EXERCISES BARRAWINGA AND NILLA QUA SHOALWATER BAY, QUEENSLAND

THE DILAPIDATED OLD TRAIN that had brought us to Queensland moved its way slowly down the main street of Rockhampton. Yes, that’s right — the main bloody street! There were no barriers or fences, and vehicles travelled on either side. People stood within feet of the train’s windows, looking in at us curiously. Perhaps the train was rarely used in this sleepy northern town, or maybe it was because we were about to enter the largest peacetime land exercise in Australia. But we certainly attracted a lot of attention as we passed by the shops and pubs.

Army trucks were waiting for us outside the town limits in a large paddock, ready to transport us to Shoalwater Bay. The dust on the dry road reduced visibility to almost nil. After a lengthy drive through tinder-dry bush, we stopped in the middle of nowhere and got out. The bush was only lightly timbered, with no big trees like those from the high country down south. Long kangaroo grass grew in tussocks everywhere. That night, swarms of mosquitoes descended on us. I could believe there’d be mosquitoes in damp, humid Canungra; but here it was so dry that we should have been warned about bushfires. Where did the mozzies breed? Then blokes that had slept on tussocks were covered in ticks. After that first night, no one slept on the kangaroo grass, and the mosquito nets went up at dusk, but the insects were persistent. If you rolled to one side and your arm touched the net, the mozzies would suck away while they had the chance. We would go to bed in future fully clothed.

Again we started patrolling, hunting for the enemy. On the radio I was slowly gaining skill as the 3 Platoon Sig. The weight of my pack was still making me very unbalanced, but I was getting stronger. After only a week into the exercise, my platoon commander summoned me and delivered an unusual message.

‘Report to the boss at CHQ (company headquarters).’

On arrival, to my amazement, I was told that I would be the company Sig. Hell, I still wasn’t confident as a Platoon Sig, and now I was to be in control of the radio network that was linked to the three platoon radios. Naturally, it being the army, I wasn’t approached or asked my opinion; it didn’t work that way. Reluctantly I returned, packed, and headed for CHQ. My new boss was the big boss, the company commander. I felt like I had been picked to open the batting in cricket for Ensay against Swifts Creek, but their opening bowler was Wes Hall, from the West Indies. The boss was ‘it’ in the company. No one questioned his authority.

I had mixed feelings as I left the platoon. My mates were there, I got on well with the lieutenant, and it was my home. Most would see my new position as a promotion or compliment, but I didn’t. There was a nice, laid-back feeling in a platoon. Rank was there but, provided you did your job and didn’t get caught when the pranks were played out, personalities appeared almost superior to rank. Discipline had been so well ingrained that there was little need for the officer or NCOs to exert authority, so we were a happy bunch.

On arrival at CHQ, new faces were everywhere, and most of them outranked me. I was to share a tent with Walrus, the battalion Sig, and a highly trained operator. Our first task was to set up a permanent campsite and then build a command post, roughly copying the method being used in Vietnam at that time. It was a thankless job. The post measured about twelve feet by ten feet, and seven feet down into the rock-hard soil. We had to dig a large hole with entrenching tools, the small fold-up shovels that were part of our webbing. It might have simulated war conditions, but these tiny shovels were bloody useless when compared to crowbars, picks, or a decent farm shovel, and what should have taken six to eight hours took two very full days. Logs were laid on top and covered with sandbags, steps were dug in, and the interior was set up like a fully functional command post. It had maps, radios, a crude phone system, and lighting.

For all this effort it was rarely used, as in no time we were out footslogging, hunting for the enemy. As in Canungra, the enemies were Australian soldiers put there to harass us. We hardly saw them the entire time we were at Barrawinga. Pity, as the word got around quickly that if you were ‘shot’, ‘wounded’, or ‘killed’ you would be repatriated to the make-believe hospital where you could put your feet up, be fed, and have a shower every day. I’m not sure if the enemy was elusive, slack, or non-existent, but we were very keen for the first few days, and then it became tiresome. We were issued with blank rounds, but these proved too dangerous: some of the enemy were ambushed and shot at close quarters, receiving burns from the blanks. Orders came around not to use the blank bullets. Instead, we had to say ‘Bang! Bang!’ if shooting at the enemy.

Exercise Barrawinga was a slog. At times, it seemed like a waste of time. Every night we had to dig a foxhole, dug deep enough for us to hide or kneel in and return fire. It took ages, seemed pointless, and then the following morning we filled it in and moved on. Over time, my foxholes got shallower and shallower. On radio piquet of an evening, it was more work. Both the BHQ (battalion headquarters) and company radios had to be monitored. There was a lot of phonetic language, and the use of extra codes that were new to me.

Then our company received an instruction that made no sense whatsoever. Our water was restricted to two bottles per day and, with this, we were expected to cook, wash, be clean-shaven, and quench our thirst. We learned to ration ourselves, and share out what we had. Another way for the army to display authority and test our guile was to restrict cigarettes. Every smoker was limited to four cigarettes a day. Overnight, everyone suddenly became a smoker, and the non-smokers handed their four fags to their mates. Blokes mixed tobacco with tea leaves, and made rollies using toilet paper. Ingenuity prevailed.

My apprehensions about CHQ were misplaced, as the blokes welcomed me. We got on and, in no time, I was settled in. For the first few weeks we trekked long distances across flat, dry country in extreme heat. Navigation was difficult because it was so flat, but it was good training for Vietnam. I practised putting up high aerials, and used a static radio called a 510. It had a very-low frequency range and, of an evening, I would fiddle and see what I could find on the airways. Just on dark one afternoon, I had a fascinating radio conversation with a bloke way out in western Queensland who was riding a motorbike and checking on water troughs. He would have been hundreds of miles away. It was a freak reception.

Again, attempting to emulate the conditions in Vietnam, we were marched back to CHQ and prepared for helicopter training. It would be an elaborate training regime using a fleet of Wessex helicopters the British had on board a ship anchored somewhere off the coast. They appeared from over the ocean, and landed in a cleared open area. We had to line up in order and at attention, all sixteen of us, in a straight line. Then, on the signal, we knelt on the right knee with our left hand on the shoulder of the bloke in front. On a ‘thumbs up’ to the Pommy ‘stick’ commander, we rose in unison, stepped off with the left foot, and marched toward the helicopter. Our seat was allocated to us with a snap of the wrist and a flick of the head, like a ballroom dancer. Once inside and suitably strapped in, we had to hold our left hand in the air indicating our seat belt was secure. Then, the ‘slick’ commander would tap the pilot on the shoulder. He, in return, would give us a ‘thumbs up’, and the Wessex would start to roar into action, bumping up and down several times before slowly climbing into the sky.

The training exercise called Barrawinga took three months. We had marched hundreds of miles and dug numerous foxholes, and the consensus was that it was a ‘waste of bloody time’. Mind you, this was our opinion of all our training.

In reflection, though, it was good training for Vietnam: endless plodding, little contact, and then something would happen. It trained us to remain alert, and not to relax.

We were bussed back to Rockhampton, not allowed leave, and then we caught a long, boring train ride back to Pucka. It was weird to return to normality. I hadn’t spoken to a female, slept in a bed, or flushed a toilet for three months, so it was good to get some leave in Melbourne.

After leave, I was amazed to be promoted to lance corporal. This meant I would wear one stripe on my sleeve when in dress uniform. There was quiet talk around camp that we would soon be heading to Vietnam: the rumour had it that we’d board the aircraft carrier Sydney, sail to Vietnam, and relieve 5RAR, who had almost completed their twelve months’ tour of duty. But it was only a rumour.

One more training exercise saw the battalion return to Shoalwater Bay for a months’ further training. We returned to Puckapunyal to find it galvanised with new developments.

So much for security — the rumours had been right. We were marched to the big hall and received the secret message. There was a nervous excitement in the air. One more leave, then our battalion was to sail for Vietnam. A three-week trip on a large ship sounded great. Most of us were going home on the short leave. I was in our hut, packed. I had a lift to Bairnsdale, then I would hitch home for a quick break, come back, spend some time with my girlfriend … it was exciting.

Then a corporal appeared. There was a message for me to report to the company commander.

Tomorrow morning, early, I would be leaving for Vietnam by plane. There’d be no goodbyes, no leave, and only one phone call. I was part of the advance party. I would be leaving on April Fools’ Day, 1967.