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Well Done, Those Men

Memoirs of a Vietnam Veteran

Scribe Publications Pty Ltd

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.

Nostrils snapped to attention, spun like a mechanical robot, and screamed further foreign-language insults that most of us still didn't understand. Then, with Nostrils cursing, hissing, and muttering death threats, we were marched to an enormous building that looked like a concert hall. The mess was not what I assumed: it was where we ate, all five hundred of us. The food was good — although, over time, you never admitted it. This was sort of an army tradition we learned very quickly, which got right up the cook's nose. We had soup, a main meal, sweets, tea, coffee, milk, and juice. It only took minutes to feed hundreds at a time. I had never seen such efficiency and organisation. During the meal we experienced our first sign of civility; some army bloke asked us if the meal was OK. Perhaps the worst was over?

After tea, we marched back to our hut. There were blankets and toiletries on the bed. It had been a big day, and now it was late. I had been up since 4.30am, and was looking forward to an early night. I wondered if most of the blokes wanted to go home to their mum like I did.

All of a sudden, a terrified Vic Tamower shouted, 'Stand to!'

It was Nostrils. We were being marched back to the Q-store to get all our gear. This time it would be fitted. About an hour later, back in the hut, we were shown how to set out our locker and make a bed. Then we were told to shower and to be bedded down by 10.00pm for lights out, with no talking. At 10.00pm a trumpet played a tune I vaguely remembered from somewhere. I was too tired to care.

Before dawn the next morning, we were woken by more damn trumpet stuff. Then in walked Nostrils, bellowing as he walked through the hut.

'Wakey wakey, honds off snaky, git out orf thort fort sack, shower, shit, shave ornd be reedy in yor PT geaor in fifteen minutes.'

We understood that. We rushed frantically to clean ourselves up and be out the front in time. One bloke was late.

'Geave me ten, you horrible fork'n little mourn,' said Nostrils.

Dutifully, Snoggons got down and tried to do ten push-ups. We had to count each one. Almost in tears, he managed to finish. We stood for ages in our PT gear. This was to be a familiar pattern in the army.

'Wort a horreable forking soight,' sneered Nostrils in disgust.

Fair comment. Couldn't blame the ugly blighter, really. There we were, lined up in polished black sandshoes, an army jumper, and the strangest shorts I have ever seen. They were a baggy Bermuda-style that was left over from the Second World War; only our snow-white calf muscles were visible under the wide-bottomed shorts. Most of us didn't have calf muscles anyway. Ironically, the shorts would be a hit with today's skateboarding kids.

Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, there appeared a bouncing, leaping ball of physical fitness. His white singlet and shorts looked like they had been painted on; there were bulges everywhere. It was freezing. But this ape-like bundle of muscle didn't seem to notice.

'Follow me at the double,' grunted The Ape.

His jaw jutted up and down in a puppet-like movement, and his long arms almost dragged on the ground, the palms facing up. We ran, falling and stumbling, to an area set out for physical training. The Ape made us sit down on the cold ground. He pranced over to a chin-up bar, jumped up, and started doing chin-ups gracefully.

'You ugly shits will have me every morning for half an hour. You will run, and run some more. You will wish you had never been fuck'n born.'

This ramble continued for five minutes. I was spellbound; not by the quality of the talk, but the feat demonstrated by this domesticated, jungle-bred ape. He had been doing chin-ups the entire time, but not a drop of sweat appeared on his baboon-like brow; only his teeth glistened. When it came to our turn to do chin-ups, over half of us couldn't do even one. Back at the hut by 7.00am, we were herded to the mess hall for breakfast. It was a hearty meal.

Nostrils had warned us to have our hut ready for inspection by someone important straight after breakfast. Desperately, we tried to set up our wardrobe like the one demonstrated the day before. Then, 'Stand to,' Vic Tamower called, with a touch more confidence. In walked Nostrils.

'Listen in. Lortonont Forlay (actually, it was Lieutenant Fairly), your plortoon commonder, will be hereor for a hort inspeaction shortlay. You will staund to attention and addreass him as "Sor". Is thort cleaor?'

'Yes, Corporal,' came the reply in unison. Finally we were getting used to his bastardised, intergalactic South African accent. Then came another 'Stand to.' Poor Vic shuddered as he received a dark glare for his efforts. Nostrils froze and gave a salute. He vibrated all over, his arm slapping back to his side. His steely eyes would have melted candles off a birthday cake.

'Hort reedy for inspeaction, Mr. Forlay, Sor,' barked Nostrils.

A sneering, cold-eyed mullet then appeared. He strutted down the passage towards my locker. Mr. Fairly (important) opened the locker door, and I thought he was going to vomit. I was about to apologise when I heard him say, 'This locker is a disgrace.'

Mr. Fairly (unimportant) looked at me as if I had leprosy. He pulled my locker forward, and all the contents fell on the floor.

'The boozer is out of bounds to this hut until further notice,' he said, spinning on his heel, returning Nostrils' salute. Then Mr. Fairly (annoying) started to walk out. He looked back to the hut and stared at us with cold, milky, mullet eyes, put his impish little nose in the air with disgust, then strutted out.

'Well dorne thut mourn,' said Nostrils cynically.

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Excerpted from Well Done, Those Men by Barry Heard. Copyright © 2007 Barry Heard. Excerpted by permission of Scribe Publications Pty Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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