Monsoon

by Di Morrissey

  ‘Captain, is it true that there’s a tense situation developing in relations between men of the one seventy-third Airborne and the Australians operating alongside them? Something to do with the Australians being able to drink beer when they’re in camp, but the Americans being forced to drink Coke or water?’

  There was a burst of laughter.

  The briefing officer stayed straightfaced. ‘I’m not across that issue, Joe. I will certainly make inquiries.’

  More applause, a clatter of seats and a wave of conversation signalled the show was over. Tom caught up with the senior briefing officer who was still gathering up his files.

  ‘What’re the chances of getting down round Bien Hoa where the Aussies are operating with your men?’

  ‘I’m sure something can be arranged,’ he drawled.

  It was easier than Tom could have imagined. A lift in a supply helicopter was arranged for the next day.

  He quickly observed that defending the huge air base being developed at Bien Hoa during the massive round-the-clock build-up of American strength involved a lot more than having a strong perimeter. The allied forces mounted frequent assault missions against suspected Viet Cong bases in the nearby jungle and swampland. Strikes were made even further out in a prime target area known as War Zone D. The zone was subject to heavy blanket bombing but the enemy wouldn’t go away. They just bunkered down and kept digging tunnels and an underground network that housed barracks for thousands of fighters.

  Tom spent a couple of days getting to know the officers of the Australian First Battalion and their neighbours, the American paratroopers. Despite Tom’s lack of combat experience, the Americans offered to take him on an operation to find an enemy base they had identified by monitoring radio transmissions. The force included a company of Australian troops so Tom joined a chopper carrying some of the Aussies into the swampy jungle at dawn.

  Dressed in a mix of American and Australian army uniforms and feeling a little foolish in the American-style helmet, Tom shut his eyes for the first few moments as he made his inaugural jump into the war from a helicopter that hovered low over an abandoned rice field. He promptly fell over and sank into a mire of stinking mud.

  An Australian corporal assigned to keep an eye on him grabbed his arm and pulled him up. ‘Come on, mate, run like hell for that line of rubber trees. And keep as low as you can.’

  They made it without a shot being fired.

  ‘Thank you, Victor Charlie,’ panted Tom as he flopped down beside the corporal on the edge of the rubber plantation.

  ‘Yeah, the bastards must have slept in.’

  Then, slowly and very carefully, the troops fanned out and began to move forward, looking for any sign on the ground that might indicate the underground target. The plantation yielded nothing and they moved into the jungle nearby.

  ‘Keep your mouth shut,’ whispered the corporal, ‘and try not to touch anything that looks a bit out of the ordinary. Could be a booby-trap.’

  They crept forward. Tom started to sweat profusely, not just from the heat, and began shaking with fear. Suddenly firing broke out far to the left and everyone threw themselves to the ground.

  ‘VC machine gun,’ snapped the corporal. ‘They’ve hit the Yanks out on the far flank, I reckon. Keep your head down.’

  Almost immediately the Americans began retaliatory fire, but Tom couldn’t see any enemy. The Australians held their fire until suddenly a few men in black pyjamas were seen scurrying through a thicket of jungle. A deafening roar of automatic rifle fire from all around him made Tom squirm. Bullets whined overhead. ‘Oh shit,’ he gasped. Then as suddenly as all hell had broken loose, it was quiet. The shooting stopped.

  ‘I think we got ’em,’ said the corporal. ‘Stay low.’

  There was a shouted call for medics from the American lines. Along the Australian line there was a silent hand signal from man to man that confirmed no one had been hit.

  A sergeant crawled up to Tom. ‘You stay put. A few of us are going out to see what we hit up there. Okay?’

  Tom nodded vigorously.

  The Australians moved forward with trigger fingers ready to fire, covering each other in carefully prepared tactics so well drilled into them that they didn’t have to think about what they were doing. Simply keep eyes open and keep moving. They soon came across the bodies of three Viet Cong. Nearby they found the entrance to a short tunnel from which the VC had fled. It wasn’t the complex they were hoping to find, only the beginning of another hideout. The force that had hit the American flank had disappeared into the jungle and were probably already back in well-concealed underground bunkers. They left behind fifteen dead comrades. Five Americans were dead, six wounded.

  Tom stood and watched the body bags and wounded on stretchers lifted into a Chinook helicopter.

  The corporal quickly shook Tom’s hand. ‘Hop aboard; they’ll drop you back at base.’

  Tom nodded. Words for once seemed inadequate. All he managed was, ‘Good luck, mate. And thanks.’

  The corporal gave him a thumbs up as the rotors roared to life.

  Tom found it hard to reconcile the casual chaos of the military in Saigon with its blackmarket, gung-ho mentality, compared with the life and death reality being played out in the paddy fields.

  Now Tom had his story.

  6

  AFTER JUST A COUPLE of days in Hoi An, Anna had become intrigued with the village next to the River Resort. There was a young waiter who walked from the village to work in the terrace restaurant overlooking the river each morning. In the evening he returned to his small garden.

  ‘Do you think we could go through the village, pretend we’re taking a shortcut?’ Anna asked Sandy.

  ‘What for? It’s only ten little houses and a sort of communal area at most,’ she said.

  ‘I know it’s not a tourist thing, but it gives a better idea of what this place is about rather than the buzzy market and the shopping area where all the hotels are, or even the Ancient Town – which is lovely but touristy now. Ask Trung, our breakfast waiter. He lives there. It’s right next door.’

  Sandy had seen Anna taking photos from their balcony and thought it a great idea to experience some local life. So when she next spotted the young man, she chatted to him in Vietnamese and discovered he was a student saving money to go to classes at night. He agreed to take them to see his family in the small commune next door.

  At sunset the girls walked with Trung along the sandy path beneath the palm and frangipani trees at the rear of the resort. He stopped by the pig in its outdoor pen and threw in a bag of scraps from the hotel kitchen. Sandy and Anna followed him past several houses where men wearing sarongs relaxed in doorways or squatted together under a tree, smoking and talking, but fell silent and stared with frank curiosity as the two foreign women passed by.

  At Trung’s small house his mother, sister and an aunty were gossiping and preparing the evening meal. They shyly welcomed the unexpected visitors, but relaxed as Sandy chatted to them in Vietnamese and Anna handed over the small gift of French chocolates they’d brought. Children, smiling but shy, edged closer.

  The women turned to Anna asking questions of the Viet Kieu, which Sandy answered. They were curious about Anna’s story and nodded sympathetically as Sandy related what she knew of Anna’s family.

  Anna immediately won their interest by asking about the dish they were cooking and so the women made space for her in their circle around the low plastic table outside the house where a gas ring burned beneath a large wok.

  Sandy explained they’d been to a cooking school and the women laughed, saying they’d show them how to make fried noodles and spring rolls for free.

  Trung, now wearing old shorts and a T-shirt, asked the two friends if they would like to go down the river with him to check his father’s crab pot and fishing net.

  ‘I would,’ said Sandy.

  ‘I’ll stay here and watch the way they make these dishes,’ said Anna. ‘I’ll manage
with sign language.’

  ‘You’re really into this cooking thing, aren’t you? There could be fish for the main course if Trung has any in the trap.’ Sandy had a sudden thought. ‘Hey, you could do some of the cooking at Barney’s!’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ laughed Anna. ‘But at least I’ll have an idea of what people are ordering!’

  Sandy followed Trung to the edge of the river, where his wooden long boat was drawn up to the bank. She sat in the middle and when comfortable gave a thumbs-up signal. Trung pushed off and from near the stern began poling them down the river. They glided past several rice paddies, a few thatched houses and then some more solid homes that faced the river with their small landings on the river bank. There was a bicycle path alongside the river and an occasional food stall. Around a bend in the river a small fish pond was staked out. Overlooking it were sizeable homes with tiled roofs, balconies and high fences. These houses had ornate trimmings and smart gardens complete with altars next to the river-bank landings. Obviously it was a new and expensive neighbourhood.

  ‘Who lives in these houses?’ asked Sandy.

  ‘Rich people. Merchants, business people,’ answered Trung. ‘Some high-up government people.’

  ‘Local people? Tourism has done a lot for Hoi An. Money there, eh, Trung?’

  A partly finished block of apartments came into view from behind a screen of palms. ‘Another resort, or for local people?’ asked Sandy.

  ‘Holiday place for rich Vietnamese people. Some come from city. Madame Nguyen is building.’

  ‘Madame Nguyen the silk shop owner? She’s building it?’

  Trung nodded. ‘She Hoi An rich lady. She do much business.’

  ‘Obviously. What sort of business?’ Sandy turned around to look at Trung, who gave a quick smile.

  ‘Any business. She clever lady for make money.’ He shipped the pole and reached for a rope floating in the water near bamboo poles jutting from the river.

  Sandy helped him pull up the trap, which had several fish in it. Then Trung hauled in an old net secured to another pole and was delighted with the catch of small silvery fish. Sandy couldn’t help thinking that at home they would have been used for bait or thrown back but she knew these would be cut into tiny fillets and the head and bones used for stock and soup.

  As they headed back fluorescent lights shone from the new homes but when they reached the little settlement where Trung lived only a few dim light bulbs glowed. Hanging in the trees and from poles outside the huts were coloured silk lanterns swaying gently, casting slow dancing shadows in a rainbow of colours.

  ‘How pretty,’ exclaimed Sandy.

  ‘My mother and aunty they work with two other families to make. Since tourists come handicrafts help them make money.’

  Anna looked animated as one of the women chatted to her in very broken English. ‘Are we eating fish for dinner then?’ she called to Sandy.

  ‘Trung has a few. What do you mean, “we”, Tonto?’

  ‘We’re invited to stay and eat with them. They’re so hospitable. I love learning how to cook all this stuff.’

  ‘I prefer eating it,’ said Sandy.

  ‘It’s not just the cooking. These women are very funny. I’ve had lots of advice.’

  ‘Love advice?’ quizzed Sandy.

  ‘Kind of. I might be missing a few finer points without you to translate, but they say they could find a husband for me. A good fisherman.’

  Sandy laughed.

  Trung cleaned the fish at the river’s edge as his father sat beside him smoking and watching him work, chatting quietly. Sandy watched them for a moment, thinking how fishing skills had been passed down by river men, father to son, for generations. She wished she and her brother, Ashley, were close to their father. She’d never had any father–daughter experiences like camping or sport, or trips away together, just the two of them. Her father had never sat proudly in the front row of the audience for a school play or concert, but had reluctantly been dragged along on a few occasions, when he had stood at the back. When she’d taken her bow and looked up he had always already gone.

  Anna followed one of the women inside to help with the food. Immediately the other women peppered Sandy with questions about Anna’s family. Where were they from? Was she going to see them? Would she take her relatives to Australia? Did she send money back to her family?

  Sandy answered as best she could, knowing the Vietnamese strong sense of family. She wondered if these thoughts had occurred to Anna.

  It was becoming quite dark when the men joined them, smiling shyly, curious but welcoming, recognising at once that Sandy’s language skills and Anna’s being a Viet Kieu made them more than the usual run of tourists. When they learned Sandy had been working with HOPE, the discussion turned to the changes in their villages and farms and the growth of Hoi An. While they welcomed the prosperity tourism brought, they lamented the loss of the small farms which had been bought for accommodation, shops, businesses and the infrastructure that went along with meeting the needs of visitors. An older man puffed on his cigarette and expressed some annoyance with young people for wanting to be ‘modern’ by aping western fashions and fads.

  ‘He says young people are losing their traditional customs, music and manners. They want money to buy things they see on TV or that tourists have instead of appreciating what they grow and make themselves,’ explained Sandy. She added, ‘When I first came here I went to a village and asked about helping the poorest families and the head man said they didn’t have any. They grew their own food, worked together, made their own clothes, entertained themselves with stories and music. A couple of years later when I went back, he told me they were all so poor. They wanted big TV sets, western food and clothes, and jobs where tourists were. Without these things they now considered themselves poor.’

  ‘Did you tell them the luxuries we have at home don’t make up for the rich things they have here – like close-knit families, the sharing, the communal way of life, a strong work ethic, respect and devotion to ancestors?’ said Anna quietly.

  Sandy glanced at her friend in surprise but translated the comment and there was a lot of head nodding in agreement.

  Trung brought the fillets of fish to his mother, who called everybody to the large woven straw mat to eat next to a pot bubbling over a charcoal brazier. The fish pieces were dropped into the stock pot along with fresh greens and then spread over rice in bowls, the first helpings handed to Sandy and Anna. Plates of crispy duck and chargrilled eggplant topped with a spicy sauce tasted as good to Anna as anything she’d had in the local restaurants.

  ‘What was down the river?’ Anna asked Sandy as they ate.

  ‘It’s pretty and quiet. Rice paddies, some small fish farms and an amazing housing development. The biggest is owned by our Madame Nguyen.’

  ‘Really? The silk business must be profitable.’

  At the mention of the shop owner’s name, one of the women spoke up. ‘Her family have lived in Hoi An many generations. She buys things to sell in Hoi An and Hue.’

  ‘Like what?’ asked Sandy.

  Trung spoke sharply to his mother. ‘She has many businesses,’ he said, then lowered his voice and added, ‘People bring her old pieces, special things that she sells to dealers.’

  ‘And where do these people find them?’ asked Sandy, suddenly curious.

  Trung shrugged. ‘I hear stories. Boats go to her house at night. Madame Nguyen has shop in Royal Hotel and she talk about gallery in Hue.’

  ‘I think I’ll pay another visit to that antiques shop in The Royal before we leave for Hue,’ said Sandy, then turned to Trung. ‘Could we visit Madame Nguyen’s house? There are some very old homes open to the public in Hoi An. It would be interesting for Anna.’

  ‘Yes, but not Madame Nguyen’s,’ said Trung.

  ‘And what about the little museums here? I’ve been told they’re very good,’ said Anna.

  Trung nodded. ‘Museum of Trading Ceramics in famous old house
. Easy to visit. Hoi An very famous as trading port years ago. When Thu Bon river silt up Danang become number one port.’

  They talked and drank coffee until it was bedtime for the children, when they thanked the family for their hospitality and Trung escorted the young women back to the hotel.

  ‘It big honour for my family you visit our house,’ said Trung as they shook hands.

  ‘And for us too, Trung,’ answered Sandy.

  Back in their room, Anna stood on the balcony and looked down into the quiet cluster of thatched houses that was the small, close-knit community. A dog barked; there was a squawk from a chicken; a child cried briefly; and the soft sound of a mother singing to children drifted up in the still night air.

  ‘That was a different evening,’ commented Sandy as she prepared for bed.

  ‘Yes. Very special. They’re nice people. You know, at one point I thought it was like being in a caravan park back home. Before Uncle Quoc died he and Dad and other friends sometimes took me to a lakeside park in the summer holidays and it was like living in a small community,’ said Anna.

  ‘There are a lot of villages, bigger of course, like that all over this country. Maybe we should go to the hill country and see the minority tribes. It seems people rather than museums are your cup of tea,’ said Sandy.

  Anna headed for the bathroom as Sandy got into bed. ‘No, we’ll go to the museum. I know you’re interested in old plates and antiques. Shall we go back to the shop at The Royal?’

  But the next morning when the girls dropped in to the antiques shop, the old ceramic platter had gone.

  ‘Sold to a rich American,’ Sandy told Anna. She raised an eyebrow. ‘Madame Nguyen must have influence. It’s not easy to get permission to take antiques out of the country.’

  ‘You’re not going to buy one; why so interested?’ asked Anna.

  ‘I don’t know. Mr Thinh so treasures the one he has. It seems odd to find these old ceramics popping up for sale when they’re museum-quality pieces.’