Monsoon (13 page)

Tom Ahearn waved from a table to one side where he'd managed to hold several empty seats. An older western man with a younger Vietnamese woman were seated with him. The table next to them was filled with Sandy's friends from HOPE.

Barney, big shouldered, flushed face, his clipped moustache speckled with drops of perspiration, hurried to the girls. ‘Howdy, Sandy. You're popular: you've got two tables – Kim and the HOPE lot and your pal Tom.'

‘You'll have to table hop,' grinned Anna. ‘Quite a gang here.'

‘Miss Huong and Charlie Ralston are here,' said Barney.

‘Great, that Charlie is quite a character,' said Sandy.

She was swept into the HOPE group as they pushed the two tables together. Anna sat opposite Tom who introduced her to Charlie and Miss Huong

‘Charlie runs a pretty famous gallery here and Miss Huong is his business partner and curator. Sounds like they have a very impressive collection,' said Tom.

‘Where do you find things for your gallery?' Anna asked Miss Huong.

‘I source them from all over the country: ethnic minority villages, the hill tribes. At present I'm searching out some pieces for a New York gallery and their representative Mr Rick Dale.'

‘I met Rick at an art show earlier,' said Anna. ‘It's quite a coincidence.'

‘Not really – Hanoi can be a small place even with four million people,' said Charlie.

Barney took orders and relayed them to Lai behind the bar, who looked as cool and calm as he was flustered.

‘Barney's short handed,' commented Tom. ‘Reckons he should be socialising with the customers.'

‘Arguing, more like it,' said Charlie. ‘There's always some debate going on now Australian vets are trekking in here more and more. Barney was a draft dodger: didn't believe the war was justified. Doesn't always endear him to some of the veterans.'

‘What about you? Did you get out here during the war years?' Tom asked Charlie.

‘I was a medico. In the last years of that mess. But it gave me a taste of the Orient. I found private practice a bit tame so I made a career of working abroad wherever I could. Was in some pretty primitive areas . . . that's where my interest in tribal art started.'

‘How long have you been here in Hanoi?'

‘Once the kids were at college my wife and I decided to leave New York and live abroad and get serious about my collecting. Came here in 1991 and came back to stay in 1995. Then I met Miss Huong and she persuaded me to start a business.'

‘He was retired, had a house overflowing with thousands of objects – thought he was a collector, but I said he was a dealer,' said Miss Huong with a smile.

‘I didn't know what I was doing. Miss Huong is the business brains and she has the best eye in the country, too. Trouble is, I never want to part with the things she finds.'

Anna was intrigued. ‘When you were here during the war, were you interested in Vietnamese history or art or anything?'

Charlie gave her a smile. ‘Funnily enough, I was. I got to fly into villages to treat civilians and that was where I first saw a lot of ethnic minorities and their tribal pieces – grave carvings, shamanic objects. Hard to come by stuff like that now.'

Kim stopped by the table and caught Anna's eye. ‘Want to swap places? The office group wanted to say farewell to Sandy in a more informal way.'

‘No, I'm fine; you all carry on. I'm being entertained here. I'll squeeze by the table in a little while.'

‘What about you, Tom? Were you here in the war?' asked Charlie.

‘I was a journalist and radio correspondent down Saigon way from sixty-five,' answered Tom. ‘Hung out with the Australian forces at Nui Dat a fair bit, but managed to see quite a lot of the country in the south.'

‘So, you on a nostalgia trip? Like so many are doing now?'

Tom paused. ‘You might say that. Not so much a personal odyssey though. I'm doing a bit of a look-see for an old newspaper editor friend. He thought I might like to cover a reunion of the boys who were at the battle of Long Tan, a big Aussie rout of the Viet Cong that's never really been properly acknowledged. It's the fortieth anniversary coming up.'

‘I know about Long Tan,' said Barney, who'd joined them. ‘Often have some of the diggers who were there come through these days. I know a couple of Aussie guys who now live at Vung Tau.'

Tom's interest was instantly aroused but Anna jumped in, saying, ‘Sandy's dad was at Long Tan, I think.'

Tom swung his attention to Anna. ‘Really? Now that's very interesting. Wonder if he's coming over for the anniversary.'

‘I don't think so. It's the John Cleese rule at her folks' place – “Don't mention the war”.'

Tom was thoughtful and glanced over to where Sandy was laughing with her ex-workmates. ‘I'll have a yarn to her about that later.'

‘So, you covering this anniversary from a personal or professional viewpoint?' asked Charlie.

Tom gave a grin and finished his beer. ‘Seems it might be a bit of both. I was in the area at the time. Anyway, I thought I'd come and see what'd become of the country since the war. I never got up here to the north, of course. I reckon the Long Tan reunion will be a good story.'

Anna leaned forward. ‘You know, Tom, my dad has always said that Sandy's dad, Phil, should come back. However, I don't know if he's coming. Talk to Sandy.'

‘I'll do that.' Tom paused as if to raise something with Anna but thought better of it. ‘It's past my bedtime. You party on. Nice to meet you, Charlie. Miss Huong, after what you've told me, I'd like to see your gallery.' Tom shook hands with Charlie and Miss Huong, then dropped his hand on Anna's shoulder. ‘How about I treat you and Sandy to coffee tomorrow?'

‘Great. See you here – not too early, Tom,' laughed Anna.

Tom hailed a cyclo and gave directions to his hotel. He sat back in the balmy night air as the driver weaved through the less frenetic traffic on streets lit by ribbons of coloured lights strung outside late-night shops and eateries. It was so peaceful, calm, non-threatening. Not for the first time in recent days he reflected how at home he felt in Asia. Even though his home was in Sydney, he'd always enjoyed assignments in Singapore, Japan, Indonesia and Far Eastern countries.

He imagined Saigon, now called Ho Chi Minh City, was even more bustling than Hanoi. He'd read so much about it as a tourist Mecca bursting with capitalist energy rather than the communist ideology that had once dominated the north. Hanoi was full of surprises and he was enjoying the city immensely, but he looked forward to going back to Saigon, the city he had known early in the war after the Americans and their allies put in hundreds of thousands of troops to combat the Viet Cong guerrilla army and regular army units that infiltrated down the Ho Chi Minh trail from the north.

Tom paid the driver and nodded to the concierge.

‘Good evening, Mr Ahearn. Have a pleasant evening?'

‘Indeed. Thank you.'

It was a modest but smart hotel and Tom saw that the main bar was packed with international guests. For a moment he was tempted to join them for a nightcap, but dismissed the idea. He felt really tired.

In bed he tried to sleep, but memories were stirring. Yes, he would ask Barney for the names of the Aussie vets living at Vung Tau. Names and faces swirled in his head. He'd definitely talk to Sandy about her father, too.

As he slowly dozed off to the gentle hum of the air conditioner, his mind suddenly focused on a name . . . Phil Donaldson, Sandy's old man. Something stirred deep in his memory . . . that name. But he rolled over and was sleeping before his mind completed the memory search. Other images took over in dreams that made for a restless night.

Saigon, 1965

‘Attention, all passengers. We are approaching Tan Son Nhut Airport in Saigon. Please fasten your seatbelts. Our descent to the airport will be a little steeper than you are probably used to on commercial flights elsewhere, but please do not worry about it. The procedure is actually designed to enhance your safety. Cabin staff, please check and prepare for landing.'

Tom Ahearn closed his book on the history of Vietnam that had absorbed him since taking off from Singapore, checked his seatbelt and looked out of the window at the landscape far below.

‘What the bloody hell am I doing here?' he asked himself, knowing that the odd landing procedure was designed to make it harder for Viet Cong snipers in the jungle to score a hit.

Only a couple of weeks ago he had been leading a great life in Singapore building up a good reputation for delivering to editors back in Sydney and Melbourne a steady flow of stories about the island state and its multiracial neighbour, Malaysia. There was the occasional serious piece looking at the minor but long-running hunt for a handful of communist guerrillas hanging out in the hills of Malaya, but covering a real war had not been on Tom's agenda. Then suddenly Australia had boosted its military presence in South Vietnam from advisors to a full-on infantry battalion, with more on the way.

The First Battalion Royal Australian Regiment had just arrived and were settling in alongside the also newly arrived American Rangers of 173rd Airborne Regiment at Bien Hoa, near Saigon. And up the coast at Danang some four thousand US Marines were setting up camp. Tom's editors back home wanted coverage of the escalation.

So, no more tennis sessions with mates at the Tanglin Club in Singapore for a while.

As they bounced down the runway, there was a lighthearted cheer from the passengers. Tom looked at the strange scene that rolled past as they headed for the terminal – a seemingly endless sprawl of military aircraft of all kinds, scores of military vehicles going in all directions and great long lines of new buildings for storing the tools of war that were pouring into the country. He knew that from this airfield planes were delivering a massive aerial bombing assault on North Vietnam: Operation Rolling Thunder.

In the terminal there was utter chaos as hundreds of men in uniform mixed with hundreds of civilian passengers in a scramble for luggage and taxis. He was glad to reach the Caravelle Hotel in the centre of Saigon. One of his tennis mates from Singapore, Neil Davis, an Australian cameraman for an international TV news agency, had booked him a room. Neil had an office in Saigon and a flat in Singapore to which he retreated for ‘R and R', rest and recuperation. Neil loved the war as any reporter loves a good story. It gave him a big buzz, but he never dropped his guard and he knew all the tricks of survival in the jungles and the paddy fields of the war-torn country. He had become something of a legend in the process.

The desk staff at the Caravelle apologised when Tom checked in. His room wasn't ready; the staff had yet to clean it. The previous occupant, another correspondent, had moved out only that morning, heading for Singapore.

‘She'll be right, mate,' said Tom.

‘Pardon, monsieur?' responded the booking clerk.

‘Forget it. Look, I'll just dump my gear in the room and go for coffee, okay.'

He went up to the second floor and found the room busy with cleaners who were all smiles and bows as he waved the key and told them in halting French that he would leave his gear and let them get on with their work. He opened the wardrobe and found a green canvas haversack on the floor. To his surprise it was half-full of ammunition. He looked at the leader of the cleaning team with a raised eyebrow.

‘Maybe you can use it, sir. The last man here had many guns.'

‘Did he now,' said Tom, a little puzzled that a non-serviceman should be in the arms business in some way. A pencil was all he wanted to carry into the field. ‘Okay. Thanks for the offer. I'll go for a walk and come back in an hour or so.'

‘Thank you, sir. So sorry,' replied the head cleaner.

Tom went back down to the front of the hotel and took in the scene across Lam Son Square. Nearby was the imposing white National Assembly building, empty of real democracy. And then a little way down Tu Do Street was the more inviting outdoor terrace of the Continental Hotel. Neil Davis had recommended the colonial-style Continental as a drinking hole so Tom headed there, hoping that a few drinks and lunch would lift his spirits.

He took his beer to a table with a good view of the street which was busy with a steady flow of motor scooters, usually with at least two people on board, often with two adults and two little kids. There didn't appear to be any road rules. The women overwhelmingly favoured the traditional ao-dai and wore large conical straw hats to protect their fair complexions.

Their beauty immediately captivated Tom. It wasn't as if he had limited experience of the feminine charms of Asian women. It was a year since he had sailed from Sydney to Japan to report on the Olympic Games in Tokyo. Before the Games he'd spent two months wandering the main islands of Japan taking in the culture and lifestyle of people in remote mountain villages as well as big cities. He'd had some tantalising affairs with a few Japanese women in Tokyo who were fluent in English and well established as ‘career ladies', an emerging force of university graduates who were breaking down the old and formidable barriers of discrimination.

After the Games he had drifted around Taiwan for a couple of weeks, which he'd found rather boring. Everyone was so intent on making money and regarded foreigners with suspicion.

Hong Kong was a better scene, even though the border with China was still like the Great Wall of China. You could look over the fence, but forget about trying to get in. He'd met some wild young Australians working for British companies in the colony, all intent on eating, drinking and screwing themselves into oblivion as often as possible. There was an endless supply of compliant women.

And then there was a swing through Thailand, the highlight of which was a memorable romance in Bangkok with a ‘liberated lady' who owned a shop selling fine Thai silks to locals and tourists at different prices. The tourists usually thought they got a good deal and no one disillusioned them. Tom got his silks for free. Got a free bed as well.