1967-68
Saigon

See 1962 - Childhood Cooma-Goulburn when as a military cadet at a Passing Out Parade, I first pondered "where the hell was Vietnam".

In 1967, I still had some vague idea.

At this time I was a happy go lucky fellow living and working in Canberra.
I had a steady girlfriend; great rugby mates; a Morris Minor 1000 that ran on the smell of an oily rag. Life was great!

Out of the blue, I was called down to the Personnel Section of the Department of Foreign Affairs (DFAT).

"We have selected you to replace Brian Goodwin in Saigon."

It was couched in terms "It is a Difficult Posting but would you like to go?"

Well, I rang mum straight away. "That nice Paul ... where is Saigon?"

I rang a rugby mate.  I think it was Rex Marre (Who is now an Anglican priest).  Same response "Where' s Saigon Tiger?"

I brought home the Saigon Post Report for my father to read.

(This report is a document prepared by the department for the benefit of preparing personnel for posting).

"I would not touch it with a 40 foot barge pole" said Dad.

(A friend of Dad was Max Mulligan whose son had just been killed there.)

The next day I went back and said to DFAT "Yes please!".

The Outward Journey

Preparation

"Great!" said a relieved staffer in Personnel.  "Fill out this application for a passport and we will get the ball rolling"....

"Eh, hello Paul, we have a hitch. Immigration cannot give you a passport.

You are on the Department of Labour and National Service (DLNS) list as selected for National Service".

"But Christ, I am going to Vietnam!"

So it turns out that three departments get together:

• I write a letter to DLNS requesting permission to defer my National Service obligation for the purpose of going to Vietnam.

• DNLS give me permission - see the permit "In Harm's Way" (cursor to Bottom).

• Immigration provide me with a passport.

Sweet! DFAT still has its "bunny"....I have a few weeks to get used to the idea.
The reality of going to a war zone did not sink in. My only military experience has been a slack "chocko" schoolboy cadet at in Saint Patrick's Goulburn.

The only shooting I have done was with a Bren gun or Lee Enfield .303 rifle at the an annual cadet camps.
We would go to a rifle range whereupon a regular army Warrant Officer(WO) instructed us how to shoot these antiquated weapons. Unbeknown to him we all conspired to snipe away at the wooden supports holding up the target to see how long it would take for it to collapse. In the meantime, the WO was despairing at our standard of marksmanship.
It did happen.  The target lurched on one side after each member of our squad expended hundreds of bullets.

I remember doing this with Mike Williams.  We were friends.  Mike came from Cooma. We were in the same "House" "Fitzgerald"- so we played in the same football and cricket teams.  Years later, I gathered from Mum that the family also had a similar torrid time with the grog and recovery.
I did not know it at the time, Mike went to Vietnam as conscript with 1RAR Battalion.  He was awarded a Military Medal in early 1968 defending Saigon (me) in Operation Coberg.
Mike was wounded - resulting in a metal plate inserted in his head.  Yet after his service, he also managed to play representative rugby for the ACT - as a second rower.

He also joined DFAT.  Our paths never met after St Pats.  Nor will they.  He died in 2004 (cancer)...

Anyway, two days prior to embarkation, I was given a red Qantas plastic travel bag; a passport (at the 11th hour) and a Qantas plastic wallet with my first class ticket (one way):

• Canberra/Sydney

• Sydney/Singapore

• Singapore/Saigon

The smell of the plastic was pungent.  I thought: "Have I sold my body for these rich offerings?"...

At Canberra airport my girlfriend (Trish Rankin) saw me off on my big adventure.
We checked in my one and only suitcase. I boarded the aircraft- a Fokker f27 in the late afternoon of March 1967.

I sat down at the back of the aircraft and looked out at Mount Majura while the aircraft was taxiing.
It was the other side of the Mount Majura that I would see every day from the back yard of my home at Street Place Watson.

I started to shake uncontrollably.
The passenger next to me was concerned. I regained my composure and struck up a conversation.
I felt obliged to explain myself. Thereupon he asked the stewardess for two quick beers. I was off!...

My mother was in Sydney.  The farewell there was low key. To this day I still wonder whether, at that time, she knew what was going on in Saigon.
But I was glad we had a personal one-on-one farewell.

Qantas 707 First Class

First class on Qantas for a boof head rugby buffoon is a culinary waste. The cutlery, linen and flowers; printed menus and magazine offerings in a Boeing 707 was all new to me.
I nearly sipped the water in the silver dish that had a lemon in it.  I thought it was a soup/consume. But luckily I hung back in time to realise the dish was to wash my hands after tucking into the fresh lobster.

I declined the wine menu opting to stay with the beer.

Singapore 1967

Many VBs latter we landed at Singapore. The cabin door opened.

In walked Gary O'Shanassy from the Australian High Commission AHC. There was an arrangement between airport authorities and the AHC for staff to board aircraft in order to process the diplomatic courier.

Singapore was a prime posting.  The disadvantage was that there were so many meetings and greetings of "piss heads" the likes of myself.

Gary played representative Australian Rules football for Canberra.  Given his rapport with the Singaporean authorities I was whisked in and away in no time.

It was 22:00 hrs Singapore time - two hours behind Sydney.  Gary wanted to take me for a meal and a beer - but first we had to transit to the High Commission to drop the Diplomatic Courier bags.  In 1965, during the period of Confrontasi with Indonesia, it was bombed - with two Indonesian citizens convicted and hung.  (A colleague from Paris days 1970, Barry O. boasted he had the honour of sitting on the throne when the bomb(s) exploded)

Driving along the lush growth I took in the sensory smells of Asia for the first time.

Ethnically Singapore consisted of Chinese (two thirds) Malays (23%) Indians (10%) then the rest. The atmosphere was balmy; there was a pervading smell of rotting vegetation (pleasant) and there were smells I only experience when I was sober in a Chinese restaurant in Garema Place, Canberra.  But now I was introduced to the Indian and other smells - the curry and the fried food in coconut oil.

We drove into Orchard Road where the High Commission was located within the Hong Kong Shanghai Bank building.

This building was about six stories in height. In 1967 It was one of the larger buildings of Post Federation Malaysia.  The other buildings were in blocks of combined godown/accommodation quarters no more than two storeys.  The roof lines were either terracota clay tile or a grass/thatched matting.  The occasional shop front would replace a godown. The British had endowed the city with magnificent parks and gardens and there were lots and lots of colonial bungalow mansions on acreage all with walls and a gated entry. This is how I had imagined Singapore steeped in its colonial history.

After a short stop at the High Commission, we went down Orchard Road a little further and drove into a car park full to the brim with people, stalls, umbrellas, canvas tents carts and cooking appliances.  There was no electricity - everything was lit by kerosene lantern.  Everybody was jabbering away, cooks were entertaining crowds by swirling food into the air throwing ingredients into woks; squirting sauces and generally having a happy care free time. I could not eat a solitary thing and left a beer half empty - I was still bloated from the Qantas experience.

Gary dropped me at my hotel and made arrangements to pick me up the next day for an appointment with a tailor and then to Peter Chew's all in one shop.

The Cockpit Hotel was a converted bungalow mansion in the heart of the city.  It was colonial and sumptuous - something I had never experienced before. I was taken to my room by a bell boy who enquired whether I would like to have a woman for the night.

"Yeh right!" after the emotional farewells the over eating and drinking in first class and the forced transit at the all night food stall, I could hardly keep my eyes open.

The appointment with the tailor was a new experience.  Everything was to be ready in 24 hours.

I ordered two x two piece cotton blend suits and several pure cotton short sleeve shirts and a few silk ties.  The price was very reasonable. A visit to Peter Chew's Emporium was initially a disappointment.  Rather than a large department store it was another in a row of two story strata complexes in a block.

"Good morning would you like a beer" was the introduction.  On advice, I purchased a large short wave radio to listen to Radio Australia for the sport and Australian news; I also purchased one of those new fan dangled wrist watch that worked on a lithium battery.  I could not believe that, never again, would I have to use the winder.

That night I stayed in the hotel - I was burnt out from the day before and from a tropical heat the likes I had never before experienced. The hotel bar was exquisite.  Polished teak was ubiquitous with blinds and soft furnishings made out of rattan and bamboo.  On the wall was lots of memorabilia.  I remember one picture frame.  Inside was a napkin.  On it was written "IOU one bottle of Johnny Walker" and date 14 February 1942. This was the day before the surrender of the British to the invading Japanese forces.

Arrival

Dressed in my superbly fitting attire, I flew on a Pan Am 707 from Singapore to Saigon. The flight took about three hours.  It left about 7 am and I was served an American breakfast.

The pilot made an announcement over the intercom about 15 minutes out from Saigon.  Luckily I was positioned on the left hand side of the aircraft and saw the South China Sea meet the Mekong Delta.

Instead of apocalyptic black smoke, all I saw were green paddy fields, villages and small craft plying the brown tributaries.  From such a height it looked so peaceful.  The closer we got to the ground the more distinctly I realised that it was a city under siege. We lumbered in over the outer perimeter of the airport.  There were hundreds of troop barracks; godowns; compounds etc all protected by barbed wire. gates, sentry points, wooden towers sand bagged pill boxes with strategically designed arcs of fire.

Tan Son Nhut Airport TSN

I landed at Tan Son Nhut Air Base which was both a military and civilian airport.  It was located on the outskirts of the city - to the north. This meant it was easier for Viet Cong forces to conduct hit 'n run military strikes and then disappear into the boondooks.

I was amazed at the amount of ground traffic and planes sitting idle on the tarmac; being serviced by teams of mechanics; planes taxing to and fro and trucks utes; semi-trailers and motor bikes zooming around the inner perimeter.  It was controlled chaos.

"My God if there was so much traffic down here - what did we just fly through."

I learnt later that TSN was the world's busiest airport.  Planes were kept in holding patterns and had to approach by marker beacons that emitted an audible beep.  The correct beep meant the pilot was on track. The trick was when jet fighters had to be scrambled. These aircraft had priority.

I am jumping ahead of myself here but my job at the Embassy included meeting and escorting diplomatic couriers to the Embassy. We could not ring up the local airline for an Estimated Time of Arrival (ETA). This was because either the phones would not work or it was a normal day at the office of Air Vietnam where because of the military situation chaos reigned supreme. 

So, accompanied by Sergeant Ray McCabe (Australian Federal Police) we would leave the Embassy at time to allow for traffic and meet the scheduled arrival of a plane. This meant sitting and waiting hours and hours in the heat at a non air conditioned cafe drinking beer or soft drink that have been cooled by ice. 

Once the warm liquid hit the cold ice, it frothed all over the place. With beer you were only drinking a gaseous result. The water in the ice came directly from a tap hence full of bugs, parasites and amoeba.

Never a dull moment - but you were kept "spellbound":

• Fighter Jets would be using their afterburners to quicken take off.  At twilight or in the evening this was spectacular.

In the distance one might see the lights of other aircraft getting out of its path

• The night skyline would be converted to instant daylight as a result of flares being dropped by military support DC3 aircraft.  The flares would last for a few minutes and be replaced by another and another until ordered to stop.

• In daytime, fighter jets would appear as tiny black dots in dive bomb formation. They would get bigger and bigger and you would see them release their ordinance.

• If nothing but to cause disruption, the Viet Cong would set up122mm rockets with simple timers programmed to go off by the time they were well clear of the site.  The exposions were vectored and retaliatory bombardment was useless.  But it added to the fireworks display.
  Several seconds later you would see flame and dust clouds of varying colours. Depending on how close you were you for first experience the sight and then seconds later hear the dull thud(s)

• Operations involving paratroopers would be underway whereby in the distance the sky would be dotted with clumps of parachutes gliding to the ground in the direction of black smoke.

• Semi-trailer loads of aluminum hermetically sealed caskets (coffins) would be coming from the port of Saigon to the central morgue within the base
  The empty coffins were loaded four high by 20 to 25 deep - See photo (next few pages)

• Busloads of American troops were being ferried to or from a barracks either for return home or Rest 'n Relaxation (RnR)

• For every one aircraft on the ground there would be countless auxiliary vehicular traffic.

The whole shebang was surreal - until it was brought home to me with the Tet offensive. There was a curfew 23:00 to 05:00.  Planes would be turned back from destination points if they could not meet the curfew.
We would have to return to the city empty handed or risk being machine gunned by a nervous sentry in a pill box.

But I am digressing.

Brian (Snakes) Goodwin met me at the airport. I was his replacement. Brian was a few years older than me and Saigon was his first posting and he was very affable. He had met and married Janine.  She was three quarter Vietnamese and one quarter French on her father's side.  As such, she was a French national.  Janine worked in the Australian Embassy. Brian was being posted to Brussels.  Lucky "bastard" - I thought.

We drove into the city.  I was now experiencing at street level what I had seen from the air - fortress Saigon.
Instead of being the tour guide, Brian lapsed into a self-imposed trance as we inched our way in traffic that can only be described as ... indescribable. We were in a chauffeur driven black Peugeot 404 with diplomatic plates surrounded by Kamikaze youths on Japanese motorbikes; whole families on Vespa scooters; damsels on French Velo solex engine driven bicycles; military convoys, trucks vehicles with local sole single drivers ubiquitous yellow and blue Renault taxis; hawkers on bicycles balancing wide loads; police cars with sirens; military police with sirens; government official vehicles with sirens all accompanied by a constant cacophony of horns beeping, brakes screeching and tail pipes belching noxious fumes.

The chancellery 

The Embassy (chancellery) was located on the seventh floor of the Hotel Caravelle.  At the time, the hotel was one of the tallest buildings in Saigon where years earlier the Australian government had purchased the entire seventh floor.
It was an L shaped building serviced by two adjacent lifts and a single set of stairs that served as a fire escape. The reception area/lounge was on the ground floor; a bar was on the eighth floor.  Above the bar was a ballroom restaurant area and kitchen.

On the very top was a viewing platform. In the picture (left) Tu Do Street started at the point where there is traffic and continued down about a kilometre until it met the river/docks area of the Saigon river.  Beyond the river were open mangrove swamplands. 

Looking at the building the consular, administration and aid staff were housed in an unsecured area on the facing facade.  Then a grill door separated the former from the Ambassador's suit corner, the registry, typing pool and the individual offices of the military attaches and political staff.

There was a rumour (for which I put every faith in it) that the owners of the hotel were paying the Viet Cong NOT to bring the war to the building.

This was exemplified by the fact that the entire plate glass facades on the ground floor were not cris crossed with vanilla masking tape as was our seventh floor. Some eighteen months earlier the VC drove a truck full of explosives into the compound of the United States embassy located across the street and blew it up. Many occupants were killed more by the collateral damage of shrapnel hitting glass windows and doors and imploding with the force of the detonation.  My office was in the Registry. I looked out onto Cholon which was the twin City to Saigon.  Depending on heat haze and given the hindrance of the taped windows, you could see for miles and miles in this direction.  

My Job

I was introduced to the Ambassador Lou Border - who had only arrived that week also.
In the pecking order, I was the lowest of the low - but I was still only aged 21 and thrilled to be there - so who cared?

I was the Registry clerk.  I handled all official correspondence coming into the Embassy.  This would be in the form of opening local mail; unclassified air and sea freight diplomatic bags, Safe Hand bags, secure telecommunications and liaison with the Australian army courier base at Free World HQ.  I had to account for all classified correspondence, folio number it on the relevant files and record their specific location within the Embassy.

I shared the registry with the communications staff - Geoff Williams and Mary Buust.  It was actually two people because Geoff and Mary rotated with early and late shifts. The room was one window frame in length (see photo above) and looked north east.  A large vault on the inner side of the room house the classified communications equipment and filing system

The filing system plotted diplomatic and military progress.  A precise details the issues that would be current and occupy the mind of a Head of Mission at any particular time. As it turned out, my posting was at the most intense and peak period of the war.
Given my prior experience in the Defence Liaison and Intelligence Coordination in Canberra, I was quite familiar with the clandestine operations that underpinned standard interventions. It was rather surreal to look out the window and correlate what was happening with the real situation verses what was being written in Washington and Canberra - sometimes "Spot On", sometime "irrelevant".

Military Attache Involvement

Mililtary Attaches in Diplomatic Missions normally conduct bilateral relations with military leaders of host nations (In this case, South Vietnam).  But the latter was now a puppet to the mighty U.S. Military Assistance Command, Vietnam (MACV) based at TSN. 
It was so interesting to witness how interwined Australia had become in the conduct of the war. I now had a front row seat is this part of history.  (Our shoes hanging out the backside of America  (Paul Keating 2025)
I used to jump out of bed every morning and could not wait to read and process the diplomatic dispatches and military situation reports.

Spooks Galore

The Americans had so many "operatives" in Saigon, it was absurd. It now reminds me of the TV MASH series where the doctors took the piss out of Lt Col Flagg, a paranoid intelligence officer.

Almost every American civilian I meet was a spook. Australia also had its covert operatives - paid for by the US government. It has only recently been published as to what they got up to.

Even I did not know it at the time. Prior to 1968 an Australian Colonel (Ted Serong) headed up the Australian Army Training Team that commenced in 1962.  They were small teams of Australian Non Commissioned Officers experienced in jungle warfare (Malaysia) engaged to sharpen the military proficiency of the Vietnamese armed forces. 
All four Victoria Crosses awarded in Vietnam went to AATV members.

Serong resigned from the above position and was immediately recruited by the CIA to set up a Counter Insurgency training program that met fire with fire - Operation Phoenix.  He and other "civilians "( namely Mike ? and Laurie ? ) were tasked to set up Death Squads within the Vietnamese police force that would covertly go about assassinating Viet Cong Cadres.
It was not a role that the Australian government condoned nor sponsored.

I knew the latter two gentlemen quite well - chatting and joking at parties.
Of course this way of relaxing must have been an escape for them.

Diplomatic Couriers

My job also involved escorting diplomatic couriers to and from the Embassy where we exchanged Safe hand Mail.
It seemed that these were the days of thrift and economy in the government.  Couriers were chosen on the basis of a need to liaise overnight or during the scheduled stop over time.  Most were from the armed forces. 
It was interesting to talk with them about their particular mission. For example one guy was a veteran of WW2 and still in the service.  There was a report that soldiers involved in a skirmish would blast away at targets whereas his mission was to induce the discipline of firing single shots.  The rationale being that the enemy would be more prone to keep the head down because a single drawn out shot is an indication that deliberate aim was being taken whereas a volley of shots indicated panic and were counterproductive in terms of gaining strategic advantage.
Another courier was Eric Hanfield. He was to be my boss (a) Canberra 1972 and (b) Cocos Islands 1982-84. (more on Eric later).

Often, Couriers with time on their hands would want to be taken to bars, nightclubs and other places of interest during their short and first sojourns. Only Pan American and Air Vietnam would be game enough to fly into Tan Son Nhut (TSN).  Flights would be delayed or in Air Vietnam's case cancelled without notice. 

This meant a lot of waiting around inside the perimeter of the fortified air base - because we were now carrying safe hand material.  We would drive the vehicle right up to the plane and decant our diplomatic bags either in the planes storage compartments underneath or on the seat space within the actual cabin. 
If the latter was the case we had to secure the bags for possible air turbulence.  If it was the former we would have to put the courier on board and wait around with our eyes on the locked fuselage. 

If it was not either hot and sticky it was in pouring monsoonal rain that we waited for the planes to either arrive or depart.

Now into my senior years, it surprises me that it was beyond the imagination of the Viet Cong politico to think of a motor cycle "heist" of our diplomatic mail. We shared so much high grade intelligece with the Americans.  The collective intelligence would have saved immeasurable numbers of combatants - both NVA and Viet Cong.

Visualising the Human Cost of the War

As described earlier, something was going on all the time at TSN airport.
Closer to the scene (inside the restricted area) it was a common event to watch C130 transports loading coffins.
American KIA casualties had skyrocketed from 216 in 1964 to 16,899 in 1968.
Hermetically sealed caskets were used – Not to protect the bodies – but more so the caskets so that they could be re used.
The protocol of not placing coffins on top of each other as a mark of respect for fallen comrades was difficult to implement.

The Bars ‘n Brothels
Below are two events that happened in the early days of settling-in to Saigon:
It was a totally different world, and in some ways, it seemed wild and forbidding yet curious.  In my case, I would leave the Embassy on Tu Do street walk 100 metre and I would be in the down town girly bar district.  If you went there for a drink, you never really knew what was going to happen.

But first some background:
During the Vietnam War, the presence of hundreds of thousands of foreign allied troops in South Vietnam led to the rapid growth of a widespread commercial sex industry, particularly in urban centers like Saigon.
For many GIs, especially those stationed in or rotating through cities, brothels and bars were a significant part of their experience. These establishments and the women who worked in them are frequently mentioned in soldier memoirs and historical accounts of the period.

The "Brothel Economy"

• Pervasive Presence: Prostitution was not a new phenomenon in Vietnam, but the influx of American money and personnel caused it to explode. Estimates of the number of prostitutes in South Vietnam during the war range from 300,000 to 500,000. For many women, often war widows or displaced from their villages, it was a means of economic survival.

• Military Regulation: While the South Vietnamese government officially declared prostitution illegal, the U.S. military often unofficially condoned and even regulated it. In some cases, "military brothels" were established within or near base perimeters to provide a controlled environment, supposedly for health and security reasons. These facilities were sometimes referred to by cynical nicknames like "Disneyland East" or "Sin City."

• The GI Perspective: The experience for GIs varied. For some, it was a transactional interaction driven by the need for sexual release in a high-stress environment. For others, it was an attempt to find a semblance of normalcy and human connection in a foreign land. The women were often stereotyped and dehumanized, a sentiment reflected in derogatory slang like "LBFM" (Little Brown Fucking Machine).

Saigon Tea and the "Bar Girls"

• Saigon Tea: A common experience for GIs was visiting bars where they would buy "Saigon Tea" for the female staff, known as "bar girls." Saigon Tea was often a watered-down, non-alcoholic drink that was vastly overpriced. The bar girls earned a commission for each drink sold.

• The "Bar Girl" as an Institution: The bar girl was an iconic figure of the Vietnam War. They were young Vietnamese women who would sit and talk with GIs, playing games, sharing cigarettes, and providing companionship. While some bar girls did not engage in prostitution, others would negotiate a price for sexual services after the bar closed.

• Accounts of GI Experiences:

  • The Transactional Relationship: Many accounts emphasize the commercial and often emotionally detached nature of these interactions. A GI might go to a bar, buy drinks for a girl, and then pay for her services. It was a business transaction, and GIs were often wary of being "hustled" or of the women being Viet Cong spies.

  • Loneliness and Connection: For some soldiers, the bar girls offered a brief escape from the isolation and trauma of war. The companionship, even if it was a paid-for service, provided a sense of connection and normalcy that was otherwise absent.

  • Prejudice and Dehumanization: Memoirs and reports from the era reveal a pervasive prejudice. The women were often viewed through a racial and colonial lens, seen as "exotic" and "submissive." The prevalence of derogatory terms and a lack of understanding about the women's desperation and circumstances reflect this dehumanization.

  • The Reality for the Women: Accounts from the Vietnamese perspective, though less common, paint a more complex and tragic picture. Many women were driven into prostitution by poverty, with some supporting their entire families with their earnings. The relationships, for them, were often a matter of survival, and they faced social ostracism and immense personal risk.

The commercial sex industry in Vietnam was a complex reality of the war, shaped by the desperation of a wartime economy, the prejudices of the American soldiers, and the policies (both official and unofficial) of the military and the South Vietnamese government. For GIs, it was a part of their experience that ranged from a simple, transactional escape to a deeply complicated and sometimes exploitative human interaction.

One Saturday afternoon, an acquaintance, Rod and I decided to check out a bar we'd heard about. It was a proper dive, packed with American soldiers—GIs—and a bunch of Vietnamese women, the hostesses. The atmosphere was thick with cigarette smoke and tension.

In Saigon, the Military Police, the MPs, routinely patrolled the bars. Their job was to look for American soldiers who were deserters or Absent Without Leave (AWOL), and they'd check IDs to make sure everyone was where they were supposed to be. It was just a normal part of regular patrols.

Well, this time, a couple of MPs came up to us, tapping their batons on the table and asking us to produce our ID.
They assumed we were American GIs. We knew the drill, but we also knew the rules. We weren't under their jurisdiction. We were civilians, and we weren't American military.

So, we politely declined to comply. We just stood there, calm and firm, and told them (No! with an Aussie accent - that we had to show them “bugger all”.

Now, this was a small act of defiance, but it was a big deal in that bar.
All the GI customers had just meekly complied, but we hadn't. The Vietnamese bar girls, seeing this, were impressed. They started cheering for us. It was a small victory, a moment of us sticking up for ourselves.

But our small victory was also the exact reason it got up a GI’s nose. He saw us, a couple of Aussies, getting praised for not doing what he just had to do. Perhaps he might had felt disrespected, and in that kind of environment, a slight like that can quickly become an explosion.

That's when he grabbed my mate and pushed him against a plate-glass window. Shattered glass and my friend went flying onto the street.

I couldn't believe it. I was frozen for a second, but my mate wasn't. He picked himself up, wiped some of the blood from his face, and without a moment's hesitation came back swinging.
That's when things went from bad to worse. Another hostess, seeing the escalating chaos, screamed "He's got a gun!" - probably a rouse.  At the same time, we heard whistles blowing outside. That sound meant only one thing: the MPs were coming back, and this time, they weren't just checking IDs—now their batons were responding to a brawl.

We knew we had to get out of there. Getting tangled up with the MPs in a situation like that was a nightmare. So, with my friend bleeding from the cuts and the whole place erupting behind us, we didn't hesitate. We took off. We ran up a set of stairs inside the building, scrambled up to the third story, and started navigating the maze of back alleys and rooftops. We had to climb over barbed wire property boundaries just to get away.

We finally got to the street a few buildings away from the bar, catching our breath in the shadows. We just stood there, watching the chaos from a distance as the MPs swarmed the building.  Another Willies Jeep with two extra MPs turned up and stopped nearby.  Realising the fracas down the road had calmed down they set about giving first aid to Rod who had a deep gash in his arm.  No questions asked - we were not in the bar.

It was a wild afternoon, and we were incredibly lucky to get out of it. We were just two guys, not much older than my grandsons are now, caught up in a place and a time that was a lot bigger and more dangerous than we ever imagined.

...

I also want to share something else that happened about two weeks into my posting, one that isn't about chaos or running for one's life.
This story is about the kind of quiet moments that stick, the ones that show you the world isn't as simple as it seems.

In Saigon, a lot of the bars and brothels were just a part of life for many of the young women there. For some, it was just a job, but for most, it was a way to survive. The war had taken everything from their families, and this was their last resort. You saw a lot of GIs in those places—it was all just transactional, very business-like.

I remember one night early in my posting going to a brothel located at the end of my street (they were ubiquitous - but couriosity got the best of me). It was loud, dingy, and full of GI’s. I ended up with a pretty young woman, and from the moment I saw her, I could tell she didn’t want to be there. She was quiet, almost invisible, and she looked right through me like I was just another man in a long line of them. She wasn't rude; she was just... somewhere else.

We went to her room, and the whole time, she was distant. Initially,we didn't talk much, but I felt this strong sense of empathy for her. I could just tell she was a good person forced into a terrible situation. This wasn’t her life; it was a cage she was trapped in.

And then something extraordinary happened. She looked at me, and in a very urgent voice, she asked me to stay the night with her. But here was the part that changed everything: she said, "No charge."

I was stunned. This was completely against the rules. Everything in that place was about money, about transactions. And here she was, offering me a night - for free. This wasn’t about business for her; it was about something else entirely. Maybe she saw something in me that was different from the others or maybe she was just desperate for one night of not being a commodity.

I couldn't say no. I told her I would stay.

But we weren't alone. The Mamasan—the woman who ran the place—had to be dealt with. So, she went out and negotiated with her. I could hear them talking, and I have no idea what she said, but she somehow convinced her to let me stay.

She came back, and for the rest of the night, we talked - her scant English, me with “Uc Dai Loi” - Australian; “Cam on ko” - thank you and some common French colonial words (with no attempt at conjugation) that would have been familiar to her.  It was a simple, human connection in a place built on the opposite. We were just two people, in a quiet room, escaping the noise and the war outside for a few hours.

The next morning, I left, and I never saw her again.  In fact, I stopped going to such places.

That experience taught me a profound lesson. It’s easy to look at people and put them into a box, to label them based on their situation. But behind every label, there is a person with a story. Sometimes, all they want is for someone to see them for who they really are, to treat them with a little humanity.

Logistics Officer

Apart from being a filing clerk, I was responsible for the logistics of aid materials getting to their intended destinations within Vietnam. Australia's aid was in two components:

• The Colombo Plan Aid (Civilian Aid such as City Water Supply design and construction; scholarships for students

• SEATO Plan Assistance. Military allied Assistance such as medical surgery and operating theatre staff for three regional hospitals

It was a cow of a job. It involved large portions of my day going to a delapidated customs godown with an Air Way Bill (AWB) in order to get materials out of customs. The protocol was for the AWB to be sent at the same time as a consignment.  On receiving the document we would prepare a covering diplomatic letter to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs MFA claiming the waiver of customs and excise in accordance with a Memorandum of Understanding that was signed by Australia and Vietnam. Given the Chaos in the city a MFA stamp and accompanying signature would delay the process - hence we were liable for storage fees. 

I would be out in the heat dealing with a single frazzled official climbing over hundreds of packages and parcels trying to find the corresponding AWB number. There was no order.  Parcels were dumped spasmodically. He would return triumphant with one parcel only to be mobbed by dozens of locals and myself jostling for service. The locals would be holding AWB's together with large denomination currency notes (Piastre) in their waving hands hoping to get served.  My larger and taller hand was the one without the Piastre.  The waiting was often tortuous.

The good part of the job was the on forwarding.  For example we had SEATO Aid surgical teams in Ben Hoa; Vung Tau and Long Xuyen (Southern delta provinces). If a consignment was relatively urgent I was tasked to deliver it personally.  It was relatively safe to travel 25 miles to Ben Hoa as the road was bumper to bumper with military vehicles armed to the teeth.

Getting to Vung Tau and Long Xuyen meant travelling on Wallaby Airlines . (It was a designation for the RAAF's No 35 squadron that operated several Caribou aircraft on daily Milk Runs that criss crossed the whole of Vietnam).
The route was via the First Australian Task Force ATF Vietnam's base at Nui Dat in Phuok Tuy province 

The map (while not in colour) might help to visualise the "ebb and flow" of 1ATFV engagement in the province - and the reason road travel was too dangerous.

Life in Saigon

Click here for a 47 minute Youtube CBS documentary "Saigon 1967". 
It is ugly.  It describes an omnipresent, scary, foreign place where cross cultural communication was almost non existant. But these were the challenges.

Chez Paul

My head maid was the most beautiful Vietnamese I had encountered.
Her name was Hao and she may have been in her mid twenties.  She brought along her sister Bao, her husband and three children aged six to two - instant family.
She was slim yet highly pregnant with child number four; lovely jet black hair, clear skin and perfect teeth.  She wore the traditional black silk loose trousers and white chemise.  

She spoke no English nor French and she could not cook.
I did not care.  Although I did not need such attention, for the sake of stimulating the economy it was standard practice for foreigners to mass employ.  I had to engage Hao as No 1 Servant; Bao as no 2 Servant and the husband as the Night watchman - who was hardly - if ever - there.

The Maid’s Kids

The kids were gorgeous.

I called the boys Linus and Pig Pen and the little girl Lucy - after the Charlie Brown comic strip.
Fortress Saigon had few amenities or distractions and often life, if not at work, was boring and relentless.  It was nice to have the company of innocents who were equally captivated.  When I came home they would run to the gate to greet me.  We used to play ball games and I used to play magic tricks with them.
Hao had them well trained.  They were not allowed upstairs and if I wanted to play with them I would come down to the courtyard. 
When I had had enough I simply retired upstairs.

...

Years latter she, somehow, sent me a letter (penned by an interpreter).
In it, she wrote that she and the children simply loved me.

Tet I - the First Offensive

The period leading up to the Tet Offensive of 1968 was a deceptive calm, a false peace.
This first section of my story details personal experiences during that time, before the major attacks began on January 30, 1968, and continued, on and off, for over six months.

Setting the Scene: The Sacred Holiday

Tet, the arrival of the Lunar New Year, is more than just a holiday in Vietnamese culture; it is the most sacred time of the year. It is a period of purification, reunion, and hope—a spiritual equivalent to the reverence given to Christmas in Western tradition.
(The Vietnamese population holds a strong, distinct national identity and culture separate from China, though the Tet holiday is part of a broader Sino-cultural sphere.)

In the days preceding the festival, the atmosphere in Saigon was electric, thick with the scent of kumquat and burning incense. A "cease-fire" between the conflicting forces had been declared, and the customary midnight to 6 a.m. curfew was lifted, granting a rare sense of freedom. Combined with the weekend, Embassy staff were to enjoy a four-day holiday starting January 31st.

A Journey into the Heart of Tet

On the weekend before Tet festivities, Hao, invited me to visit her village.
As the sun bled its last colors from the sky, we set out by car.
I had no idea where we went that night; the journey felt like an excursion into a foreign land.

The darkness was absolute, heavy, and velvety. It not only accentuated the distance, but seemed to swallow the sounds of the city, leaving only the relentless churning of our vehicle's engine as we drove for what felt like miles and miles, deeper into the countryside.

When we finally arrived, the darkness fractured into a thousand shimmering points of light. The air thrummed not with dread or isolation, but with the intense, collective joy of the Lunar New Year.
Only Vietnamese was spoken, a beautiful, liquid torrent of sound that washed over me, yet somehow made me feel more included, not less.

The village was everything I had only been able to imagine: a small, perfect sphere of communal happiness.
The streets were hung with glowing paper lanterns and the brilliant red and yellow of Tet decorations. The community was intensively focused on the merriment, and I, their unexpected guest of honor, found myself swept into a world of simple, genuine warmth.

Hao, whose usual demeanor was one of quiet diligence, was beaming—her face alight with pride. I made sure she was acknowledged and appreciated by everyone, sensing that this act of sharing her world was a precious gift.
It was a moment of profound, innocent peace, unaware of the historical storm that was about to break.

An Undercurrent of Awareness?

The joy of the New Year was a beautiful façade. While I saw only innocent celebration, it is plausible that the villagers were very much aware of the rising tide of conflict. For the coming Tet offensive of such a scale—the largest of the war—to be successful, local networks were essential. Weapons, supplies, and Viet Cong forces had to be moved and hidden under the guise of holiday preparations. The very fabric of this peaceful community likely concealed a clandestine infrastructure: a strange face, selling bánh chưng might have been a new cadre; a large bundle wrapped in straw might have held an AK-47.
The people, especially those in rural areas, probably learned to live with a “double-vision”  celebrating their sacred holiday while silently observing the subtle, unnatural movements in the darkest corners of their own lives.
They may not have known the exact time or target, but they most certainly felt the weight of a heavy secret, a palpable tension beneath the music and the lantern light. This beautiful, genuine peace was only possible because it was a calculated deception, a moment of calm purchased with fear.

I suggest that a Vietnamese villager would have been indoctrinated that the conflict was with the ARVN government and “the Americans - Mẽo” - ignorant of Australia’s role.  Therefore, I may have been viewed as both a non combatant and an “Uc Dai Loi - Australian” with no “skin in the Game”.  Who knows.

All hell broke loose two days later - See In Harms Way

My Residence

My quarters were not that flash. The street was called Duy Tan - within walking distance to the Embassy.
(After the war the Vietnamese renamed it to Pham Ngoc Thract)
It was a battle-axe block where entry was a lane way that ran past the landlord's house. The landlord was a doctor who spoke French.  But he and his family choose to politely ignore me.  Rather xenophobic I thought.  

I was glad the house was off the street.  It was not a main thoroughfare but still the traffic was horrendous - particularly the motorbikes and the Renault taxis belching noxious exhaust fumes.  I was also less of a target in terms of burglary and other "nasties". 

The house was two storeys and single standing.
Downstairs was the dining room with no internal stairs.  In the middle was the stairwell to my upstairs quarters (minus the dining room) and servant's toilet.  To the left was one room which served as a bedroom for the six people. Then there was a small storeroom and then the kitchen/laundry.
Bars were on all the windows. Upstairs was an open balcony stretching the whole length of the building.  The far end door would take you to my bedroom a large air conditioned room with a connecting onsuite to an even larger lounge/entertainment room.  A tiled shower room was an adjunct.  Again there were bars on all windows. 

It would have been built in the 1950's the tiles were archaic and there furniture was harsh and Spartan.
There was running water for the shower.  But no hot water.

Given my liaison with the Army courier-run to the Embassy, I became mates with several soldiers.  We would get together for a bar crawl and end up at my place.  

They were billeted at a dodgy place called "Hotel Canberra" way down in the Cholon (Chinatown) district on a main street. It was nothing like its namesake. There was the constant cacophony of horns blowing, screeching tyres, dragster motor bikes and fumes fumes fumes. The nightly curfew 12:00 - 05:00 hrs meant that, often, they stayed Chez Moi. 

Compared to their lodgings my place was a palace.  Theirs was a five-six storey building, no lifts in a crowded tenement area wherein they shared four to a room with fans and constant noise.  The front was protected 24/7 by Australian sentries in sandbagged and pill box type fortifications.  Barbed wire and mesh everywhere.   The mesh was to protect against handgranades being thrown by passing vehicles.  (The VC improvised with a fish hook on the wooden handle - making the blast more deadly).
They were allowed to stay out all night as long as they obeyed the curfew and turned up for work the next morning.

I am jumping ahead but it deals with Australian soldiers guarding the chancellery. White Mice, a derogatory name for the South Vietnamese police whose nickname came from their uniform white helmet and gloves, were posted at the lift entry to the 7th floor.  But they were unavailable due the disruption caused by the Tet offensive. 

During the Offensive, male staff were asked to guard the chancellery at night time - see In Harms Way.
This was because the grounds of the American Embassy were breached by the Viet Cong.

Two Third Secretaries refused outright.  But, from memory, we comprised of about six volunteers who worked in pairs rotating a one-in three-night stint.  (The ambassador's couch was lovely to sleep on).

Well anyway after the crisis was over, the government thought that it would be a good idea if Australian troops took over from us "vets".
The ADF came up with the idea of rewarding battle hardened troops in the field with some additional R & R in Saigon.
The routine was a week of night duty at vantage points inside the chancellery and then a few days at "Hotel Canberra" bivouac and then back to ATF Nui Dat and jungle patrols.

Protocol required that they wear their best uniform. Slouch hat; polished brass; spotless starched shirt and trousers; parade webbing and boots so shiny you could see your face and of course their 7.62mm SLR rifles (locked and loaded). 
The normal soldier you would see in the street did not have to be this spick 'n span so it was with a sense of pride and admiration to know that these guys, my own age were there.

They were polite and well mannered and somewhat bemused and inquisitive as to my presence.
It seemed a question as to who envied who.

They would start at about 14:00 hrs and stay until they were relieved by the White Mice at 6am.

One day, as I was coming or going in a corridor, one of the soldiers called out "Tiger!"
It was Gary Butt, a former St Pat's boarder - a year below me.
We sat at the same dining table for two years.

You meet "old boys" in the strangest of places at the strangest times.
Who would have known just five years earlier we would meet like this.
(I never did meet Tran Van Lam's son - he avoided the draft by studying dentisty in Paris).

My Routine

The morning would begin with the maid waking me. I would go downstairs have breakfast - baked beans on toast, fresh orange juice and a couple of Baroka or a glass of Enos. 

My clothes would have been ironed and neatly put away and then I would dress and wait for the Embassy Peugeot to pick me up.  By this time the vehicle might have 3-4 staff In it and we would proceed to pick up another passenger along the one kilometer trip to the Chancery. 

About every second day was a normal day in the office - the rest were outside in the heat. Work was pretty full on and there was little time for tom foolery.  I did, however take some time off to woo our local staffer Le Thi Chin. She was the cleaner/sweeper in the Chancery.  She was very young - about 19.  Again she spoke no English nor French and would look at me and sigh whimsically.  It was pretty obvious.  While I had no intentions, I played to her fantasies.  I would kiss her hand and make public gestures that she was the heart of my heart.  She would beam - which in a sense also made my day.

Lunch time was 12:30 hrs sharp.  Everyone would tumble into the assemble vehicle and return home for lunch - baked beans on fresh bread.  After that Siesta - which would last until 14:45 hrs and then back to the Chancellery. 

Knock off time would be 17:30 hrs.  I habitually worked overtime as I was always in catch up mode due to the fact that I was out delayed in traffic for half of the day. I would walk home or take a cyclo or a taxi.  Generally I preferred to walk haggling a price while a game for a Vietnamese was not so for myself.  It was a turn off. 

Walking had its dangers.  There was no Right of Way for Pedestrians.  The unwritten law was "Chacqun pour Soi" - Each one for Himself.

Two person VC hit squads operated.  One drove a motor bike and the passenger on the back would do the shooting.  Generally they targeted lone GIs in uniform.  They would drive up beside him and ... bang! Being in civilian clothes mattered little.  I made sure that when walking anywhere I would get as far away from a curb as I could and hug the facade of the building.  I still do this today out of habit.  I still go funny when a car back fires.

Friday and or Saturday evening would be party time. They weren't parties as such .  But just an excuse to convene somewhere to have a drink.  They were organised by Embassy Staff mainly for embassy staff.  It was a way of passing the weekend so that you could get back to work on the Monday.  Saigon was a hardship post.  You could not take trips to the countryside, there were no cultural exhibitions nor visiting entertainers, art galleries, museums or anything to occupy yourself.  Getting anywhere was a nightmare due to the amount of military traffic and convoys transiting a city whose road grid had not been upgraded since the French adopted its master plan in the previous century.  Besides the heat, walking around town was dangerous. Home was a place to relax, get over your hangover and listen to music from HiFi appliances that you purchased when on RnR.

I carried no rifle, wore no uniform, and lived "outside the wire". I could wander through the bustling Saturday and Sunday markets where the air was thick with the scent of herbs and charcoal smoke, sit on low plastic stools with a bowl of steaming phở, and trade stories—haltingly at first—in the easy language of smiles and gestures. At home, my maid and her children became part of my daily life, their laughter and small acts of kindness reminding me that family could be found far from home. I was free to listen, to notice, to learn.

The Australian soldiers I knew, however, were bound by a very different reality. Their days began and ended in barracks, their movements controlled, their focus fixed by training on survival and the demands of their mission. Sadly, a soldier is often deeply indoctrinated in ways that a civilian simply is not. Their training hardens them to focus narrowly on survival and mission objectives, to see the world through the lens of conflict and threat. This mindset, necessary though it may be, can limit their ability to connect with the people and culture around them—whereas as a civilian, I was able to move beyond fear and suspicion, to embrace the richness and complexity of Vietnam’s everyday life.

Yet even in that more open life, I was not insulated from the dangers of war. More than once I found myself running for cover under indiscriminate rocket barrages, pinned down by sudden street-to-street fighting, or picking my way through the aftermath of a 122mm barrage—at one point stepping over the body of a man, his head gone. Those moments were stark reminders that the war was never far away, even in the midst of everyday life.

I have always counted it a privilege that my time there was shaped by human connection, not combat; by curiosity, not caution; by the gift of seeing Vietnam as a living, breathing place, not only as a theatre of war.

Going to the Horse Races 

On one occasion we went to the races.  Phu Tho Racetrack down near Cholon (Chinatown).  The infrastructure was run down an antiquated.  There was, however, a new Australian built and installed Totaliser betting system.

We considered that betting in Saigon would probably be the fairest in the world.  This was because everybody would have been trying to cheat.  

But our group did have an advantage. Peter Wilenski Third Secretary (Political) and his wife Gail were part of our party.  Peter was a medical doctor and Gail was a veterinarian.  Our system was to bet on the best combination of the appearance of both man and beast based on Peter and Gail's combined opinion.

 (Peter went on to become the Secretary of DFAT.  He retired due to ill heath and died shortly thereafter (cancer.)

Fast Forward to Feb 1968 - the military had found a different way to "nobble" the favorite - see In Harm's Way

The Black Market

By 1967, the Americans were omni present.  They had commandeered building after building for their military support, the Embassy and its various arms USAid, CIA Information - thousands and thousands. 
They had supermarkets called PX (Post Exchange) where they could purchase booze food stuffs and Duty Free HiFi, radios cosmetics perfume etc.  While on the same side as the Americans, Embassy staff were declined access to the PX. This created a thriving black market because all this non essential material came in on the ships and the Vietnamese were the stevedores. 
If you went for a walk in the local markets all this contraband would be blatantly displayed and would sell for about double the PX price. So if my maid wanted a tin of baked beans she would have to purchase it on the black market. If she paid by US dollars the price would still be the same.  
If she attempted to pay by Australian dollars she would be laughed at.  US Dollar/Military Payment Certificate MPC/Piastre - that’s alls!

All the Comforts – for Some

Because of the black market, the Americans introduced the Military Payment Certificate MPC system. 
The MPC system was used in occupied Europe 1944- to reduce profiteering and the impact the US military and diplomatic impact was having on the Vietnamese economy.
Many commandeered buildings were used as either Bachelor Officers Quarters BOQ or Bachelor Enlisted Quarters BEQ where because of the numbers they were open 24/7 with bar service, poker machines, restaurants serving American size steaks; weeni roasts, grits, draft beer; apple pie, ice cream shakes with fresh milk and soda pop all imported from the good ole US of A.  Entertainers from the states were paid to sing and dance and life was a hoot for these non combatants.

Each establishment was heavily fortified by a barbed wire perimeter; pickets sentries pill boxes and the rest. Viet Cong would drive past on motor bikes and toss a grenade into the fortification.
The response was to enclose the area with chicken wire. The VC were innovative and adaptive.  They began throwing grenades with fish hooks.  This was more lethal because the explosion was above ground. The chicken wire came down. Access to BOQ was by authorised ID.  As much I would like to get in and gorge myself on a steak or two I could not get past the sentry or service would be declined if I was not wearing my a photo ID. 
The final challenge was that payment had to be in MPC - which I could not secure. So near yet so far - I would have to wait until RnR in Hong Kong to once again savour these culinary Western delights.

By contrast, the Australian contingent at Free World Headquarters operated a small commissary. 
We were entitled to purchase there and payment was by cheque in Australian dollars.  We could only purchase beer & spirits and cigarettes and the odd duty free item. Beer was ten cents a can - you could get pissed for a dollar. Americans loved our beer. Our strongest alcohol beverage was usually twice as strong as a US brand.  The can itself was also strong.  It used to be funny watching a yank associate getting pissed quickly and then performing his "gung ho" action of crushing the can and jettisoning it on to the growing pile of crushed empty cans.  It just didn't work for these green tins.  The Yank would walk away looking rather stupid - true!

Our beer was gold.  We would trade. I swapped two x 24can cartons for an M30 carbine rifle and 1000 rounds of ammunition. This was a very handy trade when the Tet Offensive was upon us. Another time, I swapped one carton of beer for a fighter pilot's battle dress - pockets and zippers were everywhere. The "in" thing was to have a zippo lighter which were purchased at the Duty Free. Everyone smoked. By the time I left I had a large collection of war time memorabilia. Sadly in the course of time I gave it away.

One Close Encounter

Getting to the commissary almost killed me. Together with other staff we took an Embassy car and drove there one day.  Free World HQ was a five or six story building for the troops allied to the Americans and Vietnamese - Korean; Taiwanese; Thai; NZ and Australia.  It was protected in the usual fashion. A building site was next door.  It looked innocuous. The Viet Cong, however, had rigged a Claymore Mine on the wall of the building aimed at the alley and opposing building.

It detonated five minutes after we drove passed.

Rugby in the Boondocks

The Cercle Sportif wasn't just a club; it was a sanctuary from a war-torn city, a relic with its own set of rules.
I became member No. 8797.  My admission was fast-tracked because of rugby, a sport that felt both out of place and oddly grounding in this chaotic environment. The club's swimming pool and restaurant were an echo of a time gone by, and its team of French colonials, a ragtag bunch, were my gateway into this insular world.

Since the city lacked a proper pitch, we would drive about 20 kilometers past Bien Hoa to a field within a sprawling rubber plantation. This was more than just a trip for a game; it was my one chance to escape. I was desperate to see the countryside—the lush paddy fields free of barbed wire, the quiet vastness of the land.

This choice was a form of madness, a gamble based on a gut feeling that the Viet Cong had no interest in the French expatriates, perhaps because of some unspoken arrangement or "secret tax." After all, the Vietnamese had already defeated the French in 1954 at Dien Bien Phu. My own French tutor, a man who had fought in that war and decided to stay, introduced me to this unique fraternity. In my mind, if we were ever stopped in those “boondocks”, my association with these men would be my best defense. They would simply see me as another of those mad "frogs" and let me pass.  But common sense stopped me after only two “excursons”.

Photo (above) My ID Card for Cercle Sportif Saigonais

The Language

French

Schoolboy French gave me a head start as to some degree of cultural awareness with the locals.
French was the language of the Vietnamese elite (such as tennis playing 'Mesdemoiselles' at the Cercle Sportif - see above.  It was understood by waiters and medium rank government officials.  For many, it was the medium to speak to domestic staff who basically knew verbs, nouns and adjectives.

My head maid had zero French but I could not refuse employing her because it would have been a Loss of Face for her friend - another maid of a Embassy colleague who intervened in the hiring.  So we struggled.

I grasped very little Vietnamese.  It was simply too hard because it was a tonal language.
The north Vietnamese were culturally different to the south.  During the great divide of 1955 at the 17th parallel prior to elections southerners went to the north and northerners went to the south all depending on their politics.  So if southerners could hardly understand the northerners, what chance did I have getting someone to understand my tone.

This was particularly frustrating getting around.  For example I lived in a street called spelt "Duy Tan" A northerner might pronounce it "Dzui Tan" whereas a southerner would pronounce it as spelt.

It was uncomfortable if you were in a taxi or a tricycle in the black of night completely lost and not being able to explain yourself.

(On my return to Vietnam as a tourist in 2015, I was in a much better space to learn some basic Vietnamese and satisfactorily converse)

Assassination of Journalist Friends

Viet Cong assassination squads were everywhere in the city.

For a while I had adopted the strategy that if ever accosted I would blurt out "Bao Chi - Journalist".
But I soon revised this strategy when during the Second Tet Offensive (May 1968) four journalists drove into an ambush in Cholon (Chinatown) and were shot at point blank range as they kept on saying from their mini moke "Bao Chi" "Bao Chi".

I quickly learnt a new word "Falang" Foreigner - non American.
Other words I learnt were

Numbers 1-to 100; Colours

Ba mui ba - literally meant the number "33" but was the common name for a local beer.

Cam on Ong/Ko/Ba - Thank you sir/madam/miss

Uc Dai Loi - Australian

Uc Chao Uc Dai Loi - Australian Ambassador

Di di - go quickly

Di di mau - go away quickly

Cut di - go away and have intercourse with the matriarch in your family.

I could not string it together but I wanted to learn: "Stop beating my feet I will tell you all I know".
But seriously, I felt so inadequate not speaking the local language that I promised myself that if I got another posting I would better prepare myself and really try.

Going Home

That cable

Fighting eased off in and around Saigon during June, July, August and September 1968.
The intensity of living in Saigon was still there.  I had seven months left to go and was resigned to lasting it out.

Geoff Williams had the early shift for the communicator one morning.

He met me with a smirky smile.

"I know something you don't know"

Protocol meant he could not tell me about a cable he had received from Canberra until the Ambassador had given his "ok".

The news was that out of the blue, I was being promoted to a position in Brussels beginning October and could I be released early if Canberra provided an immediate replacement?

The cross-posting and promotion were good news.  Belgium was located at the heart of Western Europe within easy reach of any country I cared to travel/explore.

The bonus was that I would be out of here in two weeks - not seven months.  Joy!

I wrote to my brother Sam with the news.  I asked him not to tell Mum ‘n Dad as I wanted to surprise them.

Then I had to wait out the 14 days - which was sheer torture.  I was sick of the traffic, the chaos and this obscene dirty war where body kills were counted as if it was a glorious feat.

Each morning I would wake up initially thinking it was a dream.

D Day minus 7.  My replacement, Peter Kossack, arrived and it was no longer a dream.  He inherited my family and I moved into the Hotel Caravelle. 
On the last night I took a valium for the first time in my life.  It had the opposite effect.  I was up all night.

My next memory was being on board a Pan American Boeing 707 en route First Class from Saigon to Singapore.

I had a returning aid expert for company.  He was an engineer supervising the finalisation of the Ben Hoa Water Supply project.  Normally one would transit Singapore that evening, do some Duty Free shopping and leave for Australia the next day.

Bugger that! We both wanted to get home so quickly we went to Qantas terminal and enquired if there were any seats on connecting flights.  There was one leaving in an hour and we took it.

I rang my sister with my change of plan.

Welcome Home

My brother Sam met me at Canberra airport.  He had filled out and grown taller and was a regular member of Northern Suburbs rugby team playing a combination of first and second grade as Fullback.
All his mates were my mates.  But he was primarily occupied with courting Rosemary whom I was soon to meet. 

He drove me straight to our home in Watson.

It was dinner time.  We expected Mum to be in the kitchen. Sam stopped the car far enough up the driveway to confirm this. I got out and walked past the kitchen window and gave her a short acknowledgement knowing that at first glance she would think I was Sam.  I went in the back door and into the kitchen and stood there in silence.

"What?" she snapped intent on mashing the potatoes and not turning around.

"What's for dinner?" I said.

There were tears.  It was a such a happy occasion.

...

I caught up with a fond friend, Pat Rankin, with whom I had been corresponding regularly.

After a "renewal process" we decided that for the next three weeks we would keep the platonic relationship.  Play for me ... and damn good tonic for her.  It was so nice once again to smell the scent of a western woman.

Dad got wind of my home coming so it was not so much a surprise for him.

He was staying at a hostel in Barton.  I don't remember where when and how we made contact.

I do recall visiting his one room bedroom with communal toilet/bathroom but I do not know when.

He was always very stoic and me likewise.

He made a specific point of taking me to his local pub in Queenbeyan and introducing me.  You could see he was as proud as punch.  I hoped my return had lifted his spirits.

He organised for dinner in an Indian restaurant in Hobart place.  The purpose was to introduce me to my sister Babe's finance Stan White.

I also met Sam's girlfriend Rosemary Ames.

Greg, Sue and Jen were still at school.  It must have been "cool" for big brother not to engage with them. Sorry kids!

I was soon down at the Hotel Rex where the Northies hung out.

It was off-football season but on a Friday night there were the usual suspects.

I walked in.  One acquaintance said "Hello Tiger! Long time no see. Where the hell have you been?"

"Just come back from Vietnam"

"Oh! .. Well the boys won the grand final last year but got tipped by Royals this year - those bastards"

He went on to describe local characters and local events.

It was not so with solid mates.  Although few wrote, they all knew about Vietnam and from their general demeanor and questions you could tell they were following events keenly.  They banded together and had a special return welcome home function.  Not at the Rex but at the Rugby Union club in Barton.  Some Northies who had joined the club after I had left came along.  I was very touched.  I talked a little about the war but they were more interested in the birds and the brothels.

...

It was a touching "Welcome Back" at the Department.

I was scheduled to do a ten day finance course which started at about 09:30hrs on a Monday.

I arrived early in case Personnel wanted some processing.  The staff put down their pens and came over to chat - curious but cautious about personal experiences in such a hardship posting.
This all delayed my attendance at the course.
The Head of Personnel personally took me to the Training Room which had now been in-session for about half an hour.

Throsby Zouch was the Training Officer - I had never before met him.  He still had the floor.  He stopped and made an impromptu and effusive "welcome back" speach.
Slightly embarrassed, I sat down next to a pretty gingerhead ("always thinking Tiger").

"Welcome home the hero" she said under her breath.

She was Penny Wensley - being posted to Mexico City as a Third Secretary.

Our paths were to cross again with postings in Paris. She went to become the Governor of Queensland.

...
During my short time in the department I did not make it down to the girls in External Communications Branch to see if anyone meant some of the salacious promises that had been previously made to me some months earlier over the teleprinter 😏 (see In Harm's Way).