The Quiet Australians Saints and Sinners

By Paul J. Murphy

This book was written at a time in my life (having reached the mature age of 60) sitting at my PC located in the corner of my bedroom in my apartment overlooking 150 identical units. They in turn overlook, if not stare at my block of identical apartments located in a quiet outer suburb of Vung Tau in Vietnam.
Whilst not an unpleasant place to live, with coconut trees, mature mahogany tree-lined streets (severely dam-aged in Typhoon Durian in December 2006) and manicured man-made gardens and lawns with totally unnecessary polished granite footpaths and gutters. The harbor is alive with the local fishing fleet, discharging its fresh catch ashore and then the waste into what were once pristine waters. The ocean beach fares no better, polluted with the flotsam and jetsam of the offshore oil industry, the lifeblood of Vietnam and her socialist partners.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReadOnTime BV
• Release date: Jun 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9781742840857

Book preview

Author’s Foreword

This book was written at a time in my life (having reached the mature age of 60) sitting at my PC located in the corner of my bedroom in my apartment overlooking 150 identical units. They in turn overlook, if not stare at my block of identical apartments located in a quiet outer suburb of Vung Tau in Vietnam.

Whilst not an unpleasant place to live, with coconut trees, mature mahogany tree-lined streets (severely damaged in Typhoon Durian in December 2006) and manicured man-made gardens and lawns with totally unnecessary polished granite footpaths and gutters. The harbor is alive with the local fishing fleet, discharging its fresh catch ashore and then the waste into what were once pristine waters. The ocean beach fares no better, polluted with the flotsam and jetsam of the offshore oil industry, the lifeblood of Vietnam and her socialist partners.

Behind the facade, Vung Tau reflects the microcosm that ails Vietnam today. As a foreigner I cannot own real-estate in my own right, or a motorbike or any real asset. At 60 I cannot get a driver’s license to ride my bike as I am considered too old. Assets that I have are in the name of a Vietnamese national, a relative, which I am comfortable with.

Many a foreigner has learnt the hard way and in the process lost his entire life savings, his sanity, pride, self esteem and his investment or that of his partners.

At a micro level, the hapless 'old warrior’ as we are referred to here in Vietnam, revisits the old Battle sites of the American war, or at least the areas in which Australian servicemen served from 1962 to 1973. He visits the old bar and red-light areas of his youth located in Saigon and Vung Tau and is beguiled by a young, very attractive Vietnamese bar girl. No sooner has he said ‘your welcome’ when she thanks him for buying a very expensive Saigon Tea, he finds himself investing in a house for her in her name. He buys the latest statement motorbike for US$5000 as she refuses to ride a common brand which can be had for a 5th of the price. He is then financially supporting the extended family who is usually ensconced away in a remote outer province living in poverty in a thatched house. Many are divorced. She will usually have a child who is being raised by her mother. The child is from a failed previous relationship with another foreigner or a footloose philandering Vietnamese male. Marriage may occur and migration to Australia (or any other western nation) may follow.

She may let the ‘silly old bugger’ or ‘grumpy old man’ off lightly and dismiss his services prior to marriage and migration but retain the assets. He either fights the court system in Vietnam to fight his case against her or walks away empty handed, having no heart for a protracted legal battle that he will undoubtedly lose or come off very second best.

Obviously the scenario is not the entire fault of the Vietnamese people and the judiciary but is does reflect the turmoil foreigners still go through here in Vietnam, be it a personal relationship, investing in encouraged government projects or in my case, providing cost free aid to the poor.

On the other side of the coin are those genuine Vietnamese women who have been fortunate in meeting quality Australian/foreign men. These men have been as fortunate as they too have met their true soul-mates. These women are educated, family orientated; they met their spouses as a result of a chance meeting whilst conducting their chosen profession be it as an accountant, restaurateur, government interpreter, nurse, teacher or perhaps a retailer….and to state the not so obvious…their foreign spouse are not normally of a military background. I know of many relationships that have stood this test of time and as a family, now live overseas (Australia) have a mortgage, have learnt to drive, raise their kids and in many cases have employment or are studying to finish their education started long ago in Vietnam but deemed not at a level good enough for western standards.

I have the utmost respect for the likes of Thu, Loan, Yen, Phuong and Huong to name a few. Their determination is typical of the Vietnamese female psyche, (be they of north or south origin) be it with a baby on hip or with a stethoscope around her fragile neck.

After 17 years of providing aid to the Vietnamese, I have to come to the inevitable conclusion that the ‘time is up’, that the ‘use by date’ has expired for small NGOs' in Vietnam. In completing the latest project in Long Tan Village, we suffered the indignity of an attempt by provincial government bureaucrats to defraud us of $30,000 in the construction of the 300 septic toilet units to the village. The project was officially opened by me and the Australian Consul General to Saigon on the 17th January 2007. On this project I had a win and had taken over the project/contract without input from the government department for whom the bureaucrats worked.

Fortunately, the AVVRG has developed to a stage where we will no longer supply nuts and bolts type projects which invite corruption. Education in the areas of health, nurse training, hands on assistance with some 11 hospitals, poverty alleviation with goat and cattle projects, micro-finance scheme for 700 families and limited medical equipment supply from Australia. Here leaves little room for corruption and mismanagement. It is of no coincidence that in many circumstances, male Vietnamese are not involved in these successful projects.

It is hoped that the professionals of Vietnam will continue to receive and appreciate just what a group of dedicated Australian volunteers can achieve and the difference it can make to their professional skills education whilst at the same time benefiting many thousands of disadvantaged Vietnamese.

Written at a time when ones goals, mission statement for the AVVRG, developed over the past 17 years, now seem to be diverging and the wealth of past experiences are being ignored by the current Exec. Bloody mindedness does come to mind resulting in wrong decisions being made. Warnings about corrupt officials and other persons are ignored.

Whilst the AVVRG has achieved an enviable record in Vietnam over the past 17 years with the provision of in excess of $1.3million in direct no-cost aid, in reading this ‘foreword’ you the reader would be correct in assuming that we are a bunch of fine Christian fellows. Maybe it is far from the truth but it is not for me to determine just what qualifies as being ‘a Christian’.

Upon completion of your reading, you will make the decision and it may not be complimentary to me or my like minded associates (many are not members of the AVVRG). The underlying fact is that we are male, we are of average intelligence (most of us are) and we all have an overburden of new found testosterone, living in a country that changed our lives forever. We served in Vietnam in a war that could not be won. We were frowned upon by our own countrymen when we returned. By their own admittance, the Australian Government ignored our pleas. So we have come back to Vietnam for our own personal reasons where anything and everything is available.

At a personal level, I will return to Australia and again, should I choose, nominate and be elected, may take over the reins of the AVVRG Inc. I will return to Australia to ensure that my 8 year old son Tom has access to affordable education. Tom has a Vietnamese mother: she is now a naturalized Australian, has remarried, divorced, has had another son and is set to remarry yet again. I have custody of Tom and little wonder at that!

I trust that in writing this book, I have not hurt or caused too much discomfort to my loved and ex-loved ones and friends.

Having stated the above, please note that the majority of AVVRG members are not male, (nor are they veterans) they are female and are dedicated professionals who believe in what the AVVRG stands for, as did I. They believe in themselves and in the mostly unappreciative Vietnamese. They believe in Vietnam. They are truly ‘The Quiet Australians’

The Vice Director of the Provincial Branch of the Union of Friendship Organizations (UFO), the partner of all NGOs’ working in Vietnam, stated to me in late 2006 (during an ongoing battle we were having with bureaucracy) ‘Please understand. AVVRG needs Vietnam…Vietnam does not need you.’

And yes, I know, it is their country and as we have recently said in Australia….

‘If you don’t love it, leave it!

(The ‘Australian Veterans’ Vietnam Reconstruction Group’ Inc was founded by me in 1994. It is a registered NGO in Vietnam and an incorporated, not for profit aid provider, in Queensland, Australia.)

Book 1

Chapter 1

A Manly Boy!

When asked, I replied that I was a ’Manly boy’. This reply had nothing to do with my biceps, quads, testosterone levels or sexual inclination. It was purely made on the basis that I was born in Manly, a Sydney northern beaches suburb in 1946. The youngest of three and I went on to share a 2 bedroom flat on the first floor at No 1 Eurobin Avenue, Manly. Our phone number from memory was XU 2136 indicating the low level of population in Sydney (or the lack of affordability of a phone).

It was said that my father only came home from the Second World War three times, hence the 3 kids. It should have been four kids and it was not because dad missed his shore leave but due to the fact that an elder sibling, a twin to my sister Dianne had died soon after birth. He was to be named Matthew. There is no tangible evidence of him ever existing. Just the occasional mention by my mother and more occasionally by my sister, the surviving twin. It was hoped that her twin gene may have passed to her two sons. To date, fine single birth girls have been produced.

Pete was born in 1941, Dianne and Matt in 1944 and I made up the trio in ‘46. Of a working class family, Dad was an engineer on coastal steamers plying between Adelaide and New Guinea for the iconic Australian Burns Philp Company. Mum, when not pregnant, was a cashier at Hoyt’s Theatre on Pittwater Road. We kids thought this was the best job ever for we got into the movies for free after school just in time to get the main feature. Having seen the movie once, we would elect to walk home from Saint Mary’s School where we were met and looked after by a Mrs. Erbacher, an elderly German lady who was our after hours nanny and part-time house keeper. Regularly, we kids would ask Mrs. Erbacher to roll up her sleeve so we could stare at the number tattooed on her forearm, courtesy of the Nazi regime and her imprisonment and survival at Dachau concentration camp. Mrs. Erbacher had arrived in Australia as a refugee in 1946, alone, with little English but with a heart of gold and a determination to survive. She could also be a tyrant at times, simply in response to 3 boisterous kids awaiting the return of their parents after their work.

Dad was finally convinced to come ashore in around 1954, having survived the Pacific War at sea. Dad was shipwrecked on a reef in northern waters; torpedoed by the Japanese with a glancing shot that did not detonate. He was to witness the sinking of the Kuttabul in Sydney harbor by a Japanese mini submarine with the loss of hundreds of lives. He was also fortunate to survive the Expat scene of Singapore and other exotic Asian ports prior to the Japanese invasion and after their surrendered in 1945. Many a Caucasian wife, sipping tea at Raffles Hotel in Singapore (whilst their husbands were off in Malaysia checking on the tea and rubber plantations,) had an eye for a dashing man in a crisp white uniform and cap. I recall several of these women and eventually their husbands became close family friends of my parents. In later years we kids often listened in fascination to the tales told about their very Gilbey’s exploits in the Far East. Many a chicken has been run over, rickshaws crashed and bloody spills have been occurring since time immemorial

Dad was born Bernard Thomas MURPHY in Balmain Sydney in 1916, the eldest son of an Irish immigrant Tommy Murphy who left County Cork at the age of 12 and made his way to Australia around 1904 to seek his fortune. Unfortunately the First World War interrupted his plans and he sailed to Europe with the AIF and landed at ill fated Gallipoli. Taken off, he was reassigned to the battle fields of mainland Europe. Due to his diminutive stature, Tommy was a tunneller who carried a canary in a cage as a warning against gas seepage and bad air in the miles of tunnels dug by hand under the German front. Tommy was at Hill 60 (where he was wounded) and many other infamous landmarks. Many a bird died but Tommy survived to return home to his sweetheart wife Katie. They eventually produced a total three of the finest Black Irish sons that any Paddy would be proud of.

Katie (Katherine May Parkin) my grandmother was a fine figure of an Australian lass, also short in stature who fell under the spell of Tommy. Pop Murphy had been working in the Balmain ship yards since his arrival in Australia. In Balmain he met Katie, another devote Catholic from a family of spinster siblings. They produced Dad in 1916. Pop was overseas at the time and did not see his son till the wars’ end. Two more sons were soon to follow. My uncles, George and Tom, now in their eighties are still living and communicate from time to time with my elderly mother living in Queensland. Aged 89 and still driving her Kingswood Premier with some 80,000 km on the clock and in showroom condition. At 85, Mum decided to get power steering fitted as her two sons (me included) complained of the heaviness of the manual steering.

Nan and Pop Murphy died in the early seventies and are buried at the massive Rookwood Cemetery in outer Sydney. The only time I attended their graves was at their actual burials. How soon we forget the dead and the living for I have not seen my uncles for over 20 years: nor their wives: kids; grandchildren and great grand children, all relatives of mine and carrying on the Murphy name in perpetuity.

In the 30’s, Pop and my father worked together in the shipyards. Pop doing his thing with hammer and red hot rivets and Dad completing his apprenticeship as a marine engineer. Having graduated, Dad joined the Burns Philp line as a junior engineer and made his way up to second engineer prior to his coming ashore permanently. Once ashore and having got rid of his sea legs, he joined the electricity authority and was an engineer at the diesel power station at Brookvale, some 4km from our family flat.

It was good to have Dad back home and we waited eagerly for him on the footpath to arrive at around 4.30pm on his pushbike with an empty lunch box clanging against the steel frame. Mum would usually come home around 5.30 when the afternoon movie finished.

My father, Bernie, or Charlie as I used to call him, died in 1972 at the age of 56. His mother Katie had outlived him.

Born Vyner Jean Johnstone in Balmain in 1918, my mother was the youngest of 4 daughters. May, Pauline and Dorothy were the older siblings and as different as chalk and cheese the four of them. It is said that Pop Johnstone (my other grandfather) called his youngest Vyner Jeanette after a torrid affair with a French prostitute of the same name in Paris where Pop spent some time during the First World War. May was the eldest and was responsible for the only skeleton in the closet in the Johnstone family. May had fallen pregnant and sadly died at childbirth leaving her son Jim to be raised by his grandmother and young aunties who knew him as their brother as opposed to a nephew. Jim was doted upon and from an early age developed amazing good looks with pale blue eyes and a Jeff Chandler Tarzan profile about him.

My grandmother, Ethel May was neurotic and bought her family up with an iron will which over time rusted away leaving her a lonely and to a degree, a despised woman. However she was always good and generous to us grandkids as was Pop J. But upon her death, she was a bitter old lady who had witnessed two of her daughters predecease her. Aunt Pauline committed suicide over a broken marriage and Ethel had lost Aunt May many years earlier during May’s childbirth with Jim.

On school holidays (from Canberra to where the family had relocated) we stayed with Pop and Ethel in Manly where I was instructed on a daily basis to purchase a pack of 10 Craven A cigarettes, a two pack of QuickEze and a box of 20 Bex Powders. These she consumed daily and it is a wonder that she survived as long as she did. Pop (Fred Johnstone) in the meantime ran an SP Book from his home telephone and was unapproachable on any race day. Nearly blind, he used drink bottle base thick glasses and a magnifying glass to read the fields in the newspaper and to record the bets lodged. He even had to watch TV sitting within inches from the screen and moved his head about to get a more complete picture, following the horseracing or the characters of a TV soapy of the period. It was hard for us kids to watch the same set and spent our time at the neighbours watching their TV. They fortunately did not suffer from acute myopia.

An added burden inflicted upon Pop J was arthritis. His hands were severely crippled and knarled. How he was able to use a pencil or dial a telephone was a wonder to us grandkids. Even a visit by the local law about his illegal bookmaking did not deter him. I believed that Pop was well known enough around Manly as he had spent many years on the trams and eventually the buses from Manly wharf to Palm Beach. The local law were his mates and many a beer was taken at the Pacific Hotel Manly, much to Ethel’s’ angst. Occasionally she would venture into the lion’s den and demand him come home. Not embarrassed, he would dismiss her in no uncertain terms and Pop was known to administer his own form of punishment upon dear Ethel when he finally did get home. Ethel did not shed a tear when Fred finally died.

As a term of endearment, Pop Johnstone called us three kids by the nickname 'Turd’, a colloquial term used to describe ‘dogshit’! I remember him mumbling to me under his breath, ‘You can’t polish a turd’ At least I missed him when he died.

The term ‘3 seconds of separation’ come to mind for as I was penning this chapter, an email arrived from a cousin in Australia who I have not spoken to for many years. He had sent me details of a proposed family reunion, titled; ‘The Fred and Ethel Descendants Reunion’.

Chapter 2

Friends, Fire and Brimstone.

Growing up in Sydney in the late 40’s and 50’s was a child’s dream come true, albeit we did live in a seaside suburb and not out in the sticks of the developing western suburbs. Manly was possibly the best suburb to be raised with plenty of open space, saltwater lakes and 3 pristine beaches on the doorstep. In the days prior to television in Australia, we kids had a free reign on our activities, even at the tender ages of 5, 7 and 10 years. Led by our older brother Peter, my sister and I would explore our range from Manly Wharf to Little Manly Beach; the shopping district of The Corso to the Manly Golf Club and of course the beaches.

Child molesters or kidnappings were virtually unheard of in Australian during the period but we were taught to be aware of strangers bearing gifts. I recall at about age 6, waiting for Mum outside a bookshop on Pittwater Road and admiring the display of books in the window. An old gent, well dressed but smelling musty and of cigarettes took up conversation with me and enquired what was my favourite book. At that time, the latest ‘Rainbow’ book had just been released (somewhat similar to today’s popularity of the Harry Potter phenomena). Disappearing inside, he returned with the ‘Rainbow’ in a brown paper bag. Delighted at the gift I was soon to be disappointed when my mother came out and discovered the book which was promptly returned to the dear old gent which left me in tears. Beware of men bearing gifts! I never did get a copy of that edition of ‘Rainbow’

Living on Pittwater Road, our unit on the corner of Eurobin Avenue was ideally located. Tennis courts and a rugby field were adjacent as was the Manly Golf Club. Many a time we would lay in ambush and collect the wayward balls then sell them to the Pro at the golf shop. Being hit in the middle of the back by a wayward drive off the 4th tendered to make us wary of the fairways. The bunkers and greens became our best hunting grounds. Many a golfer was not able to finish his hole as planned for his ball had suddenly disappeared, as had we.

Nearby was the Manly Refuse Dump and many days were spent in rusted out car bodies, refrigerators and wood boxes. Prams were a useful find and the wheels kept us supplied for the innumerable Billy carts that we constructed. Homemade kites were another fascination. A monster using a double bed sheet and timber frame was hoisted aloft on 8 to 10 large balls of light rope. Nearly out of sight and lifting us off the ground, we were responsible for several domestic DC3 aircraft (that were losing altitude to land at Sydney’s Airport) reporting strange objects and having to divert to avoid collision. A call out of the local police in their Black Maria soon put a stop to the mile high kite escapades.

On the opposite corner to our unit was a timber yard servicing the local handyman and building community. Always a great place to explore, jumping the fence gave easy access to hours of adventure. Peter, my elder brother always carried matches for we often lit grass fires on the reserve behind our unit. Whilst playing with fire, Peter managed to set the yard ablaze resulting in the complete destruction of thousands of feet of timber and left behind a burnt out shell of the office and machinery. Every available fire-truck in the Manly area was called out to battle the spectacular blaze which we watched in awe from our first floor unit window overlooking the yard some 200 feet away. If memory serves me well, Peter owned up to the ‘prank’ but no action was taken by the police or by the owners of the yard. What can you do to a 10 year old firebug?

On the other side of the tennis courts was a Chinese market garden. Many workers in shorts, white singlet and coolie hat were to be seen tending the gardens and watering the rows of produce from two watering cans balanced across their shoulders on a bamboo pole. Night soil produced the most succulent vegetables. The farmers presented us kids with more adventures as these alien people had mysticism about them and although friendly with my mother when she purchased produce, we kids were normally frightened off by the mere sound of just one word of Chinese.

The market gardens supplemented the daily delivery of horse drawn milk and bread carts that plied the streets daily. Milk was sold by the billycan provided by the household and the fresh baked bread was simply thrown down to you off the back of the cart. Fridays’ saw the ‘fisho’ make his rounds to service what was predominantly a Catholic community, or at least it seemed to me to be that way. We did not mix with those few ‘prods’ that lived in the same street.

Every community has its misfortunate. David was a boy of around 12 who stood 6ft and was many sandwiches short of a picnic when it came to intelligence. He was baited on a daily basis and reacted angrily to our taunts. When he produced an axe one day and chased us for our lives is when we learnt a bit of respect for him. However we were still able to convince him to dive off the highest point of the cliffs at the Queenscliff sea pool into very shallow water. Additionally we thought it funny when David strung live cats from a rope and tossed them into the pounding sea. David 20. Cats nil.

The reserve behind the units bounded the Manly Lagoon and was poorly maintained by the local council. Allowed to grow to over our heads, the grass presented a great opportunity for fire bugs. Judging the wind (we kids knew about this as many a singed head will attest) the fire would be lit and allowed to burn. Nature can be tricky and when the wind turned, the neighbours could be seen hosing down their back fences and outhouses lest they be destroyed by that Catholic mob on the corner. Within a few weeks fresh green grass would present us with a perfect playing field. On the odd occasion when the long grass was mown by the council, we had great delight in building grass igloos and when complete it was a race to destroy those of the other kids on the block. Grass igloos burn very well!

Childhood friendship is special and many of us still maintain contact with kids from school or kids from our first neighbourhood. My best friend was Penny Patmore, about the same age and stricken with polio. Every morning, be it summer or winter I would get up at 0530, pick her up several doors down where she lived and the two of us would walk the kilometre to the beach for a morning swim. It was slow progress for Penny had complete callipers on both legs and needed crutches to walk. Crossing the soft powdery sand was near impossible for her and she would crawl the last 50 meters to the water’s edge. Unclipping her callipers, she would bum walk into the water where we played for a half hour and then made the return trip home for breakfast and off to school. Our parents condoned it for its value in the exercise that Penny received daily. Penny is one of those that I did not keep in contact with after we relocated to another city. My loss.

Other memorable moments from that period are the climbing over the fence of the local ‘bottle O’ and steeling his beer bottles and taking them around the front to sell back to him; of a weekend we would collect glass drink bottles from patrons on the beaches and return them to the retailer for a refund on the deposit and a bit of pocket money; fishing off Manly Wharf (underneath it) sitting on the heavy structural wooden beams located in the dark and depths of the wharf; hiring wooden row boats from Little Manly Cove where the whole family of grandparents, parents and kids would fish for Leather Jacket fish and come home with sugar bags full to be cleaned and distributed amongst the relatives; making rafts out of discarded mattresses and rigging a pole and sail only to see the whole vessel burnt to the waterline by marauding pirates from the neighbourhood, abandoning ship and swimming ashore.

The whole family surfed at Queenscliff from a very young age with hand boards made by our father. The three of us would be ‘out the back’ behind the swells dodging the not so pristine sewerage and used condoms that were pumped into the ocean. At five, I could surf with the best of them and often beat kids (fitted out with flippers) to the shore having caught the perfect wave and body surfed into the beach.

Winter saw us taking a Manly Ferry ride with my Grandmother Ethel who would wait till the most severe storm would hit Sydney and then insist on catching the bucking ferry over to Sydney Cove. Often we would be stranded in Sydney city when the ferries had been cancelled due to bad weather. A two hour bus trip home would put a damper on any day out with Ethel.

I recall sailing with Mum on a coastal steamer of Burns Philp from Sydney to Adelaide where we met up with Dad on another ship having sailed from the far-east. Most of the liners were a combination of cargo and passenger with Malay crew and Australian Officers. The Malay crew treated us kids like their own, maybe better and entertained us on deck or in the engine room where my father had shared many voyages.

A visit to Taronga Park Zoo with your grandmother would normally be an annual high-light for any child. However Nan Murphy was of the belief that a child must go to the Zoo on a monthly basis. It got to the point where we knew and could name every specie of animal. For some reason, ducks were my favourite and we knew the ducks by name. My best mate was called Donald (of-course) and a special treat would always be in the offing for him.

My Aunty Norah, Gran Murphy’s spinster sister played the upright piano. She started her career playing accompanying music to the silent movies in Manly. Aunt Norah at the age of 60 still worked in the local fruit and vegetable shop. I remember her continual runny nose and ever-present handkerchief and the short white socks and pink uniform she wore daily.

Pop Murphy used to work a few days after retirement at a hotel in Manly as a cellar-man to earn a few pounds to supplement his pension. The day he was hit in the back by a reversing truck saw him go downhill health wise, leading to cancer at the impact point and a painful death in the late 60’s. And they were the good times? And the sad!

Chapter 3

Mum, Dad, Ethel and Katie.

As written, my parents came from working class backgrounds. Her mother Ethel worked for many years in a coffee shop (in those days a tea shop). I can recall her lithe figure darting around the shop serving customers, her regaled in a hair net that was so thick she could have caught fish in it. This coupled with her pinafore over a uniform well and truly identified her as staff. I am not sure when she smoked her cigarettes or took her Bex or sucked on her QuickEze. She must have managed somehow to get herself through the day.

Dad’s mother was a simple housewife and I was never aware of her working. So with these backgrounds, class married class but as we grew older, it became evident that this was not good enough for my mother. In her own mind had moved up the class ladder, albeit a rung or two, not a complete floor. The family’s moved to Canberra in the mid fifties when my father secured the position as chief engineer on the diesel power station located at the down market area of Kingston. Living in the Capital was another reason to take another upward step.

Over the years she gradually directed my father into change. She changed his clothes. Reefer jackets and tweeds became the norm as did brogue shoes, all with colour matching shirts, ties, slacks and socks. Dad added a pipe after his first heart attack which set the ‘look’ as prescribed by his wife. Jesus Christ couldn’t change him so there was little hope that his wife would be totally successful. He enjoyed nothing more than sitting on the back steps of out modest bungalow, bare-chested in the summer, dressed in baggy shorts (usually with a testicle hanging out his shorts leg) and sandals with his best mate, Cassias, the Boxer dog.

Dad’s other love was his car. Because of dire financial circumstances, our very first car was in fact given to us by a dear friend of the family, Harry Sivertsen, now deceased. Harry was a butcher and had several shops in Canberra. Being relatively wealthy by comparison to us, in around 1959, he donated to our family a 1932 B model Ford. This 4 door sedan was to see us through many years till such time as the family was in a position to purchase a new car. We in turn gave the car to a relative, Uncle Buzz, the husband of my mother’s sister Dorothy. Whilst we sported a brand new GM Holden FB station wagon, Uncle Buzz was flat out changing the oil on the B model and it soon fell into disrepair, only to be seen on TV, being pushed along by University students in a parade of some sorts in Sydney. Today the car would be worth a considerable sum of money but it too has long gone.

My last year of high school saw me elected class, sporting house and School Representative. The teachers purposely chose students from the other side of the tracks. My female partner and I represented the school. We were not from the silver spoon or diplomatic set of kids. This deliberate appointment got a few noses out of joint but for once the underdogs were allowed to shine.

Chapter 4

You’re in the Army now. 1966.

At the tender age of 19, living at home with my parents and elder sister, life was pretty mundane. Uneducated by choice, my prospects for any great future were limited. I was not earning sufficient money to go it alone with my own pad and I had trouble keeping my 1954 Morris Oxford in petrol, let alone trying to maintain a single lifestyle. So life went on, and then came the Vietnam War.

As a hairy-assed 19 year old, what greater chance was there for an adventure of a lifetime?

Previously, maritime pursuits were the norm for our family. Dad spent many a year at sea with Burns Philp and it was a time honoured tradition that the son’s of BP mariners would follow in their father’s footsteps. Pete, my elder brother got his call up when he turned 16 and was accepted as a cadet officer on a four year apprenticeship. What a life he had!

I recall the day he departed on his first voyage. The family had travelled to Sydney’s Darling Harbor to see him off. Pete stood proud as punch on the foredeck. Dressed in whites with a peak cap and epaulets denoting his lowly rank on board the M.V. Montoro. With black and white chequered funnel belching smoke and fumes from her diesel engines, she slowly made her way midstream en-route to the far off East with a cargo of supplies and goods for the BP facilities located mainly in New Guinea. From there she would sail to Singapore, Malacca, and Borneo bringing back valuable cargoes of copra, rubber and exotic timbers for Australian manufacturing.

Strange as it was at the time, I also received my papers from BP when I turned 16. I was invited to undertake the obligatory tests as to suitability and I assumed, immunity to seasickness. It was not to be. An adamant mother and a reluctant father persuaded me that a life at sea was not for me. Dejected, I had my father write back to BP and in thanking them for the offer, declared thanks but no thanks on my behalf. Old Capt. Vogleman of BP Line was disappointed that the Murphy tradition would not continue on with the younger son. It was at my father’s insistence that should we, his sons, pursue a life at sea then it had better be ‘above deck’ and not below where he had laboured for many years. The grime of oil and grease stains remained under the fingernails of my father for many years as did the stunted toe nails that had been chewed off by marauding rats when he was shipwrecked off the Australian coast during WW11.

So it was not to be. A landlubber was to be my future and there was no better way to demonstrate this than to become an Infantry soldier a few years later.

Upon leaving school, I joined a large insurance company in Canberra as a clerk and plodded along agonizingly with a New Zealand Manager. Being a Kiwi probably had a real impact upon his management style and decision making process. He had to manage Australians! However I took great umbrage in the fact that he would not allow me a day off work to enable me to travel to Sydney with my parents to visit my dying Grandfather, Pop Tommy Murphy. Undaunted, the following day being a Saturday and no work, I scrambled out of bed at some ungodly hour, packed a bag and told my sister that I was off to Sydney by way of the thumb. I managed to hitch hike a lift very near home with a group of very drunk and still drinking Slivovitz Yugoslav labourers. At 4 am, they were fuller than a Catholic girls school hat rack but did manage to drop me off on the other side of town where I picked up an empty newspaper truck returning to Sydney. Setting a new world record, I made Manly in Sydney in 4.5 hours, a trip that usually took 5.5 hours by car. Pop subsequently died of cancer and I never did forgive the boss for not allowing me to have another day with my dying grandfather. His reason was that ‘a grandfather was not a close relative’. Being a Kiwi, his closet relative probably had to be shorn on a regular basis.

In 1962 Australia had committed military advisors to Vietnam where some 250 were to eventually serve under the banner of the Australian Training Team, AATV. Come 1965, the war had degenerated to a point where the Australian government agreed to combat troops and committed the 1st Battalion to join the US 173 rd at Bien Hoa some 20 miles north of Saigon.

By 1967, Australia had contributed two battalions in rotation to the US cause. It was obvious by then that Australia was committed long term to backing the US. This commitment arrived at a point in history where an Australian Prime Minister declared publicly (when hosting a visit to Australia by incumbent US President Johnston) that Australia was ‘all the way with LBJ’. From then on it was downhill for all parties concerned in the conflict. Not that this was Australia’s doing; hell we have never lost a battle! But the writing was on the wall that this conflict could never be won by conventional means.

Australia also introduced the draft to feed the war machine. It soon became evident that the US and Australia were fighting a different war. Our views, tactics, radio protocols, chain of command and morale were not compatible with that of the mammoth US war machine. Australian commanders pushed for a separate area of responsibility and were granted permission in 1965 to police an area of their choosing in Phuoc Thuy Province. Being an undeclared war, it was considered by many to be a police action. That was until the casualties started to mount and the enemy failed to kowtow to the massive firepower of the US and allied forces.

So, bored with life in general, I did what any self respecting boy scout would do. I put my hand up and volunteered. The Kiwi again showed his true colours and would not grant me leave without pay for the two year service. Being a volunteer, I had to resign. This I did and with a parting Baaaaaaa as I left the building.

Volunteering for anything shows ones masochistic side of his or her character. You are either labelled a do-gooder (brown nose) or simply a fool. Undeterred, I passed the medical and psyche test (I believe I had to count to ten backwards) and was duly sworn into Her Majesties Armed Forces. Joining what was about the 4th intake of National Service Conscript on the 2nd February 1966. Some 90 odd 20 year olds and I were bussed from Canberra to the town of Yass where we joined the train in from Sydney, brim-full of sombre youth all heading into hell at Kapooka.

Kapooka was the location of the 1st Recruit Training Battalion outside of Wagga Wagga in the State of New South Wales. Arriving at Kapooka, we were treated like moronic sheep and you would have thought that we were in New Zealand. The sheep dogs were the lance and full corporals barking at our heals; issuing orders in military terms that were not understood by we civilians. However we did understand that we would be billeted in brand new brick quarters, not the tin Nissan huts that were the norm in the Australia army. Allocated to a four man room, I finished up with just three of us. One was the son of a serving General who obviously did not follow in his father’s footsteps by making it through to Officer Cadet School. The other was a be-speckled migrant who was immediately referred to as Wheelbarrow for his ethnic European name was unpronounceable. Wheelbarrow was short of a few rounds in a full magazine and had an emotional time with every duty he was expected to perform. I was encouraged to give him extra curriculum after hours to ensure he was not discharged as being unfit for military service or back-squadded to repeat the course with a new intake of conscripts.

No sooner had we unpacked our limited civilian gear when a room inspection was announced. Standing at attention by our unmade beds, our lockers were inspected and the contents spilled to the floor by the squeaky voiced Lance Corporal instructor (He was soon to be named ‘One Nut’).. Here we were introduced to the correct procedure of folding socks, underwear and laying out ones dental and other personal care items, according to military instruction manuals.

Marched off to the mess for lunch we were surprised by the quality and quantity of the food and drinks available. Little did we know that in the near future, even the excessive calorie intake was to be insufficient to maintain the body weight that we entered service with.

After lunch it was off to the Q store where bedding was issued, followed by instruction as to how to make a bed, complete with hospital corners and not a wrinkle. If a coin did not bounce off the bed due to the tautness of the top blanket, the bed was unceremoniously stripped and you started again.

Day 2. was no better. The issue of uniforms commenced which simply provided us with enough gear to ensure that our lockers would be spilled again onto the floor for incorrect placement and/or folding.

Day three, up at dawn for breakfast followed by a 3 km run. All dressed in baggy green shorts, white singlet, green socks and white tennis shoes, we made our way around Kapooka with the other thousand recruits either at a run, trot or walk. This soon developed into a full run as our fitness increased and weight loss occurred. Now our uniforms were really too big and baggy for us.

During our three months at Kapooka we learnt the basics of military life, discipline, procedures and eventually graduated to weapons and bush skills. It was only to be expected that many mistakes would be