W3 Company - Service Stories

Latter Days SVN - Duke Henry                     [extract with permission from Duke & Alan's book]

Our platoon had moved into a new AO and we were in the process of setting up the platoon harbour area.  A small clearing patrol under Wally Goodman had moved out.  Sergeant Dave snapped up Barry Boylan and me to recce a water-point located a short distance back.  We hadn’t traveled more than 100 meters when all hell broke loose.  A long ripping burst of M60, punctuated by individual SLR rounds, was holing the air in our general direction.  This was accompanied by the now familiar cracking of AK47’s giving it shit as well.  We found a shallow depression and Dave monitored the ANPRC 25 radio he was carrying.  Wally’s group had hit it big time and several of his men were down with the fire-fight still in progress and building.  Sergeant Dave took the lead and pushed Barry and me forward to the sound of the guns.  A three man group pepper potting forward towards a resounding little gun fight through head high scrub and jungle is not a pleasant task, and we were all wired pretty tight by the time we got to the battle zone.

Rex Ryan and his cover scout, Dave Wright, were leading the clearing patrol through fairly open jungle canopy when they engaged a small group of VC very close to our harbour site.   Rex initiated the contact and the enemy group bolted with the boys hot in pursuit.   Rex had barreled a male teenager in the first exchange with his SLR, but the kid had kept going a couple of yards before dropping.  The patrol charged into an area consisting of high grass and low scrub with a wide old APC/tank track of some sort running at right angles to their axis of advance.  The youth was crumpled up on the deck at the edge of the clearing, either dead or dying and clearly out of the fight.  Reaching the clearing, Rex had dropped to his knee to reload while Dave Wright continued to hammer the fleeing enemy that were moving to his left down an old armoured vehicle track.  Within seconds, they took incoming from a determined and extremely courageous one-man hasty ambush.   At a range of only a few feet, the lone ranger stay behind force opened up with his AK on full auto and Dave was smashed to the ground with several hits.  George MacLeod and his M60 was the next recipient of VC lead and it got worse.   By the time we got there, Wally had wounded a couple of his own boys with a well-intentioned, but poorly placed grenade.  Danny Campbell had gallantly and correctly responded to Dave McLeod’s problem and under considerable pressure from the VC trooper, cleared the M60’s stoppage.  He then proceeded to stitch the dink with a full belt of 7.62, effectively stopping this one-man army.  Dave was down but still conscious, while poor old Dave McLeod, speechless for the first time in his life, had been ignored where he lay.  Rex and I patched up Dave Wright as best we could.  He was fairly comfortable considering the extent of his wounds and calmly related the contact to us in his normal and dry manner.  Dave McLeod, having recovered his wits and caustic tongue, could be heard complaining bitterly about his useless fucken mates.   “Don’t worry about me, ya bastards,” he waffled on, so we knew he wasn’t too bad.  An LZ was cleared and secured to CASEVAC the two casualties back to Vung Tau military hospital.  Dave’s injuries were fairly substantial, with entry and exit wounds in his pelvis and upper torso.  McLeod had a couple of 7.62 x 39 MM rounds through one of his legs, but had lambasted his mates so viciously that he had sprained his tongue.

"I was There" - Cpl Wally Goodman Losing Friends [first published in 'The Vietnam Scrapbook', reproduced with permission from Mike Subritzky] [names in brackets added by editor]

Jan 30th 1970.  This day I am thankful I am alive because I reckon I looked death in the eye, if that's the thing to say, today.  It started with the sergeants group taking off to where they were yesterday or in that area.  Our group took off about 200m south to another old location of c/s 51. Upon arriving there the boss said for me to take out a recce patrol and look for an ambush spot further down the track we were sitting on.  All went well until we came across a track junction when my lead scout [Rex Ryan] said "let's look up this track" and as there was a funny smell like somebody making wine, I decided to have a look.  I gave the scout the nod to proceed and away we went with the machine gunner [Dave McLeod] lagging behind as he thought it would be a waste of time.  Little did he realise then just how wrong he was and I suppose he now wishes I had not taken this track. Suddenly the scout dropped to one knee and opened up into the bush in front, I called to the gunner and he ran forward with the machine gun firing at his hip.  I yelled stop! as there were no incoming rounds.  When they stopped it was really quiet so with the machine gun in a position to cover us I took the scout and we slowly moved forward for about 20m but the VC had gone.  A hit was evident with the amount of blood everywhere.  I called the others up and told the scout and rifleman [David Wright] to scout around and see what the scout could pick up.  I gave the boss (platoon commander) a call on the radio, as he was waiting in anticipation after hearing the signaller call "Contact Contact Wait out!".  This is usual when an incident is started. I told him I was going to follow up.

I got everyone back and slowly moved through the bush following the blood trail. After moving very nervously for about what I thought was about 300m (I was not worrying too much about distance at the time) the blood trail ran out.  They tell us this is a sign that the enemy is on his last legs, so I sent riflemen out in front and to the side to look for more sign.  They had hardly gone when in front from where I had sent the scout and the gunner there was a prolonged burst of automatic fire.  I called to the others and took off, with them on my heels.  I burst through some thick bamboo as if it was not there as nothing was going to stop me.  When I reached a large clearing with waist high scrub there were bullets buzzing past like the proverbial bee, but with a deadlier sting.  A rifleman yelled out "over here! over here!" and when I reached him there were two VC bodies on the ground with another group of VC taking off down a wide track.  I yelled to the M79 operator to quickly fire some grenades down the track but he was in a daze so the lead scout grabbed the weapon and fired round after round at the departing VC but they had disappeared into the scrub.  I had a quick look around to assess our position and decided to go into all round defence after putting a bullet into each of the two bodies on the track to ensure they were dead.  I was directing one of my men [David Wright] into position, he was standing next to me, when a burst of fire came from God knows where and bullets whipped between the two of us striking our water bottles. The other soldier turned round to the rest of the section who at this stage (me included) were on the ground and started to say "the dirty chogie got my..." when another burst took him in the rear.  This time I noticed a puff of smoke not 10 feet away so on one knee I fired a magazine into the bush and called out to the machine gunner to come forward and give it another burst.  He no sooner got past me and started firing when the gun jammed and another burst came from the VC.  I could even see the green tracer going into my gunner.  I just about lost my cool at that stage and I threw a grenade at the bush where a single VC was hiding.  After the dust settled I started to move forward to check it out when another burst of fire whizzed over my head and down I went again.  Next moment one of the guys [Danny Campbell] came running up and as I put another burst into the bush, he grabbed the machine gun and in one motion cleared the weapon and stood up and walked into the bush firing at the same time with long deadly bursts of fire.  When he stopped firing the silence was literally deafening and not a sound was heard.  

I slowly got up and then realised that it was not over yet.  The scout by this time was with the rifleman who had been hit in the back and was putting on a shell dressing.  The radio operator had come out of the bush and was administering 1st Aid to the machine gunner.  I then got onto the boss & explained what happened and to get a "dustoff' in real quick.  The sergeant butted in on the radio net and said he had identified our location and was coming in to assist, so I warned the others who had taken up all round defence as best as three guys could, not to open fire.  I had a look at the rifleman’s wound and it did not look too good as it was at the back of the spine and all the shell dressings we had put on to stem the flow of blood were not very effective. The machine gunner’s wounds did not seem to be bleeding too much although it looked like he had taken three bullets with maybe two rounds exiting.  When the sergeant arrived he took over and while some of his guys were searching the bodies of the VC, he sent a party out to clear the area and check for more VC.  The bodies had very little on them apart from a pack and general goods. The "dustoff' called up as they could not find us because I had given an incorrect grid reference (we had followed the trail for nearly 1000m not 500 as I had thought).

Once on the radio they were soon over our LOCSTAT and the two wounded were quickly on their way to hospital.  I then sat down and spoke on the radio to the Company commander explaining what had happened and where the rest of the VC had gone.  Much later we formed up and I led us all back to the boss’s position.  After going over it all again with him I tried to sleep but all I could see was the green tracer going into the machine gunners body and of course the face of the VC kid who did all the damage to us, he only looked to be about 10 years old.  War is bad when they have to use kids to fight.  If he had been older I might not have been here because he was small and when he pulled the trigger on the AK47 the weapon pulled upwards with most of the bullets going up in the air.  When we arrived back at Company Headquarters a couple of days later the CSM (who was a tough taskmaster) was overheard to say that when our platoon left some days earlier we were just soldiers but on our return we moved and looked like fighting men.

Duke Henry [continued] Dave Wright and Dave McLeod were patched up and repatriated back home for better care and convalescence.  Dave Wright’s injuries required further specialist treatment in Australia and he wrote a letter to Rex and the boys from the Aussie hospital.  Unfortunately, he died from complications [a kidney infection led to kidney failure] a few weeks later.  However, when I finally caught up with Dave McLeod 25 years later, he was fighting fit and none the worse for wear.

"I was There" - Capt Ross Miller  I remember going to Dave Wright's funeral.  I was, at the time, a staff officer at HQ SMD in Christchurch and although I didn't know David, I felt that, as a Vietnam veteran, I should be there and that's why I went.  I don't think there was large military contingent present and as I didn't want to intrude on what was very much a family gathering I left shortly after the service.

All good things must come to an end and six months into our tour, Sergeant Dave Haywood was posted to the UK Jungle Warfare School at Johore Baru in Malaysia.  Undoubtedly, he was responsible for keeping a whole bunch of us alive and his leaving was a critical blow to me; my focus was not the same without his professional presence. Sergeant Harry (Black) Hemana was his replacement and filling Dave’s boots was no easy task for anyone.

When we returned to Nui Dat, our first priority was to clean all weapons and inspect, clean, and return any unexpended munitions, followed by cleaning and washing personal equipment.  We only had a few days of respite, so priorities were well established and clear-cut.  “Gear before beer,” was our mantra and while the clean up and maintenance was going on, the company medics would carry out foreskin and foot inspections (FFI) and check us out in general for the inevitable jungle rot and fungal diseases that seemed to thrive on unwashed bodies.  Clean ups were always accomplished in record time and the team-work was unbelievable.  We were supremely motivated, because we knew that when we were done it was BBQ and Whiskey Company Piss Up Time.  Capt. Jim Brown, the company second in command (executive officer), was built like the proverbial brick shit house and “took no prisoners,” Kiwi or Viet Cong.  He had risen through enlisted ranks, complete with Borneo and Malayan campaign medals with a Military Cross for bravery.  He was a formidable soldier and man.  He was a leader and always made the rounds upon our return to base, checking weapons, joking with and teasing the boys.  This was his subtle method of getting soldier feed-back on any potential welfare, morale, or other issues.  Because of our protracted periods in the scrub and our methods of operation, this was the only chance for anyone outside our section to catch up on what happened in the field to us.  JB was a Maori and a staunch one to boot, and he still revealed glimpses of his previous military status when he tossed a few beers down with the boys.  However, he maintained a proper relationship with the troops and certainly had no qualms about dispensing justice when he deemed it necessary.  It made little difference to him whether you were black, white, or brindle.  Stuff things up and he was going to come down hard on you.  Probably his style was more suited to a crusty old Warrant Officer than captain, but it didn’t matter — he was the Man.  On one occasion, I was the recipient of some of his sage advice while I was up to my elbows in aviation gas with Titty Harris and Ben Te Namu cleaning the section’s M60’s.  My SLR had been worked on until it was gleaming and it was propped up near me.  J.B. appeared from nowhere, seized my weapon, checked it for safety, and then gave it the once over. Apparently unimpressed with my sterling effort, he uttered in his deep, but quiet, voice something to the effect that if I didn’t lightly oil and pull through the barrel before he came back, he would shove the barrel up my backside and pull the trigger.  We loved Big Jim, even though nine times out of ten whenever he spoke to you it was usually involved some sort of reprimand.  His mere presence habitually boosted morale and confidence sky high.  Captain Brown was seconded to an Australian rifle company halfway through our time on duty, and his successful style of leadership was instrumental in raising the morale and capabilities of our ANZAC brethren.

By late afternoon, all showered and cleaned up, we would front up at the Whiskey Company Baggies Bar for steaks and beer.  Before this got underway, Major Torrance would call the role and single out all the boys that had turned 21 during our last stint in the scrub.  He was a master at handling the men, although most of us had developed fairly cynical and hardened attitudes during our brief but intense time in-country.  However, E.T. convinced us all, for at least a short period of time, that achieving one’s majority and celebrating it with a traditional birthday cake was still important even in the middle of hostile Vietnam.  Every birthday boy would be called forward to receive a quick handshake and the major always managed to make some personal and relevant remarks to each individual.  Included in his and the Company’s best wishes was a 21st birthday cake.  We all stood around in a loose formation for the informal ceremonies.  Once the cake business was over it was down to the real deal of getting rat-arsed as quickly as possible.  Beer cost 15 cents a can and we tried our best to drink at least five dollars worth.  Even the tightest wallet could afford to shout his mates in the Dat.  The guitars would come out, and for the first time in weeks, sometimes months, we would catch up with our mates in the other platoons.  We were close and totally committed to the W3 identity and nothing, in my mind, other than for the passage of time, has changed that.

If we were lucky, the company would get a 48-hour pass and travel as a unit back through “Indian country” to the whorehouses and bars of Vung Tau, the nearest Vietnamese city.  This was a great place, but we only got three or four trips to this passion paradise during the year we spent in-country.  Considering that W3 spent 325 days in the bush during our TOD, the boys were always “hot to trot” when they disappeared from the Peter Badcoe Club, our company drop off point.  Propelled by our groins, we would fan out with amazing speed in search of bar girls and whores acquired on previous visits.  Hours later, many of us would inevitably meet up at the Grand Hotel and, along with Captain Jim Brown, get absolutely legless.  The Australian military provost marshal must have had a bounty out on Kiwi scalps because we always ended up with our share of guys in the cells after a wild night on the town.  He was a prize wanker and we hated him almost as much as the dreaded “White Mice,” the South Vietnamese military police.

Our final operation started off the same as any other, but the company experienced an incident during our last week in the scrub that seriously marred our tour.  Two call signs from one of our platoons mistakenly engaged each other and it turned into a case of force-on-force fratricide.  Unfortunately, this was not an isolated incident. and at times other Kiwi companies that preceded us faced each other’s gun muzzles.  Our contact resulted in Tommy Cooper’s death, Alan Herd with spinal injuries from which he has only partially recovered, and Sammy Samson with gunshot wounds to his legs.  As a cohesive unit, we were totally devastated; when we returned to base, there was no joy in the Dat that night.  However, in Vietnam death was not something we dwelled upon.  Historically, alcohol has served as a valuable anti-depressant for the soldier and it was never more valid as it was in our AO.  Other than for the Padre and memorial services, we had no shrinks to help us cope with grief.  This is something you had to resolve either with your fellow grunts help or on your own.  Booze seemed to grease the skids of recovery, at least for most of us.  Don’t get me wrong, we were professionals, and in the bush we were cold stone sober, but back in Nui Dat these rules didn’t apply, and us young guys were always ready for a bit of fun or general mischief.

We heard that Sammy and Alan were still in the hospital at Vung Tau and some bright spark suggested we travel to “Vungers” and visit them.  Titty Harris, Scrubber Ryalls, Gannet Mullins, and half a dozen more of us carried out this hasty plan.  Half-pissed, we traveled through the Badlands lying on the back of a large Aussie steel tray truck.  It was not the most comfortable journey, and when I looked around at our happy crew I was surprised to see Hank Puata from Victor 5 with us.  How the hell he got there is still a mystery to me.  Somewhere along the way, we got a little side tracked and ended up contributing to the welfare of the bars of Vung Tau and ended up taking an unofficial rest and recreation break for a couple of days.  We raised merry hell and had a great time before our money ran out. Finally, the MP’s rounded us up and herded us into the Aussie military cells.  Our commands were duly notified and they reluctantly claimed their military “criminals.”   We were shipped back to Nui Dat in considerable disgrace.  Most of us were stinking of beer, grubby, and half dressed.  We looked like fugitives from a chain gang rather than soldiers. Gannet, a couple of others and I had sold our military issue boots for beer money and we stood there barefoot in the dust awaiting the verbal firing squad.  I deeply regret the embarrassment and shame we caused our Whiskey Company hierarchy.  We were a damn disgrace, but Sammy really enjoyed the visit and was deeply touched when he realized we all went AWOL to see a buddy in distress.  Fronting up to the Company Commander and CSM left us in no doubt as to the fate awaiting us in Singapore — we were all promised 30 days jail in the British Military Prison.  Damn, not the best way to start a six month TOD in that fabulous city.

There were no brass bands or ceremonies as we boarded our aircraft to take us back to civilization and we departed much the same way as we had arrived a year ago.  As we gained altitude, we were relieved to be out of the war, but the whole departure had been anti-climactic.  I knew that for a lot of us it would take time to readjust.  Going “cold turkey” from a combat routine to relatively quiet garrison life was going to create problems for some of the more field-oriented boys.  For most of us, six more months of service remained prior to our discharge date, and the majority of Whiskey 3 Company was posted to Nee Soon Military Camp, Singapore.

When we landed, the 1st Bn Royal New Zealand Infantry Regiment’s Maori Cultural Party gave us an official welcome to the battalion lines and Tu ma Tauenga (the Battalion Marae).  The ceremony was pretty moving and quite a few guys both Maori and pakeha shed some tears that unmemorable day.

As newly returned veterans we believed that we were a cut above, or at least had acquired some warrior mana within the military circle we had just joined.  But, we were badly mistaken and it wasn’t so.  We were both envied and disliked by all ranks in the reinforcement companies.  Oh how quickly we had forgotten our own discomfort over being the new and untested boys just a mere eighteen months earlier.  Battalion morale at the time was at danger low.  Many of these men had dedicated eighteen months of hard training specifically to see combat in Vietnam.  With NZ’s decision to withdraw from the Vietnam conflict, all they had to look forward to now was a year to a year and a half of service in garrison.  My young brother found himself in this unenviable position.  To acquire campaign ribbons and professional credibility, Neil rejoined the military in 2002 (having retired in the early 90’s from the NZSAS) as a 50 year-old captain and served in East Timor.

Whiskey 3 Company was not going to be replaced in SVN, so the practice of training up and passing on combat expertise to the new company’s was no longer a priority.  In turn, our command was mostly left to its own devices for the period we remained in South East Asia.  Like processed food, we had a “use by date,” and our packaging date indicated that our time was almost up.  Our SNCO’s and officers were replaced with new ones and we became a surplus item.  Our new mission was playing rugby, drinking beer, and chasing bar girls in the seedy bars and back alleys of Geylang.  All of which I carried out to the best of my abilities.  I left Singapore with barely enough hand luggage to fill a suit cover.  Six months of bar hopping had been a lot of fun but had drastically depleted my funds.  I could have taken home my lovely and eager Asian bar girl and other trophies, but, atypically, reason prevailed and I walked away from those potential responsibilities once again.  Many of my comrades had very little in the way of material possessions after two years in South East Asia.  Sadly, for some, mental anguish was the reward that burdened them.  But, for me, it had been a great life experience and I wanted more of it.

I stood in the city of Auckland with a couple of other guys from W3, for the first time in two years.  It was mid-evening and after finally escaping from military madness for the next three weeks, priority number one was a good old feed of fish and chips, Kiwi style.  The boys had all scattered from the airport, and for many of us our next reunion would come twenty years later.  The welcome home was non-existent. We had been made aware of the anti-Vietnam movement and were prepared to expect some flack, and we were not disappointed.  Whether young or old, it seemed everybody had an opinion on bloody Vietnam.  I didn’t pay much attention to their misinformed, biased bull shit, and still don’t.  After a somewhat awkward home leave period, I couldn’t get back to Burnham Military Camp quick enough. Rather then spend time catching up with family and friends, the mates I had in the military were the guys I wanted to be with.  I was not prepared for the family or civilian scene, and like many servicemen from previous wars, not ready, or, in my case, willing to give up the camaraderie and comfort derived from my Vietnam companions.  I rejoined the infantry for another three years.

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