Well Done, Those Men Read online

  I still have a vivid memory of how close knit this community was after a young local man, who had been a fellow footballer, was killed in a single-car accident. Hundreds attended the funeral; it was impossible to get into the church during his funeral service. Then, at the cemetery, I saw a display that summed up the locals. Initially, I walked in with the rest of the footballers, and stood there wondering what the correct procedure or protocol was. How was I meant to look? What was I meant to say? Then, as the coffin was lowered into the ground, it seemed that the entire community started to grieve as one. There were tears, hugging, touching, support, and love. Distressed young people like me were cared for, and our dear friend’s soul was sent off with all the love this little community could muster. There was no set-out ceremony; it was done just right, if there is such a thing.

  During my five years at Ensay I played footy, cricket, and badminton; helped run the scouts and Young Farmers; and was a projectionist at the local picture theatre. There was a high expectation that young people would get involved. I now realise this was different from larger cities and other regional places in the state of Victoria. But we had no public electric power, or SEC, as it was called. Consequently, there was no television — it wasn’t available in the district until 1968. We could only entertain ourselves within the district, as it was too far to travel to other shires.

  By the time I was nineteen, in 1964, I had a steady girlfriend, a young woman I’d been seeing regularly for several years. Socially, my life was hectic. There was always a dance, a barbeque after the footy or cricket, woolshed dances, Young Farmers’ balls, and debutante balls. Most young people had no choice; we learned how to dance. Although owning your own car was rare, when I turned eighteen I, like most, was given the family car keys.

  My life was good. It was simple. I had been reared in a community that fostered cooperation, the nurturing of its young people, and responsibility to others as a priority. Others my age were on committees, organised annual events, and did a lot of voluntary work. Looking back, I believe it was like growing up in the late 1930s, probably 25 years behind the rest of the state. The modern era simply hadn’t hit the Omeo shire. It was like a void. Amongst young people, there were few drunks or louts, and little swearing. There wasn’t time for that. I was content. Admittedly, I had no plans; maybe I thought about buying some land one day, shearing, or doing some droving. I honestly can’t recall.

  Then, out of the blue, I received a letter, a very official letter in a brown envelope, informing me that my number had been drawn in the ballot for National Service. I was balloted for the first intake. Conscription had rarely been mentioned at home or on the farm where I worked. I guess I’d assumed it wouldn’t happen to me, like so many things involving youth. But I’d been drawn in the barrel, and the letter told me I’d been selected, providing I passed the necessary tests.

  Apart from feeling a sense of mild panic, I had no idea what it all meant. I read what little I could about it, and none of what I read appealed to me. I was the first person called up in our district, so there was no one to refer to.

  A second letter stated that I had to attend the Bairnsdale Medical Centre for a check-up. On the due date, Dad drove me down the mountains to the surgery. It took over two hours. I hadn’t been carsick for years, but when we arrived I felt quite crook. There were quite a few blokes being assessed but, luckily, my name came up early. The nurse asked me to remove my clothes to my undies. The doctor mumbled my name and a few other details to confirm who I was, then looked up.

  ‘Jesus,’ he said bluntly. ‘How long have you had that rash?’

  ‘I’ve never seen it before,’ I replied. It was all over my chest.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Crook as a dog.’

  ‘I guess you shook hands with everyone out there?’ he asked accusingly.

  ‘Yes,’ I answered, confused.

  ‘Well, you’re in the advanced stages of German measles, young man. Get out, go home, and don’t go near anyone, particularly pregnant women!’ he snapped.

  I got dressed and left, anxious. My boss’s wife was pregnant at the time, and I had seen her that very day.

  Months passed with no word from the government, and I felt with relief that I must have failed or been rejected. My mates certainly reckoned I was a reject. But in October 1965 another letter arrived, requiring me to turn up for another medical appointment. This time I passed, and was set to go into the army in February 1966, on decimal currency day, as part of the third intake of National Servicemen. I had just turned twenty-one.

  Looking back, my being called up and going away for two years was never an issue for my parents, my bosses, or the locals. The National Service debate was never a topic of argument or discussion. It was endorsed by the Country Party, so that was that. Typically, the Ensay community organised a send-off party for me a few nights before I was due to leave. There was a band called ‘The Diamonds’, and the hall was decorated with flowers and streamers. It was the way things were done back then. There were over two hundred people there, a big proportion of the small local community, and many nice things were said. For the first time, some of the old diggers came over and spoke to me. I felt privileged.

  There’d been a lot of handshakes and dancing, and a generous supper as usual. I didn’t know it, but a large envelope had been passed around. Prior to my send-off, the word had been circulated: Bring no presents, just a small donation. When I returned home that night, the envelope contained more money than I had earned in the previous twelve months as a farm labourer.

  Although I felt an obscure sense of duty, I wasn’t happy to be leaving the small, isolated community of Ensay in Victoria to enter National Service. Several days later, I definitely wasn’t happy …

  PART 1

  TRAINING

  RECRUIT TRAINING, PUCKAPUNYAL 1966

  THE MAIL BUS from Swifts Creek to Bairnsdale was a slow, winding trip. I only had a small bag with a few things in it. Those were the instructions. As the first person called up from our district, I had no idea what to expect or what lay ahead. If I had, I might never have hopped onto the bus. I was going to spend the night in a hotel in Bairnsdale and catch the early-morning train to Melbourne the next day.

  There were five of us at the station at Bairnsdale the following morning, and our instructions were brief: report to the CSM at Spencer Street Station. Nobody explained that this referred to the company sergeant major.

  What was a CSM, we wondered? City stationmaster? Catholics’ Special Mass? Coffee, scones, and a muffin? We decided we would just follow the crowd when we got there. The train picked up new recruits all the way down. On arrival in Melbourne, an army bloke greeted us, walking very stiffly. His uniform was so starched it squeaked. A couple in our much larger group muttered to each other.

  ‘Looks like a green emu.’

  ‘Looks like he’s just cacked his daks.’

  Grinning, we were herded towards a gate where scant details were checked and we were asked how we were feeling. Later, I was told that this was actually another medical. Two olive-green army buses were waiting outside the station. The third intake of National Servicemen stepped aboard. By now, some of them were becoming a bit boisterous — the result, no doubt, of the beers they were consuming rather than having taken offence at the way they were being treated. So far, every request by the army was prefaced by ‘please’, ‘could you’, and ‘would you mind’. The new recruits were having a good time generally. As the buses drove through Melbourne, they stuck their heads out of the windows, and wolf whistles along with primitive mating howls greeted any attractive girl who was within earshot. ‘Getyagearoff’ and similar suggestive proposals were screamed and chanted from windows. This youthful bravado was new to me. The language was crude, and I became an observer. The squeaky army blokes just sat quietly up the front. They seemed to condone this behaviour.

  Halfway to Puckapunyal army base, the buses pulled over at a service station for lunch
and a pee stop. The recruits, contrary to instructions from the starched soldiers, dawdled back onto the buses with their fists full of food and drink. By the time we had reached Puckapunyal, about two hours north of Melbourne, the bus was full of noise, rubbish, and booming egos. Even a little singing was taking place.

  The drive into the army camp was impressive. A long avenue of trees with a neat and trimmed lawn made it look like you were entering a cemetery. Everything was clean, freshly painted, and orderly. It was quiet. Several buildings appeared on the left, including the hospital. Nothing was out of place, apart from two busloads of new army recruits perhaps. The buses stopped at a brick building that was located in front of a large parade ground. There were about ten soldiers gathered on the ground, and they looked big and ugly. Their instructions for us to get off the bus were blunt and crude, but had little impact. Blokes just sauntered off. An attempt was made to line us up in three ranks, but this, too, was pretty hopeless. Then a square-jawed, mean-looking, six-foot-six-inch part animal, in a green uniform and wearing a beret, called out to one of the blokes.

  ‘Hey, you — yes, you — you ugly six foot of sewer sludge. Get your arse over here … now!’

  Silence fell immediately.

  The six foot of sewer sludge had been one of the chief instigators of mischief on the bus. He strolled warily over to The Beret, turned back to the mob, and winked. The Beret snarled, bared his gigantic teeth and then, with his face a full six inches from the mischief-maker, bellowed in a voice that could have been heard half a mile away.

  ‘What’s your name, boy?’

  ‘Crackbottle,’ said the boy, leaning backwards and somewhat startled.

  ‘I can’t hear ya, boy!’ barked The Beret, getting angry.

  ‘Crackbottle,’ shouted the boy.

  ‘You got balls, boy?’ sneered The Beret.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the boy.

  ‘Call me sir again and I’ll eat ya fuck’n balls for breakfast … slowly,’ said The Beret, now very red in the face. He was shaking with anger. I was worried that he might thump the boy.

  ‘Whatsya full name, boy?’ spat The Beret, his nose three inches from the boy’s face.

  ‘Kenneth Crackbottle!’ yelled the boy, who was now attempting to stand at attention and still leaning back at a precarious angle. He looked like a dead body in a coffin that was standing up, rested against a wall. His wide grins and loud-mouthed behaviour had disappeared. He had a stupid stare on his face. It was from fear, not alcohol.

  ‘We gotta girl called Ken Crackbottle, Sergeant,’ said The Beret, turning to another monster in a green uniform who had muscles on his ear lobes.

  ‘Yes, Corporal,’ said Sergeant Big Ears, then added, ‘Crackbottle, your number is 3788324, you are in D Company, 11 Platoon, hut 22, bed 6. Move, you fuck’n moron.’ The sergeant’s gigantic mouth was stretched open wide. It would have held two cricket balls.

  ‘March, Crackbottle,’ snarled The Beret.

  Poor Kenneth Crackbottle strutted off in haste, not having a clue what was going on or where he was going. He looked like a circus clown, his arms swinging too high, his knees coming halfway up his chest. It looked funny, but no one laughed.

  ‘Double up, ya dopey prick, Crackbottle,’ shouted another well-muscled Uniform with a neck like a Hereford bull. Consequently, Crackbottle started to run across the parade ground. Suddenly a booming, dignified voice came over the public address system.

  ‘Get that horrible man off my parade ground.’

  Poor Kenneth Crackbottle: he had a look of bewildered terror on his face. He copped abuse no matter which direction he headed in.

  Meanwhile, The Beret and Big Ears were calling others up. By the time it came to me, there were 25 bodies running everywhere. I stopped, and politely asked a Uniform where I had to go.

  ‘You’ve been told. Now fuck off,’ he replied.

  Amid this confusion, a familiar voice reverberated from the public address system.

  ‘Come back, you morons, and line up beside the buses … now!’

  It was Sergeant Big Ears. We formed a much better three-ranks and stood in complete silence, very still and alert. There was no more bravado; we were like a frightened bunch of kids. The Beret stood very erect and spoke clearly, efficiently, and very loudly.

  ‘I will call your name. You will step forward and receive a card with your details and directions. You will move quickly and quietly to your hut, and stand beside your bed.’

  He paused, eyeing us,

  ‘Any man caught talking, and I will have his fuck’n guts for garters.’

  When my name was finally called, I found my hut and bed in about ten minutes. The huts were surrounded by screenings normally used for road building; there was no sign of grass anywhere. There appeared to be dozens of these buildings uniformly laid out. All of them were immaculately clean, fresh, and sterile. Each hut held sixteen blokes. It was divided into four rooms, with no doors except for a front and back. Each cubicle or room had four beds and four wardrobes. Everything was new and bland. I found my bed and sat on the mattress. The hut quickly filled, and no one spoke. We didn’t even introduce ourselves to each other.

  Suddenly, the front door opened. In walked yet another green monster. He had a head like an Easter Island statue, with huge nostrils and a South African accent. He stopped at the bloke in the front right bed, just inside the door.

  ‘Every toime some warn form the Ormy walks in this door you shout stund to! Is thort cleaor?’ he shouted at this bloke, whose name was Vic Tamower.

  ‘Yes sir, ah Mr, ah Captain … your h…?’ stuttered Vic, saluting, bowing, and almost throwing a curtsey.

  ‘Thar wrist off you lesson in, I arm a corporeal, your fork’n corporeal. You borstards or recruits are the lowest form of liofe on this fork’n orth, you or not Ormy, is thort cleaor?’ No response. Then, at our stunned silence, Nostrils added, ‘I corn’t hear you, gorls. Is thort cleaor?’

  ‘Yes, Corporal,’ was the meek reply from those few who understood this alien misfit.

  ‘Did oy heaor a frorg jorst fort? Corn’t heaor yor, gorls.’

  ‘Yes, Corporal,’ we shouted.

  ‘Grarb wart civvy geaor you’ve gort and line orp on the porth out the fork’n frornt. Move!’ he demanded as he strutted outside, past poor Vic Tamower, who threw him another salute and then ducked, half-expecting a back-hander.

  What was civvy gear? What damn language was this ox muttering? No one was game enough to ask Corporal Nostrils. So we whispered amongst ourselves and then decided it was the possessions we had brought onto the bus. Nostrils heard the whispers, and his ugly, elongated head reappeared back in the doorway. Vic Tamower nearly fainted, and forgot to say ‘stand to’.

  ‘The next pruck (he always said pruck) I heaor whisporing I will tear out his tong, roll it orp, and shove it fair orp his leaft fork’n norstril,’ sneered Corporal Nostrils. I think he meant that.

  Outside, we stood like contorted statues. Some were very stiff and upright; others held their chins up like it was time for an Adam’s apple inspection. We had formed a single line. Nostrils took a deep breath and bellowed: ‘Form the leaft, nermber.’

  Silence. Someone must have looked at our ugly corporal with pleading eyes.

  ‘Don’t lork at me. Lork at the frornt, you fork’n horrible little mourn. From the leaft nermber, you dorm prucks!’ he said, eyes glaring, nostrils flaring.

  ‘One … two … three … four …’ we started to catch on until the last person said ‘sixteen.’

  ‘That was fork’n horpeless. Let’s troy it agoin shall we, gorls?’ said Nostrils.

  Ten minutes later, we had it perfect. From the left, the numbers shot out of our mouths like rapid fire. Pleased, or at least without a snarl, he asked us to turn right. Strange, it appeared half of us didn’t know our right from our left hand. After several explosions of, ‘Fork me dronk and fork me dead,’ somehow we turned right and were marched to the Q-store (quartermaster’s store)
. Our civvies were handed in, and we were issued with a set of greens, undies, socks, and boots. We changed on the spot to make sure the boots fitted; nothing else mattered. We were marched back to our hut, with Nostrils making strange loud noises like the mating call of a South African glebe duck.

  ‘Ep, ep, ep, orp, ep. Dorn’t lork down, gorls. Keep in steep.’

  At the hut, we were told to fall out. We turned in all directions, bumping into each other and really upsetting Nostrils.

  ‘As you whore, you dorm prucks.’

  Then, about ten minutes later, with Nostrils screaming, ranting, and bellowing the foulest language I’d ever heard, we were proficient at ‘falling out’.

  Already our hut was like a little safe house. But no sooner had we gotten inside and started our first hesitant conversations than another strange, high-pitched voice bellowed, ‘On parade, 11 Platoon!’

  This came from a red-headed freak, much taller than any monsters we’d seen that day. Yes, they were getting taller. He had a head like a giant strawberry, with pinched eyes and a very wide mouth. After much abuse and shouting, we formed up as a platoon.

  ‘I’m your platoon sergeant,’ said Sergeant Big Red. ‘When I say jump, you say how high. When I say shit, you say where.’

  If this was the depth of intellect demanded by the army, I was content. Big Red was easy to understand.

  ‘Get these girls to the mess, Corporal,’ he added.