W3 Company - Service Stories

Training in Malaysia - Duke Henry             [extract with permission from Duke & Alan's book]

We arrived in Malaysia at the height of the 1969 riots.  The killings that occurred between the Chinese and Malays were horrific.  This racial war was inconsequential to most of us, although Mana Fong and Charlie Lee, both Maori with Chinese ancestry, may have felt otherwise.  The plane's wheels were barely on the tarmac in Singapore and we were anticipating our introduction to the "Knock Shops" and bar girls of the infamous Terendak Strip and Malacca City.  As I stepped off the aircraft, I didn't know that at the time, but Cyrano's bar was about to become my new home for the next six months.  The infamous "Kiwi Flying Nines" [1RNZIR Transport platoon] promptly loaded us into their Bedford's for our "express" road trip to Terendak Military Camp [north of Singapore near Malacca].  Road rules in Malaya and Singapore were quite simple and in fact, there was only one: the biggest vehicles have all rights of way.  Our driver thoroughly embraced these road regs, and somewhere just beyond Johore Baru he gave us a graphic demonstration.  Up ahead of us, a local villager on a pushbike laden with a small haystack of cut grass was struggling to climb the hill.  The speed and turbulence generated by the narrowly missing convoy of Bedford trucks caused him some concern for his precarious load as he wobbled awkwardly along.  Totally pissed off, he made the big mistake of screaming some Chinese obscenities and shaking his fist at the convoy.  The Flying Nine Transport Platoon had this drill down pat and upon coming abreast of the blaspheming cyclist we slowed down.  The driver nodded to his co-driver, and like a speed brake, he swung open his door.  Fortunately, the large bundle of grass absorbed most of the impact but it was enough to catapult the protesting cyclist into the rubber trees and beyond.  Malaysia cab drivers were suicidal and they passed everything in front of them at any speed.  Blind corners and stop signs were completely ignored.  They incessantly honked their horns.  They leaned on them when they wanted to pass, they activated the honk when they wanted another car to do something and I swear they talked to each other by bleeps.  In NZ, blowing your horn at somebody usually indicated extreme displeasure and acts of road rage against the offender were common.  The locals were also extremely thrifty, and while going down hill they took advantage of gravity and turned off engine and lights to theoretically save power and fuel.  I became convinced that these guys must have been the offspring resulting from the union between local women and Kamikaze pilots during their WW2 occupation of Malaya.

Terendak was one of the best camps I have ever been stationed in.  In 1969, the British Garrison's Camp was also home to Australian, New Zealand, Gurkha, and Malaysian military units.  It was extremely well policed and controlled.  For a young soldier it provided us with almost every amenity.  Low cost beer was available at the beachfront serviceman's clubs and we couldn't have been happier.  As lowly private soldiers we were barely one step above the company's native boot boys and about two steps above the Dhobi wallahs that were employed to hand wash all military equipment and clothing for a small monthly fee.  This inexpensive system of labour eliminated all the tedious time wasting duties of washing, ironing and starching uniforms.  This also gave us almost unlimited free time and we made the most of it.  At the end of the day's activities and particularly after payday, we would rocket off to Terendak's notorious bars and brothels and get rat-assed drunk.  The next morning, I would fall out of bed, shit, shave, and shower and then slip into the immaculate uniform of the day and front up.  On days when funds were low, we would loiter around the camp's clubs trying to bludge drinks off each other and generally agonize over the probability that another trooper with a fatter wallet was slipping one into your favourite bar girl during your absence.

As I matured in the military, the training began to become more easily assimilated.  The drills that had been hammered into us over the last six months were now second nature skills.  Nevertheless, we still retained our new-boy-on-the-block status and were commonly called "Milk Bottles," because of our pale extremities and the fact that we remained untested as newly minted rifle company members.  Many of the NCOs were veterans of Malaya, Borneo, and Vietnam and proudly wore their campaign ribbons on their chests.  On parade, our naked uniforms stood out like illuminated highway signs and we felt that we were not yet worthy enough to be in the presence of the beribboned command.  In Malaya, we acquired a new platoon commander and platoon sergeant.  Stan Kidd was not the typical Kiwi lieutenant.  He was gregarious, fairly loud, and, at times, boisterous in his demeanour.  He was popular, had our interests at heart, and because he was a "Clean Skin" like the rest of us, we didn't give him much opportunity to demonstrate his potential.  However, Sergeant Dave Heywood was an entirely different kettle of fish.  At first glance he appeared to be a fairly ordinary looking guy with goofy ears and a funny, nasal voice.  He didn't openly exhibit the menacing glare or hint of malice that earlier platoon sergeants had.  As we soon found out, we were in for a big surprise.  There was no doubt that Lieutenant Kidd was the boss, but his authority was dramatically reinforced by his new platoon sergeant.  Sergeant Heywood literally ran us into the deck at every conceivable opportunity.  He was a fitness fool years before it became fashionable.  It was only when he stripped down for physical training that we could see the little fucker was deceivingly well built and he could run, jump, and fight with the best of them.  He swore like his life depended on it.  "Awww riiight you fucken cunts," was his favourite opening statement.  Surprisingly, when away from the military environment he was a quietly spoken and humble gentleman.  The icing on the cake for the 2 Platoon, was, of course, the SAS winged dagger sewn onto his dress uniform.  Dave was one of the best and he became a good friend and mentor in the years to come.

The most hated members of the Terendak establishment were the Garrison Military Police (GMP) that was composed mostly of British "Red Caps" with a smattering of Aussie and Kiwi provosts to augment their ranks.  They were bastards to a man, and along with the good old Aussies, they were the Kiwi infantryman's favourite sparring partners.  Even though we were traditional rivals, the ANZAC spirit never wavered in Malaysia and many a Kiwi and Aussie joined forces to do battle on the sports field, bars, and back alleys against our Scotch, Irish, and British brethren.  We had our priorities all squared away in those days, and both on and off the sports field competition among commonwealth forces was fierce.  No outsider dared to trespass into another battalion's drinking den unless he was prepared to go twelve rounds.  The GMP's controlled the "gates to freedom" that led to the delights awaiting us on the Terendak strip and in the bars in Malacca.  But we Kiwi's controlled the rest, or so we thought.  The Kiwi battalion lines were pretty substantial.  Parade grounds, barrack quarters, officer and SNCO's messing facilities and an excellent selection of rugby fields.  To further keep us in line we had our own Battalion and Regimental Police (RP) entities.  Assisting were the Orderly Officer, orderly sergeant and a quarter guard of JNCO's and privates.  This involved a twenty-four-hour assignment and one that we all detested.  We were so tightly scrutinized that with all this martial force arrayed against us; it was pretty damn easy to get locked up in the cells.  These people all reported to the RSM.  He was God and nothing moved without his knowledge or permission.  RSM Brighouse was a tough old boy, and in his starched British military issue uniform he looked like a green version of Sesame Street's "Big Bird."  However, his skinny and wiry body and knobbly knees gave no indication of this old boy's potential.  RSM Brighouse had served in the original NZSAS and was not a man to fuck with.  He had acquired a speech impediment and it was amusing to hear him bark, "Shettle down Sholdiers," while on battalion parade.  Speech impediment or not, he had us firmly under control and many a man spent a night in the cells because the RSM felt that his drill while on the parade ground wasn't up to speed.

One off-pay weekend as we were moping around the club playing darts and drinking cans of detestable Anchor and Tiger beer, Dave W came up with one of his remarkable revelations.  He bet anybody in the bar that he could run around the six rugby fields in some incredibly fast time.  We all took the bait and pooled our meagre resources to purchase the prize, a carton of Tiger beer.  Because of our incredible generosity, we decided to compromise with Dave and started sampling the prize before it had been won.  There was no way Dave could achieve this feat and he knew it.  Even when faced with the impossible, Dave was no quitter and drank on until his alcohol level reached his required standard for maximum performance.  He confidently belched, stood up, stripped off all his clothes and with a quick nod to the time keeper took off.  Initially, he didn't do to badly.  He galloped past the RP hut at a fairly respectable clip, but, unfortunately, in doing so, he picked up a couple of running companions, Corporals Harry Jellick and Paul Sciascia, both wearing RP uniforms and spit polished boots, fell in behind this obviously fleeing and perverted felon.  Down the main road he sprinted and the RP's had no prayer of catching naked Dave because their starched uniforms and parade boots heavily encumbered them.  I don't know who vectored on whom, but Dave's bare ass closed rapidly with two young, female British dependants walking along the footpath from the opposite direction.  His bizarre appearance rendered them speechless.  They couldn't believe what they were seeing, but they couldn't or wouldn't avert their eyes.  This proved to be Dave's undoing.  As he passed the ladies, all Sergeant Heywood's fitness training suddenly turned to jelly.  This gave Harry and Paul enough of a pause to nail him and they all ended up in a sweaty tangle of arms, legs, and a solitary set of hairy bollocks.  He spent the night in the guardhouse with a blanket as his only companion, nursing a few bruises and a raging hangover.  He lost the bet, but it was an example of the outrageous behaviour and fun we engaged in to break up the monotony of garrison life.  There was no television or other such electronic entertainment readily available on base and in those days, it was all hands on and self-generated fun.  Dave was quite a character, and along with Gannet Mullin, Scrubber Ryalls, and Bill Keach, they made our time in Terendak anything but tedious.

Terendak camp was self-contained, and support groups, such as a helicopter squadron, were also tenants on the base.  Lush jungle and rubber plantations completely surrounded the place, making it an ideal training facility for jungle operations.  On a typical day, we would parade as a company in the morning, take our anti-malaria tablets and account for all hands.  We would either move to the numerous weapons ranges, or head for the jungle areas to perfect our bush skills.  Everything we needed was conveniently located and could be accessed by foot.  One aspect of the indispensable training that had been developed by the Battalion Training Wing were the presentations given by the rifle company that had just returned from a year in Vietnam of their actual contacts and incidents they had experienced.  They would be dressed in authentic uniforms and weapons and often in the very position or role they had during the original contact, Sgt Sam Christie and his boys would walk and talk us through the re-enactments.  We were totally engrossed and well aware that men had died and military reputations were won and lost in bringing these lessons home to us.  We would then move off in section, platoon or company formations into the neighbouring ulu and, under their supervision, practice and perfect the skills and techniques they brought to us.  Weapons skills were also paramount to our survival.  We were required to qualify with the previously mentioned SLR, the General Purpose Machine Gun, WWII British Bren Gun, now chambered for 7.62 X 51 NATO, M79 40 MM grenade launcher and the light weight, but lethal, M-16 rifle.  I preferred the heavier SLR, because it was capable at any range and the heavy bullet bucked the bush better than the 5.56.  However, within its optimum operational range, the M-16 was devastating on soft tissue.  For us peons the weapon selection was not a choice and other than the Command element and signallers we all had an SLR as personal weapon.  All facets of training were included.  Weapons stoppages, malfunctions, immediate action drills, known distance, close country, and jungle lane shoots were only part of the lexicon of combat.  It was sinful to fail any of this instruction and your penance could well mean your trip to Vietnam would be delayed up to six months until you achieved acceptable levels of performance.  Punishment for habitual failures could be severe and having a negligent discharge with a weapon would cost the miscreant 21 days in the cells automatically.

Lieutenant Kidd got the word and he was called up as a replacement officer for Vietnam.  Understandably, he was pretty pleased by this, but we were bloody envious.  As a farewell gesture, Stan wanted a beach BBQ with his boys.  He was the boss and, more importantly, he was fronting up for the food and drink, so we all enthusiastically supported the idea.  Dave Heywood sorted out the details and we ended up on a beautiful Malaysian beach miles from civilization, drinking Anchor beer and generally getting rat assed drunk.  Stan was doing his best to entertain the group with his guitar.  For some obscure, alcohol driven reason, several of the boys had dug a six-foot deep "grave" in the sand earlier in the morning.  I am not sure if it was Stan's choice of music or song or the content of his farewell speech, but suddenly the gravediggers rioted and our fair leader ended up head-first in the hole with his guitar.  Sergeant Dave took serious exception to this and restored order and respect for Stan by quickly distributing a few upper­cuts and left hooks among the crew until we all settled down.  Our leader's dignity was restored but the party was over.  Lieutenant Kidd departed for his destiny and within the week we had a replacement officer.  [Six months later, while serving with Victor 4 Company in SVN, Lieutenant Stan Kidd was killed in action. This incident occurred only weeks before the conclusion of the V4 Coy tour of duty]

Lieutenant Bobby Upton was a damn big bastard and looked like a front row prop for the All Blacks rugby team.  Standing in front of us with his hands on his hips, we privately wished that good old Stan Kidd were there instead.  Bobby gave us a stirring talk and we all quickly realised that times had indeed changed.  Later on, we found out that Bob's father had been a Warrant Officer in the infantry and his family had a tradition of military service.  Whiskey 3 Company was sent up to the Cameron Highlands of Malaysia, where the altitude was higher and the climate considerably cooler, for a week of health and recreation.  I think it was for a training wind down, but it also provided us with a welcome opportunity to operate without being bathed in sweat.  It was a sound medical decision and many of us managed to heal and get rid of numerous lurgies that the tropics can inflict on you.  Somehow Sergeant Dave didn't get the message and the change in scenery was merely an opportunity to charge up and down more bloody big hills.  Within the first week, we came to hate the road around the golf course with a vengeance.

Back in Terendak, the training continued without letup.  One of the quarterly requirements was the 10-mile, Battle Efficiency Test (BFT).  In Terendak the BFT were administered by the PTI's and they were conducted in the general camp area.  We would front up early before the dreaded sun came out and pound along the red clay back roads until we ended up at the six-foot wall, rope climb, and long jump.  On this particular morning, Ben Tenamu, with most of the platoon and I, fronted up reeking of alcohol and suffering from megaton hangovers.  For some reason, Sergeant Dave was not the least sympathetic and after a vicious ass chewing, we (buuurp) got underway.  We ran as a platoon and that was the end of the story.  No one dared fallout with Sergeant Dave hovering over us.  We commenced our Tactical Approach to the Battlefield (TAB) by mixing the pace with run, walk, run segments until it was over.  Unfortunately, our stocky Platoon Commander had only been in-country for a couple of weeks or had not had sufficient time to acclimatise.  After several miles, he was in a bad way and started to buckle.  Ben and I latched onto him and under a glare of disapproval from Sergeant Dave, we assisted our boss to the finish line - albeit at a walking pace and an hour behind the main body.  It was in the traditional Western military spirit of leave no one behind that motivated us and it was a great, but painful way to sober up.  Our Malaya jungle training had reached its conclusion, and most of the guys had made the grade.  We were confident that we were prepared mentally and physically for the real thing.

During this period of preparation, Sergeant Dave decided to get married, and for some mysterious reason, Peaches Brown, Rex Ryan, and I were invited to the Chinese wedding reception.  Dave's new wife, Susan, and her in-laws were Chinese and from Kuala Lumpur.  We sat down and tried our best to behave during the celebration and Dave, uncharacteristically, was smiling and in a friendly and relaxed mood.  Although we had spent six raucous months in Asia and had considerable bar and brothel experience, we were completely ignorant of the lifestyle and customs of the majority of the Malaysian and Chinese citizenry.  As the myriad assortment of food arrived we heaped our plates with these delicacies, but ate carefully and like gentlemen under Dave's approving gaze.  Little did we realize that a Chinese wedding meal consisted of up to twelve courses and by about the fourth, I was busting.  As I looked around the festive setting, I noticed that my friends weren't far behind.  This was my first and last Chinese wedding.

Weeks later, we sent our advance party to Vietnam to prepare for the arrival of the main body.  Our platoon representative was Private Rex "Charley West" Ryan.  He was incredibly fit, an excellent boxer, almost complete teetotaller, and top soldier.  He was from the Deep South of New Zealand and a typical Bluff Islander of Maori and European extraction.  Rex was a couple of years older than most of us, but with his quick wit and likeable stories he became a great mate and loyal friend.  Unfortunately, every few months or so, with the help of copious cans of Anchor beer, his alter ego, "Charlie West," would emerge.  On the eve of his farewell, we all went on the town, and in short order Charlie was in fine form and going strong.  Through the haze of time, I still recall the hilarious commotion Charlie created at "Maylee's" house of ill repute when he tried to drag a water buffalo by its nose ring and rope into the building.  The next morning, Sergeant Dave had to make a pilgrimage to the holding cells to collect his young protégé. It was all hushed up, but we all knew that Charlie West had also punched out a few of the British military police in the process and, still belligerent, cold cocked a couple more when they let him out of the cells.  This boy was ready for Vietnam and Charlie became our platoon hero, and even if some of the night's events may have been exaggerated with time, the legend of Charlie West continued to grow.  A couple of weeks later, we departed Terendak and the general feeling was one of immense relief and satisfaction.  I couldn't wait to get to SVN.

Like all Kiwi rifle companies that preceded us, Whiskey 3, unlike US forces, deployed to Vietnam as a complete unit. This system, over the centuries of commonwealth combat, has proven to be successful in maintaining unit cohesiveness and identity.  The training we received was as good as you could get and our discipline in the field was unquestionable.  Typically, we were not too responsible back in garrison, and like Private soldiers in other armies, required a big stick and short leash.  Major Evan Torrance, our Company Commander, was an extremely popular leader and respected by his company.  His ability to handle men was a particular skill that he appeared to possess in abundance.   Captain Jim Brown was his Second in Command (2IC), as an ex­ranker (mustang), he was well aware of the tricks and angles all young soldiers try from time to time.   Bill Blair, Bobby Upton, and Circles Fisher were our three Platoon Commanders.  Pinky Macintosh, our CSM, wore the dreaded SAS badge and was one of that unit's original members.  Sergeant's Deni King, Dave Hayward, and Joe Yandall ably supported him.  They were all well qualified to lead this new band of Kiwi brothers.  The night before we left we celebrated with the rest of the battalion and for some, we knew it would be a final farewell.  For us, the Vietnam Experience was about to begin; I couldn't get there quick enough.

more: Duke Henry - Early Days SVN

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The Rear Party - Peter Henderson

After the main body of W3 departed a small group of soldiers remained behind to finish demolishing the tent lines.  They were commanded by Sgt Harry Hemana & comprised soldiers who needed a short period of time to qualify for the SVN medal.  Peter Henderson was in the party, other names are sought.

One unusual aspect of the group was that they were unarmed, the CQMS having withdrawn their weapons as part of the overall packing up process of the main body.  A selection of photos of the group & the lines as they were left by the group are shown below:

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