Into Vietnam - Shaun Clarke

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It seems unnecessarily brutal – and not exactly designed to win hearts and minds.’

      The CO smiled bleakly, not being fond of the SAS’s reputation for straight talking and the so-called ‘Chinese parliament’, an informal talk between officers, NCOs and other ranks in which all opinions were given equal consideration. ‘The advantage of resettling the villagers is that whereas the VC aren’t averse to using villagers as human shields, we can, in the event of an attack, deploy our considerable fire-power without endangering them – another way of winning their hearts and minds.’

      ‘Good thinking,’ Shagger admitted.

      ‘I’m pleased that you’re pleased,’ the CO said, wishing the outspoken SAS sergeant would sink into the muddy earth and disappear, but unable to show his disapproval for fear that his own men would think him a fool. ‘So one of our first tasks will be to finish the destruction of a previously fortified village located approximately a mile and a quarter south-east of this base. Huts and other buildings will be torched or blown up and crops destroyed. This we will do over a period of days. Unpleasant though this may seem to you, it’s part of the vitally necessary process of reopening the province’s north-south military supply route, and eventually driving the enemy back until they’re isolated in their jungle bases.’

      ‘So what’s the SAS’s role in all this?’ Shagger asked him.

      ‘Your task is to pass on the skills you picked up in Borneo to the ARVN troops and to engage in jungle bashing – patrolling after the VC who’ve turned this camp into their private firing range. Eventually, when Line Alpha has been pushed back to beyond the limits of field artillery, you’ll be given the task of clearing out a VC stronghold in a bunker-and-tunnel complex. The location will be given to you when the time comes.’

      ‘Why not give us the location now?’ Red asked.

      ‘Because the less you know the better,’ the CO replied.

      ‘You mean if we’re captured by Charlie, we’ll be tortured for information,’ Red replied.

      ‘Yes. And Charlie’s good at that. Now, there’s another important aspect to this operation. You’ll be advised and assisted – though I should stress that the collaboration should be mutually beneficial – by a three-man team from Britain’s 22 SAS. They’ll be arriving from the old country in four days’ time.’

      A murmur of resentment filled the room and was only ended when Shagger asked bluntly: ‘Why do we need advice from a bunch of Pommie SAS? We know as much about this business as they do. We can do it alone.’

      ‘I’m inclined to agree, Sergeant, but the general feeling at HQ is that the British SAS, with their extensive experience in jungle warfare, counter-insurgency patrolling, and hearts-and-minds campaigning in places as different and as far apart as Malaya, Oman, Borneo and, more recently, Aden, have a distinct advantage when it comes to operations of this kind. So, whether you like it or not, those three men – a lieutenant-colonel and two sergeants – will soon be flying in to act as our advisers.’

      ‘Bloody hell!’ Red exclaimed in disgust.

      The CO ignored the outburst. ‘Are there any questions?’ he asked.

      As the men had none, the meeting broke up and they all hurried out of the humid tent, into the drying, steaming mud of the compound of the completed, now busy, FOB. The sky above the camp was filled with American Chinook helicopters and B52 bombers, all heading inland, towards the Long Hai hills.

       4

      When the USAF Huey descended over Nui Dat, having flown in from Saigon, Lieutenant-Colonel Callaghan, Jimbo and Dead-eye looked down at an FOB of the kind they had themselves constructed in Malaya: a roughly circular camp with defensive trenches in the middle and sentry positions and ‘hedgehogs’ – fortified sangars for twenty-five-pounders and a nest of 7.62mm GPMGs – located at regular intervals around the perimeter. This well-defended base was surrounded by another perimeter of barbed wire and – they assumed from the levelling of the ground – claymores. Surprisingly, instead of the foxholes and pup tents they had expected, they found large tents and timber huts with roofs of corrugated iron, plus four helicopter landing zones and a parking area for all the camp’s vehicles.

      ‘They’ve been busy,’ Callaghan shouted over the roar of the helicopter. ‘They only arrived here a few weeks ago. That’s some job they’ve done.’

      ‘Aussies work hard and play hard,’ Jimbo said.

      ‘Hard bastards,’ Dead-eye said. ‘You can’t deny that.’

      ‘Well, let’s hope we can win their respect,’ Callaghan replied.

      ‘Good as done,’ Jimbo assured him, while Dead-eye simply nodded.

      As the Huey came down on one of the four LZs, its spinning rotors whipped up a cloud of dust and fine gravel that obscured the soldiers on the ground. Callaghan and his two men were out of the chopper even before the rotors had stopped spinning, stooped over and covering their eyes with their hands as they hurried out of the swirling dust. As they were straightening up again, a man wearing jungle greens with sergeant’s stripes and a 9mm Browning holstered at his waist climbed down from his jeep and saluted Callaghan.

      ‘Lieutenant-Colonel Callaghan?’

      ‘Correct,’ Callaghan replied, returning the salute. ‘Two-two SAS.’

      ‘Sergeant Bannerman, sir. Three Squadron SAS. I’ve been sent by the CO to collect you. Welcome to Nui Dat.’

      ‘Thank you, Sergeant. This is Sergeant Ashman, commonly known as Jimbo, and Sergeant Parker, known to one and all as Dead-eye.’

      Shagger nodded at both men, grinning slightly as he studied Dead-eye.

      ‘I take it your nickname means you’re pretty good with that SLR.’

      Dead-eye nodded, and Jimbo said, ‘That and everything else, mate. If it fires, Dead-eye’s your man.’

      ‘What about you, Sarge?’

      ‘I get by,’ Jimbo said.

      Shagger grinned. ‘Let’s hope so.’ He then nodded at Lieutenant-Colonel Callaghan and said, ‘Right, boss, let’s get to it. If you’d like to take a seat in the jeep I’ll drive you straight to the boss. When you’ve had a chat with him, I’ll show you to your quarters. By the way, they call me Shagger.’

      They all laughed and piled into the jeep. The Australian drove them a short distance to a large wooden hut with a corrugated-iron roof and a sign at the top of the steps of the raised veranda, saying: ‘Headquarters 3 Squadron SAS’. A second sign at the opposite side of the steps said: ‘Abandon hope all ye who enter here.’

      Grinning at each other, Callaghan, Jimbo and Dead-eye followed Shagger into the building. Inside was a spacious administration area sealed off behind a counter and ventilated by slowly spinning ceiling fans. Seated behind the desks were a mixture of 3 Squadron SAS and 5th Battalion male clerks, all of them looking busy. A proliferation of propaganda leaflets from the VC had been pinned to the notice-boards to entertain those waiting for their appointments, among them: ‘Aussie go home: there is no resentment between the Vietnamese and the Australian people!’ and ‘Australian and New Zealand Armymen: Do not become Washington’s mercenaries; urge your government to send you back home.’

      ‘Someone obviously has a sense of irony,’ Callaghan said.

      ‘The VC drop them all the time,’ Shagger told him. ‘A wide variety. Troopers coming in here for appointments are generally amused by them. That’s the favourite.’ He pointed to an illustration of a handsome Australian soldier sharing drinks with a sexy lady. The caption said: ‘The sensible man is home with his woman, or someone else will be. Is this war worth it?’ ‘Given the amount of Dear John letters that come from back

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