It was 1967, I was 16

Airman Apprentice Marsh, 1967

Like me, you have no doubt heard of the young men - boys really - who signed up for the 1st AIF, many of them lying about their age, because they saw it as a big adventure and a chance to see some of the world outside Australia. I can identify with that.

I was 16 when I joined the RAAF in 1967 - at the height of the Vietnam war. The appy (apprentice) intakes of 65, 66 and 67 were the largest in the history of the appy scheme (mine the smallest of the three with 184 enlisting for Wagga). We were boys supposedly between the ages of 15 to 17 at enlistment, although some were accepted that were a little younger. Towards the end of my 2 1/2 years at Wagga I filled in my posting preferences. They were designed to give me the best chance of getting overseas, and there were only two places for a Sumpy (engine fitter) to go - Vietnam or Malaysia. Back then, the idea of overseas travel was economically out of the reach of most.

I figured my best chance was Williamtown as that would almost certainly lead to Butterworth. Richmond and Amberley I thought would give a chance of Vietnam, depending on what unit I ended up in. Did I give any thought to the fact that I could get shot? None whatsoever.

As it was I got 77 Sqn Willy and a little over 2 years later 75 Sqn Butterworth. There may have been a few off my Intake got to Vietnam, but I do not know of any. I did have one mate who had his posting only to have it cancelled when Whitlam pulled the last few out.

As I reflect on that time I wonder what my parents and grandparents went through. I recall Mum on the phone once saying something to someone on the other end about me joining the RAAF, that I could end up in Vietnam, and if it was good enough for her son ...

And I remember Nana Marsh crying as I walked away after saying my goodbyes. At the time I thought 'How nice, Nana is going to miss me'. But now I wonder.

Nana's brother Roy served in France where he was gassed and seriously wounded - but came home. Their uncle George Davis was killed in France. Sadly George's mother and Roy's grandmother was a native of Germany. Nana also had a cousin, a Nursing Officer who died in a prisoner of war camp in Sumatra. Mum had two cousins, brothers, one who is buried in the War Cemetery just outside Port Moresby, the other died on the Burmese railway.

To their credit, my family let me go - they had to sign the consent forms. Joining the RAAF was all I wanted to do as a boy and they let me realise that dream, one that I have never regretted. But they must have had real concerns.

As it worked out in 20 years’ service I never came under fire. But given the volatility that was South East Asia at the time the outcome may have been different. I consider myself one of the lucky ones.

Revised, August 2016

The Hash Run

Hash running was a popular activity at Butterworth. I tried it – once. It was a memorable experience.

The idea is simple. First, find a suitable location – in this case a rubber plantation. A trail is marked out by the organisers. At Butterworth toilet paper was used for this purpose. Then the competitors follow the paper trail to the finish line.

There is, however, an in-built obstacle. Every so often there is a break in the trail and so runners fan out to find the next section, which may in fact be a decoy. Whoever finds the start of the new section alerts the group by calling ‘on, on’ and then everyone gives chase. It is so planned that everyone has a chance of winning as the swiftest is not assured victory.

I have never been the athletic type. As a runner I am better described as a plodder. Still, I didn’t let that dissuade me when invited to a hash run in late 1971. After all, a bit of a run through the jungle could only help my fitness and there was the promise of refreshments at the end.

So, after work one day, I climbed into the rear of a truck along with a group of other enthusiastic Hash House Harriers for my new adventure. All went well for a while. I plodded along the trail and continued to pick up the new trail for a while with everyone else. But then it happened – as we spread out to find the new trail I went in the wrong direction. I heard the cry of ‘on, on’ and headed towards the sound but by the time I re-joined the trail I was on my own. Not to worry, I could continue to follow the trail and listen for the ‘on, ons’ up ahead. But by the time I got to the next break everyone else had found the new start and headed off. So there I was in the middle of a rubber plantation alone, trying to find the next section of the trail.

One clear memory I have is running down a steep hill with the sun sinking slowly in the Western sky. I glanced down only to see a rather large hole where I was about to place my foot. As I adjusted my step I lost balance and reached out to tree to steady myself only to see this vine wrapped around the tree with rather nasty looking spikes pointing upward. To this day I don’t want to imagine what might have happened if my hand had slid down that vine.

Fortunately I did not fall. By this time the ‘on, ons’ were no longer heard. With no other living soul in sight I began to imagine what it might be like to spend the night alone in a Malaysian rubber plantation and what living creatures there may have been to threaten my very existence. But there was nothing to worry about because I finally staggered across the finishing line, just as everyone was packing up after exhausting the supply of beer.

Now the main objective of the Hash run was to work up a thirst. And at that point I could see no point in going through the thirst raising part of the exercise if there was nothing at the end to quench the thirst with. So I made the decision then and there that after a day’s work in the tropical heat I had already done enough to work up a thirst and I did not need to risk life and limb to quench it.

Operation Castor Oil

In late January 1970, 77 Sqn flew north to Tindal for the aptly named ‘Operation Castor Oil’. Tindal is a little south of Katherine in the Northern Territory, and a little over three hour’s drive from Darwin on the Stuart Highway. While it is now a major RAAF base it was not so in the 1970s. It was for most of the year an uninhabited airfield with minimal infrastructure.

We slept on camp stretchers in tents set on concrete floors. The airmen’s mess was little more than a concrete slab with a roof. It may well have been possible to put up the shutters if required but I remember it as being pretty exposed to the weather. One meal the bloke opposite me lifted the last fork full of beans off his plate which left a cockroach scurrying for cover.

We spent 10 to 12 days in this tropical paradise with only one chance to get into Katherine – not that there was anything of note to see back then. I do recall swimming in a water hole or river which may or may not have been part of the famed Katherine gorge. And that was the only time we had for relaxation and enjoyment.

One of my few memories of that time was a spectacular lightening display one night. It went on for hours.

For the duration of the exercise 77 Sqn attacked Darwin around the clock. And the powers-that-be wanted everyone to experience day work and night work. To achieve that we would start work at a different time each day. I have long tried to remember how this worked, but it must have meant working 14 hours straight with 11 off with a one hour shift changeover. Needless to say, by the end of the exercise we were well and truly stuffed.

So when it was over we celebrated – long and hard. I was pretty tanked before I started on the bottle of vodka and I remember nothing of that, other than waking in the morning with the empty bottle next to my bed and clear evidence that my body had rejected the contents thereof.

Exercises to the top end were a regular part of squadron life at Williamtown. Operation Castor Oil is definitely the most memorable.