The 60s, the Vietnam War, and my part in it.

The 1960s was the age of the Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, and above all mass street protest on an unprecedented scale. Indeed the age of youth rebellion. But it was more than drugs, sex, and rock and roll. The Vietnam War cast a long shadow across an entire generation world-wide with rarely a day going by without front-page headlines and TV vision that brought the conflict into our living rooms. It was our first televised war. I write as a veteran of that war in 1968, the height of the war. This is my story.

Firstly I must confess that I went to Vietnam as a regular soldier and not a conscript. This is deeply embarrassing and I’d find it easier to admit to having been in prison or a mental asylum. But when I was a naive 17-year-old, and quite immature, I craved travel and adventure far beyond my relatively comfortable life in Perth, Western Australia. But even in my mid teens I had heard strong arguments from a very smart friend against Australia’s involvement in this war, arguments that challenged the prevailing Domino Theory, of a red peril with countries falling like dominoes before this downward thrust of communism, which of course never happened. It was anti-communism no matter the cost in blood, sweat and tears. I was only 19 but the seeds of doubt had already been planted before I stepped off the Qantas jet at Tan Son Nhut Airport, Saigon, into an essentially unwinnable war. What followed radicalised me as it did my generation.

The Vietnam War was one of brute power both in the air and on land, of massive B52 bombing missions unleashed from American bases in Guam and the Philippines that wreaked havoc on the landscape. We saw this bombing nightly on TV news bulletins and it wasn’t pretty. On many occasions when on patrol - we were nearly always on patrol - we walked around the rims of enormous bomb craters that resulted from these air strikes.  At night we often saw pulsing red lights in the sky, or “people sniffers” as we called these aircraft that scanned for heat and ammonia, animal or human, that once detected triggered bombing missions unleashing massive ordnance, to “bomb them back to the stone age” as US general Curtis Lemay put it.  It has been said that more bombs were dropped in this small country than in all of World War 2 in Europe. Some of the tunnels built to shelter from these attacks, in Cu Chi, are today tourist attractions. In 1968 ten kilometres of clearance was required before B52 strikes could proceed: I can attest to the ground shaking even from that safe distance. Imagine being in the middle of such conflagration, crawling underground, on your knees or flat on your belly. I get claustrophobia thinking of this grim scenario.

And of course you can add napalm to this horrifying mix. Who can forget that searing image by Associate Press photographer, Nick Ut, of young children, including a naked girl, fleeing from an accidental napalm bombing. Normally such bombings were intentional and the victims rarely photographed.

This war was David and Goliath replaying in the jungles of Asia, with countless millions of dollars of waste, and death on an industrial scale. The cost of such bombing missions could have easily built a school or a substantial medical clinic. Even today, in peacetime, some of these bombs lay unexploded and remain a threat to innocent locals.

Most of my time in Vietnam was spent on foot, as an artillery forward observer attached to infantry. I carried a radio to call in “fire support”, or artillery fire, whenever there was contact with the enemy, and shooting started. But it was not all walking. Often we were inserted and extracted by Huey/Iroquois helicopters, the workhorse of the Vietnam War. From above we could see large corridors of jungle cleared so that the movement of any Viet Cong across them could be more easily visible. This land clearing, and the later spraying of defoliant Agent Orange, has been referred to as ecocide. There was certainly widespread environmental destruction in the jungles of Vietnam.

I can’t recall a moment, night or day, without the sound of helicopters, and of gunfire and exploding shells in the distance.  Explosions in the night were a constant reminder that artillery shells were fired at places where the enemy might just be. This was harassment and interdiction fire (H and I) to keep the enemy on their toes. As we were extremely tired we usually slept through this background noise, but were alert to other odd sounds around us.

One day I got an unusual request on my radio from US helicopter gunships on the prowl.

“Charlie Delta 2 4 this is Darby Swing 3 3. You got any targets for us today, over?” Wow! This was straight out of Apocalypse Now, surreal but the most accurate film of the Vietnam war. Was this pilot some Lt Colonel Kilgore, to the sound of Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries screaming “I love the smell of Napalm in the morning.” It's hard to forget a call sign like Darby Swing 33 - sounds like something out of a 50s TV comedy - and I still wonder if this flying cowboy wore a Stetson, like Robert Duvall, when he rode his daily missions. Seriously though, you can't make up this shit.

I hasten to add that helicopter pilots were often very brave when flying in to pick up the dead and wounded, ours, not theirs who were left in shallow graves. Choppers were heavily armed but easy targets to ground fire. Vietnam War footage often has troops disembarking from choppers and running with heads ducked down, perhaps in case a pilot inadvertently decapitates you with the rotary blades.  This never happened. 

Interestingly when on choppers we were never belted in but sat and clutched our rifles. A bit scary when the helicopter banked sharply and we looked out the doorway directly at the ground.  But no one ever fell out, and anything beats walking in the heat loaded down with weighty packs, weapons, ammunition, food, water and all the rest of it. 

The terrain I recall included thick jungle with occasional clusters of bamboo, old rubber plantations, rice fields, interesting villages, and trails along which we were cautioned not to walk but set up ambushes for the unwary who did.  Infantry in Vietnam were called grunts, perhaps because that was their sound as they moved under massive loads like pack mules, with water being the most precious of their burdens. Where it’s hot and humid having enough water is a daily challenge, even greater than fear of death. The young always think they are immortal and death on the battlefield, or on the roads for that matter, is what only happens to others. 

We didn't wear camouflage but just ordinary jungle greens and the everpresent floppy hats, convenient for wiping off sweat.  No hard helmets for jungle trekking. Thirst was foremost in our minds, and in our bodies, as we took tiny sips of water that we rationed ourselves. Our throats were parched with a thick crust of saliva on our lips, and we carried four water bottles for all purposes including cooking and shaving.  When possible we refilled our water bottles from streams to which we added purification tablets.  Often we didn't, the rule of thumb being that if it was running water then it was ok to drink, at least once you removed the scum floating on the surface. Water was our greatest luxury even if it was often warm and unpalatable. Between operations, back at base, alcohol replaced water, and lots of it. The drowning of sorrows perhaps. Back at base in Nui Dat our tents were in the corner of an old French graveyard with a number of tombstones. We shared a bit of gallows humour about this accommodation. 

To protect us from malaria we had to take Paludrin pills daily, and I still remember their unpleasant taste, just as I remember the clouds of mosquitoes buzzing about. Despite the heat and sweat we always wore our long sleeves buttoned down. We also generously applied mosquito repellent to exposed skin.

We carried everything we needed for up to 4 days including a “hootchie”, or all-purpose waterproof sheet, both as a shelter from rain or a ground sheet. We slept on the ground for weeks on end, and on occasions, in damp areas, had to help each other remove leeches from our bodies in the morning. Good Morning Vietnam! We actually had to re-adjust to sleeping in soft beds on our return to Australia.  We saw the occasional snake and I once nearly stepped on a viper who was coiled ready to strike. This may have been my most dangerous moment in Vietnam after a booby trap I nearly set off. Two lucky escapes.

We had to do duty on the radio or keep watch on the perimeter every night, so sleep was always interrupted. This wasn't backpacking or a camping holiday. When it rained, which it did often in the wet season, we simply got drenched, and when we crossed a stream our socks squelched in our boots, but we trudged on regardless. We were a smelly lot from our physical efforts and the constant sweat from the tropical heat. One remarkably adapts quickly to one’s bad body odor. I remember an occasion when a reporter and media camera crew accompanied us but curled their noses up at our smell. When in the field we only showered when it rained. Having a hot shower was heaven itself and nearly as good as an icy cold drink.

Often we had to count our steps, map reading, to get an approximate idea of our location on our maps, vital if we were to avoid becoming victims of friendly fire. The strategy of the Vietnam war, at least as I understood it, was to divide the country between territory we controlled and “free fire zones” where anyone present was enemy and to be shot, or blown up. Take no prisoners was usually how the game played out. It was a tough, relentless and heartless business.

They say that the first casualty of war is the truth, and this was painfully evident in Vietnam where afternoon military press conferences in Saigon’s Rex Hotel became known as the Five O’clock Follies. Richard Pyle of the Associated Press described them as, "the longest-playing tragicomedy in Southeast Asia's theater of the absurd." There was a saying in the army: “That we are like mushrooms. Kept in the dark and fed on bullshit.” This about summarises the Five O’clock Follies.

In 1971 the release of the Pentagon Papers revealed much of the hidden classified history of the Vietnam War. The film, The Post, is an excellent account of the intrigues and political spin of the time. It was lies, lies and more lies, and it still is today. The biggest lie expressed in Latin was: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.  This line from the Roman poet Horace became the title of a famous poem by the great anti-war poet Wilfred Owen, but in any language, it is not sweet and glorious to die for one's country.  That was the overwhelming lesson from Vietnam, yet the war dragged on and on, as did the mounting dead.

In the 60s the burning question was how much support there was for successive South Vietnamese governments, noted for their corruption, versus support for the other side, the North Vietnamese and their Vietcong allies. Increasingly I questioned the support for the South Vietnamese leadership. The Vietcong were everywhere including in so-called friendly villages which received substantial “hearts and minds” support from the Australian Military Task Force. This was the subject of much comment amongst us. On one cordon and search operation I saw two young men break away and stop a random bus to make their escape. They may have been deserters, and there were significant numbers of them from the ARVN army, or they may have been Vietcong, but the simple fact that this random bus, driving down a main highway in broad daylight, stopped for these fleeing men, despite a considerable roadside military presence including Armoured Personnel Carriers, spoke volumes for our dubious intervention in this unpopular war.

On another occasion we surrounded another village just before dawn to conduct a similar search when a cart and oxen rumbled into the village that was clearly Viet Cong. The entire village would have heard and probably approved this activity, including the popular forces that protected the village. Villages lived across a spectrum of loyalties with many solidly Viet Cong. This was a civil war that drew in armies from many countries that only escalated the conflict.  

I wasn't impressed by the Coca-Cola culture that was being planted by the war, causing many kids to beg, and many sisters and daughters to turn to bar work and prostitution. This was undignified and didn't reflect traditional Vietnamese culture as I understood it. One musical parody takes a dig at this as follows:

Ucdelai, cheap Charlie, he no buy no Saigon tea, Saigon tea costs many many P. Ucdelai he cheap Charlie. {Ucdelai = Australian soldier. P = Piastre, or former Vietnamese currency.}

My teens ended on Australia Day, 26 January 1969 when I turned 20. My birthday went totally unnoticed as did Australia Day. A normal day. No cakes or candles, no singing happy birthday, no presents or sit down meal, and no traditional barbeques, just another grinding day in the field on the usual rations, but I was happy to be alive with my year in Vietnam soon coming to an end. Isn’t it great that our children never have to skip birthdays, but not so great for the young refugees who often miss important occasions as they flee for their lives.

In Vietnam I was no warrior, and certainly no hero. I followed orders dutifully as a cog in a war machine, but fortunately I never fired a single shot at anyone. Worse perhaps. My voice called in artillery and air strikes that almost certainly resulted in death and destruction. They were just coordinates on a map, mere numbers, and it was like pulling a remote trigger.  I will always regret my part in this most bloody adventure.

I made great friends in the army, both volunteers and national servicemen, and I met many fine people who I have no wish to malign in any way. Some also marched against the war. I grew to respect the dead on both sides and there was no shortage of bravery, including that of conscientious objectors who chose prison over combat and military service. Many US draft resisters went into exile to Canada and countries like Sweden and Australia. We have one former US draft resister still living in our neighbourhood many years later. Married with two daughters he has no regrets and has not looked back.

I have never marched with other war veterans on ANZAC Day every April 25 when Australia commemorates its war dead, and I have avoided flag raising ceremonies and parades that reek of war. Back in Australia I marched many times in opposition to the Vietnam War, for nuclear disarmament, and for other causes dear to me. I loudly applaud the women's marches against Donald Trump, indeed any opposition to this fake, deluded and dangerous man. The Vietnam War radicalised me and drove me to the left of politics, although I belong to no political party, but just vote according to my values and conscience. Like many raised in the 60s the war significantly raised my consciousness and helped make me who I am today, passionate for peace, the environment and human rights, especially those of children. The truth must prevail.

However I’m not a pacifist, just as I'm not a vegetarian although I greatly admire those who are. I have no opposition to arms or to a peacetime army able to assist in times of natural disasters, as peacekeepers abroad, and in the defence of a sovereign country from foreign invasion. Such aggression happened in World War 11 and even that most famous British pacifist, Lord Bertrand Russell, accepted the need for military resistance to Hitler and the 3rd Reich. During the First World War Russell went to prison for his opposition to that war, so this was a remarkable turnaround. But the thought of President Donald Trump as Commander in Chief of US armed forces makes me positively squirm, as does the insane leadership of Kim Jung-un, and Bashar al-Assad. I could name others.

In our weapons-free home our children were never given guns as toys. In the 50 years since Vietnam I have never touched a rifle, and have rarely spoken about my war experiences to friends, colleagues and family, and never to countless Vietnamese students I taught for many years as an adult English as a Second Language teacher. We have better things to discuss.

This is a short and bloodless account with no screaming wounded, no nightmares, and it features no graphic dead bodies. But wounds can be both physical and psychological. Sadly many Vietnam veterans have suicided over the years, with others turning to drugs and alcohol, especially the latter. Some suffer trauma, others medical issues from lingering wounds, and many from the side effects of Agent Orange. A lot of counselling has been necessary and not always forthcoming.

The Vietnam War scarred a generation, of both combatants and innocent bystanders alike. The credibility gap of mistrust grew wider and wider, and that’s still happening today under Trump, who never did war service. I was fortunate and survived without a scratch, and I was able to get on with my life with all my limbs still intact. There were many who were not so fortunate, who returned in wheelchairs, and whose dancing days were over. Which is better than a coffin and breathing days over, roger, over and out. 

My time as a soldier in Vietnam has been almost a secret chapter in my life, at least something I talked very little about. This article, requested by an Italian journalist friend, may become a chapter in a book proposal about the 60s, to be published in Italy should sufficient contributions eventuate.  

Until then it remains like my life a work in progress.