Ho Chi Minh, Johnsy and I

By Tony Lourensen

Biographical account of "Shorty", a young married soldier, just before and during his tour of duty in "Sunny Vietnam". He spends a great deal of time in preparation for going overseas to help prevent the spread of communism. He wants to get over there before the huge American juggernaut plows through Vietnam and there is nothing more to do. It is 1966.

Circumstances find him being transferred to an Army Aviation group, hence further training in jungle warfare. It is here he teams up with Johnsy, a young and wild soldier and both become mates - a mateship that endures through the hard times ahead. Follow them on a hysterical romp from Brisbane, through Sydney, Philippines the QANTAS pilots went on strike in mid-air and chucked us off in Manila, then Saigon, and to their final destination, the Australian Task Force base at Nui Dat.

Shorty describes everyday life in the camp and explains that even though he is only a "baggy-arse clerk" – he still has his stories to tell. So follows a collection of wonderful and bizarre tales, described graphically and in the vernacular of the day.

Some stories contain: the absurd, "we had a 105mm Howitzer, but no-one knew how to work it, so we had to learn from a user manual": the ridiculous, "I was looking directly at a landmine outside my tent – on it, I read 'face toward enemy'": the pathetic, small children scrambling for work, filling sandbags for a few cents each, a side-splitting story of McGee, a soldier who was overwhelmed by the American "free stuff" and could not help but help himself to it, the informative, Shorty meets an American soldier who was involved in the Bay of Pigs fiasco and reveals his fascinating secrets, the intensive, Tet "the first offensive", and the disturbing story "Home, Sweet Hamlet" where Shorty is exposed to the lives of innocent peasants, discusses guerilla warfare and the practice of relocating villages.

This last story gives an insight into Shorty's mind frame where he confesses that he was on the road to "cynical paranoia" and the remainder of the stories become somewhat somber. Yet even through all that, the Aussie humour still shines through.

On his trip home, he questions himself as to what he has achieved, the state of the nation's opposition to the Vietnam war in Australia, and the insult that "we were advised by our own government, not to wear our uniform on the streets in Australia". He resolved to forget all and get on with his life – until he saw "a fat, whingy and whiney brat with soft serve ice-cream dribbling down his chin, he was hitting his mother and obviously thoroughly spoilt." Shorty had a flashback of the forlorn children of the sandbag farm and he experienced a nefarious compulsion to "throttle the little shit to death – that would even things out a bit; at this point I knew I was carrying some baggage that the customs man had not seen – and it was in my head."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tony Lourensen
• Release date: May 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476251752

Tony Lourensen

I was a boat person who immigrated to Australia in 1952. I wasn't called a boat person then, I was called a wop, dago, spick and wog and not all that welcome by the average Australian - seems I was a threat, in that I was here to steal their jobs and their women, a hard task at age 6. I came home from my first day at a Newcastle school with bruises on arms, legs and buttocks, compliments of the teacher who was angry that I did not know the words to GOD SAVE THE QUEEN. Fifteen years later, I found myself in a hole in the ground, in the middle of a war, in the middle of South Vietnam. I had my life on the line, protecting the country which did not want me. I was now an Australian soldier - and I reckoned Australia was worth fighting for. One doesn't need true-blue blood to be an ANZAC.

Book preview

This is a collection of rememberings of some of the day-to-day experiences, which I, and other soldiers went through during the mid sixties. You won’t find blood, gore and guts here, just a light-hearted (and sometimes sad) look at those crazy times.

Hop into my head for a while and experience some emotions and thoughts that for some, may explain why a lot of Veterans are the way they are now. I have tried not to fall into the trap of beating my chest and telling tall and impossible waries, often heard over an RSL bar. It is sad that a wanna-be, needs to do this – perhaps it is a way of dealing with his own demons or delusions. I was an Infantryman and a Clerk assigned primarily to undertake duties involving the personnel administration of an Army Aviation Group – the delightful 161 (Independent) Reconnaissance Flight (please feel free to Google).

We can’t all be heroes, not everyone was on the coalface - but even the lowly clerical worker has his place in the organization, and has his own story to tell – here’s mine.

I swear that these happenings are based, albeit loosely, on fact (how could one possibly make this stuff up). The stories and thoughts are as I remember them – OK there may be just a wee bit of flowery and tongue in cheek detail that won’t stand up to hard scrutiny by the historical purist. The names of characters have been changed to protect the guilty. May I just offer this work as a good read?

Tony Shorty Lourensen

P.S. I have written this as an Australian in Australia – if you are a reader elsewhere, you may find different spelling or words unknown – hey mate, don’t get frustrated or pedantic – I reckon if you are clever enough to download this onto your reading machine, you must be fair dinkum for more knowledge …….good on ya, cobber.

VISIT SUNNY

VIETNAM

THIS SUMMER,

MEET EXCITING AND INTERESTING PEOPLE

AND KILL THEM!

(From a very unofficial poster on the wall

behind the bar in the

3 RAR Canteen)

You’ll Never Get Rich by Digging a Ditch

Why was I so bloody cold? My teeth were chattering and my memory cells were bouncing around my skull trying to make sense of my being. I slowly opened my eyes, which hurt. It was dark, but I could make out that there was a small window on one wall and some reflected light showed me that the window had bars in front - much like a prison cell. With some degree of pain, I managed to lift my head to look around. There was a strange and repetitive noise nearby and I could just make out that it came from what looked like a body, lying on top of a thin mattress on the floor - the body was in the fetal position - God Lord, it was Johnsy!

I could now see more around me. The other end of the room did not have doors, well not real doors, just a lot of metal bars on hinges - much like a prison cell. I don’t remember being captured by Ho Chi Minh and his VC, yet here we are in the clutches of the noggies. Johnsy has obviously been tortured - just listen to his groans and moans. I must have been beaten around the head because it really hurt; even blinking my eyes was painful.

Memory cells, attention! Report! You stupid bastard, you got pissed in King’s Cross last night, picked up by the Military Police and thrown in the can - you haven’t even left Australia yet!.

With difficulty, I managed to crawl to the cell door and tried to hoist myself up. The metal was icy cold and, bloody hell! It was not even locked - immediate thought - escape! Unfortunately, the door offered no resistance to my weight against it and swung (with me attached) fully open. I stayed in that position for a while, looking directly into the cell from which I had just dramatically escaped.

I hung there grimly and waited firstly, for the spinning in my head to stop and secondly, to see if my stifled screams and chattering teeth may have attracted the attention of our jailers. I then managed to untangle myself from the bars and crawled over to where Johnsy was. I tried whispering, slapping, shaking, nose pinching and hair-pulling. Come on mate, some dickhead screw has left the cell unlocked - we can be outa here, come on!! No reaction, just the weird noises reverberating from his throat. I tried again and again. No way on earth was I going to wake him from his slumber, Fuck you then, I’m off.

By the time I got back to the cell door, some reasoning and sensibility had set in. Where the hell exactly am I? How do I get back to base if I do escape? What if I get lost? Just how pissed-off will the MP who forgot to lock the cell be? Will I be a fugitive and shot on sight? Will this headache ever go away? Could I really take off and leave Johnsy to face the inevitable wrath of the Military hierarchy alone? Guess not - so I closed the cell doors silently, found my mattress (even a blanket) and tried to get back to sleep - perhaps I am really asleep now and this is just a nightmare. Johnsy’s snoring disproved that theory, indeed, he ensured that I would not get back to sleep.

I lay there, trying to figure out the sequence of events that led me here - no luck. I also tried to figure out just what Johnsy’s snoring sounded like….. closest guess was that of the muffled sound of a flat tyre running on a hot bitumen road.

My thoughts turned to more pleasant things - home and family.

By 1966, I had been in the Army for three years. I was happily married to Claire and we were then housed in Army quarters at Athol Park, Adelaide. My Unit there was the 3rd Battalion, Royal Australian Regiment, located at Woodside, quite a few miles away. I was a company clerk in Support Company 3 RAR, which consisted of a number of specialised platoons e.g. Signals, Mortar, Anti-tank and Assault Pioneer Platoons.

It was a hell of a distance to drive to and fro each day, and I had to leave home in the very early hours and arrive back in the evening. My son, Tony Junior, for his first year, did not see much of me and once he actually called me Uncle Dad – Claire reckoned she had not taught him to say that, but I had my doubts.

We were married in Brisbane the previous year and living with my parents, so the transfer to Adelaide was both adventurous and frightening to this very young family. Neither of us was born with a silver spoon. We had no furniture to speak of, only a second hand fridge that my Dad had given us, a bed and a cot and a hope chest full of linen and necessities. When our meagre effects finally arrived from Brisbane, we realized that we didn’t even have a table, so we upended one of the removalist’s empty tea boxes and draped a tablecloth over it – a candle in an old wine bottle on that table looked elegant. Sitting on the floor can be quite romantic when you are in love. Luckily, the Army’s Housing Department lent us some furniture at a moderate rental. Wages at that time were on the lower end of the poverty scale – just enough for us to eke out a living.

My Uncle Oskar gave us an old television set and a radio and we were ever vigilant for the Government Inspectors snooping door to door to see if the occupants had licences for these receiving devices – we simply just could not afford the cost. One day we did spot one coming down the footpath and our TV and mantle radio were quickly hidden in the toilet. The inspector poked his head through our doorway after we told him that we had no receiving devices – he didn’t believe us, and I’m sure he would pay an unexpected visit later.

I owned a little Diahatsu station wagon – no public transport from home to Woodside – and had to take my chances driving it illegally because I could not afford the registration.After a few months of careful budgeting, we gradually amassed sufficient furnishings and settled down like a normal family.

It was a good feeling to be able to say to the housing section that we no longer needed to loan their furniture. Claire found work in a factory, installing the glass windows in electric oven stoves – the additional income was wonderful and I remember just how good the feeling was, when we were able to purchase our first non-vital piece of property – our very own letterbox, complete with a pole. We celebrated the occasion by getting quite drunk on some cheap starwine then later swearing at a Mister Whippy van. He had the gall to play Greensleeves down our street at 9 pm and waking Tony Jr, but we were finally able to settle him down and had a sleep-in the following morning. Our heads hurt that Sunday morning and we were woken to the sounds of our baby chattering and giggling in his cot in the next room.

Being young and inexperienced parents, we had not realized that babies’ cots should not be placed next to a wall. Claire went to check on him and called me in. Young Tony Junior was obviously a budding mural painter and his painting media was somewhat unusual, if not downright bloody icky. His interpretation of Dante’s Inferno on the wall was imaginative to say the least and the bold, brown strokes over the once soft blue pastel wallpaper stood proud and moist and indeed, very smelly. He had also attempted to decorate the slats of the cot in similar style, but apparently had run out of resources.

Claire and I looked at each other, hunched shoulders and burst out laughing. Young Tony laughed as well and that’s when we saw that he had been practicing brushing his forthcoming teeth – but not with toothpaste. Oh the joys of parenthood. Up at 3 am. Monday and back to work at Woodside, ever hoping I would not be pulled over by someone from the Roads Department.

Aaaaa…………….rrrrrrr!!! Johnsy uncoiled himself and stretched his arms and legs. He sat up, looked around and with a grunt said that was a good nap - what’s for breakfast Shorty?

We are in deep shit Johnsy - can’t you see we’re in the slammer? He looked around and said Yea, don’t you remember? - the screws gave us a lift here, one of them was an old mate from school in Townsville…..honest! It was for our own protection, they said. We ain’t even under arrest and the doors ain’t locked. They will take us back to the Depot first thing this morning. Don’t know whether to be happy or sad - I guess sometimes the Army looks after its own.

Later, and true to Murphy’s Law, the Regimental Sergeant Major RSM) of the Depot saw us being off-loaded from the MPs paddy-wagon at the front gate. He was so sure that Johnsy and I performed some sort of "conduct, to the prejudice of good order and Military discipline and he was not going to let us get away with anything. Report to my office at 1000 hours, clean uniform, ready to front the OC - you are both on charges" What a lovely man.

I vaguely remembered that there were a lot of hotels and a lot of drinks and I remember a carload of pros throwing things at us from a passing van, it had something to do with Johnsy yelling out "no thanks – I can get the clap for free, just before the missiles came. I remember being bundled into a MP’s wagon and breaking into hysterical laughter when one of the screws actually said watch your fingers" as he closed the cage door. Even so, I thought it unfair to be disciplined for that, after all, we were not rostered for any tasks that day, we were allowed to go on local leave and the Provost people never even issued a report as to our behaviour be it good or bad. I politely put forward this argument to the OC and he begrudgingly downgraded the charge to beyond limits fixed. Don’t you clowns read Standing Orders? - Kings Cross is out-of-bounds

The poor man had a severe bout of laryngitis and try as he may; his voice still sounded much like a bicycle puncture. He was desperately trying to give us a good talking to and it was all so funny to see this large man getting severely frustrated trying to bellow out his voice, instead, a small girlish squeek issued forth. By gritting my teeth hard, I could hold back my giggling much better than Johnsy – and from the corner of my eye I could see that he was just about to lose it. Our demeanor was not lost on the OC and his face went red with rage. He wheezed, Do you think this is funny?

Johnsy bent towards him and whispered, Sorry Sir, you’ll have to speak up, I can’t hear you. I thought that the flailing of the OC’s arms towards the RSM and us was an indication that he wanted us out of his office immediately and we obliged. Later, the RSM’s voice however was loud, uncalled for,

and indeed hurtful – he obviously wanted to impress his OC and accused us as being "not nice soldiers." To get out of earshot, we had to run behind two barrack blocks before we could release our compressed belly laughs. I said to Johnsy, You know mate, this is the first time I’ve been chucked out of something. He shrugged - it was par for the course for him.

So how and why had I reached this point?

I was a Queensland Cong

A while back, whilst still with 3 RAR, the Battalion and I were ordered to Shoalwater Bay in Queensland. We were to be the enemy - the Queensland Cong for exercise Kangaroo, for a few weeks. This was just too long to leave Claire by herself alone with the baby – there had already been break-ins in the area and there had been attempts to break into our house whilst I was away on previous exercises. Seemed that the local crims knew when the men went away. It was only Claire’s threats that stopped someone crawling through a window one night. She said she heard a noise in Tony Jr’s room and saw a guy cutting the wire screen with a knife. She raced around and grabbed my bayonet and a machete, ran into the room with machete raised, yelling "I’m going to cut your fucking head off!! – It did the trick and the would-be intruder took a hasty retreat into the night. Regardless of the Military Police patrolling the suburb, I was not prepared to take any more risks. I sent Claire and young Tony back by bus to the family in Brisbane for the duration.

We soldiers, being regarded as second-class citizens were herded like livestock into special trains at Woodside. Claire arrived in Brisbane before us, so she was waiting at South Brisbane Station when we pulled in, and we were able to see each other for an hour or so; then onward and upward toward the deep north.

After arriving in Rockhampton, we were again herded into trucks and spent seemingly, many hours going along bumpy and dusty roads to our temporary base at Manifold within the Shoalwater Bay Military Training Area. No stops for toilets, just hang on to the ribs of the canopy at the rear of the truck and try to pee out as far as possible.

A few weeks of living in the scrub really brought out the soldier in you and an appreciation of living it rough.