One day off a month from flying; no torch in the eyes at 0500 to wake you up; the chance to wear the slightly mildewed civvies hanging between flying suits. A day, which was planned to the last detail during the four weeks in-between. Naturally, one had to have the cronies off on the same day so there was a fair bit of cajolery to be done with the bloke who knocked up the daily flying program.
Gazza Jones, my so called twin, was the man. The cronies? Ray (Make) Hay and Col (Checkshirt) Hendy. Col was known as such because his civilian wardrobe consisted of one blue check shirt, actually there was six of them, probably picked up cheap at some market and all blue. Back to Gazza Jones. They say there is no man who cannot be bought, but at what cost? Gazza had an elephantine capacity for beer and during the lead up to a day off, this bloke had to be catered for. "Ill getcha one Gaz." "My shout Jonesy." "Stay there mate Ill bring one over." Sycophantic but the accepted way of doing things, after all Gary did it before he got the programming job, and we would take the payola if and when we did. Imagine having a day off with a 'Goffa Scoffa'? Perish the thought.
Where to go? There was the Peter Badcoe, which was all right unless a heap of diggers had come in from the bush and then you couldn't get a really cold beer. Another spot was Back Beach and that was to far from any beer. Vung Tau was OK but the beer was bloody expensive.
We were off to the 'Inn'. Tucked behind the quarry on the 'Cap' and looking over a lovely little beach was a small restaurant with some scattered out door tables and chairs. Far enough off the beaten military track, and only approachable by walking through the various R&C beaches, this little oasis had been spotted by us from the air. Patronized mainly by the more well to do locals only seldom did one find any GI's or fellow Aussie's enjoying the reasonably priced cold local brew and very fresh 'heppo roll's'. Beneath the seaward balcony of the Inn, the rusting hulk of a freighter named the 'Adonis K' was embedded in the sand. Min Ky, the 'Mama San' who ran the place, told us the ship was caught by the French running arms to the 'Viet Mhin' back in the 50's and run aground by gunboats.
Only one thing marred the peace and tranquillity of the Inn, the quarry. Each afternoon they would blast three times. 'Crump pause Crump pause Crump'. Then, once again peace would be restored to the little inn looking over the fishing fleets and an occasional Junk rippling the placid surface of the South China Sea. This was our 'possie', a closely guarded secret between three of the worst reprobates ever to serve with 9 SQN RAAF South Vietnam. On this particular day the beer was really cold, 'Checkshirt', 'make' Hay and myself sat at a shaded table near the kiosk allowing the months missions to ebb away, there was some desultory chatter, but mainly we were content with our company and private thoughts. Min Ky was returning from town with baskets of vegetables hanging from each end of a pole across her delicate shoulders and smiled when she saw us. "Hey, my nummer one uc da lai's" she grinned with betel nut stained teeth "you wan eppo roll, nice fresh?" and that was exactly what we did want.
While we were munching five American army soldiers ambled in. It was easy to tell they where new to 'Vunga's' they thought we were civilians, and, they didn't endear us any further when we heard the word 'Limeys.' "Ignorant sods" managed Make Hay around a mouthful of roll reaching for his can. That was when the quarry cut loose, Crummmppp. "Incoming" yelled one of the green fatigues and all five tried to bury themselves under the same table. Checkshirt popped some more cans and passed them around, the Americans watched us amazed. Crummmpp. Make Hay pulled out a camera and started taking photo's of the wreck. I crossed my legs and sucked a beer. Crummpp. The pride of the US Army had made themselves so small they were a solid ball of green. "Think it might rain tomorra" mused Make Hay looking at the sky. "Yeah could do" agreed Checkshirt. It was a blatant display of an nonchalance by three would be 'Bronzed Anzacs' Crummmpp water towered up past the balcony showering back down on us reeking of high explosive.
We looked at each other incredulously as water dripped off the stupid hats we had on. Sirens wailed in the distance. "That was incoming" muttered Checkshirt. I raised my shaking can to my lips the beer tasting of salt. The Americans extracted themselves and made a hasty departure. "Shit" said Make Hay "That really was incoming." To this day that drop in to the Inn still frightens the hell out of me.
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