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discussions with my parents and the older members of my family to form the accounts of the very early days on the old farm; I was far too young to remember them. The stories my parents often told on cold winter nights around the wood stove, gave me a deep insight into the pain, pleasure and challenge they endured in the beginning. Some accounts, like the circumstances surrounding the death of my sister, are based on some supposition. I did not have access to all the relevant details. All I knew for certain was that she was seriously burnt and suffered greatly before she finally died.

      We each see life’s events through our own eyes, and we live to our own motivations, beliefs and agendas. Any member of my family, my military comrades, friends or business associates could write parts of this story from a different perspective. Most, however, will remember my determination to ignore the apparent status quo and follow a stronger vision into my future.

      My stories of the Vietnam War are based on the facts as I remember them and my feelings at the time. Where I have presumed to report from the perspective of our then enemies, the Vietcong, I have necessarily relied on some author’s license. The hardships, courage and fear described, I suspect, are real enough. In any case, I resolved to try and see the conflict from both sides as far as my empathy and experience would allow. I wondered often how these soldiers coped, out- gunned and outclassed by a well-equipped enemy as they were. They were the enemy for the moment – but one could not help feel a grudging admiration and moments of sympathy as they fought without an end in sight. We at least knew that the tour would end in a year if we survived, or with our death or wounding if we did not.

      The enemy military units mentioned are real. I have a good knowledge of the Vietcong infrastructure from intelligence reports and from our day-to-day contact with them on the rather obscure battlefield. The Vietcong soldiers depicted are, however, entirely fictitious and based on my speculations at the time. As a matter of protocol, I have avoided direct reference to most people, used only first names or changed the names of some characters in this book, to protect the privacy of the people concerned.

      I completed two tours of duty in Vietnam, so one or two of the events described may be out of sequence or compressed, time sometimes clouds the memories. Otherwise the stories are essentially as they occurred.

      FOREWORD

      By Terry Mellington, Lieutenant Colonel Royal Australian

      Infantry Corps [Retired]

      When I first met Gary Blinco he appeared to me a self assured and confident young man with a healthy disregard for authority - a trait not uncommon in Australian soldiers. Initially, he was difficult to get to know but I was to learn that he was more than just a good soldier.

      In private he was a relatively humble person, but one who possessed considerable self-discipline and determination. Above all however, he had great loyalty to his men and a ready and very dry sense of humour, both of which show through in this book.

      As time went by I was to appreciate considerably his humour in tough situations and his skill as a soldier and leader.

      Many of us will be able to identify with a number of the challenges faced by Blinco in this book, even though our circumstances may have been very different. It is the attitude with which he confronts and ultimately overcomes these challenges that is to me so enjoyable.

      There have been countless books written theorising on the power of positive thinking - this book is a living example of it written in an entertaining way.

      I commend this book to those veterans who want to retrace some of the experiences we endured during the Vietnam War; and perhaps those who share a similar journey, before and after the event.

      Terry Mellington 1997

      DEDICATION

      This book is dedicated to my grandmother, Vera Blinco, who turned 104 years old in February 2003 and still lives on the Darling Downs. You inspired me Nanna, in ways you never knew.

      ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

      Boolarong Press first published a version of this book in 1997 with the title ‘Down a Country Lane to War’.

      This edition has been completely rewritten, expanded and developed by the author and rigorously reviewed by Mary Weaver. Thank you Mary for your frank feedback and patience.

      My thanks to all of the people who provided the extensive and positive feedback on the original version that has led to this edition being published.

      My thanks also to those wonderful military comrades, who watched my back when our lives were on the line, and who helped shape the foundations for the rest of my life.

      CHAPTER ONE

      ‘Earth is here so kind, that just tickle her with a hoe and she laughs with a harvest’.

      Douglas Jerrod, ‘A Land of Plenty’

      A new day climbed the eastern sky as the first fingers of sunlight fell across the land and washed the scrub in deep rusty hues. The old wagon creaked and rattled softly as it inched along, the ironclad wheels describing erratic double lines in the frost-covered grass on the track that receded away in the gloom. A large grey Clydesdale horse, advanced in years and clearly the worse for wear, rocked from side to side as it pressed through the emerging dawn with its burden. The metallic rattle of the harness chains seemed out of place on this cold winter’s morning in 1948, mingling as it did with the songs of the waking birds in the trees.

      The wagon bumped slowly over the rough track that followed the passage of least resistance through the thick scrub, meandering like a watercourse among the trees. Long morning shadows slid across the back of the old bally horse as it struggled along with the laden vehicle, its great hoofs thudding on the moist earth with a monotonous rhythm. The ancient animal leaned tiredly into the traces, snorting loudly in frequent protests and blowing clouds of steam from its greying nostrils. Tall gum trees crowded both sides of the lane like a guard of honour, their branches sometimes meeting overhead, creating a natural arch.

      Four raw-boned country children aged from about five to eleven years dozed quietly in the back of the wagon, their sleepy eyelids fluttering against the first light of day. A smaller child of about ten months slept soundly in the arms of a thin, pale woman who sat on the front seat of the wagon. She shared the seat with a solidly built man who guided the old horse down the lane with practised ease. His pale green eyes peered from below a battered old felt hat that hung low over his deeply tanned face, his gaze dreamily searching the bush that drifted slowly past. A mob of kangaroos peered back at him from a little clearing; heads high and backs ramrod straight, their ears erect until the wagon creaked out of sight.

      Suddenly the lane dipped sharply, crossed over a gully beside a derelict wooden bridge and emerged on the other side in a broad clearing. It was full daylight in the clearing, the brightness hard in the eyes of the travellers as they emerged unexpectedly from the gloom of the thick scrub. The children stirred, looking around eagerly as they shook off the lethargy of sleep. The old horse lifted its head and blinked in surprise at the changed terrain, its great chest heaving and its muscles trembling with the effort of crossing the gully as the man drew back firmly on the reins.

      ‘Well’, the man said proudly, pointing with the handle of his whip and removing his battered old hat to release a mop of unruly black hair. ‘There she is.’ A smile danced on his thin brown face, as he looked expectantly at the children, keen to see their reaction to the scene before them. He grinned at the fair-skinned and pretty woman who sat beside him on the front seat of the wagon. She returned his smile and squeezed his hand, her pale blue eyes alive with pleasure. She did not speak but her bright face revealed her happiness.

      The eager offspring crowded forward in the wagon, squealing excitedly as they pushed and shoved to follow the man’s direction. Together they stared at the outline of the small cottage that was almost obscured by the thick morning mist. A ghost of a house in a swirl of grey fog, it sat peacefully on the far side of the

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