by Di Morrissey
‘Barney’s short handed,’ commented Tom. ‘Reckons he should be socialising with the customers.’
‘Arguing, more like it,’ said Charlie. ‘There’s always some debate going on now Australian vets are trekking in here more and more. Barney was a draft dodger: didn’t believe the war was justified. Doesn’t always endear him to some of the veterans.’
‘What about you? Did you get out here during the war years?’ Tom asked Charlie.
‘I was a medico. In the last years of that mess. But it gave me a taste of the Orient. I found private practice a bit tame so I made a career of working abroad wherever I could. Was in some pretty primitive areas . . . that’s where my interest in tribal art started.’
‘How long have you been here in Hanoi?’
‘Once the kids were at college my wife and I decided to leave New York and live abroad and get serious about my collecting. Came here in 1991 and came back to stay in 1995. Then I met Miss Huong and she persuaded me to start a business.’
‘He was retired, had a house overflowing with thousands of objects – thought he was a collector, but I said he was a dealer,’ said Miss Huong with a smile.
‘I didn’t know what I was doing. Miss Huong is the business brains and she has the best eye in the country, too. Trouble is, I never want to part with the things she finds.’
Anna was intrigued. ‘When you were here during the war, were you interested in Vietnamese history or art or anything?’
Charlie gave her a smile. ‘Funnily enough, I was. I got to fly into villages to treat civilians and that was where I first saw a lot of ethnic minorities and their tribal pieces – grave carvings, shamanic objects. Hard to come by stuff like that now.’
Kim stopped by the table and caught Anna’s eye. ‘Want to swap places? The office group wanted to say farewell to Sandy in a more informal way.’
‘No, I’m fine; you all carry on. I’m being entertained here. I’ll squeeze by the table in a little while.’
‘What about you, Tom? Were you here in the war?’ asked Charlie.
‘I was a journalist and radio correspondent down Saigon way from sixty-five,’ answered Tom. ‘Hung out with the Australian forces at Nui Dat a fair bit, but managed to see quite a lot of the country in the south.’
‘So, you on a nostalgia trip? Like so many are doing now?’
Tom paused. ‘You might say that. Not so much a personal odyssey though. I’m doing a bit of a look-see for an old newspaper editor friend. He thought I might like to cover a reunion of the boys who were at the battle of Long Tan, a big Aussie rout of the Viet Cong that’s never really been properly acknowledged. It’s the fortieth anniversary coming up.’
‘I know about Long Tan,’ said Barney, who’d joined them. ‘Often have some of the diggers who were there come through these days. I know a couple of Aussie guys who now live at Vung Tau.’
Tom’s interest was instantly aroused but Anna jumped in, saying, ‘Sandy’s dad was at Long Tan, I think.’
Tom swung his attention to Anna. ‘Really? Now that’s very interesting. Wonder if he’s coming over for the anniversary.’
‘I don’t think so. It’s the John Cleese rule at her folks’ place – “Don’t mention the war”.’
Tom was thoughtful and glanced over to where Sandy was laughing with her ex-workmates. ‘I’ll have a yarn to her about that later.’
‘So, you covering this anniversary from a personal or professional viewpoint?’ asked Charlie.
Tom gave a grin and finished his beer. ‘Seems it might be a bit of both. I was in the area at the time. Anyway, I thought I’d come and see what’d become of the country since the war. I never got up here to the north, of course. I reckon the Long Tan reunion will be a good story.’
Anna leaned forward. ‘You know, Tom, my dad has always said that Sandy’s dad, Phil, should come back. However, I don’t know if he’s coming. Talk to Sandy.’
‘I’ll do that.’ Tom paused as if to raise something with Anna but thought better of it. ‘It’s past my bedtime. You party on. Nice to meet you, Charlie. Miss Huong, after what you’ve told me, I’d like to see your gallery.’ Tom shook hands with Charlie and Miss Huong, then dropped his hand on Anna’s shoulder. ‘How about I treat you and Sandy to coffee tomorrow?’
‘Great. See you here – not too early, Tom,’ laughed Anna.
Tom hailed a cyclo and gave directions to his hotel. He sat back in the balmy night air as the driver weaved through the less frenetic traffic on streets lit by ribbons of coloured lights strung outside late-night shops and eateries. It was so peaceful, calm, non-threatening. Not for the first time in recent days he reflected how at home he felt in Asia. Even though his home was in Sydney, he’d always enjoyed assignments in Singapore, Japan, Indonesia and Far Eastern countries.
He imagined Saigon, now called Ho Chi Minh City, was even more bustling than Hanoi. He’d read so much about it as a tourist Mecca bursting with capitalist energy rather than the communist ideology that had once dominated the north. Hanoi was full of surprises and he was enjoying the city immensely, but he looked forward to going back to Saigon, the city he had known early in the war after the Americans and their allies put in hundreds of thousands of troops to combat the Viet Cong guerrilla army and regular army units that infiltrated down the Ho Chi Minh trail from the north.
Tom paid the driver and nodded to the concierge.
‘Good evening, Mr Ahearn. Have a pleasant evening?’
‘Indeed. Thank you.’
It was a modest but smart hotel and Tom saw that the main bar was packed with international guests. For a moment he was tempted to join them for a nightcap, but dismissed the idea. He felt really tired.
In bed he tried to sleep, but memories were stirring. Yes, he would ask Barney for the names of the Aussie vets living at Vung Tau. Names and faces swirled in his head. He’d definitely talk to Sandy about her father, too.
As he slowly dozed off to the gentle hum of the air conditioner, his mind suddenly focused on a name . . . Phil Donaldson, Sandy’s old man. Something stirred deep in his memory . . . that name. But he rolled over and was sleeping before his mind completed the memory search. Other images took over in dreams that made for a restless night.
Saigon, 1965
‘Attention, all passengers. We are approaching Tan Son Nhut Airport in Saigon. Please fasten your seatbelts. Our descent to the airport will be a little steeper than you are probably used to on commercial flights elsewhere, but please do not worry about it. The procedure is actually designed to enhance your safety. Cabin staff, please check and prepare for landing.’
Tom Ahearn closed his book on the history of Vietnam that had absorbed him since taking off from Singapore, checked his seatbelt and looked out of the window at the landscape far below.
‘What the bloody hell am I doing here?’ he asked himself, knowing that the odd landing procedure was designed to make it harder for Viet Cong snipers in the jungle to score a hit.
Only a couple of weeks ago he had been leading a great life in Singapore building up a good reputation for delivering to editors back in Sydney and Melbourne a steady flow of stories about the island state and its multiracial neighbour, Malaysia. There was the occasional serious piece looking at the minor but long-running hunt for a handful of communist guerrillas hanging out in the hills of Malaya, but covering a real war had not been on Tom’s agenda. Then suddenly Australia had boosted its military presence in South Vietnam from advisors to a full-on infantry battalion, with more on the way.
The First Battalion Royal Australian Regiment had just arrived and were settling in alongside the also newly arrived American Rangers of 173rd Airborne Regiment at Bien Hoa, near Saigon. And up the coast at Danang some four thousand US Marines were setting up camp. Tom’s editors back home wanted coverage of the escalation.
So, no more tennis sessions with mates at the Tanglin Club in Singapore for a while.
As they bounced down the runway, there was a lighthear
ted cheer from the passengers. Tom looked at the strange scene that rolled past as they headed for the terminal – a seemingly endless sprawl of military aircraft of all kinds, scores of military vehicles going in all directions and great long lines of new buildings for storing the tools of war that were pouring into the country. He knew that from this airfield planes were delivering a massive aerial bombing assault on North Vietnam: Operation Rolling Thunder.
In the terminal there was utter chaos as hundreds of men in uniform mixed with hundreds of civilian passengers in a scramble for luggage and taxis. He was glad to reach the Caravelle Hotel in the centre of Saigon. One of his tennis mates from Singapore, Neil Davis, an Australian cameraman for an international TV news agency, had booked him a room. Neil had an office in Saigon and a flat in Singapore to which he retreated for ‘R and R’, rest and recuperation. Neil loved the war as any reporter loves a good story. It gave him a big buzz, but he never dropped his guard and he knew all the tricks of survival in the jungles and the paddy fields of the war-torn country. He had become something of a legend in the process.
The desk staff at the Caravelle apologised when Tom checked in. His room wasn’t ready; the staff had yet to clean it. The previous occupant, another correspondent, had moved out only that morning, heading for Singapore.
‘She’ll be right, mate,’ said Tom.
‘Pardon, monsieur?’ responded the booking clerk.
‘Forget it. Look, I’ll just dump my gear in the room and go for coffee, okay.’
He went up to the second floor and found the room busy with cleaners who were all smiles and bows as he waved the key and told them in halting French that he would leave his gear and let them get on with their work. He opened the wardrobe and found a green canvas haversack on the floor. To his surprise it was half-full of ammunition. He looked at the leader of the cleaning team with a raised eyebrow.
‘Maybe you can use it, sir. The last man here had many guns.’
‘Did he now,’ said Tom, a little puzzled that a non-serviceman should be in the arms business in some way. A pencil was all he wanted to carry into the field. ‘Okay. Thanks for the offer. I’ll go for a walk and come back in an hour or so.’
‘Thank you, sir. So sorry,’ replied the head cleaner.
Tom went back down to the front of the hotel and took in the scene across Lam Son Square. Nearby was the imposing white National Assembly building, empty of real democracy. And then a little way down Tu Do Street was the more inviting outdoor terrace of the Continental Hotel. Neil Davis had recommended the colonial-style Continental as a drinking hole so Tom headed there, hoping that a few drinks and lunch would lift his spirits.
He took his beer to a table with a good view of the street which was busy with a steady flow of motor scooters, usually with at least two people on board, often with two adults and two little kids. There didn’t appear to be any road rules. The women overwhelmingly favoured the traditional ao-dai and wore large conical straw hats to protect their fair complexions.
Their beauty immediately captivated Tom. It wasn’t as if he had limited experience of the feminine charms of Asian women. It was a year since he had sailed from Sydney to Japan to report on the Olympic Games in Tokyo. Before the Games he’d spent two months wandering the main islands of Japan taking in the culture and lifestyle of people in remote mountain villages as well as big cities. He’d had some tantalising affairs with a few Japanese women in Tokyo who were fluent in English and well established as ‘career ladies’, an emerging force of university graduates who were breaking down the old and formidable barriers of discrimination.
After the Games he had drifted around Taiwan for a couple of weeks, which he’d found rather boring. Everyone was so intent on making money and regarded foreigners with suspicion.
Hong Kong was a better scene, even though the border with China was still like the Great Wall of China. You could look over the fence, but forget about trying to get in. He’d met some wild young Australians working for British companies in the colony, all intent on eating, drinking and screwing themselves into oblivion as often as possible. There was an endless supply of compliant women.
And then there was a swing through Thailand, the highlight of which was a memorable romance in Bangkok with a ‘liberated lady’ who owned a shop selling fine Thai silks to locals and tourists at different prices. The tourists usually thought they got a good deal and no one disillusioned them. Tom got his silks for free. Got a free bed as well.
A celibate trip down the Malay Peninsula led him to Orange Grove Road in Singapore and the chance to build his base for future operations. Financially it was imperative to knuckle down to hard work and continually produce stories to revive the ailing bank account. And it was all going nicely until the war in Vietnam went wrong and became a major international struggle by western democracies to stop the march of the communist bogey.
‘Such is life,’ reflected Tom as he finished his beer. He looked around and waved a finger at a waiter standing beside a potted palm on the terrace. The waiter, in immaculate black and white with bow tie and a neatly folded serviette over a forearm, glided towards him. Tom was surprised to see how old he was. Probably been with the hotel all his life.
‘Yes, monsieur, would you like another drink?’
‘With all these Yanks in town I assume you have some bottled American beer?’
‘Indeed we do. Which one, sir?’
‘Surprise me.’
He smiled and gave the table a wipe. ‘I haven’t seen you here before, sir. You with the diplomatic corps?’
Tom chuckled at the assumption. ‘No, I’m a journalist. Flew in this morning and still in a state of shock.’
‘Ah, phong vien,’ responded the waiter.
‘Meaning?’
‘Sorry, sir, our word for people of your profession. Welcome to the war and our city. Where are you from?’
Tom was enjoying the exchange. He liked the old fellow and decided that he could be a good contact further down the track. Life had taught him that blokes like the old waiter usually heard a lot of enormous interest and knew more than they ever let on.
‘I’m Australian. You know, that land with the kangaroos.’
Another smile. ‘Ah, uc dai loi . . . sorry . . .’
Tom interrupted. ‘I can guess: that means Australian. Now how about that drink?’
When the waiter returned Tom paid him with American dollars. ‘Keep the change, friend.’ It was a hefty tip. The waiter wouldn’t forget him.
After lunch Tom decided on impulse not to go back to the Caravelle until he saw Mr Minh. Neil had told him about Mr Minh, the tailor who provided foreign correspondents with the smart safari suits that were something of an unofficial uniform. The military gear for operations in the field had to be purchased on the black market.
Tailor Minh had rooms in Tu Do Street. He had Tom measured up in minutes and announced that the three suits, in excellent cottons and three different colours – olive, fawn and navy – would be ready for a first fitting in two days. Some more dollars changed hands.
‘Might as well score a few more runs – get my accreditation cards,’ said Tom to himself as he went back into Tu Do Street. He consulted a map Neil had given him in Singapore marked with the locations of the press offices of the American and Vietnamese armed forces. At the Vietnamese office he filled in a form and handed over a couple of passport-style photographs.
‘Be ready in four days, sir.’ Remembering Neil’s advice Tom slipped the Vietnamese clerk a few dollars. ‘Ah, thank you, sir. Maybe it could be okay tomorrow afternoon. Please check with me.’
At the American forces press office it was easier. ‘Call back tomorrow afternoon, Mr Ahearn, before the five o’clock follies. I’ll have it ready,’ said the Marine lieutenant.
‘Five o’clock follies?’ Tom raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘That’s what the press call the daily briefing on the war by our staff here.’ He gave a half smile.
Back
at the Caravelle Tom went upstairs to his room and began unpacking. Opening the wardrobe he found the haversack of ammunition still there. ‘Welcome to the war, Tom,’ he said out loud and, after scratching his head, decided to take the bag to the five o’clock follies the next day.
Much later in the evening Sandy and Anna returned home. Giggling softly they fumbled with the lock on the gate leading to the courtyard in front of Sandy’s apartment. The families on either side were sleeping; all was dark save for the dim light bulb outside Sandy’s door.
‘Feel like a cup of tea? A nightcap? Food?’ offered Sandy, and Anna shook her head.
‘Couldn’t eat a thing. Fun evening. They’re a nice bunch.’
Sandy kicked off her shoes and curled her legs up on the sofa. ‘Yeah, I’ll miss them. Still hasn’t sunk in that I won’t be working with them again. Really feel a bit adrift, y’know.’
‘Something will come along. Wish I could swap jobs with you,’ said Anna.
‘Do you really? I thought you liked what you were doing.’
Anna settled into the cane lounge chair. ‘I do. I like my job; I think I’m good at it. But this holiday is making me realise how boring it can be.’
‘Perhaps you need a change. And what about Carlo? Is marriage on the horizon?’ Sandy asked.
‘I don’t know, Sands . . . When I’m with him, it’s lovely and it all seems sort of, well, inevitable. But here . . . things seem different,’ said Anna hesitantly.
‘No absence making the heart grow fonder?’
‘Not really . . . I suppose it’s all the excitement of a new place, being with you . . . Once I go back I’m sure things will be fine. What’s happening tomorrow?’ Anna changed the subject but Sandy wasn’t to be deflected.
‘Anna, are you sure? It just seems to me . . .’ she paused but then, emboldened by the few drinks she’d had, went on, ‘Look, you’re my best friend and I don’t want to see you throw yourself away on someone who doesn’t fully appreciate you.’
‘That’s not true. You don’t really know him, like I do –’ began Anna with some heat.
