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A Long Night with Con nhim - 'Doc' Mitchell
Company HQ was ambushing a cart track that showed signs of being well used. We were harboured in a triangular shaped piece of scrub that poked out from the thick bush behind. The apex of the triangle came right up to the track and it was here we put the Claymores and one of the M60s. With great difficulty we had dug a gun pit in which we sat while on sentry. Around the gun pit were clicker switches to detonate the Claymores, grenades, a few belts of M60 ammo, and a M79 grenade launcher with a few of it's fat golden rounds. After digging the gun pit we dug a bunker for the Company command centre. The ground was rock hard and after finishing the Command Post we had no energy to dig shell scrapes - something that we would later come to regret. There were no trees of sufficient size to sling the hammocks we had liberated from the VC we had contacted and killed, so we lay on the hard ground. Roger Greenaway and I were only a few metres behind the Claymores which we had put in the long, pale yellow grass facing the track. The first few days were pleasant but monotonous. We sat bare-chested and talked quietly or read. At dawn there was stand-to that lasted an hour. This was the time supposedly that an attack would occur, at first light. Unfortunately no one had told Charlie because he obviously was still in bed and couldn't be bothered attacking the Tan Tay Lan (New Zealanders) that early in the morning. Then breakfast and maybe a small patrol or a couple of hour's sentry duty on the M60 that covered the track if you stayed in the harbour. Then lunch and perhaps radio watch in the afternoon, or perhaps trying to find a stream or river to fill Company HQ's water bottles. There would be one or two people from one of the Company's platoons that were travelling with HQ so that I could change dressings on minor wounds or boils and abscesses. Sometimes people who had caught the clap travelled with us so I could give them their antibiotic injections. Ears had to be syringed, lacerations sewn up. A myriad of skin disease from Tinea to migrating larvae and heat rashes had to be treated and kept me busy through the day. Then a C-ration meal for dinner; spaghetti and meatballs perhaps, a pound cake for desert, followed by a cup of tea and some chocolate. Then it was dusk and then it was dark. Those soldiers not on sentry took their boots off, rolled themselves in quilted camouflage blankets if they were lucky enough to have them, lay their weapon on the ground beside them and tried to sleep. The night was full of activity and sound. The distant, sullen boom of gun followed seconds later by the even more distant boom of the shells crashing into the jungle. Overhead, choppers flew back and forth overhead blotting out the stars as they passed over our position. Sometimes we would hear and maybe see 'Puff the magic dragon' - a gunship with mini-guns poking out its side firing a wobbling stream of red tracer with an obscene farting noise towards the ground. Death from above. An artillery flare might light up the distant sky with incandescent white light as it floated beneath its parachute. On radio watch you sat for two hours by yourself struggling to keep awake listening to the hiss of the radios. Cryptic snatches of conversations between other units in the field and their HQ - laconic American fighter jocks, the flat nasal twang of the Australians, and the excited gibbering of the Vietnamese. The hardest struggle was staying awake but eventually you were relieved and crept back to your patch of rocky soil to try and go back to sleep. Sentry duty was also for two hours. This was a bit more nerve wracking. Usually you had company for your stint of sentry so it was easier to stay awake. Sitting in the gun pit on a dark moonless night you eventually started to hear and see things that weren't there and the sudden noise of a branch snapping off a tree would cause your heart to lurch and your pulse to shoot up. When we were on Long Song Island we did sentry solo. We knew there were a lot of VC on the island and sitting in the dark alone, out at the back of our position I found particularly terrifying. There was a sense of dread over the whole of the island. Unhappy revenants I suppose, the victims of 40 years of different wars wandering around that unhappy land looking for peace. In the morning we were up again in the pre dawn dark standing to and looking forward to another day in ambush. We had been ambushing the track for about five days and there had been no sign of the enemy. On the Wednesday night "Grunter" Greenaway and me were lying asleep on the ground. It was about 8pm when my sleep was ripped apart by an enormous blast that blew us both a foot in the air and temporarily deafened us. Shredded foliage drifted down on us as we grabbed our rifles - me with difficulty as I was shaking with the shock of the force of the blast and being dragged out of a peaceful sleep into to what had become a night full of the staccato rat-tat-tat of the M60 firing in long bursts and people banging away with their rifles, at what I don't know as it was pitch black. Over the sound of the machine gun we heard "Bwana" the CSM yelling out to stop firing. The M60 stuttered to a stop and the night became quiet again. Grunter asked me, "What the f**k was that?" "I dunno", I replied still shaking like the proverbial leaf, "Charlie, maybe?" Then suddenly out of the night from the direction of the track the claymore had blasted came a loud, clear sound - a series of distinct clicks, as if linked rounds were being dragged over the barrel of a machine gun. The M60 started up again, occasional tracer rounds hitting the ground and flying up into the jungle on the other side of the clearing. The gun stopped, silence again fell upon our small group. Then again from the area in front of the gun a series of loud metallic clicks - the only sound in the dark night. What in Christ's name were they? Again our M60 brassed up the track in front of us then stopped. All was quiet. We held our collective breaths and then slowly and distinctly the loud clicking recommenced. Grunter said, "That guy must be superman." "Yeah", I replied, "You know what it might be? He's clicking through his rosary beads." Grunter laughed, "Sure, he's a Catholic communist - he's got all bases covered. Don't be so bloody silly." The CSM and the Boss were talking to the guys on the M60. The clicking continued but the M60 stayed silent. Eventually the CSM came over. "Just to let you know what's going on. We don't know what that noise is but no one is going out to look till first light. If we put a flare up we'd stick out like dog's balls and if it is Charlie out there then we're history. We aren't getting any return fire so I've told the gun team to keep an eye out but not to fire. OK?" The rest of the night dragged by, the clicking continued but became quieter and less frequent. When the sky started to turn grey in the east it had stopped. All night we had theorised about what it could be. Whatever it was it had us all spooked and I am sure everyone was as glad as me to realise dawn was breaking. After we stood down we put on our belt gear, picked up our rifles and tentatively walked out to the track. In the middle of the track was a smear of blood that led off through the grass towards the gun. We couldn't see a body and when the CSM went towards the gun he kneeled down and started to laugh. "Come and look at this," he said waving us forward. There almost under the barrel of the M60 lay a fat, large and very dead porcupine. Years later I found it was one of the Old World porcupines - Hystricidae, which can be found in most Asian countries. We picked up the poor dead thing and I headed off to bury it. Nigel our bushman scout - an ex Viet Cong who had got sick of a Comrade life living on rice and rats heads, saw me with it. "Hey Jeem, con nhim thuc an ngon", which after a lot of too-ing and fro-ing and misunderstanding I found out meant, ‘Porcupine, delicious food'. "Yeah, numbah one yum yum", he said. I offered it to Nigel but the logistics of cooking it put paid to that idea, so I grabbed him and off we went to bury the poor creature who had given us one long and surreal night. Later when I was in Saigon getting a new pair of glasses I went to a restaurant and sure enough there on the menu was con nhim - the Old World porcupine. other accounts and con nhim photo are here |
Reunions - Duke Henry
[extract with permission from Duke & Alan's book] Whiskey 3 Company had an official reunion 20 years after our deployment to South Vietnam. It was organised by the guys through the special efforts of the incorrigible Peter "One Tit" Harris and Dick Schwass for spreading the word around the country. Interestingly, it was held right back where it all started in 1968, the Waiouru Military Camp. This was our first attempt to get back together as a complete group, and for most of us, it was long overdue. At national level, the Vietnam Veterans Association holds reunions every TWO years and many issues concerning welfare and other pertinent topics are discussed. The quasi-official welcome home parade planned for Wellington in 1998 was a much more significant event by far. For most NZ Vietnam veterans, the official 1998 "Welcome Home Parade" [actually Parade 98 - Vietnam Remembered] was a long time coming and, unfortunately for many, much too late. Upon our return to New Zealand, we were left to discover, without the support of our mates, the harsh realities of hostile national and global reactions to the Vietnam War. However, until 1992, personally, I never gave Vietnam much thought at all. I wasn't in denial or in any euphoric state; I was too engrossed in the military to give it much attention. I have never suffered flashbacks or post traumatic stress syndrome and felt completely justified in what my mates and I did there. It would have been nice, but I didn't need public support or approval to make me whole. New Zealand politicians need to be reminded of their country's involvement in the Vietnam War as well as their predecessor's decision to commit us to the conflict. We soldiers merely answered the call and volunteered for the scrap, the political leaders and politicians of that era decided on the NZ military involvement. It was a hard sell to convince my brother-in-law and fellow vet, Mosey Rangiuiaia, to come along. Even in 1998 there were still mixed feelings about our involvement in this war thirty years earlier. As it turned out, it was well worth my effort particularly when I saw Mosey, arm in arm with old friends, with a smile on his dial that stretched from ear to ear.
The registering of the thousands of participants and their families was held down on the Wellington waterfront and the small pubs and restaurants were pumping. Every unit had a local bar designated as their host meeting area. It was a great afternoon and the evening was even better. It was extremely casual and deliberately low key. The conference hall was jam packed with veterans from all walks of life. With no big dramas or chest beating from the organizers, colonels to private soldiers, albeit for some, 30 odd years out of date, rubbed shoulders and caught up with their long lost comrades. I was amazed over how many of the guys were no longer recognisable; without displaying their name tags it would have been a disaster. I recognised Bobby Upton, my platoon commander, straight away. He had retired from the military in the late 80's as an infantry colonel. His big grin and booming voice was hard to miss. As my boss, he had saved my bacon a few times during my infrequent, but significant, brushes with the military judicial system. In fact, it happened enough that I had picked up the title "Bobby's Boy" for a spell while in Malaysia.
Mike "Crooked Neck" Morrison's name rekindled another hard luck story. Our platoon, supported by other elements of the company, had been dropped onto Long Son Island, just off the coast of South Vietnam. Our task was to provide security support for the combat engineers. They were carrying out a "hearts and minds" civic action project for the local villagers that had started months earlier. Mike, our company [intelligence] clerk, had decided to don the warriors garb and come out for a taste of combat. Sure as shit, a Vietcong soldier, pissed off with us trespassing on his turf, drilled our "combat clerk" through the neck with a well delivered thirty calibre round. Once it was all over and Mike realised that he had survived, he commented that the wound did not hurt as much as being monstered by two strapping Maoris who dove into his one man shell scrape several seconds after he made the move.
Of my four former Nui Dat tent mates, only Ben Te Namu and his replacement, Wi (Jap) Taepa, were present. I hadn't seen Ben since Vietnam and his presence alone was worth the trip for me. We didn't get to say much to each other, but just being with him for a couple of days bought it all back. Billy Kahaki's heart problems prevented him from attending and this is another obstacle he is currently surmounting. Fortunately, he lives no more than a couple of hours away from my home and I get to catch up with him from time to time. One of his sons is named after me and for that I'm deeply honoured. Billy also managed to attend my daughter Paula's 21st birthday at Whareponga Marae and, in turn, my wife TeAo was able to return the honour at one of his boy's celebrations sometime later in Te Kaha. Rau Te Haara was the other missing mate and, hopefully, in time we will see him back in the fold. Wi Taepa is amazingly full of energy these days and his talent as an artist in Maori sculpting and clay work has gained world wide notoriety. His two sons are following in their father's artistic footsteps, and along with my son Bardo they all attend Massey University and are striving for a degree in Maori Visual Arts.
Peter Harris is currently the project manager for Thiess Contractors in West Australia and has undergone a remarkable transformation from the ratbag "Titty" Harris (the pale skinned Maori from Pleasant Point) who caused his cousin so much aggravation in South Vietnam. On one occasion, Titty and Scrubber Ryalls actually jumped a ride with an American resupply convoy during a platoon stint in a fire support base. They ended up AWOL for 24 hours and earned a wee stay in Sand Bag City, the military stockade in Vung Tau. Unfortunately, Nev Carmichael is not enjoying the best of health, but like many others, takes it in stride. Scrubber Ryalls has not changed much, and except for the loss of most of his teeth and acquiring a ponytail, he looks like he did when he was beating the bush with his SLR. However, he has fallen into a lifestyle most blokes would die for. Currently, he lives on his yacht on South Island's Milford Sound. Gannet Mullen's and John Nicholle, both inseparable mates since basic training, were bouncing off the walls by the end of the reunion, in the same manner as they had done in the houses of ill repute and dingy back street bars of yesteryear. Gannet runs a charter diving service and lives on his yacht with his great wife, Debbie. Not to be out done by her worldly husband, she performed an entertaining bar top dance during the celebrations, reminiscent of her days as a glamorous "Go Go" dancer from the "Happen Inn" television program of the 1970's. Gannet's effort to do likewise was considerably less pleasing to the eye. He almost single handily succeeded in destroying half the surrounding tables of beer. Alas, some things will never change.
Ginge Philips is living in Australia, but has been unable to abandon his South Island sheep shagger's accent. Graeme (Black Harry) Harris has had his share of dramas, but continued to remain in the military until his retirement as a warrant officer. The old square jaw was still there, but his body was now more suited for a front row prop rather than the dynamic loose forward that he had been when he tried out for the Maori All Blacks. Graeme Edwards was also missing from the reunion, but he continued to serve in the army and retired as a major sometime during the 1990's. Graeme was our section 21C in Vietnam, and because he was more refined and better educated, we made things a bit awkward for him at times. Years later, Graeme and I both served together at the Papakura Military Camp. By then he was a captain and I had reached the rank of Staff Sergeant. Snide Pagan, the gangly, crew cut white boy from way down South, is now Lewis Pagan, a respectable citizen and livestock supervisor for the Wrightson's empire in Cromwell. He too "killed" a few pints and told some even bigger stories. Rex Ryan did not attend the reunion, and by all accounts he is living in Bluff. He is still a clean living son of a gun and was New Zealand's veteran single and double sculls rowing champion. I didn't ask, but wonder what happened to Charlie West... Dick Schwass, Ngatoko Kupe, Nigel Clifford, Gordon Alex, Paul Moana, K.K. (Kahukiwa), Bobby "Nono boy" Newson, Vic Hill, and Tracker Wilson all made the reunion that weekend. Gannet enlightened us all with the startling news that after a hard night on Bugis Street, (probably with the infamous "Lisa Lust” the Kiwi soldier's best friend), he consequently missed the 1971 "company freedom flight" from Singapore back to NZ. We were a pretty lawless crew for sure but, hell, it was all good clean fun.
The cabaret was a huge affair, and because of the thousand or so additional vets and families registering on the last day, it was vastly over booked. As a result of the unexpected large crowd, a few of the paid up groups were unable to gain access to this function and it was the only sour note sounded during the reunion. I shot next door and grabbed a beer in another packed bar with Midge Marsden and his Blues Band, doing their best to keep us in the mood. Bill Lillicrap and his family, Len Constable, Danny Wilson and sons, Buster Nathan, Dicko Dickson, John "Fite” White, Bubs Holmes, and Andy "Petorei" Peters were all present and accounted for. Organizers would have received some flack for what went wrong; however, these glitches were more than balanced by the incredible parade of veterans and their families. Not withstanding the belated, but much-needed, welcome home for the warriors of Tu Ma Tauenga by the Kuia and Kaumatua of the Maori delegation. For many, the long-awaited traditional welcome from the Maori contingent was the main reason for the reunion, and the cultural significance of lifting the Tapu of War was finally achieved. The people of Wellington responded wonderfully, and sincerely embraced the opportunity of hosting the parade. I was literally bursting with national pride, and the parade will remain with me for as long as I draw breath. Once again, the politicians played it safe and were very conspicuous by their absence. The Prime Minister [Jenny Shipley] accepted the key appointment as the national reviewing official for the pass in review, but I was unimpressed when she departed immediately for Christchurch to watch a Canterbury rugby match.
The next day's church service was a sombre affair. It served as a final honour to those who served but were no longer with us. By far, the Australian MP [Deputy Prime Minister] who had served in the conflict as a platoon commander was the most well received speaker. Very appropriately, a couple of Huey helicopters flew overhead when he concluded his remarks. Flashbacks resounded around the pews and I could see eyes moisten and hear the clearing of throats from more than a few at this open-air service. Vietnam has finally been recognised by the politicians and general public as part of New Zealand history. To the surviving Vietnam Veterans and family members, this has been a fact of life since 1967. |
It was the
dry season - long, hot cloudless days and cool nights.
Though we didn't know it at the time in a few months we would be
wet almost all the time and our foul uniforms would be rotting
on our backs and everybody's crutch would be a mass of itchy,
pungent Tinea cruris. Then we would look back at these
first few months in country and the dry season as a halcyon
time.![Duke Henry [Henry]](images/Duke_small.jpg)