Remember the survivors

As I stood for a minute’s silence at the Remembrance Day Ceremony at the Woonona Bulli RSL (a monument built by my nephew, Paul Squires), I could not but admire the men and women who fought overseas for our country.

Once fortunate enough to visit Anzac Cove and to take a school group to the WWI battlefields of France and Belgium, I gained an appreciation of the heroics but also the stupidity of war. Seeing gravestones of 15-year-old boys who sailed on a big adventure but never returned was heart-breaking. While we honour the dead we must also think about those who’ve returned changed by war.

In 1987 the Anzac Day march included a ‘welcome home’ parade for all the Vietnam vets who felt they had never been truly accepted by the majority of Australians. This Anzac Day fell on a Saturday and after I had played footy and enjoyed a few after-match beers, one past player (let’s call him Barry) came in after what had been a traumatic day. It was the first day he had marched in the parade after having fought in Vietnam.

This was the story he told us.

Barry was 19 when he went on his tour. He was on patrol with about nine or 11 men from his unit. It was a beautiful day and he felt the patrol would be like many others – uneventful. Their route was through fields rather than jungle. Suddenly a patrol of Vietnamese soldiers stood up out of the long grass, facing them from 10 feet away. Barry said there were guns pointing, men screaming and gesturing. He was so scared. He thought his heart was going to burst out of his chest. Was he going to die? Was he going to kill someone? I could not imagine what was going through his mind as he stood 10 feet away from a rifle held by someone who looked about the same young age as he was.

All he could think was he was never going to see his mother again, and how she would react when she found out he was dead. Barry had his gun pointed at a soldier whose gun was pointed at him. The shouting seemed to last an eternity. Then the Vietnamese leader turned to his men and seemed to shout an order. He shouted again and put his rifle by his side. His men did the same. All the time the Australian soldiers still had their guns pointed. The Vietnamese soldier then pointed to himself and pointed north; pointed to the Australian troop leader and pointed south. The Australian sergeant instructed his men to lower their weapons.

With this, the Vietnamese turned 90 degrees and simply walked away. The Australians did the same.

Barry, as he broke down in tears, said he will never meet the Vietnamese soldier who gave the order but would never forget his face, as it was this man who saved his life. One shot could have started a battle that no one might have survived.

His sergeant told the patrol they were never to speak of this enemy interaction, as they would be court-martialled and, even worse, labelled cowards.

It was the first time Barry had told that story and it took a weight off of him. We were in the western suburbs of Melbourne in the 1980s and it was not ‘manly’ to cry but the four young men listening to Barry’s story all had tears rolling down our cheeks.

Unlike a number of his mates, Barry made it home with no physical injuries but the mental scars remained. There wasn’t much help for returned soldiers and PTSD was not really recognised. He regarded himself ‘lucky’ as his assimilation back into society was not as painful as many others as he married an absolutely beautiful women and they had two terrific kids.

As the minute’s silence ended and I looked at the old diggers, I felt thankful for them and the countless others who’ve served in our forces.