The Australian Logistic Support Group (1ALSG - refer the green marker in the map) operated about three km for Vung Tau's city centre (the gray section of the map above the green marker). The 1st Australian Task Forces was at Nui Dat, about 16 kms north-west from the then village of Long Hai. The distance between 1ALSG and 1ATF was about 27 kms.

As our Boeing 707 descended over Saigon, the view below revealed a landscape scarred with craters and an airfield crowded with military aircraft. When the plane came to a halt, I noticed a small group of six or seven Australian soldiers patiently waiting to board, each casually holding an AK-47 as a trophy.
Once we disembarked, we endured nearly three hours of waiting under the oppressive heat, clueless as to the reason for the delay. As soldiers often quip, "Ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do or die." Eventually, those of us bound for Vung Tau boarded a Fairchild C-123 Provider—a stocky, smaller version of the Hercules, equipped with two turboprop engines and two jet boosters used for takeoffs.
Shortly after arriving in-country, I developed a sore throat and struggled to sleep my first night. Swallowing was painful, so I was sent across the road to the hospital for a check-up. The duty medic, not a doctor, found no signs of infection and referred me to a physician, who then sent me to a psychologist. His first question caught me completely off guard: "Are you missing your mother?" I spent the night in the hospital and was discharged the next morning without any diagnosis.
At 102 Field Workshop, 1 Platoon consisted of about 25 soldiers, a mix of radio technicians, instrument fitters, panel beaters, and canvas makers. 2 Platoon, larger in size, was made up of motor mechanics and auto electricians. Including officers, senior NCOs, storemen, cooks, and clerks, our total strength hovered around 100 soldiers.
The workshop was nestled in the sand dunes between 110 Signals and "The Boob," the military jail for serious offenders. Less than a kilometre away lay the U.S. Army Airfield’s runway. The constant roar of helicopters and planes was an unrelenting reminder of the war's presence.
My hut housed 18 tradesmen, with people frequently coming and going as their 12-month tours began or ended. Like all other units, we had an ORs (Other Ranks) mess hall for meals and a "boozer" for socializing. We shared drop toilets—four open seats side by side—and a laundry. Two army cooks ran the kitchen, supported by four local women who, despite enduring bouts of questionable humour, always seemed cheerful.
On my third night, at about five in the morning, our hut was suddenly illuminated by a blinding flash of light, followed by a deafening explosion and a shockwave that shook the walls. The newer arrivals, like me, shot upright in their beds, while the more seasoned soldiers rolled over and continued sleeping. A B-52 bomber had dropped its payload on the Long Hai mountains, a Viet Cong stronghold. The map showed nothing but water between Vung Tau and the Long Hais, allowing sound and vibrations to travel unimpeded. The bombing resumed the following morning. This time, I feigned indifference and stayed in bed, pretending to sleep.
A few days later, I met Bob, an American soldier from Ohio, during a quiet Sunday afternoon on a breezy beach. We were the only two there. Bob, about my age, was an air traffic controller—a heavy responsibility for someone so young. In the RAAF, air traffic controllers were commissioned officers. Bob had enlisted in the U.S. Army for three years to avoid the probably of being drafted as an infantryman after leaving college without graduating. He had been in Vietnam for two months when we met. Bob described his hometown, Wooster, in the heart of Ohio. As an Australian, I think I was as much of a novelty to Bob as he was to me—he was the first American I had met. He invited me to visit his unit in a couple of weeks.
True to his word, Bob welcomed me when I visited and introduced me to a makeshift basketball court where a group of tall Black soldiers and a lone white guy were playing under the relentless sun. The white guy, Ted, was also an air traffic controller and one of Bob’s closest friends—they had met during ATC training. Ted, standing at 6'6", more than held his own on the court. Both Bob and Ted were warm and hospitable. They gave me a tour of their workspaces: Bob’s in the control tower and Ted’s in a shipping container positioned halfway down the runway. If the main tower couldn’t land a plane, Ted handled it using radar.

True to his word, Bob welcomed me when I visited and introduced me to a makeshift basketball court where a group of tall Black soldiers and a lone white guy were playing under the relentless sun. The white guy, Ted, was also an air traffic controller and one of Bob’s closest friends—they had met during ATC training. Ted, standing at 6'6", more than held his own on the court. Both Bob and Ted were warm and hospitable. They gave me a tour of their workspaces: Bob’s in the control tower and Ted’s in a shipping container positioned halfway down the runway. If the main tower couldn’t land a plane, Ted handled it using radar.
Soon after, I invited Bob and Ted to a barbecue at 102 Field Workshop. Initially, I felt nervous about how my American friends would be received, but they blended in effortlessly, and everyone enjoyed the gathering.
During one of our conversations, Ted mentioned that he taught English two evenings a week at the local high school and asked if I’d be interested in filling a vacant teaching spot. I agreed and began teaching basic English to young teenagers until the end of the term. One 14-year-old girl gave me a postcard as a gesture of thanks, but her words were written in French. So much for my effectiveness as an English teacher.
The RAAF’s 9 Squadron (helicopters) and 35 Squadron (DHC-4 Caribous) were stationed at the U.S. Army airfield. They had also established Australian Forces Radio (AFR), which broadcast primarily to the troops in Nui Dat. AFR aired from 7 to 10 p.m. on weekdays and 10 a.m. to 10 p.m. on Sundays. One evening, a colleague mentioned he was going to the station to "sort records." Eager for a break from the monotony, I decided to tag along. Unexpectedly, I found myself reading the news from telexes sent by Radio Australia. When the regular announcer failed to show I was asked to fill in for the entire evening. That spontaneous moment turned into two weekly evening shifts, as well as hosting the Sunday afternoon request show. I was terrible at first—nervous and awkward with my patter —but after six months, I finally found my rhythm and began to relax behind the microphone. Ted, who had experience as a broadcaster while in college, and Ralph, a conscript and former professional announcer from Queensland, helped me improve. Their voices were smooth—like dripping honey. The only time I came close to matching them was when I had a head cold.

 Part 2 to follow.

5 May 2025