In Good Company Page 8
We were dressed in our best starched greens with all the trimmings as we marched through Townsville down Flinders Street and took the salute from the Task Force commander. We had been briefed by our company commander on what action to take if demonstrators gave us a hard time. I don’t believe any of us expected trouble from the locals; the students at James Cook University would have taken on a situation too big to handle, as there were over 3 000 soldiers in Townsville. So our march was uneventful save for some good-natured barracking from the mates who had come to see us off.
The scene at the wharf was a real anti-climax. We waited in our company lots for six Navy landing craft to ferry us 12 km out to the HMAS Sydney which was anchored out in the channel of Cleveland Bay behind Magnetic Island. Whilst we were waiting we were issued white cards with numbers which we had to stick in our hats. These were our ‘boarding passes’. They allowed us to be directed to where we had to go on the ship and kept our hands free to carry our gear. We were wearing our webbing and large packs, and carrying our personal weapon, a kit bag and echelon bag. Getting onto the landing craft was easy, but getting the landing craft off the wharf was a different matter. We were crammed on with our several hundred pounds of kit and as we stood waiting for the dramatic departure we were off-loaded back onto the wharf because the ramp wouldn’t shut properly. Loaded back on we finally said goodbye to firm land for the next ten days. The trip out to the Sydney was not the greatest even though the sea was dead calm. The landing craft is flat bottomed and not swift and we wallowed around in these boats, packed in like sardines for about an hour before we could scramble aboard. Our helmsman, a midshipman under training, was not a great driver. He had three attempts at parking, all the time being berated by an officer on board the troopship who had a loud-hailer. The young midshipman must have found this somewhat unnerving (we certainly did) as he practised parking using the Braille method; I was sure he was trying to sink the Sydney with the naval officer yelling abuse at him from above.
The officers were quartered in the aft section of the ship and the subalterns had cabins above the quarterdeck next to what felt like were the boilers. The cabin was the size of an average bathroom and incredibly crowded. It had no portholes; and ventilation—the ship being designed for the North Atlantic—was non-existent.
After everyone was on board we got under way—around 1315 hours. I went off in search of my platoon and eventually found them packed into a mess deck somewhere down in the bowels of the ship. They all seemed pretty happy and were looking forward to dinner when they would get their beer ration. It was only one can but it was a big one. It was in fact a 26 ounce Fosters and the lads were already scouring the unit looking for non-drinkers to buy their beer ration. I visited them during their evening meal and found the food was good. The beer cost 20 cents for the big can but I heard that the black market had already pushed the price of a spare ration ticket up to five dollars.
We hadn’t been on board long before we had our first drama. It was about 11.00 pm when the ship started to turn around and the news filtered down that a young sailor had jumped overboard. We were about 25 km off the coast but the matelot had messed up his navigation and thought he was within swimming distance of Green Island off Cairns. After three hours they found him unconscious and picked him up wearing a life jacket, flippers, a spare jacket and his clothes and wallet in a plastic bag. He was extremely lucky to be found; the calm waters inside the Great Barrier Reef saved his life.
The company commander had a conference after dinner, where he outlined the daily routine for the next ten days and what jobs we would be doing. The working day was from 0900 hours until 1600 hours, which we considered almost a holiday compared to the 18 to 20 hour day we had had in the bush on exercises. I was to run the battalion weapon training which consisted of ‘snap-shooting’ from the rear of the ship up on the flight deck. This turned out to be a great job as the diggers were doing something active and didn’t have to listen to lectures in the stifling heat of the day or do weapon drills and safety checks.
The shooting was run in rifle section lots. The soldiers would stand at the very rear of the ship, on what was called ‘the captain’s walk’. This was a perforated steel grating which was suspended some 80 feet above the boiling wake. Two coloured balloons, with a small amount of water inside for ballast, were tied together and dropped over the side of the ship; they would then drift out onto the wake about 100 feet aft. The firers were numbered off and I would call a number at random and the soldier would engage the balloons with two quick shots. Each soldier was given two magazines which had been pre-loaded with a total of 20 rounds. He didn’t know exactly how many rounds were in each magazine. If the shooter ran out of ammo during his turn he had to quickly carry out his ‘immediate action’ drill and continue firing. Machine-gun practice was run along similar lines—only we fired from on top of the flight deck and the target was bigger with about ten balloons in a clump. Some gunners were good at engaging the balloons at long range; during a demo for the matelots, one gun team engaged a bunch of balloons at a range of about 800 metres when they were out of sight, but which were struck as the wake brought them up into the falling rounds. It was a lot of fun but hot work standing up on the flight deck for six hours a day and with no shade from the tropical sun. Once night fell we finished for the day and we could sit down and relax.
We had to change into our polyester dress at night and this was an art in itself. The showers were salt or fresh water and because of the tropical heat even the cold water was hot. It was too hot to towel off in the showers so I used to stand out on the sponson deck outside and let the breeze of the moving ship cool and dry me and then carefully climb into my polyester dress and move quickly down to the air conditioned comfort of the wardroom. Because of duty free prices a ten ounce beer was five cents and a nip of spirits five cents; Coca Cola came in dearest at ten cents a can. There was no enforced ration for the officers and it was hard to contain oneself at these bargain prices. After a function hosted by the ship’s officers called an ‘RPC’ (Request the pleasure of your company) and having to suffer the next day on my feet in the sun for six hours with rifles discharging all around me, I quickly learnt to pace myself.
The wardroom was the focal point for the evening’s entertainment and a favourite game to play was liar dice. The ship’s chaplain, Lieutenant Commander Ed Rolf, was a great player at this game—perhaps it was the fact that he was a padre that misled us into believing his outrageous calls but he hardly ever lost a game. On the third night out we left the wardroom at about 2230 hours and Ed invited myself and four of my fellow platoon commanders down to his cabin. Once inside his comparatively spacious cabin we demolished what liquor remained of his stock including the altar wine. This led the padre to exact revenge. He gave Mick Murphy the task of reading the lesson on Sunday, which pleased the rest of us no end.
It was usually too hot to sleep in our crowded cabin, so most of us took our bedding and slept down on the quarterdeck where a beautiful breeze blew all night and one could get a decent night’s sleep. On one particular evening everyone traipsed down to the quarterdeck with their stretchers and bedding under their arms—only to find one of our fellow platoon commanders sound asleep. Dan McDaniel had slunk off during the evening, no doubt in an endeavour to get a good night’s rest. To the rest of us this amounted to nothing less than desertion. So Dan had to be punished. We went up to the sick bay and talked the medic into giving us a pile of bandages and, while Dan slept peacefully on, we wrapped him into his stretcher so he resembled a large cocoon. This in itself was bad enough but every morning the matelots would come down to the quarterdeck at 6.00 am and shout ‘Clear the decks, swabbing in five minutes, sirs!’. If you weren’t up and off the deck the sailors would hose on regardless. So, the next morning the sailors came down and we all leapt to our feet except poor Dan who was unceremoniously hosed down by grinning seamen as he tried to wriggle out of his stretcher.
By Wednesday, 19 May
we were passing between Timor and Java and came within 10 kilometres of Bali Island. Occasionally we would pass a native fishing boat and the shooting would have to stop until their craft were out of range. We crossed the equator on Friday 21 May at 1430 hours. To celebrate, the notables in the unit put on a ceremony where King Neptune and some of his mermaids initiated some who hadn’t crossed the equator before. Some of our corporals grabbed unsuspecting souls and dunked them in a custard type of mess that looked awful. Our regimental medical officer, Capt Paul Trevillian, was one unfortunate who was selected for this dubious honour. We then had a tug-of-war against the navy boys and later that evening a party with our Pipes and Drums, putting on a performance that everyone enjoyed.
About this time in our journey, we refuelled at sea and I had a morning off from running the shooting. From nowhere two destroyer escorts, the HMAS Parramatta and the HMAS Duchess appeared. They looked rather spectacular as they steamed towards us and then heeled over some 20 or 30 degrees with a white plume of spray behind the fantail. A Royal Fleet Auxilliary tanker appeared and for about three hours we took on fuel and water.
We were now about 1000 km from Vung Tau, our port of entry to Phuoc Tuy Province. This was where the 1st Australian Logistic Support Group was stationed. The escorts would stay with us until we disembarked at Vung Tau.
Two events happened at this time which caused me to write to my wife. The first occurred at the evening meal some seven days after we had sailed when my company commander, Major Kudnig, said ‘Pass the salt please, Gary’. I nearly died. The company commander had never called me by first name since I had joined the company. Not even at social functions had my christian name been used. I was always referred to by my radio appointment title—’Sunray 42’ or ‘OC 11’ (platoon)—or as ‘Mister McKay’.
The other thing that happened was that I had a sudden fit of the blues. I had suddenly realised that if our tour went the whole distance I wouldn’t be seeing my wife again for a whole year. Even if I was to get five days’ rest and recreation leave we still wouldn’t see each other for eight months. The import of this had finally struck me and I began to realise how much I really cared for my bride.
We passed by the Indonesian islands and shooting became almost impossible as fishing craft and tankers were always coming into view. To try to get the greatest amount of shooting done I would fire until the last safe moment before applying a check fire. My lookouts either side of the bridge reported that this often resulted in some frantic hand waving from the fishing boats who may have thought our fire was directed at them.
The company commander called a conference on our last night on board and told us that we would shortly arrive in Vung Tau and that we would be flying off the ship in US Chinook helicopters. This was a first for us as our air force didn’t own these huge machines.
The Sydney anchored in the harbour of Vung Tau during the evening, and all through the night a water-borne patrol in a rubber dinghy circled the ship dropping ‘scare charges’ to dissuade any would be Viet Cong from mining the ship.
The 22nd of May was a typical muggy, steamy day in South Vietnam. Yet for the 700 or so of us, and even for some of the 136 who were returning for their second tour, it was far from typical. We had been up since first light and had been given briefings on where we had to muster in order to get out onto the flight deck in the correct order. There wasn’t much room as most of the flight deck had 114 trucks parked on it. These trucks were being presented to the Cambodian Government as part of Australia’s civil aid programme. We were finally moved in a seemingly endless queue from the mess deck muster areas toward the hangar deck and then lifted up onto the flight deck. I had never seen a Chinook close up. When this huge chopper touched down I was impressed by the power of its motors and the incredibly strong downdraught, which could almost blow you over.
It wouldn’t be long before we would be joining the New Zealand group which was going to make up our fourth rifle company. As an ANZAC (Australian New Zealand Army Corps) Battalion, 4 RAR/NZ comprised three rifle companies, a support and administration company of Australians and also a company of Kiwis. The latter were known as Victor or V Company. In addition, the New Zealanders also provided a mortar section, assault pioneer section and an administration company element. They had arrived from Singapore before us and when we arrived they were out on patrol in the area which we were to take over from 2 RAR.
The big Chinook helicopters took almost a complete platoon at a time. By 8.30 am 11 Platoon was already airborne and inbound for Nui Dat, the 1st Australian Task Force base. A large black US Army sergeant had hustled us onto our seats. There had been no briefing as the RAAF were wont to do, and there were no seat belts to do up. The loadmaster simply walked along, counted heads, grabbed one of the men’s rifles and replaced it between his knees with the muzzle pointing down. We had been issued all our ammo before emplaning, but we had not loaded our rifles because of the chopper ride. It was common US practice to travel with a round up the barrel of the weapon but with the muzzle on the floor in case the rifle discharged. As most of the hydraulics and power plant was above us this was accepted as a safe enough procedure on operations.
We flew at about 1000 feet in a direct line from the Sydney to Nui Dat. My first impression as I looked out over the open ramp on the chopper was how the terrain resembled Shoalwater Bay, though it was greener and wetter. Everywhere I looked I could see bomb and shell craters, full of water and reflecting the morning sun. As we came closer to Nui Dat we saw the villages and hamlets of the countryside. It was quite pretty where there weren’t bomb holes and burnt out areas. Palm trees lined the rice paddies and pathways between fields.
As we descended to land at our main chopper pad, called Eagle Farm, I could make out peasants in the fields and water buffalo pulling ploughs. We came in to land inside the Australian Task Force base. After the cool of the chopper ride the oppressive heat of the country suddenly hit us. The place smelt like Mount Spec. The same odour of rotting vegetation was present—only here it was stronger. We moved off the pad and towards Peter Schuman who had been on the advance party. As we moved towards the trucks the men from 2 RAR were loading onto our choppers to go onto the Sydney. They were grinning like Cheshire cats and there was much cat-calling between the two groups. But one comment I heard stuck in my memory when one digger called out, ‘Nobody’s got 365 days and a “wakey” to go!’ (A ‘wakey’ was a term used by soldiers when they were out on exercise and were counting the number of days left in the field. The ‘wakey’ was the last morning; the day you would be extracted, and therefore going back home). Well, we did. We were looking forward to our tour.
I didn’t realise that the base at Nui Dat would be so big. It was about 10 km in perimeter and housed two battalions, a special air service squadron and its headquarters, the armoured personnel carrier squadron and its workshops, a Centurion tank squadron and workshops, an Australian field battery of 105 mm howitzers, an American battery of 8 inch self-propelled guns and a battery of 155 mm howitzers. There was 161 Independent Recce Flight, the 1st Field Squadron Royal Australian Engineers, a Royal Australian Electrical Mechanical Engineers field workshop, a Royal Australian Army Service Corps field supply company, the Task Force headquarters and a field ambulance (something between an aid post and a field hospital). In addition there were also minor units such as the military police, the Salvation Army hut, Post Exchange (PX), canteens and the like. At one end of the base there was an airstrip capable of taking Caribou fixed-wing aircraft. This strip was called Luscombe Field and was a fairly busy little airfield. The RAAF had a squadron of Iroquois choppers parked there and the army kept their Pilatus Porters fixed-wing aircraft helicopters and Bell Sioux there as well.
The battalion lines were located in a rubber plantation like most of the base. There were a few gravel and bitumen roads which served the main units but basically everywhere one looked there was red mud. It wasn’t dull red; it was bright red and sticky. We jumped off the truck
s and the advance party guys showed us to our tents. My tent was in poor repair: it had large holes in the roof and most of the sandbag walls were in hopeless condition. Each tent was roughly 16 feet by 16 feet and had a sandbag blast wall encased in corrugated iron around it. The floor was usually duck boards placed on top of expended 105 mm shell cases to stop the rot and give ventilation. Inside the tent each man had a metal table, a cot and a locker. Our trunks would complete this inventory when they would be off-loaded from the Sydney.
Our company commander didn’t like the idea of the platoon commanders living in the lines with the soldiers. He moved Kevin Byrne, Graham Spinkston and myself into a 20 by 40 foot tent up near his own tent. In between getting briefings on the current enemy situation and the political scene we were flat out trying to get the lines into shape. Some of my diggers were pulling up rotting floorboards and finding gems like M26 high explosive grenades, old filled magazines and other odds and ends. It was a shock to go from the strict and closely regulated arms and ammunition control of Australia to the situation where you carried your rifle all the time, always loaded. Inside the Australian Task Force base, the weapon had a loaded magazine on it but didn’t have a round up the spout.
The officers and sergeants had a tented mess with a crude kitchen attached. It had a home made bar, a 15 cubic foot fridge, some lounge chairs and a television. The latter showed American Forces Vietnam Network programmes which were beamed from Saigon. Most of the shows were of poor quality and the highlight of any day was the US weather forecast when some heavily endowed and scantily dressed young ladies described the weather patterns of mainland USA. The mess had thirteen members: the five company officers; the artillery forward observer for our company, Capt Greg Gilbert, and the senior NCOs of the company. This erudite group included my sergeant, Darryl Jenkin—who had been finally promoted from corporal virtually as we landed; Butch Porter (Kevin Byrne’s sergeant); Kev Philp (Graham Spinkston’s sergeant); the CSM, Noel Huish; Bob Hann, the CQMS and Joe Ryan, our sergeant cook. The thirteenth member was our mortar fire controller, Ziggie Sinclair.