Sex, Mayhem and a Good Laugh

Sex, Mayhem and a Good Laugh

Published by Chris Manktelow at Smashwords

Copyright 2021 Chris Manktelow

Cover Design © 2021 - Mayhem Cover Creations.

ISBN 9781005771737

Smashwords Edition, License

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This work will not meet Politically Correct standards but is reflective of the conduct and language of the time.

Contents

1.Baby Boomers, what’s the problem?

2. The Fleaweight Champion of Kent Street and other misadventures

3.Sleuthing, Snipping and Fire

4.Criminal enterprises, School, Commies and complications

5.Life took a U turn

6.Banana Bending and other initiations

7.Paradise found

8.Will we leave him there?

9.Return to civilization, what a bummer

10.Raging hormones and the hard facts

11.As it was

12.The bugle calls

13.Becoming an Infantry Soldier

14.The Battalion and its parts

15.Military slang and other Terms, troops for the use of

16.Military routine, a Dog and a Pony

17.Preparation for war

18.Pre-embarkation exercise Sky High 2

19.Local and Pre-embarkation leave

20.Departing Oz / arriving in Country

21.Bien Hoa…Preparing Defenses and Acclimatization

22.Incidental Events

23.Thuan, who needs enemies?

24.Blowflies and Dunnies

25.Unleash the Beast…Leave in Saigon

26.Back to Camp

27.Oops!!! Facing off against Rubber Tree stumps

28.Getting our rocks off at the Rubbish Dump and Beads

29.Revenge of the Pogoes and Home Movies

30.Shot in the fruit salad and other Misadventures

31.Agent Orange

32.Choppers

33.Day/Night Routine

34.The Jungle--Friend and Foe

35.Patrolling

36. Mines booby traps and the Horseshoe

37.The Enemy and a Photo

38.Fatalities and Friendly Fire

39.Platoon Attack

40.A good man down

41.Hill 82

42.Switched on

43.Franks’ Death

44.Wounded

45.Your Son has been wounded

46.Dear John

47.The Battalion returns

48.Recovery

49.The Jungle Training Centre

50.Army Parachuting

51.The Bitter End

52.TV War

53.The Moratorium Movement

54.Welcome Home Parade

55.Frank’s Homecoming

56.On becoming a civilian

57.Firmness with Courtesy

1.Baby Boomers, what’s the problem?

The curious tribe gathered around the bombmakers; a hushed silence fell over the usually raucous spectators as the device reached a critical assembly phase. Stand back, this could blow your head off, the chief bombmaker declared. The spectators rapidly fled for protective cover. The bolt bomb armed readied for detonation.

It exploded with a satisfying crack, heads remained intact and firmly on shoulders but it stripped the threads from the bolts and blew the connecting nut into the far distance. No one killed or injured…………happy days.

Things then got fair dinkum and bolt bomb assembly lines popped up everywhere. Bolt bomb shrapnel rained down on the surrounding houses cracking tiles as if in a war zone and narrowly missing the residences mostly unsuspecting adults. We made doubly sure we weren’t in the bomb ranging area. My sister gathered the tribe and said, I Iove making the bombs but someone might get hurt and it could be us. We will stop production now. There was much muttering and whining from the assembled masses but she commanded respect, brooked no dissent and everyone obeyed.

The year 1950, the location Kent Street, Clovelly, Sydney.

Our street was neither grand, tree lined nor possessed of commanding views, but was a pinch of bitumen edged by cement footpaths. Houses and flats crowded in on each other and were just as unassuming and nondescript as the street itself. It belonged to us, we owned it and all who lived and walked in it, or so we thought.

One degree of separation set us apart from the human species lobbing us firmly in the feral category. A motley bunch of kids, noisy, opinionated, argumentative and always active. Wild beasts in the animal kingdom behaved better than us. Treachery, betrayal, fights, plotting, intrigue, weeping and gnashing of teeth, it all happened and that was on a good day. Pack, herd and flock animals didn’t cut it, ours regularly erupted into full blown industrial strength drama. The missing piece was public copulation frequently seen in the wild but we, or at least I, practiced a reasonable facsimile privately (more later.)

We are dammed proud Baby Boomers. Fathered by men returning from the deprivations and privations of WW2 who spread their seed as hard and fast as they could, and did, and would you blame them. Years of pent-up sexual energy created the gene pool from which the Baby Boomer Generation arose Frankenstein in nature and habits and our greed, selfishness and the burden on the tax payer dollar providing care in our dotage will destroy civilization, according to some punters. My argument is, as we teeter about in overcrowded nursing homes, with nobody to change our incontinence nappies, and unaware of who we are or where we are, don’t blame me, blame my Mum and Dad.

Apart from Kent Street we also owned Varna Park because it of its close proximity to our tribal stamping ground. We didn’t mark it as ours unless taking a leak behind a tree counts. Some younger kids accidently went the full Monty hurrying home for running repairs and replacements leaving a spoor trail behind. This served as a useful reminder to other kids; watch your step and enter at your peril.

Ownership of the Park meant we made the rules and treated those not of our tribe with deep suspicion and a gimlet eye kept on their behavior. Abuse of privileges meant banishment, sometimes permanent.

I flung myself on the monkey bars performing my best imitation of Tarzan. The gyrations more reflective of his companion ape Cheetah, than the hero himself. Some bloody invaders attempted to stake a claim on our territory and kicked a soccer ball using my monkey bars as a goal. Their aim was poor and the ball smacked me in the head.

The flock descended on the villains screeching and whooping and the outsiders fled in terror leaving their Soccer ball. We claimed it as legal booty, gotten fairly and squarely, because they never returned to claim ownership.

When outsiders threatened, the troop closed ranks repelling invaders. At other times every man, woman and child fended for themselves and only the strongest, fittest and most cunning survived.

We feasted regularly on a large mulberry bush bordering the park. It claimed a cavernously dark and mysterious interior and we hungrily scoffed the ripening fruit. Our red rimmed mouths made those not of our tribe wary and tread very carefully. We wore this as a badge of honour believing it clearly marked us from interloping outsiders. Tribal marking if you like.

Billy and Jimmy (Yabba) lived on one end of the street and Brian the other. Brian was sickly and we believed had one lung never and took no part in our feral antics. His parents regularly invited me to play with him, bringing some pleasure and light to an otherwise drab and lonely existence. Kevin lived on the other side of the street and Bobby and his sisters our immediate neighbors.

Lyn lived up the other end, and we regularly played doctors and nurses or, if you show me yours, I’ll show you mine. Caught with our pants down, literally, the Oldies told me in in fulsome language that I was a filthy little feral and never do it again. Warnings blissfully ignored.

Patrick, Dad’s best mate lived behind us. A wild Irishman with a great sense of humor and a beautiful singing voice, together they debated, planned and conspired to make the best home brew beer ever. The potion popped and bubbled beneath a muslin cover and approached with the same caution and reverence as a religious shrine. Respectful discussions happened about the amount of sugar to use and when to bottle. Very important issues as they determined its taste and alcoholic potency. Anything less than rocket fuel, blow your head off strength was unacceptable.

What do ya reckon Paul (Dad), chuck anerther hund full o’ sugar in, Patrick earnestly queried.

I reckon mate, we’ll do that, and it should be ready for bottling in about a week, it’ll be right then.

In time reverential removal of the muslin completed the ritual and glasses filled and held to the light for inspection. It needed a good head and not much sediment on the bottom before pronouncing it a good drop. The production process lacked rigorous quality control of any sort.

Luks bloody orlright ta me, hus mud in ya oy, Paul.

Cheers, cobber.

Sinking the contents in one thirst quenching slurp the glasses didn’t remain empty for long. Considered unAustralian for empties to stay that way as toasts to good health and anything else had to be drunk.

Whun Oyrish oys are shinning, Patrick in full voice broadcast to all that he intended to enjoy himself. Dad told everyone how much he loved them and after several failed attempts held my brother Peter upside down declaring his Fatherly love to his second son’s crutch.

Patrick’s daughter accompanied him when serious drinking happened. Invariably he got as full as a Catholic School’s hat rack; drinking the toxic brew beyond safe levels he felt he and his shinning Irish eyes should go home. His daughter earnt her keep attempting to steer her well pickled Father homeward-bound.

A challenging meter high fence separated our houses, and this obstacle presented a constant hazard to an inebriated Patrick guaranteeing he repeatedly fell ace over base. The assembled masses waited eagerly, anticipating the spectacle and the cheering onlookers weren’t disappointed.

Paul, ya gunna haff ta do something about this bloody fence, it keeps attacking me, complained a spread-eagled Patrick for the umpteenth time. Dad mumbled and fell into a grog fueled sleep ending the usual Saturday night’s entertainment.

The boy/ girl divide split evenly, but chauvinistic forces made the girls less important than their brothers, nor their names remembered. My older sister Patricia fell outside this divide and took it as her life’s mission to put me in my place at every opportunity. Sibling rivalry too tame a description for our relationship it included full on, no holds barred guerilla warfare, hit and run tactics the preferred strategy. A slight no matter how trivial could not be ignored, no push or shove could remain unchallenged. I would have happily put her on the endangered species list but her cunning made that option near impossible. As if that wasn’t enough, she was the head feral in the street pecking order and why they took orders from her will forever remain a mystery.

Bell ringing evangelists, intent on saving our heathen souls from their fire and brimstone hell, interrupted Sunday play in Varna Park. Their strategy, capture us in the open and drag us to their sermons. They and we knew they would never trap and seat us in a Church and open-air capture netted greater numbers of sinners. They captured but could not hold us. Their redemptive message never found fertile ground in our Godless souls and restless stirrings soon had us out and about engaged in more satisfying and fun-filled activities.

Mum and Dad held uncharitable opinions about one set of neighbors. If they disturbed Dad’s grand plan, he got grumpy and let his feelings known to the head of their household. Dad rarely, if ever, avoided a confrontation, no matter the odds.

I stood beside Mum deep in conversation with the next-door missus, the unpopular one. All of 5 years old and enthralled by the civil exchange given both parents privately expressed a dislike for them. I felt it right to add my two bobs worth, blurting out, Mum and Dad think you’re a bloody nuisance, or words to that effect. That went well, satisfaction oozed from every pore in my youthful frame my first foray into adult conversation and the sky hadn’t fallen in apart from the neighbor stumping off in high dudgeon. I looked adoringly at Mum expecting she recognize the genius and charisma her second born child possessed except she looked decidedly pissed off and gob smacked all at the same time. I marveled that she could combine two opposing emotions simultaneously but she succeeded. She extinguished my inner and outer glow by clipping me in the earhole and lecturing that family conversations should not be broadcast to the wider community and particularly those the subject of such conversations. I understood immediately.

As an aside and in relation to Dad’s combative nature, my older sister Patricia was ardently pursued by a bloke who rode a motor bike. The full bloom of womanhood developed her into a very attractive girl and the love struck hoon rode his motor bike up and down our street hoping to catch the attention of the one he loved and desired.

Dad wouldn’t have a bar of it. Waiting in ambush for the love-struck suitor and armed with the garden hose, set the trap. The roar of the motor bike activated the ambush and drawing level copped the full blast of the hose. For good measure he followed the saturated rider with the command, piss off ya drongo. He hoped the cold water dampen his ardor.

Bikies felt invincible but proved to be made of the same flesh and bones as mere mortals. They rode machines such as Triumph, Areils and Nortons, Japanese bikes hadn’t flooded our market as they do today and to test their invincibility rode without helmets, shoes and shirts. They came second in the contest between them and bitumen. This bloke could have banged his head one too many times as a regular drenching had little effect.

We enjoyed minimal parental supervision, unlike the cloistered and concerned parents of today. Sitting indoors annoying Mum didn’t happen, we played outside freely ranging the landscape.

We occasionally walked to my Grandmother’s place; a couple of kilometers distant. Her house overlooked Bronte Beach and when staying with her, tracked to the beach minus parental supervision or protection. Nana saw us from her kitchen window, that being the only supervision considered necessary.

The day burned gloriously sunny; Mum and her mates decided they should spend the day at the beach. My youthful innocence persuaded them I stay while they changed and I watched with keen and fixed interest. Upon disrobing, pubic hair popped out in staggering and unkempt proportions; the growth prolific. No Brazilians or shaping and trimming for these hardy souls, it remained untouched and unregulated by human hand or anything else.

I puzzled at the bushy mayhem. My eyes locked on but my thoughts powered. Maybe their dicks dropped off, if so, where had they gone, would they ever grow back? How could they take a leak, these important but unanswerable questions flitted through my tiny mind?

2.The Fleaweight Champion of Kent Street and other misadventures

Dad served in the Fire Brigade and loved his job, particularly the camaraderie amongst his colleagues. Reliance on each other in difficult and dangerous circumstances developed fraternal bonds as I later discovered in my military career.

Roy, an ex-welterweight boxing champion served under Dad. A gentleman’s gentleman; and neither brash nor pretentious given his illustrious career. Dad felt his eldest son and heir, to prepare for life’s challenges, be taught boxing. His motivation unknown but I surmised to do with his stint at boarding school describing a Master as a sadist forcing kids into cold showers in the middle of winter, if they hesitated, he wielded a cane on naked bodies. Institutionalized bullying and abuse were accepted behaviour, and may have felt if I could defend myself, I would not experience the same sadistic bastardry he did.

My younger brother and I sat either side of Dad’s comforting presence. The nearly empty tram jolted and rattled its way into the city, and the Conductor bracing against the trams motion collected our fare. Swaying he clipped our tickets, making us legal passengers on the city’s transport network. We travelled to Dad’s Fire Station for weekly boxing lessons and a brewery sat next to Dad’s station and the distinctive smell of brewer’s hops wafted through the air. The smell signaled our stop and we traipsed noisily into Dad’s workplace.

The station reflected order and preparedness to the nth degree. Metal helmets polished to a golden sheen, which by today’s standards more ornamental than protective hung neatly on racks. Beneath them were the blue uniforms with red collar tabs and knee-high boots exactly positioned ready for rapid donning. A short-handled axe hung next to each uniform secured in a black leather pouch and honed to razor sharpness. It accessed threatened buildings and a necessary item in the firefighting arsenal.

The Fire Truck inspired awe and beautiful to see, its powerful engine and perfectly coiled hoses stood ready for the alarm to sound. The polished exterior glowed crimson red much as the flames it extinguished. Maintained and cleaned after every outing in immaculate condition, both mechanically and externally it faced the exit instantly ready to save lives and buildings from fiery destruction.

The upstairs area had been set aside as a gym complete with boxing apparatus, weights and sit up benches. The service wanted its men fit and active in order to carry out the dangerous and strenuous firefighting tasks.

The ever-friendly Roy greeted us, Gidday Boss, how are your boys?

Good, thanks Roy are you ready to go? Dad replied

Great, I’ve got a good program for Chris and the other Officers will look after your other boy, Roy replied

Firemen whisked my brother away and fed him as much tea and biscuits as he could comfortably and safely ingest.

I learnt to throw straight lefts, right crosses and uppercuts, how to duck weave and bob. Both Dad and Roy felt I made good progress and Dad surprised me with a brand spanking new set of boxing gloves. The Fleaweight Champion of Kent Street bayed for release on the resident tribe, and anyone else wanting to chance their skill and luck.

My sister insisted on trying out the boxing gloves to see how they worked, no doubt hoping to beat me into submission. As mentioned, the intense sibling rivalry roiled beneath a tissue thin surface, and thought the perfect opportunity had been gifted to fulfill her destiny by beating the living crap out of me and all with parental approval. I planted a beautiful straight left right on her nose, and the white flag of surrender shot immediately to the air and no future challenges came from that corner.

Bobby, my mate next-door, lined up for a shot at my title. Pudgy and a soft target, he caved in after the first bout. The other kids in the street treated me with respect and awe and no further challengers raised their heads or their hands in my direction. Roy instilled not only the craft of boxing but the discipline and humility accompanying it, but humility didn’t sit easily with me particularly when the kids in the street put me on the top notch of the pedestal and treated me with a greater deference and respect than ever. I loved it.

We owned an immense backyard featuring a loquat tree which grew delicious fruit in season. It’s second purpose was a climbing apparatus and we happily and nimbly scampered amongst its branches. My sister, for whatever reason toiled mightily dragging a solid object up the tree. My unsuspecting younger brother walked into the bombing range just when the bomb aimer released her payload, which bounced off his head with a very unhealthy thud and a cry of agony from him. The unhappy and cranky oldies weren’t happy rushing him to hospital to stitch his head, nor was he.

Play centered on a cement set of stairs running down the side of the house. Yabba drew himself to the towering height his 10-year-old frame allowed and in a commanding voice said, Chris get on my shoulders and I will carry you down the steps. Yabba’s words carried conviction and solid assurance and I agreed, a nearly fully-grown Yabba would ensure no harm would happen. Hoisting me onto his