

It
was on the afternoon of February 21, 1967
when B Company riding in Armoured Personnel
Carriers hit mines and booby traps killing
nine and wounding 22 others. This article
was from an interview by Tony White
who was the Regimental Medical Officer of
the Battalion 1966-67 and was published in
the Canberra Times 22 February 1997.
It was hot and dusty, the height of the dry season. after
nine months in country and with three months to go, the troops were
weary. They had effectively been on duty 24 hours a day seven days a week
apart from five days R&R. They were also intensely wary. Wary from the
sporadic inconclusive fire-fights and encounters with mines and booby traps.
The jokes were more sardonic. "Lets get a shot of you where you still have
two legs," were to be heard from the diggers as they lined up for a photo
shoot before setting out on patrol. The boys were only half joking when they
talked wistfully about getting a "Homer" a wound decent enough to ensure
their evacuation to Australia but not resulting in any great permanent
incapacity. On this day's patrol there was to be a sweep through the Long
Hai Hills, a Viet Cong stronghold known to be full of bunkers and well
defended with mines. Mounted on APC's, (Armoured Personnel Carriers) the
Battalion HQ group and B Company ground out of the village and halted on a
gravel road to 'bolt' down a quick lunch and finalise plans. Around us
stretched rice paddies, grey-brown and quivering with heat haze. Six months
ago they were green and brimming with water.
B Company set off across the paddies into the scrub at
the base of the hills. 15 minutes later, just as we were about to follow, we
were startled by the sound of a massive explosion. A dark mushroom had
formed over the bush in the direction of B Company's line of travel. Four
minutes later there was a second, smaller explosion. A radio report of
casualties followed but there was no clear picture as to what had happened.
By chance an army Sioux helicopter was in the area. The
Battalion CO called me over, "Tony get over there and see what you can do."
I grabbed my medical backpack and climbed into the Perspex bubble of the
Bell 47 helicopter. It was a two minute skim to catch up with B Company.
Banking to find a cleared area to land we saw the astonishing sight of the
lead APC on its side. I jumped out on touchdown and the sound of the rotor
blades faded. Only to be replaced by a soundtrack of suffering, groans,
cries and mutterings. I was led over to Major Bruce McQualter, officer
commanding B Company. He had a head wound. With a rifle in one hand and a
map case in the other, he was appealing for a hand to help him to his feet,
but his eyes were closed and he could not respond to either questions or
instructions. Close by, also with a head wound, lay the lanky form of
lieutenant Jack Carruthers. He was unconscious, stretched out on his side.
His trademark ginger moustache was drenched in blood. The third member was
Sergeant 'Tassie' Wass, sitting propped up against his backpack in great
pain. Both arms outstretched , both elbows were smashed and his forearms
dangled from the butchered joints. Acutely aware that I had seen only a
fraction of what lay around, I made him as comfortable as possible, with
dressings splints and morphine.
Ten
metres away the APC lay on its side. The back door had
been blown off and nearby lay what at first glance
seemed to be a pile of discarded uniforms blackened and
dusty. Getting closer I realised that the heap was
composed of dead and wounded soldiers. In amongst the
carnage, I came across the body of Mick Poole. He had
just turned 20 and was a favourite of the village kids
because of his cheeky good humour. He played the tenor
horn in the Battalion Band. On patrol, bandsmen acted as
stretcher bearers and provided first aid. I caught up
with the B Company medic and three more stretcher
bearers all dazed and wounded but getting on with the
task at hand. The task was to make a rough order of
priority, identifying those in need of first aid and
those not in acute need. There was a third group, those
mortally wounded and beyond any help. The situation was
out of control. The number of casualties was
overwhelming. Horror was piled on horror. Close to the
APC lay the torso of its driver. The lower part of his
body was missing. Protruding from under the APC was a
detached arm, its hand still grasping an M16 rifle.
While moving around this slaughter
house, I was powerfully aware that we were stalled in a
mine field. At any instant I could find myself joining
the dead or, even worse, the living mutilated. At one
time I spotted the three prong wires of a "Jumping Jack"
mine close to my foot. My heart stopped and I felt a
bitter chill despite the stifling dusty bush around us.
Pathetically I found myself moving among the wounded
with one hand over my balls even though I knew these
mines could ablate not only the genitals but the legs
and more I was amazed by the torrent of weird thoughts
that surfaced as I worked. People who are dying or who
are terrified are said to see their past life rushing by
like a speeded up movie. My mind raced with a stream of
images of childhood, home and family. Mixed with these
were other bizarre reflections. I thought of 'Tassie'
Wass and his shattered, dangling forearms. The absurd
line "Look Ma no hands" kept revolving through my head.
I had recognised the distinctive features of Barney Gee
the only soldier of Chinese extraction in the battalion.
He was quite calm as I got him to press on a dressing I
applied to the spurting artery in his arm. His skin was
blackened by the explosion. "Red on black — very
Chinese" I thought. I recalled a movie that I had seen
as a child in which the minister was trying to halt the
alien invaders. With his congregation cowering behind
him. He advanced with an open Bible, reciting Psalm 23. He
had just mentioned "Yea though I walk through the valley
of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil" when he
was carbonised by the alien ray gun. After an eternity,
sappers were choppered in. They quickly went to work
with mine detectors, laying white tape on cleared
pathways through the mine field. One sapper spotted me
"Do you want to get us all killed? for fuck sake stick
to the cleared areas" he screamed! I had to bite my
tongue to avoid pointing out that I had been walking
around here for the previous half hour or so. A landing
zone was cleared for the 'Dust Off' choppers. The
critically wounded were shipped out first, then the
lesser injured and finally the dead. The evacuation
included a macabre audit, matching up corpses with
missing parts as they were retrieved. Some parts were
never found. Jack Carruthers died three days later and
Bruce McQualter after two weeks never regained
consciousness.
I
remained with the shaken remains of B
Company for a short while. On one
afternoon's outing they had lost their
company commander, a platoon commander and
numerous comrades. It had been an entirely
passive event, with no trace of the enemy
and no opportunity to strike back. A more
potent prescription for anger and despair
could not be imagined. On getting back to
BHQ I was too shaken to hold a cup of
coffee. I tried to describe the scene and
discovered the futility of words for
communicating such an experience.
What had happened? It appears that
the lead APC had detonated a mine of enormous
destructive power. There was a crater 2metres wide by 1metre
deep. The 13 tonne vehicle had been tossed 3 metres away
and onto its side and there was a large hole in the hull
under the drivers seat. The patrol halted and prepared
for an ambush. The officers dismounted and summoned the
company medic and stretcher bearers. As they walked
towards the wounded, there was a second explosion. One
of the party stepped on a M16 mine causing more
casualties to B Company. For years, like a diminuendo
drumbeat, February 21 was to spook most of those who had
participated in this calamitous and futile episode.
Did
any good emerge from that afternoon? I would offer three
positive observations. First, the way the medics and
stretcher bearers went forward to provide help for the
first group of casualties. Their response was immediate
and selfless, as evidenced by the fact that all of them
were wounded. Second, the tattered remains of B Company
continued to function in the immediate aftermath. Junior
officers stepped in to fill the gaps. Morale and
discipline were maintained. All this reflects very well
on the quality of their training.
Finally, 30 years on, most of the
survivors are getting on with life and contributing to
the community. These surely are the qualities that
Australia needs now.
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