Monsoon

by Di Morrissey

  It occurred to him that his kids had no idea what he’d done, or been through, from the battlefields to the freewheeling letting down of hair in bars, hotels and barracks. He grinned. His kids would be quite shocked if they knew some of the stories.

  When it had become clear to Tom, after talking with other correspondents, that the Australian effort at Bien Hoa was a sideshow to the deteriorating scene further up the country, he had moved north and saw for himself the massive build-up of American forces taking place through the port of Danang. He flew on helicopters and bombers spraying jungle battlefields in the highlands with chemicals and went on raids aboard Puff the Magic Dragon planes, old C-47 transports fitted out with banks of machine guns, which poured millions of bullets into dense jungle suspected of sheltering the enemy. Then came Agent Orange which denuded the landscape like an atomic bomb had gone off. He recalled the blackened earth, no foliage, the bare countryside a scene of utter devastation.

  He had even been in Pleiku when a battalion of the American First Air Cavalry choppered into a valley near the Cambodian border and landed right on top of a North Vietnamese jungle base. The three-day battle that followed was the bloodiest of the Vietnam War to that time. It changed the course of the entire war for both sides. Almost three hundred American soldiers were killed and hundreds wounded. The Americans claimed to have killed and wounded about two thousand enemy soldiers.

  Tom had managed to get onto the battlefield briefly. He had talked his way onto a helicopter evacuating American wounded. He flew in through a hail of bullets and clouds of smoke, took in the terrifying scene on the cluttered landing zone, helped load some wounded and came out a shaking wreck, so different from the gung-ho reporter who went in so boldly looking for a headline story.

  Later, when opposition to the war began to increase, positive stories got buried. Trying to filter the truth from the official reports was frustrating and it sometimes meant good journalists got moved away from the action or found their avenues to get a story suddenly not available. In contrast there were always the bar Johnnies who rarely left their hotels and certainly took no risks in order to file stories that suited the political climate back at home.

  As Tom strolled around Saigon he wondered what some of his old mates would think of the modern, glitzy city and the capitalistic and commercial enterprise happening in Vietnam now. It was a country united culturally, economically and politically and in its own way, it was moving forward.

  Now he was freewheeling around the country again. He’d befriended two gorgeous young women and he was getting the old adrenalin buzz. He was back in harness, smelling a story. It felt good. He knew that Sandy and Anna, visiting Danang and Hue, would have very different impressions of those cities and he wondered what they were doing. There’d been a typhoon report in the area so he hoped they were safe. He’d be sure to contact their families as he’d promised the minute he got back to Australia.

  There was little hint of the busy wartime harbour as the hydrofoil rose on its floats and churned out into the South China Sea for the hour and forty minute trip along the coast to the beach resort of Vung Tau. During the war it had been the port of entry to Phuoc Tuy Province where the First Australian Logistical Support Group was stationed. Tom recalled visits to the rest in country base at Back Beach. The rest centre, known as the Badcoe Club, had excellent facilities including a swimming pool and volleyball and badminton courts where Tom had enjoyed a game or two. The beach had no surf to compare with home, but for a hundred or so twenty-year-olds on R in C (Rest in Country), Vung Tau’s numerous bars and bar girls were a big temptation. The soldiers had been given advice, warnings, condoms and pills to combat venereal disease, but some of the servicemen found that it was their wallets that suffered most.

  The hydrofoil was cramped and stuffy as the air conditioning wasn’t working, but Tom preferred the peace of the waterway to a crowded noisy drive down from Saigon.

  As the hydrofoil slowed Tom was amazed at the hotels, houses and apartment blocks ringing the horseshoe bay beneath the headland where a large statue of Jesus stood, arms outstretched. On the hillside Tom recognised the elegant French colonial white house that had been a holiday home of a one-time French governor and later a local army general. Probably now owned by some wealthy local businessman, he supposed.

  Ashore, the first place that caught Tom’s eye was an Australian-themed restaurant festooned with coloured signs decorated with kangaroos, koalas and a picture of a bush hat strung with hanging corks to keep the flies at bay. It was called the Swagman Cafe. There were outdoor tables and a blackboard menu advertising burgers, chips and Aussie steaks. He wandered over to investigate and the smell of frying bacon made him realise he was hungry. He dropped his bag and sat at a table.

  A pretty young Vietnamese waitress who spoke good English came to take his order.

  ‘What’s with the décor?’ he asked.

  ‘My father is an Aussie . . . mate,’ she answered with a smile and a pretty good imitation of an Australian accent.

  ‘Is that right? Is he around?’ asked Tom.

  A large man came through the doorway. ‘That’d be me. How’re ya going?’

  ‘Good. The smell of bacon and fried onions dragged me in,’ said Tom, holding out his hand. ‘Tom Ahearn.’

  ‘Pat Lang.’ He shook Tom’s hand. ‘You a vet?’

  Tom was slightly taken aback at such a direct inquiry. ‘Er, no. War correspondent though.’

  Pat nodded. ‘Figured something like that. More and more people are making the pilgrimage. Beer? Coffee?’

  ‘Cold beer wouldn’t go astray,’ said Tom. Pat waved to the waitress who hurried to the bar.

  ‘What about you, Dad?’ she called.

  ‘I’ll have a coffee, love.’ He smiled at the girl.

  ‘How long have you been here?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Came back to Vietnam fifteen years ago. I was divorced, at a loose end and pretty screwed up. Figured I’d come back to try and find the happy-go-lucky young bloke who first landed in Vietnam.’ He paused. ‘I wasn’t the first to do so, of course.’

  ‘You were based at Nui Dat?’

  ‘Yeah, it was the Australian HQ base. Lot of men saw a lot of action down there. Vung Tau was for R in C.’

  ‘I only had a brief visit there, just as the fireworks started that became Long Tan. I was covering the Col Joye concert and then all hell broke loose,’ said Tom.

  ‘Yeah. It certainly did. Too bad the full story never got told. It’s taken forty years to get a decent acknowledgment of what we did,’ Pat said with some bitterness.

  Tom smiled his thanks to the waitress as she put his drink on the table. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘I’m called Patsy. After Dad.’ She grinned at the red-faced burly man sitting opposite Tom.

  Pat’s face softened. ‘Light of my life, she is. Next to her mother. Her mum was single and struggling to manage with a two-year-old son when I first came to Vung Tau. I kinda hung around and ended up taking ’em all on and started this place.’

  Tom thought of Barney in Hanoi. ‘It’s not an unfamiliar story.’

  ‘Back then there were many blokes who wanted to take their girls home. The brass made it as hard as hell, of course. Most liaisons were casual . . . but meant something at the time.’ Pat took the tiny cup of short espresso from Patsy. ‘As in every war, eh?’

  Tom nodded. ‘It’s the children without fathers one feels for.’

  ‘I might be guilty there. Who knows? A night screwing and boozing with a bar girl and you move on. Must’ve been hard for them left behind. I s’pose that’s another reason I feel an obligation to help.’

  ‘You have a family back in Australia?’

  ‘Yeah. All grown, doing their own thing. The ex-missus has finally given up trying to get any more money from me and is living with some bloke she met at the bowling club.’

  ‘Your children . . . have they visited?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Struth, no. They think I�
�m nuts. And frankly, I’d rather they didn’t know that I’m doing quite nicely, thank you,’ grinned Pat. ‘I go back twice a year and check in; that’s enough. This business has been a sweet little earner, passes the time.’ He drained his coffee.

  Tom glanced around. ‘Who does the cooking?’

  ‘I have two young blokes and another girl who do the cooking and wait on tables. My lady runs a travel agency. This was always a holiday spot for the Vietnamese and the French before the war. But once I encouraged a few blokes from my old platoon to come over here for a visit it started a trickle. So we arranged places for them to stay, then they’d come back next year with their wives and families and so we started organising itineraries and so on. Now the trickle is becoming a full flow so we have a growing business. Mostly all vets,’ he added.

  ‘Have any come back to stay, like you?’ asked Tom.

  He nodded. ‘There’s a group of us. It’s a loose kinda organisation where we look after Vietnam vets who do come back and who encourage others to come back because, well, without putting too fine a point on it, it can help straighten ’em out a bit. Settle the ghosts.’

  ‘How many are here? Do they have families?’

  ‘About a dozen of them. They mostly have local women as partners, some like me have started second families. They go back home once or twice a year but most of us think of this as home now.’

  ‘Sounds like you have quite a good life here,’ said Tom.

  ‘The pension goes a heck of a lot further. Cost of living is cheaper. And the country might have self-determination and be unified but a white face and a pocket full of dollars buys you a lot of clout and attention.’ Pat took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. ‘So, why’re you here? You going to write about the anniversary?’

  Tom took a swallow of beer to collect his thoughts. ‘I’ve been retired for a while. But when my old editor raised the notion, I thought I’d come back. Vietnam was my first war assignment and in retrospect I realise I got off lightly compared to the servicemen. A few months here and there, saw some action, got a sense of the place and moved on.’ Tom paused, deciding against going any deeper into the memories. ‘Knowing what we know now . . . how badly the Vietnamese servicemen were treated, the political change, and the long-term effects it’s had . . . Hell, they’re still paying.’ He tried to find the words as he organised his thoughts. ‘Fact is, I was here. Maybe I’m thinking the full story hasn’t been really told, to the general public anyway. And maybe I owe the men of Long Tan that.’

  ‘Ain’t that the truth,’ said Pat. ‘Some blokes who were here have written stuff, trying to put the record straight, I s’pose. And there are a lot of versions of what really happened at Long Tan. Everyone has a need to deal with their time here in one way or another. Those who weren’t here – friends, families, work mates – they can’t understand what we went through.’

  ‘I guess some coped with the war better than others,’ said Tom.

  ‘You talk to the mob at The Strangled Cow. They’ve got a story to tell. And they’re also involved in planning the fortieth anniversary ceremony.’

  ‘Strangled Cow? Where do I find these fellas?’ asked Tom, keen to make contact.

  ‘It’s a bar at the St Jacques Resort. Two-star joint where the locals hang out. Lot of the oil-rig workers from Australia and the UK live there on their week off. It’s an expat kinda place.’

  ‘So oil drilling is still big business?’

  ‘Bigger. The Russians are the biggest. But they all live in their compound in lockdown. Never socialise and they have a curfew, though occasionally some of the young lads break out and go a bit wild.’

  ‘Is there still a lot of oil out there?’ Tom inclined his head towards the South China Sea.

  ‘I reckon. Though Vietnam’s been in debt to Russia for its aid so they exported all their crude oil there as debt repayment and got nothing for it.’

  ‘But foreign investment seems to be pouring into this country,’ commented Tom.

  ‘Of course. It might still be officially communist, and corruption is still tolerated, but there’s cheap labour here and when the economies of Asia crashed, this place became very viable,’ said Pat. ‘Vietnam is going ahead more than people realise.’

  Tom finished his beer and gave Patsy his order for the Outback Burger, chips, salad and another beer.

  Pat rose and held out his hand. ‘Gotta go. I’ll give you Baz’s and Cranky’s phone numbers. They’re the ones organising the whole shebang. Say, you got a place to stay?’

  Tom shook his hand. ‘Thanks, Pat. I booked in at The Grand. Want to experience where the generals stayed! I’ll be back here for a feed though.’

  ‘Good one. But remember: this is a small pond and there are a few people who see things differently from the rest of the mob. But overall we rub along okay.’

  Tom nodded. ‘I appreciate your advice.’

  The Grand was as Tom remembered except for a circular garden in the driveway and smart tables and chairs on the terrace of the elegant white building built by the French. Across the road, beside a landscaped park, holidaymakers strolled. Tourist boats bobbed in the bay protected by the peninsula that stretched into the South China Sea. Oil rigs were silhouetted on the horizon but Tom noticed there were still some traditional fishermen mending their nets on the beach.

  The lobby was bedecked with orchids and leather chairs, but after checking in Tom was amused to find the rooms were still quaintly old fashioned. The dining room had been updated and the bar was a far cry from the dim, red-lit room with girls pushing their ‘You buy me Saigon tea’, the overpriced drink of tea or lolly water that earned them money. And all had a practised sob story to soften a soldier’s heart. The more tea they ordered, the more drinks they persuaded the servicemen to buy, the more money they made for the bar, but their own cut being small, most of the girls sold their favours as well.

  Tom had spent only a short time in Vung Tau during the war, doing a heartwarming story on the recreation centre where the fighting men relaxed by swimming and playing volleyball on the beach or else were able to sit under a palm tree with a cold beer. The seedier side of Vung Tau’s bars and clubs was not mentioned.

  During the war he’d driven down Route Two from Nui Dat, past the villages smelling of fish drying in the sun. It was a bit over half an hour as he recalled, but the Australian base and the resort town had been planets apart.

  After a walk around the promenade along the waterfront, Tom pulled out the phone numbers Pat had given him and rang the two key men – Baz and Cranky – and made an arrangement to meet them at five at their local bar, The Strangled Cow.

  He had a feeling that these men would open a wider window onto the story of the men who’d fought in that rubber plantation at Long Tan a short distance away.

  The rain had finally eased. Anna appeared to be asleep, propped against the wall with a girl on either side, their heads in her lap. Sandy had an arm around Phuong who was curled beside her; Hong was asleep with her head in Sandy’s lap. After the soughing wind, the quietness was oppressive. The candle had burned low, almost spent.

  Sandy shifted slightly to ease her aching back and suddenly caught her breath. There was a sound outside.

  It came again – a soft thump. Then a metallic sound, a wheeze.

  Someone was at the entrance. Sandy eased Hong’s head off her lap and quietly edged up the stone steps of the crypt. At the top she saw the silhouette of a figure against the grey dawn. It was shapeless, with no form but the head of a man.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she called.

  The figure jerked and stumbled backwards in shock. ‘Eee oww.’

  Sandy stepped into the rain outside to see the cowering figure of an old man wrapped in a long plastic cape.

  In Vietnamese she said quickly, ‘Have no fear, old man. We are sheltering from the storm.’

  The man stopped and peered at her and took a step forward. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am a visitor to t
he orphanage. We got caught at the beach. My friend and I have spent the night with several of the young girls. Where have you come from?’

  The man nodded and came closer. He was drenched despite the shroud of plastic. Mud clung to his legs. ‘I am looking for my water buffalo. The rain has been very strong. My home is full of water.’

  ‘Where do you live? Is the road passable?’

  He shook his head. ‘Is that your motor car over there?’ He inclined his head towards the road, which was indistinguishable from the waterlogged landscape. The defining parameters of paddies, road and pathways were all just part of the muddy sea.

  ‘So we can’t drive.’

  ‘Not for a day at least,’ he answered.

  Anna called from the steps below them. ‘Sandy, who’s there?’

  ‘It’s okay. A farmer.’

  ‘Were you coming in here to rest?’ Sandy asked the man.

  He nodded. ‘I have spent the night rescuing my pig and chickens. My family are in the top floor. They are safe.’

  Sandy had seen houses that had a small hatch and a loft area where bags of rice and supplies were stored. She could imagine the farmer’s wife and children sheltering up there as the waters ran through the ground floor of their house. ‘It’s dry in here. Are you going to stop till daylight?’ she asked. The old man looked exhausted.

  He nodded. ‘This is a good place.’ He followed Sandy downstairs.

  ‘How do you know it?’

  The girls were awake and stared as the old man shook off his wet cape. He gave a smile and greeted them. The girls giggled and returned his greeting.

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Anna.

  ‘They have chosen a hard bed for the night.’

  The old man went to the shrine, reached for the matches, lit several sticks of incense and prayed quietly. Then he sat down.

  ‘I asked my ancestors to look after us.’

  ‘Your family are in here?’ asked Sandy.

  The old man spoke in English for the first time. ‘Yes. Long time. We very old family here.’