My final years at school were the time of the Vietnam War. When I
left school, I went straight into SAPOL. There, during my three years’
training, all initially knew the conscription ballot for war service
awaited.
It was, as I remember, a weird time, as those around our home, school
and sporting areas were frequently in awe of the ballot. Dates of
birth were the defining line. Every few months, someone would disappear
to go to training, and those whose marbles weren’t picked would talk
about how they wouldn’t have minded going to Vietnam.
I remember the strain in my family as my older brother’s age came
up to that which made him eligible for the ballot. He was an apprentice
cabinetmaker, and clarifications were made about who could have his
service deferred because of study.
University students and police cadets got deferments, but apprentices,
as I recall, got no such option. My father, a survivor of Changi and
the Burma railroad, was not keen for us to go to war. While I would
never have admitted it to my mates, I was not keen to go either.
As the timing worked out, I never went into the ballot: conscription
was abolished just before my age group came up. The war was therefore
something more about other people.
As a course of senior cadets, we were put on standby and worked at
both the anti-war marches – the moratorium marches – and the Springboks
rugby tour of Australia in 1971. Then, for the first time, I had to
put my personal feelings aside for the needs of SAPOL, or what we
might now call the community good.
I suspect that I was like many who did not stop and consider the
sacrifices of and disruption to those who went to war for us. Our
lives remained normal.
It was, curiously, a period of great song-writing. The protest era
and the mix of the folksy and the emerging rock world provided for
a range of tastes. It is interesting to listen to compilation CDs
and the wide range of styles that existed.
The poetry of Bob Dylan and his protest songs were well-known; and
Neil Young’s After The Goldrush still creates images of the
futility of war and the need to consider the damage we do to the environment.
Eric Burdon’s Sky Pilot can only be played at high volume.
The years rolled on and it was not until relatively recently that
Vietnam came back into my consciousness. About 10 years ago, the SAPOL
welfare officers and psychologists began to see a growing number of
clients who had served in Vietnam. Over the years since then, their
sacrifices for the country have become increasingly more apparent
to me.
The scenario has been retold to me many times – in a variety of
ways. Young men, no different from me, were taken from their comfort
zones by the luck – or misfortune – of their birth dates and thrust
into a world directed toward going to war to kill or, possibly, be
killed. No matter where they served, they were no longer in control
of their futures.
The ’60s and ’70s were, to me, a time of great safety. Kids would,
and could, play anywhere; and life was so much more relaxed.
But away some would be sent. They lost control of their lives for
a period, and some would never fully regain it.
Those of us who never saw the horror of war firsthand, or were not
taken from our known world and into another, in which a government
dictated what we could do, cannot appreciate the loss these young
men suffered.
Yes, for some it could be said to have been the focusing of their
lives. But, for most, the scars were deep, and, for many, hidden from
not only the wider society, but also family and friends. As they have
travelled through their lives, their scars have sometimes continued
to erupt in pain.
The veterans’ disgraceful treatment is well documented. The notion
that one could lose total control and, then, magically return to “normal
life”, was always flawed. Sadly, however, that was not understood
in those early days; and the pain of these young men, who were forced
to age too quickly, remains with them and is not easily appreciated
– or exorcised.
They found it difficult, as did my father, to talk about what they
had experienced, and their fears, dislocation, camaraderie and isolation.
They rejoined society – with all its successes and failures – but
often with thoughts that perpetuated their sense of isolation from
those who had not been called.
A few remain in SAPOL. I have become accustomed to assisting veterans
as they work their way through separation from SAPOL. Working with
them to understand why nightmares have returned, and why they have
mood swings that seem so illogical. The Vietnam Veterans counselling
service provides good assistance. Counselling by experts has helped
in recent times.
While it saddens me to see them and their families suffer, I feel
privileged to be able to give some help, little though it is.
These young men of SAPOL responded to the call of the government,
went to war and, later, took on the role of police officers. They
have truly served us all.
I wish them peace.
