The Conscript

Prologue

It was a strange time. By the standards of the new millennium, Australia in the 1960s was unrecognisable. There has been no period before or since which possessed such big differences between traditional mainstream thought and that of people under twenty five.

It was a time when a nuclear family of two adults and two children could live quite comfortably in their own home on only one wage. When kids shared bedrooms, the family watched a black and white television with a screen now considered too small for a desktop computer. All shared just one bathroom and one toilet, often outside.

Licensed restaurants were unusual and exclusive. With the exception of an occasional fish and chip shop, there was no take-away food. In Sydney, there were no shopping malls – apart from Roselands.

At least for men, this was the time with the smallest spread of income difference in the country’s history. The big boss didn’t earn much more than the clerk.

Homosexuality was a criminal offence, the government banned books that someone thought might not be good for you, and almost everyone thought of themselves as Christian. Multi-culturalism was about Catholics versus Protestants. There were few career opportunities for women.

There were no closed circuit television cameras at service stations – places where motorists got their tanks filled and tyres checked by bowser boys. No security cameras on the streets, and definitely no speed cameras. There were no seatbelts, and no real drink-driving laws. Most jobs were permanent, with no unemployment to speak of.

Like many other places in the world, Australia was dominated with the experiences and memories of total war - World War II. Many conversations were punctuated with the phrases before the War, during the War or "after the War".

But most importantly, almost all Australians were white.

Most of those in positions of power, whether they were politicians, government bureaucrats or industrialists, had two characteristics in common. They all looked the same - over fifty, white males, and they all had direct experiences of World War II. In Australia’s case, those experiences included the fear of a land invasion from the Japanese. Cinema newsreels showed arrows coming down from the north, as if those little yellow people were assisted by gravity.

By 1964, only 19 years after War’s victory, the arrows appeared again from the north – this time in red - occupied with yellow-skinned communists. They were coming from a place nobody had heard of – Vietnam.

The country was 15 years into a conservative government whose mantra since 1949 was do nothing, make no mistakes. There was, however, one exception – the National Service Act.

National Service was re-introduced into Australia in 1964. In May 1965 the Liberal government introduced a Bill that enabled it to send national servicemen to serve overseas.

There was no real opposition to the Bill. Australia needed saving from the red/yellow peril

February 2, 1968

36 hours after the Tet

Offensive commenced

After months of planning, the combined forces of the North Vietnamese Army and the irregular Viet Cong, numbering some 84,000, attacked two hundred major targets within Central and South Vietnam. The targets included the ancient capital of Hue and the American Embassy within the centre of Saigon.

In the first few hours of the offensive, the Americans and their allies were overwhelmed.

At about 10.30 in the morning on the first day, Ng Tai was making his way along the rough road between the villages of Duc Trung and Binh Ba - about twenty kilometres north of the Australian Taskforce Base at Nui Dat.

Ng was getting nervous because everyone had been hearing artillery activity in the region since the day before. He personally knew many of the local Viet Cong. They were neighbours in his own village and many surrounding villages.

He was doing a favour for his wife. He was carrying a number of household goods to his sister-in-law who lived in Binh Ba. His load included two new kerosene lamps and some spare fuel. His sister-in-law had been unwell and she needed all the help she could get from relatives.

Ng noticed dozens of figures to his right - moving along inside the tree line. He recognised these as black-clad Viet Cong. He was sure that he also saw some uniformed troops from the North. He had not seen such troops for at least two years.

The Liberation Forces seemed to be everywhere. He nevertheless struggled on with his heavy load, keeping his head down. The passing troops left him alone. They were preoccupied with heading in the other direction.

Ng never heard the rocket from the American jet which ignited the kerosene.

It was hot that day. Sweat was streaming down the face of the figure in Australian jungle-green fatigues. It was running into his eyes. The sweat combined with the heat haze made it difficult to acquire the target. He had undergone so much training for this - and it was going to be sweat which might make him fail.

The ground was hot under him. He could even feel the heat through his ankles. He had been drilled so many times. When firing from the prone position, lay your inner ankles flat on the ground, so you don’t give the enemy an opportunity to shoot off your heels.

A shouted order came from behind. Target front, fire at will.

The figure commenced firing. He was sure that he hit his mark. After the noise died down, he could hear the sea.

The breaking surf was only about three hundred yards from his position at the Maroubra Rifle Range. The score cards came back and he was told by his Regular Army instructors that he will receive a special School Cadet Marksman Certificate.

Allan Campbell was about to turn eighteen. He felt he was totally ready to kill as many real Viet Cong as they could throw at him.

Tet was happening at that very moment, four thousand miles away

On his way back to school that afternoon in an army bus, he didn’t notice the Daily Telegraph on the bus floor which covered a story about a vandal in St Ives being caught spraying some graffiti on a war memorial.

The following month, Lyn Tai, Ng’s wife, along with other local villagers, was searching the area for remains. They found rocket craters and charred bones from about three people. The remains could not be individually identified.

Lyn Tai found some comfort in the thought that her husband would not have suffered in his last moment of life.

October 27, 2009

Alison didn’t know why she took this assignment. There had been so many wars since Vietnam. Kuwait, East Timor, Iraq, most of Africa, and Afghanistan - twice. What was it about Vietnam? What prompted editors to get all hot under the collar? Was it an age thing, a boy’s thing, or something else?

Over the years, Alison realised she knew much more about the war than her friends. Although she was only three when the war ended, her mother had told many stories about it.

She had learned that many of her mother’s friends had been conscripted and sent to war. Alison’s mother made her read the Dalton Trumbo novel Johnny Got His Gun. The book was about a young American who was sent off to World War I and was catastrophically injured by a bomb. He had lost all his limbs, was blinded and made deaf.

Her mother had told her that the most common but unseen casualties of war were the permanently disabled, which, thanks to modern medicine, were actually increasing in numbers as the years went by.

One of Alison’s regrets about her mother dying when she was fourteen was that she never had a real heart to heart discussion about things.

Alison was driving out to the Infantry Records Office at Holsworthy - now not so much an Army base, but just another outer Sydney suburb. The car phone rang and snapped her out of her half daze. It was her daughter Penny.

Mummy, when are you coming home?

Darling, I don’t know. I’m out near Liverpool and I might be stuck in traffic later.

But you promised you’d take me to Rebecca’s party at six o’clock.

I’ll try my best.

Penny sounded annoyed. So was Alison. The traffic wasn’t getting any better.

Alison spoke to the young Sergeant at the public counter. She had followed the signs to Infantry Military Records and needed to negotiate several public counters and their bored staff.

There’s a mountain of stuff in there, it’s all been in and out a few times over the years. It’s regularly re-classified. What records were you after? the Sergeant asked absent minded.

I’m doing a piece on Australia’s combat patrol methods in Vietnam. I want to compare them with what they’re doing now in Afghanistan. She lied.

The Sergeant replied That’s easy love. When the shooting starts, you hit the dirt and keep your bloody head down. Alison noticed the five active service medals worn by the Sergeant.

Alison was actually searching for material about civilians killed by Australian soldiers in whatever circumstance. The idea came from the ABC series "Australian Story". A recent episode showed an old Vietnamese man relating how Australian soldiers had shot his wife with no provocation. She had since tracked the man down, and narrowed some dates and places.

So how are they filed again? Alison asked.

Various ways, but the main shelves are subdivided by month and year.

Oh, thanks. Could I have, say, May 1971?

The Sergeant immediately looked suspicious.

He leaned over the counter and quietly said You don’t have a recorder on now, do you?

No, of course not. I have a pocket recorder, but I’ll show you that it’s turned off.

Alison reached into her handbag, showed the Sergeant the machine and convinced him that it was off.

Look, the Sergeant was now in Alison’s face.

"Instead of digging up dirt on some Australian kid who found himself in a world of shit, why don’t you ask one of your journo mates what it’s like to be in combat? There’re plenty around after Afghanistan.

"Ask them how they have the luxury to go and hide in some hole, while all the young soldiers around them are trying to save the journo’s arse and not to get killed in the process".

The Sergeant was getting meaner looking.

"My father was one of those twenty year old Nashos in Vietnam. He was in so much shit - you couldn’t even guess".

Alison leaned back with a feigned look of "I don’t know what you’re talking about".

Is this material publicly available or not? Alison asked.

The Sergeant, having said his piece, was calmer, but still angry.

Yeah. You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t. May 1971 is Aisle E, Row seven.

The Sergeant opened the door and pointed the way.

It was obvious that the records had been opened, re-classified and re-boxed a number of times over the years. After all, it had been thirty eight years. She looked at the notes she’d taken from the interviewed man and searched for the village name among the dozens of folders.

Mostly the contents of the folders were boring Patrol Reports filled out by either platoon or section commanders. The reports were then sent to Taskforce headquarters for approval. Occasionally there was an Action Report filed.

If there was some issue which required clarification or expansion, the reports had various attachments pinned to the back, sometimes with handwritten notes.

Sometimes drawings were attached – either bits of topographic maps or handwritten sketches made by the field commander. Occasionally there were photographs. Although these were officially banned during combat patrols.

Alison decided that she’d only look at those files with photographs attached – so she could use them in her story.

The first nine were tedious accounts of patrols conducted near Nui Dat, which involved no action. They had evidently taken a photographer along knowing they wouldn’t be getting into any trouble.

It was the tenth folder which made her gasp. It involved the old man’s village – Duc Trung.

There was the usual written material at the front of the file – poorly typed on a field typewriter with some attached drawings. But also pinned on the back were two black and white 10x8 photographs stamped Declassified. They were awful to look at. They were photographs obviously taken with a telephoto lens of casualties of war. Two bloodied figures lying on the ground.

The prints were darkened around the edges. Alison recognised this effect. It happened when a 135 film canister had been damaged or partially opened before development.

She discretely took digital photographs of the documents using her spy mini camera. She felt a little dumb, given that the material was really nothing special.

She was about to re-file the archive box when she noticed a corner of a yellowed envelope caught in the folded edge of the box. She tugged at it and slid it out. It was labelled "Unconfirmed Actions, Unknown Locations – Secret. There was no Declassified stamp overlapping the Secret" stamp – as with all the others. Alison quickly looked over her shoulder back at the Sergeant on the front desk.

She opened the envelope. It contained six undated 5x7 photographs. It was the last four which took her breath away. Alison recognised the background from the declassified 8x10’s. From the lighting, they appeared to be taken at the same time.

Her eyes became wider the more she looked. She sweated and hoped it wasn’t obvious. She used her mini-camera on the documents, and quietly slipped four of the 5x7’s into a secret lining of her bag. Journalists are like that.

She casually walked back past the Sergeant, gesturing to open the door. He did this, and as she was walking past the public counter he sneered at her: Well, did you find any dirt? There’d be plenty in there.

Oh, I found bits and pieces, but I thought about what you said and I’m changing the slant of my story.

I’d like to believe you. Have a good day.

As Alison passed he muttered, See you in Kabul.

November 7, 2009

Ron James came in to Allan’s office.

Ron and Allan Campbell created the partnership of Campbell & James in November 1989 after a string of successful architectural projects during the 80’s boom.

The firm survived the 1991 recession by a lucky Government contract, just before the economic ceiling came crashing down. The firm gradually grew through the 1990’s beyond its original boutique size to its present two dozen.

Allan never had any false ideals about what architecture was all about. It was a popular myth that architecture was a combination of artistic genius and creative insight. The hard reality was a constant grind of reviewing every minute detail of a structure. But mostly it was about fitting those bloody air conditioning ducts. The so-called artistic stage usually only lasted for the first two hours of any project.

Did you see those latest amendments on the Bondi job? Ron asked Allan.

Allan looked a bit weary, Yes, but there’s no way they’ll be allowed under the building code. I’ll have a pow-wow with the client.

Ron grimaced. I’m glad it’s you and not me.

Ron left the office. At forty nine, he was ten years younger than Allan. He had only been twenty nine when Allan offered him the partnership. Allan figured at the time that he needed a strong pair of legs in the firm to run around for him. He had been right. Ron had been hardworking and loyal.

It was getting late. Most had left the office. Allan made a few phone calls, then reached for his cane. He swung his swivel chair out, placed his good left leg on the ground and levered himself up, then placed his peg leg - as he called it - on the polished floor.

He made his way down to the car park and eased himself into his Prius. He didn’t like the car, and only bought it on advice from some public relations consultant. She had suggested it would be good for his image. He had grown to dislike the car ever since the car park attendant called electric cars silent death. They had a bad habit of silently reversing into passing pedestrians.

He drove out of his Pyrmont Point offices along Harris Street heading towards the western entrance of the new Cross City Tunnel.

The billion dollar tunnel had been a white elephant for the Government, but for those driving from Pyrmont Point to Woollahra it was great.

The Prius silently moved into Sutherland Street and around into a back lane where the remote-controlled door slid up. Allan had spent a fortune renovating the three story terrace to cater for his disability. Against neighbours’ wishes, he had an external (but modest) hydraulically powered lift built into the back wall of the terrace. The neighbours had complained that terraces built in 1885 didn’t have lifts. Allan had threatened to take them to the Anti-Discrimination Commission for discriminating against a disabled person. The neighbours relented.

Allan parked next to Debra’s BMW in the backyard. He was quietly pleased she was visiting. He made his way up the lift to the kitchen level. Debra was busy making an Italian dinner.

Debra Whitelaw was (almost) a three time loser. A successful lawyer, but at the age of forty six she had two unsuccessful marriages behind her.

Her first marriage was little more than a university fling. The two young law students had shacked up together in Bondi. For several years they both congratulated themselves on how successful their contraception had been. That was until Debra went off the pill, wanting a baby. They found out the hard way that she was the one with the problem.

Her husband initially said he didn’t care, and that they would carry on regardless. Three years later Debra heard through friends that her long divorced husband was having a baby with his new wife.

She had decided to be more up-front with later relationships. Her second husband, also a lawyer, pledged that it didn’t matter about children - because he had two from an earlier marriage. This seemed to work for a couple of years - until he announced that he was going to divorce her in order to marry his pregnant secretary. This did not particularly impress Debra.

So after a few years of living alone, Debra had met Allan. It was during a developer’s mediation session. Debra had been representing a vocal Residents’ Action Group. Allan’s role was to patiently explain to the Group that all the developer wanted to do was "make the world a better place" - and that the group should get the hell out of his way (more or less).

Following a few meetings Allan started seeing Debra more socially, which then developed into something more serious.

Debra was forty five when they started seeing one another on an intimate level, so thankfully children didn’t enter the equation. Things were fine for a month or two when Debra none-too-subtly enquired why they never seemed to have breakfast together. A typical liaison involved Allan staying at Debra’s house in Darlinghurst, then slipping out of bed at about midnight to drive home.

After a few months of this Allan was forced to tell the truth - confessing that once deeply asleep he had horrendous nightmares - and he would rather be alone to deal with it himself.

This explanation temporarily satisfied Debra but eventually they did sleep together. Inevitably he woke up screaming. Debra really wanted to help, but the offer was declined. So their relationship had been staggering along for about twelve months - with both of them wondering when it would fade away.

Allan had only mildly hinted to Debra that theirs was only the most recent of many relationships he’d had in the past three decades exactly the same as this one.

Allan clip-clopped into the kitchen with his cane moving towards Debra’s back as she stirred the dinner. Before he reached her, she half turned, Hello, how are you?

I’m better after smelling that chicken.

"How about a glass of red? I was waiting for you to come home