Behind The Rock

18

WHERE’S VIETNAM?

LEON: We had only been home from our Kiwi disaster for a few days when the phone rang. It was an excited and somewhat bewildered Jon. “I ran into Bill Watson and he wants us to go to Vietnam for three months.” There was a slight pause. Then Jon continued, “WHERE’S VIETNAM?”

I thought for a moment. “I dunno, I think it’s in French Indo-China,” I replied as I checked my out-of-date, 1936 atlas, “Isn’t there a war going on there?” Jon wasn’t too sure; he wasn’t too fussed on details. The most important thing to Jon was that it was a gig. “You’ve got to ring Bill Watson right away,” he concluded, “I think he might be pulling my leg.”

When we arrived at Bill’s place for a meeting, it was true. It was a real bona fide gig. Music to our impecunious ears! The fact that it was a war zone hadn’t yet been contemplated. Bill pulled out the contracts, which were accompanied by an inordinate amount of clauses that seemed to say, “If you get killed, we don’t take any responsibility.” Michael looked a little worried but it all sounded too exciting to take notice of small details, like getting killed. Bill assured us that this was just standard military procedure. After all, no Australian entertainers had ever been to Vietnam before. We were going to be the first!

The main contract was with the American Navy, who where running the Officers’ and Enlisted Men’s Clubs in Saigon but we also had provision to do a lot of organised free shows for the Aussie Diggers. Bill wanted to set up an organization similar to the American USO and our trip would be the vanguard for getting the Australian government and Military interested in such a venture. The Australian contingent had increased dramatically in the last twelve months and they must be getting sick of Bob Hope by now, anyway. Bill had also lined up a tour to the East for Lucky Starr, who was going to fly to Vietnam on a commercial flight, so that he could meet up with us in Saigon and do the first two weeks with us.

It was Sunday night and we only had three days to get ready. Bill arranged for the RAAF to fly us over in a military aircraft on Wednesday, October 13. Lucky we weren’t superstitious. When we arrived at Richmond Air Base our C130A Hercules was awaiting us on the tarmac. “Oh, no,” groaned Michael, “Have a look at the number on the plane.” Sure enough, we were confronted with a big number ‘13’ on the tail. A great start to the day! Standing in front of our number ‘13’ Hercules were twenty-five hapless looking soldiers, who were obviously our fearless travelling companions. Much to their dismay, we lined up next to them and another soldier appeared with the flight crew. This one had a few more badges on his coat than the rest. He was probably a captain or some such other important officer. At this stage we knew absolutely nothing about rank but we were about to learn.

“Attention men,” the officer roared. “This is your loadmaster. He will take care of any problems you have concerning your flight.” The Loadmaster took over the briefing in an equally loud voice and someone handed us a plastic lunch-box and a handful of cotton wool. “What’s the cotton wool for?” I inquired innocently. “You stick it in your rear!” came the reply, or so I thought. “Jeez, that’s a bit rough. Why would you stick cotton wool up your bum?” I whispered to Jon. “No, Drummer. He said EAR not REAR!” I was still confused. The shouting mercifully died down and we finally got to board the plane.

“Good luck, boys!” Bill and Julia Watson gave us a final anxious wave as the three intrepid Rajahs marched off to war, looking somewhat out of place amongst the real soldiers. “There’s no bloody seats!” cried Jon. The Loadmaster pointed to some daggy-looking parachute webbing on the side of the plane where we managed to find some sort of place to sit down. The rest of the inside of the plane was loaded up with all sorts of military baggage, including a surfboard. The war can’t be too serious if they’re taking a surfboard, I consoled myself.

The four engines started with a deafening roar and, after we lifted off into the wide blue yonder, it became obvious why we had the cotton wool. It was so loud that, if someone shouted at you from point blank range, you still couldn’t hear them. The only relief from this barrage was a walk up to the flight deck for a smoke with the captain, co-pilot and navigator. This little sojourn was only available to two people at a time after permission was obtained from the Loadmaster. Needless to say, there was very little conversation on this torturous initiation flight for unsuspecting recruits.

About mid-flight everybody started to gravitate towards the centre of the aircraft. If you sat near the front, you nearly passed out from the heat and, if you sat down the back, you nearly froze to death. I eventually found a use for the surfboard that was strapped on top of the cargo. I stuffed my ears with an extra wad of cotton wool, climbed up on top of the board and slept for a couple of hours, thus avoiding at least some of this 9 hour nightmare of noise. I had some wonderful dreams of sitting next to Lucky Starr in his first class air-conditioned seat, eating lobster and sipping champagne on the way to Singapore. This was rudely interrupted by a tap on the shoulder from the Loadmaster, indicating that we were coming in for a landing a few miles north of Perth. I couldn’t believe it; after flying all day, we were still in Australia!

With our ears still ringing, we were quickly bundled into a bus at Pearce Air Base and taken to our living quarters. The bus made the first stop and a Sergeant screamed out from the front, “All officers get off ‘ere!” Three or four soldiers disembarked and then there was a pause. “Hey! You three down the back. You’re officers!” We immediately jumped to our feet and shuffled down the aisle. “Of course, we are.” The rest of the soldiers were just as amazed as we were. “It’s alright boys, you don’t have to salute,” said Jon as we graciously waved at the front door of the bus.

The next leg of the trip was going to be a bit more interesting. After a pleasant night, toffing it up in the Officer’s Bar with the RAAF, we were rudely awakened the next day at 0430 precisely. “I never realised that there was more than one five o’clock in a day,” I grumbled as we tucked into a hearty breakfast in the Mess Hall, feeling a little hung-over. Never mind, today we are off to Cocos Island, in the middle of the Indian Ocean.

Back to the sound chamber for a few hours and there they were – in the middle of an endless expanse of ocean, looking absolutely beautiful, the Keeling Islands. Frank, the navigator, pointed out the one with the airstrip, “That’s the one, Cocos Island.” On one side of the coconut-studded isle was a greeny blue lagoon; on the other side, a deep blue surf bordered by a stretch of white, sandy beach. I had the privilege of sitting next to Frank in the flight deck for the landing.

For one brief moment as Michael, Jon and I sat on the beach, drinking from a coconut and surveying this little island paradise; we contemplated the possibility of jumping ship and staying. “What about a couple of weeks?” “No,” replied Michael, “What about forever?”

Our little daydream was interrupted by the resurgent engines of the C130 blasting our tranquil setting. We decided that Bill Watson wouldn’t be impressed if we stayed, so we donned our Mae-Wests, stuffed in the cotton wool and headed off to Butterworth Air Base in Malaysia for tea at 0930 hours. We were getting pretty good with all this new military terminology. Being officers, we could almost tell the time.

Australian relations with Indonesia weren’t too friendly in 1965 so, being a military aircraft, we had to fly no closer than 30 miles or they would shoot us down. The RAAF Officer’s Quarters in Butterworth were like something out of an old World war II movie, very ‘olde worlde’ charm with overhead fans and little blackfellas in white coats to carry your bags and bring you gin & tonics and cups of tea. The evening dress for dinner was a long sleeve white shirt with your choice of long trousers or shorts with long socks. “Have to keep away those blasted mozzies, you know. Malaria and all that stuff. Have another G&T, old bean.”

“The Rajahs, eh?” asked one chap. “Yes, Jon’s uncle was in the Indian Army.” “Going to entertain the boys, eh? Jolly good show, wot!” With our newly acquired officer status, we were settling in quite nicely. One more short ride in the sound lounge and we’d be in Vietnam.

“I think I’m getting used to the noise of this bloody plane!” I screamed at Michael. “WHAAT?” he screamed back. “Never mind,” I said as I looked out the window to see the first signs of the Vietnamese landscape. Somehow, my visions of war have always been in black and white. It seemed unnatural for people to be fighting a war in brilliant tropical colour. The big number 13 Hercules rolled to a stop at Bien Hoa Airport on Friday, October 15, 1965. This was where most Australians were based. The bomb bay door opened.

“Quick Jon, take a look at this guy. He thinks he’s John Wayne.” I pointed to an American GI, who was wearing a double gun belt with two guns in holsters, sunglasses, cowboy boots, an army cap full of badges, a jungle shirt with gold chains and smoking a big fat cigar. “Don’t look now but they all look like that!” replied Jon. As I looked around, it was true. We were surrounded by them. Then a whole lot of Aussie Diggers appeared, wearing singlets and bush hats. They proceeded to unload the cargo. An Australian captain appeared, flanked by two American sailors.

“Welcome to Vietnam. I’m Captain Lyn Summers, your escort officer. This is Frank Josaites and Fred Haische from American Special Services. Fred had an ‘Oil Can Harry’ moustache and Frank had a big open smiling face. “Gidday, mates!” said Frank in a terrible pretend Aussie accent that broke us all up. Most of the conversation was drowned out by an endless stream of aircraft of every description imaginable, taking off and landing in every direction. The whole place was buzzing with unbelievable activity. So this is Vietnam – Wow!

If we thought it was busy at the airport, we were in for a surprise. By the time we had gone through about half a dozen checkpoints, we reached the main part of Saigon and the traffic was ridiculous. Motorbikes, cyclos, rickshaws, jeeps, trucks, little blue and yellow taxis and bicycles, hundreds of them! All sorts of people going everywhere at once. It seemed like there were no road rules at all; it was every man for himself. Even more disconcerting, they were all driving on the wrong side of the road.

With all these strange new sights, smells and sounds, Michael, Jon and I sat speechless with our jaws permanently open. We each had a camera poised in our hands but we were so dumbfounded we didn’t take one shot. By some miracle of navigation, our Navy truck finally pulled up outside the Meyerkord Hotel, which was a transit stop for most of the USO shows. The front of the hotel was covered in sand bags and barbed wire, with two American guards out the front. We were most surprised when they saluted us as we walked in. Michael returned the salute with a three-finger Boy Scout salute, Jon gave them a “beaudy mate” wave and I gave them my best two-finger Cub Scout salute. I never did make it to the Scouts! They looked impressed. They weren’t really sure what to make of Australians.

And speaking of Australians, who should walk in about an hour later but our comrade in arms, Lucky Starr. We were so glad to see somebody we knew in all these chaotic surroundings. “Have a good flight, did you Luck?” said Jon sarcastically. Luck still had a bit of a dazed look on his face from the ride through Saigon as he introduced us to Jack Edwards, a Texan who was the head of American Services and the USO.

“Great to see you Aussie guys, goddamnit,” said Jack with a Texan drawl that I had only ever heard before in the movies, “Come on and I’ll take y’all over to the Rex Hotel for a drink.” Beaudy, Jack,” says Michael and away we went again.

SAIGON ATTACK

The Rex Hotel was a seven-storey hotel right in the centre of Saigon. It was also one of the clubs we would be playing in when we commenced our Navy contract the following week. The Enlisted Men’s Club was situated on the very top floor, which was like a roof garden where you could watch the war going on while you were having a drink. This was a bit disconcerting for us the first time we say down for a drink and surveyed the scenes of Saigon and its outskirts. The night-sky was beginning to fall, revealing huge flashes and explosions on the horizon. No one in the bar seemed to be taking the slightest notice of all this action, which at times sounded perilously close.

“What’ll you guys have to drink?” BOOOM! “Christ, did you see that!” said Michael, leaping out of his chair. “What was that again?” continued Jack who hadn’t batted an eyelid. Neither had anyone else for that matter. “They must be all shell shocked,” I thought. How could they be so insensitive? Captain Lyn Summers could see that the new recruits were looking a bit edgy. “It’s okay, most of the noise is coming from our side. The helicopters are just firing a few flares to secure the perimeter.” “Oh!” we all nodded, none the wiser. We would soon become as used to this sort of thing as the locals. “Have another drink Michael,” I would say. BOOOM! FLASH! AK-AK-AK-AK! “Yeah, don’t mind if I do, Drummer. It’s a lovely night isn’t it?”

Our newfound friends in Vietnam proved to be very informative and hospitable and we ended our first night in Saigon at a floating restaurant where we were joined by Major Bill Deane from Australian Army Headquarters. Some cheerful soul reminded us that the restaurant had been bombed a week before, which didn’t help the indigestion any. After dinner, there was a great panic to get a taxi back to the Myerkord before the twelve o’clock curfew. Anyone caught out on the street after curfew would be shot – no matter who you were.

Thank God the Meyerkord wasn’t going to be our permanent residence. Our rooms were on the seventh floor and the stupid French lift didn’t work. This was another thing we were going to have to get used to. Not everything works in Vietnam; the light switches are upside down and the water goes down the sink anti-clockwise. Although it had been a long day since we left Butterworth that morning, as I stared up at the overhead fan I was finding it difficult to sleep. While I watched a gecko scurry up the wall, a mixture of intense excitement and anticipation seemed to fill my stomach while a million new images swam around inside my head. It was hard to believe that we were finally here in Saigon and what lay ahead was anyone’s guess. I couldn’t wait for next morning to get out into the street and check out whether it was all still real.

As promised, we were picked up early the next morning and taken to the Caravelle Hotel for a French breakfast. It was almost like being in three countries at the same time; France, America and Vietnam. From the window of the Caravelle Hotel, you could see that Saigon was once a quaint little French Colonial city with pretty tree-lined boulevards and plazas. A round fountain with a grotesque statue of a soldier was centred amidst the Asian hustle and bustle of traffic, directed by policemen dressed in sparkling white uniforms and referred to locally as “the white mice”. Pretty Vietnamese girls on pushbikes, wearing their traditional dresses called Ao Dai were dotted in amongst little Renault taxis. We even saw our first Ford Edsel, which we had only ever seen before in ‘Mad Magazine’. Apart from the occasional piece of barbed wire and sandbags, everything looked quite picturesque and flourishing. It was hard to imagine a war going on around this busy little metropolis of happy-looking people.

After breakfast we played our first informal show at the Saigon 3rd field Hospital. This was definite confirmation that there really was something serious going on. The patients were mostly Americans with a few Aussie Diggers thrown in. And boy! Were they happy to see us? I almost felt guilty about being so healthy myself until I talked to one of the guys who looked like he was in real agony. “I got it in the guts man,” he said as he doubled over and clutched his stomach. I was horrified. “What was it? A mortar? Shrapnel?” I asked. “No, none of that. I went to this brothel and some chick put crushed glass in me bloody beer, just ‘cos I wouldn’t pay.” The guys in wheel chairs with shot-up legs didn’t have any funny stories to tell but, under the circumstances, they certainly were cheerful. There really is a bloody war going on in this place, I realised.

So began a hectic week of shows for Australian and American troops, arranged for us by Special Services in conjunction with Major Bill Deane from the Australian Army. Our first major concert was scheduled the next day Sunday, October 17, for the 173rd Division at Bien Hoa. Jack, Frank, Fred and Captain Lyn Summers picked us up from the Myerkord and we headed north for Bien Hoa.

“Does this mean we’re going to the front line,” said Lucky expectantly. Captain summers shook his head. “There is no front line in this war.” “Where are all the Viet Cong, then?” I asked. “They could be anywhere. During the day they might be out there in the fields; they might even be your taxi driver,” came the nonchalant reply.

Our stage arrived in the form of a whopping big semi-trailer, draped with coloured parachutes, in the middle of a sun drenched field. Soldiers from the 173rd Division, 1st RAR (Royal Australian Regiment) were beginning to mill around carrying rifles, drinks, chairs and assorted weapons. A typical sudden downpour, lasting about a minute, turned our shirts into the same colour as the parachutes.

We were a little worried about how the Yanks would receive us. We knew the Aussies would be OK but the Septics were an unknown quantity, especially as they were in the majority during the second show. As it turned out they gave us a better reception than the Aussies. A few of the soldiers came over to talk to us after the show. “Hey, you guys are really great!” said one of the American GIs, who seemed almost surprised. “Of course they’re great,” one of the Australians butted in. “These guys are fair dinkum Aussies.”

A certain pride about being Australian seemed to be emerging after a few more shows like this; a feeling that we had never really experienced before. Amongst a sea of baseball caps, we could always recognise a whole lot of Aussie bush hats that made us proud to be Australians. The Americans had a tremendous respect for the Aussies and we were welcomed everywhere with open arms.

Another new experience awaited us back in Saigon that night. After a dinner of hamburgers and chilli dogs at the USO canteen, we were taken to our first Saigon bar. A blue neon sign winked alluringly over the doorway. This was the Blue Fox bar, which we were assured by Fred, our moustached American guide, was one of the best bars in town. We had only been inside for a few seconds when we were surprised to find ourselves surrounded by about half a dozen beautiful Vietnamese girls, proclaiming their love and admiration with lines like; “Oh, you very handsome, just like Beatle,” “I love you too much.” “You number one,” said a really pretty one as she put her arms around me and started to stroke my hair. “You buy me one Saigon tea?”

“Is this for real?” I blubbered at Fred, who nodded with a huge grin on his face, while two girls sat on his knee. One of the girls was his permanent girlfriend, Hoa. Fred was supposed to have finished his tour of duty a year ago but he kept applying for extensions. Fred was in love with Vietnam and I was beginning to see why. Jon and Michael were already pulling their money out to buy Saigon tea, so I thought I’d better join them. “What’s this bloody Saigon tea anyway?” said Jon. “I don’t care what it is,” I replied, “I think I’m in love.”

To our great disappointment and disbelieving egos, the bar girls weren’t really in love with us at all. It was the common practice to pay for the bar girl’s company by buying her a little glass of non-alcoholic Saigon tea, while she encouraged you to buy plenty of drinks at inflated prices. If you really fancied the girl and wanted to take her home, you had to “buy her out of the bar” at a price negotiated by the Mama San who ran the bar. The price for a really beautiful girl was about 700P. (piastres), which was the equivalent of about US$6.

By Vietnamese standards, we were almost millionaires. A taxi across town was about 30P, equal to 25 cents. One piastre wasn’t even worth a cent and there were 100 sou in a piastre, so you can imagine how much a sou was worth. All the American money pouring into Vietnam was blowing their economy out of all proportion. A tip of $10 from a well-meaning American was almost a week’s wages for the local Vietnamese. The Australians weren’t so generous and were referred to by the locals as Uc Dai Loi (Australian) “Cheap Charlies”. Although the Vietnamese enjoyed the easy American money, they had no respect for people who threw their money around. They loved to bargain.

The idea of paying for a prostitute was completely foreign to us, not to mention the risk of disease, so we declined their tempting offers. One American GI told me that anyone who took the risk of going to bed with a bargirl was too lazy to have a wank in the shower. He told me that he had been in Vietnam for so long, that every time it rained he got an erection!

Three more shows for the troops in Bien Hoa and then, on October 19, we flew south to Vung Tau in a Caribou, courtesy of the RAAF, This was especially exciting for me as I got to drive the plane and dive-bomb all the ships and junks on the way around to Cape St. Jacques. It wasn’t too exciting for the passengers when they found out that I was behind the wheel but I was having a whale of a time, flying about 30 feet above the water and pulling up just in time to miss one of the local junks.

“Get that bloody drummer out of the cockpit,” cried Jon who was wearing his usual shade of green. I think Lucky and Michael were too ill to speak. The dreaded ‘Saigon shits’ were beginning to take their toll. This is a familiar type of diarrhoea that is caught by the unsuspecting white man about a week after arriving in Vietnam. I over-steered on the landing and nearly missed the white line but, thanks to the real pilot, we made the landing safely at Vung Tau Airport. The passengers were not impressed.

The ‘Saigons’ really started to take effect on Michael during the show that night which was staged in a large hangar on the airfield. Every now and then, Michael would turn white and run off the stage to the nearest toilet. Things started to hot up when the Viet Cong started to shell the airfield with mortar fire. The first explosion brought the audience to their feet while Michael ran off for another quick crap. Suddenly all hell broke loose and this time it wasn’t a standing ovation! Half the audience started to run out the door. Lucky turned around to Jon and me and said, “Jesus, if they’re all worried, it must be serious.”

Amidst giant flashes and explosions, Lucky jumped off the stage and Jon and I nearly ran over him in the rush. I could feel the first pangs of the ‘Saigons’ coming over me as we took refuge in the RAAF bar. Michael was all right. We threw a blanket over him and he slept in the toilet. The firing eventually died down and we were assured that most of the big bangs were coming from our side as they fired back at the Viet Cong positions. We weren’t entirely convinced, but we recovered enough for a late-night walk through the centre of town to calm down the adrenalin.

The Viet Cong had a tacit arrangement with our side to share the local beach for R&R (Rest & Recreation). The Yanks and Aussies had it during the day and the Viet Cong had it during the night. So that’s what the surfboard was for! Needless to say, we kept away from the beach. Jon and I went to a bar called the Beatle Bar where we were received with the usual acclaim from the bargirls. A motorised cyclo brought us back to our US billets before curfew and, bless his heart, Michael was still on the toilet. Our fearless leader, Lucky Starr was sleeping like a baby. It had been a rather exhilarating day.

The dreaded ‘Saigons’ attacked me the following night back at Bien Hoa. After a show in the afternoon on the back of another semi-trailer, we played that night in a place called the James Bailey Compound in the Bien Hoa Theatre. This time the audience really did give us a standing ovation. The mostly American audience was so fantastic I almost forgot about my stomach pains until after the show. Then it hit me. Oh, the pain! I thought I was going to die. It was my turn to sleep in the toilet.

With so many things going on, Jon’s impressions of our first week in Vietnam are slightly different but I’ll let him tell the story.

WAR IS HELL

“Yea, though I wart through the valet of thy shadowy hut,

I will feed no Normans.”

In His Own Write by John Lennon.

JON: “Waal now, you must be the Aussies (soft ‘S’ as in ‘arse’, not a ‘Z’) who’ve come over here to sing some songs, huh? Y’all come right this way now, we got a pick-up to take y’all into beautiful downtown Saigon.” The voice came from a man in a cowboy hat, jungle greens with more badges than the most over-zealous Cub Scout and twin pearl-handled, silver, 45 calibre six-guns in a tooled leather holster.

I felt like I was on the set of a John Wayne movie. I looked around me; the sky was almost obliterated by aircraft of almost every imaginable type, including jets, helicopters and huge transport planes that dwarfed our own C130. For a boy, who at the age of twelve idolised Biggles, this was aeroplane heaven.

We jumped into the double-cab Dodge pick-up and sped out of the airbase compound onto the four-lane blacktop that carried all the traffic from Bien Hoa to Sin City. All of a sundry, the highway became a little muddy road. We were going through a Vietnamese village. There were men and women with bamboo poles over their shoulders, with baskets of God-knows-what dangling on either side; there were chooks, ducks, pigs, goats, cattle and every conceivable form of livestock, all wandering aimlessly around the village. Cute little donkey-carts passed by. People were selling food and produce from little stalls, strange voices jabbered and very strange odours wafted through the steamy tropical air. From that huge airbase, back to the Middle Ages in about five minutes! This was Asia – mysterious, foreign, real grovelling-in-the-mud stuff but a place I would learn to love.

“Gonna take you guys to the motor pool at Phan Dinh Phung, Cong Lee. We’ll have a little drink there and then I’ll take you to your quarters,” said our driver. He was Frank Josaites, a naval something-or-other, who came from Cleveland, Ohio. The other guy in the front seat was Fred Haisch, a strange bird with a large, waxed handlebar moustache.

The traffic started to thicken as we entered Saigon. By the time we’d hit the centre of town it was utter chaos. It had started to rain – and I mean RAIN with a capital ‘P’ for pissing down. It was the monsoons you know; couldn’t have come at a worse time, right in the middle of the rainy season.

Our quarters were at a hotel called the Meyerkord, a rather basic concrete structure with US MPs on guard at the front gate. Everywhere were barricades, riot guns and barbed wire. The front foyer was littered with American servicemen, black and white, and Vietnamese running around doing menial tasks. We had never seen Negroes this close before; well, not since Lloyd Price, anyway. Such big mothers!

“What’s happenin’ bro’?” “Well, ah just hit the mother upside de head wid my piece!” and other unintelligible snippets of “jive talk”, straight from the movies, wafted through the stifling, non-air conditioned foyer. The rooms were also sans air conditioning – ceiling fans only! Very ordinary accommodation for officers, indeed. Still there’s a war going on, isn’t there?

No sooner had my head hit the pillow when I heard much door knocking and Lucky’s voice echoing down the verandah, saying, “Here we go lads!” This was the first of many times I’d hear that phrase. “We’re going to the Rex Hotel for lunch. Transport will be here at 1300 hours.” “Don’t get carried away with the military jargon, Luck!” someone yelled.

After lunch, it was off to rehearsal and then to Aussie HQ for some more shots (of the needle variety) for some very strange diseases. I kid you not! How about Yellow Fever, Scrub Typhus and Bubonic Plague? My arm felt like a pincushion and I felt like a piece of dog shit! It seemed that my head had only just hit the pillow again when I heard the voice, “Here we go lads! They’re picking us up for dinner at 1830 hours.”

Dinner was at the Me Canh floating restaurant on the Saigon River which runs through Saigon on its twisting, turning was from Cambodia. Twisting and turning was what my head was doing. I couldn’t look at food. Then Jack Edwards, a real live Texan who seemed to be the only American civilian in Saigon, sad, “Jeez, they sure have cleaned this place up. Only about a week ago Charlie blew the shit out of it with a Claymore mine. Killed a few of our guys too!” “Who’s Charlie?” I ventured. “Charlie. VC, you know, Viet Cong,” drawled Jack as if he was talking about last week’s Bingo game.

“You mean they’re here in Saigon?” moaned Michael about to shit himself. “Open the door for Mr. Muckle!” yelled Leon. Gales of laughter came from Lucky, Leon and me. This phrase was from a W.C. Fields movie, in which there is a blind man called Mr. Muckle. Michael had recently inherited this name.

“You Aussies sure are a funny bunch,” said jack, “Yeah the VC are here alright. They look exactly like the South Vietnamese. In fact, some of them ARE South Vietnamese – women, children, anyone who can carry a grenade or plant a mine or some plastic explosive, or hump a rifle. Your cab driver, waiter, anyone could be a VC!” I was beginning to realise that this was no joke. I could get killed here! I thought of Wendy and Paul, Mum, Sydney. What sort of a pickle had Watson got us into?

Back to the Myerkord and a very sleepless night with a sore arm, fever and many trips to the toilet. We had the ‘Saigons’ – the Saigon shits and it was to be many days before we’d get rid of them. Breakfast the next morning was at the beautiful old French hotel, the Caravelle. I forced myself – croissants and eggs Benedict. Beautiful!

Many more painful trips to the toilet and in the afternoon, we did our first show, only a short one thank heavens at the 3rd Field Hospital in Saigon. We performed on a verandah for the staff and those who could walk or be wheeled to the show. My sore arm and Saigon shits began to seem a little insignificant compared to what I was seeing around me and I began to realise why we were here. After the little show in the grounds, we were taken on a tour of the wards to say hello to the guys and sing a few songs with just Lucky’s guitar. Appreciative looks and a few smiles from wounded and dying men – I won’t go into gory detail but anyone who has been to a field hospital will know how I felt.

The next morning it was off to war: into the army truck and back out to Bien Hoa and the Yank 173rd Division, 1st RAR, our boys! The show was on the back of a truck and the boys loved it. Some real rock’n’roll and comedy from us, some good songs, a few gags and some audience participation in Tie Me Kangaroo Down from Luck. They’d never had a rock’n’roll band here before. Yes, WE WERE THE FIRST! A round of handshakes and a couple of ‘tubes of the amber fluid’ and we were off to entertain the Americans. I think they liked Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport more than the Aussies did!

On the way back to the Meyerkord, Captain Lyn Summers took us to the Ambassador Hotel, the US Army PX store. As we were walking in, a Yank Top Sergeant (three up and three down stripes) stopped us and said, “You three! Get a haircut. Disgraceful!” “Eh?” said Mr. Muckle. “Never mind eh! Show me some ID, soldier.” Michael whipped out his new ID card and so did Leon and I. The Top Sergeant puzzled over these documents and said, “If you is officers, how come you got such long hair?” I was about to say, “Just lucky, I guess” when the ever-diplomatic Lyn Summers said, “These fellows are Australian entertainers, over here playing for the troops, Sergeant!” Totally outranked by Lyn, the Yank said, “Oh, you boys are doin’ a fine job, y’hear. Right, as you were then. Have a nice day!” “Bloody Yanks!” said Lyn. The PX had some great bargains: Beam’s Choice Bourbon at $2 a bottle, cigarettes at 10 cents a pack. I started smoking Salem, Leon bought Winston and Muckle chose Kent.

Back at the Myerkord, I demolished a fair amount of Beam’s Choice and was just about to pass out, when an unfamiliar voice rang out, “Here we go, lads.” It was Frank and Fred practising their Lucky Starr accent. “We’re taking youse to a bar.” Frank and Fred loaded the three of us into the pick-up and we drove to Tu Do Street.

The Blue Fox Bar was dimly lit. I had only been on my bar stool one minute, when this dark vision of loveliness sidled up and uttered the immortal line, “I love you too much. You buy me one Saigon tea?” “What do I do Fred?” “Buy her a drink, asshole!” said Fred in his usual tactful way. “What you drink?” asked the vision. “Bourbon on the rocks.” I said confidently. “One Bourbon on locks and one Saigon tea,” she said to the guy behind the bar.

“You see, they drink tea so that the customer gets drunk but she doesn’t,” explained Frank. “That’s fine with me,” I said staring into those eyes, totally bewitched. After some limited conversation like: “My name Thuy (pronounced ‘Twee”). What your name?” “Me Jon.” “What your whole name?” “Bum!” Then I said to Fred, “Is that all there is, Fred? Can I take her home? What do I do now?”

“Waal, it’ll cost ya, mate,” said Fred trying to sound like an Aussie. “How much?” I said reaching for my wallet. The slit in the side of her dress was opening and the front was riding up as she straddled my left leg. “About 500P short time. Usually 700P but seeing as how my girl, Hoa is her boss, they’ll probably waive the Mama San fee.” Some quick mental arithmetic – 120P to one US dollar – “That’s only four bucks!” I said loudly to Fred. “Shut up asshole. Do you want ‘em to charge you more?” whispered Saigon’s Billy The Kid. I agreed.

“Okay you guys, it’s time to go. It’s nearly curfew,” said Frank, “Jaarn, leave that girl behind, we’ll come back another time.” I was dragged, kicking and screaming, out to the pick-up. Back in my room at the Myerkord, I fantasised over that perfect golden body, the lovely almond eyes, the silky black hair spilling over my pillow and I thought to myself, “So this is what Asia is all about; I LIKE IT!” I couldn’t have brought Thuy back here anyway. Vietnamese were not allowed here after dark. I fell asleep in a haze of “Bourbon on locks”.

Back out to Bien Hoa the next day to the pride of the American force, US Army 1st Division, “The Big Red One”. Their insignia was of course, a blue shield with a big red ‘1’ on it, what else? They received us with open arms and we did a great concert for them. A little nap and then another show for the Yanks at the Training Center Compound - This was getting to be a bit of a grind, at least two shows a day. No money ($10 per day expenses) and feeling crook. “I’ll be out like a light tonight Drummer as soon as my head hits the pillow,” I said to Leon. Not so! Apart from running to the toilet all night, who can sleep with F-100s and Phantoms taking off with after-burners thundering into the blackness of the Vietnamese skies?

Wednesday, October 20, I awoke to see a sky black with choppers, off on an operation. Breakfast was in the mess hall but I couldn’t eat a thing. I felt like death warmed up. After a really early show for the Yank 46th Engineers, it was out on the tarmac and into an RAAF caribou, a most manoeuvrable aircraft. “I hope this is a smooth flight. My guts couldn’t stand a rough one,” moaned the Muckle who had ended up with the worst case of the ‘Saigons’.

The Caribou was headed south toward the Mekong Delta, to what was once the “French Riviera” of Indochina – Vung Tau. To approach the airstrip, one came in low over the harbour, up over a mountain and slipped down onto the runway on the other side. As we were coming in low (and I mean low) over the harbour, the pilot decided to hand the controls over to Leon who was having a turn on the flight deck. Boats were skimming by underneath us as the Muckle screamed, “Jesus, Jon, that crazy drummer is flying this thing!”

“My God, we’re only a few feet off the water!” I yelled in a panic-stricken voice as a maniacal scream of laughter came from the over-excited percussionist. Fortunately the pilot helped to ease the Caribou down safely onto the runway at Vung Tau. My nerves were shattered and I needed a toilet badly.

The US billets here were a sort of ancient resort hotel, augmented by barbed wire and MPs. The afternoon was spent on the toilet and then a show in the hangar at the airfield that night. It was at this show that the shit literally hit the fan! Charlie decided to throw some mortars at the airfield. BOOOM! The hangar shuddered violently. We didn’t know whether to keep playing or run! Then as the audience started to leave, I noticed that Mr. Muckle had actually shat himself. We followed the example of the audience and ran like hell. There was no argument about the cancellation of the show. Abort! Abort! “Quickly sergeant, another pair of trousers for Mr. Muckle!”

We had an early mark, so Leon and I decided to paint the town red. There wasn’t much public transport in Vung Tau at night, only a few tri-shaws who avoided us like the plague, so we walked down to the only bar called the Beatle Bar. Surely with our Beatle haircuts we would be welcome. No sooner had we assumed the barstool position, than we were accosted by females wanting us to buy them drinks. “I love you too much. You buy me one Saigon tea?” Why wasn’t it Vung Tau tea, I’ll never know? Just as we were reaching for our wallets, a loud and rather aggro voice said, “Hey you, Yankee!”

We turned around to see a Vietnamese boy about seventeen, glaring at us. He was dressed in camouflage, thongs and a banana leaf trilby (Ok, I lied about the hat!). He had a .45 on his shoulder. Very trendy! Quick as a flask I replied, “We not Yankee, we Uc Da Loi!” I had said the right thing for once.

“Ahh! Uc Da Loi Number one. Yankee Number ten. I buy you drink. What you drink Uc Da Loi?” “Ba Muoi Ba (Beer 33),” sez I, pretending to be a local. “Err, no ice!” said the ever-practical Drummer. “Hai (two) Ba Muoi Ba for my friends, Uc Da Loi,” he yelled at the bartender. “Uc Da Loi Number one warrior in jungle but why you have such long hair?” “We no fight in jungle. We play rock’n’roll like Beatles,” said the Drummer proudly. Shit, that’s torn it, I thought. I wonder if they’re into poofter bashing over here!

“Ahh! You Beatle Uc Da Loi. You want another drink?” Hushed whispers went around the bar. “Beatle, Uc Da Loi!” We never put our hands in our pockets once that night. “What your name?” I asked our strange benefactor. “Just call me Cowboy,” he replied.

As it happened, a ‘Cowboy’ was a sort of mercenary who fought for either side, depending on who was the flavour of the month, North or South. Fortunately, tonight, Uc Da Loi were number one! The Drummer and I staggered home to the billets after roaring through the darkened town in a motorised cyclo with no lights. Nothing could harm us now. We were friends of Cowboy!

Over the next two days, we played the 60th Ordinance Co., the 118th and 61st Aviation, all Yanks. After every show, they always took us back to their mess hall for drinks and they’d generally say something like, “Well what do you think of our mess hall?” I sometimes felt like saying, “Yeah, great, the best tin hut we’ve seen today!” On Thursday October 21, we played and sang our hearts out for the paratroopers of the Australian 1st RAR at Bien Hoa. “Uc Da Loi, number one!”

That night back in Tu Do Street, Saigon, the Blue Fox Bar, I finally consummated the affair between Thuy and me. I took her back to the new villa we had moved into, compliments of the US Navy. Much more appropriate officer accommodation I must say. It seemed that war was now not only hell. It was also money. At last we were to be paid!

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To Chapter 19 Seven Dang Dung

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