Monsoon (3 page)

‘Hey, we'll come with you. You right, love?' said Col, looking at Little Pattie, who nodded in agreement.

At the base hospital they did the rounds, sitting at bedsides, lighting a cigarette for the injured, yarning about home and families.

A harassed young doctor finally bore down on the party demanding they get the hell out of the hospital and announcing that the transport back to Saigon had been organised.

‘You could be bringing in an infection, for God's sake,' he declared angrily. ‘Please go.'

‘Ah, Doc, we're just having a yak, doing the men a bit of good, I reckon,' protested Col.

He found Little Pattie holding the hand of a soldier lying quietly, his face creased in pain.

‘We're being turfed out, love. We've got a lift back to Saigon, it seems.'

The soldier in the bed down from Little Pattie gave them a weak wave. ‘Been nice seeing someone from home, mate. Thanks for coming. Your show must've been beaut. We heard it, y'know. In that rubber plantation before we got hit. We could hear the music.' He held out his hand and Col gave it a firm shake.

‘Thank you for what you're doing up here, mate. Hope you get home real soon. Where're you from?' asked Col.

‘Sydney. Maroubra. You know, Little Pattie's song, “Stompin' at Maroubra”.'

‘Ah, know Maroubra well. Good beach you got there.'

‘Catch a wave for me when you get back, eh, Col.'

‘I'll do that, mate. What's your name?'

‘Sergeant Phillip Donaldson, 6RAR.'

‘Good on yer, Phil. See you back at home, keep your powder dry, eh?'

‘I'll try, mate. See ya.'

Col stopped by a bed where Tom was talking to a soldier and making notes. ‘Hey, Tom, go talk to Phil over there. Reckon he's got a story for you.'

‘Great. I'll do that, Col.' Tom went and pulled up a chair beside Phil's hospital bed and shook his hand. ‘You've come out of Long Tan?'

Little Pattie tugged gently at Col's sleeve. ‘We have to leave. I don't want to miss another ride.'

‘Too right.'

As they were about to leave, the harassed young doctor grabbed Col's hand. ‘Listen, sorry I was so abrupt. I've been up all night. It's tough, seeing so many badly wounded. And losing men.'

‘Understood, Doc. Look after me mate Phil over there. And the rest of 'em.'

The doctor wiped his hand across his eyes. ‘We try our best, Col. That's all we can do.'

Col turned and gave Tom a wave. ‘Nice travelling with you, mate. Keep the stories coming, eh?'

‘I'll do that, Col. Good luck.' Tom turned back to Phil Donaldson, who tried to recount what he'd seen and felt as his mates had been killed beside him.

Maroubra, Sydney, 2006

Phil Donaldson put the letter down on the kitchen table, opened the refrigerator door and stood staring into the brightly lit shelves of food.

‘You hungry, love?' His wife, Patricia, went to fill the kettle.

‘Nah.' He slammed the fridge door shut.

‘Who's the letter from, pet?' asked Patricia.

‘Nothing important.' But then he turned at the doorway. ‘It's from Tassie Watts. Wants to get some sort of a reunion happening. But I'm not interested.'

His wife stared at his hard expression, recognising the symptoms of the painful memories washing over him. Now he was right back. Back in Vietnam. The place he could never leave behind. ‘Might do you good, love. See your old mates and, you know, talk about things,' she said gently.

‘There's nothing to talk about.' He left the room.

Sighing, Patricia Donaldson turned on the kettle, emptied the teapot and stood at the table staring down at the letter tucked back in the envelope. Slowly she reached for it and drew out the single sheet of paper.

1

Sydney, July 2006

T
OM
A
HEARN SPRAYED WATER
from the garden hose around his roses in the late morning winter sun. He was proud of his circular bed of roses backed by deep blue summer hydrangeas along the back fence. After his roses he was most proud of his tomatoes and spinach. Although he had owned his Sydney house for thirty years there had been little time to attend to home maintenance or the garden. Now he was enjoying doing these things in his retirement. Not that he was retired totally, he was quick to point out. He worked from his home office and kept almost as busy as he ever had been as a journalist and broadcaster.

Meryl watched her husband from the kitchen window as she poured their morning tea, set out the homemade Anzac biscuits and carried the tray to the old table on the verandah. Tom was a fit sixty-five, which he put down to his regular walks and occasional big bush hike. He'd had a few health problems which he would have ignored if Meryl hadn't pushed him into the doctor's. High blood pressure had been pinpointed along with an overdose of stress and a dicky knee from his intensive squash games years before. Now that he was on medication, watched his diet and had his knee replaced he felt better than he had in decades. But Meryl knew he was still a bit frustrated with life. While he wrote a column for the local paper and was active in the residents' association and local politics, he missed his career as a foreign correspondent.

‘Tom, tea.'

He turned off the hose and joined her at the table. ‘Going to be a magnificent display come spring and summer
,'
he said, waving a biscuit towards the roses. ‘That early pruning has set them up beautifully.'

‘I'm sure they'll be stunning,' said Meryl, who always wondered at the way the chopped-back, dead-looking wood sprouted fresh green leaves and miraculous blooms come the warm weather. ‘How're the vegies coming along?'

‘Abundantly. Thought I might make a stir fry tonight,' he said.

‘Wonderful. I'll put my feet up while you cook your Asian delights,' said Meryl with a smile. Stir fry wouldn't decimate the kitchen. When Tom took it into his head to recreate some of his favourite dishes from his years in the East, it could become a major – and messy – production. The desserts were the worst. Sticky rice and gula Malacca, when the sago and palm sugar had boiled over on the stove, still haunted her.

The phone rang and Tom sauntered inside to answer it as Meryl poured a second cup of tea, noting the knitted tea-cosy could do with some running repairs. Tom's tea was cold when he returned some time later, thoughtfully holding the portable phone which he put on the table.

‘You were on the phone for ages. Who was it?'

‘The old war horse himself – Alistair Knight.'

‘Your old chief of staff? I thought he'd gone to God yonks ago.'

‘Good lord, no, he's as spry as can be. He's eighty-two going on fifty-two.'

‘So why was he calling you out of the blue after all these years?' asked Meryl.

Tom gave a quizzical smile. ‘Aha. I could have another assignment. Well, not really, but an intriguing invitation.' He paused for dramatic effect before satisfying his wife's curiosity. ‘Remember I told you about my time at Nui Dat in Vietnam?'

‘The time you and Col Joye got kidnapped?'

‘Yeah. Well, sort of . . . I was an extra bod that the Aussie command wasn't expecting at the time,' he chuckled. ‘That was forty years ago. Incredible how the years get away from us so easily. Anyway, there are plans afoot for a couple of big reunions. One in Brisbane, one at Long Tan, near Nui Dat.'

‘Long Tan,' said Meryl.

‘That battle has never been given its due recognition,' said Tom, suddenly serious. ‘Alistair reckons this anniversary could change that. As I was there he wants me to write about it. It's hard to believe that one hundred and eight men held off several thousand VC in that rubber plantation at Long Tan . . .' His voice trailed off and he wandered into the house.

Meryl took the cups into the kitchen and as she was rinsing them music suddenly roared from their ageing stereo. She stood there listening, her wet hands tightening on the edge of the sink, eyes closed as Redgum's big hit ‘I Was Only Nineteen' came to the final verse.

And can you tell me, doctor, why I still can't get to sleep? And why the Channel Seven chopper chills me to my feet? And what's this rash that comes and goes, can you tell me what it means?
God help me, I was only nineteen.

Tom walked into the kitchen as Meryl dabbed at her eyes with a tea towel. ‘It's still such a moving, painful song . . .'

He nodded. ‘Hardly any of them were over twenty at Long Tan. Eighteen young blokes died.'

‘So you're going to Brisbane then, to this Long Tan reunion?'

Tom put his arm around her. ‘I thought I'd go back. To Vietnam. And Long Tan.'

*

From:
Sandy Donaldson ([email protected])

Sent:
Wednesday, 4:41 pm, 6 June 2006

To:
Patricia Donaldson ([email protected])

Subject:
End of an era!

Hi Mum, I can't believe my time here in Vietnam with HOPE is coming to an end. I really love these people and the country. I'm at a bit of a loss about what to do next. I'd like to stay with HOPE, I think they're such a worthwhile NGO program . . . and another country doesn't appeal so much after here. But if I sign up for another year or so I worry I'm kinda out of the mainstream. You keep saying I shouldn't leave marriage and babies too much longer, but I am only 28! I'm due for a meeting with Cherie (the director) tomorrow so that might throw a bit of clarity on the situation. luv me

Sandy pushed the send button and then, in the twilight, changed into cotton shorts, a T-shirt and running shoes and walked down to Hoan Kiem Lake in the centre of Hanoi to think about her future. She loved the tranquil scenery there – weeping willows, kapok trees, the clipped grass, the neat path that wound around the lake. Seats faced towards the islet on the southern end with its lonely-looking Tortoise Tower, topped by a red star. The Ngoc Son Temple on a pretty island at the northern end was connected to the path by the Rising Sun red bridge.

When she'd first arrived in Hanoi she'd joined the tourists who came to watch the sunrise and the crowds of locals exercising around the lake before work, intending to do the same. But the sight of hordes of energetic Vietnamese – even quite elderly men and women – meditating or exercising singly, in groups or with family members, was too diverting and she found herself stopping to watch and enjoy their activity rather than exercising herself. They were jogging, power walking, doing all forms of aerobics, gymnastics, dance, martial arts, tai chi or even playing a spirited game of badminton. Ladies swinging their hips in a suggestive aerobics class and another group learning traditional fan dancing waved to Sandy, inviting her to join them.

Sandy would laugh and wave back, concentrating on a fast walk around the perimeter of the lake, planning her day or letting her mind drift. Afterwards she would stop for a coffee at one of the trendy cafes that had sprung up in the park and in the Old Quarter. The French had left a legacy of wonderful baking and sometimes she had a delicious croissant or bought a warm baguette from one of the bread sellers who sold them from the back of his bicycle or from a basket carried on her head.

But as the lake area and the nearby Old Quarter became more familiar to her, and she felt quite safe in the city, Sandy changed her walk around the lake to the early evening before dinner.

She loved the local food and ate out with friends and colleagues several nights a week. At lunchtime she bought a bowl of the famous Vietnamese pho soup from the sidewalk kitchen run by Mrs Han down from the HOPE offices. The tiny woman cooked over a small charcoal brazier, tossing in ingredients from the baskets that hung on either end of a long bamboo pole which she carried to the early morning markets to get vegetables and freshly made noodles. From sunrise to dark she crouched by her makeshift stove turning out pho, the delicious traditional soup based on her grandmother's secret recipe. Pho was once considered peasant food but had become iconic in Hanoi. Customers perched on short blue plastic stools around Mrs Han. Sandy had come to understand the Vietnamese obsession with this seemingly simple meal that was a tradition like chicken soup – a dish redolent with nostalgia, comfort and identity.

A large pot of green tea was always ready to be splashed into small beakers. It was a social exchange between those eating, those waiting and friends who came to gossip, squatting on their haunches around Mrs Han. After school her young daughter sat beside her chopping vegetables on a small plastic board and washing plates and tea mugs in a large bowl.

Depending on her mood and the company, Sandy also ate in small cafes, hotels, or in tucked-away eateries known only to locals who made a habit of eating out on a regular basis. The food was fresh, cheap and tasty so Sandy avoided the more expensive restaurants catering to tourists and offering upmarket Vietnamese food, international cuisine and French wines.