From Vietnam to Denmark (Australia) By BMW

    3rd Cavalry Regiment, Nui Dat, South Vietnam Apr 70

    Greg hung up the phone from the Command Post, looked at me and said 'Jock's just gone up in a mine!' I'd been 'in-country' about 2 weeks and already discovered that in this dirty little war clerks got hurt, even when on an Armoured Personnel Carrier. Sgt 'Jock' Cooper, who I'd known for only a short while, was my Chief Clerk, and would be heading back to Australia minus a few bits. Wow.

    Greg (Cpl Greg Smith) and I (Trooper Joe Blake) managed to get a chopper down to Vung Tau to visit Jock in Hospital before he was Medevaced to Australia.

    Sydney 1987
    I next saw Jock in the glorious and sometimes tearful welter of emotion that was the 'Welcome Home March' in Sydney in 1987 for the Vietnam Diggers, sitting in a wheelchair. I raced over and shook his hand, exchanged a few words and went back to some serious revelry with my mates.

    Perth, Western Australia 2005
    I heard through channels that Jock had died, and I felt sad that I hadn't had a chance for a real good 're-union' with my team leader. However, in December 2005 Greg rang me and told me he'd been talking to Jock, and he lived down in Denmark, on the south coast of Western Australia. I immediately rang Jock and chatted for quite some time, and finished up saying that when I got my motorcycle back, I would come down and visit him.

    'The New Goose' ('04 F650CS Twin Sparker) had been stolen from my back shed, and whilst the police had recovered it, it was missing a few parts and it took a considerable time to get it back on the road. Eventually, the day came when I parked 'The Goose' back in its accustomed place.

    I had spoken to Jacqueline, one of my constant female pillions (I have two, Karen being the other) and asked if she fancied a weekend tour to Denmark (about 410-15 Km south of Perth) and 'Oh, yes, please'.

    Saturday 18 March at about 6.30 am, we set off from South Perth and headed off 'down south'.

    At that time of the day, the air was, after long spells of 35+ degree C heat, deliciously cool, and the light was that pinky-peachy dawn which those who sleep in (like I do) seldom see. She lives not far from the Perth Zoo, so the smell that was on the breeze was fairly exotic, to say the least. Not offensive, but very different to what I normally snort living in the Hills up behind the city.

    Luggage was the BMW 'Stuff Bay Bag' for me and an old ex-Army back pack tied in front of the luggage rack as a back rest for Jac. I'd fixed the microphones for the 'Dick Smith' special El Cheapo intercom to the helmets with gaffer tape, so we could talk on the way. We both love to talk, and enforced silence was unheard of.

    About 40 km south of Perth we stopped for a break and took our first photos. We'd seen very few vehicles in either direction, and no motorcycles whatsoever. As I was walking back across the road from taking the photo I looked north and saw not one but four motorcycles heading south. Police. This early? In formation? 16 cylinders of Honda went roaring past, and we waved at each other. There was a bicycle ride starting that day in Albany, heading to Perth, and taking about 2 weeks to travel the 500 or so km, and these guys were probably going down to escort the 3000 plus riders. One of my passions is bicycling, and I felt slightly jealous - but only slightly.

    We stopped in Williams at the Williams Woolshed and had a 'late' breakfast. I'd already eaten before I left home, but this second breakfast was welcome.

    I hadn't done any serious touring since the mid-late 70s, no 'two-up' touring at all, and Jac hadn't done any for probably as long, so we were a little tentative, and took breaks pretty often.

    Scenery wise, the stretch of Albany Highway down to Mt Barker was fairly ordinary, mostly agricultural, cattle grazing, some sheep, a few goats, and as we progressed further south, an increasing number of vineyards.

    The only point of interest was rounding a corner and, looking south, we saw the Porongorup Mountains for the first time. We stopped and took a photo, as this was a fairly memorable occasion. About 10 years ago, Jac and I had gone down there with a few friends and had a great (if exhausting) weekend climbing Mt Tilbrnup, and the view from up there was enough to make me stop panting (for a short while, anyway).


    The sky was a brilliant blue with a few 'mares tails' to break the monotony. The forecast had been fine for the whole weekend.

    Next stop was Kojonup where we refuelled the 'Goose' and had a bit of a break.

    Somewhere between Williams and Kojonup the intercom disappeared. I'd turned it off and hung it on the belt I'd made, with its loops for the pillion to hang onto, and it must have just fallen off and was probably now being ground into the tarmac. I didn't particularly mind losing the intercom, but it had four nickel metal hydride rechargeable batteries in it (AAA size) and they were worth more than the whole intercom. Further, I used the batteries for my TV Video CD/DVD remote controls, and when I wasn't watching TV, they ran my two little radio controlled Army tanks I played with. Damn. ('You take the man out of Armour, but you can't take the Armour out of a man.)

 As we headed into Mt Barker, the number of vineyards increased, with acres and acres of lush grapevines on undulating away into the distance on either side of the road. I'm not a 'wino' so this was of no great moment. About 20 km past Mt Barker, the scenery began to change into what I had been looking for. The 'South West' of the state has some ancient forest of 'tingle' trees, which is slowly but surely disappearing. This was getting good.

  

 

 

 

 

 

As we approached Denmark, the town seemed at first to be made of a forest of tall trees. The only clashing feature was the 60 km/h speed limit signs. We arrived in Denmark proper, and I hunted out Jock's place. Being an exigger (and a Cavalry man to boot), he had sent me his map grid reference, and I had used 'Google Earth' to locate his house. Certainly beats using a street directory. I crossed the bridge in town, veered right, looked where I thought his road might be - and there it was. Wow. Even down the name on the letter box. Bugga buying petrol. I steered the 'Goose' in and jumped off and knocked on the door. Jac had the camera ready and when Jock walked out, on the phone to somebody, we grabbed each other and shook hands and started talking. Eventually Jock returned to his phone call and made his escape.

    He looked better than I recall seeing him in the hospital in 1970, and although his right foot was only half the length of his left, it didn't slow him down. His brother was there, and then it was on for young and old. (I'd brought down a small bottle of my newest whiskey liqueur, which involved mandarines, honey and believe it or not, drinking chocolate powder. Went down well.)

    He took me into his new caravan which he was planning to drive to Townsville, in North Queensland, where there was to be a 'Cavalry Reunion' in June of this year, based around 3/4 Cav Regt, a unit which was an amalgamation of our old unit and another.

    After a couple of hours, Jac decided to put her head down for a rest, and then, after Jock cooked us tea, we got into some serious talking, with the Bundaberg Rum and Coke flowing more freely than I was used to, and at about 9.30 I had to go bye-byes, but I was lulled to sleep with Jac and Jock talking in the loungeroom.  

 
    We'd planned to be away by about 9 o'clock the next morning, and after taking some farewell photos, the Goose and its passengers headed west to complete the return leg of the trip. Refuelled in Denmark. Headed out towards Walpole. The sky was the bluest of blue again, with a few streaks of high cloud, and as we thumped and wuffled our way through the giant trees that grew either side of the highway, I felt a sense of quiet joy I hadn't had for years, possibly decades. The road was neither level nor straight, and the Goose was flying as I had never dreamed possible. I was almost hallucinating - riding through some of the most magnificent forests in the whole country, with one of my best friends behind me, occasionally leaning on my shoulder to take photographs, on what I was slowly realising was probably the best motorcycle I had ever ridden. It, quite literally, didn't get any better than this. What's a bloke going to do for an encore?

    Some while later, I saw a sign on the side road saying 'scenic tour', so, 'on spec', I turned down there thinking perhaps it would link up with the highway again. This turned out not to be case, but while meandering down a fairly narrow track, we came upon Irwin Inlet. There was an old wooden staircase with a viewing platform so we ascended and snapped happily away with the camera. The water was yet more deep blue and pretty much like a mill pond. A small yacht bobbed up and down in the far distance, and pelicans rested on the pilings of an old jetty. The stuff postcards are made from. (The photograph is now my background for my 'Windows' desktop ... as if I needed reminding.)    

 

   

      After leaving the Inlet we headed to 'The Valley of the Giants' with its famed 'Tree Top Walkway'.



    It was a roller coaster ride into the past. I'd never seen trees this big. I could reach out and 'touch the scenery' with my gloved hand. The air smelled so clean and despite the rush of the wind under my helmet and the honking and chuffing of the Goose, paradoxically, I could almost feel the silence.

    So how much information is still not enough?


    I had 'Giants' (the trees), I had 'Valley' (meaning the ground goes down), I had 'Tree Top' and I had 'Walkway'. So how come, with all that information, when I'd taken a few steps onto the swaying metal walkway, I looked down and felt my stomach drop a couple of hundred feet? I'm not an acrophobe (I mean I used to do hang gliding) but somehow the fact I was suddenly on top of these monstrous pieces of greenery seemed to make the distance to the ground so much greater. I was secretly glad that we were in somewhat of a hurry so I had an excuse to make a hasty descent to the end of the walkway. But for all that swaying etc it was most impressive. (Sound engineering is no substitute for terra firma. The more firma, the less terra.)     

     

 

 

 After that, well, it seemed a bit of an anti-climax. We refuelled at Bridgetown, where I ran into another Vietnam Vet, who operated the service station. He'd worked with the Cavalry at times, and we chatted a bit.

    As we travelled north again the forest disappeared and was replaced by orchards of various descriptions. When we hit the southern outskirts of Bunbury I knew we were on the 'home stretch'. Although we still had a couple of hundred kilometres to go, I'd travelled up this stretch of the South Western Highway quite a few times, and knew that the scenery became pretty mundane.

    The road was wide, well paved, with frequent passing lanes, so the riding also became mundane - or as mundane as it could be on the Goose. Thinking back I realised that we had travelled probably about 800-900 km in a couple of days, with no dramas, no aggravation (even two-up the Goose could go from the posted limit 110 km/h to 150 in a very short space of time so overtaking slower vehicles was just a matter of waiting for a clear stretch, and making sure nothing was sneaking up from behind), with little discomfort (we weren't in a tearing hurry so we could afford to stop frequently and stretch) and at a minimal cost. In total I think petrol came to about $60 or there abouts. The most expensive petrol was about $1.30 something per litre. And occasionally there was no 'premium' petrol available, so I just poured in whatever was there, and with its twin-spark plug set up, the Goose just rolled along as if nothing unusual were occurring.

    I'd promised Jac I'd get her home 'before dark' on the Sunday night, and we came thumping into the carpark of her unit just as the sun had disappeared behind King's Park, but there was still a pale wash of light in the sky.

    Three days later, my mind is still twirling around. Jac said she had felt safer on the Scarver rocketing through the magnificent scenery than she did driving her car in the city.

    To me, it was a simply unique experience. Everything just seemed to flop into place. The weather, the route, the bike, the company and even (or especially) the purpose of the trip.

    It was something I don't think I'd even TRY and duplicate.

    Thanks 'New Goose', for something to remember this lifetime by.

###############################

I thought when I last visited this thread in September '07 that I had written the final words. But no, the story lingers on, tracing its way through the history of its characters. Greg, Jock and I have maintained a fairly good degree of contact, wherever possible.

So I was a tad surprised when during one of our telephone chats, Greg said he was going to be writing a book of his story, and he was going to come across to Western Australia to catch up with Jock and myself as we were both significant players. Well, THAT bodes ill I thought. But as long as he wasn't TOO libellous I had no objection.

Jock said he would come up from Denmark on the South Coast to meet Greg off the plane at Perth airport, and I said I'd be there, with Jacqueline (whom Jock had met, but not Greg). Oh ... and the Goose.

As we waited, I could see Jock was pretty excited about it. They hadn't seen each other since Jock was in hospital in Vung Tau in 1970. Jacqueline had a camera to record the event. Jock and Greg greeted each other like the best of mates do. I'd seen Greg in 1993 when I'd gone to Brisbane with Jacqueline, but she hadn't met him then.

Greg was going to stay with Jock for a week to catch up, but we 3 made luncheon date in Fremantle for the next day. I said I'd take Greg on the back of the Goose, deliver him to Jock who'd then drive the 400 or so km down to Denmark.

Despite a slight shower, I was able to give Greg a great guided tour of Perth and the Swan River. As we followed the sometimes narrow riverside roads, Greg reminded me that the last time I'd given him a ride on a bike was on my Triumph Daytona in about 1970, before we went overseas, and apparently I scared the crap out of him. Not this time, mate, I've grown up a bit since then.

What happened between Greg and Jock I didn't find out straight away, but I could see Greg had visibly changed when he returned to Perth. He seemed a whole lot 'better'. When finally I got the whole story, in the form of his promised book, which he published a year or so after his Perth trip, was that on the day on the incident with Jock's mine, Greg had been tapped on the shoulder to go out as an 'extra' crew member on the ambush mission, but the admin work (our main focus as clerks) had piled up so high (for both Greg and myself) that Jock said to Greg not to worry, he'll go out instead, and Greg would get another chance soon, but Jock was pretty 'short' and due to go home soon.

So Greg was gut struck when the incident report came over the phone. That should have been him!!! And from then on he was hit with 'survivor guilt'.

When he (mistakenly) heard later that Jock had died (he thought as a result of the wounds) it sent him in a downward spiral that really lasted until he was able to see Jock, and tell him face to face how sorry he was. He was worried about resentment on Jock's part. But Jock was able to reassure him that it was just one of those things, and Greg was not to worry any more.

As one final fillip, the 3 of us, the entire administrative team at the time, were invited to a 'Cavalry reunion' dinner in Perth. Both Jock and Greg (I was later told) were a bit nervous as the blokes we were meeting were 'real soldiers' and not 'pogos', and 'we' might not be accepted by them. I was fortunate, because I met most of them every Anzac Day, so I had no such fears. But at the end of the night, it seemed that the 'real' soldiers had no lack of respect for the clerks. It was also a buzz for Jock because he managed to catch up with the radio operator of his vehicle at the time of the mine.

The next day the 4 of us (including Jac) were at the Perth airport to farewell Greg on his return to Brisbane.

After I'd dropped Jac off at her unit, and the Goose was bearing me back to my beloved Hills behind Perth, I wondered at how such a long tale, with so much agony of different kinds had wound up on such a high.

Since that time, Greg has had his book ('A Pogo's Perspective') published, with immense support from many people, such as the then 3 Cav Regt Officer Commanding, (then) Maj Coates, and (then) Captain Formby, the Sqn 2IC, as well as such luminaries as Normie Rowe, one of Australia's greatest 'pop' idols from the '60s, who served in 3 Cav, as a National Serviceman, just before Greg and I arrived, and is recognised today not only as a musical performer of great stature, but also as an advocate for Viet Veterans.

Jock, well, he's just last month returned from driving (solo) around Australia, and I spoke to him on New Year's Day, and he sounds pretty good.

Me? Well, despite some ill-mannered behaviour which still needs sorting out, the Goose has remained faithful and taken me on some minor adventures.

For those interested in Greg's story:

http://www.gregjsmith.com/

 

 

  Three 'old diggers' at Perth Airport (L - r Jock, Greg, Joe)