VIETNAM

I wish to acknowledge the photographs I have used in this story.  Some are mine and others I have 'shared'.  There are so many, I forget where I got them from so if you see one of yours here, thank you.  If you would like an acknowledgement just let me know.

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To preface this story, I feel the need to mention the following:  In the army, I learnt words I had never heard before and although they probably wouldn’t appear in a glossary of army terms or expressions they were new to me and have remained with me ever since.  Well, on second thoughts, maybe they all weren’t real Army words.

Some of them include:

·             full bottle (adj.)	knowing all about the subject, informed.
·             you beaut (adj.)	good, unique, appropriate.
·             stick books (n.)	magazines containing pictures of naked females etc.
·             debus (v.)	get off or out of the vehicle (loved that one).
·             wallah (n.)	This is an old military term which means a ‘person’.  Normally a more descriptive title is added before this word as a prefix to define his role, ie Q-store wallah.  You might remember from a British TV series, 'It Aint Arf Hot Mum'  and the ref. in it to ‘Punka-Wallah’.
·             wacka (n.)	Someone who is over the top, unusual or extra-ordinary.
·             emu bob (n.)	A walking search for rubblish left on the ground.
·             hook-in (v.)	Become involved in, get stuck into, consume.
·             move!!! (v.)	This is not a general army term but was used so often by NCOs for the troops to get a wriggle on, it later became my catch-cry when I returned to the police force.  I think I would like to have been a drill instructor.
·             shit-hot (v.)	Good.
·             chit (n.)	A note, receipt or invoice.
·            farter (n.)	Bed.
·            fartsack (n.)	Bed.
·             Shower of shit                 (dysphemism)	Badly dressed, a slob.
·             piece of piss                (mixed metaphor)	Easy.
·             piece of piss                [to a trained dig]                (mixed metaphor)	Easy (for a soldier to do)
·         yonks (n.)	A long time.
·         next man (?)	The person following.
·             well done that man                 (mixed metaphor)	A congratulatory comment from a superior
·         jackman (n.)	A selfish person who thinks only of himself.
·         green machine (n.)	The army.  This expression is American.

Some of these are mentioned in the story.  They are shown here in an attempt to demonstrate the psyche of the Australian Army at the time.

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My last week at 3 RTB (Recruit Training Battalion Singleton, NSW) Army base undertaking initial or rookie training was the second week of July 1969.  I had been allotted to the Signal Corps and had to make my way to the Eastern Command Wing School of Signals at Ingleburn, an south western suburb of Sydney, NSW and a temporary stop where I understood together with other young soldiers in a similar postion to myself, I would be reassessed and posted off to be trained in a specific army trade.

As I have outlined in another of my stories, Signals was not my preferred choice.  I volunteered for Infantry (for the  life of me I don't know why and I am damn glad the dice did not fall that way) and remonstrated with my superiors when directed to another Corps within the army.

Most of the trade training areas, certainly for the Signal Corps, were conducted at the Watsonia School of Signals at Balcombe in the state of Victoria where, again as I understood my initial instructions, I was to train as a clerk and I fully expected to go there.

Unfortunately for me I didn’t count on the ego of the RSM at 1 Signal Regiment, a unit also based at Ingleburn and adjacent to the 'school'.  He had vacancies under his command for 2 Regimental Police, soldiers who were to keep the peace within the regiment, so I understood.  I never did find out what the job description really was.  And, I would be surprised to learn if any other Signals Regiment in the army had regimental police on their actual strength.

Shortly after I arrived at Ingleburn the RSM, W.O I Bob Hillman came across from his office in the adjoining unit and spoke to me about becoming one his ‘boys’.  I thought the idea was abhorrent.  At that stage of my life I could see me being a policeman to age 60 and 2 years out of policing appealed to me.  I knocked back his offer.  For those who are unaware, I was in the NSW Police Force prior to being called up (drafted).

Since in Signals I fancied myself doing a course as a radio technician at the Marconi School of Wireless in Sydney where, because of the increase in numbers in the army through National Service, some of the techs were trained there, rather than Balcome and I asked the course people under Warrant Office 2nd Class Tom McPhee at the Ingleburn 'school' if it were possible.  I was told that they already had their quota for radio techs and I would be posted to a separate unit shortly for trade training.  It made me think that perhaps I wasn’t really smart enough to become a radio technician.

I waited and waited and you know, the penny didn’t drop with me – I wasn’t going anywhere.  The others who were there with me were slowly moved off to their respective training units as their courses commenced.

I was shifted out of the school wing accommodation to a motley group of old WWII huts, about 50 metres away.  The accommodation was barely liveable.  Bernie Binge who was a sergeant at the school and one of a staff of three, lived in an adjoining hut.  I still bump him on Anzac Day and reunions etc.  He no longer drinks, which is probably a blessing.

Whilst we were there waiting for time to pass we were all given menial jobs.

Soon after we arrived, I can remember all of us being lined up and the instructors asking:  "Who has their driver's licence?"  Nearly everyone put up their hand, thinking they would be driving an army vehicle so three or four were selected who were brought to the front of the ranks.  They were give the job of mowing lawns.  Gradually other jobs were dolled out:  kitchen, sweeping, garden beautification (pulling weeds) and of course the manditory, painting rocks white.  A term which is regularly used in this story.  It literally means: painting rocks which surround gardens, white a common activity to keep soldiers gainfully employed during the (very often) slack times.

On 21 July a bunch of us were driven to 8 Signal Regiment at Lidcombe, a western Sydney suburb to do some more manual labour.  There wasn't much else for us to do. 

'8 Sig', as it was more commonly referred to was a CMF or Army Reserve Unit, staffed by a few regulars.  I had no idea of the significance of the day and was busily working outside the contemporary brick building which housed most of the small unit, probably painting rocks white.

Around 11.00am or maybe getting onto lunch time we were called into to watch a the black and white TV at the unit to see the first moon landing.  I was reluctant to go but did so and sat there with the others as we watched this very historical event.

It was a bit boring but got me inside and away from the rock painting for a while.

The RSM at 1 Signal Regiment, who turned out to be quite a nice bloke, paid me another visit and asked if I had changed my mind to which I answered in the negative.  Subsequently, I was left there to do very little during the day.

Eventually I succumbed to his advances, mainly because most if not all the courses had commenced .  In promoting the job he told me the unit would be going to Malaya for an exercise during the following year, I would be elevated to corporal and seeing I lived in Sydney I could go home of a weekend or live out (reside at home) plus a few other benefits.  None of these, by the way ever eventuated and I never did receive any training in the work I was to do.

Already there was an national service NSW Policeman attached to 1 Signal Regiment working as a Regimental Policeman: Wayne Hack, whom I knew but not all that well although had spent some time together in the police cadets as well as in the initial six weeks training class to enter the police force itself.  Wayne was a good bloke and like most of us, wasn’t too keen on work.  "Just go through the motions" he said.  That is Wayne in the photograph.

So on 30 July 1969, I ‘marched in to the unit’.  I was allotted a bed in a room with Lance Corporal Wayne Hack in Regimental Headquarter Troop.

There were drivers, clerks, Q-store people, cooks etc. in the troop.  Alan Turner was the CSM.  I was given a black arm band with the red letters ‘R P’ attached.  Woopeedo!

We would parade on each morning with the others in our group to have our names marked off then sent on a walk across the football field: Berryman Oval, up around the hall situated on the main road on an emu bob, most of the time in indian file, just 'going through the motions'.

After our senior NCO's were satisfied with the amount of rubbish we collected, Wayne and I would walk up to the transport compound, take charge of our very own allocated Land Rover, drive to the canteen, buy a newspaper and maybe a chocolate milk, then continue on to Bardia Village, the married quarters near the Infantry Centre to ‘make sure there were no perverts around’.  There we would park in the sun and read the newspaper and try to do the crossword.  We would stay there until morning tea time when we would motor back into the camp.  This happened each day, Monday to Friday, over and over (and over).

Morning tea there and in each unit I worked in always consisted of baked chocolate or other cake in thost big aluminium baking trays which are normally used for legs of lamb etc.   It was it's presentation I found so funny.  The tea and coffee would be put out in square urns.  Forty or so of us would sit round outside in a particular area and chat whilst we had our cake and tea.  You know, its hard to remember the names of the people with whom I worked there at the time.  Strange how people pass you by after spending part of your life with them.

Just as an aside, I don't think I ever was rostered for kitchen duty whilst I was there at 1 Sig. which was normally a rotational duty for everyone: washing dixies (pots & pans), putting the potatoes in the automatic spud peeler and watching them disintergate, putting out the garbage etc.

There were other married quarters on the Ingleburn township side of the regiment which we used to traverse.  One time when driving through the streets there I noticed a young woman whom I had taken out a few times perhaps two years before, standing at her front gate in England Road.  She stared at me.  I didn’t say anything or wave.  My inquiries revealed that her husband was in Vietnam.  She got the word through to me that I should pop in and say hello.  Then, I was not the type to try to rekindle old romances and did nothing.

I had to get myself an army driver's licence: AAF-G11 to use the formal term or G11 as it was more popularly known.  The vehicle compound at 1 Signal Regiment had around 60 vehicles of different varieties.  I quickly introduced myself to George Croft, the Transport Sergeant.  "Are you the cop?"  was his first question. Again, my reputation had preceded me.

George asked me what type of work I had done in the police force and I explained that I had driven police Ford F100s, sedans and motor cycles.  He also asked if I had undergone the police driver training courses at St Ives in Sydney to which I replied in the positive.

He decided to test me in a 3 ton truck so we both mounted a new Bedford and I had to drive him down Campbelltown Road to Ingleburn and back up McDonald Road.  He only chipped me once, when I changed gear whilst traversing the hill in McDonald Road coming up towards the unit.  He said I should have continued in third gear rather than change up whilst in mid stream (riveting stuff eh? - have I still got your interest?).

He wrote out an intermediate licence qualifying me to drive vehicles from motor cycles to trucks in the following classes (or categories): B1, B2, B3, B4 & B5. 

The next day I took an old BSA motor cycle from the transport compound and rode it into Liverpool where I presented my Army licence to the Department of Motor Transport.  They upgraded my civilian licence from cars to trucks on the spot.  No test.  So thats how I obtained my class 3 civilian truck licence. 

The damn motor cycle broke down on the way back to the unit and I had to buggerise around to get it going again.  I think it was a left over from WWII (no joke).  The unit had cycles on their inventory for the use by our despatch riders but of course this means of transport had long passed.

Whilst I was at the unit and in the latter part of 1969, 'someone' decided that the regiment would have a driving gymkana.  This was to take place over two and a half days with teams of three to each vehicle.  From memory, there were about 30 vehicles involved.

It was rather like a modern day car rally, where groups in vehicles would drive to certain points following a map, collect clues for the next venue and then off to it.  We had to sleep out for the two nights and cook on our hex stoves etc.  Then on the final day we were to negotiate an obstical course on the parade ground at 1 Sig with points lost for poor driving and manoeuvreability. 

First we drove to the Illawarra area north of Wollongong then across the mountains to historic Berrima in the  picturesque Southern Highlands where we traversed the back roads of the country side, mostly all dirt starting off in Old Mandemar Road. 

Berrima was established in the 1830s during a time of great exploration and expansion in New South Wales. In 1829 surveyor general Major Thomas Mitchell camped near the site of the present bridge over the Wingecarribee River while surveying the route for the Great South Road. He advised governor Bourke that here was an ideal town site, and surveyor Robert Hoddle submitted a plan for the village which was approved in 1831.

By 1840 Berrima had a Court House and a Gaol, and it became the administrative centre for the southern districts. A stone arch bridge spanned the Wingecarribee and traffic on the Great South Road increased as carts, drays and coaches passed through on their way to and from Sydney. The village prospered as it became a convenient stopping point for the passing traffic. Through the 1840s and into the 60s, there were thirteen inns in the village and the population rose to around 400.

During the time of our gymkana we had a terrific amount of rain and in one section of our outback jaunt around those Berrima back roads were driving in water which lapped the bottom of the Land Rover door.  The trick was not to stop.  Several did and couldn't restart their vehicles.

I was amazed at the number of sandstone farm houses which we saw along our route.  Sandstone was common to the area and of course used in the construction of the nearby Berrima Gaol.

We didn't win but got back to the unit tired and stuff only to have to undergo the driving obstacle course which was held on the parade ground.  When the points were added up, I won this obstacle course bit and as a result was awarded with half a day off!!!!  The whole exercise was fun and something different than the routine rock painting.

As normal in the army all of the troops had to do picquet duty.  This was a type of guard duty of a night, walking around the unit to ensure no-one was breaking into buildings or getting up to no good.

There was a guard room at 1 Sig. normally accessed from the main Campbelltown Road.  It had provision to sleep about 30 in an open dormatory situation, a guard corporal's room, office and cell.

These picquet duties came around about every 6 weeks and a weekend one about every three months or so.  The actual picquet (walking around) was 2 hours on, 4 hours off.  I thought it was all fair dinkum until someone alerted me to the fact that when awoken for your shift, you would simply return to your own room, set your alarm for 2 hours, get into bed in your greens and sleep.  When the alarm went off, back to the guard house to wake your replacement and back into bed there.  Yes, a bit of a joke.  Although I remember at that time some soldiers from another unit being attacked in the early hours of the morning in a large car park near the area's picture theatre, just off McDonald Road not that far from us.  The assailant was never caught although the incidents were reported in the Daily Telegraph.

I quickly realised I was going no-where in this regimental police situation and so approached the RSM asking if I could get a posting to Vietnam.  He told me there were no postions for R.P.s in SVN but he would see what he could do.  He did ask though if I was willing to do "anything".  I told him that I would be happy to train as a driver or clerk etc. but he said by the time I was put on a course and finished I would not have 12 months remaining to serve, the minimum period required for a posting to Vietnam.  I could see my two years in the army being a complete waste of time and oh so boring.

I don't know how others felt but if I was going to do something in my period of National Service, I wanted it to count.  Two years of emu bobs and painting rocks white to me was like a wet dream.

Shortly after he asked if I would be willing to work a GD in SVN.  I asked him what that meant and he told me it was a dogs body - General Duty Hygine Man.  There were 4 or 5 attached to 104 Squadron in Nui Dat and they did everything from clean showers, toilets, dig holes, etc.  I said I was happy to do anything just to get there.  He had me complete an application for transfer to SVN and recommended that I be posted.  It was though, a very unknown future for me.  I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

Soon enough the posting came through for sometime early in 1970 and on 18 September 1969 I was off to the Jungle Training Centre at Canungra Queensland to undertake a Battle Efficiency Course for a period of three weeks.

As part of military preparation to go to Vietnam each soldier had to undergo a training programme which specialised in jungle warfare however touched on fitness, indoctrination and general information about what to expect at the ‘sharp end’.

Everyone from the clerks in Saigon to the well trained grunts in the field had to undergo this course and if a nominee was used to a slow life beforehand, Canungra certainly sorted them out.

Transport to Canungra was by way of commercial coach and our Greyhound bus left from another near army establishment at Holdsworthy late one afternoon.  On it were soldiers from all different Corps and of various ranks.  Most were young men.

The vehicle was pretty full and soon we pressed on into the night heading north.

It wasn't long that we realised that we were in for a long trip.  Uknown to us, and no doubt the Army, the coach was not in the greatest of mechanical condition and after only a couple of hours the engine started to throw in the towel.

This situation resulted in one of the funniest moments I had been involved in during my two years in the army.

After the third time the bus stopped the driver couldn't get it started and we were all forced to "debus" and push the vehicle in order for it to start.   Ever seen a bus clutch starting?

If you could imagine 40 odd soldiers, all in polyesters (army regulation dress, without coat) pushing an interstate coach along the main highway in NSW in the middle of nowhere during the darkest hour of the night, then you'd think you'd have seen everything.  At last we got it going as it coughed and spewed a dark deisel smoke from it's exhaust.

Canungra is situated well west of Surfers Paradise in the mountain ranges and the road in was quite a ride.

As soon as the bus stopped there were warrant officers and sergeants all yelling (by numbers), and they didn't care who they yelled at - soldiers, NCOs and officers.

“Get out, get out.  Line up over here, move, move move” (with thanks to Gomer Pile).  I don't think there was a time when I was at Canungra that I didn't run or march, even to the toilet.

We were shown to our tents where all ranks bunked in together.  I think there was about 8 in each and yes, it was a bit crowded.

There was a captain in our tent, whom the staff at the training centre all appeared to know quite well.  He was in the infantry corps and was far from “a yes sir, no sir three bags full” officer.

Everytime we went somewhere or did something he knew the answers.  I nicknamed him ‘god’, and it stuck.

He had no modesty and revelled in his new pseudonym however did not pull any rank or the like whilst we were together; rather, he was just one of the boys, just like a big kid really.  How did I describe the term earlier, a wacka.  He thought the world revolved around him and Canungra was going to be one big adventure.  Boys own stuff.

Arrival time was early morning and after we settled in we ate breakfast (the tucker was spot on) then it was the issue of weapons.  Strangely enough the sergeant cook at Canungra was later posted to a similar position at 104 Signal Squadron whilst I was there.

Some of us had brought our unit issue SLRs (rifle) and some hadn't. Those who were without weapons were issued a rifle for their stay at the centre.

It was round about then that I teamed up with a corporal, nicknamed Rusty, a member of the RAASC (Service Corps) who was posted to a unit in Bundock Street Randwick. In fact he was a driver.  Years later I  learnt of an extremely funny but dangerous incident he was involved in whilst overseas but thats not in this story.

Over the next couple of days it was practice, practice, practice.

I have never been able to master climbing ropes as an exercise and had to endure the embarrassment of going all through the "why can't you soldier" and "go up again and show your mates how it's done". It was and always had been a physical thing with me.  I could never do it.  I have very thin arms.  At rope climbing I was absolutely hopeless.

One thing the instructors continually held over our heads was the fact that if we failed the course or weren't up to scratch we would remain behind to undergo another three weeks with the next class to come in.

Of course this was all bullshit and used as a ‘big stick’ to make us do our best.

What we did was hard physical work.  Up early and knocking off late whilst we resided in camp.  We did mock patrols, search and destroy and all things an infantry soldier was likely to come up against in a war zone.  It was very intense.

All the overweight diggers soon shed much of their excess fat and at meal times everything on the plate was consumed with little waste.  An indication of how much energy they were burning up.

The camp booser was something else.  We worked hard and some played hard.  Thats where I realised Rusty had a problem with the drink.  By Christ some of those blokes got pissed, and every night too.  He used to end up legless along with them.

At one time we were required to swim cross a river fully geared up.  The only condition was that "those people who have a weapon issued from Canungra will leave it on the bank and come back after you cross the river to retrieve it".  Quite obviously they didn't want their weapons continually affected by water.

At that stage I made sure my weapon was a Canungra issue.

We were given one day off and the majority of us were bussed to Surfers Paradise for a day on the piss.  Most ended up as full as a state school, all in uniform then bussed back.

Of a night in camp we would undergo lectures and instruction.  I can remember a doctor telling us about the perils of contracting VD and some other very bad STD disease.  Some wag interjected that if we become infected with that our only salvation was to take a loaded .45 into the jungle with a cut lunch.  The food to eat and the .45 to blow our brains out.

After about 10 days we had to go out bush for five days to enhance our jungle training.

Rather than suffer the indignation of having to eat uninviting Aussie ration packs, Rusty and myself made our way to the canteen at Canungra which was way out of bounds for those training like ourselves and only there to serve soldiers who worked at the unit: The ones on the staff.

There was at least one platoon of soldiers, maybe more posted at Cunungra on the staff who were used as 'the enemy' for soliders like us training to go overseas.

At the canteen we purchased all of life's little luxuries, like baked beans, spaghetti etc. to supplement our proposed meagre diet.

With these all hidden away in our packs we boarded some World War II trucks (yes, they still had some left, even in 1969) and were taken miles away from camp to undergo this intense part of our jungle training preparation.

As a bonus, we were issued a new New Zealand manufactured dehydrated ration pack which the army was trying out.  It was different and a lot more tastier than the Australian issue we thought we would have to endure.

First night out was the normal thing, piquet duty etc. etc. however one digger fractured his leg when he was making his way to his station and fell down a fox hole in the pitch black.

At the end of day two some of the soldiers started to complain that they were getting the runs, apparently from the new rations.

The problem spread and about half of the platoon had gone down with it, except Rusty and myself.  Word was that they were going to terminate the exercise for those suffering from the germ and return everyone to base.

Immediately Rusty and myself found we ‘had’ the symptoms and joined the growing list of sufferers. "Ooohhhhhhh my guts..."

The training was wound down and the trucks reappeared to return us to Canungra.

Strangely though we passed through the camp and continued for miles on the other side.

When we stopped we were all ordered to "debus" and eat prior to embarking on what we were told was a 26 mile forced march (something between a fast walk and a jog) back to base where we were to be put through some 'rigorous coalface experience.'

For my meal I selected a tin of anchovies in oil and washed it down with copious quantities of water from my green plastic water bottle.

Off we all went in platoon order and it seemed to take forever half running, half walking the dusty road back to the camp.

It took in the vicinity of 2 hours to cover the distance and half way through I could feel the anchovies not mixing too well with my gastric juices.

I found I couldn't hold them down any longer and had to stop, much to the chargrin of our supervising sergeant, to bring up all my lunch on the side of the road.  I have never been able to eat anchovies since.   I still got the "come on solider, get a move on - go, go, go".  No sympathy but I could understand that.

Upon arrival at the extremities of the base we were rested and it was at that stage I noticed a number of top brass reviewing what I thought was some type of weapons training just over the slight rise in front.

Our turn was next and as we all stood up our leader explained that we were about to negotiate a simulated mine field over a distance of approximately 200m.  We had to run from one side to the other whilst explosions took place all around us and at the same time an old WW II vickers machine gun blasted away at the mountain in front firing what I believed was about 50 metres over our heads.

All very daunting, but to a man all we could see was the finish line at the far side of this 'mine field' and we all ran like hell, albeit in a stooped fashion to avoid being shot by bullets which were in fact, piercing the air, as I said, quite some distance above and were never a chance to hit us.  They may well have been blanks, who knows.

I must admit some of the soldiers froze under these conditions and I can recall grabbing one fellow who was making love to a mound of dirt to get him on his feet and to the end.

Well we finished, had a night on the piss again and then all piled onto the bus to return to Sydney.

In due course I was advised of my embarkation date: Thursday, 19 February posted as a Hygine Dutyman to 104 Signal Squadron, Nui Dat, South Vietnam.  Like most replacements, I was to fly Qantas to Sth Vietnam via Darwin and Singapore.

Prior to this Wayne and I had learnt that one of the police drill sergeants at the police academy in Bourke Street Redfern had suffered a massive heart attack and died whilst at work.  Roy Shields, a second world war veteran was a big man and nicknamed the red rooster.  He was 43 and a good bloke, even if he did stick it up me on a few occassions.

His funeral was held at Gladesville in Sydney and because we were virtually our own bosses as regimental police, we decided to go, with the RSM's blessing of course.  I had read all the details in the newspaper and off we went in our Land Rover which I parked near the church in Pittwater Road.

Both Wayne and I were in army uniform and must have looked an impressive duo as we walked down towards to where the crowd which was gathering for the service.  We were welcomed by a number of the police training staff there, including Cadet Sergeant Ben Hall whom I had given a wide berth to whilst in the cadets (read police cadet story) , himself an ex WWII man.  They all appeared impressed that here was two of 'their boys', now in the army and all dressed up like pox doctors clerks.

It was about then we noticed an army Holden station wagon driving down the road toward the church with the driver apparently looking for a place to park.  I saw the passenger had a red band around his peaked hat and quickly said to Wayne, “Stand at attention, you salute, looks like a general or something”.  The officer nodded as his vehicle passed us by.

It was a lovely service and after the ceremony a lone bugler played the last post in the rear of the church.  I glanced over my shoulder and my jaw nearly hit the ground when I saw the person we saluted playing the bugle.  He wasn’t a general, the red stripe around his cap meant he was a member of a military band!!!!

During late 1969 I had to have my photograph taken by and official photographer for identification purposes to the Vietnam posting.  Now I thought all this would be done out at the Ingleburn area by some army fellow.  Instead, together with a couple of other guys I had to drive the Land Rover right into Kings Cross to a photographic studio in Darlinghurst Road.  Just above where the McDonalds Restaurant is now and where, less than 12 months before I had been performing beat duty as a young cop nearly every day.

The photograph above is less than complementary.  Could it have been his equipment?

I was issued with my gear for overseas service from 2AOD at Holdsworthy where everything I received was green: green (boxer) underpants - I had never worn them before - I was used to the Y fronts, green singlets, green towel, green drinking mug.  You name it, it was green. 

Before I was to go took the normal weeks pre-embarkation leave and decided to stay at home with my parents and relax.  Well, there were a few nights out at Souths Juniors (a big local social club).

My folks organised a going away party for me and I invited a lot of my mates and army pals so together with my family we had a slap up bar-b-que and an 18 gallong keg on 14 February which happened to be my father's birthday.  I can’t remember much of it, so I hope I had fun.

It was funny when I returned to socialise with my civvy mates whilst in the army.  I found it a hollow experience.  It just wasn't the same as before.  Prior to call-up I was a very care free, happy-go-lucky person without a care in the world.

Replacements flew to Vietnam out of Sydney, so if a soldier was based interstate or at a country unit more than likely he would be temporarily posted to the Army Movements establishment at South Head, Watsons Bay beforehand.  In the case of signals personnel however, they were all sent to 1 Signal Regiment at Ingleburn, the place where I happened to be stationed.

Came the day, there were about eight or so being posted, six to 104 Signal Squadron: Dave Churchill, Phil Holmes, Terry Peacock, Phil Stapleton, Dave Wood  and myself.  The QANTAS 707 left about 8:00pm from Mascot.  We were all loaded into 1 Signal Regiment’s Volkswagen Kombi which incidentally permanently had it’s windows tinted.  Obviously the Government was not taking any chances with the possibility of protestors upsetting the flight.

The aircraft departure was from what is now QANTAS domestic terminal, the original airport building at Mascot.  The international airport did not open until later in 1970.  When I fly out of Mascot these days, I often look at the old terminal from the plane as it taxis out onto the runway.  Basically, the exterior facade hasn’t changed but I think that it could be under a National Trust preservation order.

Most of my family were there to wave me off along with a number of other replacements and Australian Servicemen returning from R & R in Australia. The plane, which was holding about 130 military personnel departed, first stop Darwin for refuelling.  A note of interest was that there were no female flight attendants on the plane apparently because the Flight Hostess Association of Australia refused to crew these flights.

We were advised to take a civilian shirt with us and change if we wanted to go to the airport facilities in Darwin.  We were supposed to remain in the aircraft at Singapore because we were persona non gratia, but I understand that some did make it to ‘freedom’.

We arrived over Saigon’s Tan Son Nhut airport Saigon around 10:00am on Friday 20 February.  As the plane circled the mostly military airport we could see all the pocked marked paddocks in the countryside.  These were bomb craters, which by then had filled with water from the incessant monsoon rains.

I must say at this juncture and you will need to bear in mind that by the time I had been posted to Vietnam in early 1970, many things had changed concerning the set-up and infra-structure of the base at Nui Dat where I was to work.  Facilities were in place.  Buildings had been constructed, roads, fences and drains built.  Apart from the obvious fact of being in a war zone and there were certain conditions concerning that work, for many of us at 104 Signal Squadron was virtually business as usual. 

I must admit that I had no idea what I was going to be doing in Vietnam.  That my sound strange but I had never done that type of work before and no-one actually explained what my job description consisted of.  I don't know why this was.  I should have been much more proactive in my attempts to sort things out.  Sometimes I simply despair over my naivety in life. 

We landed and taxied for what seemed hours past all these various never seen before US military aircraft which were secreted in their individual concrete bunkers – a strange site indeed as we moved down the taxi-way.  It was then that it dawned on us that we were in a war zone.

The plane was parked near the main terminal and all of us new boys peered out of the windows to see what awaited.

It wasn’t long before the doors were open and we all slowly made our way down the mobile stairs which had been brought to the plane.

There were two things which hit me as soon as I saw daylight. The heat and the smell.  And for the first time I saw a huge number of the indigenous population working in and around the place.  Many were sweepers.  My first thought was, god what a security risk.

But that was normal for US bases wherever I went.  They had no problem with the locals doing the mundane chores.  This was not the case where I was to work.

I expected that we would be whisked away to our camp but in fact the main bunch of replacements for Nui Dat ended up last to leave.

We had to wait around in this full-on military establishment all day.  We were fed, but only just so some of us made our way across to the terminal building in search of more food.  What I saw he way the food was being handled by the locals didn’t endear me to it so I went hungry whilst the others I was with had no problem buying the local product what would later be euphemistically described as ‘hepatitis rolls’.

The first day in Vietnam turned out to be very boring.  We waited all day, no relief from the heat and no shade from the sun.  All we did was to exchange our money to Military Payment Certificates which substituted in notes for real cash.  In other words there was a separate line of military currency operating for the service personnel in Vietnam.

Occasionally, say about every four months, this currency would be changed without notice.  The U.S. administration providing the new and differently designed notes to replace the old.  (There were no coins).  This was done to thwart the local black market indigenous trade in the MPC currency.

The service personnel who were to work in Saigon were taken by bus almost immediately.  Those travelling to Vung Tau and Nui Dat, as I said, had to wait.

About midday a RAAF Caribou rolled up with a take off time of 12.30pm.  I could see it was an Australian Aircraft amidst all the military hardware through its distinctive markings and the red Kangaroon painted on the side.We weren't allocated to that one.

About 4:00pm another RAAF Caribou taxied up to the Australian Service Movement Point where many of us soldiers were sitting around absolutely bored shitless and getting sunburnt.

We transferred our luggage into the plane, strapped ourselves in to the side seating and off we went.  Next stop Vung Tau.  We didn’t leave the aircraft there whilst some replacements were deplaned and were taken to their billets.  We then took off for the short flight to Nui Dat where we landed at Luscombe Airfield, the name given to the airbase within the confines of the Australian Task Force a distance of only about 30 kilometres from Vung Tau.

The field was on the other side of SAS Hill to our unit.  It initially took in part of Route 2 (a major artery in the country's road system) and so a deviation had to be constructed for use by the locals etc.  The airfield was 4,100 feet (1250 metres), extended to that length in December 1968.  This was long enough to accommodate Caribou and C130 Hercules Aircraft.  Once, I saw a RAAF Canberra Bomber doing some low level flying above the strip.  I have no idea why.  Whether he was just fooling around or it was a series effort.

As we taxied into the reception area, nothing more than a very small tin shed and a turning circle for the planes, (which you can see at the top left in the photo above if you strain your eyes) I was full of trepidation.

We deplaned (love that word), again into the heat and were met just on dusk by a plethora of army Land Rovers from various units all, strangely enough, without doors or canopys like they were in Australia, waiting for their respective replacements.

I was later to learn that the doors etc. were removed from these vehicles to afford a quick exit in the event of trouble and the lack of canopys or roof cover in the dry season because of the heat.  These canopys were replaced in the wet.

“Signal people over here” came this booming voice from a dark skinned Warrant Officer 2^nd Class.  I was soon to learn that this man, W.O. 2 Huston – the Squadron Sergeant Major (SSM), was to be my boss for the next 11 months.  He was Indian or Pakistani by birth and I nicknamed him the BBC - another name that stuck.  I am a devil for nicknames.

“Throw your kits in the back and jump in”.  Signalman (storeman) Michael ‘Irish’ O’Donoghue (later a 20 year man) was the driver and when we were loaded we began to make our way to the unit which was about a 1km trip.  It was almost dark and both Irish and the SSM had their weapons handy.  of course, we had nothing.

It was a tight squeeze in this was my first trip in a motor vehicle in Vietnam and had to adjust to our right hand drive vehicles being driven on the right hand side of the road as is the normal for most countries outside the Commonwealth ones.

As we passed where the base's tip was located, the SSM said “Keep your heads down, two diggers were shot along here the other day”.  Immediately our heads lowered.  I subsequently found out that that was just his standard bullshit line.  I could see a cynical grin permiate his face.

We drove into the unit and stopped in front (or rear) of the Orderly Room.  In the unit we hardly ever used the actual front or road entrance.  The front to us was actually the rear of the building (confusing, itn't it?).

As we debussed (that means got out of the Land Rover as opposed to deplaned) we were greeted by a number of resident soldiers and one in particular, a slightly overweight young signalman, caught my eye.

“This man is yours Sig Wilson” the SSM said and Rob Wilson shot his hand out to introduce himself.  “G'day, everyone calls me Scotty” the affable young man said.  “Are you the new GD?”

Realising my new position in the world I nodded and said “Yes, that’s right, call me Bluey”. 

Scotty