Journal Entries

“Sam’s Journey”

29th April, 1965

Dear Diary,

Tomorrow, I will proudly be serving my country in Vietnam. I feel it my duty to protect Australia from the reds and the spread of communism.

I feel excited at the prospect of battling the evil communists, and expect to be home within a few months. My darling wife, Diane, and my son, Charlie, have been encouraging me, and saying how proud of me they are these past few weeks after receiving my notification. My wife shares the same view as myself; that the takeover of South Vietnam would be a direct military threat to Australia.

I hold the belief that it is every Australian’s duty to pick up his gun and journey to South Vietnam to aid the allies, against the North Vietnamese, the USSR and China. The Vietnam War involves Australians and it is our responsibility to ensure our country’s safety in the future by fighting alongside Americans.

We will be provided with guns, bullet-proof vests, uniforms, helmets, grenades and ammunition to ensure we are thoroughly equipped for warfare. The planes will be carrying more supplies and bombs and on arrival, we are expected to meet with the American forces and Australian military advisers before proceeding.

As I sit here on my bed, in the dim lighting of our room, I listen to the sounds of life. My wife is fast asleep, a pleasant smile plays on her lips and I hear her soft, sweet breathing. The late hours of the night have instilled its peace on the world. All is still. The tranquillity of my surroundings arouses weariness. The faint rustling of leaves; the feeble wind blowing cool air into the humid room; the warm glow of the bedside lamp; I succumb to these feelings of home.

I cherish these last warm moments as I envisage what it will be like this time tomorrow - cold, unstable ground beneath me; insects irritating me; the racket of gunfire; so different to the present.

For the last time I will nestle down into my warm bed and stroke Diane’s slender arm. I lock this moment forever in my memory; for tough times, for lonely times, for times of war.

I reassure myself: You’ll be home soon, mate.

17th June, 1968

Dear Diary,

How utterly wrong my impression of war was. My pre-war thoughts of actually sleeping; going home in a few months; I am shocked at my ignorance.

The weather is unbearably humid and uncomfortable in the jungle and mountainside. My guns, grenades and ammunition weigh me down till I feel like I’m dragging chains. My uniform and vest squeeze me until I feel I cannot breathe. I perspire and sweat like a pig as fear and gunfire keeps me on my toes. I cannot sleep at night as I can never be sure of the whereabouts of the enemy. Negativity drapes its cloak around my shoulders.

Warfare here is much different to what I expected. There aren’t two sides facing each other, shooting and massacring waves of men. No big helicopters and tanks unloading huge shells and blowing up fifty men at a time.

What I am in is guerrilla warfare. The North Vietnamese are not wealthy people so their unconventional way of fighting threw me off guard when I first arrived. Unlike us, they do not wear uniforms, thus they look much like the locals in villages. They mix with the local population and are given help by fellow Vietnamese; they travel light, carrying only a gun – in comparison we are like American footballers to marathon runners. They travel in groups and ambush our men; their hit and run tactics are effective in the dense jungle. They know the area like the back of their hand and I feel like a lone bear in a forest full of traps, discreet rifles poking like needles from bushes.

I feel that my bulky silhouette is a sitting duck for groups of reds. I have not felt water on my body in three weeks, since the nearest river is miles away. Occasionally I think that I will be found because of the sickening odour that surrounds me; like a fox sniffed out by hunting dogs.

Gunfire never ceases as hundreds of rounds of machine gun ammo are always heard near and far. As I sit behind this tree, I survey my surroundings. The sweet songs of beautiful tropical birds contrast the violence in the jungles; the grey sky patched with dark clouds symbolise the feeling in my heart; overhanging trees make a vault causing me to feel constrained. The reassuring solidness of the tree I lean against leaves me feeling slightly more secure knowing that I am not going to be sprung from behind.

Sometimes when I’m trying to hide – like now - I bring my knees to my chest and pull my arms in to make myself smaller and less noticeable. The horror of war is overwhelming and terrifying. My soul and heart decay in the midst of battle and I try to remain positive. I want to return home; a place of love. I reminisce of my last night with Diane and Charlie. The warmth of their embrace is forgotten; the smiles and laughter; the peace of the night; I yearn for long lost memories. The setting now is different; fellow Australians and Americans litter the terrain and they stand alert and watchful. I cock my ear for any sounds; the peace is alarming and provokes my paranoia. I scan the bushes and tree trunks for any sign of lean, foreign men; my ears like a rabbit’s nose, twitching and irritated at any sound. Once I hear men speaking in different tongues mere metres away; I’m off again.

2nd June, 1973

Dear Diary,

Life is different post-war. I have been home for a few years, compelled to return because of cold, hard metal bullets embedded in my arm; the docs had to amputate it.

I don’t know which is worse; fighting in Vietnam or being back home. I arrived home, weary and in shock, only to be met with anti-war demonstrations. No welcome home parade, no thanks, no appreciation whatsoever. I had banners thrust in my face, I was looked down upon and my friends had turned against me. Conscription had led to a huge division within Australia and I found it hard to cope.

Diane and Charlie have been supportive of me regardless of other people. I sometimes feel that it is my fault they get ostracised and criticised at various places such as work, school and social events. I have given up work making it harder on Diane, but I just can’t do it. Left with a stump of an arm is no use in the factory and slows down the pace of the overall flow of everything.

To just settle back into life; do the washing and cleaning; play games; watch TV; go for outings; I just want to scream and bury myself in the ground. Not one person apart from Diane and Charlie has said anything encouraging or pleasant about my role in protecting our homeland; friends from the past pretend I’m not here; they’re right - I’m not here. I live elsewhere; I live in a land of isolation, of depression; a world of nightmares.

I spend most of my days stuck in the Vietnam jungle. My thoughts are never of the present and my actions are those of a robot. I slog through tasks which need to be done but otherwise I do nothing constructive. I sit in my worn, sagging armchair watching TV. When Charlie goes to school and Diane to work, the house is quiet. But the memories won’t let go. They attack every day, each one more vivid than the previous. When I am alone the demons of violence, noise and horror devour my heart; they eat away like termites. I watch the TV absent-mindedly and when I watch things, I am never really awake. The nightmare spirits me time and time again from the home I once loved. Even the warmth of Diane’s touch does not bring joy to me anymore; merely a sad smile.

As I sit on my bed, gazing into the distance, the physical world is peaceful; but my mind is plagued with terrible images - images of death and decay; of war. The pictures, the feelings, the blasts, one after the other: of holding Mac’s hand in his last moments, his face screwed up in agony; dead men scattered like bread crumbs; the unrelenting pulse of machine guns pounding in my head; the weight of exhaustion is a psychological burden; the feverish heat envelopes my body; wounds and diseases eating at me; it’s too much.

I am a prisoner to my memories.