Just a quick update re previous advice... Dr Nelson has agreed to receive the petition. Unfortunately, he starts a week's holiday on Wednesday- the day I'd planned to go to Canberra to give it to him. His office has confirmed that he is willing to meet with me when he returns. Hopefully, that will be next week. While we're waiting, I'd also like to share three small pieces of writing with you that you might find of interest... Or perhaps a senior high school student could find them useful. The first two are essays I have written. And one is the speech made by author/journalist Paul Ham at the launch of my memoir- 'The War Within'. 1. Essay: COMING THE FULL CIRCLE (An article about the consequences of having fought and been wounded in action in one of the most unpopular Wars ever fought- the Vietnam War) © Don Tate Recently, I went back to Richmond, a rural town north-west of Sydney, and admitted myself to the Xavier Wing of the St. John of God Hospital- regarded by Vietnam veterans as one of the pre-eminent treatment hospitals for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It’s where a Vietnam veteran goes when he realises he’s had enough, and is fair dinkum about getting help. The Wing is serviced from the Federal Government’s $33,000,000 funding for the psychiatric disorders of Vietnam veterans- in itself a monstrous acknowledgment of what damage was done to the men who fought that War. In Richmond itself, I stopped at one of the loveliest cricket grounds I’ve ever seen. Outside the boundary fence, there’s a monument to the men who fought for this country. It’s the monolithic type, with names in gold, flanked by cold cannon- a poignant, simple recognition of men who were prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice for their country. Suddenly, a lumbering old Hercules thundered overhead as it began to bank for its approach into the Richmond Air Force Base, and quite unexpectedly, on a clear blue day, the memories I had long since buried, flooded back. Not just memories of the War, though they are enough in themselves, but of what it had all meant in the long run, and of what has happened to me since my return. It was overwhelming. And leaning on that picket fence watching that green giant lurching towards its destination, I realised I’d come the full circle at last, completing a journey I began as an eighteen year old boy over forty years ago. You see, it’d been Richmond where I landed back in Australia after being wounded in the War. I’d arrived back home with about forty other wounded men. We were loaded three and four high on stretchers in the back of one of those lumbering old cargo planes, with ear wax stuffed in our ears to drown out the noise of the engines. Not only joined at the hip by our experiences in the war, but connected one way or another by blood and piss bottles. As an infantryman, I’d witnessed and taken part in all the horror of war, witnessing the vicious underbelly of man at its worst. That three-day trip home was just another dimension to the nightmare. When we’d gone to war, they’d flown us over by Qantas jet, first-class all the way. Now, wounded, it was as if we were no longer men of consequence. We’d served our country and given of our bodies. No longer an integral part of the war machine, laying in the back of that converted old transport plane, most of us realised we were second-class citizens now, and second-best was all we’d get from that day forth. We knew our lives would never be the same again. And while we might have thought the war was over, and we’d survived it, for most of us, a new war had just begun. I don’t know what happened to the other men that came back with me on that day. But I guess their stories are pretty much like mine to some extent. Some of them have probably already passed through St. John of God’s PTSD Wing, or undertaken the PTSD Program in similar hospitals around Australia, a function of the PTSD Centre in Canberra Many thousands of Vietnam veterans have. While we share a common hurt, the detail changes from man to man. Each of us is wounded a different way. It’s a question of relativity. At St. John of God, you start dealing with it. It’s a no-nonsense sort of place. “It’s primarily a treatment hospital for the effects of PTSD,” Lavinia Schmidttman will tell you. A dark-haired woman of East European extraction, she’s the psychiatrist in charge of a whole battery of personnel charged with the responsibility of getting men with wounded minds back in some order. “It’s not a holiday home. Men have to work at what it is that troubles them. We’re here to assist them in every way possible,” she’ll tell you. I had previously been diagnosed with extreme Post Traumatic Stress Disorder by other professionals after being bashed with a steel bar whilst a teacher at Dapto High School, but I didn’t really understand what it meant. I knew a lot of veterans claimed to have it, even the ‘pogo’ bastards as we called them- men whose jobs didn’t include first-hand combat. It’s one of those things that splits the veteran community. Wherever veterans congregate, the question of men claiming pensions for PTSD is always a topic of conversation and contention. Those of us who fought the enemy, and were wounded in action watch those who were essentially in supporting roles tell tall tales of “intrusive flashbacks” and so on that they learn from a bevy of counsellors and psychiatrists, and it irks us. Even men who never fired a shot, were claiming to be affected by it, and were picking up the highest war pensions. There, a sailor who only spent four hours in Vietnam waters has gained himself a TPI (totally and permanently incapacitated) because he convinced some dill he’d been scared of being eaten by sharks; there, another on the full pension as well, an Ordinance soldier- a Christmas cake had exploded in his mailbag, and he’d thought he’d been shot at. It’s a rort that has angered many veterans, especially those who manifest physical disabilities, but there’s not a lot anyone can say about it. Veterans eat their own when anyone questions the validity of another’s experiences, or doubts the authenticity of their pension claims. It’s well known within the Department of Veterans Affairs and ex-serviceman’s organizations that many of the ‘leaders’ of certain organizations have made a name for themselves in the veteran communities by fostering the rorting of the system- utilizing specific psychologists, certain hospitals, teaching others the art and craft. I asked Susannah Tobin, one of the more respected counsellors in the Hospital, what P.T.S.D. was, and why Vietnam veterans seem to be so peculiarly affected by it as opposed to men of other wars. “Well…..” she replied, “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is just that- a disorder of the mind. It’s actually a normal response by normal people to an abnormal event, or events, in the trauma world. The trouble is, those responses have now become abnormal responses to normal events in the now world.” Hmmm. I thought, when she first explained it. I’ll be out of here quick smart. “And for veterans of your War in particular, the traumas were extremely abnormal. In many respects, it was unlike any other war ever fought,” she adds. She rattled off percentages of men who fired their weapons as opposed to those of other wars, a comparison of days spent facing the enemy in other wars compared to Vietnam, and a flurry of other statistics that assured me she knew what she was talking about. I hadn’t known all the stuff she told me. What I had known was that unlike veterans of other wars, Vietnam was peculiar in that there were no clearly-defined front lines, no respite from danger for twelve months, and no Vietnamese that you could trust. Simply, every day, for twelve months, you could be killed. And for those who actually engaged the enemy, it was the life-threatening trauma of actual combat itself that caused the greatest damage. You don’t need to be a brain surgeon to appreciate that. It’s not new, of course. Men of all wars have suffered the effects of warfare- but the Vietnam War was so significantly different in most respects, there could be other result but widespread psychological problems manifest in the returned warrior who set foot on that soil. In the jungles and paddy-fields of Vietnam, the soldier had to contend with the worst type of warfare- a combination of civil war, revolution, and the savagery of jungle fighting. In the North Vietnamese and Viet Cong soldier, we faced the most desperate and willing of protagonists- a gutsy, committed opponent with an homogenous philosophy who had the tactical advantage of fighting on his home soil. He not only knew the terrain and the geography, he had history on his side. We lived with bamboo-poisoning, diarrhoea, leeches, snakes, scorpions and centipedes. We endured sauna-like heat and monsoonal storms, fire-ants, foot-rot and sunburn, and internal parasites like the Strongyloides worm still living unnoticed inside so many veterans. And then we fought. We fought an enemy who knew no front-lines, who lived in bunker systems and tunnels and caves, who paid no heed to morals and conscience. We ambushed, and were ambushed in return. We launched frontal attacks against heavily fortified bunker systems, and defended our bases against full-scale attacks. We met him in isolated jungle tracks, on creek-beds, and in villages. He waved at us in the day, and set traps for us in the night. He fought us with the tools of guerilla war- booby-traps and stealth. He stole our mines and used them against us, and many a man left his arms and legs up there as a result. We carried out our dead mates, many of them torn to shreds, wrapped in their own sleeping bags, on bamboo poles on our shoulders. Sometimes we cried. Mostly, we didn’t. Not then, at least. We held hands with the mighty United States against an enemy we called “Charlie” or “gook” or “slope” and sought him here and there for almost ten years and tried to destroy him- but came away in the end, empty-handed and humiliated. The first Australians to lose a War. It wasn’t all we lost. For many of us, we had also lost our innocence, and our integrity. Then we slept restlessly for these three decades since. *** I spent over two years in military and repatriation hospitals after I came back. For five months I endured simple hospital incompetence that aggravated the war wound and eventually left me permanently disabled. Then, another five months in traction, and finally, after exhausting all other possibilities, more than a year in a full body plaster cast from chest-to-toe, when they decided to permanently pin the hip joint. Two years in hospital- it’s impossible to comprehend all these days later. Add another nightmare to the collection. I was twenty when I was admitted, and twenty-two when finally discharged. These should have been the best days of a man’s life, but for me, were just wasted years. Lost years Many fellow veterans I’ve spoken to afterwards can’t comprehend what it must have been like spending such a time in hospital beds. They just shake their heads. Some realise how lucky, they’ve been. Dealing with a permanent disability would be a battle I would never come to terms with. An ego thing, I guess. But there were other issues. A tide of anti-war sentiment was swamping the country. One day, in May 1970, I was allowed out on day leave and walked straight into a Moratorium march. I remember striking out against the marchers with fists and crutches. Caused something of a hullabaloo. I struck out at them because I still had mates fighting and dying up there. Like Peter Douglas, a dog-handler in Support Company, and Henry Stanczyk- in the 7th Battalion. Henry died that very month, his head almost blown off in a contact in a paddy-field. He’d only joined the army to be a drummer in the band. They threw him in the infantry instead. If the War hadn’t damaged the Vietnam veteran enough, in the faces of that Moratorium crowd he witnessed the worst of Australian society. He had every right to be outraged by it. Here was open hostility, insensitivity and disgust towards the war veteran the likes of which no other returning soldier ever had to contend with. Not cheered and applauded for laying his life on the line, but jeered and hissed at, or have red paint thrown at. Many veterans took it hard. Became isolationist. Or adopted the fortress mentality. Resorted to drink or gambling or chasing women. Been there, done that. To compound the hurt, the veteran then had to contend with apathetic family members who could never understand the horror of what serving in Vietnam meant, of those who honestly held to idealistic principle and saw the veteran only in the vilest of ways, and of workmates who advanced their careers while the wounded man languished in hospitals. Cumulatively, it was an outpouring of national rejection like a bayonet thrust to the veterans’ psyche. I also spoke at that Moratorium march, that day. Defying my injury, I forced my way onto the podium at Roma Street to defend our role in the war, but I was mocked and howled down by students and unionists. When I went back to hospital that afternoon, I was not just wounded any more, now I was sick at heart as well. These days I look at some of our leaders of various veteran organizations, and I note that while they’re all outspoken now, back then in those Moratorium days they were mighty silent. Just went and hid themselves away until it was all over. Now, they’re big and bold. Later, much later, when discerning members of society began to unravel the curtains of lie and deceit about the use of toxic chemicals in Vietnam, we learned we had all been poisoned, one way or another. They tried to hide it for a long time, but truth will out in the end. Forty billion litres of assorted pesticides and insecticides sprayed over a landscape men walk through, tends to have some effect on them. Jean Williams, author of Cry in the Wilderness and other works on the Agent Orange issue, has researched the subject for over twenty years. “You were all guinea-pigs,” she told me. “Americans sprayed dioxin-based chemicals to deny the Viet Cong tree cover and create open fields of fire. In addition to the dioxin base, billions of litres of DDT, Paraquat, Dalpon, Monuron, Chlordane, Bromacil, and Diazinon were sprayed over areas where Australian troops were deployed. It was the deadliest chemical cocktail ever used in a war zone.” Jean Williams’ own son is a Vietnam veteran, so she is profoundly thorough in her research and conclusions. “It wasn’t until after the Vietnam War concluded that a new branch of science- immunotoxicology was developed to explore the effects of environmental chemicals on human health,” she says. “That says it all.” Sadly, with almost 15,000 veterans having already died, it’s a bit late to say much at all. We’re all dying. It’s just a question of what cancer, and how long. In addition to the pesticides and herbicides, various units of infantrymen (in particular) were fed Dapsone from November 1968. Supposedly an anti-malarial treatment, it was used in conjunction with Paludrine. Ostensibly a cancer-enhancer and a carcinogen, it has been revealed in many studies now to have caused the deaths of perhaps thousands of veterans since their return by virtue of inhibiting primary and secondary immune responses, and of causing irreparable DNA damage. It was a wonderful War. No doubt about that. *** For me, the demons of the Vietnam War are difficult to dislodge. Alienation, bitterness, frustration- all part of the darkness that having served in the War brought to a man. I’ve heard the platitudes like “Put it behind you!” and the empty sentiments of cowardly bureaucrats. At St. John of God, I hoped I could get some relief at last. I ran into a Phil Hogan, from Armoured Corps. We reminisced about a number of incidents that have cost us both many a night’s sleep. He was an armoured personnel carrier driver, part of a troop of three carriers that ferried the 2nd D&E Platoon around. The 2nd D&E Platoon was a ready reactionary force a small group of left-over regulars from the 4th Battalion had been put into, with special training in small craft and other strategies under the guidance of a Sgt. Chainey from 4RAR. There were two units- a permanent platoon (commanded by Lieutenant Ray Woolan MC), and our platoon. Our platoon had an amazing strike rate, carrying out a number of successful ambushes and killed almost 50 Viet Cong during the months of May and June, 1969. But don’t go looking for it- for some reason (and it smells of skullduggery) all records of this platoon’s existence were ‘disappeared’ from the official accounts of the war. The most disturbing aspect of the 2nd D&E Platoon’s story is the fact that its initial platoon commander, Lieutenant Barry Parkin, was removed from the platoon along with the sergeant. The platoon was then taken over by a Private James B. Riddle- a formidable ex-English marine, and the man responsible for the outstanding results of this platoon’s operations. And all the time, it operated outside the range of artillery, without a medic or medical supplies- contrary to all accepted military practice. The most significant action was an ambush carried out at the gates to Thua Thich on the 29th May, 1969, where at least 11 Viet Cong were killed, but the success was soured by the unique disposal of dead bodies that didn’t go down too well with the brass. Dennis Manski, one of our riflemen, still has Commendation Certificates he took from one of the bodies. He’s tried to locate family of the man to give them back to, to no avail. Later, that very same day, on the way to Xuyen Moc, a remnant Viet Cong force hit our armoured personnel carriers with rocket-propelled grenades which bounced off harmlessly and exposed the enemy to a turkey shoot. Luckily, we’d been tipped off by a pilot from 161 Recce Flight. They found Viet Cong bodies for weeks afterwards they tell me. “I’ve actually got a photograph of the rocket marks on my APC,” Phil Hogan told me. The records of that particular platoon have been difficult to track down, but there was validity alone in meeting Phil. And so it had gone in Vietnam, a new set of horrors compounding the previous. “Some days it’s overpowering,” I told Susannah Tobin. “Any which way you turn, there’s some dark memory lurking.” She smiled, softly. The men in the Xavier Wing identify with her because she has roots herself in the Great War, so there’s a sensitivity there. It’s not with every counsellor you meet. Being wounded was, of course, the most traumatic event I experienced, though an earlier bunker assault at night with the 4th Battalion is up there with it. That was the night that me and Brian Holborow and “The Bear” Winchester got caught ten metres or so in front of Viet Cong machine-guns, while the rest of the platoon fought one of its fiercest battles up our backsides and over our heads, without us being able to move a fraction of an inch. But despite all a man did and saw, nothing compared with the physical and psychological impact of being wounded yourself. All nightmares. And always there, in the memory and the dreams. Worse, years later I picked up a copy of the 9th Battalion’s record of their tour in Vietnam and found my name missing from that battle on the 19th of July, 1969. So not only was the whole record of the 2nd D&E Platoon’s activities been erased, so too was the record of my wounding. It seemed like my whole war service had been invalidated. That hurt me as much as that machine-gun bullet. *** The trouble was, for all the horror of Vietnam, normal life served mostly to compound the trauma. If two years in hospital wasn’t enough, years of unemployment followed. And for me, normal life was to be the victim of two knife attacks; to be bashed and robbed as a teacher; to be bashed with a steel bar and a lump of timber on separate occasions; and be the victim of a couple of other cowardly assaults. Being disabled makes you an easy target, I learned. It was to be denied a teaching position in the NSW teaching service for four years while aboriginals and females got preference. And then to be instructed that I was never to speak of, or teach any aspect of, the Vietnam War by directive from Head Office when I did finally get a teaching job. It was to overcome a severe disability to the point of playing first grade and representative cricket in the South Coast Association, only to also have to overcome the jibes of “crippled cunt” or “fucking cripple” every time I walked on to the field by men who couldn’t play as well on two good legs. Wanted to belt them? Well, of course you would. And I did on occasion. More recently, it was to lead a group of veterans and our wives in the construction of a ‘commemorative walk’ on the south coast of NSW. We planted 200 trees around a local sporting field to honour those who served in the Vietnam War, only to have the General Manager and Mayor of Shellharbour City Council refuse to allow a plaque at the site acknowledging that Vietnam veterans had completed the project. It was some battle convincing them otherwise. But that’s what we’d been trained to do. Fight. The thing was, neither of those men had fought in the War, and they represent that cowardly faction all veterans have battled with for decades- weak-gutted bureaucracy. Despite the “Welcome-Home Parade”, “Vietnam” is still a dirty word to large sections of the community- especially to those men of our age who didn’t fight in it and have to look at themselves each morning and wonder what sort of man they really are. It’s something, at least, that the Vietnam veteran doesn’t have to worry about. Square off against the Viet Cong on some jungle track and you never have to prove anything ever again. To anybody. But it’s the reason why I had to eventually book into Xavier Wing of St. John of God, like thousands of other veterans of the Vietnam War. For everyone’s good. And for the healing to really start. *** At St. John of God, I came to the conclusion that I’d come out of it all in fairly good shape, after all. Sure, there’d been a controversy here and there, but I wasn’t a shivering wreck; I didn’t sit around in sleazy veterans’ rooms feeling sorry for myself; I’m not a drunk or drug addict. Never even smoked. Never been to jail. Sure, I got myself wounded and ended up with an awkward disability to contend with, but there’s no doubt there are many veterans of that war who came off a lot worse. The modern military weapons are designed to create maximum damage, and while the main aim is to kill, the taking of limbs is the next best result. And yes, there were lots of wasted years, but I still managed a lot of living. Stayed married to the one wife, and raised five fine children who have all taken their places in the world as professionals. In the end, I rationalize that I fought in a war and let no man down, and if that was all I ever did, it would be enough. To take on an enemy on his own turf and under the peculiar circumstances of that conflict, and to do it to the satisfaction of self, was all important. But I also obtained a university degree, wrote a few books, invented a board game, gave of myself to the community in a variety of enterprises, and played representative sport. In the end, I figure I didn’t have a lot to prove to myself or anyone else, ever again. I just had to believe that. 2. THOUGHTS OF A WAR VETERAN (c) Don Tate When I joined the army in 1968, I thought I would better myself and the family name. I had come to believe that there is some nobility in war, nothing nobler that a man could do in his lifetime, nothing grander than risking life itself on a battlefield on its behalf. Despite the rough upbringing, somehow I had become imbued with the spirit of patriotism- the belief that one’s country was of such importance that a man should risk everything, and lay down his life for it, if necessary, in time of war. And I believed that the greater nobility still, came from enlisting in the infantry- the fighting arm of the services. The way I saw it, bearing arms against the enemy was a greater expression of the preparedness to sacrifice all. To face an enemy soldier on his own turf and engage him in armed combat, face to face, that’s what it was all about. I wanted the full war experience. I was going to get exactly that. I was also naïve enough to believe that my country would honour such patriotism, that for the rest of my days I could wear my war service as a badge of honour. And even more so if I happened to be wounded in action, managed to score some scars, some physical evidence of combat- such was the height of my intelligence and passions when I was eighteen. I was wrong on all counts. Because as it turned out, I served in the wrong war- Vietnam. And I soon learned that war isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. First- came its realities. It is a truism that every man who has fought in a war has his own images they must deal with all the days of their lives. For some, they are profoundly debilitating- always threatening to invade a man’s mind- an enemy he must always be alert for, lest it overpower him in a moment of weakness. I experienced my own horrors. Yes- I saw dead men, and took part in the killing of them. Saw men wounded, too. Some- terribly. Carried one dead man out on my shoulders, just one, slung between two bamboo poles, wrapped in his green poncho like a sausage. I’m sure I’m not the only man here who had to do such a thing. But if ever the reality of the horrors of war was rammed home to me- it was the first time I ever buried a body. It was a young Viet Cong soldier- who knows how young he was, it was hard to work out- and he had received a number of wounds across the rib cage, like a zipper. When we lifted him- and to this day I don’t know whether I had his legs or his shoulders, the image is blurred, the man broke in two- and his innards plurpped into a pile on the ground between us, some of it landing on my boots. I vomited- instantly. And it went all over me too. So now I had a dead man’s guts on my boot, and my own vomit rich in my nostrils- and those smells are still with me today. And sometimes, I find myself trying to shake off those guts from my boot, and it’s too detailed a matter to explain away to those who wonder why your foot is always moving. I was involved in all sorts of combat- from small contacts, ambushes, and bunker assaults. Saw them up close and personal. Saw many sights I wish I hadn’t. Ended up getting wounded too. Blokes like me who march off to war with noodle-headed notions of war’s grandeur usually do. We’re the fodder that keeps the war machine fuelled. I copped a machine-gun bullet through the right hip. I’d thrown one last grenade, and the bullet went right through my grenade pouch where that grenade had sat. That’s what war came down to in the long run- fragments. Fragments of time. Fragments of centimetres. In the middle of that ambush, with the sounds of battle all around, lying in the mud on my back- my rifle lost, I pulled my trousers down to my knees to see what damage had been done. I was horrified to see a foot-long sausage of minced bone and muscle and tissue hanging from the wound, and I brushed it away. I’d spent my last night in the jungles of Vietnam- and the last night at war. Or so I thought. I well remember the last images I had of Vietnam as the chopper ferried me and three others through the night, away from the scene of that ambush- of a monsoonal storm that had broken over us, and filled the day with night and thunder and lightning; of an almighty ambush in which Viet Cong machine-gunners opened up on us at close range, and fired rocket-propelled grenades into us, exploding all around, raining hissing metal and mud all around; of the sounds of men wounded, crying out for help (perhaps they were my cries); of that wound, steaming and cauterised in the cold of the rain; and of a man, eventually coming up to me, and peering into the wound and saying, “Bloody hell, Tatey! What’ve they done to you?”; and then dragging me backwards using my body as a shield, and my leg as a rifle mount; then, of being lifted onto another’s shoulders and he, running back down the slippery slope carrying me to safety; and lastly, of being hauled up towards the bright white light of the chopper high above the treetops, with the downdraught and driving rain lashing my body. I had made it out alive. But the real war had just begun. Now, I was a disabled war veteran. I wasn’t the only soldier wounded in war- and certainly not the worst. But I ended up spending more than two years in hospitals- and another couple of years readjusting to life with a disability. That’s a fair whack out of a man’s life. My 21st and 22nd birthdays came and went. What youth I had left after the war is now a fog of operations and skin grafts and endless nights of frustration as the days and months slipped by. Months of traction; then a year or so spent in a full body-plaster from my chest to my toes- and all that kept me alive through it, and sane, was a beautiful woman who tended me- and who remains at my side today. Carole- my wife. For the next forty years, I have lived in the shadows of that war. Like all veterans- spat out, unappreciated, despised even, in some quarters. As a community, we veterans remain a minority group. Alienated. Bitter. First, came the psychological withdrawal. Fighting had been such an adrenalin rush- so exhilarating, and so exciting, so yet, so horrifying and terrifying, all at the same time, that when it was over, it was as if we were left with a void. And without understanding why, many of us spent the rest of our days seeking that same rush- be it with drugs, alcohol, the pursuit of careers or women, gambling, risk-taking- or all of the above. Some men were able to offset it to some degree by staying in the army, or by becoming police officers, firemen, army reservists, that type of thing- but not everyone could do that. And those who were able to compensate, weren’t aware that those of us who’d been medically repatriated, or who went back into sedentary occupations, even had any such problem. Couldn’t identify with it, couldn’t understand it. Secondly, I had been a reinforcement when I arrived in Vietnam- taking the place of another who had been killed or wounded. It presented its own set of problems I would have to contend with. Because when the reinforcement joins his new unit, already at war, he is new to them in all respects- he has not socialised with them, has not trained with them, knows little about the idiosynchrasies of strategies and tactics they employ in the field, has no real connection with them. So- regardless of the length of time he spends with that unit, the reinforcement never really “belongs to them” in any sense of the word. He is at first, an intruder; and thereafter, something of an outsider. He will always be denied that sense of belonging that is so important to the psychological health of veterans when their warring days are done. Of greater concern was to find that my service records had been corrupted by bungling administration- and I’ve fought for almost 40 years to have them corrected. Nowhere was this maladministration more manifest than in the matter concerning the ‘editing-out’ of the 2nd D&E Platoon from all histories of the war- a battle that was only won on May 30th this year- ironically, 39 years to the day that the platoon fought its most famous battle- at the gates to Thua Thich. There are so many contentions to this matter that I haven’t got time to tell the whole of it. Suffice to say that the story is in my book. But let me ask you- how would you have felt if you’d marched off to war with grand notions of the Anzac legend- from Gallipoli to Kokoda, and the ‘Rats of Torbruk’- and found that to some extent that it was all a myth? How would you feel if you found out that the army you had trusted to be an institution of integrity and honour, turned out to be a monster- which ate its most impressionable and most vulnerable of soldiers- but rewarded the officer ranks unfairly and demonstrably disproportionately in many instances with ‘gallantry medals’? The fact is, we have the right to expect that our military history will be recorded accurately and honestly in every circumstance- and that it not be fudged, distorted, or corrupted in any way whatsoever, simply to advance the career prospects of senior officers, to embellish or assist the vainglorious pursuit of gallantry medals, or to hide wrongdoings or incompetence in the field. And when it does happen, those responsible for it need to be held accountable for it. And no institution charged with such responsibility should be above scrutiny, or beyond the reach of such accountability. And especially not the Australian War Memorial. So my childish notions of patriotism have long since evaporated. It was my experience that I fought alongside wonderful, courageous men- some of whom carried me on their shoulder at times- but the aftermath of being wounded to such an extent, and the treatment I received at the hands of the military, convinced me that this country does not respect, nor even really care about those men who have fought for it. It’s why, collectively, we veterans remain so embittered. 3. The Launch Speech of 'The War Within' by Paul Ham: (Don Tate’s memoir, The War Within, July 2nd, 2008) I’d like to thank Don Tate and the publishers at Murdoch Books for asking me to launch his remarkable memoir tonight. When I finished reading Don’s book I must say I approached this evening with some trepidation. Clearly I had to be careful what I said in case I received a right jab to the jaw. I was also a bit apprehensive about meeting Don again – because now I know of his life’s experiences, I’m a little amazed that he exists at all; it is something of a miracle that he has survived not only the Vietnam War, where he was badly wounded and hospitalised for two years, but a seemingly endless string of violent encounters, first with his father and brothers and then with local gangs, mates, veterans and working colleagues. This extraordinary memoir recounts these tales. It is an unadorned, uncensored, unabashed account of one raucous Australian life written by a man who has spent much of his life fighting – fighting authority, fighting rivals, fighting a war, fighting perceived injustices, and fighting at times, the enemies of his mind…as Don readily acknowledges - and he certainly has the scars to show it. But this book is ultimately about a man at war with himself, a condition in which many of us, to a greater or lesser extent, find ourselves. Not all of us contest the inner battlefield with the grit, guts and impulsiveness of Don Tate, but most of us will recognise the landscape of the mind as he portrays it. Indeed, after reading this book I must confess to feeling somewhat diminished when I compare the paucity of my own experiences alongside those of Don Tate. Don’s life began in the toughest of circumstances, and it just seemed to get tougher. This is the memoir of a man who has seen heaven and hell, and who has lived to tell the tale. Of course, this suggests that his experiences happened to him, or around him, or in spite of him; rather, the central theme of this book is that the conflict is essentially within him, and part of him. The sheer struggle of his childhood, the beatings by his father, the horror of the battlefield in Vietnam, the years of hospitalisation, and mental torment - it is the inner man who experiences and narrates these events. The reader is able to see how the story unfolds through the battle within the mind of the storyteller. “The War Within” is thus the perfect title for this memoir: it is about the war within one man. And it is, in many ways, a brutal and disturbing story, narrated by someone who grew up in a brutal and disturbing world. And Don Tate pulls no punches in reminding the reader that he is of that world; and that all he knows as a young man is a code of justice delivered by the fist, the grenade and the assault rifle. Don Tate writes this memoir as himself – warts and all. It is thus a very courageous book, that honestly lays bare the beast within, and the possibility that a good man can outlive the beast and surmount the demons of the past. In telling his story, Don Tate does not contrive some neat and inoffensive persona; he does not seek to ingratiate himself with the reader; he refuses to humble or prostrate himself before the niceties of mainstream morality. He does not write with affectation, he does not seek to strike a pose, or artifice. He does not seek to speak through his better angels. He writes very well, in a raw and visceral style, of all his life’s triumphs and disasters - as a kind of public confessional; and herein lies this book’s extraordinary power to shock. Indeed, he tells his story through the voice of one who was beaten senseless as a child; who had his hip shattered by a Viet Cong bullet; and who spent two years in and out of hospitals in an effort to rebuild the leg that would never properly function again. He does not flinch from revealing his failings – most touchingly when his marriage reaches the brink of breakdown – indeed, his wife Carole emerges as the great heroine and tower of strength in this book (as have the wives of many Vietnam veterans). What follows is a memoir that is at once a dramatic, disturbing, sexually charged, often very funny and ultimately moving portrait of a man who has found the inner strength to self-overcome. It is a picture of a steadfast friend; a courageous soldier. But also of a man captive to a volatile character that would sooner leap to attack a perceived injustice than stand aside to discuss the merits of the case. If Don Tate is prone, on occasions, to lunge before he thinks, and think after he lunges, his combative character has served him remarkably well in two celebrated cases, of which many veterans will be aware: his campaign to repatriate to Australia, Jim Riddle, a British-born commando who led Don’s unit in Vietnam; and his efforts to secure the official recognition of the 2nd D&E Platoon, in which Don Tate and other veterans served with distinction in Vietnam. Here is what the Under-Secretary of Defence, Mike Kelly, said about the 2nd D&E Platoon on 29th may 2008: “For many years now the surviving members of the platoon have been battling to have their record and role in the Vietnam War officially recognised. “I am pleased to announce that I have been able to bring this long struggle to a conclusion by confirming that the Rudd Labor government and the Defence Department have been able to determine that the platoon did indeed exist and engaged in a series of important actions in Vietnam as part of the Australian Task Force.” “I would like to pay particular tribute to the courage and dedication of the men of the 2nd D&E Platoon. They were a team that was effectively born in battle, not having been formally raised and trained as a sub-unit in Australia before deploying to Vietnam, but being assembled ‘in-country’ in response to the particular security requirements of the ATF. They were able to come together as an effective fighting force thanks to the professionalism of the soldiers and in particular the non-commissioned officer who led them, Corporal James Riddle. “The action for which the 2nd D&E Platoon should particularly be noted for was…a ferocious battle that involved the engaged troops taking on a much larger enemy force beyond artillery support and through many heroic individual and collective efforts were able to soundly defeat the enemy without loss. Their success was a tribute to their professionalism and the outstanding leadership and courage of Corporal Riddle whose personal actions ensured the survival of many members of the platoon who would otherwise surely have been killed.” I would like to say that my book “Vietnam: The Australian War”, will incorporate a proper record of this unit in a forthcoming edition. In sum, Don Tate’s memoir is a painful and sometimes bitter reminder of what can happen to a man who has been subjected, and occasionally subjects others, to the “whips and scorns of time, the oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, the pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay, the insolence of office and the spurns that patient merit of the unworthy takes.” And it is entirely appropriate to quote from Shakespeare’s “Hamlet”, because, in spite of his extraordinary setbacks in life– many of which he was born to confront, others, as he readily admits, were self-inflicted, Don Tate prevailed to become a teacher of English literature, and in particular, Shakespeare’s plays. Ultimately, Don’s book is the story of escape – of escape from a past broken by violence, in an attempt to build something better, to break the cycle, but always at risk of being hauled back down among the demons like the furies that pursued Orpheus and Eurydice from the underworld. In the end, Don conquers those demons. He emerges as a faithful husband, a grateful and doting father and grandfather, and a steadfast friend. I won’t reveal how he achieves this…it is all in the book. In conclusion, this memoir is also a powerful rebuttal to those remote people in power who have always presumed down the ages to send young men to war without clear cause or apparent concern, and then to leave them to fend for themselves in the aftermath. I recommend this book and I am very pleased to have had the privilege to launch it. And now I hand over to Don Tate. Thank you all very much… For a sneak preview of “The War Within”…..go to the following link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s6Fx8XQxAew Hope you find them interesting.... Don The attachment to this update is from the RSL's VIRTUAL MEMORIAL. It sets out my service history. If anyone would like their service histories recorded as such (or that of a relative) feel free to email me at: warvet_69@yahoo.com and I'll see what I can do about putting their history on-line, for posterity. PS...Now you must read my book. I spoke at 188 libraries across Australia between 2008 and 2014- more author talks than any other author in Australian Publishing history so I'm told. I must have had something interesting to say...?