You are hereby called up for national service with the Military Forces of the Commonwealth.

You are required to present yourself to Officer Commanding at Northern Command Depot, Ashgrove on the seventh day of February 1968 at 9 a.m.

This notice should be presented together with your Certificate of Registration when you report for service.

There was a certain finality about this notice which reached me soon after New Year, 1968.  In fine print at the bottom of the letter were a few “out” clauses but I knew they were never going to apply to me - an Army future was guaranteed.  I worked on in the Bank, spent time with my family and counted the days down.

The day came soon enough.  For one of the few times in my life, I turned up early for an appointment.  Nobody could accuse me of being eager to start Army life - it just seemed a good idea to get the nonsense over with early, before the inevitable last minute rush.  So, at 8.30am on 7^th Feb 1968, I became a soldier, to be precise, a member of the Regular Army Supplement.

“I (David Murphy) do swear that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, Her heirs and successors according to law. SO HELP ME GOD!”

“Go clean up that mess,” he said, without any sympathy whatsoever,  “and get back here on the double!”    

We were practising this early in our training when Danny Brunton (a jockey sized runt) made the mistake of referring to his rifle as his “gun”.  He had to repeat after Cpl Bluhm, “This is my rifle.  This is my gun.  This is for fighting.  This is for fun.”  Each statement required him to grasp one of two weapons.  The rifle was one of them - you won't need much of an imagination to work out what the other one was!

We had some training with the M30, a practice grenade which went off with a little 'poof'.  Typical of all things in the Army, there was a laid down procedure for throwing it.  We learnt this, practised it, each of us preparing to throw an empty one, and finally we threw a live M30.  The method was quite logical and natural: “Hold the grenade in your right hand, pull the pin with your left and drop it on the ground.  Throw the grenade.  Watch it hit the ground.  Count slowly to 5, and then duck.” 

So we lined up one by one to throw this lump of explosive. It weighed about 500gms, felt good in the hand but was just a little bigger than the rocks we used to throw as kids.  The instructor was having trouble keeping our heads up till the 5 seconds were gone.  No wonder.  The inside of the brick wall was chipped and deeply pitted from the day before, so the dire consequences of a mistake could not be ignored.  However, after the first few efforts went without drama, we improved.  I naively believed the Army’s assurances that the grenade wouldn’t explode early and counted my 5 seconds off nice and slow.  The safety lever zinged off as the grenade left my hand and then my slow “Mississippi 1, 2, 3, 4, 5's” were the sole sounds till the instructor’s “Down”.  We ducked…just in time.

BEER TORTURE 

At last we were all starting to get the hang of Army life.  That was by necessity rather than choice because none of us chose to join up and the Army had never heard of the option “shape up or ship out”.  We had to accept that we were in there for two years and make the best of the situation.  I suppose the system had to wear us down eventually, geared as it was to breaking in “wild horses”.  Unfortunately, it was more used to dealing with volunteers with a lower level of education and was unable to make allowances for well educated people who had been ripped away from their niche in society.  That was why we were in conflict and why the Army failed to make the best use of our abilities.

That command didn’t fit the routine we were doing so he had obviously moved us into punishment mode.  That’s the way it worked out.  Every person, except the right markers, took one pace forward, flung his left arm up and twisted his head to the right, shuffling back in line with the man on his right.  When all were still, the order “Eyes Front” would be given, arms would drop to sides, heads would face front and we would be back in the “Attention” position, nicely lined up.

Five minutes later, we were still waiting for “Eyes Front”.  Arms were wavering.  They seemed unbelievably heavy and shoulder muscles stretched in continuous pain.  Some leant a little to the left to rest their arms on the shoulders of the persons next to them.  Galoot was anticipating that, quickly giving the arms a whack with his swagger stick.  Another eternity later, arms were flopping about as if it was a puppet show. 

“How long can this go on?” I moaned to myself.   CRASH!

“As you were!” Galoot shouted harshly.

He had to be crazy letting Graham lie there, unconscious.  We stood still...sort of... A few of us could see the side of his face…the colour seemed to be going out of it...it tinged blue…he’d swallowed his tongue!  Danny Brunton, to my left - the wimp, remember - threw his rifle clanging to the ground and leapt over to Graham. 

Rifles hit the ground everywhere.

Galoot stepped forward a few paces, abusing us, ordering us to get back in line.  Shock, horror - the whole platoon had disobeyed a direct order from an NCO.  Most of us ignored him, half a dozen moved towards him.  Fortunately for him, he remembered a pressing appointment and left the parade ground, at a fair pace, if not at the double.

We rolled Graham over, got him breathing again and carried him back to our lines.

That was the end of Galoot’s terror campaign.  Nothing was said officially. He still took us for drill but, from then on, it was all done by the book.  Perhaps somebody in authority had seen the incident and suggested to him that he had gone way too far - I doubt if he would have been capable of seeing that by himself.

We became almost comfortable in the routine.  Hut inspections caused very few problems, our boots and webbing were so highly polished that we could see our

Were we becoming soldiers?

As if to test us in combat, we were given a weekend leave pass to Newcastle.  We dolled up in our best greens and were surprised how smooth we looked.  Those Newcastle girls wouldn’t know what hit ‘em, but would it be enough to win their “hearts and minds”?

We marched on in our number one boots and gear, looking like a million dollars, formed up in Platoons and Companies.  “Left, right...left, right.  The soldiers marching are a wonderful sight!”  The Band played various tunes as we marched past in  s l o w  time, quick time, and review order and then during the inspection.  There is no doubt an Army on parade can put on a show.  The spectators, knowing we were training for war, were very susceptible to lumps in the throat.  They went off to their Afternoon Tea thinking Australia’s security was in good, fit, young hands - we couldn’t wait to get off and get a cold drink into us. 

Many years later, I read a poem called “Drill” from the book “A Veteran’s Reflections” by Stewart Law.  The book is a great read for any Vietnam Veteran and costs just $10 direct from Stewart.  This particular poem gives a good description of drill and army life in general.

 DRILL

When first I joined the Army, we performed a thing called drill.
Who ever thought up such a thing was really quite a dill.
They called us to attention, then they stood us all at ease.
Then made us do it all again, but never once said please.

They taught us how to turn about, to face the other way.
And then they turned us back again, but why they did not say.
They turned us to the left and then, they turned us to the right.
I did not see how this could help to teach us how to fight.

We did an open order, then we numbered from the right.
Our Sergeant made a groaning noise at such a woeful sight.
They made us do a right dress so our lines were straight and true.
But Sergeant said our lines were crook, they made him want to spew.

They marched us back and forward, and round, and back and forward again.
They treated us like little boys though really we were men.
And though we marched around a lot, we never went nowhere,
Just round and round and round and round the RSM's drill square.

We sometimes went in quick time and we sometimes went in slow.
But why we had to go at all, I really did not know.
And sometimes, simply out of spite, we did it at the double,
Especially when we did things wrong and were in lots of trouble.

They made us do some funny things, especially with our arms.
We shouldered arms, and ordered arms, and even ground our arms.
We put them at the high port, and we rested them reversed.
And more than once, while this went on, I mumbled and I cursed.

Our time at drill went on and on, why did they so persist?
I loved it most when we were told at last we were dismissed.
It's funny how we loved to hate that dreadful thing called drill.
Yet though we did it years ago, we all could do it still.

By Stewart Law

Early in April, very near the end of Recruit Training, we were trucked out 80km for a forced march back to the base.   We had done a shorter march of 32kms the month before and had a fair idea of the agony ahead.  Although the Army has ample transport and would have to be on its last legs to ever dream of forcing its troops to perform such a feat in wartime, we were told the exercise had to be completed successfully.  A time limit of 8 hours applied.  At an average speed of 10kms/hr, this meant we could not walk or march - most of the time, we had to jog or step it out briskly.

We had a reasonably early start, about 8:00am.  There was no way of avoiding the heat of the day which only added to the testing conditions.  We went as a Platoon, with rifles, M60s, back packs, rations and full water bottles.  A few tried to cheat on their gear, some even taking empty water bottles to cut down the weight.  They were all caught before we started and brought back up to correct weight.  That didn’t stop the real fools among them from guzzling their water in the first couple of hours to reduce weight and then trying to bludge drinks later off the rest of us.  They were caught at that too and we were forbidden to share our water with anybody for the rest of the day.  They were really tonguing for a drink well before we finished.

Well, did we make it?

Of course!  We were there in under 8 hours, some staggering, all of us with sore feet, some bleeding puddles in our boots but we made it.  Some found out that day just how much pain they could handle and were surprised.  Some found out the value of a full water bottle!  With all my circular delivering experience, I knew it would be less of a problem for me than most and that’s the way it turned out - I was carrying somebody else’s pack or rifle for most of the afternoon.  That wasn’t showing off - it was just helping your mates and they certainly appreciated it.

Towards the end of the training, we were asked to choose what Corps we would like to go on to.  For example, we could choose Infantry (and do more forced marches?), Armoured, Artillery, Medical, Transport, Catering, Signals - the list was endless.  We were allowed four choices, more or less indicating that we would be given one of those.

I chose Armoured first because Dad and my brother John were both in the 2/14th QMI, a CMF unit - having metal between the enemy and me seemed like a good survival plan.  Artillery was next because they usually keep a good distance from the enemy and I thought it might be fun handling a gun instead of a rifle!  Signals was my third choice just to let them know that Infantry was not even my third choice.  I didn’t bother with a fourth choice, figuring that if they ignored the first three, they would take no notice of the fourth anyway.  As it was, Lt O’Connell recorded only Armoured and Sigs as my preferences.  Surprise, surprise...I was given Sigs and a posting to Ingleburn, on the western edge of Sydney, commencing on the 17^th April.

A few nights before leaving, an end of training booze up was organised.  The Army turned a blind eye to it, provided the drinking was confined to an area outside the base perimeter.  Each company designated its party area and was given strict instructions not to interfere with any other company.  We all dobbed in for the booze and basic food which the NCOs ordered in for us.  It promised to be a great night because we had become good mates and had plenty to talk about before splitting up and going our various ways.

That’s the way it turned out.  We ate and drank our fill with not a cross word said.  Eventually the beer ran out and we made our way back towards the gap in the perimeter wire, some staggering a little in the dark and from the booze.

Danny Brunton and I were bringing up the very rear, chatting away only four or five paces behind the group in front.  Suddenly, we were grabbed from behind and thrown to the ground.  There we writhed and fought and yelled as a press of bodies kept us down.  Our mates walked on, not hearing a thing because of their own yahooing.

Four blokes from another company had jumped us for a bit of fun.  I was doing all right handling my two and had eventually managed to get back to my feet.  Then Danny collapsed and his two turned on me as well.  They had me back on the ground in no time. Danny lay still beside us.

“The little bastard’s not breathing!” one of them said, panicky.

There followed much muttering and swearing until they decided two of them would carry him back into camp to get help.  The other two sat down on top of me.

There was a media stink going on at the time about Australian troops using water torture on Vietcong to extract information.  The story was that they were pouring water over their faces so it was impossible to breathe - the victims felt as if they were drowning.  Of course, the Army denied that any soldier would ever do such a thing.  What they did was take the Vietcong up in a chopper, blindfold them, and then push them out.  In fact, they would first bring it back down to a few feet off the ground, but the sudden push out the door usually did the trick.

My captors didn’t have a chopper, nor did they have water, but they had beer.

“Let’s see if this water torture really works,” one of them said.

He poured beer over my face.  It frothed in my eyes, forcing them closed.  It frothed up my nose, around my mouth.  A few minutes before, I was drinking it, enjoying the cool flavour and feeling sorry when it ran out.  Soon, I was drowning in it.  Holding my breath, I fought to the limit, kicking and squirming, knowing that when my breath ran out, I would be unconscious and they might carry it on too far and do me serious harm.  When I had just a little air left, I suddenly went limp.  They kept pouring.  Then just as I was about to panic, to heave desperately for air, they noticed and stopped.

They thought they had another unconscious body on their hands.  There were more muttered curses and “What do we do now's.  They got off me to talk about it - still not thinking it might be a good idea to try to revive me.  What would have happened if I’d really been out to it?  Bloody idiots! 

As soon as the first weight came off me, I leapt to my feet, lashed out at the nearest dim face and took off for the camp lights.  They showed that the gap in the barbed wire was somewhere there in front.  At the speed I was going though, it was impossible to even keep to the track so I knew there was no chance of finding the entrance.  My chasers were struggling to keep up with me and were at least twenty metres behind.  Really, if I had just taken a dive and lay still, they probably wouldn’t have been able to find me. 

That never occurred to me as I tore on through the dark……and bounced off the fence.

The noise brought them shouting and running in the right direction again.  I went at the fence, leaping up and over it, landing full length on top of the coils.  Somehow, I was able to reach forward, grasp wires in each hand and pull my body into a somersault which put me feet first onto the ground on the other side.

My hut mates were sitting quietly on their beds with a single light on at the far end when I walked in the door.  They listened to the bad news about Danny and we were heading out to search for him when in he walked, escorted by two provosts.  They had been watching the returning party-goers and caught Danny struggling to get away from his captors.  For once in our short military careers, the MPs were on our side.

We didn’t have a clue about the identity of our attackers so there was nothing further that could be done except talk about what vile things we would do if we ever caught up with them.  I went to bed to dream about drowning in vats of beer and fighting through jungles of barbed wire.

Next morning, I woke to find the sheets covered in blood.  There were big gashes across the palms of both hands and a deep Z-shaped cut down the back of one wrist.  The RAP was dealing with hangovers that morning and the staff didn’t mind the variety offered by treating me.

“Good party was it, Soldier?” the Medic said to me with a knowing smile.

 DOTS AND DASHES
-.. --- - ...  .- -. -..  -.. .- ... .... . ...

We arrived at Ingleburn, not knowing what to expect, except that it had to be a hell of an improvement on Recruit Training.  We were officially part of 3 Troop, Eastern Command Wing (whatever that was), but we belonged to Signals Corps.  Our rank sounded a bit fancier that Recruit - we were Signalmen - but in fact we were still basic Privates.

Our set-up was much smaller than at Singleton. There was no huge parade ground, no need for outdoor training areas, firing ranges and so on.  There weren’t even facilities for indoor training!

Just as we began to think we were there for a holiday, we found that an outside company had contracted to train us as Keyboard and Teleprinter Operators. Our base was to be little more than eating and sleeping quarters.

Marconi was a very large, multinational communications company.  They had obviously been called in to train groups of operators when the Army found itself suddenly at war and without the ability to do the job.  We bussed to and from the Marconi School of Radio daily.  There we were packed, twenty three of us, into a small room, bare of everything except simple classroom furniture, Morse code key pads and headphones.  The wiring was set up to allow us to connect to the tutor, individually or collectively.

 We’d left Cpl Galoot behind only to find ourselves being tortured in a more refined way.  The teaching method was simply to brainwash us with a torrent of Morse code.  Hour after hour, we received and sent it, except for the all too short periods when we moved to another room to learn touch typing.  The sounds of dots and dashes were literally going right through our heads.  Before too long, it was impossible to even think without converting the thoughts into Morse.  In fun, we swore at each other using it, but there was no pleasure in finding ourselves dreaming in dots and dashes.

The aim of the course was to qualify us at receiving Morse at 15 words per minute and sending it at 20.  Some sent in such a disjointed fashion that listening to it was like deciphering something written in the dark. The secret to sending was to develop a rhythm as tight as a musical score.  My proven poor track record in the musical field should have made that impossible for me but the rhythm came from somewhere and I topped the class, sending at 35.  I could receive close to that speed.  Many letters consist of four symbols and all figures have five, so you can appreciate the skill required to achieve that result. 

Building up to those sorts of speeds took all of three months, gradually increasing speed as we went.  The tutor ran a ticker tape of messages through a machine which could be adjusted to send at any nominated speed.  This gave him a very precise control over our learning curve, keeping the hare always just out of reach of the hounds.  I got my own back at the end of the course.  He couldn’t keep up with my sending at true speed and had to slow it down in playback.

Nobody ever explained the big picture to us - why an ability with Morse was necessary in the modern world and where we would actually need to use it.  Perhaps it was simply a tradition in Signals to train all operators, just in case.

The teleprinter side of the course went much the same way.  I had learnt touch typing in the seminary so it was easy for me to achieve a speed of 50wpm, well over what was necessary.  I topped that class also.

Describing the agony of three months’ mental slog in a few brief pages like this makes it all sound so easy.  It was anything but that.  Recruit training may have been physical torture and hard to accept but our brains were stretched to explosion point by the drumming of dots and dashes on that Signals Course.

Fortunately, the tight discipline, regulations and kit inspections of those early days were left behind us.  There was a very brief rollcall parade each morning after breakfast and then the Army left us to our “study’.  We were even allowed to leave the base on weekends, provided we were there for the morning parade.  That break away from the routine gave us the chance to let off steam and helped maintain our sanity.

The Queen’s Birthday weekend came and we were given a three day pass.  This was a chance for the Queenslanders to head off home, our only chance for the year as it turned out.  Six of us and a carton of cold beer piled into one car and headed north up the Pacific Highway.  I looked at the trip as a means of getting from Sydney to Brisbane - most of the others thought of it as a chance of getting stuck into the booze.

Naturally, it was a terrifying night.  The driver drank continuously, drove fast and, at times, dangerously.  The Highway then was narrow and twisting, with a number of one lane bridges proving regular death traps.

Somehow we managed to cross one of those at the same time as another car, after taking right of way when it wasn’t ours.  We sat, frozen to our seats, as the headlights rushed towards an obvious meeting in the middle of the bridge.  Our driver still had his "tallie" to his lips as we somehow squeezed past.

This brought on a mutiny, of course, which got nowhere because the driver refused to let anybody else drive his car.  We did manage to hide the rest of the beer though so he gradually sobered up as we neared Brisbane before breakfast.  I noticed that Sid O’Toole hadn’t touched a drop so it seemed like a good idea to arrange the return trip in his car.

Our car park at Ingleburn was looking like a successful used car yard on the Tuesday.  Transport was at last available to hit The Cross of a weekend.  We did that a number of times in spite of the hour’s drive through heavy early evening traffic.

I was back in the big city only nine months after leaving it never to return but it wasn’t at all the city I had known.  We went to King’s Cross - the city of the night - at its lurid peak then with the influx of GIs on R & R from Vietnam.  This was probably the start of Australia’s drug scene although we never came across any.  We did find plenty of strip shows and brothels - you couldn’t walk the streets there without some tout trying to drag you through his door “to view the best show in the world”.

Part of the fun was teasing these touts by pretending to be interested in their spiel and then shaking our heads and walking away when they had finished.  Eventually, we would troop into one joint or another to watch the girls get their gear off in a titillating way. The cover charge wasn’t much - they made their money by overcharging on drinks.  That was all right by us - we didn’t go there to drink.  We were there to look and yahoo.

Most of the girls were very attractive, with very good figures and they were well dressed (when they started their acts).  Some obviously enjoyed what they were doing, some (I think) absolutely hated it but I guess they all chose to do it for the money.

The way men are made, it is impossible to watch a girl stripping professionally like that without finding your blood coming to a boil.  It is true that you can only see so much of a good thing though so there would be a bit of yawning and attention wandering while the later strippers were in action. It was all probably part of the make-up of The Cross for those shows to stir up the young bloods and get them in the mood to use the brothels.

Coming out of one of those shows once after midnight, we stepped onto the crowded footpath of William St.  There were so many people even at that hour that there was a lot of body contact just walking casually along.  Suddenly, there was a commotion in front of us.  The crowd parted and we saw a man fall on his back to the ground.  There was a long knife sticking up out of his chest.  Another man ran away from us, knocking people out of his way.  None tried to stop him.

A space cleared round the victim.  People even went out onto the road to walk around him as they would around a pile of animal shit.  A couple of us ran over to help him, a few tried running after the knifer.  I went back to the strip club to have them call an ambulance.

The King’s Cross regulars just seemed to treat it as an everyday event!  We didn’t think such a killing was acceptable among a crowd of innocent people, especially not on an Australian street.  Nothing like that happened again while we were up The Cross.  Not in our sight, anyway.

We did make it to the brothels, or some of them anyway.  That was an experience.  There was a narrow little lane (Chapel(!) Lane) just over from the Cross where the rundown houses shared common walls and a common purpose of prostitution.  Everybody knew the place, knew what went on there, police included.  Prostitution was legal although soliciting was not, so the police could do little to stop the action.

We would turn the corner at the top of the lane to look down the length of it at a number of men on the roadway sussing out the girls standing in their doorways.  We always got there late on a cold winter’s night but the girls must have been running hot because they never had much on.  There seemed to be a lot of swarthy Mediterranean types there, hot breath misting heavily, who didn’t need much urging to “come on up”.

The girls picked us immediately as soldiers and we “endured” all the enticements, physical and verbal.  Perhaps their experience made them realise they wouldn’t be getting their hands on us so we were just a bit of a game for them.

“Special price for you, Love,” one would offer, with everything hanging out.

“I’ll keep you warm tonight, Big Boy,” the girl next door would counter.  “I’ll show you just why your Mum warned you about ‘bad’ girls!”

“Terrific, John!  What do we do now?” was the cry.

We lugged him to the showers, got the water going nice and warm, and stood him under the nozzle, fully dressed.  That way, you see, we washed his clothes at the same time.  He started yelling, “I’m drowning, I’m drowning!” (the water torture thing again) but at least he was awake.  We left him then to finish the clean-up and went off to bed.

Barely a few hours later, we staggered out to the morning parade.  All we had to do was answer as our names were called and then we’d be free to go back to bed.

“Sir,” was the dignified answer as Bogger Bertini’s name was called out.

“Bryant...(Nothing)  Bryant...(Nothing)  BRYANT!”   Nothing.

Where was he this time?  Were we going to spend the whole weekend looking for him?

We rushed off to search for him all over again, nursing hangovers and nasty thoughts about what we would do to him for spoiling our morning.  We knew he wasn’t in the quarters but we looked there anyway, looked under the beds too.  Finally, we went down to the showers where we’d last seen him.  There he was alright - sitting on the floor asleep, under the shower.  He was still fully dressed, the shower was still running (the hot water had long since run out), and he was still snoring!  The Duty Officer marked him on the roll as present without even seeing him in person.  He reckoned our story was just so far-fetched it had to be true.

We had built up into a close-knit group by then.  Most had come to grips with the dots and dashes so we were able to enjoy the ample weekend free time together.  I had never had mates like those before or been able to act in such a carefree manner so I was lapping up the experience.  All this time in Sydney, with its hundreds of thousands of girls on tap, none of us had been able to find a girlfriend.  To tell the truth, we weren’t even looking - we were too busy enjoying each other’s company.

One night, Jock Robertson and I went out on a double date with my cousin Anne Dollman and her friend, Karen Green.  According to Jock, he was a bit of a hit with the girls so I was dubious about letting him near Anne who was only 16 or so at the time.  He did try her on early but she was up to handling him so from then on we had a good night.  The girls were able to go to work next day and skite about their night out with the Army, and Jock added a few more fantasies to his repertoire!  It didn’t bother him a bit that Anne found him quite resistible.

Lost of the group had been working full-time in civvy street but not many knew how to look after their money.  They lived from pay-day to pay-day.  In fact, they lived till the first Monday after pay-day and then found they’d spent everything on the weekend.  I started lending money (interest free) to four or five of them.  Before long, they regularly hit me on the Monday for $20 or $30 each to tide them over.  That may not sound like much these days after the wages explosion of the Whitlam years but $20 was half our gross weekly wage.

It didn’t make sense to me - the silly buggers were like dogs chasing their tails.  They’d pay me back next pay-day and then because they were that amount short in the hand, they’d have to come looking for more in a few days’ time.  I was too soft and shouldn’t have done it but what started as a favour turned quickly into a habit.  Fortunately, there was trouble only once getting the money back.  Some was owed after we went our separate ways and I had to threaten writing to the bloke’s CO.

Towards the end of the course, those of us who’d qualified were able to skip lessons while the others were given closer attention.  We then found that the Army can’t stand idle hands and will go to ridiculous lengths to keep soldiers occupied.

There was a story about that at times like those the order was sometimes given to dig holes, fill them in...and then dig them again.  I couldn’t have copped that.  We did emu bobs through the grounds, though.  Walking slowly along, line abreast, we picked up every scrap of rubbish.  When everything was in the bin, we’d have to go back, line up and do it again, even though we knew there was nothing left! 

Raking fallen leaves was another vital job we performed for our country (and Queen).  Leaning on a rake like a real Council worker waiting for a leaf to fall from the trees, I vowed to spend the rest of Nasho in Vietnam once training was completed.

The stupidity of pretending to be busy started me thinking along those lines but there were other reasons of course.  For a start, I believed the freedom of a neighbouring people was being threatened and, as a nation, we had an obligation to help them out.  Our soldiers were putting their lives at risk to do just that.  If the opportunity was given to me, I was willing to do the same.

Stopping the tide of Communism from sweeping down on Australia was a lovely catch-cry for politicians and the RSL but it was never an issue for me.  The way I saw it, North Vietnam had broken a United Nations resolution and was invading South Vietnam.  The population there didn’t want the northerners and were resisting.  That seemed a simple enough summary of what was happening - nothing different from the reaction to Saddam Hussein invading Kuwait!  We all know how much the world appreciates the intervention of the United Nations there.

The difference of course was that Saddam was defeated.  If there’d been a quick victory in Vietnam, hell, wouldn’t it have been a lovely war!  Unfortunately, casualties make good news - reporters were already having a field-day in the USA stirring up anti-war sentiment.  None of them had any qualifications to fight a war and if the politicians had any as well, they certainly kept them well hidden.  All the same, both the media and the politicians thought they should have the final say.

The result could, and should, have been very different, if only the generals had been allowed to make the decisions.  I feel so sorry for the people of Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia who have suffered so long because of our callous indifference to their fight for freedom.

Anyhow, there’ll be plenty of opportunity to say more about that later on.  At that moment, I was willing to go to Vietnam because the cause was right.  There was also the negative aspect, as I said before, of getting over there to avoid fiddling about in Australia doing nothing useful for a year.  There was an aspect of adventure to it too, of putting my life at risk.  The final reason was purely financial.  War Service Homes were available at low interest rates to anybody who served 6 months or more over there.  That was an attractive carrot too.

So, as our time in Ingleburn ended, the decision to volunteer for service in Vietnam was already made - I was just waiting to be asked.

DOES THE SUN EVER SHINE ON VICTORIA

In the dead of winter, (mid-July anyway), we were on the move again – but not to the warm sunshine of Townsville.  No, no, NO.  We were posted to the Army School of Signals at Balcombe on Mornington Peninsula, about an hour’s drive from Melbourne, down the eastern side of Port Phillip Bay.  Possibly the sun does shine off and on during some summer days in this area but the locals would panic if it appeared during winter.

“Well, Sig Murphy, what’s your problem this morning?” she asked with a smile which showed she was a woman as well as a doctor.  It increased my blood pressure and reminded me I was a man as well as a patient.

“Bit of a cold, Ma’am,” I replied.

“Drop your daks then, Digger,” she ordered and started writing on some forms.

My brother’s words from twelve years or so before came rushing back into my brain: “Don’t drop your pants just because someone tells you to.”

“Hang on a minute,” I thought, “doing just that years ago got me into heaps of trouble.  What’s she up to?  I’ve only got a cold, for God’s sake!”

Looking up then, she caught the doubt in my mind.

“Well, all you blokes have come for a perve on me.  What’s wrong with me doing a bit of that too?”

Most of us were from interstate and regularly rang home to speak to family or girlfriends.  STD had yet to be introduced into the phone system so we used the trunk call operator and waited for her to make the connection.  “Please insert $3.50,” she would say.  “Press button A,” and the money would fall down with a clatter. 

“Does this road go through to Singleton?” we asked the operator.

“Yeah,” he replied, giving no indication that it deteriorated into a forest track and went through a blazing bush fire first.

We drove down the bitumen to the right, following it a little way till it turned to dirt.  This was wrong - the Putty Road was sealed all the way, we had heard.  We quickly turned back to the ferry, only to find it half way across the river.  We could wait all night for its first morning run or continue on up the dirt road.

Neither of us wanted to hang about so we drove on.  The road rapidly worsened, dipping down into gullies, sweeping round hills and mountains.  The brakes faded  very quickly again, then failed completely. 

“The bizzo’s have had it!” Bruce cried as he resorted to slowing by using the gears.

“Quick, Murf, heave on the front and we’ll try to reverse off,” he shouted.

I climbed in among the branches, broke off some that were sticking under the front, pushed with all my might and we got her off OK.  A good look under the front with the help of a torch, however, found we were far from OK.  One branch had speared the radiator, another bigger one had whacked the sump, causing a dripping leak.  We had spare oil and a few litres of water.  It seemed possible to drive on providing the stick plugging the radiator stopped it from leaking too much.

“Hell,” I said to Bruce, “are we going to drive at tractor speed all the way to Brisbane?”  I had visions of us ploughing up the highway, trailed by hundreds of angry honking motorists!