Any soldiers’ dictionary would describe “ambush” as “inflicting maximum damage and confusion on enemy forces using the element of surprise and all available firepower.” The wildlife in Vietnam had the art of ambush sewn up.
Bloody lizards, “Puck you” lizards we used to call them. They were large geckos dedicated to tree sitting and patient vigil. They waited for the magic moment when an unsuspecting soldier stealthily swept past before reaming the target’s exhaust valve with a sudden burst of cuck.cuck.cuck,.puck yeeooooooo. Many a bloke on his first patrol in the dead of night had years taken off his life by these diabolical reptiles. Most resolved not to be surprised again.
Countless well-briefed and skilful platoon ambush in the middle of the night was chalked up as a waste of time because those conducting it were loudly called upon to get pucked. Lying in the damp, smelly litter, listening to the termites under your sensitive parts, seriously contemplating your own (or more optimistically some poor little Viet Cong’s (VC) fate) when you are chastised by a (presumably) grinning gecko out in the black could reduce you to a quivering, shaking mess. As you struggled to control the paroxysm of giggling threatening to break clean through your chest the word would come back from the boss: “For Christ’s sake shut up! Saddle up and move out!” And “puck” you too.
There are many ambushing techniques. Another style sees the team moving quietly through the scrub in the heat of the day and past a tree which suddenly explodes into a wildly thrashing, loose collection of flying leaves and sticks. Much like a tornado had been whistled up without a split second’s warning. There are monkeys in the trees right above your head and twenty-two blokes filling their pants in sudden, valve-snapping unison. Jesus, they were experts those hairy relatives of ours. They always covered the right route and collected the maximum body count. They never seemed to want to move out of the way before you got to them. They were dead set trying to scare the stuffing out of you and they did it with skill and daring.
And what about the masters of jungle camouflage – the thousands of little, meat eating, green ants that managed to rack up quite a few “kills”. How many times did muffled screams, hysterical shrieking and loud crashing noises shatter the silence of a clearing patrol? It would go out immediately on the old twenty five set as “Contact….wait out,” and then the ominous “alert dust off”. One or two blokes suddenly thundered through the scrub putting everyone in big trouble and spectacularly compromising our security. The rest of the platoon would rush to investigate in force only to find the offending soldiers casting off webbing and clothing, and thrashing around unarmed (and legless) in the bushes.
The green ants weren’t as sophisticated as the wasps when it came to serious collateral damage. You couldn’t see the lightening-fast little bastards either. It didn’t matter whether you came at them up the guts with smoke, or from the flank with a high-speed paddle; it was beat the retreat and fast. But the casualties! Now there was a sight to make the most courageous quiver. “Hit me in the head with an RPG, but please, please don’t let those wasps get near me eyes again” was a common call.
We learned that the infantryman’s first line armament included the “Stick, anti-ant, 9mm”. In retrospect, it was great fun to see how quickly the little buggers hurled themselves out of their tiny, glued up, hanging leaf house when you tickled it with the old 9mm stick. Even so, by the end of the tour the score was still pretty much “Ants 50/diggers 5”. You couldn’t carry a stick long enough for the wasps-even when you could see them, so we never troubled the score keeper there.
Then there was the cobra waiting to strike without warning in the weapons pit at “The Dat”. It was probably the VC who started this rumour, mind you. Nevertheless, the imagination ran riot when it came to the prospect of tangling with this bloke in a confined and dark space. He was supposed to be twelve feet long and growing a foot a month. It would have taken more than the Regimental Sergeant Major to get any bloke into a hole in the ground in that place during a full-scale, sustained mortar strike. The old snake never did ambush anyone to my knowledge. Then again, that was another ambushing trick, wasn’t it? Let the enemy think you are where you’re not, and you can wander off quietly and clean him up somewhere else.
Ambushing is fascinating with endless permutations of technique. Ambushing requires stealth, determination, camouflage and concealment, vigilance, proper sighting, maximum firepower on the killing ground, sound withdrawal routes and personal innovation. But, against a well armed and courageous enemy, things can come to a messy stand-off. Both sides can cop a shellacking if it results in a slugging match, or Murphy steps in.
Take the crabs in the “Dat” dunnies. You knew they were there, but not where they were from one day to the next. And in such huge numbers! Each one was a third the size of a bee’s dick. Well sighted, determined, stealthy little buggers they were, camouflaged in swarms under the wooden seats and constantly moving from one secure location to the next. The wary enemy wanders in and out, without contact, day in and day out. Then, on a certain visit, it would be on, and the ambushed would be left flailing and scratching his gonads raw. It goes without saying, that diggers are renowned for their resourcefulness.
Dr Mortein’s spray cans were available by the carton, and became the favoured firepower for these irritating and prolonged attacks. Although I have yet to hear of post traumatic eczema of the crutch, there were a few bowlegged diggers wandering around the tent lines with watery eyes and tight testes on many occasions.
Ambushes….We dished it out and we copped it sweet. There aren’t too many who argue the toss about the Australian infantryman’s understanding of the practice. Any digger will tell you: you don’t have to have access to high explosives to do a number on the enemy.
