoons could knock over 10–12 km of scrub-bashing a day, but Major Kudnig was asking for 15–18 km—and to go head down and bum up was not possible without jeopardising your security.
On the second day we saw enemy sign leading toward the staging camp. Some of the footprints were quite fresh and gave indications that the owners were carrying equipment. The bushes alongside the track were bent and broken from passing traffic, and looked like they had been damaged only twelve hours before. I was given permission to return and see if the enemy was around. There was sign in the area of the camp but the heavy rains had washed any tracks away and even evidence of our own occupation was difficult to find. We set up our ambush in the camp and set claymore banks out along the trails leading into the camp. We hadn’t been settled down for more than an hour when, right on last light, one of the sentries came scuttling back into the camp to report that a group of enemy was approaching the position. I moved up next to where one of our guns was facing down the track the enemy was moving on. The claymores would account for at least 70 metres of track but the gun was a back-up in case we had a misfire. The silence was deafening as we peered through the gloom of the fading light; my heart was pounding away inside my chest as I
began to anticipate the incredible noise that a bank of six claymores was going to create. Finally dark figures were seen moving towards us. I tightened my grip on the firing mechanism for the mines. I could see the first six or seven men and I was just about to press the clacker—when I recognised the scout as one of the soldiers from 10 platoon.
I quickly passed the signal for ‘friendlies’ and told everyone to put on their safety catches. It had been a close call. Had we not waited to observe the rule of engagement—that one couldn’t engage someone unless they had been positively identified as enemy—we would have had a tragedy on our hands. Kev Byrne’s platoon were somewhat disoriented after having been pushed to go like the clappers all day and in fact they were trying to make up time like I had the day before. After Kevin and I compared notes on where we were, he moved to harbour about a kilometre north of our position on the other side of the River Chau.
On 2 July the company recorded its first kill. 10 Platoon sprang an enemy caretaker group in an old bunker system where they were preparing the bunkers for reoccupation. They killed only one enemy, but the bunker system was a big win in itself. The bunkers were in five systems altogether (see Figures 1–3) and one tunnel dug into the rich red soil was 1200 feet in length! The whole system was designed like a large X, so that if you assaulted it from any direction you would get caught in a cross-fire from the arms of the cross. Above ground, there were sleeping areas at the entrance to each bunker, so that if the enemy were subjected to shelling or bombing by us, then they simply rolled out of their hammocks and into the shelter of the bunker. Also above ground, was a kitchen complex capable of feeding several hundred men. The smoke from the cooking fires was dissipated by an ingenious method. A length of bamboo ran for about 30 metres along the jungle floor and every two metres or so a small hole drilled into the bamboo filtered out the smoke in such little amounts that it was undetectable by the ever present air patrols.