Monsoon

by Di Morrissey

  Slowly Phil calmed and he straightened his shoulders and the men on either side of him dropped their arms to their sides. Smoothly Phil lifted his arm, his chin went up and he snapped a firm salute. Tassie and Maxie saluted also. Following Phil’s lead they bowed their heads, each making a silent prayer.

  Tom found he’d been holding his breath and as he let out a long sigh he realised he hadn’t taken a photo. He slipped the camera back in his pocket. The three men began to walk around the memorial, pointing in the direction from where the first shots of the battle had rung out. Phil was looking around, talking and remembering. Tom heard him chuckle and slowly walked from the trees to join them.

  ‘G’day, Phil. Glad you decided to come,’ said Tom, reaching out to shake Phil’s hand and give his shoulder a warm squeeze.

  ‘Yeah. Reckon you had a lot to do with this,’ said Phil. ‘Didn’t think I’d make it. But Maxie pulled a lot of strings to get the paperwork through.’

  ‘Phil was on the plane before he knew it,’ grinned Tassie. ‘I’m Tassie Watts, old mate of Phil’s. We spoke.’

  ‘I recognised you.’

  Tassie laughed, knowing that Tom was alluding to his kidnapping of Col Joye. ‘Bet you’re getting a story or two today.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. But I’d say the best story is seeing you here, Phil. Does Sandy know you’re here?’

  ‘Nah, unless she’s got an email from Pat. We’ll catch up.’ Phil appeared more interested in walking around the plantation, looking for familiar landmarks, than he was in the whereabouts of his daughter.

  Maxie drew out an envelope filled with photos and the men pored over them. There were men posing outside their tents, a haul of enemy weapons, enjoying a beer at the R and C base in Vung Tau. Phil began recalling stories of Shorty and Sting and the ‘Boot Camp’. Tassie hummed the Nancy Sinatra hit ‘These Boots Were Made for Walking’.

  Tom took out his notebook and began to write.

  By the time they left the plantation it was nearly dark. Tom joined them in Tassie’s four-wheel drive and they headed to The Strangled Cow to join Cranky and the rest of the men. Phil continued to talk and reminisce, pent-up memories and stories pouring from him.

  The stopper was out of the bottle, thought Tom. While he was here and with those who’d been there too, Phil felt safe. They shared a common language of experiences and camaraderie. How would Phil cope and adjust back on his own at home, wondered Tom.

  Later, as the level of noise rose with the consumption of alcohol, Tom took Maxie aside and asked the chaplain for his impressions of Phil and what lay ahead.

  ‘I’ve seen this before, that’s for sure,’ said Maxie. ‘He’ll hit a low not long after he gets back. He’ll need the support of mates back at home for a bit. Help him readjust and accept. That should have happened when the men first got home years ago,’ he added. ‘Most coped with picking up their lives. Many, like Phil, didn’t. There’s a tribe of them at home, living on pills, dealing with nightmares, sleepless nights, broken marriages. But there’s more help now.’

  ‘Counselling, support groups?’ said Tom.

  ‘Yes. But nothing beats the help the men give each other. Phil should go to one of the vets’ bush camps.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Scattered round the country now. In more remote and unspoiled areas. It’s a network of places that have sprung up led by Vietnam veterans but they welcome veterans from all wars. Places to chill out, take time out, share stuff. It’d be good for Phil. There’s one called Cockscomb in the hinterland of the Queensland Capricorn coast. It would help Phil settle in at home, knowing there’s a place he can go when he needs to.’

  ‘Sounds bloody terrific. You could chat to him about it. When the time’s right,’ said Tom, glancing over to where Phil was getting happily drunk.

  The following morning Phil, Maxie and Tom were having a quiet talk over very strong coffees when Tom asked Maxie how he had been able to persuade Phil to come to the ceremony.

  Maxie glanced at Phil. ‘Why don’t you tell him, Phil?’

  Phil was quiet for a moment, then said, ‘It was you and Tassie showing up. We went to the pub and started talking. Figured I needed a bit of support, I guess. For the first time I could tell someone how I felt. The guilt.’

  ‘Guilt?’ prompted Tom.

  ‘Yeah, that I didn’t die.’ His face crumpled slightly with the painful memory. ‘My best mate was blown up in front of me; he was the forward scout. Bits of Gordon just suddenly flew through the air. He was right in front of me when it happened. Next thing all hell broke loose when we were hit by the VC. I couldn’t go back for him because the VC were everywhere but I’ve always felt I should have done something. Why him? Should’ve been me.’

  Maxie touched Phil’s arm. ‘Nothing you could do, mate. But pray. Gordon wouldn’t blame you. Guilt: get rid of it.’

  ‘Plenty of men feel just as you do, Phil,’ said Tom.

  Phil drew a deep breath. ‘Well, I’m glad I came. Felt I owed it to them all. But I’m ready to go home.’

  Cranky drove Tom and Meryl up the hill above Vung Tau to a simple residential suburb of modest homes that had great views over the bay. His wife greeted them at the door and they shook hands.

  ‘We’re having a barbecue out the back. Too many of us to fit around the table.’ She smiled.

  A handsome boy of about ten raced out to greet them.

  ‘This is my son, Dzung,’ said Cranky proudly. ‘Keeps me young and fit.’

  Tom shook hands with the boy, who led him outside. ‘You like football?’ Dzung asked.

  ‘I follow a team in Sydney. What game do you play?’

  ‘Soccer,’ came the prompt reply. ‘Dad’s one of the coaches.’ Then in Vietnamese he introduced Tom and Meryl to his family. Turning to Tom, he said, ‘This is Aunty Bao; my cousins, Dinh and Hanh; and this is my great-uncle, Trong.’

  Tom shook hands with the Vietnamese man with white hair and smiling eyes. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  Trong didn’t speak English, so his young great-nephew translated for him. ‘I am glad to know you. Are you a veteran of the American war?’

  ‘No. I was in Nui Dat in the war writing for the newspapers and radio.’

  When he heard this the old man nodded. ‘I too was in Nui Dat.’ He straightened. ‘D445 Regional Force Battalion.’

  Cranky came and joined them. ‘Is Dzung doing the honours? He’s a good lad.’ He ruffled the boy’s hair and sent him to fetch fresh drinks. ‘Trong was out there. At Long Tan. Part of a small group of local VC. He’s told me how they were joined by a big mob from the north – regular army along with other VC units. We were bloody outnumbered ten to one.’

  The old VC fighter understood the gist of what Cranky was saying to Tom. Dutifully, Dzung, who’d returned with a tray of drinks, translated again. ‘Australians fought very hard even though outnumbered. They are good fighting men. Hard fighting men. After Long Tan, our commanders did not go near Phuoc Tuy.’

  Trong went on to explain how they lived in the tunnels and the forest, climbing trees, tapping out messages on tree trunks to alert their scouts to the movements of the Australian patrols. ‘Australian men good fighters, clever fighters. Like Vietnamese, fight jungle warfare.’

  ‘That’s a compliment, Tom,’ said Cranky.

  ‘How do you feel? Knowing your wife’s uncle was probably trying to shoot you back then?’

  Cranky shrugged. ‘We all do what we have to do. He and I are the old boys now. Everyone in the family looks up to us. They respect age and elders here,’ he smiled. ‘It’s nice. To Dzung, his great-uncle and his father might have fought on opposite sides but we are both men to respect.’

  Later, as they were getting ready for bed, Meryl commented, ‘What a nice family. That Dzung is a sweet boy. Though Cranky is old enough to be his grandfather, rather than his dad.’

  ‘Dzung has his old uncle. And he has Cranky. He loves them both. That’s where the hope for the future of
this country is. Be nice if we oldies got that sort respect in Australia.’

  The next day Tom and Meryl took a trip down the Mekong. Tom considered flying to Dalat to see if he could track down Sandy and Anna but there was no answer to his mobile phone messages so he concluded they were out of range.

  He and Meryl had a farewell drink with Father Maxie in Saigon.

  ‘I hope you’re planning to come back, Meryl,’ said Maxie.

  ‘There’s certainly a lot to see. Tom really wants to take me to Hanoi.’

  ‘Next trip. I’ve got to turn this story in and I want to touch base with Phil after he’s been home a couple of days,’ said Tom.

  ‘Be good if he’d get up and see Cockscomb. Kind of debrief. He’s been through a lot here,’ said Maxie.

  ‘Cleansing though, don’t you think?’ said Tom.

  ‘Hopefully so. But it can also bring a lot of repressed fears and anger to the surface – they should be dealt with in the appropriate way. The boys at the vets’ camps understand all this. I’ll make contact with them and have a yarn to Phil,’ said Maxie.

  In the plantation that had seen so much activity, all was quiet. A rubber tapper moved down the rows of trees, emptying the cups of the sticky white sap. A farmer shepherded a small herd of goats along the muddy roadside.

  At the memorial the stark white cross was without its plaque; wilted flowers and rain-soaked ribbons and cards – their sentiments now blurred – lay scattered. Long Tan plantation was empty.

  14

  ANNA DECIDED THE ROLLING lush hills of Dalat, with its old stone churches, colonial villas, misty lakes, flower-filled gardens and parks, was like walking into a picture book.

  ‘You can see why it was so popular as a summer retreat. A French physician started the move up here round 1920. I think the setting and some of the villas look Swiss,’ said Sandy, gazing over the lake from their hotel window. ‘It’s honeymoon heaven for someone from a crowded city like Saigon. And there are lots of tourist attractions.’

  ‘It’s lovely, but we didn’t come to sightsee,’ said Anna a little anxiously.

  ‘Let’s take a stroll anyway, get lunch and work out a plan,’ suggested Sandy reassuringly.

  They walked around the town admiring the buildings and the pretty parks, including an orchid garden famed for its blue orchids, and settled in a small but smart restaurant for lunch.

  ‘How are we going to get to my mother’s village?’ asked Anna as soon as they’d ordered.

  ‘We’ve a couple of options. Let me make some inquiries,’ answered Sandy, pointing to coloured flyers, a brochure and some business cards she had put on the table. ‘I’m onto it.’

  After flicking through the brochure highlighting the lakes, treks and unusual attractions of Dalat, Anna wished she was just a tourist. Now she was worried that they wouldn’t find anyone connected with her family, or anyone who had known them. And nervous that they might. Would they remember the teenage girl Thu and her brother Van after all this time?

  Walking back to their hotel, Anna stopped. ‘Hey, smell that.’

  ‘Gum trees!’ exclaimed Sandy. She pointed to a valley. ‘Yes, they planted eucalyptus trees after all the deforestation during the war. They grow quickly. The Australian government has given heaps of them to Vietnam.’

  ‘Reminds me of home,’ said Anna.

  They passed a cafe and Anna was amused to see some local boys dressed as American cowboys hanging around. They waved and called out, offering to pose with the two women for a photo. Several other young men lounged at outdoor tables in the shade sipping the local coffee. Parked beside them was a variety of polished motorbikes. They all wore red-and-blue windcheater jackets with a small insignia on them.

  One got to his feet, and beckoned them with a big smile. ‘You want a tour of Dalat and all around?’ he offered. ‘Good price, good time. We’re Easy Riders, the real thing.’ He held out a photo album.

  Sandy stopped. ‘That’s it! Of course.’

  ‘What! Are you nuts? I’m not going anywhere with a bunch of bikies,’ protested Anna.

  ‘Not just bikies – Easy Riders. They’re famous,’ said Sandy. ‘A group of English-speaking, charming, fun tour guides who take you off the beaten track . . . well, kind of.’ She strode up to the young man while his partner, an older man, stayed seated, his legs up on a plastic chair, smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper. ‘Hi, yes, we might be interested.’

  The young man held out his hand. ‘I’m Chip. You want to see sights of Dalat or go down to Hoi An? Saigon? To see the Montegnard tribe people?’

  ‘I’m Sandy. And this is Anna. We’re not tourists really. We’re looking for a village.’ Sandy showed him a small map with the village circled.

  Chip studied it, looking puzzled. ‘Nothing much down there. Getting close to the jungle. Wild country. Why you want to go there?’

  ‘We’re looking for Anna’s family. Her mother was born there.’

  ‘Ah!’ Chip was immediately interested. ‘Where you from?’ he asked Anna.

  ‘We’re from Australia.’

  ‘First time in Vietnam?’ he asked Anna.

  She nodded.

  ‘You like our country?’

  ‘Yes. Dalat is very beautiful.’

  ‘City of eternal spring. Always cool, always pretty,’ said Chip. ‘Except when it rains. Come and have coffee, very good coffee from a plantation down there.’ He waved towards the sloping green hills. ‘You meet my partner, Dun.’ He led them across the street. ‘Not his real name. Dunhill is his favourite cigarette.’

  Dun, the older man who’d been reading, dropped his feet from the chair, folded his newspaper, stood up and, taking off his granny glasses, gave them a big smile. Chip made the introductions, filling him in on where the girls wanted to go.

  ‘I’ve never been there. Not on tourist itinerary,’ he grinned.

  ‘That’s good. We like to find new places. No tourists: that’s Easy Rider way,’ said Chip.

  ‘So who are you?’ asked Anna, still not convinced that teaming up with two strangers on bikes was a sensible option.

  ‘Please, sit.’ Dun ordered coffees all round as Chip opened the album and began showing them photos and testimonials including letters and emails from previous customers. ‘We just started to do this with friends who had bikes and now we have over seventy Easy Riders. We make sure our guys are high-quality people. Our bikes are excellent condition. Other people try to be like Easy Riders, but not so good,’ explained Chip.

  ‘Can you ride a bike? Or go pillion passenger?’ asked Dun. ‘It will be a difficult road to get to where you want to go. Take long time.’

  ‘Really! Well, I can’t ride a bike on my own,’ exclaimed Anna.

  ‘Where will we stop? It sounds a bit remote,’ said Sandy.

  ‘We bring everything. Very simple. You have backpacks?’

  ‘No. And what are you going to charge for this?’

  Chip deferred to Dun, who thought for a moment. ‘This different, not usual way. Fifty dollars a day. US dollars. Each.’

  ‘Including food and accommodation?’ asked Sandy.

  Chip nodded. ‘I’m a good cook. I do Aussie barbecue.’

  ‘It’s a deal,’ said Sandy.

  Over coffee each man gave his potted life story. Dun’s was the more interesting. Now in his fifties, though he looked younger and very fit, he had once studied architecture but the communist government saw no call for his talent and he was forced to join the Vietnamese army in the invasion of Cambodia. After several years of fighting he was sent to East Berlin to become an industrial chemist.

  Dun shrugged. ‘What use to me is that? But I study hard and when the Berlin Wall go down I came back here and I work selling things, do some digging jobs. Then I meet the Easy Riders.’ He spread his arms as if to indicate that he’d found his life’s work.

  The four conferred a little more as Chip and Dun studied the map and suggestions were made as to what to take.

&
nbsp; ‘Would you like a quick tour around Dalat now? Free. No charge,’ said Dun. ‘Get used to the bike riding.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Anna. If this was the way they were going into the wilds of Vietnam, with two strangers on the back of motorbikes, then the sooner she got used to it, the better.

  Sandy travelled with Dun. Anna cautiously got on the back of Chip’s Russian Minsk motorcycle, which he kept polished and talked to like a favourite pet. They were whisked around the city and the popular tourist spots of Hang Nga guesthouse, with its eccentric rooms, the Valley of Love, the Lake of Sorrows and Xuan Huong Lake, the modest summer palace of the last emperor, Bao Dai, with its décor frozen in the 1950s, as he had left it. They were also taken to the Lam Ty Ni pagoda but declined to buy a painting from its solitary monk, who had, Dun said, painted over a hundred thousand pictures. They loved the flowers, bonsai and parks scattered throughout Dalat.

  Anna began to relax and stopped clutching Chip in a death grip. They ended up at the central markets.

  ‘We buy food; you look around: nice walkway around the markets,’ said Dun. He grinned at Anna. ‘You okay on the bike now?’

  ‘Yes. But I’m wondering about all the things we have to take with us.’

  ‘We borrow backpacks for you, okay?’

  ‘Sure, that’ll be fine,’ said Sandy. ‘I suppose we’ll be riding most of the day?’

  ‘Yes, we stop when you need to and when we find good places. You will see beautiful waterfalls, if you want to take a picture, you tell me,’ Chip said to Anna. ‘Though we cannot take you tomorrow morning because we are already committed to some French tourists’.

  Anna clearly looked disappointed.

  ‘But, hey, we could go as soon as we have finished with them. Not too long to wait.’

  So Sandy handed over money for supplies and they all agreed to meet at Sandy and Anna’s hotel after lunch the next day.