Story 5 - Two Short Stories on Frank
By
Peter Brown, 110 Sig Sqn, South Vietnam
(18 Dec 1967 - 19 Dec 1968)
Story 1 -
Frank loses another one of his nine lives
Story 1 -
Frank is a Korean War
veteran. He was a large man tall and solidly built, well-muscled,
fitting the idea of a bronzed ANZAC that most of us held of
ourselves, true or otherwise. Encased within his
slightly greying temples was the mind of a cunning barrack room
lawyer. Added to those qualities Frank was a devious
bastard, giving our military overlords a hard time at every
opportunity and we loved him for it. Backed by years
of experience he avoided more trouble that he had to explain away
although having said that he didn’t rise through the ranks as fast
as one might expect.
Frank and a select few of
his mates were entitle to wear the colour patch of the US Unit Medal
of Honour won whilst he was an Infantry man in Korea. Those
that serve in that unit today are entitled to wear the patch and
those that served in it at the time wear it at all the times. This
for some reason seemed to get up the noses of the hierarchy. However
without the skills and experience that these veterans from Korea and
the Malaya confrontation, brought with them to Vietnam, we Signalers
and other less combat orientated Corps may have suffered far higher
losses than we did.
He and a lot of his mates
were caught up in one of those cyclic `peace in our time’ episodes
that afflict our political masters from time to time. The
Armed forces were downsizing. Frank elected to change
from Infantry to Signals and take advantage of the adult trade
training schemes that were then operating. He changed
trade to Technician Electronic and that’s how I came to meet him.
We shared shifts and various advanced courses. I was
just 21 years old and a total of four years’ experience - two of
those were almost entirely full time trade training and the
remaining as a shift technician looking after long distant High
Frequency Military radio circuits. This experience was one of the
reasons I was posted to South Vietnam. I never got to
use it but that’s another story.
Frank nearly came to a
premature end one afternoon and I cannot tell a lie it was I that
nearly precipitated his name onto the memorial wall. The
natives were getting restless, they did that, on an off, in 1968,
and the powers that be decided that guards were to be doubled and
outlying bunkers manned. Frank was suffering one of
his periodic rotations back to Signalman, so it came about that I,
in the lordly rank of Corporal (temporary of course), and Signalman
Frank were teamed up to do the first shift.
It was during the briefing
and whilst we were looking at the bunker that both Frank and I
started to get worried. It was just after the rainy
season and a few months since the bunker had been serviced. As
a consequence it had been over grown by bamboo, it was obvious to us
that the only clear visibility was back over the camp. Even
my rudimentary grasp of military tactics worked out that this was
probably not the obvious line of advance for enemy troops. We had
bought with us our issue of one machete each and were quite prepared
to cut the offending foliage down. Frank took the
initiative and asked permission to burn or cut down the offending
foliage there probably being a only few meters of it from bunker to
wire and after that it should have been a clear observation line
forwards and up the beach line. We considered this a
hot but relatively easy task that we were all too willing to
undertake. Imagine our surprise when we were refused
permission! Frank expressed his opinion in what I thought, was for
him, and remarkably constrained language. There
followed one of those amazing officer me boss you man type exchanges
that defy description but routinely litter the path of military
yarns.
“Can we clear the bamboo ?”
we ask
“No” they say
“Why Not ?”
“I said so”
“Perhaps if we went out and
had a look and if we’re have a problem then can we then clear it ?”
we try a more agreeable approach. Fat chance.
“No”
No amount of logical
discussion can convince our bosses that, should we run into trouble.
The opposition would be only a few meters away when we exchanged
military greetings. This may well negated the point of
having us up there in the first place. I mean what’s
the point of having a forward observation post if you can’t see
forward. And what’s the point of giving them the use
of a sandbagged bunker? I hear you asking and well you
might.
This was idiotic however we
had reached the `me boss you military peasants” stage and the `book’
was being mentioned. You know the one `failed
to obey a lawful command’ edition quite a good read if you have
time. Frank indicated to me that we should shut up and
push off. We started off across seventy or so yards of clear sand to
the bam-booed in bunker. He may not have been as
unobtrusive with this signal as we thought and this probably
contributed to Franks continuing woes and legal discussions. (The
bring your own mat type)
We took with us a `K’ phone
to connect the `Don 10’ line through to `EMU’ switch assured as we
were that every call would be given absolute priority.
Yer right. Well
considering what we were doing they may well have given extra
consideration to our buzz. A box of 7.62 millimeter
ammunition in canvas ready to use bandoleers, ten rounds in two five
round clips in each canvas holster. Speed loaders would have been
handy but can’t have every thing. And finally two extra magazines
each. This being the generous contribution of the Q Store who, if
one had a suspicious mind and I did, may have worked out that if
push came to shove they would have had to bring it out to us under
fire. Incentive and self preservation being the mother of all
invention they were getting in ahead of time. A few hand grenades
were included. Well maybe the grenades fell off
the back of a truck.
Frank and I definitely did
not have incendiary devices of any sort, I swear. But I admit we
were not happy vegamiters. They watched us all the way across which
I thought was jolly white of them. Until I found out
that they were not watching over us but checking to see if we had
machetes with us. We didn’t but only because they had
made it plain that that would have been considered disobedience.
(We may have remarked, later, that you can’t actually
have disobedience until there is an act of disobedience. I
notice that some of the older men still seem to pine for the dumb
insolence days they probably think things went down hill when the
whipping triangle went out).
As we started across I said
to Frank “from here on in you’re the Boss”
“understood” he replied
“put a round in” I asked?
“yer” he said “I have a bad
feeling about this”
Having already put on a full
20 round magazine we both grasped the cocking handle pulled the
working parts to the rear and released. Allowing the
bolt and slide to snap forward under return-spring power. This
action cocked the trigger hammer and on returning, lifted from the
magazine a live round fitting it into the chamber and locking it in
place. Basic training required that all soldiers check
that the safety lever is on safe before and after this action which
we both did. This, of course, did wonders for my normally
pessimistic state of mind. However we arrived at the
bunker without incident and I hooked up the phone using the two
wires that had been left there for that purpose. Wonder
of wonders it worked and I reported the bunker manned. Meanwhile
Frank took a look around and I joined him. Therein we
discovered that visibility was worse than we had feared. We could
not see any thing in the forward direction at all. It
was bloody hopeless. Frank said he was going out side
for a look to see how far the wire was away from our position using
these fateful words.
“Cover me Brownie I’ll go
out and have a look”. Hey he should have known better.
Every where you looked, inland, was either covered in
smoke or had green and yellow tracer rounds floating up from
invisible and obvious clashes with the enemy. The
sounds and sights of battle were all around us and I was still as
green as horse dung. Here was frank a very experienced
soldier asking me to cover him whilst he went forward. One
or both of us had lost sight of sanity. It was Frank
and he was about to pay for that.
He struggled out through the
bamboo found the barbed wire and followed it to the corner and
around for about five meters and discovered that it was only this
few square meters or so that was causing us grief. He started back
and all his previous trials and tribulations faded into
insignificance. He found a trip fare, one of the few
that the monkeys hadn’t set off, he found it the way the enemy was
supposed to, the hard way. By stepped on the wire
trip. In the movies these things just sound like a
tupenny bunger. In real life they sound like a howitzer shell.
A trip flare is basically a
tin can full of magnesium designed to provide a bright light for a
short duration. It is set off by an unwary foe or
friend or animal or anything heavier than a spider and sometimes the
bigger spiders will manage it. They encounter a very fine wire tied
at one end to a fixed object and at the other end to a safety pin.
Which when it is withdrawn (by the said unwary encounter) releases a
spring loaded firing pin creating a spark thus starting off the
proceedings. Or in other words it is a very efficient
bright fire.
Fire? In a
bamboo thicket I hear you saying isn’t that a bit dangerous? You
bet. The flare starts the bamboo on fire, quite a good fire as it
happens. In a later life I spend some time with the
Bush Fire Brigade and learn to appreciate the finer sides of fires.
The bright yellow and burnt orange colours, blending
in a shimmering heat haze with boiling grey black smoke.
These were not characteristics, I suspect, properly
appreciated by Frank at this particular time in his life. Picture
for the moment what has occurred, Frank has just caused a tremendous
explosion . (I am sticking to that). We are invisible
to one another. He knows what has happen but I don’t. From my point
of view he could have just been killed and I’m next. From
his point of view all is hunky-dory except for the fire and
me.His choices are
obvious and limited. In normal circumstances he could
just step out of the fire to safety. He correctly
reasons that this path will led him onto a very nervous mate and
possible death by multiple gun shot wounds.
The second choice is over
the wire, trying not to get caught in it and consequently fried by
the radiated heat. This is of course the design intention of a
barbed wire entanglement and if Murphy’s first law is to be invoked
then it will probably work right about now. The second
law was automatically invoked under these circumstances. At
other times the wire is merely an impediment to soldiers returning
undetected from a sojourn in town without the (obviously misplaced)
good wishes of our betters. Also this choice would
leave him on the other side of the wire and in sight of a lot more
and possibly trigger happy Signalers.
The other path, around the
back is now blocked by the rapidly expanding fire. To
stay is certain death to move to escape is certain death
He is in military parlance a
soldier returning from patrol towards friendly lines about to make
contact with the forward sentry. This is one of the
more hazardous periods in a soldiers life. One where a
clash of friendly forces is most likely to occur and one in which an
alert enemy can gain a serious advantage. There are, of course, well
tested procedures that make this action as safe as possible, none of
which we had thought we would need at the time. The
returning soldier or patrol has to establish that he or they are
friendly by following an agreed set of actions and then after being
positively identified they are allowed through. All of
which takes time.
In this case he has to
convince me that he is who he says he is and appeal to my better
instinct not to shoot. And do it very quickly
fat chance.
He approaches this tactical problem with unique
optimism
“B B B Brownie” he calls. This is not as silly as it sounds. I may have bugged out, It’s happen to him before. The problem would then be solved however as luck would have it I wasn’t going to desert a mate in need. (it’s still my story). I am stunned to hear my name being called having assumed Frank was dead or captured.
Thinks. `This either a ghost
or the enemy tortured him for my name. It was a very
short torture session.’ Oddly his voice didn’t sound the same, there
was a distinct nervous quality to it and it sounded a few octaves
higher than I recall. “yes” I reply firmly and confidently.
Contact has now been
established.
“OK” I call rather
redundantly as Frank rolls out of the smoke like a rotund apparition
sort of haeloed in light and smoke.
The friendly patrol has returned.
“Shit” he says “it’s bloody
hot out there”. He rolls horizontally across the
sandbag wall and falls into the bunker where he collapses onto the
floor in a coughing fit.
The two parties have
now joined forces and combine their collective firepower.
All of this probably took no
more that thirty seconds from flare to return but seemed much longer
to me. I neglected to ask Frank what his observations
were.
I thoughtfully, hand him my
water bottle and say “have a drink cobber you look a bit hot”.
Which was probably the understatement of the day. Smoke was
definitely in the air. The fire started to gather
strength and move towards the bunker. It got hotter and hotter our
eyes watered and it was hard to breath we recognise the initial
symptoms of asphyxiation. So throwing caution to the
wind we leave and set up our position outside.
Frank inquirers “you got the
safety on” indicating his experienced expectations of events as they
unfolded. “yes” I reply sereptishisly shifting it
back from ‘fire’ to `safe’ whilst making out that I am overtly
checking safety.
We both glance back towards
camp and are startled to see large numbers of men taking up firing
positions and looking in our direction. We also hear
the phone for the first time, it is ringing and probably has been
for some time. I crawl back in side pick up the handset and answer
“bunker”.
“What the F*%#$ hell is
going on up there” a voice shouts loudly. At this
stage in Australian swearing evolution the F word is not used very
often so one can conclude they are seriously worried. “It’s
fine were OK” I reply facetiously “
stepped on a trip flare and started a fire” I continue.
“Well why didn’t you ring and say so” was the not
unreasonable question in the circumstances. It
seems that the entire camp was being turned out in the face of an
enemy attack. In truth I hadn’t thought of the bloody
phone or what the rest of them may have thought of the sight of us,
and say so. Although somebody could have popped across
and asked. It wasn’t far and it wasn’t unusual for the
phones to fail. A lot of angst for the rest of the
camp may have been avoided. Pigs have been known to
fly.
We wait for the fire to burn
itself out and return to the bunker to continue our four hour shift.
When the smoke clears, and it does rather quickly, we
observe that we can see a lot further and that is obviously why the
bunker was sited there in the first place. We are
pleased with the unexpected outcome. Every shift that
comes up comments that we did a good job. They obviously think we
engineered it that way and so do others of not so reasonable ilk.
Unbeknown to us the story of
our disagreement with the leadership had traveled around the
detachment and probably been enhance a little each time it was told.
As I head back to the COMMCEN to complete my normal shift I can see
Frank in the Troop OC’s office. I can’t hear what is
being said however he doesn’t look happy. Later he
explains that his explanation of the trip flare being accidentally
stood on is not believed and he is accused of deliberately starting
a fire contrary to explicit dick headed instructions. Since
I told the original story and he backs it up it is apparent that a
formal Military hearing is pointless however there are ways and
means to even things up and we are definitely on the bottom of the
food chain. Why him and not me is a mystery best left
to the leadership manual. Frank is not pleased and the above story
may help explain the following stories but then again may not, Frank
had his moments and it was best not to inquirer to closely.
How did Frank lose one of
his nine lives? Well if you look through the rear peep
sight of the 7.62mm L1A1 rifle (AKA SLR), down towards the front
leaf sight which has been protected by two offset steal braces.
Then, with smoke highlighting a target, it creates a nice halo
effect around the subject matter. Quite pretty really, in an
artistic sort of way. Make a nice picture?
Story 2 - Frank and the case of the disappearing Pistols
Now as has been previously
explained Frank had taken exception to some members of the hierarchy
or was it all of them on principal, possibly all of them. Anyway
things had been quiet for a while and the boys had slacked off a
bit, in the military discipline department, that
is. This naturally caused great consternation at the
regular gatherings of our military leaders. Or so they
would have us believe. There followed a series of
equipment inspections and lo and behold some of us were carrying
weapons that belonged to other soldiers, by serial number that is.
How that should happen to sober well behaved bunch of
Australian manhood is a mystery to this day.
We were all issued our
weapons from the `Q’ store and any thing that had a serial number
were signed for by serial number and became the soldier’s
responsibility until it was handed back. There were
also other signs of obvious slackness which in retrospect we should
,just slightly, feel guilty over. And that was the
boys were not carrying weapons at all times. Still
give the bastards a yard and they’ll take a kilometer. So
it came to pass, that various warnings on parade and in the work
place did not improve matters.
Thus began a series of
Military charges (AAF A4 pages were considerately provided by a
concerned military administration in books of about one hundred.
God knows how much essential beer was diverted from
the supply line to put this crap on board). Officially
these actions were designed to get moral and discipline back on
schedule. The wording on official correspondence goes
something like this. You are charged under AMR&O 203 paragraph XXIV,
in that (insert your serial number and name in the space
provided) did `whilst on active service’ at Vung Tau on (insert
date) `failed to obey unit routine orders’. In that
you failed to carry a weapon as required in unit Routine Orders
(insert RO number and paragraph). The bit about `on
active service’ gives a Company Commander or a designated
responsible officer roughly double their normal peacetime powers of
punishment. This charge usually earned 7 days
`confined to barracks’ a punishment designed not only to restrict
normal leave (if any) but to put the defaulter on extra work
parties. Thus freeing the more well behave soldiers
from these tedious house keeping tasks. Well behaved?
As time moved on there was
no improvement so the Camp Commandant decreed that this was now a
prevalent offence this gave Company Commanders access to the to the
much feared `Field Punishment’ and up to 7 days in the Military
Correction Prison (MCE). Those that know say the MCE
was preferred to field punishment, I guess the ministrations of
professionals were better than that of rank amateurs.
However our bosses were as
slack as we the workers, and were silly enough to let us see this.
Them that considered themselves a `boss’ had the
luxury of being issued with a pistol, a considerably easier weapon
to carry than a rifle although bloody useless if push came to shove.
Still it was observed by the various work crews that
Officers were leaving their weapons in the office after departing.
This naturally irked us as here we were getting
screwed for doing the same thing and they were just ignoring the
rules. Or one rule for us and another for them. So in
finally came to pass that one of the pistols was confiscated by the
duty piquet (one of us) and written up in the log book.
We awaited the outcome with
more than usual interest. As expected the whole matter
was white washed and swept under the rug. Our anger at
this must have reached official ears and to ease back on the
pressure they decreed that all was forgiven and this was to be
sealed with an all ranks games night. Kissing and
hugging amongst solders was still frowned upon under the said
AMR&O’s. The actual mechanism for this was to be an
Officers Sergeants versus the rest games night in the Sandbaggers
Inn. A not too fowl a stratagem and one that we
approved of. It is difficult to order a soldier to be
happy but that doesn’t stop the occasional fool trying this was a
better method.
The games night took place
after work ceased and the dinner parade. Mostly this was play darts
or skittles and drink beer and or spirits. The night progressed
without incident and as closing time rolled closer both parties
seemed to get more inebriated than normal and regressed into human
beings. The duty officer finally convinced all and
general that it was past lights out and we should all leave. He
did this by the simple act of shutting the lights off. We
depart towards our various quarters when I discover that Frank is
not as pissed as he had appeared earlier on in the night. We
and a few from my hut had lurked back to see if we could scrounge
one last drink. And that’s when Frank discovered that our bosses had
departed full of liquid bohemia minus their pistols which were still
draped over the gun rack at the entrance to the Sandbaggers. A
few guys said they would take em over to the Sergeants Mess and one
slyly suggested that we take them to the duty officer. It
was probably this that set Frank off but nobody guessed that for
some time. We had a general discussion, there’s lots
of generals in a war, far too many if you ask me. As
things happen the discussion waned, we wearied and pushed off
towards our beds which most of us reached. Those that didn’t just
made themselves comfortable in the sand and hoped they didn’t get
eaten alive by the local bugs.
It was at the morning parade
that we noticed something was amiss. The normal parade
leaders were missing or at least seen to be hiding out of sight.
A few Sergeants were seen to appear from behind the
Recreation hut, quickly tip toe across the left flank of the parade
into the Sandbaggers and just as quickly disappear back the same
way. We were a bit dry tongued and didn’t take much
notice until a Junior NCO was designated to take the parade and told
to march us off to normal work. This was achieved by a
voice from inside the orderly room hut or, out of
sight. The actual tasking of a junior NCOs to take the
parade was not all that unusual and we attached no particular cause
to it other than to speculate that our leaders were a bit hung over
and to that we were not unsympathetic. The pistols had
slipped from memory like an empty beer can.
It was about morning tea
time that we noticed that our buddies of the night before were
getting agitated and appeared to be missing all signs of personal
weapons. Finally they broke the silence and confessed they had
misplaced their weapons. Those that had suffered under the weight of
righteous military justice were seen to disappear around behind
buildings. From which the sound of non to disguised
laughter could be heard. We who had an inkling of what
might have happened kept our council. Later we asked
Frank who, in a voice of `butter wont melt in my mouth’ claimed that
he had just gone to bed with the rest of us. And in
all honesty who could say otherwise not I that’s for sure. Lunch
came and passed still no weapons. All through the
morning our leaders can be seen lifting and poking into things that
they would not normally have lowered themselves to be seen at.
We assume that they came
back picked up their pistols and once again misplaced them probably
in the sergeants mess. We send a volunteer to observe
the mess and see if he can solve the problem for them,
no they were nowhere in plain sight at least. Afternoon
tea rolls around the quiet is becoming deafening. Finally
a luckless emissary chosen from the bosses admits that they have
misplaced their weapons and if anyone has seen them to please
indicate where they might be. Nobody has or more to
the point is willing to confess. This is getting
serious. Knock off parade comes and passes with no
further inkling as to the whereabouts of said guns. The
sandbaggers Inn opens on time there being no movies that night the
topic of conversation, of course, was the missing weapons. Frank
maintains his innocence and since it (the discovery of the weapons)
was after lights out nobody actually knows what had happened.
One of the troops pipes up and explains that he overheard
them discussing closing the sandbaggers until the missing weapons
are found. We discuss this startling information and
couple it with the fact that we had been hassled for the last five
or so weeks about weapon security. Here were our high
and mighty bosses asking us for help to find their weapons and no
doubt wanted us to keep quiet about it. We were
unimpressed!. The night wore on and we resolved to be
unhelpful even if we could.
The next morning on parade a
chastened SSM explains on behalf of all the bosses that he
understood that it was a good joke to nick the weapons but it had
gone far enough and if they were left somewhere obvious nothing more
would be said. He missed the point, some said
deliberately but I ‘m not so sure, he could have been thick. We
had been hassled and hazed for weeks over this very same thing. Now,
they, our leaders whom we look to for leadership and as an example
of good soldiery were committing the same offence and expecting us
to help cover it up. We notice that a weapons
inspection had been missed from both morning parades. I
suspect that if you looked at us from the front of the parade there
would have been a few smiles to be seen. It had not
escaped our notice, either, that we had not had any visitors from
senior officers of the Camp Commandant variety nor was there any
scheduled conferences.
This of course had enabled
our weaponless bosses to escape detection but their luck must be
running out, they knew it and we knew it. Our mirth
increased in leaps and bounds. The day moved on and
the tension was increasing it was now obvious to all that the
weapons had been hidden or stolen. The most obvious
culprit was Frank and it was obvious from their body language that
they thought so as well. Frank maintained an outwardly
calm facade of injured innocence one possibly honed by long
practice. We are paraded at knock off time and told
the boozer was closed until the weapons turned up further if they
did not and an investigation was carried out the guilty parties
would face charges of stealing weapons. This carried
some weight with us as all Australian soldiers had been
indoctrinated to expect harsh punishment for any loss of weapons
offence. We started to worry a bit, if the weapons had
fallen into the wrong hands then we probably contributed to that by
not securing the guns when we first found them.
The discussions continued
over a quiet beer, we had our own extra keys. Good
heavens these minor inconveniences to the drinking man had happened
before and contingency plans had long been in effect. And
provided we didn’t make too much noise nobody would know or so we
thought. The real problem discussed, and nobody
doubted that the weapons must be returned. Nobody
doubted that one of us was probably responsible. The
problem was the location of said weapons there not being a lot of
truly good hiding places and even less that we did not know about.
No the really disturbing possibility was dawning on
us; there was only one place that had not been considered or
searched and that was that they had been dumped down the dunnies.
There was not one person that was in any doubt at all
as to who was going to get the job of searching these places. That
was if or when it dawned on the leadership that this was a likely
place for dumping these things.
Dunnies, you recall, are not
those pristine porcelain palaces of pleasure that mummy keeps clean
for you. No! They are not, or in any
case not with our army in the field. They are large
holes in the ground. You do get a place to sit even the army can
think of that, probably because every one gets a reminder once or
twice a day, officers included. You may also recall
why the tropics are called the tropics. It’s because
it’s bloody hot about 38-40 deg. C, for most of the day and half the
night. These things respond to temperatures such as
this by emitting a truly revolting smell. If you were
just a little off colour then a visit to the dunny finished you off
as most of us had found out. The thought of delving
into the bowels (sorry couldn’t help myself) - of these wonders of
modern building technology put a severe dampening effect on the
euphoria of having a beer when we shouldn’t have been able to.
We slip away into the night unfortunately we have forgotten
to empty the garbage can into the dumpster. An over
active senior discovers that last nights empty has been filled with
pre-loved beer cans, a serious oversight on our part. One which we
find difficult to explain since the inconsiderate bastards question
us before sober up time.
We get alarmed when one of
the seniors is seen in the riggers hut getting lengths of stiff wire
and disappearing into a dunny. We surmise, with all of
our engineering experience, that this is a probe and could only be
used for one purpose. Our suspicions are confirmed by
a senior who explains with a certain amount of malicious pleasure
that work parades will be formed from selected volunteers. The
object of said volunteers would be to spend all off duty hours
searching the dunnies for lost weapons. There being no
ration of beer and under the close eye of the duty officer to ensure
there really is no issue of said coldies. We discuss the downward
turn of events with some enthusiasm. We are in general
agreement that the situation had to change; we were in danger of
sobering up. And the thought of the next mornings work
parade was too awful to think about. We put the word
around that either guns turn up or if we have to search and in the
process discover who let us in for this and that they in turn would
find life difficult.
Next morning, at the work
parade, we are left in no doubt that after a short break for real
work, we volunteers would be delving vigorously in the shit for the
missing pistols.
The deliverance from this
task was not due to any loss of resolve, well it might have been.
Somebody was walking past the recreation hut and
looked in through the window. There’s no glass so
there’s no reflection problems. Layout on a table in
the middle of the hut was all these pistols, holsters and web belts!
How could we have missed them I hear you ask as well you
might?
2013