FINDING MY REFLECTIOM

By Frederick Mulae

From the jungles of war to the beautiful Italian countryside, follow five young men on a wild and humorous ride as they dodge the bullets of war, love, and friendship.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frederick Mulae
• Release date: Jan 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9780645164831

Frederick Mulae

Frederick Mulae is an award-winning author of three novels and an often-comical, realistically raw autobiography. He is a natural storyteller, utilising his social sciences learnings to write deeply realistic characters. Born in bleak post-war Italy, he migrated to Australia with his family at the impressionable age of seven. As an adult, he went into the commercial and humanistic sectors-travelling extensively, learning much about the people and cultures around the world.Frederick resides in Sydney, Australia, with his wife near their three adult children and eight grandchildren. During his down time, he enjoys the great outdoors; camping, fishing, and travelling. He is a semi-retired teacher and lecturer, motivational trainer and speaker, as well as working in the property sector. Bringing fresh stories to life, keeping readers turning pages, and offering an escape from the everyday makes him happy as an author, and he hopes to transport readers to new worlds.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

‘I dream my paintings and I paint my dreams’

—Vincent Willem van Gogh

Marcello (Marshall) Della Casa won the lottery—otherwise known as the Vietnam Conscription Ballot. Although a family friend and solicitor had offered to lodge an official conscientious objection plea with the Australian Defence Force, Marshall wanted no part of it or its associated stigma.

The bus stopped in Macquarie Street near the Parliament buildings, where Marshall got out to attend a physical examination—the final process for his recruitment. As Marshall approached the assessment centre, he noticed dozens of protesters carrying anti-Vietnam placards. Demonstrators were blocking the doorway, preventing several men from entering the medical wing. A wannabe Jesus, Marshall thought of the leader standing on the front steps reciting lyrics from his notepad.

‘Don’t carry your gun for me, brother, nor deceive yourself. You carry it for your mother. Fight and murder if you must—not in the name of dignity or justice, but in the plain murdering lust.’

The protesters chanted loudly, so the leader raised his voice to a new verse when a squad of police officers forced their way through the protestors and handcuffed him.

‘You’re under arrest for inciting persons to break the National Service Act,’ shouted the stocky sergeant.

Then, in unison, the protesters closed in around the police, who, as per protocol, immediately drew batons. Moments later, a Bedford police van arrived with reinforcements—flanked by a television news wagon. The news crew had been recording even before their vehicle stopped, capturing the police officers spilling out of the van and into the crowd—something likely representing acute anarchy on television.

Within minutes, the police dispersed the activists and were posted at the centre’s entranceway, checking conscription cards before letting the boys through. The commotion had shaken up the young recruits—with Marshall at the top of the stack. For the first time since receiving the dreaded notification letter, he understood the reality of the procedure.

They checked in at reception, where a uniformed Army officer sent them down the hallway to Room 8, where a middle-aged woman ordered them to strip to their underpants and wait for their name to be called. Over a dozen boyish men, most wearing brilliant-white Y-fronts, were now sitting on benches in the darkened room, waiting their turn. There was no dialogue, just expressions of bleak anguish.

‘Delli Cassi,’ Marshall heard and looked towards the spindly corporal who had mispronounced his name. ‘Room eight,’ she boomed, ticking her clipboard. He walked along the hallway to the dimly lit examination room. An older man with a stethoscope around his neck beckoned him to enter. He wore a dark grey crinkled suit and a classic white shirt, topped off with an oversized, almost fashionable maroon bow tie. His longish white hair and wizened face gave him an otherworldly presence—nothing corresponding to Marshall’s expectations. Perhaps his standing nearly naked in leopard-print undies may have influenced his take. Marshall gave the doctor his version of why they shouldn’t induct him.

‘I’m sorry, but a partially amputated finger in itself won’t keep you out of the Army, son,’ answered the medico in a gentle voice.

‘Doc, don’t get me wrong,’ started Marshall again. ‘I want to do my bit over there, but I’m afraid my finger might let my mates and me down.’

‘I don’t think so. The Army’s only interested in your finger if it’s not capable of squeezing the trigger,’ cliched the doctor.

‘But when I put pressure against my finger like this,’ Marshall said, gesturing, ‘I get this enormous cramping all up my arm—the most excruciating pain.’ As the words left his lips, he feared he’d over practised the spiel. But the old doctor still nodded empathetically.

The doctor continued his questions about Marshall’s habits and lifestyle. Marshall answered them all, confident yet self-serving, wanting to prove his unsuitability for the required task.

‘Refrain from the heavy drinking and over-partying, and you’ll be fine,’ advised the older man. ‘You’ll also live longer without the pain in your kidneys you’re referring to.’

‘You mean provided I outlive Vietnam?’

The doctor stood chuckling to himself, offering a handshake. ‘Remember, cut back on your smoking and drinking.’

* * *

In the next examination room, the nurse wore a formal uniform—below the knee blue dress with contrasting white starched collar and cap. Marshall could not comprehend why it was necessary to be almost naked for an eye test—appearing small and vulnerable in her shadow.

‘Cover your left eye and read the second line from the top of the chart,’ she directed in a raspy, smoky voice.

Marshall pronounced the letters, purposely misreading two. Peripherally, he saw her proudly place a prominent tick next to all of them. The same strategy with the right eye produced the same futile response. Was the nurse a magnificent study in contradiction and duplicity—or just too bright for the young upstarts? Marshall was already missing the kind old doctor in the maroon bow tie.

An hour later and the deed was done with nothing left to do but wait for the induction papers in the mail.

CHAPTER TWO

After ten weeks of basic training and a thirteen-week course at the Puckapunyal training facility, they now considered Marshall and his company of young bloods ready for action. They boarded aircraft carrier HMAS Sydney, where navy men showed them to their sleeping quarters. Although the ship had been in service for twenty-one years, the military still considered her formidably impressive. Since her duties now were to ferry heavy equipment, munitions, and soldiers to and from Vietnam, they branded her The Vung Tau Ferry.

As instructed, the new passengers unloaded their gear, slipped on their issued sandals, and strung up their hammocks. But the general feeling sat only just short of claustrophobic in the small, crowded quarters. Marshall and a few others found their way up to the flight deck for fresh air.

There were hundreds of recruits on the cargo-laden flat-top. Some were busy waving goodbyes, while others stood entranced as the massive vessel navigated past the half-constructed Opera House into the main harbour. Marshall looked back over the glistening water to the Harbour Bridge, its arched design a royal tiara over the magnificent waterway. The huge carrier was churning out the best part of twenty knots by the time they passed the heads—as though she anticipated the freedom of open waters. However, the passengers did not share the same sentiment. 

Throughout the ship’s seven-day journey, picking up other service members from around Australia, they kept the conscripts busy with a host of exercise routines and advanced weapons-handling practises. Marshall’s favourite was shooting the floating water-filled balloons from the ship’s stern. He believed the government-issue self-loading rifle was almost the standard of his precision sporting arms back home. Considering the rifle’s open sights, it took little practice before he could shoot the small bobbing balloons at 500 yards from the rolling aft deck. Marshall understood that like tools, rifles are best matched to a particular purpose, and for its intent, he considered the SLR an excellent weapon. It was light and sturdy, issued with five twenty-round box magazines. He named it Flo after a fiery Scottish girl he once dated—both having quick tempers and strong recoils.

With most recruits seasick, the stench of bile always lingered throughout the ship. Edward, ‘Ed for short’ Buckingham was one such victim—a weakened mess. So, as a fellow Sydneysider, Marshall stepped in and asked Ed to go with him to the flight deck for fresh air. After a heart-to-heart, it became apparent that seasickness wasn’t Ed’s only problem. He shared Marshall’s dread of combat.

‘You know, Ed, I bet that nine out of ten guys on board feel the same way. After all, we’re all in the same boat.’ Marshall could have revealed his own doubts on fighting and the possibility of never returning home alive or in one piece—but fearing it may worsen Ed’s anxieties, he chose not to.

As days progressed, Ed opened up even more, disclosing he had received a verbal Dear John Letter from his girlfriend before his departure.

‘I just can’t live with all the worry while you’re away,’ Ed mimicked in a girlish voice. ‘I’d always be frightened of the worst. Blah-blah and bloody blah-blah.’ Marshall noticed that part of his nausea had dissipated. ‘She said it all like I wasn’t shitting bricks myself about going. She wouldn’t wait for me, man,’ he said, pulling out a black-and-white photograph of them both at what seemed a formal occasion. She was taller, but both looked like they could put on a few kilos.

Ed retrieved his photograph and lay down on his back. Marshall realised the differences in their appearance. Marshall’s Italian heritage had given him a shorter, more-proportioned look, while Ed’s tallness made his legs seem overly long for his body. Marshall’s olive complexion and dark features, to Ed’s paleness, freckles, and reddish-brown hair.

Marshall’s planned disguise became more tested as the ship cut northward towards the South China Sea. He now could not overcome his anxieties over the bottomless abyss of the unknown. Since it was always worse at night, he wondered whether the putrid smell agitated his state of mind.

The top deck was the best place for a cigarette (or three), but lately, he stayed there trying to sleep away the bleak long nights.

After nineteen days at sea, the ship entered the calmer waters of the Eastern Vietnam Sea. The vessel was ordered into a total blackout. Even smoking on deck was forbidden. They switched the lights off—or dimmed them if they were behind heavy curtains. The men’s suppressed concerns intensified further with the ship’s impending arrival.

Marshall dozed on the flight deck that morning when he woke to find Ed sprawled out by his side. Suddenly, they were interrupted by a burst of discreet activity flooding the deck as sailors secured their battle stations. Brandishing World War Two machine guns, sailors manned the carrier’s perimeters. Navy divers slid into the water to monitor the hull against attack from any strong-swimming Viet-Cong with an inherent death wish. Depth-charge stations were crewed and ready to deploy over any devious submarines. The frenzy struck acutely at the recruits’ core.

Ed turned to Marshall. ‘Fuck, Marsh, I wanna go home.’

‘I’d be on your heels, man!’

CHAPTER THREE

With its flat deck packed with containers of supplies, trucks and tanks, the vast aircraft carrier entered Vung Tau Harbour, South Vietnam, in broad daylight and after many persistent manoeuvres, they dropped the massive anchor. The anxious soldiers assembled on the flight deck in full combat gear, ready for transport by Chinook helicopters to the Australian base at Nui Dat. But learning that the Viet-Cong (communist guerrilla force) was now keeping everyone at the Nui Dat base busy with artillery, they transported the recent arrivals to the nearby Vung Tau Base pending a transfer a few days later.

The facility was enormous, being headquarters for the Australian Army and housing several American support units. Marching through the suffocating humidity, the newcomers heard sounds of the anthem ‘We’ve Got to Get out of This Place’ echoing throughout the camp. The loud music helped divert their many concerns and vulnerabilities.

Since Vung Tau was also used for mainland rest and recreation, the boys loosened up and enjoyed the daily entertainment. Various Vietnamese rock bands resounded across the city—each with a full complement of pocket-sized go-go girls.

‘No vodka goggles required here,’ Ed joked to Marshall.

‘They might want some, though,’ replied Marshall, pleased to see Ed distracted from thoughts of his unrequited love back home.

All recruits could patronise the many cafes and bars the Military Police kept safe by constant patrols, enforcing curfews, and maintaining a keen eye over the soldiers’ conduct.

When the Australian Prime Minister John Gorton and his wife visited during their patriotic tour, Marshall and Ed were present. When it was Marshall’s turn for the handshake, he, for no reason, said: ‘It’s very nice to meet you and your missus,’ haphazardly adding vowels in as strong an Italian accent as he could generate. He followed through with the Italian version of the middle finger—an umbrella arm action.

‘Australia appreciates your efforts,’ replied the befuddled Prime Minister—flanked by the equally confused first lady. And then, in no time flat, they were gone.

‘What the hell…’ rasped Ed.

‘I just said it was nice to meet them both.’

‘Well, in the olden days, that arm action would’ve been considered an act of treason,’ said Ed, smiling and shaking his head, ‘and you might’ve been shot.’

‘And that’s different how? He’s the frigging reason we’re over here—to get shot at!’

Marshall was full of one-liners that he constantly used—often inappropriately. What surprised Ed was that he found himself slipping in as the straight man.

Reality crept back the following morning when the new boys climbed into transport trucks for their trip to the Aussie base at Nui Dat. They all knew their stay at Vung Tau base had only been a pleasant interlude before the imminent tempest.

CHAPTER FOUR

Because of recent Viet-Cong activity, the Nui Dat trip was considered as dangerous as any major mission of immediate enemy contact. The Australian forces travelled in convoy, with two Centurion tanks, two Armoured Personnel Carriers, a Dozer tank, and a tank support vehicle. The British-built Centurions had been around for some time. Still, they gave them impressive upgrades for the Vietnam War—replacing the primary weapons with longer and more accurate cannons, massive ranging machine guns, infrared night illumination systems and external long-range fuel tanks. Now they were a genuinely formidable piece of machinery.

The convoy marched on full alert when the expected happened. ‘Contact!’ someone yelled. They were under attack—with grenades and mortars exploding everywhere. The troops flew from overturned vehicles, scrambling for cover. Marshall and Ed were in the back of a truck when a blast toppled it onto its side. Marshall climbed from under two soldiers to find his head paining and bleeding. Adrenaline surged as he rushed from the fallen truck to follow Ed into the thick scrub.

The Centurions billowed clouds of black exhaust fumes, trying to roll into better positions. Their machine guns, busy slicing through tree branches as they swivelled around. Then the enormous cannons began their terrifying discharges, clearing masses of bushland as they pushed forward toward the attackers. The noise was deafening. Marshall and Ed found themselves amid a few others firing into the jungle.

‘I’ve been hit, Ed—fuck. I’ve been hit!’ Marshall shouted, holding his head.

Ed turned to see Marshall in shock, blood from his head streaming down his forehead and into his eyes. ‘I think it’s the same gash from the truck that’s opened up again,’ Ed shouted in between rifle shots. Together they fired, zigzagging their way towards the limited protection at the rear of a scrub-munching tank. It would have been even more terrifying if the newbies had had time to think about their predicament.

The lead tank took a broadside hit, but its guns continued to terrorise the landscape, even immobilised. Within minutes, the support team was beside the tank wielding massive wrenches and leveraging tools, trying to repair its tempered-steel track.

Many recruits were now taking cover behind the advancing tank when the enemy struck the disabled one again—just missing the dozer tank. An incoming shell had slammed into the external fuel tank, causing it to explode, the blast hurling two bodies into the air. The greasy billowing black smoke only partially obscured the support technicians’ charred bodies. A signalman squatting nearby yelled coordinates into his radio as the blasts continued.

The coordinates must have been accurate because it didn’t take long for allied artillery to level the jungle with concentrated shelling. Two helicopter gunships then took over with .60-calibre machine guns, making quick work of clearing out remaining attackers. Marshall and Ed were still together, quivering at the devastation. Fallen trees and broken foliage everywhere. Artillery craters deep enough to hide a small car in. And the smell of burnt bodies they would never forget.

Shortly after, medevac helicopters swooped in to evacuate the dead and the wounded. What was left of the dispirited convoy was ordered to continue the long foot slog towards Nui Dat.

‘I can’t do this,’ Ed said to Marshall, trembling—almost crying.

Marshall looked at Ed through his own watery eyes, saying nothing as he leaned in to squeeze Ed’s shoulder.

CHAPTER FIVE

Nui Dat Base was much larger than Marshall and Ed had expected. Its boundaries sprawled wide towards a massive rubber plantation. Foul smells of rotting vegetation accented by the sporadic whiff of organic sewerage engulfed the camp. The perimeter, fenced and wired, was further protected with interlocking pits and bunkers armed with .50-calibre machine guns. Allied cannon blasts were heard in the distance.

Lance Corporal Arnold McKlusky introduced Marshall and Ed to their tent, saying the blasts were relief fire or, most likely, a noisy enemy intimidation process.

The sturdy canvas tents had been fortified using dozens of sand-filled bags heaped around the outside, with many more stacked alongside to form semi-underground bunkers. Inside the shelters were four bunks, each with an upright metal locker alongside. The cabinets were inspirational works of art—plastered with arrays of well-preserved Playboy centrefold bunnies.

‘T120 will be your home away from home for the next twelve months,’ the corporal said, adding, ‘so stay in one piece and look after the joint.’

The other lodgers were Matteo Maroni, born in Redcliffe, Queensland, to Maltese parents, and Dudley Farquhar, a Scottish-Australian from Sydney. Dudley was attempting to hang up a picture of his girl while the others unpacked.

‘T120, what a mix?’ Marshall said, perhaps a little too loudly. ‘An Italian, an Aussie, a Scot, and a Maltese. All we need now is an Arab and an Asian, and we’d have ourselves a real league of nations.’ Nobody laughed—the silence stretching on.

* * *

After the main briefing, Corporal Wayne Fuller led the T120s and a few extra conscripts for their first camp reconnaissance.

‘Boys, on this side of the base is a landing strip for all fixed-wingers. And on the other side is the helicopter landing zone, which for you guys, is right alongside your accommodations,’ the corporal said, grinning. ‘To the near right are the latrines—nothing but a long bench over a large hole in the ground. Go in for a squiz or a wiz, and then we’ll continue.’

Marshall took a good look, noticing the concrete ledge supporting a row of wooden toilet seats with no partitioning or screening in between. As the boys would later call them, the thunder-dumps were constructed of a one-metre-high concrete wall and then insect netting to the tin roof. The showers were just as primitive but with better visual cover from the outside. They were nothing more than buckets at the end of lengthy sections of rope, which you filled with water and then hoisted above your head.

The corporal was sitting around one of the makeshift tables when the boys came out, sucking on a rolled smoke. He head-gestured for the guys to join him.

‘It will take you newcomers a few days to get used to communal dumping,’ said the corporal. ‘But when familiarity overcomes bashfulness, the thunder block will provide you with a suitable venue to enjoy the view, have a good chin wag, and tell tall tales. Book swapping is optional, depending on your level of hygiene.’ Everyone appreciated the corporal’s dry humour, but none more than Marshall.

The corporal continued with his strange, mutated Aussie accent between deep draws from his thin rollie. ‘I understand the VC christened you guys on your way up, so why don’t we lighten the load by getting you up to date with some of the camp’s recent funnies?’

Marshall sat next to Dudley on a bench seat. ‘Cool dude, hey Dud?’

Dudley turned his eyes towards Marshall without moving his head. Marshall noticed his face had a dusting of Picasso with a long hook nose and flaring hang-glider nostrils.

‘Now, let me tell you of a little incident which happened last month,’ continued Corporal Fuller. ‘With everyone using the latrines, the crap and paper level rises in volume and provides a warm, damp home to many millions of bugs and insects.’ Someone gave a girlie writhing sound. ‘Benign or not, the dunny boy must eliminate the bugs and burn off the paper, right?’ The boys remained silent in anticipation. ‘Well, the regular dunny boy went on a three-day furlough to Vung Tau. His replacement was a newbie.’ He proceeded after another long drag from his rollie and a smug look at the listeners. ‘The regular guy had gone to great lengths to explain to the newbie how he was to burn the crap out of the crap using a mixture of diesel and petrol. Straight forward stuff, right? But he either wasn’t listening, or he wasn’t up to it, because not only did he get the amounts wrong, he reversed the ratio of the blend, right?’

‘His sentences always end with a forced question,’ Marshall muttered to Dudley, who ignored him.

The corporal had everyone mesmerised. ‘The explosion blew the frigging tin roof and the screens plum off and sent shit and arse paper everywhere!’

Fits of laughter broke out among the boys. Even Dudley cracked a laugh. Corporal Fuller pounded the tiny remains of his cigarette into the soft dirt with the heel of his well-polished boot and continued with the saga. ‘Fortunately for the newbie, the blast went mainly vertical, so other than being covered in raw sewerage, he emerged shaken but not stirred,’ he said, trying to mimic Sean Connery bringing with it more laughter. ‘Since we have no mains pressure water to hose the place down, he spent the next two days washing the toilet block and nearby structures and tents with buckets of water and a countless number of rags, so count your undies. It was bloody hilarious watching the little fucker climb trees and shrubs to remove the high-flyers from the branches. Can you imagine that?’

The rookies’ laughter continued while they clapped the corporal.

‘Alright, I have an errand to run, so why don’t you boys go scout on your own and we’ll meet up here again in two hours, okay? You can pick up some tinnies from the kiosk—just follow your nose along the well-hammered track.’

The recruits dispersed, and Marshall and Ed found themselves with their tent mates, Dudley and Matt. They began walking on a dusty dirt path towards the helicopter landing field when Ed said, ‘Sorry guys, I need to take a dump.’

Matt was the first to reply. ‘Let’s all walk up to the loos, and we’ll have a smoko while we wait for you.’

The nearby American artillery stirred again as Ed graced the well-worn throne, except this time the guns thundered as he had never heard before. The repeated cannon blasts sent shock waves rumbling through the ground, shaking the building. An air blast lifted Ed’s cheeks off the toilet seat at almost the same instant. With the corporal’s dunny boy story fresh in mind, he feared the worst and ran out in a dreadful panic. The others, including Dudley, laughed as they watched Ed standing, Charlie Chaplin style, holding his pants halfway up with both hands.

Unbeknownst to the rookies, this was to become a common occurrence. They quickly learned that on the first gun murmur, you stopped what you were doing and got out of there, pronto! Ed settled for what Corporal Fuller had called a piss-phone—open-air urinals made from empty ammunition containers or short pieces of pipe half-buried into the ground.

* * *

At 1600 the group reconvened with enough grog to deaden any remaining greenhorn jitters. A recruit handed the corporal a cold tinnie. After giving his throat a good slake, he continued his orientation chat. As the newbies would discover, Corporal Fuller loved his practical jokes. He always took pride in initiating the recent additions with a prank. His officers always made time to witness the spectacle, especially the boys’ embarrassment when they learned they had been had.

‘Now, before I forget, I want to tell you about a special treat we always arrange for our newcomers, so please tell any of your mates who are not here, right? Tomorrow night we’ve arranged to take you guys to a weekly disco held in the nearby village, Son Li. For those of you that wish to come, I promise you there’ll be plenty of grog and young pretties there, and maybe a few of the other kind. But I guess that’s why they invented alcohol, right?’ The boys cracked up laughing.

‘Now, where was I? My memory’s not as sharp as it used to be—my memory’s not as sharp as