Читать книгу No Need for Heroes - Sandy MacGregor - Страница 11

I was barely 25 years old when Australia's involvement in Vietnam became a probability rather than a possibility. It was late in 1964 when the Prime Minister, Sir Robert Menzies, announced that military conscription was to be introduced. For those who had chosen to join the armed forces, it meant that it could not be long before we were marching on foreign soil. You cannot fight a war with raw recruits. It takes several months, not weeks, to make soldiers out of undisciplined and often unwilling conscripts. So they knew that when the call came, those already in uniform would be the first to go.

As early as February 1965, detailed plans had started being made for Australians to go to Vietnam. But it wasn't until the end of April that Menzies made his historic offer of an infantry battalion to fight alongside American and South Vietnamese forces.

It must have been around that time that they called for volunteers and I can't think of a single man I knew who didn't step forward. This was, after all, why we had joined up.

The first troops committed to Vietnam were, appropriately, the First Battalion Royal Australian Regiment, better known as 1RAR. It was an infantry battalion, but no army survives on foot soldiers alone. There have to be support units, like medics, signals, transport, artillery, air reconnaissance, logistics, mechanics and many others.

These all have highly specialised tasks, but they also have to operate as an integral part of the larger unit – and none more so than the engineers. The Australian Regular Army had two field squadrons of engineers each with three troops. With the impending deployment to Vietnam, it was decided to establish an independent troop known as 3 Field Troop, with cooks, mechanics and plant operators.

In July 1965 I was ordered to leave my unit, 7th Field Squadron, based at Enoggera in Brisbane, and return to the School of Military Engineering to take command of 3 Field Troop, Royal Australian Engineers. I was overjoyed, despite the slight disadvantage of having been given command of a troop which did not exist. 3 Troop, from 1 Field Squadron, became 3 Field Troop, and the personnel came from all over. But that didn't matter. The important thing was that I was going to be given the chance to do what I'd been trained to do – lead men into battle, do a job, and hopefully lead them back out again.

I admit, however, that I was a little daunted at the prospect of putting together a troop from scratch and having only a few weeks in which to blend them into a coherent fighting force. To use a sporting analogy, I was being asked to coach a football team comprising players of different skills and abilities, most of whom had never met, let alone played together. That was challenge enough, but I already knew from previous experience that these were no ordinary players. Sappers are special and I would have my work cut out.

It was winter time in Liverpool and the mornings had that crisp edge to them that makes the British homesick. My life had taken on a whole new perspective since I'd left Brisbane. That fairly distant anticipation of setting forth to Vietnam on some unknown day had become an acute awareness of an impending and definite date by which I must have myself and my men ready. They would go, ready or not, but the consequences if they weren't prepared would be fatal.

For all that, I was generally too preoccupied to worry. Raising a troop from scratch means you have to order everything from blankets to trucks, tents to toolboxes. And every day another truck would arrive or a bus would pull up and a handful of travelweary soldiers would clatter on to the parade ground and march halfheartedly to their billets. These were my lads, coming in dribs and drabs, in all shapes and sizes. There may have been as many as 10 different Engineer units operating in Australia at that time, and I was sent a few men from each of them, whether they were field engineers, dock workers, construction engineers, drivers or plant operators. A small nucleus of men came from 1 Field Squadron – at least they knew each other, having just returned from service in Borneo.

No officer has ever been more proud of his men than I was of 3 Field Troop. But I have to say this: they were a motley bloody crew. I had good reason to be proud. 3 Field Troop would turn out to be the only engineer unit in the whole of the Vietnam war made up entirely of men who had volunteered to fight there as regular soldiers. And I would be the first officer to command an Australian engineer troop in Vietnam.

I took 68 men into Vietnam for a year and brought 67 home. You don't do that with a gang of halfwits. But there is no doubt in my mind that some unit commanders, when asked to provide manpower for my fledgling troop, saw it as a Godgiven opportunity to offload some of their more troublesome charges.

I am glad to report that in the great majority of cases it was their loss and my gain, although sometimes I had to dig deep to find the vein of gold. And I have to confess that there were one or two, and no more than that, whose saving graces have yet to be revealed to me, even today.

But suffice it to say that even if their original officers thought they were the dregs when they despatched them off to join 3 Field Troop, by the time they came home from Vietnam they were, in my book, the crème de la crème.

Having said that, your average sapper is not a pretty sight. While the artillery and the tank corps might strut and preen in their razorsharp uniforms and battlechic fatigues, the sapper is at his best in shorts and singlet and up to his elbows in mud. Engineering is a dirty job and a good engineer doesn't notice how filthy he gets while he's getting the job done.

But that same scruffy soldier will also be the one who is called forward when the infantry spot a booby trap. He'll be the one who unfastens the tripwire, and unscrews the detonator, asking himself if this bomb will be the one that is boobytrapped itself; or wondering if it's there to lure him into a sniper's sights.

But the perils of operating under fire were mysteries yet to be revealed to the men of 3 Field Troop. In fact, many of them confess that before they left they viewed their tour in Vietnam as some great lark, like a Boy Scout camp for grownups. There was an assumption that they would be well behind the frontline troops, in support but rarely in the thick of the action. They were wrong.

Alan "Sparrow" Christie admits that he had no idea what lay before him, but he insists that he would still have volunteered. In fact, he was only 17 years old and I thought he was too young. But Sparrow begged me to take him on, so I did, for his enthusiasm as much as anything.

1/1

Sapper Alan "Sparrow" Christie looking through the sights of the

Viet Cong rifle he recovered from the tunnels on Operation Crimp.

"My Grandad was in the first war and my father was in World War II," Sparrow says. "This was my generation's war and there was no way I was going to miss it."

As it turned out, he needn't have worried as he would have ended up there eventually. And, apart from anything else, in truth, I had no choice: I took the men I was given.

But at the time there was a feeling that as soon as the Viet Cong were confronted by the combined might of South Vietnam, the USA, Australia and New Zealand they would crumble and creep away into the night, peace would reign and they'd all be home by Christmas.

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Sapper Dennis (Arab) Ayoub "on duty" on radio watch. Although a plant operator I used Dennis on operations as a radio operator.

So, for the men of 3 Field Troop, the training and lectures were as relevant as the escape drill we all sit through on airliners these days; you may recognise its value, but you tell yourself it's not going to happen. It is to their credit that when they eventually found themselves in the thick of a dirty war, they responded magnificently.

* * *

As the troop started to come together, I made it my business to get to know every man in it, and each day I would go up to them and greet them by name. They must have thought I was half mad, but it was important for them to know I knew them. I learned their backgrounds, whether they were married, had kids, whatever. It was my way of dealing with what could have been a serious discipline problem.

The combination of small groups of men being thrown together for the first time and the presence of a couple of bad apples meant there were always fights. It's a sad fact that men who have a tendency towards bullying are sometimes drawn to uniform. It was something I would not tolerate, but you can't be there all the time. Anyway, some of the men found their own solutions.

Dennis Ayoub – who is not the biggest man who ever took up arms – had his own answer to the problem of one brute whose favourite sport was to get blind drunk and then bash up someone smaller than himself.

"He started on me one night," recalls Dennis. "So I said, 'Listen mate, you're bigger than me and you can beat me in a fight. But don't forget I know where you sleep. You lay one finger on me and I'll come round and blow your bloody brains out and nobody will know who it was. ' He looked at me and he could see I meant it and he never gave me any more trouble after that."

Day by day, the numbers in 3 Field Troop grew, and the men started forming little cliques – a bunch of blokes had just been together with a field squadron in Borneo and they stuck together. Some of the men had been with me in PNG. For someone in my position, trying to blend a cohesive operational unit out of so many disparate individuals, was a constant headache.

I assumed that the men were as good engineers as they were ever likely to be, so I concentrated on turning them into good soldiers. It was vital to all of them that they could operate as an effective fighting force, and that meant trying to meld them into an engineer with infantry skills.

I made a point of giving the men exercises to develop their teamwork, forcing them to depend on each other. But still, at night, they would return to camp and team up with their mates.

On the engineering side, I trained them hard on booby traps, mines and explosives, but they still seemed to lack the conviction that they would ever hear a battle let alone be involved in one. It may be that the feeling from the senior officers, that they really didn't know what they could expect in Vietnam, was filtering down to the men. Whatever it was, there was an air of unreality about their preparations.

Our jungle training was restricted to two cold, wet nights in Frenchs Forest, north of Sydney. That was a virtual waste of time, but I had little say in the matter.

It may seem pointless to the uninitiated, but I parade marched those men as well as any infantry group. The simple act of walking in step and in line helps to foster interdependence. Even so, they still looked like the hotchpotch they were.

I sent them on long crosscountry runs to build their stamina. But it was seen more as a disciplinary exercise than anything that would benefit them in Vietnam.

And when it came to discipline, I was an absolute stickler for the rule book. As a group, engineers work hard and they play hard and every so often somebody goes a bit too far and ends up in trouble. So I made it my job to let them know where the line was and when they had crossed it. And I was consistent.

But these were 18 to 20 year olds, in the main. Nothing was taken all that seriously. At that age you are immortal and life is there for the fun you can get out of it.

Some men were still joining us only one week before we left for Vietnam. However, in the main, I had about six weeks to train those men before they went to Vietnam and by the time they set sail they were fitter, stronger and knew their own and each other's capabilities better. They were better soldiers, of that there is no doubt. But they were still far from being a team.

However, I was sure that my hardline approach to training had united the men in one respect. They all hated my guts.

* * *

When the day finally dawned that saw 3 Field Troop embark for Vietnam, I flew ahead with one of my sergeants, Gus Sant, while the body of the troop sailed on the HMAS Sydney, a dilapidated aircraft carrier, long overdue for decommissioning. It was on board the ship, when they were just a small number of men amid hundreds of others, that they started to show signs that they were coming together as a group.

Dennis Ayoub tells the story.

"We had been at sea for a few days when an announcement was made at the evening meal. The 105 Field Battery, Royal Australian Artillery were on board and the gunners, who always fancied themselves, had decided to telegraph the Queen to inform her that they were on their way to Vietnam. A reply had been received from the Palace and silence was demanded while one of the artillery officers read it aloud. 'From the office of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II,' it said, or something like that. 'Her Majesty has learned of your embarkation to join the conflict in Vietnam. She wishes you God Speed in your voyage, a successful completion of your mission and a safe return to your loved ones.' The artillery blokes applauded but they were drowned out by hoots of derision from the Engineers and other units."

Engineers and artillerymen are about as far apart as you can get in the Australian Army. The Artillery see themselves as an elite, with a long historical tradition and a great pride in their personal appearance. But to the larrikin Engineers they are "dropshorts", whose inaccuracies are as likely to harm their comrades as they are to hit the enemy.

"Anyway," continues Dennis, "the next night the parade was hushed when (Staff Sergeant) Laurie Hodge got to his feet and yelled: 'Could we have some quiet please. 3 Field Troop has received the following telegraphic message which I would now like to read out. From Big Julie and Technicolour at the Railway Hotel. 'Bon voyage. Try not to get killed and we'll see you when you get back. Hope you don't mind if we screw your replacements while you're away! Cheers! ' ".

Big Julie and Technicolour were what Keith Kermode called "Railway Debs" at the troop's favourite drinking hole, the latter having earned her somewhat insensitive nickname from the large and livid birthmark on her face.

The gunners were furious and Laurie was whisked away by some officers. He didn't reappear for a couple of hours and, as far as Dennis knows, never told anyone what was said to him.

Throughout the voyage, the men were given lectures by 1RAR's Chaplain on the evils of communism and the need to defeat it in SouthEast Asia. The men's responses were varied.

"I really didn't need any convincing," says Mick McGrath. "I already hated commies."

Young Sparrow Christie had a different attitude, although it amounted to the same in the end.

"I thought it was all bullshit," he says. "It didn't mean anything to me. I just wanted to get there and see some action."

Meanwhile, life was proceeding as normal – which means it was organised chaos.

Keith Kermode claims he was the first member of 3 Field Troop to be put on a charge. He won this singular honour by accidentally firing his gun between Waxy Rayner's legs during target practice, which involved shooting at balloons off the stern of the Sydney.

Mick Lee remembers enjoying blood and thunder games of deck hockey and tripling his ration of one beer per day by swapping his icecream coupons for the teetotallers' beer rations.

And Snow Wilson, horror-struck at being appointed Lieutenant Geoff Stewart's batman, wriggled out of the assignment by getting the medical officer to sign a "no sweating" chit, which meant he couldn't go to the ship's laundry with Lt Stewart's sheets because it was near the engine room.

Snow also recalls the sailors on the Sydney making a very strange request.

"Remembering that she was the troop-carrying vehicle, they realised even then that they were going to get no recognition for running people to and from Vietnam. They said, 'For God's sake, when you get off the ship throw something at somebody or shoot somebody so they'll take a shot at us so we can get recognised for war service. If nobody shoots at us, no matter how many trips we do, we'll never get recognition. ' And that turned out to be true."

Dave Cook, one of three Aboriginals in the troop, can only remember hanging off the side of the Sydney feeling sicker than he'd ever been in his life before.

While this was happening in the South China Seas, Gus Sant and I were already in Vietnam, having flown ahead to check out the scrubcovered hillside at Bien Hoa that was to be our home for the next few months.

We'd be encamped near the Americans, inside the wire, but there was nothing there. No water, no roads, no latrines. Nothing.

Before I'd left Australia, I had been summoned to meet the Engineer in Chief at Army Headquarters in Canberra, Brigadier Ed Logan, for a final briefing. Still largely unsure of what 3 Field Troop's exact role in Vietnam would be, I asked the Engineer in Chief a direct question.

"What are we supposed to do there, sir?"

The reply came back to me as I surveyed that halfbarren hillside near Bien Hoa.

"Just do what engineers do," he said. "Just be engineers."