Monsoon

by Di Morrissey

  ‘How’d you hook up with the VC vets?’ asked Tom curiously. ‘I thought that was going to be part of the big day, the re-meeting of the Vietnamese commanders and our Long Tan officers.’

  ‘Oh yeah, that’s all happening,’ said Cranky. ‘Some of our blokes want them to admit we won and that we didn’t just walk into an ambush. Twelve Platoon D Company was sent out after there had been a mortar attack on the base camp compound the night before. We knew there were still VC in the area and wanted to stop any more attacks on the base.’

  ‘And so D Company put an end to any further attacks on the Australian base,’ said Tom.

  There was no stopping Cranky. ‘Yeah, but it turned out to be a bit of a mix-up, to say the least. Eleven Platoon were separated from the other two platoons and then it came under heavy attack from the VC. Many blokes in the platoon were either killed or wounded. Then the monsoon rains came. This was good because it meant that the VC couldn’t see the Aussies but bad because it also meant that the USAF, who had been sent in to give them cover, couldn’t see them either. They were pinned down and taking casualties.’

  ‘I was at the hospital when they were coming in,’ said Tom, remembering his interview with Phil.

  Cranky continued to re-tell the familiar tale, looking into the distance. ‘The RAAF boys from 9 Squadron did a bloody great job to supply us with ammo and even though the platoon had only six uninjured men they continued to inflict damage on the VC. Then the New Zealanders started throwing artillery on the VC, who were almost on top of 11 Platoon. Must’ve lobbed more than three thousand rounds right on the bullseye. What was left of 11 Platoon managed to link up with 12 Platoon and their machine gunners were able to deal with the VC. Mind you, it wasn’t till after seven o’clock, hours after the battle had started, that reinforcements in the form of A Company finally arrived, because the base commander was too worried about possible attacks on the base to send them earlier. So the tide turned then but . . .’

  ‘By then we’d lost eighteen men – although there were two hundred and forty dead VC,’ finished Tom.

  ‘Well, that was all we counted on the battlefield after they’d taken away many of their dead and dying. It’s been estimated that the three platoons of D Company had fought off ten times their number.’

  ‘So, Cranky, what do you know about the other side of the story?’ asked Tom.

  Cranky shrugged. ‘My wife’s family. Her uncle was one of them. We’ve re-hashed the battle many times. He’s a decent bloke. Lot of the local VC were just protecting their homes and families as he saw it.’

  ‘Is that so? Interesting,’ said Tom. ‘Could I meet him?’ ‘Yeah. We have regular family get-togethers. I’ll ask the missus to set it up. C’mon, few more places to see.’

  *

  The village near Long Tan rubber plantation was a scattering of simple houses, two small shops, a school and a little hospital next to the most imposing building – the police station. They pulled up outside a smaller building of government offices and Cranky went inside and came out with a young Vietnamese girl in dark pants and a white shirt with a badge on her pocket.

  ‘This is Miss Cong, our guide for the memorial,’ said Cranky, adding, ‘it’s the rule. The Vietnamese are very strict about who wanders into the rubber plantation. They like to have everything well looked after. Now we have to go to the police station.’

  Miss Cong smiled and greeted them in good, if heavily accented, English. At the police station she went inside and returned a few minutes later with a metal plaque on a chain and handed it to Tom who was surprised to see it was the replacement plaque from the memorial.

  ‘It’s safer kept in the police station. We didn’t want it stolen or defaced,’ said Cranky. ‘The original dedication plaque got lost. This is a pretty good system.’

  As they drove to the plantation, Miss Cong gave Tom a potted, accurate history of the battle and handed him a printed leaflet that listed the names of the eighteen Australians who lost their lives and where they were from.

  Tom scanned the list of names he’d seen many times before. ‘Not one of them over twenty. Seems so young to me now.’

  The car bumped along the muddy dirt road. Fields stretched into the distance on one side and on the other, lines of rubber trees stood in precise rows.

  Then Cranky pulled over. ‘This is it, mate.’

  Tom got out and followed Miss Cong who walked briskly ahead describing where tents had once been pitched and where soldiers of D Company had dug in. Two old moss-covered stones still showed the traces of coloured paint where men had written their names and regiments.

  Tom trailed behind. It was late morning and the sunlight was filtered through the screen of the tall trees. Tom stopped to look at a metal cup hanging at the end of a spiral cut in one of the trees, catching the bleeding white sap. It was so quiet. He trod carefully, not wanting to break the spell. No breeze penetrated the thick canopy overhead. He broke into a sweat in the oppressive heat and atmosphere of eerie quiet where ghosts still hovered.

  Then suddenly through the trees he saw the large white cross with a small fence around it – the Long Tan memorial. Miss Cong hung the plaque in its centre. She brushed the stones in front of it with her hand, picking up a few scraps of paper, a cigarette butt, some leaves, then stood to one side and watched Tom and Cranky approach.

  Tom felt his throat tighten. The simplicity of the memorial in this strange green grove was startling and moving. Miss Cong waited as the two men circled the memorial, then she gently ushered them to the front and, to Tom’s amazement, asked them to stand to attention. Both men bowed their heads and she stood beside them and then, to Tom’s shock, in her sing-song accent, she respectfully recited:

  They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

  Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

  At the going down of the sun and in the morning

  We will remember them.

  ‘Lest we forget,’ echoed Cranky and Tom.

  They all stood for a minute in silence, Tom still trying to accept the fact that this young Vietnamese woman had spoken the hallowed words that every Australian claimed as his own mark of respect to the fallen.

  ‘You want a photo?’ asked Miss Cong as they stepped away.

  Tom shook his head. The scene was etched in his memory for life.

  ‘It is good to remember your people. We do same. Vietnamese cemetery and memorial over that way.’

  Cranky briefly outlined the ceremony planned for the 18th August. ‘There’ll be a few speeches, wreath laying and so on. When the men come here, it can be hard for them. They walk around looking for the spot where they were, where the first shots were fired. Vets who weren’t at Long Tan come because they feel the need to honour their mates no matter where they served.’

  ‘It’s certainly a special place,’ Tom managed to say. The mood and emotion of it had almost overwhelmed him.

  He took Cranky’s hand and gave it a firm shake. ‘Thanks. Thanks for bringing me here.’

  ‘No worries, mate. I know how you feel.’

  ‘You finish your time here now?’ asked Miss Cong.

  They nodded and she carefully lifted the plaque, wrapped it in a cloth and put it in a plastic bag. ‘We look after here very good. Very special place.’

  Back at The Strangled Cow on the outskirts of Vung Tau, Tom downed a cold beer.

  ‘Phew, I needed that. I was quite choked up back there.’

  ‘Yeah, gets to me every time, too. You can imagine how it affects the blokes who fought there when they go back in there now.’

  Tom took another drink and thought of Phil and his nightmare memories of Vietnam. ‘Yes, it would be a hard one to face up to. Very hard.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I’m still amazed by Miss Cong. To have a young Vietnamese woman explain the valour of the fighting Australians and be so sensitive in honouring our dead.’ He shook his head. ‘Vietnam has come a long way in open mind, open heart stakes,’ said Tom
.

  ‘They respect us Aussies,’ said Cranky. ‘They respect us for adopting guerrilla tactics. We respect them as good fighters too.’

  At lunchtime several of the visiting Vietnam veterans arrived and were introduced. One had come from Perth, another from Melbourne and two from Sydney. Soon they were regaling Tom with stories of escapades and colourful mates during their Vietnam tour of duty. There was a lot of laughter and jokes and it struck Tom again how there was instant rapport between these men who were all so different, yet shared one thing in common that bound them for life.

  Over dinner with Meryl, Tom related the day in great detail.

  ‘What an incredible experience,’ said Meryl. ‘But I can’t believe a Vietnamese woman recited “For the Fallen”. That’s terrible! The men must be turning in their graves.’

  ‘Well, I admit I was shocked at first. But the more I think about it, it’s a good thing. She was very sincere and she understood what Long Tan means to Australians. The Vietnamese aren’t bitter, they don’t hold grudges, they move forward, but they do respect the past. Now, what are your plans?’

  ‘A couple of the wives are going to the ceremony, but I know you’ll be working so I think I’ll stay here. I might go down there later just with you, when it’s quieter.’ She hadn’t expected Tom to be so emotional about the visit to the memorial. ‘I had a nice relaxing day. Baz’s partner organised an outing for the wives to some of the sights. You should have seen inside what they call the White House, the elegant house on the hill that was a residence for some wealthy Frenchman in the colonial days. Utterly gorgeous. They certainly knew how to live back then.’

  ‘And did the visiting wives get on with the Vietnamese wives?’ asked Tom. Most of the Vietnamese women were second or third wives and all were quite beautiful and generally much younger.

  ‘They were a bit shy at first, but once they took us shopping, everyone warmed up,’ laughed Meryl. ‘It was a total girls’ day out.’

  Tom sat with a mug of tea waiting for the sunrise over the ocean below. It was an unsatisfactory brew made from a stale teabag. He should have travelled with his favourite loose tea. But English teapots seemed to be few and far between in Vietnam, although a little Chinese teapot would suffice. He’d ask Meryl to find one. She was still sleeping. He wanted these few moments of contemplation before leaving for the ceremony at Long Tan. A bus had been organised to take a small group of them down before the afternoon event.

  He was pleased he was doing an in-depth article for Alistair because it was the stories within the framework of the big story that interested him. He was hoping Cranky’s wife would set up a meeting with her VC uncle and he wished people like Phil Donaldson were here as well. He’d spoken to many men and found it intriguing that each of those who’d been involved in the battle had a slightly different interpretation of the events. There had been many versions – from those of the senior officers at base camp, down to the stories from the men in the field. Loyalty to mates and field leaders was of greatest importance in all versions.

  But there was resentment over the lack of recognition for bravery and deeds during the battle. Tom heard how recommendations for a Military Cross had been downgraded to a mention in dispatches. ‘Like we were bloody postal clerks doing an okay job,’ sniffed one of the men.

  Moreover, the fact the men weren’t allowed to receive bravery citations from the South Vietnamese government still rankled. ‘We got bloody dolls, mate,’ said one of the men. ‘Even the damn Yanks gave us a Presidential Unit Citation.’

  So much pain. So many scars and wounds; physical, mental and emotional.

  Tom had thought about this commemoration day and had brought with him a surviving safari suit, the correspondents’ dress uniform he’d had made by Mr Minh in Saigon in 1966. He had kept this one, a fawn lightweight suit with its double set of pockets, shoulder tabs, neat short sleeves and firmly creased trousers, for sentimental reasons. His pen and notebook fitted in a breast pocket, his new digital camera and tape recorder in side pockets. He thought that he looked pretty smart in the suit and was pleased that it still fitted him, even if it was a little snug. He was still in front of the mirror when Meryl emerged from the shower.

  ‘Tom! You’re not wearing that! Where on earth did it come from? Not from home surely?’

  ‘Yep. This is an original. Figured I’d give it one last run and put it back in mothballs.’

  ‘Please don’t tell me you want to be buried in that,’ chided Meryl.

  Tom grinned. ‘I figured the blokes would know exactly what I was – a correspondent.’

  Meryl shook her head, but she was touched at his sentimental gesture and she realised that she knew very little about that period of Tom’s life which had meant so much to him. ‘The bus will be here soon. I won’t plan on dinner with you. I imagine you’ll be kept busy down there.’

  ‘Yeah. There’s a chance I could get up to Cranky’s wife’s home village and meet some of her relatives. They were VC in this area.’

  ‘Really! How ironic.’ She gave him a kiss. ‘I hope today goes well.’ She watched Tom leave, chatting to the others getting on the little bus, always interested, always curious about other people and everything going on around him. ‘Taking it all in’, as Tom was fond of saying.

  There was a crowd of about one hundred and fifty people, maybe a few more, who had come for the event. Tom spoke to the Australian Consul-General, other dignitaries, a commander from the former South Vietnamese army, as well as the head of the local Phuoc Tuy Province, and several younger members of the Australian media who were covering the day. There was talk about the meeting lined up between the two Australian platoon leaders and the Viet Cong battalion commanders.

  Tom overheard one of the young journalists comment, ‘These old soldiers never stop fighting the damn war, do they? There’s nothing new to write about.’

  A veteran standing nearby, dressed in a casual jacket and jeans, spun around to face the young man. ‘Listen, kid, you be damned glad we didn’t give up. You should learn when to stop making smartarse comments and listen. You might learn something. I was in that battle and when I got back to camp, leaving my best mate dead on the battlefield, a young reporter started asking stupid questions. You know what I did? I shoved my rifle in his belly and nearly shot him. Instead I picked him up and slung him up in a rubber tree.’ The veteran walked away from the stunned journalist.

  Tom walked up to the young man. ‘They left that journo strung up there till someone took pity on him and cut him down. I was there too. These men here today, every one of them has a story. Tune in, mate.’

  Speeches were made; wreaths were laid; tears were shed. Men embraced. Others talked quietly or stood alone, remembering. Some walked every inch of the plantation, recalling in photographic detail what happened on that day forty years before. Occasionally they paused, fighting back tears as they saw, as fresh as then, a mate fall, or recalled how close they’d come to dying, pointing out where they’d lain as bullets whistled past or thudded into the rubber trees that provided such inadequate protection from the onslaught.

  Tom watched the ceremony from a sideline, seeing the emotions play across faces as they repeated in unison ‘Lest we forget’. Then silence. It was all over. Phil had missed it.

  The official party was ushered through the plantation; others began to trickle away in small convoys, heading to gatherings in bars and restaurants.

  The sun and light had gone and now the green gloom enveloped the quiet plantation. The few men left walking through it were silent, or spoke in hushed voices. This was hallowed ground; ghosts claimed this country now. Tom was watching a group of tourists walking quietly around the plantation and was about to leave when he saw three men coming along the dirt track towards the large white cross. The one in the centre stopped and turned around. The two other men stopped, leaned close and put their hands on his shoulders in a comforting gesture.

  Curious, Tom walked through the trees, wondering
who these latecomers were. As he drew closer he stopped in shock. The man being supported by his mates was Phil. He looked distressed. Then Tom recognised one of the two men, despite the years since he’d last seen him. There was no mistaking Maxie, the chaplain. Tom realised the other man was Tassie Watts, his one-time kidnapper. They’d got Phil this far. But the final few steps seemed just too hard.

  Tom didn’t want to interrupt but moved closer and heard the soothing murmur of Maxie’s voice shattered by a cry from Phil.

  ‘I can’t do it, mate. No way,’ sobbed Phil, holding on to a rubber tree, shaking his head.

  ‘You’ve come this far, Phil. You owe it to yourself, to your mates. A few more yards,’ urged Tassie.

  Phil’s face was anguished. Frantically he looked around him, fearful the enemy was still out there. He seemed to be back there, in the battle, seeing his mate take a bullet in the temple and fall beside him, blood spurting onto the red mud.

  ‘Bastards!’ he screamed, rubbing his face against the trunk of the tree, eyes closed, trying to erase the sights, the sounds, the confusion and that incessant monsoon rain streaming over all of D Company.

  ‘There’s no one there, mate,’ said Maxie, shaking him gently. ‘Just us, your friends. We’re with you. It’s over. Gone, mate.’

  Phil opened his eyes and stared around the deserted plantation.

  ‘C’mon, let’s do this together.’ Tassie unhooked Phil’s arms from the tree. Firmly he and Maxie put their arms around his shoulders and waist, and walked forward.

  Tassie quietly counted, ‘Left, right, left,’ and their steps fell into unison.

  They walked past Tom, not seeing him, but Tom saw the tears streaming down Phil’s face, his eyes riveted on the big white cross, drawing him closer. The three men reached the open ground and stood at the base of the cross, their arms still around each other. Phil’s shoulders were heaving and Tom could hear the deep sobs racking his body.

  The wreaths and the plaque were still in place. It was dim and still; shadows from the trees recalled the shapes of men who’d sheltered there long ago. Tom lifted his camera as a beam of blood-red sunset light penetrated the canopy, a glowing shaft that, for a moment, backlit the cross, its shadow falling at the feet of the men who stood there.