White Christmas in Saigon

by Margaret Pemberton

  Ricky stared at him in disbelief. ‘Jesus H. Christ!’ he said at last. ‘Someone should tell the fuckers in Washington what the hell’s been going on here and get us the hell out! If the South Vietnamese want to vote a Communist government into power, let them. They probably won’t like it when they get it, but I sure as hell won’t be losing any sleep over it!’.

  Kyle grinned, amused by the passionate outrage in Ricky’s voice. ‘Me either,’ he said. ‘It’s your throw, buddy.’

  By the time radio instructions were received detailing them to continue to the original landing zone, Ricky had lost his first month’s pay.

  ‘I’ll get it back, you bastard, next time we meet,’ he said good-naturedly as he began to walk toward the Huey’s open door. ‘I was just lulling you into a sense of false security this time, that’s all.’

  Kyle had grinned, pulling on his flight helmet and pocketing the bucks. It was okay with him if Ricky wanted to lose a month’s pay every time they met. Hell, he was doing him a favour. If he lost all his money at cards he wouldn’t have any to spend on booze and whores!

  When they flew into the original landing zone, it was cold and they were given no explanation for their four-hour standoff.

  ‘Have fun!’ Kyle yelled to Ricky as he leapt to the ground with his companions. ‘Good luck!’

  Over the roar of the rotor blades Ricky acknowledged the good wishes, raising his M-16 high into the air and grinning broadly before turning and following his platoon leader into the bush.

  They were still in the air, returning to base, when the intercom clicked and they were ordered to fly the hell back. A member of the platoon had been killed and two injured by a Bouncing Betty. Kyle had flinched. Bouncing Bettys were bastards. Land mines that were triggered off by a careless step, and which, when triggered, jumped four or five feet before exploding, spraying down and out, bringing apocalypse not to the guy who had triggered it, but to those ahead of him or behind him.

  ‘They need a dust off, not us,’ Chuck had yelled into the

  intercom. ‘We don’t have a medic!’

  ‘You’re only a minute away from them, and there’s a medic with the platoon. He’ll fly back with you to the nearest field hospital. Now, git!’

  ‘I hope that fucker Ricky is okay,’ Kyle said as they began to bank steeply. ‘Did I tell you he’s going to play for the Patriots when his tour is over?’

  Men were running towards them, carrying the injured in ponchos. Before their skids touched the ground, Kyle caught a glimpse of bright red hair. ‘Jesus,’ he muttered fiercely. ‘Don’t let it be him! Don’t let it be him!’

  As Chuck landed the Huey, Kyle leapt to the ground, running towards the first of the injured men. The bright red hair was plastered dark with blood. His pants had either been blasted off him or had been torn off him by the medic. One leg had been ripped from its socket, leaving a bloody and twitching stump, and where his balls and penis should have been there was nothing but scraps of torn and twisted flesh.

  His eyes were wide and frantic as they met Kyle’s. ‘My legs!’ he screamed, stretching his hands out towards him. ‘Dear Christ, my legs!’

  Kyle was retching, tears pouring down his face as he helped to lift Ricky aboard the Huey.

  ‘Don’t leave me!’ Ricky screamed at him, and then there was a hideous gurgling sound and his head fell back, blood gushing from his nose and his mouth.

  Kyle remembered nothing of the desperate flight to the field hospital. He knew that Ricky was dead, and though the other injured man was still alive, he neither knew what his injuries were nor cared.

  For the first time since he had been in ’Nam, the war had reached out and touched him. It had become real. Ricky’s blood smeared his hands and his fatigues. There was a scrap of skin on his sleeve. He had been going to play for the Patriots. He was going to be a pro football player. He had promised to win back the money Kyle had won from him the next time they met.

  As they lost height and began to descend toward the field hospital, Kyle began to shake. A thousand years ago a numbnut kid with his brain and his body had thought that war was glamorous. He didn’t think so now. As the Huey came in to land he leaned out over the ground skimming beneath him and vomited. If he lived to be a hundred, se help him, he would never think so again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Gavin’s emotions were still torn when he landed at Tan Son Nhut airport, countless hours later. He was coiled as tight as a spring with nervous energy and anticipation for the job that lay ahead of him, though he was agonized at leaving Gabrielle behind when she needed him. Most of all he was devastated by the knowledge that he wouldn’t see his newborn son again for months, possibly even a year.

  A grin of exhilaration touched his mouth as he thought of le petit Gavin. It had never occurred to him that when the baby was born it would dive into the World complete with its own little personality, a personality so individual and engaging that Gavin was certain he would be able to single him out even if he were in a room with a score of other, equally newborn babies. He was going to miss le petit Gavin. He was going to miss him almost as much as he was going to miss Gabrielle.

  A blast of hot air hit his face as he stepped from the plane, so scorching in intensity that it temporarily robbed him of breath. He looked out over a vista of sandbags and barbed wire to where military airplanes shimmered and danced in the heat. There were big-bellied C-130 transports, Phantoms, Air Force 707s, and helicopters and beyond them were long, low buildings that he presumed were also military. After over a year of waiting, he was actually here in Vietnam. He walked down the flight stairs, carrying his only piece of luggage, a nylon zip-up bag, over his shoulder, pinching himself to make sure that he was not dreaming.

  The sandbags and barbed wire gave the airport a look of Security, but Gavin knew that only two months before the Viet Cong had launched a daring and devastating attack here.

  Gavin walked quickly towards the elderly Vietnamese man holding up a sign with the name Gavin Ryan written on it. The heat was suffocating and moist, and in the few seconds since he had left the airplane’s airconditioned interior, he had perspired so much that his shirt was damp beneath the armpits. He followed the Vietnamese across the tarmac towards a battered old Renault, wondering how on earth he was going to survive his cab ride.

  The news bureau offices were in Tu Do Street, only a short walk from the Continental, where he intended to stay.

  ‘But no one there now,’ the driver said to him, vying for road space amid a battalion of bicycles and pedicabs and tri-Lambrettas. ‘Siesta time. When sun so hot, no one works.’

  Gavin was relieved to hear it. At least it indicated that the heat wasn’t always so stultifying. ‘Then would you mind dropping me off at the Continental?’ he asked as they sped over a narrow bridge, narrowly missing a group of labourers in black pyjamas and women carrying water on coolie poles.

  The driver nodded, entering the city’s broad, tree-lined streets. ‘Behind those trees is Le Cercle Sportif,’ he said informatively. ‘Very nice club for Europeans. Very exclusive.’ He veered left, the sea of bicycles surrounding them as dense as ever. ‘This is Tu Do Street.’

  Gavin could see the large red-brick Catholic cathedral that marked its beginning, and, several blocks down on his right-hand side, he could glimpse the gleam of the Saigon River, where it ended.

  In front of him, in the square itself, was the shabby grandeur of the Continental, and on the other corner of the square was the taller, more modern façade of the Caravelle Hotel.

  ‘Thanks,’ Gavin said as he opened the Renault’s door and stepped into the Street. He reached for his wallet, but the man shook his head.

  ‘No. The bureau pay me to pick you up. No money thank you.’

  Gavin grinned and hoisted his bag on to his shoulder.

  When the sun had lost its ferocity, Gavin walked the short distance from the hotel to the newspaper’s office. The bureau chief, Paul Dulles, was a middle-aged and ra
ther elegant Frenchman, and though he was politely welcoming Gavin sensed that he was dubious about having a suspiciously young-looking twenty-four-year-old Australian on his staff.

  ‘—and so all news is centred on the Buddhists’ demands that Premier Ky resign and that a civilian government be elected into power,’ he said, thawing a little when he discovered that Gavin’s French, though uniquely accented, was fluent enough for them to converse.

  He perched on the corner of his desk, one foot swinging negligently. ‘It’s a lulu of a situation. Ky triggered it off by dismissing one of his former buddies. General Nguyen Chanh Thi. Thi always enjoyed the support of the Buddhists, and within days of his dismissal outraged Buddhists were streaming into the streets of Da Nang and Hue, demanding that Ky resign and that the country return to a civilian government.’

  He paused, reaching out for a nearby bottle of Scotch, lifting it queryingly towards Gavin. ‘Will join me? There are glasses in the cupboard behind you.’

  Gavin did as he was asked, amused to discover that the glasses in question were hand-cut crystal, not the chipped all-purpose glasses usually to be found in bureau offices.

  ‘And it wasn’t only Buddhists who took to the streets,’ Paul continued, sipping his whisky. ‘Government troops to had been under Thi’s command joined them. It began to look as if the South was on the verge of civil war, with one half of the South Vietnamese army fighting the other half, and the Buddhist faction growing increasingly hostile towards the Americans.’

  His foot continued to swing languidly, revealing striking purple socks. ‘Ky dispatched two thousand troops to Da Nang and successfully quelled it, but in the process hundreds of rebel troops and countless Buddhists and civilians were killed. Now he needs to bring Hue to heel. When you’ve got yourself accredited, I’d like you to go up there. The Buddhist leader is Tri Quang, he’s a bonze, which is the same thing as being a priest. I’d like to know what sort of a government it is that he wants, and who he would like to see leading it.’

  ‘How do I get to Hue?’ Gavin asked.

  ‘With great difficulty!’ Paul said with a flash of humour. ‘Normally, once you’re accredited, you travel by army helicopter. At the moment the Americans are steering clear of Da Nang and Hue, so you’ll have to either drive up there or go by local bus.’

  Gavin grinned. It was obvious what the setup was going to be. Paul would stay snugly in Saigon while he, Gavin, covered all the assignments in the less comfortable parts of the country. He didn’t mind. It was the less comfortable parts of the country that he was interested in.

  ‘Come on,’ Paul said, slipping from the desk. ‘Let’s get you accredited. Until we’ve done that, you can’t go anywhere. Have you got a couple of spare passport photographs with you?’

  Gavin nodded, and the two men strolled out into the still-strong sunlight. The square, and the Street leading of it, were as crowded and as noisy as they had been when Gavin had arrived.

  Paul led the way into JUSPAO, the Joint United State Public Affairs Office. ‘All American military announcements are made here,’ he said. ‘At eight o’clock every morning they put out a three or four-page press statement, and every afternoon at five they hold a full press conference.’

  ‘The Five O’Clock Follies?’ Gavin asked, remembering what he had been told in Paris.

  Paul’s lopsided grin was in evidence again. ‘You’ve heard about them?’ he asked. ‘Whenever you’re in Saigon, it will be your responsibility to cover them. If a big story breaks, don’t waste time by hurrying back to the office with it. Phone it through. In this game, seconds count.’

  They walked into one of the countless offices, and a tough-looking marine gunnery sergeant thrust a couple of forms towards them. Minutes later, after handing over his passport photographs, Gavin possessed a little plastic-coated accreditation card that confirmed he was a member of the Vietnam press corps and that his priority for travel aboard US military aircraft was equivalent to that of an American major.

  ‘Phew!’ Gavin whistled as they walked back through the maze of corridors to the entrance. ‘That’s quite impressive, isn’t it? I hadn’t reckoned on becoming a major overnight!’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Paul said dismissively. ‘They give journalists the rank of major in case they’re captured by the Viet Cong.’

  ‘Why? What difference will being a major make?’

  ‘Very little, I imagine,’ Paul said dryly. ‘But it is fondly presumed that officers will be treated with more respect than enlisted men. However, as the Viet Cong will also presume that an officer will be in possession of officer-level information, I find it a little disconcerting. Their methods for making people talk are not very refined. Especially if the poor bugger in question has no information to give!’

  Gavin grimaced. ‘No, it wouldn’t be very nice,’ he agreed, ‘but I wouldn’t have thought there was much risk of a journalist being taken prisoner. Surely the only prisoners being taken are pilots who are shot down during bombing raids over the North?’

  Paul gave a Gallic shrug of his shoulders. ‘They are most at risk, I agree, but American intelligence is pretty sure that some men who are listed as missing in action are being kept prisoner in the U-Minh forest, and in the border areas between South Vietnam and Cambodia and Laos.’

  ‘Where is the U-Minh forest?’ Gavin asked curiously as they strolled down a small side Street and back into Tu Do Street.

  ‘It’s a godforsaken, snake-ridden, Viet Cong-controlled tract of land deep in the Delta, where the Saigon military don’t venture,’ Paul said, waving his hand in greeting as a pretty European girl on a Lambretta called out his name.

  ‘And do you think it’s true?’ Gavin persisted, intrigued. ‘Do you think men are being held prisoner there?’

  Again Paul shrugged. ‘Who knows? There are certainly enough pilots being held in the North. We received reports of two more who were shot down last month and who have been classified as POWs, a Lieutenant Robert Peel and a Major Lawrence Guarino.‘

  Gavin was silent for a few minutes as they walked along the crowded street, past sidewalk cafés, where tables and chairs were shaded from the sun by gaily striped awnings. ‘It’s against the rules of the Geneva Convention,’ he said at last.

  Paul turned towards him, his brows rising high. ‘Merde! I had no idea you were a lawyer as well as a journalist.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Gavin said with a grin. ‘I just have a talent for remembering odd nuggets of information. According to Article Nineteen of the Geneva Convention, prisoners of war may not be held in combat zones. And even if the Saigon military don’t venture into the U Minh, it’s still slap in the, middle of a combat zone, isn’t it?’

  ‘I take it you’ve done quite a bit of boning up on the situation out here?’ Paul said, leading the way into a café that was blessedly quiet.

  ‘A little.’ Gavin grinned as he thought of the long hours of conversation about Vietnam with Gabrielle and Vanh. He patted his shirt’s breast pocket and the piece of paper with Nhu’s address on crackled reassuringly. Vanh had insisted that he visit Nhu immediately after he arrived in Saigon, and Gavin had promised that he would do so. However, now that he was here, he felt oddly reluctant to keep his promise.

  Even though he had been in the city only a few hours, he realized there was very little fraternization between the Europeans living in the city and the Vietnamese – except for encounters between the bar girls and the soldiers, and between the shoeshine boys and taxidrivers and waiters and their clients. Any visit he made to a non-European part of the city would be glaringly conspicuous and one that might make things difficult for Nhu.

  Paul had ordered two beers and Gavin picked up his ice-cold glass, drinking gratefully. He would postpone his visit to Nhu until his return from Hue. By then he would have a better feel for things.

  Later that evening he met the other two members of the news bureau’s staff. Lestor McDermott was a tall, bespectacled French-Canadian, slightly older than him
self, and Jimmy Giddings was an American of unknown age who had been covering wars before either of his colleagues had been born.

  ‘The difficulty with being a news-agency reporter in a war like this,’ Jimmy Giddings said to him as the four men sat over drinks on the terrace at the Continental, ‘is that ninety-nine per cent of the time we’re tied to reporting announcements. That is what the powers-that-be want, goddamn them. They don’t want opinions and they don’t want anything that deviates from what other news agencies are printing.’

  ‘Surely it’s different for out-of-town assignments? Situations that we report firsthand?’

  Jimmy shook his head cynically. ‘If you’re thinking that you can trip off to Hue and file a report describing what you’ve seen there, and then have that report printed verbatim in the newspapers the bureau feeds, you’re in for a disappointment. Only the big guys, guys with regular by-lines in The New York Times and the Washington Post and the Daily Telegraph can get away with having what they write treated as holy writ. We lesser mortals have to suffer having firsthand reports emasculated and reworded by our respective world-desk editors.’

  ‘Depressing, huh?’ Lestor said to Gavin with a wink. ‘But I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. Rolling out of bed each day to attend the Follies is far more comfortable than trawling the countryside, risking your life for a scoop that some pencil-wielding bastard on the world desk will reduce to three lines.’

  They all laughed, and Paul, noticing the ring that Gavin wore, asked about his wife.

  Gavin had no desire to talk about Gabrielle to men who did not know her and who would not be able to even begin to imagine how wonderful she was. What would their response have been if he’d told them she was half Vietnamese? And that her uncle was a major in the North Vietnamese Army?