HITCH-HIKING IN S.E. ASIA—II TWO AUSTRALIAN GIRLS FIND MANY FRIENDS IN VIETNAM

Press, Volume CVII, Issue 31539, 29 November 1967, Page 16

HITCH-HIKING IN S.E. ASIA—II TWO AUSTRALIAN GIRLS FIND MANY FRIENDS IN VIETNAM

I By

FRANCES LETTERS

in the “Sydney Morning Herald ”]

I Reprinted by arrangement. J - [The Second of Three Articles.]

It was late afternoon when Judy and I trudged up to the Vietnamese frontier at Godauha. Behind us the road stretched away through miles of green paddy fields. Ahead towered the barbed-wire fence and arc-lamps of no-man’s-land. Shells thundered to earth in the distance. A dour Cambodian stamped our passports, and we squeezed through a gap in the barbed-wire and into Vietnam.

“My travelling companion, Judy Stitt, and I, having determined to see South Vietnam and the war for ourselves, travelled from Vientiane in Laos, through Cambodia, towards the embattled country.”—FRANCES LETTERS.

The frontier post stood ready for war. Barbed-wire coiled round the perimeter; walls of sandbags guarded the entrance. Soldiers lounged outside the post, machineguns cradled casually in the crooks of their arms. Their faces were laconic but their eyes alert. Our arrival nonplussed the boy in charge of the immigration post. His pale, carved face took on the look of wary defiance we were to see so often in Vietnam. He had never heard of the three-day visas promised by the South Vietnamese Embassy in Vientiane: he would radio Saigon next morning for information. Protection of a Desk Judy and I chatted to him, and he soon unbent. His name was Hoa. He explained that the Viet Cong were everywhere: everyone was suspect. They often attacked the post after dark. If we slept behind the reception desk we should have at least some protection against grenades. Half a dozen soldiers and a merry old woman joined us. bringing fish and rice. They sensed our fear, and set out to reassure us. We all crouched round a tiny lamp, shaded to maintain the blackout. For hours we laughed and talked in laborious scraps of Vietnamese, French and English. Everyone would point at intervals to each other shouting “V.C.! V.C.!” and doubling up in mirth. It was the favourite local joke. The bombing and shell-fire drew nearer. Out in the darkness machine-guns stuttered. Windows began to rattle, and the floor shuddered beneath us. All night the two-way radio whistled and squawked, and a voice blared out urgently: every few minutes sentries outside beat signals to each other on tin cans. Next morning Hoa crept in, his face distraught. We had to leave Vietnam. Not wanting to distress him further, Judy and I returned cheerfully to the Cambodian post. The officials there refused us re-entry. We settled down in no man's land to wait. Judy dozed; I played my harmonica. Dozens of women, children and soldiers gathered around, offering suggestions. We composed a letter to the Australian Ambassador in Saigon, and a truck-driver volunteered to take it for us. We heard later that the Ambassador had thought it a Viet Cong hoax to lure some of his staff to their deaths. Dam, a smiling soldier with spiky hair, brought us food; his lanky friend Nguyen frowned with concentration

as-he carried two glasses of tea. Hoa, the immigration officer, was beside himself. The Viet Cong would surely kill us if we slept outside. He pleaded with Saigon; finally they agreed to let us in. Jubilant, everyone decided to drive us to the first town. We set off in a jeep: Hoa, the old woman and a noisy crowd of soldiers. Dust choked the streets of the town, hanging like a thick blanket in the stifling air. Bicycles, carts, chickens and people jostled for elbow-room. We all sat down at a footpath coffee-stall and ordered drinks. Suddenly a metallic bellowing filled the street. The brown clouds parted and a gigantic tank appeared. With

its great gun piercing the air, it felt its way blindly through the swirling dust. Pennants flapped; G.l.s swivelled round, eyes raking the crowd. They gripped their snub-nosed machine-guns and shouted into their two-way radios. Judy and I sat still, chilled. For, the first time we were glimpsing the immensity of the war. It was time to leave for Saigon. Hoa, Dam and Nguyen took us to a marketplace and conferred with the driver of an ancient car. Before we realised what was happening they had paid our fare and leapt into their own jeep. Grinning at our protests, they waved good-bye and screeched off. The taxi was designed for six people. It carried 17 of us to Saigon. Men, women and children bulged from the boot and out the windows. We squatted on each other’s laps and shoulders in a tangle of arms, legs and feet. Judy and I shared a window. Through it we could see the dusty, neglected countryside stretching away into the distance.

Riding “Shotgun” Men in uniform swarmed everywhere. They all carried pistols, rifles or machine-guns. The road bristled with little military posts. Each concrete box rose from a tangled sea of barbed-wire, sandbags pillowed the walls. Through every gun-slit eyes glittered. The road was jammed with military traffic, and we had to drive slowly. On every truck an American soldier “rode shotgun” up beside the driver. Each one trained his machine-gun on the taxi as we passed. Often the barrel passed only a few feet from our faces. We took care not to make any sudden movement: to a soldier an upflung arm could mean a Viet Cong grenade. He might shoot first and ask questions afterwards. Again and again South Vietnamese soldiers ordered the taxi to pull off the road while they scanned every face. They seemed surprised to see Judy and me, and grinned beneath their helmets. The Americans were even more startled. They shouted and whistled in disbelief. Even those obviously just returning from battle, sweating, filthy and exhausted, would whip out their cameras and take our photographs. We drove on through tumbledown villages and dried-out paddyfields. Little outcrops of graves were scattered everywhere. Now and again we passed the shattered remains of a house, or a wall spattered with bullet holes. We watched an aircraft in the distance dropping bombs into the jungle. Like a vulture it swooped down; the foliage seemed to explode and white smoke belched up. The plane circled. Suddenly it dived to attack again. We felt sick, but could not drag our eyes away. Walking To Saigon At sunset the taxi dropped us about 10 kilometres from Saigon, in Cholon, its twin city. We were tired and dirty, and had nowhere to sleep. Our packs weighed heavy on

f our backs as we set off to 1 walk to Saigon. Children be- ’ gan to crowd round us. We , were shocked to see how the r war had corrupted them: they were unlike any children we I had ever seen. Their eyes . were knowing and cynical; ! they leered, demanded money, 1 and pinched and kicked us > viciously when we ignored ; them. Some threw stones and > corncobs, screaming obsceni- , ties in English—obviously 1 picked up from G.l.s. Their t parents leaned against door--1 ways and did nothing. At last a jeep pulled up: a - Vietnamese soldier jumped j out and came to our rescue, i He invited us home to stay i with his family. Pierre, a

cherubic-faced young man, was a major in the Vietnamese Marines. On the way home he apologised for the children’s Behaviour: they had thought we were Americans. Unpopular But Needed

The Americans, he went on to explain, were unpopular in South Vietnam—as unpopular as foreign allied troops usually are in any country at war. As individuals the soldiers were considered arrogant and brash: they seemed to despise those they had come to help. Against the background of Vietnamese poverty, their wealth was showy and in bad taste. Thinking they could buy anything, they had trampled on Vietnamese culture and customs, and indeed it seemed that money did talk. All sorts of vice had flourished since the Americans had arrived. And yet, said Pierre, they were needed. Their presence was the only barrier separating many South Vietnamese from death. The Government had been obliged to choose between the North Vietnamese and the Americans. They did not want either, but preferred the Americans as the lesser evil. If they had decided for Hanoi it would have meant a life sentence for all, and a death sentence for many. At least the Americans would go home when it was all over. A third article will describe more of the girls’ experience in Vietnam.