Story 97 - Short Stories
by David Morgan
CARP - the uninvited guest
Late in the afternoon of 1st January
1969, I waited to board the train from Brisbane to Sydney. I stood
on the platform and wondered what that long, skinny country in
South-East Asia was really like and what lessons it held for me. I
heard a yell and spotted a group of young soldiers further up the
platform, their excitement tangible; they were ready to head to
Vietnam, and well, so was I! We were just a bunch of 20-year-olds
off on the adventure of a lifetime, and the usual camaraderie took
over. Many of us hadn’t flown overseas before and we felt the
excitement build as our hearts raced, we punched the air and took
our seats for the trip to Sydney. I sat next to a window and watched
people outside milling around.
Old Carp! (Photo from
internet source)
We were about to leave when a soldier came in with a large green Army bag over his shoulder. Moments later, he dumped his bag down on the floor with a grin. ‘How ya going, boys?’ he said, ‘Mind if I join ya?’ The soldier sat down and reached into his bag. ‘Let me introduce ya all to a mate of mine. Carp’s his name.’ A long rope flew through the air and landed on a couple of soldiers, including me. ‘Fuck, what the shit is that? Fucking spew!’ we all yelled. Our jaws dropped and we scrambled away in horror from the uninvited guest — a two-metre-long carpet snake. ‘Old Carp won’t hurt ya, he’s bloody harmless,’ the soldier said. ‘Gets on with everyone, does Carp, especially the sheilas. Loves sleeping next to their naked bodies.’ We were reassured but still shocked as the soldier introduced his sociable travelling companion to a few other unsuspecting passengers. An elderly woman was beside herself when she found the serpent in the train toilet. We all heard her screams and tried not to laugh, particularly when the train conductor appeared. However, the conductor had the last laugh when he kicked the soldier and Carp off at the next station somewhere in rural NSW. It certainly added some life to the trip, and helped us all forget any anxiety, albeit for a relatively short time.
My good luck-charm
Vietnam. It was my first time beyond
the perimeter wire, and I wasn’t sure what to expect. I clutched my
rifle as we passed through villages and hamlets. The locals watched
as we passed on roads congested with vehicles. Trucks belched smoke:
motor scooters, mainly Lambrettas, drove around like maniacal
dodgems; and buses were overloaded with passengers, baggage, wire
cages crammed with squawking chooks and sacks of rice stacked
precariously on the roofs. A few kilometres further on we came to an
abrupt halt. Part of the road, including a bridge, had been blown up
by the Viet Cong. Fearing an ambush, we leapt off the trucks, and I
jumped into a ditch that dropped down steeply next to a paddy field.
For the next couple of hours, I
remained crouching in the ditch with a few other soldiers on guard
as infantry and armoured vehicles conducted a search and clearance
patrol in the vicinity of the bridge while engineers looked for any
disturbance on the road for mines or booby traps. I clutched my
rifle as the brutal reality of war enveloped me. This was my fifth
day in Vietnam and my first time seeing the results of enemy
destruction. Perspiring, I had mixed feelings and thought, ‘What on
earth am I doing here in this stinking place?’ While in the ditch I
noticed something shiny in the dirt by my boots. It was a silver
aluminium Christian insignia ring with a crucifix on top and ten
small, fixed nodes around the ring which I assumed related to the
Biblical Ten Commandments. In deep thought as I turned the ring over
in my hand, I wondered who might have owned it and how this ring
ended up in this insignificant ditch with me. Was it a sign of good
luck? I placed it in my shirt pocket and decided it would be my good
luck charm for the rest of my tour. I eventually placed the ring
next to my dog tags on a green nylon cord around my neck. A lot of
soldiers had good luck charms to keep them safe, grounded and bring
hope of returning home safely. I still have this Christian insignia
ring with me to this day.
The Nui Dat Bookie
Our COMCEN (Communication Centre)
Supervisor Warrant Officer Class Two Willaim ‘Jock’ Bannigan, was a
tall, solid man with thick dark hair, a Scotsman who set himself up
as the Nui Dat Bookmaker. Always when I entered his office, a cloud
of cigarette smoke wafted around me, and I noticed his heavily
stained nicotine fingers. Jock had been in the Army for many years
and at Nui Dat since May 1968. I soon discovered he spent every
spare moment on the phone or studying the big horse races back in
Australia.
The Bookie Operation was set up very
well. He had a bookie mate back in Australia sending him telex
messages through our COMCEN on all the horses for the major Saturday
races back in Australia and then distributed by our Signal Delivery
Service (SDS) drivers to all the units at Nui Dat on the Friday.
Soldiers from all units would then place their bets to either Jock
or one of his offsiders through our switchboard. All the Saturday
races were broadcast by Radio Australia and later through Australian
Forces Radio. Jock and his offsiders had telephones connected to
their tents or their working areas. On the Monday, our SDS drivers
would deliver the winning bets or collect the losing bets from all
the units within Nui Dat. The bets would be placed in normal
military envelopes so the Sigs in the COMCEN wouldn’t know the
difference. It must have been a thriving business for Jock as he
served in Vietnam for over four years (four tours).
WO2 Jock Bannigan (SC) in 1968 (104Sigs 106-8)
My
first Cipher run to Saigon
(or what kind of run?)
I’d just finished my night shift when
Warrant Officer Jock Bannigan walked over. ‘You’re off to Saigon on
a Cipher run later today, Morg. Need you to collect some cipher
gear. Try to get some sleep if you can.’
By mid-afternoon, I wasn’t sure if I’d
slept or not as I caught a flight to Saigon. A Signal driver met me
at Tan Son Nhut airport and took me to the Australian Signal Centre
in downtown Saigon. ‘What’s this?’ I asked as I was handed a metal
briefcase with a handcuff chain. ‘What’s it bloody well looks
like, Corporal? It’s a handcuff with a chain attached to a bloody
case. It’s a precaution in case some idiot tries to knock it off.
Stops you from losing the whole bloody thing.’ I slipped the
chain around my wrist. The case felt solid. I was worried that this
security system might not be infallible, and I might end up missing
a hand! ‘What’s inside? It’s bloody heavy.’ ‘A small cipher
machine, cipher key rings and a few cipher cocks.’
I arrived back at Nui Dat to find Jock waiting in the Communication Centre. I walked across to his office. He looked anxious and stubbed his ciggy in the ashtray and immediately lit another. ‘Good work, well done Morgan,’ he said, unlocking the handcuff. I never did find out what was in the metal case, but I had a few theories. Whatever it was, it certainly made Jock happy. Over the coming months, this became a normal schedule for me, doing Cipher runs to Saigon and back and realising it wasn’t a Cipher run but a Bookie run.
1ATF COMCEN owned and operated by
104 Sig Sqn (104Sigs A-14)
You’re like water in a swirling
bucket
Travelling in the two-man Sioux helicopter was also a scary experience. The pilot flew at treetop level and low over small fishing villages and jungle areas to avoid the VC having time to get a shot at us. As passengers we acted as observers for any VC activity on the ground. Pilots were highly skilled and had nerves of steel in controlling the small choppers, particularly when we experienced shock waves from artillery, ground explosions and enemy fire plus all the steep landings and take-offs. On these runs I would carry a revolver rather than an SLR as the cockpit was too small. On the larger Iroquois choppers or road convoys, I always had my rifle. On all cipher runs I also carried a locked satchel with top secret signal dispatches along with the radio key plunger for the KY-38 voice encryption equipment.
Bell 47G-3B-1 Sioux (104Sigs 18-6)
I was busy on cipher runs, as whenever
the infantry on Operations needed to change settings on their new
secure radio sets, I had to go out to them in different areas by
chopper or road convoys. My job as a Signaller was to secure the
KY-38 radio sets every day and provide a secure net, making it
impossible for the VC to listen in. On this cipher run, it was a
difficult time as there was a surge in VC attacks with mortars, and
rockets hitting towns like Dat Do and some of the bases I visited. I
boarded a Sioux “Possum” chopper and flopped into the passenger’s
seat. The pilot handed me some earphones, and we took off. No sooner
were we in the air than he received a message from Task Force
requesting he undertake some surveillance work for the infantry.
With a lot of VC activity in the area, the pilot had no option but
to drop me off at the nearest Fire Support Base (FSB). I leapt out
from the rotating blades and headed for the headquarters tent.
Unable to change the sets at the other FSB’, I contacted our COMCEN
Supervisor Warrant Officer Jock Bannigan, who suggested I get a lift
back with an in-coming chopper.
No choppers landed all day.
Increasingly concerned I might be spending the night; I went to find
the Duty Officer in the Headquarters tent. ‘No choppers available,
Corporal,’ he said, ‘All being used by the infantry. You’re not the
only one trying to get back, you know.’
I resigned myself to staying the night
without a pit hole, and with artillery field batteries booming all
night. To my relief, just before dusk an American Iroquois chopper
arrived with a General and his aides on board. The Duty Officer
asked if they could take a few Aussies back to Nui Dat. Minutes
later, four of us scrambled aboard. There was limited space, and an
American gunner on the left indicated for me to share his seat as
the chopper took off and veered to the left as we tried to gain
height. I gripped the locked satchel in one hand, the plunger bag in the other
and we swept in huge circles gradually gaining altitude. The dust
below and around us swirled in huge, billowing clouds; I had my
hands full and felt unstable.
The gunner leant across and yelled
above the noise. ‘Hey man, do you think you’re going to fall out?’
‘Yes, mate, I do,’ I yelled in reply. ‘You
won’t fall out, man. You’re like water in a swirling bucket. Water
never falls out, man.’
I nodded, though I still contemplated
that he might be wrong as the chopper finally straightened out and
headed back to Nui Dat. In the distance I could see pockets of
artillery gunfire. Fifteen minutes later, and much to my relief, the
four of us scrambled out onto Kanga Pad. Seconds later, the chopper
headed back to Vung Tau, and we waved to the departing Yanks.
Dirty Bastards
I was having a rare and beautiful sleep when the siren went off, and all hell broke loose. I glanced at my watch. It was 0315 hours. Mortar and rocket fire was raining down on Nui Dat. My tent mates Nev, Boobla and I dived out of bed, pulled on our greens, grabbed our rifles and a couple of additional magazines, and darted to our pit hole. ‘And which of you dirty bastards are pissing and chucking your beer cans in the bloody pit hole?’ Nev said, surveying the collection of empty beer cans. ‘Well, it’s not me,’ I said. Boobla was more direct. ‘Stop fucking whinging, Nev. We’re bloody well under attack. We’re lucky to have any protection over our heads. Anyway, it’s probably you, you dirty bastard.’ The three of us waited, the mental and physical strain evident in our faces while the stench of urine was overpowering. I had to agree with Boobla: a few stray beer cans and stench were nothing compared to what was happening at ground level as explosions blasted around us and we heard the crack of gunfire as flares ignited, and mortars erupted. We remained in the pit hole for three and a half hours.
Four man accommodation tent
(Supplied by David Morgan)
I was rostered on to do the water and
garbage run using a Land Rover and trailer around our lines, to pick
up all the rubbish bins including the wet garbage scraps from the
kitchen and dump them at the rubbish tip. After this we were
expected to complete the water run by switching to a tank trailer,
driving to the water station, and filling the tank trailer plus
other containers before returning to our lines to deliver water to
various locations.
One of my shift workers, a “Nasho”,
Signaller Graeme Stevens, was rostered on with me. Stevo, as we all
called him, was a friendly bloke, a farmer from Gawler in South
Australia. You could never tell whether he was serious or joking
because his face had a perpetual smirk. He made it plain he didn’t
like being in the Army. Pissed off when he got called up for
National Service, Stevo was always grumbling about the Army and the
government. He reckoned it would have been better for him to remain
a farmer and grow food for the country.
At the Kanga Pad gate next to our
lines, Stevo and I picked up the last rubbish bin before we were
ready to head to the tip. The gate was next to an open-roofed
shelter which was the passenger waiting area for the choppers.
Waiting in the shelter were half a dozen Australian and American
Army top brass officers in crisp green Army uniforms and shiny
boots. Stevo and I must have looked scruffy in our sweaty greens.
‘Look at those fucking big brass
bastards in their fucking clean uniforms,’ Stevo muttered. We
grabbed the heavy drum full of rubbish and lifted it to the back of
the trailer, and I instructed Stevo to drive to the tip. ‘They
wouldn’t know how to get themselves or their hands dirty,’ he said,
‘doesn’t that just give you the shits, Morg?’
We got into the Land Rover, and Stevo
put his foot down. There was a screeching as the tyres burned-off
followed by a clonk as the last two drums on the trailer tumbled
onto the bitumen, one of them full of wet garbage scraps. The
rubbish splattered in all directions including on the shiny boots
and lower legs of the uniformed officers. Stevo stopped the Land
Rover, and I looked back.
‘Idiots!’ the officers yelled, ‘Where’s
your brains? What sort of soldiers are you?’ I felt like running
away, especially when one of the officers walked up to the driver’s
door. ‘And you can get that smirk off your face, Private, or I will
charge you,’ he yelled inches from Stevo’s face. ‘What’s your unit,
Corporal?’ another yelled, ‘Get this mess cleaned up straight away!’
Fortunately, the chopper landed, and
the crew signalled to the top brass to get aboard. It certainly
saved our backsides as we watched six deflated high-ranking officers
trudge despondently through the wet slush towards the chopper. Stevo
was elated, although it took us half an hour to clean up the mess as
we shovelled the muck into the bin accompanied by thousands of
resident flies.
Rubbish at Nui Dat Garbage Dump.
Note the US Military Fairchild C119 landing
in the background (Photo from the AWM P01733.013)