In Good Company Read online

  Underground, the tunnel system was vast and represented an enormous amount of work. The sides of the tunnels looked like they had been carved by some machine. The tunnels descended about 35–40 feet and were about four feet high. One of the tunnels had several rooms for a casualty ward, complete with bunks, and a well, which went another 30 feet down, ensured fresh water for this subterranean hospital. There was no revetting of the sides of the tunnels as the dark red soil was like clay and excellent for digging. The striking thing about the whole complex was the camouflage. It was almost impossible to see one bunker from the next and if you were down on the ground flat on your stomach (as we often were), they were almost undetectable.

  We spent the day searching the bunkers for equipment or information on who was destined to occupy the system. Late in the afternoon we heard over the company radio net that Tassie Wilkinson had died. It was both a shock and a shame: Tassie had probably been on his last tour of operational duty. He had been in the army for about fifteen years and had served in Borneo, Malaya and a previous tour in South Vietnam.

  Figure 1. Extended lay-out of bunker system

  Figure 2. ‘X’-type bunker formation. An assault from any direction brought cross-fire from at least two other bunkers.

  Figure 3. Cross-section of typical bunker

  We moved north again. My platoon went right up against the Phuoc Tuy and Long Khanh Province border, near the Firestone Trail. We were now looking for sign of the enemy entering into the civilian access area close to the villages. But our only sighting of anyone was a couple of civilians from the village of Thai Thien. They were gathering bamboo shoots and other natural vegetables and it dawned on me that these locals were walking 10–15 kilometres a day just to gather food. The next resupply, commonly known as a ‘maintdem’ (maintenance demand) day, saw our company commander leave the field to go into hospital for an operation for a stomach ulcer. The word quickly filtered down to the troops that Major Kudnig was leaving and that Capt Peter Schuman would be acting company commander. I must admit I was not sad to see Major Kudnig go.

  Peter Schuman’s first job when he took over as acting company commander was to give orders for a company area ambush. After we received the most comprehensive, and without doubt, the best set of orders I had ever heard, we moved off to take up our positions. We were ambushing some fairly prominent tracks in the area on supposedly hard intelligence that enemy were in transit through the area to and from the civilian access areas. The Viet Cong were building up their stocks in the border ‘sanctuary’ areas. They were pressing the local villagers into providing cash and food for their troops; often using terror and coercion to achieve their aims. We were out of the primary jungle and into fairly open scrub with fields of fire that reached almost 100 metres. It was a daylight ambush and oppressively hot in our position in the long grass. Torrential rain replaced the heat in the afternoon, which was followed by a short humid spell before nightfall. After dark we went onto 50 per cent alert and spent the remainder of the night resting for an hour and then peering into the gloom for an hour. Unfortunately, the enemy failed to come our way and we pulled out of our position the next morning.

  By now the company had been on patrol for just on six weeks. I could feel that we were losing our zip as I was having to correct faults and kick backsides more than ever before. The hard yakka of patrolling in the wet and living on hard rations was taking its toll. It was our first really long stint on operations and the strain of remaining constantly alert and watching your arcs all the time, coupled with the physical effort of scrub bashing and interrupted sleep for gun picquet had worn us out. We were jaded. Most of us had not had a wash throughout the whole patrol save a couple of lads who had been rotated back to Nui Dat for five days at around the four week mark. Those soldiers had been able to clean up and eat real food while doing Task Force perimeter bunker security duties. So I was not the only man in the company who was pleased when Col Hughes pulled us out of the bush on 12 July.

  My platoon had covered some 90 km on foot. We had smelt and fired at an indeterminate number of enemy and seen some female enemy who were possibly unarmed. It wasn’t what one would call a successful patrol—but at least we were all alive, at least we had learnt a lot and at least we hadn’t let the enemy get the drop on us.

  6

  Rest and Recreation

  Staff Sergeant Bob Hann met us as we arrived at the entrance to the company lines in Nui Dat and pushed the platoons through a post-operation procedure which was to become a standard drill from then on. As soon as we cleared our weapons, we were split up into groups to commence replacing webbing and equipment which were unserviceable; we also had a wonderful hot shower, followed by a medical check; and then we lined up for pay. Once we had ourselves squared away and dressed into clean greens, we picked up mail and parcels from our orderly room clerk. Mail was an important part of our lives as we were busting our guts in South Vietnam and occasionally getting shot at, and it seemed the only people who really cared, apart from the men with you, were parents, wives and girlfriends. Mail time was ‘goodie’ time and a lot of guys received food parcels and the like; everyone shared their presents from home. My wife kept me stocked in small cans of mushrooms, garlic salt and Milo which I used to supplement my rations while out on patrol. Gay also sent me magazines and newspapers to keep me in touch with events back home. Even though we were always given the football scores over the radio when out on patrol, it was nice to sit down and read how my favourite team fared in the local competition.

  The evening meal on the first night back was traditionally a barbecue; but it was difficult to eat or drink too much. After so long on canned nations our stomachs found it hard to take fresh food. We eventually settled for our barbecue on the second night back in camp as we had a bit more time to adjust to the richness of the American food. Alcohol was a problem as most of us had two or three cans of beer and were bloated and couldn’t consume any more. This was really a shame as all a lot of men dreamt about when out on patrol was a nice long cool beer. Now they had it and couldn’t fit it in.

  On the second day back we cleaned up our lines. They were suffering from six weeks of forced neglect. We refurbished the bunker defences, lopped down broken rubber tree branches and replaced the rotting sandbags in the pits and the blast walls around the tents. Because our ammunition had suffered from being carried around in damp basic pouches on the operations, we went down to discharge it. This was done at the ‘range’ near our lines which looked across towards the abandoned village of Long Tan, where the large 6 RAR battle had been fought in 1966. Everyone fired off his old ammunition, zeroed his rifle and practised shooting from various positions. I used this time for practising ambush springing and cross-training on different weapons. All of our ammunition was expended, including 40 mm M79 grenades and claymores. (I had been keen on claymore ambushes and we often carried eighteen claymores in the platoon when out on patrol.)

  The firing of the claymores by banks was a technique that we particularly wanted to sort out to discover if there were any alternatives to using the hand-held mechanical exploder as this sometimes failed to operate. We came up with a system whereby we cut a plastic water bottle down the side almost to the base and inserted a 9-volt battery inside and resealed it with waterproof electrical tape. Soldered on top of the battery terminals were two alligator clips which could be folded down under the water-bottle cap. The wires from the claymore bank circuit were then prepared and one would be hooked up to the alligator clips: all that was then required to fire the mines was to simply hook up the other wire with the other alligator clip. This method was virtually fail-safe and the battery was able to drive a large number of claymores. I was rather pleased with one experiment which successfully electrically initiated a bank of some 23 claymores. By a combination of electrical initiation and detonating cord between individual mines, we now had endless varieties of springing ambushes.

  That second night was dedicated to entertaining those p
eople who had helped the company on the operations and to inviting friends from other units over for a yarn and a drink. This was a pretty wet affair and was held down in the diggers’ canteen—a galvanised iron hut suitably decorated with Playboy pin-ups and other paraphernalia. It was interesting to catch up on what the other platoons had experienced as we probably only saw each other three or four times during the whole time we had been out on patrol. The company party was known as ‘telling lies’. It was one of the better times in Nui Dat that one can remember. The cost of liquor was fairly conducive to drinking and it was difficult to avoid the kid in the lolly shop syndrome. A 40 ounce bottle of white rum was $1.15 and a 40 ounce bottle of gin $0.90 cents! It was also good to sit on a chair to eat again back in our officers’ and sergeants’ mess. This was one of the things that seemed to strike me more than having to go to the toilet in a bush latrine and not being able to bathe regularly: imagine always being at ground level when you ate and slept and in the fetid smell of the rotting, lush vegetation of the jungle.

  Early on our third day of rest between operations we dressed in civilian slacks and open necked short sleeved shirts and were loaded onto trucks. Most incongruously of all, we were toting our personal weapons. For the next three days we would be relaxing at the rest and indoctrination centre in Vung Tau. This leave was termed by the soldiers as ‘rooting and intoxication’ The trip to Vung Tau was straight down Route 2, through Baria and past the fishing villages of Ben Cay and Phouc Thanh. These two villages had something memorable and common between them—they both stank to high heaven. I thought the villages up to the north of the province were fruity until the odour of these hit our noses. It was so strong it literally jerked your head back like a whiff of smelling salts. It wasn’t so bad going down to the flesh pots and bars of Vung Tau; but when returning with fragile heads and tummies, Phouc Thanh village claimed quite a few victims.

  The rest centre was named the Peter Badcoe Club in honour of one of the four Victoria Cross winners from the Vietnam campaign. The centre had transit lines in wooden buildings for over a company, messes for the other ranks and a combined officers’ and sergeants’ mess. The facilities were excellent and included a tailor shop, a barber, the post exchange, tennis, badminton and volleyball courts and a swimming pool with 5 metre diving board. The surf beach, albeit with no real swell to speak of, was alongside the centre. There were any kind of water craft you wanted to mention, from water-ski boats and surfboards to sail and fishing boats. A mini-golf course and concert hall topped all of this off!

  After locking our weapons away in the armoury, the company was paraded before the manager of the centre and a couple of military policemen who were there to brief the diggers on the pitfalls and traps of Vung Tau, and secondly to read the ‘Riot Act’ in regard to behaviour. The manager of the centre we disliked immediately. He was dressed in polyester shorts and shirt and had a deep suntan. He was obviously in the category that every foot soldier despises, the ‘pogo’. He even had blond sun-bleached hairs on his sun-tanned legs, which meant he probably never wore green denim fatigues. We on the other hand were anaemic and sallow. Working in the gloom under the canopy of the jungle meant that we saw very little sunlight—and even when we did we had our sleeves down and camouflage cream all over our exposed skin.

  The military police had some interesting statistics for the lads. Vung Tau had approximately 178 bars and 3000 bar girls to entertain the allied forces from Australia, New Zealand, USA, Korea and Thailand. The soldiers were advised not to take all of their spending money with them into town; not to travel alone; and, if they wanted to be friendly with the bar girls, to do so before they got drunk; and then to wear condoms. The venereal disease rate in Vung Tau was high despite the fact that the girls were controlled by health regulations and inspections. All of the soldiers had been issued condoms and a sachet of pills known as ‘no sweat pills’. These were primarily a large antibiotic to be taken before and after intercourse in case the sheath was not available or was forgotten in the heat of the moment.

  The military police also detailed what to do in the event of an emergency, emphasising the curfew time and what action to take if challenged by the white mice. The latter was easy. You stood stock still, kept your hands high in the air and didn’t reach for your wallet until told to. The bars that were out of bounds were read out and all the diggers immediately made a mental note of where to go first. In actual fact the military police weren’t too bad. They didn’t have an easy job trying to keep out of trouble a hundred or so 20-year-old infantrymen intent on having a whale of a time.

  Once the briefing was over the diggers were trucked into town to a place known as ‘The Flags’—a soldiers’ club right in the centre of the town. The sergeants had accommodation at the Badcoe Club and the officers were given the privilege of staying at the officers’ mess annexe at the Grand Hotel on the main boulevard in downtown Vung Tau. The Grand was a beautiful colonial style hotel, not unlike Raffles of Singapore, and it fronted onto a beach on the South China Sea. The only difference was that the hotel was staffed by Vietnamese and that the downstairs bar was dimly lit and had the normal quota of bar girls. My intention on this short leave was to avoid my platoon at all costs. I had spent every minute of the day for the last six weeks with my men, and we both needed a break from each other.

  The three platoon commanders, the forward observer and the company second in command booked into the hotel and, under the guidance of our trusty acting company commander, we set off into town. First stop was to get a haircut. This was not as easy as it sounds: a haircut could come complete with shave, neck or foot massage, pedicure or manicure and ear and nasal hair trim. All I wanted was a haircut, and when I refused all of the extras I was looked upon as a second class client and my hair was cut accordingly. After the haircut it was time to have a steambath to get the grime out of our bodies and tone up our skin. I got quite a surprise when a female attendant walked right into the steambath and offered the house specials to any who were interested. Peter Schuman shook his head at us and we graciously declined the offer. The steambath was superb and I had repeat doses of steaming and showering as the built up grime of dirt and cam cream oozed out of the pores of my skin. I opted for a massage, which a guy by the name of Greg Dodds recommended, and a Vietnamese girl pummelled me almost to death and then walked up and down my back. Afterwards I wasn’t sure if it was such a good idea as I felt like I had just had a game of footy and every muscle was letting me know about it.

  By now it was time to try out a few bars and Peter took us to a bar called, funnily enough, the Kangaroo Bar. The bars were just about all the same. They were about 25–30 feet wide, about 75–100 feet in length and had booths down each wall and a few small tables down the far end where the ‘mama san’ or ‘papa san’ sat. Most bars served American beer or Vietnamese beer called Ba Moui Ba and had limited liquor on hand. All bars were dimly lit, had wooden floors and furniture and a supply of bar girls. The bar girls’ job was to fleece the customer by enticing him to buy the girl a ‘Saigon tea’. This drink varied from tea to coloured water and would cost about $1.50. A real drink was less than half of that so the ‘tea’ was nothing but a rip-off. The girls were extremely good at tricking a client into buying a glass of tea and even after I was made aware of how they went about conning men to buy the drink, I still got caught out a couple of times.

  Most of the bar girls wore western dress and heavy make-up. They had a routine where they would walk up to where you were sitting and as they sat down would drop a hand into your crotch and ask you to buy them a Saigon tea. Before one could regain one’s composure a glass of tea was plonked down in front of you and money was leaving your wallet. In the Kangaroo Bar, Peter had spoken to the mama san and we were left alone to drink without the interruption from bar girls and their broken English conversation (which always came back to two basic questions: ‘Would you buy a Saigon tea?’, and ‘Do you want a girl?’) Every bar girl had a family to care for, an orp
haned brother and sister and a husband who had been killed fighting the ‘Cong’. After listening to several bar girls relate their tragic plight, I began to wonder if there was a finishing school for hookers somewhere in Vung Tau.

  Not all of the dangers were soft and feminine. Simply drinking in the bars was a hazard, as finding potable water was a problem. When ordering a beer the bartender would often drag a can out of a freezer often chilled by ice as opposed to refrigeration. The can would be wiped over with a cloth to remove the grime from the ice which often had sticks and twigs and leaves frozen in it. This cloth was the same one used to wipe the spillage off tables, clean ash trays and so on. In one bar I ordered a rum and coke and the ice cube in my (dirty) glass had a leaf inside it. So you were kept on your toes looking for bugs and things in the gloom of the bar. A lot of the bars had a kitchen of sorts and offered food quite cheaply, but the advice was to eat in restaurants only and never at roadside stalls or in bars. The kerbside stalls dispensed every imaginable kind of local dish and delicacy, but they were probably better known for what the diggers called ‘heppo’ or ‘hepatitis rolls’. This was the Vietnamese equivalent of the Chiko roll and despite the fact that they tasted pretty good, many a man came down with a dose of the runs the next day.

  The town of Vung Tau was a strange blend of colonial architecture and eastern hovel. Next to a quite magnificent government building there would be a row of shops which appeared as if they were built in a day and were lucky to be upright. There was a distinct French influence in the layout of the streets and the store fronts. I went for a ride in a three-wheeled vehicle powered by a Lambretta scooter known locally as a ‘lambro’. It only took four soldiers to fill the rear passenger compartment of one of these lambro taxis, but we often saw eight or nine Vietnamese in the back and two others on each side of the centre seated driver. For about 500 piastre or $1.50 I was given the tourist ride around the main market centre of town and then up onto the ritzy villa covered hillside overlooking the ocean. Some of the villas were quite magnificent and reminded me of the villas of the French Riviera that one sees on travel posters. On the tip of the Vung Tau peninsula there was a prominent wreck of a large freighter. My lambro taxi driver told me in reasonable English that its French captain had committed suicide after running aground below the light house on Nui Nho point.