Well Done, Those Men by Barry Heard

Extract from Well Done, Those Men, by Barry Heard
Condensation © Reader’s Digest (Australia) Pty Ltd -
original full-length version published by Scribe Publications

Barry Heard didn’t consider he’d had a worse time in Vietnam than any other patriotic veteran. But years after the war was over, it just about destroyed his life. Well Done, Those Men, is the inspiring story of his recovery.
After his book was published in Encounters he received over fifty letters from readers.

I had been improving since my breakdown four years before. I was no longer totally dependent on my wife. I could go into shops on my own if they weren’t too crowded, and I had caught a train to Melbourne on my own. I was very proud that day. But when I was asked in 1999 to give a talk to twenty-six primary school children in a remote, two-teacher country school, I felt scared and threatened. It would be a true test of my confidence if I accepted. Could I give an address about Anzac Day? Vietnam veterans capable of giving such addresses were very thin on the ground, and most requests from schools went unfilled. I decided to give it a go. A brief talk, then a few questions and home; that was the plan.

I rode my motorbike to the school, which was an enjoyable twenty-minute ride. The principal greeted me with a warm handshake and an invitation to stay for morning tea after the address. The students had cooked Anzac biscuits for their guest—me.

The twenty-six kids fidgeted and twisted as they sat on their mats on the floor. They ranged from grade one to six. After an introduction, I launched into a compressed one-page story of my life in the 1960s. I grew up in a small remote town, I told them. I left school at fifteen, worked on a farm until I was twenty, and I got called up into the army. After Vietnam, I came back and travelled a lot. I was so nervous, I think I said all of this in one large breath. Then I asked if there were any questions.

‘Did ya kill anyone?’ burst out a nine-year-old boy enthusiastically, almost leaping to his feet. My heart started to thump.

‘That’s a hard question,’ I replied, not really knowing how to answer.

‘If I was in the army, I’d kill heaps!’ he claimed.

His mate beside him shouted, ‘Yeah!’ and punched the air in triumph. Other questions weren’t so loaded.

‘How often were you attacked by lions?’

‘Did you have a pet monkey?’

These questions allowed me to calm down. Then came the right hook, out of nowhere. Yes, my guard was down.

‘Were you very sad in the army?’ one of the bigger girls asked.

I lowered my head. I didn’t want them to see how hard it was for me to hold back my tears. The teacher at the back of the room started to move toward the front. Suddenly, I spoke. ‘The army doesn’t let you be sad. We didn’t have funerals.’ I swallowed. There was a pause. ‘We just got on with the job. Many years later, all that sadness comes out, and it’s terribly hard to explain just how sad I was.’

My voice was tired and shaky.

The teacher put her handkerchief to her eyes and the kids went very quiet. Then the principal spoke softly. ‘Let’s have an early play lunch. Stand and move quietly outside.’ The Anzac biscuits were delicious. The talk was over. I’d made it. Then one of the older girls in the school knocked on the staff room door. She whispered something to the teacher, and a muffled conversation followed. They approached me. The students wanted me to give a little service at the honour board located in the community hall across the road.

You must be kidding, I thought.

I looked out the window—maybe for divine guidance, I don’t really know—and there was my answer. Outside, the students were being lined up. Two of the big kids had them organised, standing to attention: they were ready to march. They strode across the road with dignity and purpose. I joined them. Some had grabbed small bunches of flowers from the garden, and were passing them up and down the lines. By the honour board in the hall, the students formed a horseshoe. The two staff looked at me for some response. I took a very deep breath.

‘These names are names of men who have died at war. It would have been very sad for their families, friends, and their mates. The flowers you put here today say so many kind things. These soldiers on this board would be proud of your thoughtfulness, and content to know that you live in peace. Thank you for what you have done today. I hope you never have to go to war.’

Several kids came over and said thanks. Others touched my hand. One young boy gave me some flowers. I wonder if those kids realise how much they helped me.

It was after this day, standing in the community hall with them, that I went home and started to write. For the first time, I found there was a connection between my heart and the pen. I attempted to describe what it felt like standing in front of those kids. Hesitantly, I showed the effort to my new psychiatrist, who had encouraged me to put pen to paper. Now, he encouraged me even more.

You have the result in your hands.