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  These are the qualities my Grandpa hoped to pass onto his children and his grandchildren.

  When Uncle Two passed away, Uncle Three stepped up to take his place as eldest son. I guess he became Grandpa’s sidekick, helping him to look after such a huge family. Grandpa relied on Uncle Three a lot. I would describe Uncle Three as the Godfather of the Vo clan. Even his voice is like Marlon Brando’s! I can listen to him speak for hours. At family dinners Uncle Three always sits at the head of the table, immaculately dressed. He has such wisdom, poise and presence. When he speaks, everyone listens. He also has a calming effect on people. If there are any heated disagreements in the family, he’s able to smooth things over and calm everyone down. I have never heard him yell or raise his voice. He has never demanded our respect, but we certainly make sure we give it to him.

  Early on my uncle knew he wanted to fly planes. He powered through school, and his hard work took him to places he had only ever dreamed of. In 1953, when he was eighteen years old, the South Vietnamese Air Force sent him to Morocco. The only way to get to Morocco in those days was by ship, so after twenty-three days, Uncle Three finally arrived in Marrakech, where he stayed for a year and a half. He could not believe his luck—a young Vietnamese man, travelling the world to exotic places, doing what he loved most. After graduating at the top of his class in Marrakech, he moved to France for further training, which took him all over the country. When he recalled all the places he had been early in his flying career, I could hear the joy and excitement in his voice, even after all this time. Some of the places he mentioned were Paris, Nice, Cannes, Marseilles and other parts of Europe, such as Spain and southern Italy. It was a beautiful and thrilling time in his life.

  When Uncle Three returned to Saigon in 1955, the Second Indochina War, also known as the Vietnam War, had just begun. He was now a qualified pilot, part of the transport group, flying C-47s for the South Vietnamese Air Force. His swift rise in the ranks was due to his skill and calm demeanour under pressure. He taught the C-47 instructors how to teach others. His colleagues respected him, and he always respected them in return, no matter what rank they were. He enjoyed his time with the Air Force, but the job wasn’t easy at all. When he was teaching, Uncle Three was sent on highly dangerous missions. Among his assignments, he had to fly into hostile areas in North Vietnam, places crawling with the enemy, and deliver supplies to rangers. He always flew those missions under the cover of night and at sufficient heights to avoid radar detection, but on most of them he came under gunfire and missile attack. During one mission he lost one of his engines and was forced to crash land in a field in Thailand. Another time one of the fuel tanks was fired at and the plane lost fuel fast, but somehow Uncle Three managed to land safely. His skills would come in handy for one of the most important missions of his life, one that was to come years later, when he tried to escape Vietnam.

  When Dad was a youngster he didn’t see his eldest brother all that much, as he was always away on assignment. When Uncle Three was allowed to come home, especially after one of those dangerous missions, the family was so relieved to see him. Dad always looked up to Uncle Three, and still does. Despite a twenty-year age difference, they’re the closest of brothers. My father would do anything for his brother.

  Dad grew up in Gia Dinh Province, a large, heavily populated industrial region surrounding Saigon, which was made up of several districts. Dad lived in the district of Go Vap in a small suburb called Binh Hoa Xa, near Downtown Saigon. Those who lived there were from all walks of life, rich and poor, well educated to non-educated. Dad lived with my grandparents and twelve other people, who included some of his brothers and sisters and their children, and servants. It was quite a large house for a Vietnamese family, the size of a three-bedroom house in Australia. Most homes in Vietnam are about the size of a tiny apartment or a studio but house half a dozen family members who eat, sleep and bathe in one room. When I visited my aunt’s home in Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon) in 1992, at the age of nine, I was shocked to see how small their house was. The kitchen/living room was the size of an average bathroom. My aunt, her husband and their two children slept on a loft bed on top of the kitchen. Dad’s family home back in the 1950s was luxurious compared to most Vietnamese homes. It was a single level home, with one big open space where everyone ate together and slept together on the floor. There was a front yard where Dad enjoyed playing hopscotch and skip with two of his brothers—my Uncle Tinh, or Uncle Seventeen, who is one year older than my dad, and Uncle Ut, also known as Uncle Twenty, who is two years younger—and their neighbours. Dad says they didn’t care that these games were quite girly.

  The most fun they had was with live crickets. Grandpa would buy up to fifteen crickets from the markets for Dad and Uncle Ut. He even built homes out of cardboard shoe-boxes for the insects, making a small square compartment for each cricket. Grandpa was so creative and innovative, he could build something out of nothing. Each compartment would have soil. Grandpa told his sons that the more soil in each compartment, the stronger the crickets would grow. The brothers would then choose the biggest and strongest ones for boxing and organise weekly battles between their little insects, which were small but quite feisty.

  When the day of battle came around, each brother would cup his boxer in his hands so it wouldn’t hop away, then he’d run to the front yard, ready for battle. The two boys placed their crickets ever so delicately on the ground. The whole suburb would seem to fall silent before the match, but it was just Dad, who was six, and Uncle Ut, four, focused on their little fighters. Then their screams erupted.

  ‘Come on! Come on! Fight, fight!’

  They’d be yelling at the crickets, completely oblivious to what was happening around them. Some older residents would look into the front yard to see what all the fuss was about, why these young boys were yelling so loudly at the ground.

  ‘Come on, punch him! Punch him!’

  After just minutes, one little boxer would appear weary and unstable, struggling to throw more punches against its opponent. The boys would urge their crickets to keep going until the master of the tired defeated one eventually conceded. The losing master would either retrieve his cricket and place it back in the safety of the shoebox, or he would let it hop away. Sometimes it would go to cricket heaven, as Dad called it. Dad claims to have won most of those battles, but my Uncle Ut might think differently.

  My father’s childhood was filled with plenty of good memories. He was never bored—his brothers and neighbours would always find something to do outdoors. He says that when you’re young you can create any game from anything. He says he built slingshots out of materials he found on the street, then tried to hunt roosters. He would never harm the birds, of course—his bullets were made of paper. Dad says he had a good life compared to other youngsters in Saigon. Some were so poor they would have to work from a young age or be forced to beg on the busy, dirty streets. He saw these children who were barely clothed, wearing just a pair of ripped shorts, digging through rubbish left on the side of the road or putting their hands out to passers-by, asking for money or food. Even at a young age, Dad understood how much other people struggled. Dad knew he had it pretty good.

  2

  WAR

  The first Indochina War, which ended in 1954, saw France surrendering its involvement in the region. Vietnam was split into two—the North came under Communist rule while a democratic government ran the South. Ho Chi Minh, the leader of the North, wanted the entire country to be under Communist rule, mimicking the Soviet Union and China. The South Vietnamese government, however, wanted to maintain its close connection with the West, namely the United States. North Vietnam was backed by allies in the South, known as the Viet Cong. So began the Vietnam War, which resulted in almost two decades of fierce fighting, with millions killed or injured.

  The war didn’t affect my father in his younger years. But he already had several older brothers in the South Vietnamese Air Force and Army, and he knew the dangers h
is brothers encountered while they were away fighting. Then in 1968 the war came to his home. It was January and my father was twelve years old. The streets across Gia Dinh Province were full of joy and celebration as families welcomed Tet, the Lunar New Year (also known as Chinese New Year). But they could not avoid the constant reminders that their country was at war—warnings were repeatedly aired on the radio: ‘Please, leave the area. It’s too dangerous to stay. Move to an area that’s safer. We advise you to leave now.’

  Still, the people of Gia Dinh didn’t take much notice of these warnings. They believed the Lunar New Year was untouchable, as the military forces of North and South Vietnam had agreed to a ceasefire, a few days of peace so families could celebrate Tet. This allowed soldiers, including my uncles in the air force and army, to go home and celebrate the New Year with loved ones. Everyone felt there would be some sense of normality during this period and they were able to relax.

  But on 30 January the North Vietnamese Army and the Viet Cong broke that truce and launched surprise attacks on Central Vietnam. Just twenty-four hours later, parts of the South came under heavy attack. No one in my father’s family had expected this. From the front yard, Dad could see gunfights and explosions edging closer, towards the Go Vap district, as hovering helicopters and planes sporadically fired on nearby Ba Queo. My father was frightened, and wondered when these attacks would reach them. He knew his family was not safe.

  As the ferocious attacks went on, scenes of panic and hysteria flooded the streets across Gia Dinh Province. Locals could see the attacks on Ba Queo; they knew their town was next and were scrambling to escape, screaming and running with all the possessions they could carry.

  Uncle Three, by then a captain in the South Vietnamese Air Force, and Uncle Four, a high-ranking spy for the army, were both home for what was meant to be a peaceful, happy time with their families. Now they were fearfully gathering the entire clan in my grandparents’ home, frantically trying to work out the safest place to go. Uncle Five, who had married my dad’s sister, suggested the family could take refuge in his office in District One in Downtown Saigon. They would be safe there, he explained, as the Viet Cong wouldn’t go that deep into the city. There was also enough space in the office for everyone to stay together.

  Uncle Three agreed and the family quickly packed what they could; with about fifteen of them in three cars, they could only take the basics—clothes and some valuables such as family photos and sheets of gold they had hidden away. (Gold, the main form of currency in those days, could be used anywhere and also be traded for cash.) Everything else had to be left behind. I can’t imagine what that must have felt like: closing the door on your home and thinking you would never return.

  But they didn’t make it far. They were stopped at a roadblock at the far end of their street. Roadblocks had been set up across the region in an attempt to instil some order, and anyone trying to escape was stopped and questioned. Some cities and towns had been locked down and they weren’t letting people in or out. Uncle Three and Uncle Four got out of their cars, and together they approached the guards at the roadblock.

  ‘Where do you want to take your family?’ one of the guards asked them.

  ‘District One,’ Uncle Three replied. ‘We have a safe place to take them to.’

  The guard shook his head. ‘No one is allowed into the city,’ he said.

  My uncles tried to explain that Uncle Five had an office in the city, that the family had nowhere else to go, but the guard would not allow them through. He told them he was under strict orders not to let anyone out of the area and certainly not into the city. Uncle Three and Uncle Four had only one option left. With a wordless glance at each other, trying not to reveal their desperation, they casually showed the guards their identity cards, which displayed their ranks in the air force and army. The guards took one look, not another word was said, and the whole family was immediately allowed through the roadblock. My father says that his family only escaped because his brothers had worked so hard to rise through the military ranks.

  As they drove through the roadblock, Dad peered out the rear window of the car. He watched as people frantically dashed about in their own efforts to gather their relatives and belongings. The Viet Cong were closing in and it was chaos on the streets. He wondered if these people would be able to leave and find refuge somewhere. And the young neighbours he played hopscotch and skipping with, would he see them again? He prayed that his friends would be safe.

  After about twenty minutes, the family arrived at Uncle Five’s office building in Downtown Saigon. They quickly switched on the radio and settled down to listen to the horrors of the Tet Offensive. It was a massive assault on more than a hundred cities and towns in Central and South Vietnam, the North Vietnamese Army and the Viet Cong wanting to inflict as much death and destruction as they could while the South Vietnamese were caught off guard. It was the first time conflict had reached the cities, and parts of the South, including Gia Dinh, were destroyed during gunfights and bombings. Tens of thousands of people were killed in those ruthless and brazen attacks; 1968 became the deadliest year of the war and one of the largest military campaigns. News of how many were killed brought sorrow to Dad and his family, but what shocked them most was how easily the enemy had reached the major cities, and their home, where they’d always felt somehow protected. They knew they were lucky to have escaped when they did.

  It was more than a year before my grandparents returned to Gia Dinh. During their time in the city, they had no idea what condition the province was in after the North Vietnamese and Viet Cong attacks nor even if their house was still standing. Thankfully, their home in the Go Vap District was still in one piece but many on the outskirts, which bore the brunt of the assaults, were destroyed. While my grandparents decided to stay in their home, Dad and seven of his siblings chose to live with Uncle Five in the city. Uncle Five, Dad says, was so generous and caring to all of them, and the younger family members enjoyed living in town and going home to visit their parents.

  My father continued to attend school in Gia Dinh, which meant a thirty-minute bus trip each way, every day, back to his home province. But Dad didn’t mind because he loved to study and excelled in high school. His goal was to gain enough marks in his final year to study engineering at university. He wanted to be a draughtsman, like his father, or maybe an architect. But that dream would never eventuate.

  In 1972 it was compulsory for all males from seventeen years of age to join the army. Dad knew he had a duty, but he didn’t want to fight, he didn’t want to be part of the war, and he was afraid. He was also devastated that he would have to give up studying to train for the war; he believed that if he had no education he would have no future. He had no choice, though, so he tried to find something good in the situation. ‘I can be like my oldest brother and become a pilot,’ he thought. Dad told me that this is the only reason he got through those years in the army.

  My father joined the Republic of Vietnam Armed Forces on 15 August 1972 at the 3rd Enlistment and Recruitment Centre, north-west of Saigon. After the preliminary processing, he was transferred to Tan Son Nhut Air Base for training as an airman. As it turned out, the air force suited him just fine. He followed orders easily, didn’t mind the hard work and was highly regarded among the troops. It was all very new to him, though, and the fear of eventually heading out to fight was always on his mind. He hoped he would never have to face the enemy. But unfortunately for Dad the enemy came to him less than a month after he joined up. Tan Son Nhut was a hot target and the air base was attacked regularly.

  On 30 August 1972, after the nightly roll call, my father returned to his barracks to sleep. Just as he was dozing off, loud explosions erupted around the barracks and the air base siren started blaring. Panic set in for the new recruits. Dad jumped off his bunk bed and laid down flat on the floor, covering his head with his hands.

  ‘What do we do?’ he asked the recruit next to him who was also cowering on the floor.
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  But he didn’t know either. In fact, none of the new recruits were prepared for an attack.

  Then a sergeant appeared at the entrance to the barracks. ‘We’re under mortar attack!’ he yelled. ‘Get out! Get out! Head to the trenches and take cover!’

  The recruits ran faster than they’d ever run before. In the panic Dad even forgot to put on his shoes. The trench was about 200 metres away and Dad’s eyes were focused on the sky, hoping he wouldn’t be hit, as they made the desperate dash across the open ground. He took cover with the other new recruits, but as the attack continued some of them became hysterical and tried to run away. The sergeant had to force them to stay down. The explosions were so loud that Dad could barely hear what the others were saying; he just kept looking up at the sky at the helicopters, rounds of mortar and flares directly above him.

  The attack was intense and went on for more than half an hour, though Dad says it felt like forever. He didn’t know if anyone had been injured or even killed. He just cowered down and curled up as small as he could, hoping that it would end soon and he could get back to the barracks, in his bunk bed, and back to the silence of the night. It was Dad’s first life-threatening experience, sheer terror that he’ll never forget. Amazingly, there were no casualties and no damage to aircraft that night.

  This was the first of many attacks that my father experienced during the war; however, it was not the worst. The worst he seems to have blocked out of his mind. It occurred on 6 December 1972 and resulted in ten South Vietnamese personnel being killed, thirty-three wounded, as well as casualties among US personnel. Even though we spoke about it while I was researching this book, Dad’s memory of this incident is hazy. I’m unsure if it’s because of old age or if he chooses not to remember it.