Chapter 7- Vietnam-Vietcong-2
The Letter, the Truth, and the Waiting
In August 1967, I found myself in a situation so precarious, so surreal, that it would etch itself into the marrow of my memory. I was aboard a cargo ship docked in China, surrounded by Red Guards stationed on board twenty-four hours a day, spaced no more than thirty paces apart. After being coerced into writing a confession—declaring myself a U.S. aggressor and a supporter of Chiang Kai-shek, the Nationalist leader in Taiwan—I was told by the second steward, who handled the ship’s correspondence, that I had about two days before a response to my letter might reach me. That response, whatever it might be, would be delivered by the head of the Red Guards himself.
It was the second steward who quietly suggested I write to my parents. I did. I poured myself into 22 foolscap pages, writing with the urgency of a man who believed he might not live to see the end of the week. I told my church-going parents that I was not the saintly 18-year-old they believed I was. I confessed that the woman they had so often thanked in their letters—believing her to be my landlady or carer—was in fact my lover. She was 42. I was 18 when we met. From 1963 to 1967, she had been my anchor, my warmth, my truth. I wrote about my life at sea, about the chaos and the camaraderie, about the loneliness and the longing. I wrote because I needed them to know who I really was, in case I was executed before I ever saw them again.
As the ship’s cook and duty mess room steward, I had a front-row seat to the daily rhythms of life on board. I often watched the crew eat their meals on deck, plates balanced on the handrails that lined the ship. We were carrying grain to China on humanitarian grounds, and yet, the irony was unbearable—food was being wasted while the people we were meant to help were starving. Sausages, half-eaten steaks, baked potatoes—they’d slip from plates and tumble into the sea. But there were no seagulls to swoop down and claim them. They’d been eaten too. The food floated aimlessly, untouched even by fish, which had grown scarce in the harbour. Starvation wasn’t a concept. It was a presence. It was in the eyes of the Red Guards who watched us eat. It was in the silence that followed every wasted bite.
A Tray of Leftovers and a Silent Exchange
After my arrest, I was placed under house arrest aboard the ship. One day, I took a small metal tray from the galley and filled it—not with scraps, but with decent leftovers. Food that would have gone into the stockpot or been turned into dry hash cakes. I walked it out to the deck, placed it on one of the long benches, patted my stomach as if I’d eaten my fill, and walked away without a word.
Ten minutes later, I returned. The tray had been licked clean.
At the next meal, I did it again—this time with enough food for three or four Red Guards. I placed the tray on the bench and left. No words. No eye contact. Just food. I repeated this quiet ritual for two more days, all while waiting for the response to my letter. During that time, something shifted. The Red Guard, who had been waking me every hour to check if I was sleeping, stopped coming. The tension in the air thinned, just slightly. And I kept bringing food—whenever the crew was busy unloading wheat with grappling hooks wrapped in chicken wire, I’d slip out with another tray.
To this day, I don’t know what saved me. It was certainly not the letter declaring myself a U.S. aggressor and a supporter of Chiang Kai-shek, the Nationalist leader in Taiwan. Maybe it was luck. Or perhaps it was that tray of food, offered without expectation, without speech, without condition. A silent gesture that said, “I see you. I know you’re hungry. I know you’re human.”
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
The literary work *Casualties of Telstra* unfolds two distinct yet interwoven narratives—two battlefields, if you will. One arena is corporate and bureaucratic, where battles are waged in stark boardrooms and echoing courtrooms, the air thick with tension and high-stakes decisions. The other battlefield is more visceral, steeped in history's blood and anguish: the dense, shadowy jungles of Vietnam, where the cries of soldiers and the haunting memories of conflict linger. Both tales resonate with themes of betrayal and silence, each leaving indelible scars on the collective psyche that never fully heal.
In this chapter, I delve into a moment that has haunted me for decades, a memory forged not in the chaos of war but in the solemn halls of Parliament—where critical choices were made that irrevocably altered lives and where the weight of silence often overshadowed the truths that should have been spoken.
What struck me as intolerable was not merely the transaction of wheat to China, but rather the alarming inexperience and naivety of Australia’s bureaucrats. Their profound lack of foresight and due diligence meant that crucial restrictions regarding the destination of this wheat were nonexistent. Humanitarian conditions for the grain supply—measures that should have been rigorously negotiated—were entirely overlooked. All this transpired amid a backdrop of conflict, as Australia, New Zealand, and the USA were embroiled in a war against North Vietnam, fully aware that China was providing substantial support to their enemy.
This glaring oversight, especially given the urgent humanitarian needs at the time, was profoundly disturbing. So, I am left to wonder: why did Australia’s bureaucrats fail to alert the government’s war office upon discovering the intended destination of this wheat? What secrets were buried beneath the layers of bureaucracy that stifled the urgent truths that needed to be voiced?
On September 7, 1967, during a session of the Australian Parliament, the Honourable Dr Rex Patterson, a member of the Labour Party and representative for Dawson in Queensland, posed a question that cut to the heart of a national contradiction. He asked whether the Australian government could guarantee that wheat exported to mainland China was not being redirected to North Vietnam. The question was simple. The implications were not.
The Liberal–Country Party Coalition government, then in power, offered an evasive response at best. The subtext was clear: economic interests trumped military alliances. The government could not—or would not—guarantee that Australian wheat wasn’t feeding the very soldiers our own troops were fighting in the jungles of North Vietnam.
Let that sink in.
While young Australians, New Zealanders, and Americans were bleeding and dying in a war they were told was about freedom and democracy, their own government was profiting from trade deals that may have sustained the enemy. It was a betrayal not just of the soldiers but also of public trust. And it was done in the name of pragmatism, of diplomacy, of trade.
I have read that Hansard transcript many times. Each time, I find myself rereading the same lines, hoping I’ve misunderstood. But the facts remain. The silence remains. And with it, my anxiety rises—an old, familiar ache that never quite leaves.
As an octogenarian, I still struggle to reconcile the politics of the Liberal–Country National Government. How can any politician justify the loss of life in Vietnam as “collateral damage,” while defending the sale of wheat to a regime that may have used it to feed the Vietcong? How do they sleep at night, knowing that the lives of our soldiers were weighed against the profits of grain exports—and found wanting?
The mistreatment of Chinese citizens by the Red Guards during the Cultural Revolution affected me deeply. I witnessed their cruelty firsthand. And yet, what lingers even more painfully is the knowledge that I was nearly shot by those same forces—forces our government was indirectly supporting through trade. The hypocrisy is staggering.
In 2019, as a septuagenarian, I visited the Vietnam Memorial precinct in Portland, Victoria. I stood before the names of the fallen, etched in stone, and felt a profound sense of disgrace. Not for having been able to stop this terrible trade with the then enemy—no, never that—but for not having spoken louder. For not having challenged the machinery that sent so many to die while quietly feeding the very war it claimed to oppose.
That visit marked a turning point. It was just before I relocated to Ballarat, and I remember thinking: This is not just history. This is legacy. And silence is no longer an option.
I write this not to reopen old wounds, but to ensure they are not forgotten. The story of Vietnam is not just about battles fought in the jungle. It is about the wars we fight within ourselves—between duty and doubt, between loyalty and truth. It is about the quiet deals made in Canberra that echo through the graves of the young and the haunted dreams of the old.
As I close this chapter, I do so with a heavy heart. But I also do so with resolve. The past cannot be changed, but it can be told. And in the telling, perhaps we can find some measure of justice—not just for those who died, but for those of us who still carry the weight of what was done in our name.
Author’s Note
This chapter is not an indictment of the Chinese people, whose suffering under the Red Guards I witnessed with deep sorrow. My condemnation lies squarely with the Australian government officials and bureaucrats who, even after I alerted them to the diversion of wheat shipments from China to North Vietnam, allowed the trade to continue. Their silence—then and now—speaks volumes.
The Arbiitraitor is not just a record of institutional failure; it is a call to conscience. Whether in wartime or peacetime, the machinery of bureaucracy too often protects itself at the expense of truth. I write to ensure that those who were silenced are finally heard—and that those who turned away are finally seen.
This story is not mine alone. It belongs to every soldier betrayed, every citizen ignored, and every whistleblower punished for daring to speak. If you’ve made it this far, thank you for listening. The silence ends here.
Portland Memorial Vietnam Peace Park
Please visit → https://shorturl.at/aejRT
By courtesy of Yu Xiangzhen, May 2019 → https://shorturl.at/kRTUW
"On May 16, 1966, I was practicing calligraphy with my 37 classmates when a high-pitched voice came from the school’s loudspeaker, announcing the central government’s decision to start what it called a “Cultural Revolution.”
It was my first year of junior high, I was just 13.
“Fellow students, we must closely follow Chairman Mao,” the speaker bellowed. “Get out of the classroom! Devote yourselves to the Cultural Revolution!”
Two boys rushed out of door, heading to the playground yelling something.
I left more slowly, holding hands with my best friend Haiyun as we followed everyone else outside.
It would be my last normal day of school."
FOOD AND TRADE IN LATE MAOIST CHINA, 1960-1978
I reiterate: how can a country like Australia sell their produce (wheat) to Communist China on humanitarian grounds when Communist China was redeploying some of that wheat to another Communist country (North Vietnam), which was the enemy of Australia? The same enemy who was killing and maiming young Australian lives, and the young lives of Australia’s allies, New Zealand and the USA — young lives (mostly conscripts) who were never to see their homeland again.
I ask every visitor to this website to read the footnote pages 82-85 of the paper Food and Trade in Late Maoist China, 1960–1978, prepared by Tianxiao Zhu. The paper discusses the Hopepeak ship I was on between June and September 1967, which went to Communist China during the Vietnam War.
I have mentioned some tough memories from my short stay in China, including witnessing some pretty horrific scenes. Understandably, these experiences have stayed with me and affected my sleep until recently, when I started writing about them. We must acknowledge and address these kinds of events, so I wanted to share a resource with you — a first‑hand account from a Chinese girl who witnessed similar events. You can find it at the link https://shorturl.at/ltv89. It’s frustrating when those in positions of power try to downplay or deny what’s happening, as John McEwen did. We must hold our leaders accountable for their actions and their words. In this case, I think it’s only right that the Australian government apologise to those who were dismissed as liars by McEwen.
Confronting uncomfortable truths is never easy, but it is necessary to move forward. It’s essential to recognise that, thanks to the unwavering support of the British seamen who stood by me and refused to return to China, my British Seaman’s book received a clean discharge. This meant I could continue to pick up British‑manned ships in Australia and Britain, despite the not‑so‑Hon. John McEwen’s disregard for the welfare of others.
Please read Chapters 1 to 12 below and learn how my China episode affected my life even after I purchased the Cape Bridgewater Holiday Camp in February 1988.
If you’d like, I can now punctuate the next section or help you structure these chapters into a clean, navigable layout for your website.
