I HAD BEEN IMPROVING since my breakdown four years before. I was no longer almost totally dependent on my wife. I could go into shops on my own if they weren’t too crowded, and was down to one nap a day after lunch. I had caught a train to Melbourne on my own. I was very proud that day. But when I was asked in 1999 to give a talk to 26 primary school children in a remote, two-teacher country school, I felt sick, scared, and threatened. It would be a true test of my confidence if I accepted. Yet I knew that to accept and then do it successfully would be a big thing for me. I stewed over the request for three days. Could I give an address about Anzac Day? Vietnam veterans capable of giving such addresses were very thin on the ground, and most requests from schools went unfilled. I decided to give it a go. A brief talk, then a few questions and home; that was the plan.
I rode my motorbike to the school, which was an enjoyable 20-minute ride. The principal greeted me with a warm handshake and an invitation to stay for morning tea after the address. The students had cooked Anzac biscuits for their guest — me.
The 26 kids fidgeted and twisted as they sat on their mats on the floor. They ranged from grade one to six. After an introduction, I handed out my medals, to be passed around among the students. Then I launched into a compressed one-page story of my life in the 1960s. I grew up in a small remote town, I told them. I left school at fifteen, worked on a farm until I was twenty, and I got called up into the army. After Vietnam, I came back and travelled a lot. I was so nervous, I think I said all of this in one large breath. Then I asked if there were any questions.
‘Did ya kill anyone?’ burst out a nine-year-old boy enthusiastically, almost leaping to his feet. My heart started to thump.
‘That’s a hard question,’ I replied, not really knowing how to answer.
‘If I was in the army, I’d kill heaps!’ he claimed. His mate beside him shouted, ‘Yeah!’ and punched the air in triumph. Other questions weren’t so pointed.
‘How often were you attacked by lions?’ they wanted to know.
‘Did you have a pet monkey?’
These questions allowed me to calm down. Then, unexpectedly, a small girl put up her hand and burst into tears. My God, I thought, she must know a Vietnam veteran. The chances were it would be a tragic story … ‘Yes, little girl?’ I said meekly, wishing I were home pottering around my garden.
‘I didn’t see your medals,’ she sobbed.
They were duly passed back to the second row. Then came the right hook, out of nowhere. Yes, my guard was down.
‘Were you very sad in the army?’ asked one of the bigger girls.
I lowered my head. I didn’t want them to see how hard it was for me to hold back my tears. The teacher at the back of the room started to move toward the front. Suddenly, I spoke in a broken, sad voice.
‘The army doesn’t let you be sad. We didn’t have funerals.’
I swallowed. There was a pause. I wanted to stop. I wanted to cry.
‘We just got on with the job. Many years later, all that sadness comes out, and it’s terribly hard to explain just how sad I was,’ I added.
My voice came out tired and shaky.
The teacher put her handkerchief to her eyes and looked as if she was about to cry. I didn’t look up. I heard a sob, the kids went very quiet, and then the principal spoke softly.
‘Let’s have an early play lunch. Stand and move quietly outside.’ The Anzac biscuits were delicious. The talk was over. I’d made it. Then one of the older girls in the school knocked on the staff room door. She whispered something to the teacher, and a muffled conversation followed. They approached me. The students wanted me to give a little service at the honour board located in the community hall across the road.
You must be kidding, I thought.
I looked out the window — maybe for divine guidance, I don’t really know — and there was my answer. Outside, the students were being lined up. Two of the big kids had them organised, standing to attention: they were ready to march. They strode across the road with dignity and purpose. I joined them, and there was silence. I noticed some had grabbed small bunches of flowers from the garden, and were passing them up and down the lines. In the hall, the students formed a horseshoe. The two staff had said nothing through this remarkable display, and looked at me for some response. I took a very deep breath and said:
‘These names are names of men who have died at war. It would have been very sad for their families, friends, and their mates. The flowers you put here today say so many kind things. These soldiers on this board would be proud of your thoughtfulness, and content to know that you live in peace. Thank you for what you have done today. I hope you never have to go to war.’
Several kids came over and said thanks. Others touched my hand. One young boy gave me some flowers. I wonder if those kids realised how much they helped me.
It was after this day, standing in the community hall with them, that I went home and started to write. For the first time, I found there was a connection between my heart and the pen. I attempted to describe what it felt like standing in front of those kids. Hesitantly, I showed the effort to my new psychiatrist, who had encouraged me to put pen to paper. Now, he encouraged me even more. You have the result in your hands.
The therapeutic value for me in writing this book can be summed up simply. It resulted in a major shift in my own sense of self-worth and helped me change my attitude to Vietnam. It allowed me to purge some demons. I wrote about what I saw, and about how I gradually changed. It was fascinating. The more I wrote, the more I separated myself from the events, and managed to look at the young man I’d been from a distance, like an observer. I could see and feel the pain of innocence and naiveté he continually faced. Then, perhaps the most iniquitous experience of all: coming home. Few of us would have imagined that an Australian public could be so scathing. Most seemed oblivious to the terrible conflict we had faced in Vietnam or to the fact that we had been sent there with little or no choice.
Today I feel no bitterness, only sadness, as I move amongst my veteran friends and see their depression, poor health, isolation, and struggles. They now have opportunities to improve their lot, and are well catered for by governments. But, for many, the guilt remains. They are not like the Second World War veterans I saw as a youngster on those wonderful ANZAC days. I believe, for many Vietnam veterans, nothing will make them feel deserving enough.
Many vets who read this book in manuscript form were amazed at my recollection of various incidents. In fact, retelling my experiences in that country has required little memory. As I have explained, I kept a diary for most of my time in the army, including the early months in Vietnam. However, after 6 August 1967 I never wrote another word. From that moment on, I acknowledge that I only have hazy recollections of what happened. Even my interpretations of the events on the sixth of August are from my own vivid memories that are mixed up with nightmares and my later reading about the contact. A letter I received from Burls confirmed this when he wrote that, during Operation Ballarat, he had been caught in front of a tree, when in my mind he had been behind it.
Perhaps what is most remarkable is what happened to me when I was struggling with writing about the early part of that important day, 6 August 1967. The memory of wanting to be buried on the top of Connors Hill blasted back into my mind as if I was there, during the actual contact. I had, up until this moment, completely forgotten about that powerful thought. I’m sure I had even forgotten it by the time we returned to base camp days later. Like many things, I must have blocked it out. At first I was frightened, then amazed at the recollection, as I have driven up that hill and admired the splendid vista on many occasions since Vietnam, with nothing ever registering. Yet on the night I had my collapse and breakdown, thinking I was about to die, I believed I was looking out from the top of Connors Hill.
Finally, when I wrote about the school visit above, it is almost word-for-word as you read it. I kept this to myself. Then I decided to write about Vietnam. I couldn’t stop. My first effort was over 100,000 words in length. I wrote this in a few months. At this stage, I certainly had no intention of publishing it, but felt it needed a tidy-up before I showed it to my family, friends, and mates. Their reactions were interesting. Great yarn, they said, but it needs some work. Most Vietnam veterans who read the manuscript gave me roughly the same feedback: it seemed to say what they wanted to say and to hear. For the first time, I thought about publishing my efforts.
Professionally, it needed a lot of work. With that now done, I would be satisfied if maybe this story stirs other veterans to tell their story, to share their pain and suffering. This would be more than I ever hoped for.