THE OPENING of the Vietnam War Memorial was something I will never forget. It wasn’t like our reunion. Instead, there were large numbers, large crowds, and a lot of pomp and ceremony. Our company had gathered on an oval, and the boss, along with a lot of people who hadn’t been at the reunion, were there. As usual, everyone was talking and laughing. Then it happened. How do you explain the power of a vision? A very familiar noise — for some, the most significant noise in our lives — rose above our heads.
Thumpa, tumpa, thumpa …
Hueys: a group of them, lifting into the sky.
They’d been our way out of the jungle, our lifeline, our fire support, our medical help. I remembered those brave, crazy men who flew them.
I broke down. The sound penetrated so deeply into my soul, my spirit, and my heart. Tears streamed down the cheeks of shaking, distraught men, faces were locked skyward, staring, as the choppers slowly moved overhead and then disappeared …
Silence. An awesome silence. A silence etched in hearts forever.
I have heard the description of the choppers rising over the trees at Canberra that day told, and re-told. It was the most powerfully symbolic moment in a day full of symbols that triggered the deepest emotions and memories of the men standing on the ground. It was like a time warp. I closed my eyes, and …
Tired, exhausted, hungry, tense. The jungle … thumpa tumpa thumpa …
‘One, this is Snoppy 22 … throw smoke … over.’
‘Lotta shit going on down there … out.’
‘One, this is … Dustoff … get him on quick, bloody quick … we’re outta here!’
‘One…’I’m back … he was hit real bad …’
‘Be there in three, over …’
‘One, this is Snoopy … I see yellow, over …’
‘Roger, Snoopy … we’re on our way… out.’
Then, scrambling aboard, reefed in, the feeling of relief, heading back to base camp … tearing along at treetop level … of coming in … tilted forward. It was always a thrill. I’d put on the earphones to hear:
‘On way to Porky 7, over …’
‘Thanks, Snoopy. I owe ya one …’
‘Ow yor gone, moity?’
Bloody Yanks. They could never get it right.
The opening ceremony went well, but was emotionally draining. True to male form, we imagined we were still twenty-year-olds and we drank too much. Knackers and I had travelled up together, and both beer and memories flowed profusely. In the back of my mind, there was a tiny hope I would find Blackie. I hadn’t heard a word of him since Hong Kong, and although I’d only known him for that one week, I wanted to shake his hand.
I did find him. I got a shock, and had to be on my own for some time. His photo was in a special supplement produced by the newspapers of over five hundred faces of those killed in Vietnam. He looked so young. I hadn’t known, because I didn’t read the papers after I got back. It was too painful. It still is, when it comes to war.
To date, I could somehow both hide and handle the August sweats, nightmares, and severe mood swings, but people close to me didn’t buy it. My wife said that when I first displayed abnormal behaviour she sensed a potential for violence in me. Initially this was annoying, as I claimed to be a calm person and never got angry. That was a lie, but a confusing one. I had loathed the stupidity of war for years. I would get angry and would snap back at the radio or television news. I did this with repeated annoyance and frustration when I often saw leaders puff their chests and not hesitate to consider war as an option … even the only option … yes, quite happy to kill masses of innocent people and claim God was on their side. What crap. If there was a God or Buddha or prophet or Mohammed or any other eminent figure, surely compassion, a gentle hand, and a sincere belief in helping everyone sort out the problem were their ways. I felt many believed their position of political head of a country wasn’t complete unless they engaged in a war of some kind. My opinion contained no logic or sound argument, and at times I became paranoid and overbearing around our house. Perhaps it was just a strong feeling of frustration with the pathetic role the politicians played from my being called up and its aftermath.
But Lyn was right. There were signs of instability in my behaviour. At work, I was starting to reluctantly admit there was a dark rage that I feared. It only reared its head when fools provoked me. I had never hit anyone since a frightening fight in Vietnam in base camp. I was drunk, lost the plot over nothing much, and had a fellow soldier jammed against a Land Rover and was quite content to bash him to death. Thank God for mates; they took me away, calmed me down, and naturally got me even drunker.
Over the years some people told me there were occasions when my wild-eyed stare would frighten them. I had turned into a person who couldn’t tolerate incompetence, particularly with people senior to me. I hated the idea that fools were in control.
Now my job was in an office, as a case manager. On 5 August 1992, at work, I was struggling, getting agitated and anxious. I was seeing familiar faces in flashbacks. About midday, I was sitting in my office when my chest started to suck in as if a huge weight was pushing against it. I rang my wife, who was a cardiac nurse. Her message was blunt: get to a doctor. I’d never realised this, but when you ring a clinic and explain you’re having severe chest pains, you get to the top of the queue. I was put on a machine that indicated my heart was fine. At the time I was a man deeply in denial, and desperate to appear bullet proof. The doctor asked my opinion about what my trouble was.
‘I’ve been doing a lot of gardening,’ I said. ‘I’ve probably strained a muscle.’
Doctors can only diagnose you based on your input and test results.
‘You look exhausted, Barry,’ he said. ‘Take it easy for a few days.’ He appeared curious, as I must have looked bloody terrible.
‘I’m giving you a week off work, and I want you to get some rest.’
I went straight back to work, rang my wife, and told her it was a false alarm.