Monsoon (43 page)

‘So Vietnam is becoming a more affluent country, even though it's still a communist one,' said Meryl.

‘Ah, now there's the rub,' said Tom. ‘Becoming so prosperous might bring its own troubles again in the future. We shall watch this space with interest.'

‘I'm looking at the space over there where the restaurant is,' said Meryl. ‘What are we doing for dinner?'

‘I'm taking you out to a swish restaurant in town. Get your glad rags on,' said Tom. ‘Two more days and I have to head to Long Tan.'

Tom made contact with Cranky and Baz from the Aussie vets group and they arranged for him to meet some of the early arrivals for the commemoration. Cranky picked Tom up at the Best Beach Resort and drove him the forty minutes down to Nui Dat.

‘So, is it all coming together?' asked Tom.

‘Ah, the usual bun fight. We hate it when the pollies and bureaucrats get involved. And once you've got media and bigwigs coming over who all want their share of the limelight to justify their trip to the folks back home . . .' He made a throat-slitting gesture. ‘They want to start the ceremony at a time to suit them; the vets all want it to start at the time the battle started – three-forty pm. We'll just do our own thing, I reckon. Do you want to go and have a look at the memorial before the shindig and hoopla on the day?'

‘Yeah, I would,' said Tom suddenly. He hadn't planned this but it now appealed to him, to pay his respects quietly and privately. ‘How do we do that?'

‘I'll call ahead and set it up. In the meantime, how about we run around the area, go over to meet some of the blokes who've already arrived at The Strangled Cow for lunch?'

‘Excellent idea. Sure you can spare the time?'

‘Yep. I'm one of the designated media-minders.' He grinned.

They drove in Cranky's old four-wheel drive along the rutted red dirt road past fields and plantations, pulling over to let a farmer with a herd of goats pass. Tom was quiet, recalling the very different landscape this now peaceful terrain presented when he'd flown in forty years before. The outline of the hill caused him to catch his breath as they drove up to where the helicopter pad had been. They got out and walked over to the patchy square of bitumen that remained.

‘Luscombe Field airstrip has gone, all fields now,' said Cranky, pointing. ‘Some of the vegetation has come back. Not like the areas that were hit with Agent Orange: they still look like a bleeding moonscape. Natural forests never came back.'

‘Hard to believe it all happened,' said Tom softly, slowly turning a full circle to take in the view. He sensed that the land was still feeling the agony of the past, those years when a new style of warfare had inflicted such lasting scars on the land and its people. To mask his sadness he drew a deep breath. ‘Right, let's push on.'

They drove to the site of the base where two lonely gateposts stood as a remnant of what had been a centre of intense activity.

‘You know we built the camp hospital over a Viet Cong tunnel complex,' said Cranky. ‘Tunnels went for bloody miles. One of the old VC fellas told me they felt safe here as there wasn't artillery fire.' Cranky smiled. ‘I had a bit of a quiet get-together with some of the VC who were operating round here. My mate Stretch came along, six foot four he is and none of the VC blokes were over five foot. They laughed and asked Stretch, “How'd we miss hitting you?”'

‘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.