Monsoon (44 page)

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.

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.'