Going Back Read online

  being part of a group like this—I think it’s an absolute privilege because you don’t often get to be with a group like that who are talking about what happened to their lives and they’re quite open. I think there was an openness there that I felt. Being part of that group I thought was very special, and I felt very honoured to be included. And I think seeing where Tony served, that was also very special.33

  After visiting where her husband had toiled as the unit doctor, Doffy admitted she hadn’t thought of some of the little things that are hardly ever mentioned about being in a war zone.

  What I hadn’t appreciated was the privations that they must have had: the rain, the constant heat and humidity, ants crawling up your legs, the tiny little bugs that would be crawling in and out of your clothes, and the fact that you were constantly wet. Someone mentioned that they once went for about 30 days without changing their clothes and as they dried out the next lot of rain would come. When you listen to all the stories back home, [the men] really don’t talk about those sort of things—and from a female’s perspective I found that horrendous, I mean how could you cope? And the other thing I found [was] that the beauty in the rubber was mesmerising. I remember looking down that cathedral of rubber trees and the canopy underneath; I thought it was exquisitely beautiful and yet spooky. I found the combination of those two aspects really extraordinary.34

  Doffy thought that the memory she would be taking from Viet Nam would probably sound ‘off to left field a little bit’:

  [It was] just driving down those village tracks and looking at all the villages. And this is nearly 40 years later on [since the war]. And if this is what it’s like now, imagining how it would have been—it must have been much more primitive then. Here are these people hammering nails on the sort of side walk, hammering down buildings with sledge hammers and whatever. And I think here is this poor community on a little strip of land and yet they beat the combined might of America and its Allies. And I think . . . as a grandparent now, what can we learn? We should teach our children about surviving in the future. And I think that’s what I’ll take back.35

  The children

  Rupert White accompanied his parents on the 5 RAR pilgrimage when he was 34 years old. Here are some of his thoughts on the journey:

  My expectations were [that it would be] almost like wandering through a museum, that is how I thought it was going to go. ‘This is where this happened, this is where that happened.’ It turned out to be a bit more than that. I got a few good war stories out of the old boys which was great. And John Taske tells a really great story about showering in the camp before the duck boards were down and the red mud and that sort of thing—you hear about the guns and the bullets and the deaths, but you don’t really hear about day to day life in Nui Dat or out on patrol so much. And so just those little stories added a thousand shades of colour to the way I see it now. And also the rain in the rubber, and the insects biting our feet while we were doing the memorial service. And the mud. Whereas before I saw photos, now I’ve got a real feel of what it must have been like.36

  Rupert said the trip had given him a better understanding of what his father Tony had experienced, and had fulfilled his expectations ‘and more so’. He admitted he was a little apprehensive at first, but said that feeling quickly dissipated.

  I thought I’d better be on my best behaviour, and all these guys here—it was like touring with a rugby squad or something. You know, there were jokes left, right and centre and all that sort of stuff. It was great . . . They’ve obviously got a very good relationship from just that one year in Viet Nam. I’m really glad I came. I was very honoured to get the invitation.37

  There was no shortage of war stories on the tour bus or whenever the group stopped at a battle site, museum or other place of interest. Rupert remarked:

  Another thing that I’ve got from the whole thing was just . . . actually seeing people describing amongst themselves when people have been killed whom they knew, or Gary [McKay] getting blasted in the arm and you hear of someone being shot and injured. And that’s—okay, that’s a bad thing. But behind each of those stories it actually doesn’t end there. Then it can be two years or five years of rehabilitation. And I think, going forward from there, I have a greater respect or understanding of thousands of casualties in Gallipoli and places like that. There is actually a little person behind each of those statistics.38

  So what would Rupert leave Viet Nam with as his greatest impression?

  I think again the biggest thing I’ll take back is just the mateship, the banter on the bus. I always think that your generals and all your captains and your majors—my assumption is that they’re going to be hard arses, you know, very tough. But you see Paul out there and he’s naming ‘Fort Wendy’ and that sort of thing. And Roger’s such a lovely quiet guy (for an infantryman). I think that’s a good impression of mateship and that’s the thing I’ll take away with me for sure.39

  Tony White was listening as his son spoke, and then offered another observation on how children of war veterans may react on a visit to Viet Nam: ‘I think it depends a lot on whether they’ve had the whole Viet Nam thing rammed down their throat or not.’ When asked to clarify that remark Tony added, ‘I think of some families where the kids and spouses have overdosed on it and for them it would just be piling another toxin on a bad life back home.’40

  My own daughter, Kelly, was 21 when she accompanied me to Viet Nam on a research trip in 2002. I would like to share here her reflections on that visit and what she came away with. This was her unedited response:

  Whilst I was initially apprehensive at joining a whole group of other veterans (besides my father), this feeling soon proved to be completely unfounded, as I was made exceptionally welcome and soon made some lovely friends. It soon became apparent that while revisiting Viet Nam is a very personal and individual experience for each veteran, having the support network of their spouses and other returning veterans was invaluable in helping them through this sometimes confronting and difficult experience. However, it wasn’t all so emotional, and having people with similar experiences with whom to share memories, stories and lots of laughs made for a very fun and exciting atmosphere. The drinks and the anecdotes flowed freely and by the end of our tour firm friendships were forged.

  As the daughter of a Viet Nam veteran and career Army officer of 30 years, my youth was filled with hundreds of Viet Nam and military anecdotes. ‘Army’ was so ingrained in my father that it seemed to infiltrate all aspects of his personality and our lives. There is at least one Viet Nam story that can be related to nearly every possible everyday situation (the ones about chillies and giant spiders among my personal favourites), and so, like many other ‘Army brats’, Viet Nam is something I thought I understood. My father’s experience with war was part of our everyday lives and was something I took very much for granted.

  All this changed on going to Viet Nam with my father. I learned very quickly that the anecdotes of my childhood were just that—stories. Minute snapshots of the ‘PG’ version of war; the lighter moments in a war that was anything but. What I thought I knew about the Viet Nam War didn’t even come close to scratching the surface of what the Viet Nam experience really was all about for my father and his fellow veterans.

  Whilst every day of my trip was a new and exciting discovery, there were three particularly standout moments that really defined for me what it must have been like for my father in Viet Nam. The first was a visit to the War Remnants Museum. Even someone not connected to a veteran could not help but be moved by the highly emotive and confronting images on display here. My father warned me before entering that some of the photographs would be graphic, but nothing could have prepared me for the shock of what I saw. I realised straight away that the ‘War Remnants Museum’ could not have been more aptly named. Wounded men crying in agony, surgeons up to their elbows in gore, and the foetuses of babies deformed in utero as a result of their mothers’ exposure to Agent Orange are memories that wi
ll stay with me always as a constant reminder of the futility of war.

  The second event that helped deepen my understanding was visiting the site of the Memorial Cross for the Battle of Long Tan. It was a very hot and humid day as we all sat among the rubber trees listening to my father deliver a blow-by-blow account of the battle. The experience was incredibly chilling. The bravery and the strength of the Australian soldiers against such incredible odds was mind-blowing, and the sense of overwhelming pride and respect I felt for these men and all other veterans is one I will carry with me always.

  The third moment came much more unexpectedly, but really made me confront the full gravity of what my father felt, and continues to live with today. Whilst walking through the ‘jungle’ to the site of the Cu Chi tunnels, one of the veterans suddenly froze. He looked very shaken, and I asked my father what was wrong. He explained that the uniform worn by the staff at Cu Chi was very similar to the black pyjama-style uniforms worn by the Viet Cong during the war. Our friend, on his first return trip to Viet Nam, had just caught a glimpse of one of the staff through the jungle. For him it was like being in a time warp. The humidity, the jungle and then sighting ‘the enemy’ through the trees transported him back, and the adrenaline and fear were, once again, very real.

  As we walked on, the reality of how it must have felt came crashing down on me. A cold shiver ran down my spine as I tried to comprehend how it must have felt really to be there. To kill or be killed. The feeling was positively overwhelming and to finally understand that this was a reality that my father actually lived through was as terrifying as it was humbling.

  I have always considered myself a ‘Daddy’s girl’ and have always loved, respected and admired my father. But after going to Viet Nam with him, I felt I finally understood him a little better. I will never again take for granted or dismiss what he went through. His anecdotes are not ‘just another Viet Nam story’; they were real, and only a tiny part of the montage of his experience. The sadness and pain I feel for my father because of what he went through is overshadowed only by the immense feeling of pride and respect I feel for the man it made him become.

  Viet Nam for me was an incredible experience. The sensory overload was intoxicating. The country was as beautiful as it was scarred. Everywhere you look it seems you are confronted by a visual oxymoron. Lotus blossoms and duck ponds in bomb craters; battle wounds on smiling faces; and happiness in the midst of poverty. Girls dressed in beautiful spotless, white silk ao dais riding clapped-out bikes on pot-holed dusty roads. It is a country of contradiction, and a place I will never forget.41

  EPILOGUE

  This book has attempted to give the veteran who is contemplating returning to Viet Nam an idea of what they could expect and how they might prepare for their journey, whether it be a pilgrimage or simply a holiday visit as a tourist, and has shared some insights and recommendations from those who have been there and done it.

  Whether or not pilgrimages to Viet Nam can and will continue is something only time will tell. Garry Adams took an optimistic view, remarking: ‘Hopefully as time comes to pass there will be more and more young ones coming to have a look at the places where their fathers fought.’1

  Not all veterans who return to Viet Nam find it a positive experience. Those who visit hoping to see familiar sights and well-known ground in order to confirm their memories are often bitterly disappointed. Few signs of the Australian presence remain. The Task Force base at Nui Dat was stripped of all remaining materials by locals shortly after the Australians withdrew. The remaining concrete strip of the former Luscombe Field is now a street surrounded by local dwellings. At the site of the former logistics base at Vung Tau there are few signs of the Badcoe Recreation club, where Australian soldiers spent their time recovering from injury and illness. Much of the countryside they spent so much time patrolling has also changed—now developed in a variety of ways.

  For those seeking to make sense of the chaos of their memories, not being able to see the ground as it was then only adds to their sense of confusion. Not being able to find visual signs of their presence can also make some veterans feel as if their efforts were in vain. For others, though, the lack of war remnants is a positive sign. They see that the country has moved on and are happy that the country and its people, in the south at least, appear to be thriving. Relatives of veterans also have varying reactions to their visits. Those who travelled in the 1980s and early 90s often found travel in Viet Nam difficult and uncomfortable, and Viet Nam was not a place to which they would readily return. Most have been happy, though, to be able to provide emotional support when it was needed, and have found the trip worthwhile.

  On 21 May 1970, a young Australian soldier, Assault Pioneer Graham Edwards, stepped on a mine in South Viet Nam. Many of the so-called ‘Jumping Jack’ M-16 mines deployed by the Viet Cong against South Vietnamese and Allied soldiers had been lifted from the Australians’ own barrier minefield, and were causing widespread death and injury. Pioneer Edwards survived the blast, but with both legs amputated he now relies on a wheelchair for mobility. In May 1990, twenty years after that blast, Graham Edwards, who was by then a Western Australian Member of the Legislative Assembly, went back to Viet Nam. His aim in returning was, in his words, ‘to sort out the ghosts’. With the aid of a former Viet Cong platoon commander, Edwards was able to locate the site of the explosion which changed his life. Having confronted his ghosts he returned to Australia, determined to help the disabled and other Viet Nam veterans. As a federal Member of Parliament Graham Edwards has been able to fulfil his goals.

  There are many stories like that of Graham Edwards. Paul Murphy was another veteran who went back to Viet Nam in 1990; he was so shocked by the poverty he found there that he vowed to return and help in some way. Four years later he went back to Viet Nam, signed a memorandum of understanding with the local government, and formed the Australian Veterans Vietnam Reconstruction Group (AVVRG). The group has since undertaken numerous projects to help the people of the former Phuoc Tuy Province, raising well over a million dollars in aid in the last ten years. As well, the AVVRG has been responsible for the recent refurbishment of the Long Tan Memorial Cross site.2

  In 1996, veterans’ pilgrimages to Viet Nam entered the public sphere. In August that year a group of veterans and widows, accompanied by the Deputy Prime Minister, Tim Fischer, and the Minister for Veterans Affairs, Bruce Scott, participated in an official pilgrimage to Viet Nam to mark the thirtieth anniversary of the battle of Long Tan. I was the official historian on that trip, standing in for the then seriously ill historian, the late Ian McNeill. Although time was given for personal remembrance and commemoration, especially at Terandak Military Cemetery in Malaysia, formal ceremonies at various locations set the tone for the tour.

  The visit was seen as highly significant for the development of the relationship between Australia and Viet Nam and was promoted as a sign that both sides had moved on from the past. While recognising this, during a speech at Nui Dat Tim Fischer conceded: ‘We must acknowledge that Vietnam is still recent history. And if past enmities have died, for many on both sides the scars understandably remain.’3

  Long Tan survivor Jim Richmond faced his own ghosts during the tour when he presented a commemorative plaque to another Long Tan survivor, from the other side. He saw the pilgrimage as a chance for reconciliation. ‘It doesn’t really matter now,’ he said beforehand. ‘What happened, happened. If there was a bloke from Long Tan [there] I’d have a beer with him, ex-soldier to ex-soldier.’4 Such sentiments are common among pilgrims, and are a sign that they are coming to terms with their Viet Nam experience.

  Historian Libby Stewart tackled the issue of the future of pilgrimages to Viet Nam. She said in an address to the University of Newcastle:

  It is possible that they will start to wane as veterans become too old to travel. The lack of war graves means that the children of veterans won’t have a particular point of reference for their travels, and the changed landscap
e means that their father’s descriptions will mean little to them. Despite these things, I don’t believe that Viet Nam will cease to be a place of remembrance for Australians. As we achieve a greater understanding of that war and what it meant for its veterans, the impulses that have sent Australians all over the world to pay tribute to Australian war dead will continue to extend to Viet Nam.5

  Garry Adams agrees, noting that there is a growing interest among young Australians about our involvement in the war. Each year he sees more of them making the effort to participate in important events held on Anzac Day and Viet Nam Veterans Day at the Long Tan Memorial Cross.

  Perhaps their initial rejection by society has created a greater need among Viet Nam veterans to return to their battlefields and ensure that the dead are remembered. Their children will no doubt continue this legacy.

  APPENDIX: POST TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER

  Reproduced with permission from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 4th edition, published by the American Psychiatric Association, Washington, DC, 2000, pp. 463–6. This text is used as the basis for Australian psychiatry in the examination, diagnosis and treatment of PTSD.

  Diagnostic features

  There are several reasons why people become affected with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). These causes are clinically referred to as diagnostic features. The essential feature of PTSD is the development of characteristic symptoms following exposure to an extreme traumatic stressor involving direct personal experience of an event that involves actual or threatened death or serious injury, or other threat to one’s physical integrity; or witnessing an event that involves death, injury, or a threat to the physical integrity of another person.