Sherro1

Our battalion mortars hadn’t been in action for several days after an embarrassing media moment when Marshal Ky lobbed a bomb symbolically out into the bush and it had dropped very short. (That’s another story.) There’d also been a few other incidents with them, including one which landed squarely on the overhead cover of a bunker I had constructed. It blew a hole straight through the thin sticks I had (sloppily) used to hold the roof up and completely trashed the bunker which -- fortunately -- was unoccupied at the time.

There appeared to be some sort of problem with the primary charges on the mortar bombs being damp, so in their wisdom, the mortar people decided to replace the whole lot with a new batch and dispose of the rest in a proper military fashion. Sound executive decisions were made and the activity was prepared.

The offending mortar bombs were taken about 200 meters outside our wire, just over the crest of a gently sloping ridgeline near our grenade practice range, stacked about four high between a couple of rubber trees like wine bottles, plastered with plastic explosive, TNT slabs, primers, det cord and detonators and prepared for destruction.

Are you starting to feel uneasy? I’m not an EOD person, but 200 meters seems just a tad close for such an activity to me. So it was all ready, it had taken longer than expected to set up than expected and it was just on dusk on the monsoon season. It was getting dark and other than our machine gun picquets we were all lined up at the mess tent for our evening meal.

A message was supposedly sent by field telephone to the various companies in the battalion, passing on the information that the controlled detonation was about to occur and ‘People In Charge’ probably vaguely knew about it, or the message was in their ‘IN’ basket, but it certainly hadn’t filtered down to the troops on the line.

So, it’s dusk, we’d had hot showers and a change of clothes after an arduous operation in the bush, we’d had a couple of beers, we’re wearing rubber thongs to rest our rotten tinea ridden feet, we’re looking forward to a hot kitchen-prepared meal instead of C-rats or a 24 hour ration pack, everyone was mellow and at peace with the world – as much as Infantry soldiers can be anyway -- and then…

There was a brilliant white flash which lit up the area, a humungous explosion followed by a concussive shockwave, and a shower of red shrapnel bits went whirring through the air. Interspersed amongst the little red bits were a few larger reddish blobs. Very hot unexploded 81mm mortar bombs! A couple of these exploded on hitting the ground.

Someone (probably an NCO) bellowed out: “MORTARS!!!!!” Every Infantry soldier hates incoming mortars, particularly when in under trees. There was a clatter of dropped dixies, cups, and eating irons as everyone scattered for their pits on the perimeter, all thinking that the VC had started a major attack and blown the wire.

My rubber thongs stayed firmly stuck back in the red laterite mud at the kitchen as I sprinted barefoot towards the wire, snatching up my webbing and boots as I ran through my tent. (We always carried a rifle and at least one magazine whilst in camp at all times.) Such military efficiency was totally negated as I then fell head first down into an abandoned trench at a full run, spearing my SLR (Australian FAL) at least a foot into the soft mud and stunning myself. There were similar accidents and foul blood curdling oaths and curses that only Australian soldiers seem able to produce.

Needless to say, after the wild-eyed soldiers were pacified, weapons were cleared and we headed back up to the boozer, our Assault Pioneers were not in good odour with us for quite a time. Sensible precautionary moves to bunkers with half a dozen cans of beer were adopted for all such future activities. One lives (if lucky or quick) and learns fast in a combat zone.

A Blinder of an Evening.

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