by Di Morrissey
Di Morrissey is Australia’s leading lady of fiction. She planned on writing books from age seven, growing up at Pittwater in Sydney. She quickly realised you don’t leave school and become a novelist. Di trained as a journalist, worked as a women’s editor in Fleet Street, London, married a US diplomat and in between travelling to diplomatic posts and raising daughter Gabrielle and son Nicolas, she worked as an advertising copywriter, TV presenter, radio broadcaster and appeared on TV and stage. She returned to Australia to work in television and published her first novel, Heart of the Dreaming, in 1991. Monsoon is her fifteenth novel.
Di divides her time between Byron Bay and the Manning Valley in New South Wales, Australia, when not travelling to research her novels, which are all inspired by a specific landscape.
visit www.dimorrissey.com
Also by Di Morrissey
Heart of the Dreaming
The Last Rose of Summer
Follow the Morning Star
The Last Mile Home
Tears of the Moon
When the Singing Stops The Songmaster
Scatter the Stars
Blaze
The Bay
Kimberley Sun
Barra Creek
The Reef
The Valley
DI MORRISSEY
MONSOON
First published 2007 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
1 Market Street, Sydney
Copyright © Lady Byron Pty Ltd 2007
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia
cataloguing-in-publication data:
Morrissey, Di.
Monsoon.
ISBN 978-1-4050-3818-8 (pbk.).
I. Title.
A823.3
The characters and events in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Typeset in 12.5/15pt Sabon by Post Pre-press Group
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
Internal illustrations by Francois Jarlov from Under the Sign of the Blue Dragon
Long Tan cross illustration by Paul Murphy
Internal map by Richard Adams
‘I Was Only 19 (A Walk in the Light Green)’
Words and music by John Schumann
© Universal Music Publishing Pty Ltd.
All rights reserved. International copyright secured. Reprinted with permission.
Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
These electronic editions published in 2007 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney 2000
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
Monsoon
Di Morrissey
Adobe eReader format: 978-1-74198-035-6
Online format: 978-1-74262-111-1
EPUB format: 978-1-74198-021-9
Macmillan Digital Australia
www.macmillandigital.com.au
Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events.
Contents
Cover
About Di Morrissey
Also by Di Morrissey
Title page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Dedicated to Jim Revitt;
my uncle, mentor and mate,
who covered the Vietnam war for the
Australian Broadcasting Commission 1966–67.
Thanks for everything Jimbo!
Acknowledgments
For . . . Boris with much, much love. Couldn’t get through each day without you!
. . . My daughter Gabrielle and my son Nick. I’m so proud of you both and love you more than words can say.
. . . All my family, especially my mother, Kay, who has always been there for me.
. . . For my other family at Pan Macmillan – Ross Gibb, James Fraser, Jane Novak, Jeannine Fowler, Roxarne Burns, Millicent Shilland, Liz Foster, the marketing team – Paul Kenny, Katie Crawford, the sales team and all the great reps, not forgetting everyone at the warehouse.
And for Nikki Christer – thanks for 13 wonderful years.
. . . Ian Robertson, lawyer extraordinaire, great and good friend – thank you.
. . . Liz Adams, you’ve turned into a wonderful editor as well as being a pal – thanks!
. . . Peter Morrissey who was with United States Information Service in Vietnam 1967–68.
For assistance with this book – Col Joye, Lt. Col. Eric Richardson (ret.), Jimmy Pham, Thi Duong, Chiquita Ho, Cath Turner, Gracie Nicholls. At Cockscomb – Gene Owens.
In Vietnam – Iain Finlay and Trish Clark, Carol Sherman and all at CARE Hanoi, Consul-General Mal Skelly, Quoc Nguyen, Mark Rappaport, Paul Murphy, Breaker Cusack.
. . . And thanks to long-time friend Kirsten Garrett who has shared so much of my journey.
And to all the Australian forces who served in Vietnam – THANK YOU.
DM
Prologue
South Vietnam, August 1966
THE IROQUOIS HELICOPTER swept low over the broad curve of the Saigon River at the edge of Saigon city. The upstream harbour area was cluttered with large freighters and small coastal trading vessels, barges and the traditional wooden river boats that were homes as well as workplaces for thousands of river dwellers.
The scene had changed little over time, except that this year there were more warships than usual, a scattering of grey-hulled vessels ranging from river and coastal patrol boats to frigates. Their sombre presence and the overhead droning of helicopters were the symbols of a war that had already brought years of agony to the small South-East Asian nation.
And everywhere, upstream and downstream as far as the eye could see, there were hundreds of sampans and fishing boats moored together in floating villages or singly making their way to thousands of homes and enterprises by the water’s edge. This river complex was part of the vibrant and rich region of South Vietnam.
Despite long-running post–World War Two conflicts, first with the French and now between communist and anti-communist powerbrokers in North and South Vietnam, the residents of Saigon carried on with their ceaseless bustle of commerce and politics at a pace that was increasing by the day. From the big entrepreneurs down to the humblest hawkers in the narrow
lanes, there were new opportunities, and the locals were taking advantage of the boom times. By whatever means, legal or not, many saw the chance to profit from the war. Money was flowing as never before as the United States and its allies pumped resources into backing the anti-communist government of the South. No one knew what lay ahead, so they made the most of the moment.
Further down the coast, from his seat beside the helicopter pilot, Australian entertainer Col Joye gazed down at the sluggish brown Mekong River snaking its way towards the sea. Tom Ahearn, an Australian reporter travelling with them, tried to take a photograph.
‘Where’s the river start, mate?’ Col asked the Australian army pilot.
‘Comes from Cambodia. And, before that, the back-blocks of Laos. The densest jungle and remotest villages you can imagine. Beats me why the French fought so hard to hang on to their old colony there. Dry season you can’t get all the way through but most of the time you can. ’Specially now.’
‘Bit of a back door that’d be hard to patrol, wouldn’t it?’ asked Tom Ahearn.
The pilot glanced back at the journalist and at the famous rock and roll singer beside him whose world was so far removed from the distant jungle. He gestured to the horizon. ‘There’s really a bloody big highway down there, under the trees, and even in stretches under the ground. A highway for the Viet Cong and their backers up north. That’s what makes this stoush a bit different. It’s hard to figure out friend from foe, until they start shooting at you.’
‘Yeah, I heard the enemy over here wore pointy hats and black pyjamas. Seems to me the whole damn country is wearing pointy hats and black PJs!’ said the singer.
The journalist made a quick note of the comment in his notebook.
They flew almost at tree-top level. ‘Why so low?’ asked Col, his apprehension making the pilot grin in response.
‘Making it a bit safer, mate. We’ve gone past any Cong sniper before he’s even heard us.’
The chopper flew beneath thunder clouds that hung heavy, leaden and sodden. Most days a solid wall of water was dumped over the jungle, rice paddies and river, but quickly, as now, the sun burned through the grey clouds making the damp air steam, insects surge and men sweat in their uniforms.
‘It’s really quite a beautiful scene,’ said Col as the patchwork of rice paddies gleamed in the sunlight.
‘Yeah, but every acre down there is part of a war zone,’ Tom reminded him.
They landed at the Australian base camp helipad at Nui Dat, where the rest of Col’s band – the Joy Boys – and singer Little Pattie were watching their gear being transferred from the other aircraft to a line of military Land Rovers.
As they waited to set off Tom gestured to his tape recorder hanging in a bag from his shoulder. ‘Col, could I have a bit of a yarn to you about this story I’m doing on troop entertainment?’
‘Sure thing, mate, want to do it now or when we get to the camp? Might get a bit busy then.’
‘How about I jump in the Land Rover with you to the camp? I’ll grab some of the concert and a few comments from the troops after.’
‘Hop in, Tom.’ Col clambered into the front of the large Land Rover. Two of the Joy Boys were already in the back.
As they moved off from the edge of the airstrip and into the remains of the abandoned rubber plantation that made up part of the base camp, Tom gazed at the distant jungle-covered hills that now seemed so threatening. Beneath the low mountain spread, much closer to the camp, he could see a few thatched huts and some water buffalo in fields. It looked so peaceful.
‘Man, it’s steamy. My shirt’s shrinking on me,’ said one of the band.
‘Don’t take it off and throw it,’ Col advised his lead guitarist. ‘This audience is all blokes.’ He grinned. ‘Got your dancing shoes on?’
The two members of the band, who favoured long pointy-toed winkle-picker shoes, eyed the army boots and the jungle green pants they’d been issued. The civilian shirts they were to wear on stage had been the only concession by the army to showbiz glamour. Tom glanced at his own fatigues and army boots and smiled.
‘The fellows are really looking forward to your show,’ said the driver. ‘It’ll be a big audience. Some of the Sixth Royal Australian Regiment have just come straight in from the perimeter.’
‘Been much action around here?’ asked Tom as they set off down the dirt road.
‘Been fairly quiet. Bit of action to the west. Few mortars were lobbed in at the base last night, probably a few stray Viet Cong having a go. D Company 6RAR are having a quiet snoop around. Nothing to worry about, I reckon.’
Tom had his large tape recorder balanced on his lap and he held the microphone close to Col. ‘What are your feelings about doing a concert for the troops here at Nui Dat, especially as there’s been a bit of action near the base camp?’ he asked.
‘We’re happy to do our bit for the men who are up here in the middle of it all. Bring them a taste of home,’ answered Col. ‘We’re here to bring some fun to our troops. Remind them what Australia is all about and that the folks back home haven’t forgotten them. No big message, just a few laughs and a singalong.’
The driver swung the Land Rover onto the worn track through the base to a slight dip in the landscape where a stage had been built and some tents erected for performers and their equipment.
The raised dais was screened with green canvas and the sound equipment was set up to one side, the big amplifiers facing the crowded audience who were sitting on the ground, chatting, smoking and laughing. Tom began describing the scene into his tape recorder.
‘Let’s do it, eh?’ Col picked up his guitar.
As Col was approaching the stage three soldiers – two Australians and a New Zealander – jumped from a Land Rover.
‘G’day, Col . . . ah, listen, mate, when’s the show going to finish?’
‘When we sing “Clementine”,’ answered Col. ‘You blokes in a rush?’
‘We nicked the colonel’s Land Rover so we want to get it back before he notices. Love your music, mate.’
‘Enjoy the show.’ As Col leapt onto the stage Tom stepped in to get more comments from the three soldiers who were happy to help, provided they remained anonymous.
‘Col Joye and the Joy Boys, Little Pattie . . . What a ripper. Couldn’t miss this.’
‘Even if there’s a very irate colonel awaiting your return?’ said Tom into the microphone.
‘She’ll be apples, sport. One of our mates has arranged a little diversion if we don’t get back on time,’ laughed one of the Aussie soldiers.
Tom’s next question was drowned out by a roar and cheers from the men as Col Joye launched into ‘Bye Bye Baby’.
The performers ran through their hit songs as requests from the audience written on lolly wrappers, playing cards and scraps of paper were passed forward.
There was thunderous applause as diminutive singer Little Pattie came on stage, simply dressed in a skirt and blouse, her bouffant hair giving her extra height. A bundle of bouncing energy, she radiated fun and humour, every man’s favourite little sister.
Half an hour into the show Tom leaned over to shout in the ear of a sergeant manning the sound boxes. ‘Did I hear a few rockets, or was that feedback from the amps?’
‘Bit of a blue going on near the base. They’ve sent a platoon out to check. She’ll be right.’ One of the soldiers tried to ask Col for an autograph but the lanky singer was belting out popular songs from the hit parade. It wasn’t so long ago these men in the audience had been home, keenly following Saturday Bandstand. The music brought back good memories for them.
Although entertained by the performance, Tom was aware that some of the men to one side were moving away from the crowd and he noticed a message being handed to some of the brass down the front. There was a rumble and Tom glanced up at the sky where thunder clouds had covered the afternoon sun.
‘It’s not just thunder, mate,’ said one of the men. ‘That’s some Viet Cong trying to have a
go.’
‘Where are they?’
‘Out in a rubber plantation, few miles down the track. I heard about it from one of the blokes who went out last night.’
At that moment the heavens opened and the band and Little Pattie were hurried into an armed personnel carrier as rain began to fall. The boys stripped off their stage shirts and were handed army shirts as the torrential downpour became a constant curtain of water. Holding his camera and tape recorder inside his shirt, Tom joined them.
‘Sounds like something’s happening near here. The brass are having a pow wow; no one would speak to me.’
‘Hop in with me, Tom, I’ll yarn to you,’ offered Col.
They jumped in the vehicle behind Little Pattie’s and the band.
‘Jeez, are we going to be able to fly out in this weather?’ Col asked the driver.
‘It’ll stop soon. Like a bloody tap going on and off. It’s monsoon time.’
‘Hurry up and wait, eh?’ said Col.
‘Yeah. This doesn’t look too good,’ said Tom, wondering if he would get back to Saigon in time to file his story. He was trying to think of a solution when the Land Rover’s weather flap was wrenched open and a grinning, dripping sergeant stuck his head in.
‘G’day, Col. I’m Tassie Watts. Listen, could you nick back and say hello to the blokes in my Land Rover? They missed the show. Just say hello, like.’
‘It’s flaming wet out there, mate.’
‘We’re parked right behind you. Just take a tick. Boost morale no end, do us a favour, eh?’ The sergeant reached to help Col. ‘Hang on to me shirt and run.’
‘Coming, Tom?’ called Col.
Pulled along by the sergeant, Col kept his head down, and Tom followed, clutching his gear inside his shirt as the red mud sloshed over his boots. A Land Rover weather flap opened and Col was manhandled into the back as Tom jumped in next to the driver. In the back two men held Col, one pinning him down.
‘Got ’im! Take off, Rusty.’
‘What the . . . ?’ began Col as the Land Rover lurched and did a U-turn, sliding along the slippery track. ‘What’s going on?’
