Leong Nok Tha

A collection of poems - thoughts of areluctant veteran of America’s war on Laos

Willy Bach

(Inside cover)

The spotted goose, emblem of Leong Nok Tha – Photo by Willy Bach 2008

Leong Nok Tha

Cattle on the runway 1993 – photo by Willy Bach

Leong Nok Tha

A collection of poems - thoughts of a reluctantveteran of

America’s war on Laos

Willy Bach

The villagers of Ban Kok Talat continue with their lives as before, but with a diminished area of paddy field in which to grow rice –

photo by Willy Bach 1993

© 2009 by Willy Bach

All rights reserved

Printed in Lao PDR

Bach, Willy 1946

This is the inexpensively manufactured and diminutive enamel badge

Issued on request to British veterans by their government since 2005

Cover photograph, people digging for frogs, 1993 by Willy Bach

– at the air field, Ban Kok Talat, Leong Nok Tha, Isan Province, North East Thailand

DEDICATION

This anthology is dedicated to the ending of military conflict…

all who struggle to achieve this. Non violent resolution isentirely possible

…and practicable - if we want it and if we work at it.

It is also dedicated to those who suffered, the innocents who got in the way when conflict devastated

their lives ...

… and to those who live in the nightmare of remembering whenthose around them forget, suffering silently from post

traumatic stress disorder…… this is for you as well.

That Luang – symbol of the Lao peoples’ Buddhist tradition – photo by Willy Bach 2008

WORDS ON WAR

“In order to save the village we had to destroy it”Unknown American Marine

“If you grab em by the balls, the hearts and minds will follow”

“Give us your hearts and minds or we’ll burn down your goddam village”…

“I’m glad the CIA is immoral”Thomas W Braden, one time head of the CIA’s Division of International

Organisation

“I can only say that we have been conducting propaganda as defined by F.M.Cornford: ‘that branch of the art of lying which consists in very nearly

deceiving your friends without quite deceiving your enemies’”.11th June 1964 Rostow Chairman of the Policy Planning Staff

“… any SEATO contribution. Martin said ‘keep them doing what they are: UK buildinga field near Savannakhet; Australia has aircraft at Ubon. Felt that troops into Mekong

towns (inside Laos) will not all be US (but UK and Australia feel thattheir ground forces are tied up in Borneo; might provide air)”.

Summary Record of Meeting 1 Honolulu 2nd June 1964

“I greatly value the close consultation our two governments* have had and the parallel actions we have been taking”…

Lyndon B Johnson President of United States – telegram to British PrimeMinister 22nd May 1964

refers to Britain and United States From declassified US State Department documents

“At present nothing is possible except to extend the area of sanity littleby little”

George Orwell “1984”

“Perhaps this is the mission statement for this book”Willy Bach – Author

AK-47 Kalashnikov Assault Rifle

CONTENTS (page numbers to edit)page

Sarong..........................................................1The First Ballad of Leong Nok Tha...............................3The Second Ballad of Leong Nok Tha..............................6The Third Ballad of Leong Nok Tha..............................11Nothing Matters Anymore........................................15Finished Being Angry...........................................17Lunch at Schloss Eberstein 1964................................19The Ballad of Bukit Asahan.....................................20No Need to Knock, Special Relations………………………………………………………………………. Empty Magazine.................................................23Wardrones......................................................25A Prisoner in My Conscience....................................26...............................................................28Pathetic Figures in the Forest.................................30Candles in Ann Street..........................................32Top Copter.....................................................33Brother Number One - Father of the Year........................35Long Before There Was Charlie..................................37Air Cadets.....................................................39Solid Citizens.................................................40Skirmish House.................................................42TVRI Berita Pagi...............................................43Ci Ci Fly......................................................44That Suitcase..................................................46Packaged I II III IV...........................................47Rolf My Father Ashes Poste Restante............................49Unnamed (on the Road From Ubon Ratchathani to Leong Nok Tha) I IIIII............................................................51Bad Medicine...................................................53Rediscovering Kok Tha Lat – Prose..............................55This Is Not My Village.........................................60Amway AnywayBoy Soldiers Hmong……………………………………………………………………………………….. 61They Tell Me Baby Air force ...................................62I Did It My Way................................................64River of the Disappeared.......................................66Site Two is My Country.........................................68Venerable Lunch Bangkok ’93....................................71O Vacuum.......................................................73Us and Them Negotiations.......................................74Niketick.......................................................75Lou............................................................76Wardarlings....................................................78

nicewar this year, isn’t itUnresolved.....................................................79McNamara Has Spoken............................................80Warmemory......................................................81Angelfire.comKosovo Rewind..................................................82War is a fashion statement, don’t you know

Old dudes and warNot like ordering a pizzaThe SniperSadness on the demise of a railAppendices.....................................................85

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to acknowledge the invaluable assistance and support I havereceived in assembling this anthology, particularly, the support I

have had from my partner, Rowan

FriendsMarit Hegge – Internet, Tim Collins – Advice, Lk Anh Tuan – Inspiration,Background, Phuong Le Duc – Inspiration, Mrs Ounkham – Background, JeffUsher – Compositions, Accompanist, Collaborator A Stone in the Pond, Raine &John – Whose fathers were involved with the CIA, former Senator JohnWoodley: Research, Questions in the Australian Senate, Private Members Billto remove the power to make war from Australian Prime Ministers (lost),Lisa – Word Processing 1991 Poems, Kristen – word processing 1998-99, thelate John Knight, Post Pressed – publisher of Picking Mangoes that are still green

MentorsCarl Trocki, Supervisor, Ross Daniels, Associate Supervisor, Post Graduatestudies, QUT

OrganisationsMAI West End, the late Sister Lurlene English (deceased), Quoi, MigrantResource Centre, West End, closed in 1996 by the Howard government,Queensland Poets (extinct), Queensland Writers Centre, International PEN

Research FacilitiesState Library, Queensland, Brisbane City Council Library, GriffithUniversity Library, University of Queensland Library, Queensland Universityof Technology Library, many second hand bookshops in several countries,Amazon, Google, of course

Performance VenuesStory Bridge Hotel, my first taste of live poetry reading in a ‘bear pit’environment, Metro Arts, Brisbane – Tour de Force own show 199, Café Lunar(extinct), Queensland Performing Arts Centre – Out of the Box own show, LovelySouls, 1992, Maleny Folk Festival, several, Writers at the Rails, Byron Bay,several guest appearances, Warana Writers’ Festival 1991 and 1993, Wordfest1991, 1992, The Fringe Festival, several memorable performances of A Stone inthe Pond with Jeff Usher, Shilan Shalsky and others

Literary Journals and PublicationsThe Cane Toad Times, Skarfe, Northern Perspective, Southern Review,Southerly, Small Times, New England Review, Social Alternatives,Wordsworth, Idiom 23, Redoubt, The Australian Writers JournalMicropress OZ, API News, Five Bells, Green Left Weekly

PublicationsMichael’s Eyes, War against the Ugandan Child contributor, three poems and five photographs, published in Sweden by Umea University, 2004, launched in Brisbane at University of Queensland Bookshop

Picking Mangoes that are still green, Post Press, Brisbane, 2006, launched at the Queensland Poetry Festival, Judith Wright Centre and at Old Parliament House, thanks to Drew Hutton, who read my African poems

Radio StationsABC RN, 4QR, 4RPH, 4ZZZ, FM101, Community Radio, Bellengen, NSW, PassionRadio FM, Singapore, Monitor FM, Kampala, With special thanks to Mike Ladd,Poetica, ABC Radio National, 24 April 2001 (ANZAK Day) and 4 January 2002(repeat broadcast) of a selection of these poems

Web siteshttp://www.angelfire.com/wi/poetryantiwar/

Liz Hall-Downes interview with aurthor,2002:

http://www.thedrunkenboat.com/bach.html

INTRODUCTION

How would you feel if you did not believe in killing peopleand had a background that related strongly to the Holocaust ofWorld War II?

How would you feel if you discovered that, by the simple actof wielding an edging trowel, you had unwittingly participatedin another of the twentieth century’s holocausts – the CIA’sSecret War in Laos?

Willy Bach is a reluctant veteran of the CIA’s Secret War inLaos. His response was to write poetry – very angry,passionate lines that should make us all stop and consider thefull implications of war. He almost lost his sanity, ended atwenty-three year marriage, revisited the air field and tookmore than ten years to complete this work and another tenyears to publish this book.

These poems represent a progression in style as the new poetstruggles to find a voice of their own amidst mental turmoiland a life that was falling apart. Earlier poems from 1989will reflect this immaturity, but these are a part of thestory. From writing by hand on scraps of whatever paper wasavailable to composing on the computer, this work hasprogressed with the changing technology of poetic tools.

SARONG

Stepping off a planein a Singapore nightswallowed by a blanketof oppressive heat

Monsoon blisterssore chafingflesh rawconstant perspiration

The searing sunmosquitoes antsthe fear of unknown snakes and spiders

The smellof rancid palm oilcoconut dryingoutdoorsjoss stickscurriesbustlethe tonal sounds of un-comprehended tongues.

I fell in lovewith the smellof frangipanipandannasi lamak

Languid afternoonscollapsed nakedunder a fantepid showersrattling bus ridesmarket placesthe houses of the deadfire walkingthe cultof the monkey god.

Absorbing Asiathrough every poregazing into faceswatching the handsthat spun the murtabab

So intense this lovethat going homewas painfulleaving the chorusof cicadaspalm thatched roofs.

Tropical paradisewith open woundspreferredto neat gentilitycrisp morning walks.

Grey skyeasier to look atheavier on the shoulders

Out of touchwith insularitycomplacencyexperimental musicthe cold iron side

of the bipolar standoff.

What happenedin the junglesno one knewor caredfree to speak yesbut not informed.

Footnote: This poem was written in 1999

THE FIRST BALLAD OF LEONG NOK THA

What did you do in the war Daddy?I didn't fire a shotbut my handiwork at Leong Nok Thacould devastate and maim

What did you do in the war Daddy?I helped old Uncle Samto spray and bomb and napalmlittle children just like you

And I was never at Nui Datdon’t think any less of thatfor I was edging leftpavement quality concretein Leong Nok Thaby dusty Kok Talat.

I took off my sandalswhen I left Singaporethey were sending me upcountryno more hard pavementsgreen canvas bootsthe footwear that I wore

On I went to Butterworthfew Hercules to Ubonto have my eyes reopenednew noises fill my headrow upon row they stoodwings foldedwaiting for the duskthey left in wavesThe noise was deafening

No use in shouting"whose children will you kill tonight?"

What did you do in the war Daddy?I helped old Uncle Samto spray and bomb and napalmlittle children just like you

And I remember dusty streetssleazy bars and fliesand I remember singing peopleand I remember liesand I remember Caribousan the taxiwaysit was built for Tomcatsto reign death upon Hà NộiIt didn't feel like fightingunless you broke the curfewno movement after darkfor the secret sappersof dusty Leong Nok Tha.

But I did break the curfewwent to Amnat Charoenone solitary Britonin the marketplace aloneno rough bus full of chickensno rice truck could be foundbut a taxi with a shotgun copwith PL all around

It didn't feel like killingjust edging concrete rightjust hot backbreaking worktoiling day and night

We never stayed to see the useour concrete strip was givenall I want to know for surewhere those wings were driven

One hot Sunday morningwe jumped into our truckout to some small hamletto build swings and climbing frames

for ragged little childrenwho'd never seen such thingswe even threw them chocolatesjust like bloody Yanks!we wouldn't know if PL cameto take them down againor if a knee-cap job or twowas to be their only thanks

What did you do in the war Daddy?well I didn't go to jailfor things that I believed in thenI lived to tell the tale

The Gap, Brisbane, 1989

THE SECOND BALLAD OF LEONG NOK THA

Meadows of buttercupsswaying gently in the breezeland of little stone wallsand broad elm treesyou cannot know the anguishof those far away ......

And I remember dusty streetsand sleazy bars, and fliesand I remember singing peopleand I remember lies

There they stoodin long lineslike great grey birdswings foldedwaiting for the duskthey left in wavestheir eerie noisefilling the airno use in calling out"whose children will you kill tonight?"

Far away in misty Englandwhere thrushes singand the hay smells sweetthey had no idea!

And I remember dusty streetsyou cannot know the anguishand sleazy bars, and fliesyou cannot know the anguish

and I remember singing peopleyou cannot know the anguishand I remember lies

Far away in misty Englandthey had no ideameadows of buttercupsswaying gently in the breezeyour chastity was safefrom helicopter gunshipsMy Lai, My Laidon't you hear the children cry?

Torn from a flowerfar awaya pretty yellow petallanded at my feetand I remember dusty streetsmeadows of buttercupsknow you not the anguish

In the deep of winteryour broad trees stood nakedyou cannot know the anguishOf those far awayThey turned their backsUnknowing

But men in dark suits knewAs they scurried their evil wayAround the corridors of WhitehallMen in Sam Browns knewPeering at mapsAnd I knew

Meadows of buttercupsSwaying gently in the breezeAs the Kingdom of a million elephantsFell before the mightOf the slayers of modern war

As Spring arrivedBuds burst forthYour broad trees beginTo dress againIn freshest green

You turned your backsUnknowingThings that I believed in thenAnd lived to tell the tale

And I remember dusty streetsSleazy bars and fliesYou cannot know the anguishAnother holocaust!

Meadows of buttercupsYour chastity was safeFrom helicopter gunshipsAnd the slayers of modern warMy Lai, My LaiCan't you hear the children cry?

No use in calling out"Whose children will you kill tonight?"Great grey birdsWings foldedWaiting for the duskAnd I remember singing peopleAnd I remember liesMen in dark suits knewAnd I knew

And I remember dusty streetsMeadows of buttercupsSleazy bars and fliesLittle stone wallsBroad trees filling out their dressesWith Summer foliageTurned their backsUnknowingBut I knew

"Whose children will you kill tonight?"Slayers of modern warMy Lai, My LaiWon't you hear the children cry?

Meadows of buttercupsLittle stone wallsYour broad trees shiverAs the cool winds of Autumn

Loosen your browning leavesAnd turn your backsOn anguish far away

I remember dusty streetsAnd things that I believed in thenAnd broad elm treesI remember men in dark suitsAnd I remember liesMeadows of buttercupsAnd sleazy bars and fliesAnd men in Sam BrownsAnd two million KhmerPol Pot and the Year Zero!You turned your backsYou cannot know the anguishOf people far away?

And I was never at Nui DatDon't think any less of thatFor I can sing the songAbout the girls of Kok Talat

Far away in misty EnglandThey had no ideaThat I would one day tellThe story of our toilsLeong Nok ThaWhere's Your Chastity Now?

Footnote:

Written about six weeks later. Woke up at 4.45 am on a Sunday morning - head throbbing, hand burning. Tears streamed from my eyes. Not only had United States citizens been denied knowledge of the covert war, but Britishcitizens were not aware that they were involved. Probably, Australians toowere ignorant.

This poem evoked images of England, where I grew up. Learned to love the beauty of the English countryside where I often sought solitude. Felt close to losing my sanity.

THE THIRD BALLAD OF LEONG NOK THA

The man who knew Von StauffenbergSent me to Leong Nok ThaThose who called me brotherSent me to Leong Nok ThaMy uncle in RhodesiaSent me to Leong Nok ThaYou can rest in peaceWhile I remember dusty streetsAnd singing, smiling peopleFor you have long forgottenThe anguish far awayFor you never will rememberThe suffering and painOf smiles and songs and laughterThat won't come back again

The man who knew Von StauffenbergKnew nothing of our toilsKnew nothing of great grey birdsOr men in cowboy hatsFighting secret warsBut I knewMen in dark suits knewAnd men in Sam Browns knewAnd you turned your backsUnknowing

But I knewAnd I remember liesWhat do you care of cabbages?You know even less of peasantsAnd what would you expect ofA highway to HanoiForged by British SappersAnd I remember lies

The man who knew Von StauffenbergGo!Turn in your grave you mayCan't you remember criminals of war?But you made me oneUnwillingI knewI knewAnd I remember dusty streetsGreat Grey birdsSinging peopleAnd I remember little stone wallsGreat elm treesMeadows of buttercupsAnd things that I believed in thenJustice, Freedom, PeaceFor AllFor AllNot just for whites!

The man who knew Von StauffenbergHas never heard of Leong Nok ThaAnd secret warsBut men in dark suits knewWith smug Anglo superiorityAnd I knewCan't you remember criminals of war?You made me oneUnwillingAnd still suffering todayTwo million KhmerAnd you turned your backsSlayers of modern warA hundred more Mỹ LaisYet to be rememberedAnd men in cowboy hatsFighting secret wars

The men who pulled the triggersMen who dropped the napalmAnd men in dark suits knewAnd I knewYou made me oneWith them!

Footnote:

Some time later started thinking about the events that led to my being sentto Leong Nok Tha. Originally in a safe job in Singapore, where I met my wife. I was sent from there to Melaka in Malaysia partly as a result of lobbying from my family. My father went to school with Count Von Stauffenberg, the man who attempted to assassinate Adolf Hitler. Remindersin this poem, that, because of this, and other things, I never really felt that I was British and yet not German either, a citizen of the World, a member of everyone's culture. Being sent to Leong Nok Tha, was a betrayal of everything I had believed in.

NOTHING MATTERS ANYMORE

Nothing matters anymoreNothing matters anymoreEverything matters more and moreI can't stand it anymoreNothing seems to matter anymore

And I remember dusty streetsSinging peopleGreat grey birdsMen in dark suitsLittle stone wallsMen in cowboy hatsFighting secret warsAnd things that I believed in thenI just can't stand the painNothing really matters anymore

When I can hear the cryingOf the children who are dyingThe suffering and the anguish far awayI feel the world that matters more and moreNothing matters anymoreNothing matters anymoreThe worldly things just don't matter anymore

And when I think of sad dark eyesAnd sleazy bars and flies

And men in cowboy hatsFighting secret warsNothing seems to matter nowI only feel and wonder howNow that nothing matters anymore

And when the things that really matterSeem to matter more and moreYou know that nothing matters anymore

Footnote:

Crazy Dave told me that "Nothing matters anymore". A way of coping with too much detail. It is a way of coping with cerebral catastrophe. It is ahope for the future. It means despair, letting go and hope.

FINISHED BEING ANGRY

Gnarled and twistedAs in an angry frenzyThe paper bark leansIn fragrant peace

No one knowsWhen that struggle wasThat leaned and twistedThis tortured tree

Finished being angrySwaying fine leavesIn the gentle breezeStanding quietlyIn blazing summer sun

No more anger nowBut the scars are thereFor everHealing yet in peaceThat hangs uponThe fragrant air

Footnote

It had to be part of the healing process which would make me strong enough for what I have to do. Written at Sylvan Beach, Bribie Island, on a warm spring day. My wife and I were picnicking under paperbark trees. I was blissfully happy that day for other reasons. I had decided to leave her

after twenty-three years of marriage.

LUNCH AT SCHLOSS EBERSTEIN - 1964

I rememberContemplating a menuOn an open terraceA restaurant I could not affordA menu with a very fineCoat of armsStaring into the pine forestInto the mountainsSchwarzwald

She seemed to understandThat I had not eatenFor three daysCould only afford theClear noodle soupProbably a chicken stock cubeWent away in her dirndlTo serve other people

I watched the forestSipped the soupShould I tell themThis penniless travellerIs Rolf's son

I think of KlausCount Von StauffenbergClean tall honest

As I watched the forestThought of wild boarWith rotten apple in mouthPiano wire at Klaus' throat

Watched the sun on the treesLight playing shadows as the wire tightenedShe let me keep the menuSoup was fifty Pfennig

Footnote:Klaus Von Stauffenberg was a friend of my father. He was also the man whoplaced a brief-case bomb at the feet of Adolf Hitler in an unsuccessful assassination attempt. He was executed together with other conspirators.

THE BALLAD OF BUKIT ASAHAN

Red! Double deckedSinisterThe riot wagon haltedThe squad in full dressWaited for their ordersDark faces, helmetedThey waited for the wordOne, two - three, one!And came the terrible foeStraggling, old, limpingYoung exhaustedTorn and ragged sarisAnd faraway eyesSingle-file they cameFrom Bukit Asahan

From Bukit AsahanRemote and muddy hillsHumble huts in rubberTo see their TengkuDesperate and angrySeeking answersOne, two - three, one!Still they shuffle forwardThe squad right-turned sharplyOne, two - three, one

Batons drawn, shields touchingEmat Salleh shall not seeWhat is done in his nameBut I sawQuietly, hiddenOne, two - three, one

The meagre protest shuffles onOn to Kuala LumpurTo see the TengkuI watch unseenGot to keep our labour cheapOne, two - three, oneNext stop TampinStill they shuffle on

No one lifts a fingerTo help the rubber tappersTorn and ragged sarisAnd faraway eyesOnly temple keepersGive rest for the nightA mat the temple floor`Communists' give foodNo one else daresOne, two - three, oneBullying harassment carries onOn to see their TengkuDesperate and angrySeeking answersBut there's none

Tengku's in BrasiliaTo attend a world conferenceOn family-planningOr how to keep your workersDISCIPLINED!!

Footnote:In 1967, at a remote rubber estate called Bukit Asahan, in Melaka, an incident took place. An angry Tamil rubber tapper is alleged to have struck the European manager of the estate. The estate was owned by Guthrie’s, a large British transnational company.

The workers lived in near-destitute conditions and isolation. They decidedto march to Kuala Lumpur to see the founder of modern, independent Malaysia

to put their case before him. In their un-schooled way they believed the rhetoric of independence and thought that their government would take theirside against a British transnational conglomerate. But, Tengku Abdul Rahman realised the importance of foreign investment and did not wish to encourage Malaysian workers to protest their exploitation by foreign masters a full eleven years after independence. He skilfully defused the protest by allowing it to go on but insisted that the marchers walk in single file and constantly wore down their resolution by riot squad harassment. I observed the march secretly at Bachang Seri, a suburb of Melaka, where I lived at the time. British Army personnel were instructed to keep away from the march.

The protesters were refused every kind of help. Penghulus, (village headmen) in Malay villages and school principals (with school buildings to offer shelter) were ordered to render no assistance. This left the Tamils with only their Hindu temples. It was alleged that Communists gave them food. But anyone who disagreed with the government could be given that label.

NO NEED TO KNOCK

No need to knockIn this sanitised city stateThose with erring viewsRepent unseenUntil they star on television

Incriminating documentsAll in prosecuting handsIf you dare speakIf you dare defendEven born a citizenYou could be forgottenYour papersDifferently penned

SPECIAL RELATIONS

Mellowed in uncertaintyA kindly face for oneWho locked doorsOn ideasAspirationsHitherto unwelcome

No alternativesThose who knewThe right wayKept controlSilenced oppositionBelieved that forceSecured prosperity

Look now upon your handsAs you face the KaabaWhat peaceWhen in your prayersThe voices riseFrom lonely cells

Across the dinner tableMy knowing smileTells you I understandYour uncomfortable Rememberings

Footnote:Whilst in Singapore I became an information source for Amnesty International on Human Rights and political prisoners. This poem recalls a visit to the freshly ransacked offices of the Barisan Socialis, a Maoist party, and a later meeting with defence lawyer, T.T. Rajah just after the Lee Kuan Yew government deprived him of his citizenship.

As a wedding gift my brother-in-law and his colleagues bought a silver plated tray with the inscription Pagani Pagani Cawangan Khas – Officers of the Special Branch (Singapore 1968) For Hussin

EMPTY MAGAZINE

This weaponNever carriedIn anger

Except with our ownSuperiors

Empty magazineBy twoIn the grassFlash shieldGlowing redBarrel distortedCatch on automaticA final statement

Seventy reasonsWhy this oneShould neverHave been hereEyes closedButt into shoulderTriggerFully squeezed

Empty magazineRepays humiliationDownloadingDestroying a weaponTo make peaceEars ringingWith rifle volleyEmpty magazineAn opportunityTo start againOn another path Footnote:With only a few days of Army service left, I was assigned to putting up targets for a day. At the end of the session I was given a rifle and ammunition. By using two Bren magazines with an SLR on the automatic setting it became a machine gun. I later found out that the over-heated barrel was ruined as a result. One officer who had been particularly vindictive towards me was in my mind as I pulled the trigger. As he had previous experience in the Malayan Emergency, he was posted to Saigon to work on New Villages with the US Army.

WARDRONES

We don't need youTo be strongWe don't want youIf you're braveWe just needTrigger pullersWho fireWhen we saySo don't askAwkward questionsDon't ask usWhy you're hereJust fireWhen we tell youThen goAnd disappear

A PRISONER IN MY CONSCIENCE

There's a prisonerIn my conscienceWho's beenTo Leong Nok ThaAnd seen theEvil EmpireAt its workWho's seenThe friends of freedomHolding handsWith savage butchersTorturersAnd mongrel dogsOf war

There's a prisonerIn my conscienceWho sees the fateOf the oppressedAnd feels the guiding handThat presses downWith impotenceAnd angerI do my best

To change itAnd nothingReally mattersAnymore

There's a prisonerIn my conscienceWho's seenA world destroyedAnd wanton waste'Midst hungerWant and worseWhile peopleLookFor voicesThey're running outOf choicesAnd forestsThat willNever growAgain

There's a prisonerIn my conscienceWho's beenMortgaged outTo bankersBut never onceRelinquishedThe beliefThat there isA better worldAll you have to doTo reach itSTAND UPSTAND UPSTAND UPAND SHOUT

PATHETIC FIGURES IN THE FOREST(EVERYTHING I WANT TO TELL YOU)

Tanaka and HashimotoShoulders stoodWith HirohitoLanded bikes at Kuala KraiNever even wondered why

Beat the BritishTo the shoreBlakang MatiSingaporeCame the dayOf reckoningFled to junglesWith Chin Peng

Lifetimes comeAnd lifetimes goAnd while we lazedUpon the beachIn Batu Ferringi

Terima TujohDayang BuntingYou in forests

Made the bulletsFor the men who'reStill out hunting

Pathetic figuresIn the forestEverythingI want to tell youWhen you fightFor what is lostYou will payA dreadful cost

Tanaka and HashimotoPathetic figuresIn the forestBelieved in Liberation thenFought on in worthless causes whenEverything had changed

Tanaka and HashimotoNothing befitsA ruling class o illAs believingIts own viper's spiel

Tanaka and HashimotoPathetic figuresIn the forestNothing fits a soldier lessThan believing in hisWholesomenessThat his killingIs anythingBut KILLING!

Footnote:This was the 1991 story of two Japanese soldiers, left behind in the Malayan jungles in 1945. They joined the Communist insurgents under the command of Chin Peng, who had formerly fought a resistance guerrilla war against the Japanese occupation. They stayed till this movement petered-out.

They returned to Japan as two very old men who had lost touch with thechanged realities of modern Japan.

CANDLES IN ANN STREET

In quiet dignity they came Pushing bicycles andBearing candlesThe Goddess of Democracy born silently aloftA soundless protest of the slaughterI can hear their screams In my ears and I am movedTo choked back tears Chilled hands and lumped throatAs I search their sombre facesFor your smileAnd as they passed their energyBecame mineI remember in their courageI remember in their angerI remember broken bodiesI remember TiananmenOne year onPushing bicycles to ChinatownWe won’t forget the out rageShouted wordless in their candlesLovely souls that we have lost

Footnote:This poem was written in 1990 after the first annual commemoration of the Tiananmen Square massacre and was read at the second commemoration in 1991.It has been published in several literary journals.

Dedicated to Yu Yamin

WHITE CHRYSANTHEMUMS – NO LONGER THE FLAVOUR OF THE MONTH

Human RightsIn polystyreneAs we walkedIn sombre fileRememberSavage slaughterTiananmenJust two years agoAnd no-one wantsTo know Broken bodiesThat don’t countOn bottom lines

Human RightsIn polystyreneAs we placed Joss sticksAt her feetA gestureJust as hollowAs our votesFor leadersWho feign careSupporting butchersEverywhereDoing businessWith the bleeders

Of the Square

Human RightsIn polystyreneJust as fragileAs her statute Ringed with candlesAs they sangFor their exploitersComrades rot in jailWhile we clear awayThe flowersThe billionsCannot voteMy own is worthA second On their clock

Footnote:

1st June 1991 – Commemorating the second anniversary of the Tiananmen massacre, attending the demonstration by Chinese students and hearing a particularly nauseating speech from an ALP member of state parliament.

TOP COPTER

Matt blackSinisterScience fictionMarvelOf technologyObsoleteCarrion angelsOf the evil empireDoor gunnersOf the Fourth ReichVideo game missilesBearers of poisonousMessageAnd the Ace of Spades

Top CopterSinuous RambosOf the airCarrion AngelsOf the evil empireEnforcersOf deprivationPeace keepersOf a violent era WankersOf an empireNow lostMercenariesOf a faded dream

Top copterOh the exhilarationComputerisedExterminationInfra red targetingHeat seeking suretyDazzling technologyEjaculating deathGlamorisedFire powerHideous atrocityGunshipsOf the ObsoleteFourth Reich

Impotent gestureOf irrelevantFantasyEvaporatingCokeIn the hot sand

Footnote:This poem has been published in the Green Left Weekly. It is an artefact ofthe 1991 Gulf War.

BROTHER NUMBER ONE FATHER OF THE YEAR

He fathered many orphansAnd orphaned many fathersAs he slayed his wayThrough singing peopleBrother number one

A man for making historyBy turning back the clockAs he slayed his wayThrough smiling peopleAnd cut a swathe of grief

Where do you think

You'll find him now?This father of KhmersAkin to Adolf HitlerA match for Idi Amin

You'll find him on a leather seatCruising through BeijingOn his way to meetHis counterpartsOf bloody deedsIn Tiananmen

You'll find himLazing on the beachAmong the rich and privilegedWith his honour guardOf Siamese thugsOn the white sands of Phuket

You'll find him in the villagesWhere peasants live in dreadAs he returns to powerWith his AK47And a bullet in their head

You'll find him in the heartsOf friends who make his bullets for himMargaret ThatcherDèng Xiǎopíng Ronald ReaganLee Kuan YewMany more I could have namedThough I mention but a few

Would you vote him fatherOf the year?The man who built the New KhmerThe man with bloodstainsOn his hands... Brother Number One

Footnote:Living in Queensland during the time of Joh Bjelke Petersen saw many unworthy business cronies given silly titles like Father of the Year – so why not Pol Pot?

LONG BEFORE THERE WAS CHARLIE

Long before there was CharlieThere was steaming forestHills rolling downTo teeming seasRice fieldsBendingGreen shootsIn the windBrass drums tellingA four thousand yearOdysseyPeople proud of fine musicAnd embroideryVillagesPacedBy quiet stepsOf burdened beastsPullingWooden ploughsLong before there was CharlieA jewel that everyNeighbour wantedAnd eyes fromFar awayCoveted her lovelinessA land

That only nativesKnow to loveLong before there was Charlie

And young girls weptFor loversGone to warReaching out forLost embracesLong before they heard ofNapalmPockmarkedCarpet-bombers' signatureTrees laid bareBy evil miracleCharlie cameCharlie ruledMore incompetentThan dangerousHobbled byDestructionStunned byThe blindingAbsenceOf the tall ones

And they who left returnTo blot the tearsOf sad dark eyesThe way it wasLong before there was Charlie

Footnote:Charlie was one of the nicknames for the Việt Cộng given by American soldiers.

Dedicated to Lk Anh Tuan

AIR CADETS

Google earth image of the bombing of Xieng Khouang Province, Lao PDR – the most heavily bombed place on earth

The boysIn cornflower blueTallCleanFreshSide-capsOver neatBlonde hairEyes BrightBlueWithInnocentMischiefBombersOf the future

SOLID CITIZENS

Fenced off From unpleasant realitiesSuffocatingOn indoor airRegular mealsBoiled cabbageGrilled sausagesMashed potatoAnd always puddingOnly the custardChanges colour

Tea at fourLarge white bunsPuffySticky topped in pink

Hemmed inBy narrow viewsCocooned in green grassWhite paintIn forty yearsNothing has grownIn this gardenAbove three centimetres

Doyens of respectabilityAccept without questionEverything printedIn the Courier Mail

Paid the insuranceWith nothing to collectContribute only their compliance

Up by sevenWith the smell of baconBed by nineCocoa frothingHomogenised milkFloral tea serviceThat hasn’t chippedSince their wedding day

Still believing in EisenhowerMenziesCurtinA method act of MethodismIn training for old ageSince birth

Now reaching outFor their true vocationDisconcertingly comfortableReady to dieInnocentIncoherent

Bardon 1993

SKIRMISH HOUSE

The signAn invitationWeekends of funRunning around The bushPlaying at war

Skirmish house

Wears neglectWith truculenceSeventies upholsteryOutdoorsDiscarded toys

Ute with spotlightsOn the drivewayHigh axelsRoo barGun racks

PaintJust A rehearsal

Bardon 1993

TVRI BERITA PAGI

I am sitting in a peaceful roomIn a garden of jambuAnd balimbingThree kinds of coconutTVRI is with usIn full colourBringing us the worldAs they see itBerita Pagi presented In sophisticated styleBy model womenAll about what the menAre doingIn their uniformsWith their gunsBosnia HerzegovinaIn full colourMogadishu in ruinsWe are so luckyIn Kuta with so manyMen with gunsTo protect their ruleFrom quiet folk with sarongsAnd stick broomsPounding their chilliesWashing rice

Grating coconutMarinating their tempehAnd Xanana GusmãoNot far from hereCaptive

Footnote:This poem was written in Kuta, Bali in 1992. It has been published in several literary journals.

CI CI FLY - TRAVEL WITH YOUR EYES OPEN

I am standing at the gatePlatform 5 and 6Victoria

She's got her packOn wheelsSmart thinkingAnd a baseball cap

She approachesWants me to mindHer gearWhile she buys a penWH SmithOK

She's going to Dover PrioryFaversham meansWe're on the same trainNine thirty fiveArrivesWe get the train

We TalkWe keep talkingShe's an exchange Student from ConnecticutWants to study politics

I tell herTwenty six percentFirst past the postHigh cost publicityAin’t no democracy

She understandsI tell her Secret governmentSecret warsBuilding freewaysNever askingOrdinary people

Human rightsAre connected toAffluenceConnected toExploitationPollutionCorruption

ResourcesGreedWar

She nodsShe's caughtAll thatIt isIt isFolks isLike that

I tell her This is FavershamI must leave youThe world needsPeople like youWho careFlyFly Ci CiTravelWith your eyes Open!

Faversham, Kent, England 1992

THAT SUITCASE

That suitcaseBrand newLeather labelHard edgedA special kindOf badgeFor one So young

He got offAt AxminsterWe noticedA plastic

Carry bagOf rubbishI moved itOff the train

SomeoneCould have Left itFor himI haveA suitcaseJust like hisAt homeToo heavyToo hardToo conspicuous

To remind meWhy I'm hereWhy I'm going

Where I'm goingWill heKnowing onlyAll the partsOf hisPersonal weaponEver understand

Plymouth, Devon, England 1992

Footnote: Soldier SMART got off the train at Axminster. Suspicious bags, packages etc. are always reported to railway staff in case they are IRA bombs.

PACKAGED

I

PackagedThese fieldsJust the right sizeSurrounded by hedgesLoose laid Stone wallsGate openTo muddy laneFrozen waterIn rutsStark naked TreesGrass fresh greenIn cold moist mistSheep obliviouslyGraze unhurriedCenturies have notChangedThisIs whatI came to see

II

If I should dieThink only this of meThat in every cornerOf a foreign fieldThere hangs the shadow

Of a bloodstained handThat is forever England’s

III

Soaring chimneysPeer downMenacinglyOn soot-grimed wallsAlmost deadLiving hereWill cost youYour lifeLike the endless Scrubbing outOf an indelible stain

Here there areNo endangered speciesExcept ourselvesRelentless but forNights of green and purpleEscapeRadiate intoOur collapsing rooms

IV

Three times the asking priceBrick upon brickTile upon tileStanding solidWith its own piecePartially concretedGround room enoughOne clothes hoistTwo gnomesA peachFloweringIn the cold fog

Somewhere By the fireTo put yourFeet upWill cost you

Your life

On the train to Plymouth, 1992

Footnote: Acknowledgement to World War I poet Rupert Brooke whose poem 1914 – The Soldier I ‘borrowed’

ASHES POST RESTANTE (ROLF MY FATHER)

Born into fine traditionsSubstantial consumptionValuable objectsA good educationNamed with flowersFrom a PrincessSchooled in the wayOf privileged dinosaurs

Grown in a whirl of partiesWine flowing in plentyWomen and pleasureSailing skiingAnd the law

Dark forces closed

Around himForcing recognitionTo flee with motherTo the other side

To a place of Lost ambitionsPhilistine lettuceAnother language

His secrets are muzzledUn-communicatedSoul shut inNever did anythingRemarkable

Continued assistedBy praise forPast worksOf his fatherUsed upThe collateralSold the family silver

Final act a moveSo unexpectedPointless unnaturalAucklandWith empty pocketsYearning heartGave upSeemed as thoughAsleep - but not

The story closesWidowed without regretExcept for yearsSat breathingPipe fumesCheap sherryHydrogenatedTheobromineScarce fundsNot expendedBeyond the flameAshes in patience

Like the waitingFor life to beginPost RestanteIn the undertakers OfficeTwenty yearsYet to be scattered

Willy Bach © 1991

UNNAMED (ON THE ROAD FROM UBON RATCHATHANI TO LEONG NOK THA)

Isan water jars, Nong Khai – photo by Willy Bach 1993

I

Bricked in the stumps Put the antennae upSmoothed the dust roadWith bitumenNow that everyoneIs youngMemories have fadedThe air-conditioned bus Speeds byThe granaries are fullRice trucks bulgingWith their wealthSouls sold

II

In the sandThat soldiers trodIn those grainsTheir boots were shodImpressions in dryDispersed by windIn the wind that spirits rideHorrors of the past may hideThen rain in torrentsWash away the footprintsBloodstains cleansedTill all that wasHas been forgottenReady to be repeatedBy another generation

III

By these watersWide and deepBrown to oliveEndless flowTaking soil from hereTo place it thereRising and fallingWith its own logicPassing many peoples

A natural barrier

Over there enough for youOver here enough for meScanning green hills oppositeWonderingWhat they're sayingWhat their secret is

That Phanom, NE Thailand 1993

BAD MEDICINE

The ‘any-medicine’ lady, That Phanom market–photo by Willy Bach 1993

Thursday is a marketIn That PhanomAt sunriseThe long boatsStream across the MekongFrom Laos

Packed to the gunnelsLow in the waterSteering intentlyPast watching soldiers

Then heavingSacks of charcoalTamarind herbsFrogs and chickensUp the steep bankThrough permit checksFor tradeIn the free world enclave

Lao in acrylic beanies

Traditional scarves And sashesHardened feet in contactWith the earth

Among the stallsOf pragmatic ThaiPlastic toysFrom China

Global competition

One the diligent doctorRecruits paying patientsTo the local hospitalShe consults andDispenses medicineOf the modern worldWith compassionAnd integrity

The otherA canny businesswomanWho also speaksGood EnglishUsed to work for USAFSakhon Nakhon

Now sells contraceptivesAnti-histaminesAntibioticsAnti-depressantsAnything you likeIn blue redOr yellowNo prescriptionNo degreeIn pharmacologyAll beyond expiryPotent in unforeseen ways

Bad medicineFor primitive livingBad medicineBeing poorBad medicine

In the wrong languageOf free trade

REDISCOVERING BAN KOK TALAT -LEONG NOK THA 1993

“What did you do in the war, daddy?’I gaze, mesmerised by endless dry paddy fields, punctuated byoccasional hamlets and stupas with lines of young eucalypts.

“I helped old Uncle Sam To spray and bomb and napalm Little children” … I pause …“Just like you”

It is midmorning at nine o’clockThe bus is purring along the bitumen road, a highway that was a seaof dust and later mud in 1966. We cruise over bridges instead ofdescending torturously into creek beds, slithering out again withwheels spinning. Some things have changed.

“Great grey birds waiting for the dusk.”

What would I find today, would I find anything?Would this journey find a purpose?

“Slayers of modern war.”

How different and how much the same it all looked. The grindingpoverty of dirt poor people - that had not changed substantially.New entrepreneurs were now amassing their wealth through cronies andnepotism.

I am stepping off the bus as it circles into the dusty square. Ihave arrived in Leong Nok Tha just twenty seven years later. I amfearless, full of trepidation. I am there but not quite. I amanonymous, unarmed, alone, conspicuous. Are the secrets stillclosely guarded?I have no way of knowing.

My foot touches the ground. I am clutching my old Nikon in itsbattered, strapless bag. A grizzled-faced man is shouting intomine. I have been practicing how to say “lék thâa aakâatsayaan”(little airport) from my miniature Thai phrase book. This doesn’teven look like a place where regular tourists would visit or find anairport. There is no airport, only some people, older people, knowof an airport that isn’t there and is never used. But the grizzled-face is asking others.

A crowd is gathering quizzically searching my face. I want to begone. This is getting me too much attention. “No, no, no! I don’twant a taxi. No! How much? I ask the grizzled man again. Does heunderstand? He is shouting numbers in Thai then broken English. Hesays he knows where to take me. He has a motorbike. We areshouting numbers again. Mine are half as high as his. Our voicesdrop. We are agreed. Then I lower it further. I want him to takeme to the airport, go around and return to this bus station.Business is slow today in Leong Nok Tha - he agrees.

Within minutes of alighting from the bus I am suddenly alone withthe grizzled face pointing his 125cc bike into the hot wind. Ientrust myself to him. We head south along the highway in thedirection of Amnat Cheroen. Beyond that the railhead at UbonRatchathani. I remember these places together with anecdotes andevents which connect them in my memory. It is enough to close myeyes and feel years dissolve away as though they contained nothing.I am a young man again trying to make sense of all this, listening,watching, making mental notes.

I am straining to recognise now but the featureless country, paddyfields and small hamlets and villages, clusters of timber houses,look the same as any in these parts. I shout in his ear “Kok Talat,

Kok Talat”. he takes no notice, he knows ‘Little Airport’. I hopethat is where we are going. Anything else will only confuse theinstructions.

I think of Isabelle, still in bed in the small crumbling guest housewhen I left That Ponom. My instructions to Isabelle are to contactthe Australian Embassy in Bangkok if I am not back by the followingmorning. Travelling with her has provided me with company, halvedaccommodation costs and given me cover if I needed it.

My brother in London was worried that I would be, in his words‘photographing military installations’. It’s a wild country with aruthless military directed regime - a thin veneer of parliamentarydemocracy - anything can happen. No one would find my body. I amcareless for my personal safety it’s too late to care. I can feelmy heart beating hard as though these are my last. This is what Iam living for.

My mind rolls back into drift.

That evening Isabelle and I wandered around in Ubon Ratchathani,unwinding after our twelve hour train journey from Bangkok. Thelarge, sinister army trucks were brimming with men in camouflagedfatigues and what appeared to be riot/battle gear. Truck aftertruck. Where were they going? Our visit was only a few monthsafter about five hundred Bangkok protesters were slain by themilitary.

Sticky rice barbecued Mekong fish, lemon grass stuffed into itsmouth, and green papaya salad with purple fermented crab for dinner- we ate at a small roadside stall - staple North Eastern fare.

Nearby, at the bus station we were introduced to the most beautifullittle girl in the world. She stalks, prances and twirls in a whitefrilly dress, white bubble socks and white patent buckle shoes andshows us her toys. Her father cropped hair, large frame, swarthy,brown, muscled, medallioned with an impressive golden Buddha -friendly - looked on her proudly. He described how he had takenpart in an army invasion of Cambodia in 1968. There is no sense ofirony in his description. This happened when the Americans werehere. Yeh! I knew about those incursions. They were Americanpayback to the ambitious Thai military - ambitions still waiting tobe fulfilled as they sell Australian rifles to the Khmer Rouge fromwhom they buy gemstones and timber, plundered from rapidly depletedCambodian rainforests.

I am looking over my left shoulder as we leave the bitumen and headup an unsigned dirt track with a plume of airborne particles in ourwake. Nothing tells us that we have reached anywhere special whensuddenly we are upon it. Under our wheels brushed, blackenedconcrete makes a smoother ride.

I can see the wide airstrip shimmering in the sun as it stretches tothe horizon.

“Two kilometres, pavement quality, built for jets”, great grey birds- waiting for the dusk, my own words flooding over me, whosechildren will you kill tonight?

My eyes well with tears, my throat lumps. It is not a dream I havearrived at my nightmares.

I tap him on the arm, springing from the bike as he stops. I ampulling my old Nikon from its case, setting the exposure and aimingit up and down the runway. Then I notice the mountains. Yes! Iremember edging the wet concrete looking up at those distantmountains nearly thirty years before. The airstrip was facingdirectly towards Laos, just as I recalled. It confirmed all myresearch. Combing university libraries revealed that in historicaltexts none explained or acknowledged our presence at Leong Nok Tha,nor this little airport.

We remount the bike and stop again where buffalo stray across thestrip. There are people, parched and dried like the country. Theycarry bundled twigs and small cloth sacks. Can they show me whatthey have gathered? Small frogs with fleshy rear legs, a few driedherbs are the paltry reward for their foraging. I try to calculatementally how many acres of arable land have been confiscated orresumed for this concrete blot, this sinister footprint of greatpowers and secret wars.

It is here. It is still here. It no longer has a purpose - whichsuggests its original purpose.

We remount and ride the taxi-way towards some concrete block, iron-roofed huts. There are some young men in civilian clothes but withmilitary washing on the line. They are casual, relaxed and curious,but only that - no one is armed. With them is a tall stocky manprobably around sixty years old. He is wearing a sort of flying capwith lambs wool flaps. He has a dark weathered face and a broadgrin. He is the incongruous pilot at ‘little airport’. He speaksEnglish. He worked here in 1966, on the construction camp, in the

cookhouse. We could have met before. Now he informs me that he hasbecome a doctor, at Leong Nok Tha Hospital. He writes his workaddress on a piece of paper. He asks me to visit him.

I ask him the question that I most need the answer to. I ask thequestion. I know the answer.

“Who came here after we finished building the airstrip?”.

“Baby Air force. People many countries”. He tells me “Air force” Iknow the questions. I know the answers - “Baby Air force”.

Everything I want to tell you about Leong Nok Tha lies in those twosimple words. They spell unmarked planes, mercenaries from aroundthe world, CIA payrolls and some of the darkest deeds of the VietnamWar. My small part in this - edging the concrete, still disturbs mylife - arms and drugs become Swiss Bank Accounts and real estate inArizona.

Confirmation feels like affirmation. Getting out alive is all thatmatters now. Even that doesn’t matter. Other ghosts haunt me too!

“The man who knew Von Stauffenberg has never heard of Leong Nok Thaand secret wars”.

“What if that child was mine”

“What if we can’t forget”

“Go village” I tell grizzled face. We remount and take off up therunway. The whine of his 125cc blocks out all else.

“Only the troubled souls can hear screaming in their head”.

“Down this street young women came to feed on wasted semen”.

They’ve changed the name, the bars have gone. The shame andbitterness have receded. But this is Kok Talat. The street, thehouses are all the same. The children and teenagers come out andsurround me with their beaming faces. I group them and pull the oldNikon out of its bag. I promise to send copies, but never bringmyself to do it. I meet an old man who also worked at the camp. Heasks me if I remember Kevin*, from Sydney. I haven’t a clue whohe’s talking about. He too tells me ‘Baby Air force’. What I knowI now know well.

Grizzled face and I are riding north to Leong Nok Tha. Inside me,the seeds of a new determination not to allow this place and thesepeople to disappear from history in a sanitising process which omitsdetails of a secret war and the involvement of allies, Britain andAustralia.

I am careful to note everything mentally not to write down the newname of the village, not to tell anyone who I am or where I camefrom. But I have a rendezvous to make with the doctor with theflying cap. On returning to town I pay grizzled face, then hire apedicab to the hospital.

People who work at hospitals are busy, their work is important.First a nurse has to find someone who speaks English. That takestime. They seem unhelpful. Was it true? They have never heard ofthe doctor with the flying cap. He does not work there. Themeeting was cancelled - or it was a hoax.

I left immediately for town and waited anxiously for the bus.

THIS IS NOT MY VILLAGE

Ban Kok Talat, NE Thailand

As I comeTo tread your dustWalking as though fixatedReturning as though a heroOn my pilgrimage of peaceMemories and anguishI tell them in my mindThis is yoursLeft hardly better than beforeI have no sense of placeThis is not my village

Just because it all looks familiarJust because the childrenAll run into the street

Group themselves for photographsGive me their addressLet it be yoursLet me give it backWith my shattered conscienceThis is not my village

These are not my peopleLost in dustJust because this old manCan talk my languageA little ......and yes

He remembers KevinFrom Sydney not known to meAnd next monthThose who came afterWill return - perhaps to gloatSlap one anotherOn the backThis is not my village

For up this dusty trackYoung women came To feed on wasted semen And be forgottenNow all the beer bottlesMamasans and barsAre goneThis place is where it wasBefore- long ago I cameThis could never be my village

This is not my villageThis is not where my Placenta is buriedNot where the spiritsOf my ancestors dwellThe right to own this landWas never granted meI should neither bringNor takeSoldiers are tourists with gunsTourists are invaders with camerasThis is not my village

This could never be mineThese are not my peopleThough I am their brotherNothing could give me the rightTo remove themTo another placeTo extinguish their housesFrom the face of the earthTo set them wandering

In search of roots that cannot beA new village cannot be their villageNew land has no ancestors

This is not my village

Dedicated to the villagers of Ban Kok Talat where the airstrip was built, ten kilometres from Leong Nok Tha, revisited in January, 1993. This poem has been published in several literary journals.

THEY TELL ME BABY AIRFORCE

I come to taste the airFeel the firm concreteUnder my feetConfirmationThat I was not dreamingI had not imagined thisI had not thrown awayEverything I hadPlanned for five years

Broken ties

Spoken outShared my painCame all this wayNot knowing what I would find

No drugNo rush of joyNo orgasmCould feel like thisI want to cry outPressure welling upIn my lumped throatI want to singMy long repressed songPainful exhilaration

That mountainI rememberStanding hereTrowel in handDreaming the mysteriesOf that mountainIn LaosThis rude fingerGrey and cruelPointed in her direction

I came to see the groundAt ground levelThe people as they wereForagingTheir diminished realmFor herbs and frogsAnd twigsBuffalo strollingAcross this useless blot

Two kilometresOf pavement qualityConcreteTwo kilometresFor whatTwo kilometresBuilt for jetsAimed to kill

I askI ask the magic questionI know the answersI know the questionsWhat is the question?

Who came hereAfter me?

They tell meEverything I want To knowAmericans Yes!People many countriesThey tell meBaby Air forceI know the questionsI know the answersBaby Air forceBaby Air forceThey tell me Baby Air force

Footnote: Baby Air force was one of the nicknames given to Air America, the CIA’s secret airborne wing. Baby Air force was a term used in the film Air America

AMWAY ANYWAY

Just Passing

she hailed mewith a smileinto her small dim shopAustraliashe was savingdiligentlyhad I heardabout the businessof opportunitymore feigned euphoriathan product salesmore culturalpenetrationthan explanationBelieve!you can bea consultant for Amwayin Leong Nok Tha

Dedicated to the lady with the little tailoring shop in the main square of Leong Nok Tha 1993

BOY SOLDIERS Hmong

The persuasionOf RavensChildrenOf the ArmaLiteFrom high countryFieldsTo the slaughter of plainsPride of the poppiesDriven by hungerMarched to the tune Of anonymous flagsAnd the gainOf Vang PaoBoy soldiers HmongExpendable wastesOf a warWithout heroes

Footnote:

From the early 1960’s agents of the US Central Intelligence agency infiltrated Hmong villages, recruited every available male, trained them asfighters, armed, supplied and led them into some of the bloodiest battles fought against the Pathet Lao and North Vietnamese regular forces.

Vang Pao, the leader of 40,000 Hmong irregular fighters, was described by his American mentors as a ‘type A personality’. The Hmong suffered horrific casualties in the fighting. He recruited children from unwilling villagers by denying them their rice supplies. When the Pathet Lao swept to victory the Hmong were left behind to fend for themselves.

As refugees the Hmong suffer a uniquely painful loss of their homeland. Many of their young men have mysteriously died.

I DID IT MY WAY

Regrets….I’ve had a few…..Its 3 amAt Tommy’s Guest HouseNong KhaiSuddenly in the darknessSinatra is playing really loudI try to ignore itTossing restlessOn my rush mat in my sarong

Switch it offSomeone shoutsShut the fuck upReplies the stridentAmerican voice

I did it My Way…..Now singing alongA little slurredSwitch it off Or I will

I’ve been hereLonger than you’ve had hot dinners

You can get fuckedIf I want to play My musicI fucking will

I called him JoeI don’t knowHis real nameIn his sixties I thoughtHelicopter pilot’sBaseball capCheck shirtMekong whiskeyAn endless supplyOf cheap Uncomplicated girlsMoney to live onFor the rest of his days

I did it My Way……..Reminds me ofSwaggering arroganceAnything we do is OKThe world’s most lawless policemanWeapons and poppy seedIts all currencyWar is a gameOpportunityLive fastDon’t countThe casualties

Regrets……..Very fewWe were doing a jobWe were paidTo do what we didThat was thenWear your pastOr bury it

Footnote:This incident took place on my last night at Nong Khai before moving to Sang Khom, 1993. I had seen the man I have called Joe and guessed that hewas an old ‘hand’ who had stayed on. Perhaps he was one of the gung ho pilots of baby air force. Somehow I had an aversion to engaging him in conversation. He was sometimes drunk and argumentative, anyway. The

Sinatra incident was indicative and revealing. It took six years for thispoem to surface.

Acknowledgement to Claude Francois, Jacques Revaux and Giles Thibaut who wrote the music for the French song Mon Habitude – English words written by Paul Anka, 1969 song, My Way recorded by Frank Sinatra.

RIVER OF THE DISAPPEARED

Mekong Yam bean field, Nakhon Phanom, NE Thailand - photo by Willy Bach 1993

Faces with excruciatingExpressionsOf griefBuried inMekong black soilYam beansEach contortedDifferentlyBasil with fragranceCapable of maskingA fatal history

Swirling in yourTurbulent watersMaking and remakingBends narrowsIslands sandbarsSpreading fertile siltTo prosperDiligent tillersCarried fromDe-clad hills

Those who Passed this wayConsumed In flightAcrossThe rapid

CurrentsTreacherousIn flood

Peering fromThe darknessThis boughCould beA waving armRaised by One who was drowning

This hairSwept alongIn the swift thrustIs only a reminderOf rushesLost anchorageCaught on twigsAnd jetsam

Those who perishedMurmur their regretsNourish the soilFor thoseWho must carry onIgnore living memoriesTo surviveHarvest the khung kungCast their netsListening only To the birds

Footnote:Remembering the view of the Mekong near the village of Sang Khom, west of Nong Khai, North East Thailand, visited late January 1993. My accommodation was a hut constructed from US Army grenade launcher boxes. From there I set out for Site 2 after meeting an English woman who had obtained special permission to go there.

A fisherman’s shrine, Sang Khom – photo by Willy Bach 1993

SITE 2 IS MY COUNTRY

She who cannot hearCannot speakShe ThaiShe OKShe with me

Stands hot ConfusedSo what?

If I could read your lipsIf I could hearYou sayMe poor tooMe too poorLife too hardCost too muchOnly workLike prisonLike this

Why you comeWhy you lookWhy you talk-talk

They KhmerThey differentWhat differenceThey runCome hereHow comeWhy comeNo welcome

This countryMy countryWhy come hereNo come hereNo good here

He KhmerSpeak EnglishShow campRide bicycleCost moneyShow familyTell storyBad storySad storyLose familyRun awayRun hereCome here

No good hereNo hope hereNo power hereNo free here

This countryYour countryHe come hereNo hope here Stay twelve yearNo good here

Have daughtersFour daughters

All prisonersNo see countryNever see countryNever been countryWhere is my countrySite 2 is my countryI have no countrySite 2 is my countryI have no countrySite 2 is my countryI forget countrySite 2 is my country

Footnote:

In February 1993 I visited Site 2, the notorious, Khmer Rouge controlled, Cambodian refugee camp near Ta Phraya, Aranyaprathet, South East Thailand. I was accompanied by a deaf and dumb Thai woman, Kwajeen. I arrived at the camp with no papers from Bangkok but still persuaded the guards that I was an English teacher. I was allowed to see the camp, though forbidden to take photographs. The camera had to be left at the gate.

At that time the United Nations were rapidly repatriating the camp inhabitants to Cambodia. Only a tenth of the original 350,000 refugees remained.

At the camp gate we met Phoung Savuth and another man on bicycles. I paidthem to show us the camp. The story was that of Phoung Savuth and all Cambodians. The poem is dedicated to Phoung Savuth and his family who suffered so much and so needlessly.

On 7 July 1995 Phoung Savuth wrote to say that he had been repatriated to Cambodia in February of that year, two years after my visit. The title ofthe poem is taken from his words. It has also been published.

VENERABLE LUNCH – BANGKOK ‘93

Beside the wide Pra RiverFar from glittering shopping mallsRubies and silkA modestUnremarkable templeNot exceptionally oldWeathered by smog

A cooling breezeEnters the open quartersFading paintSimple shrineRough hewn tablePlastic clothJoss flowered air

Phra Fan reclinesEnduring discomfortAnd fatigueThat befits a manWho has lived so muchOf the century’sTurbulence

Phra Fan is quietly watchingI am picking at a bony fishIn a red curry

FoodPresented as almsIn quantitiesBeyond appetiteWill be givenTo appease hungerThe remains To canine friends

His aide explainsHow they workTo collect thingsFor the refugees

Half their effortsEnrich the armyWho supervise The campsNot just in kindness

Phra Fan searchesRubbish binsFor thongsWhich he repairs

Painstaking effortsFor the LaoStill languishingBehind wire NegotiatingBeggingGiving out his passion

So longSo soonAfter this venerable lunchPhra Fan slipsInto the other realmAttended in respectBy Royalty

Footnote:Through Laotian friends in Brisbane I was given the opportunity to meet Phra Fan Tissavangso, the most senior and venerable Lao monk in Bangkok. We discussed the plight of the 750,000 Lao refugees who fled the secret warand its consequences. Many were still in Thai camps after seventeen yearsto that time.

Few of these refugees had skills which were attractive to third countries like Australia for resettlement. The majority who were left behind in thecamps faced only an interminable wait to return to Laos when conditions aremore favourable.

Six weeks after my visit Phra Fan died and was given a state funeral attended by international dignitaries and the Thai Royal family. The famous Thai smile has elements of hypocrisy, though not on the same scale as that of the international community of nations who were party to the unfolding events.

Something about his humility and the simplicity of his lifestyle profoundlymoved me. Lao Buddhism is a particularly peaceful and tolerant brand of the philosophy.

O VACUUM

Tham Piew Cave 24 November 2008 – photo by Willy Bach

I met a manTold me his storyHe had to look his childrenAnd ours In the eyeHe was sketchy in partsBut remembered a placeNot far from Sài GònThey tested weaponsHe wondered howPeople could imagineWeapons like theseWeapons and enemiesNeed each other

He wondered howTo look his childrenAnd oursIn the eye

One weaponHe rememberedThey testedFrightened its inventorsToo potent to use

One kilometre radius

SilentEvery cricketBird and mouseSnake and dogDead stillTotal kill

How could you lookYour childrenIn the eye

Dedicated to Phuong Le Duc

On 24 November 2008 I visited Tham Piew Cave, Xieng Khouang Province, Lao PDR for the fortieth anniversary of the USAF bombing, which killed 374 people, including many women and children. Some accounts suggest that the bomb used in this attack was a thermobaric, or fuel-air explosive bomb. They knew there was something unusual. The cave was too hot for rescue crews to enter the cave – they had to wait three days. When they entered the cave, it was a scene of horror.

US AND THEM NEGOTIATIONS

We have decidedTo negotiateTo protect our interestsWe will seek reciprocityIn a win-win outcomeFrom mutual discussionWe will pursue solutions Compatible withThe dominant paradigm

We have writtenThe terms of referenceIssued the parametersWe have set Together with ourTimeframe andOther benchmarks

Our ultimatumIssued warningsOf economic sanctionsIn the eventOf non complianceWe will bomb youBack intoThe Stone Age

NIKETICK

Tick if you're wearing the capTick if you're toting the bagTick if this is your favourite tee shirtTick if you've been bought

Question if you supportCheap labourTick if you agreeDissenters who made Your running shoesLive too far away

LOU – A TRIBUTE TO LOU GUGENBERGER

For his measured tonesAs he questionedEverything put Before himWe will remember this manFor his scholarly styleHis classicismHis accentWe will never forget

This man was a giantOf minor statureMagnificent in his angerPassionateCatholicIn his concerns

They will remember himAt the grave of Daniel YockIn the forests of BougainvilleIn the streets of DilliAt the barricades Of Pine GapAnd CanungraWe will not forgetA man so generousHis timeHis houseHis kitchenHis gardenAll fully availableTo the cause of humanity

We will rememberHis grasp of constitutionsSense of fair playAbility to spotThe fly in the ointmentLou was that flyFor the wealthyPowerfulCynical

They all knew himOn talkback radioNo one could forgetHis nameHis beardHis shortsHis sandalsThe man was a gnomeAnd a saint

Silently he foughtThe protestationsOf his bodyFamous for his strudelsChampion ofSacked television presentersFree speech in the MallWe will remember this man

It is Auf Wiedersehen

For the last time

Willy Bach © 1994

This poem was read at Lou’s funeral and was published to members of the Queensland Greens. Daniel Yock was a young Aboriginal Murri dancer who died in the custody of the Queensland Police. An inquiry failed to determine whether his death was caused by negligent or rough treatment.

WARDARLINGS

The gorgeous darlingsWere perchedAt their favourite spotEatingAnd striking attitudesGlass of wine in handThe food was divineThe place fabulousThe service amazingThe waiters cuteThe sun was shiningThe palm fronds flutteredObligingly in the windTill someone mentionedWARThen they all startedgigglingAnd ordered more drinks

New Farm, Brisbane 1999

This poem has been published in Picking Mangoes that are still green

nicewar this year, isn’t it

It’s so nice nowadaysWhen you can have a warAnd not see any sign of itIn our local shopping centreAnd there’s no rationingNo mess and businessIs doing well

I can’t understand those people

Who complain about our PMSaying that he tells liesYou just shouldn’t expectSomeone like that to have toWorry about things like that

And if you have a loved oneWho gets well you know Deployed or somethingWell you just learn how to Manage the big garden And two strapping dogsDon’t you

Brisbane 2004

This poem has been published in Picking Mangoes that are still green

UNRESOLVED

The other day upon a stairA long time ago in a paddy fieldI met a man who wasn't thereNot officially you understandHe wasn't there again todayOnly ghosts inhabit this landscape I do wish he would go awayHe never will

Acknowledgements to American poet Hughes Mearns born 28.9.1875 died 3.3.1965 from his poem, The Little Man Who Wasn’t There – which I ‘borrowed’.

MCNAMARA HAS SPOKEN

Selective memoryPublic amnesiaMcNamara has spoken

In their pressed suitsSteel trap facesEach their ownRow of ribbons

Solemn headsReplaying scenesFrom Nui DatLong Tần, Phuc Tuy

We remember everythingExcept why they were thereMinds that must liveWith the rest of our livesMcNamara has spoken

Footnote:Shortly before ANZAC Day 1995, former US Defence Secretary, Robert McNamaralaunched his memoirs in which he described the Vietnam War as 'a tragic mistake' and 'un-winnable' as early as 1964. Read the book, In Retrospect: The Tragedy and Lessons of Vietnam, see the film The Fog of War: Lessons from the Life of Robert S. McNamara, directed by James G Blight

This had no impact on the Vietnam Veterans who were setting out to commemorate ANZAC Day.

See also Noam Chomsky’s essay on McNamara.

WARMEMORY

What if we rememberWhat if we go back

What if we can't clearOur mindsWhat if it hurts too much

Only the troubled soulsCan hear screaming in their heads

Helicopters thrashing the airFlattening grassFlashing lightsBlades like crazyWhirling knivesWhat if we can't forget

What if we justCan't stand the tormentWhat if we lose our minds

Millions of plastic toysRaining from the skyAmputating tiny feetWhat if that child was mine

What if we just can't determineNightmares from real lifeWhat if revisiting feels

Like we never left the placeWhat if we carry it with usWherever ........Till we're dead

angelfire.com

Laying the ghosts Of a bad adventureI’m @ the websiteWith the Air CommandosMIAs Ravens HmongThe grieving familiesAnonymous corpsesAnd the crazy menHid in the hillsWith their M16sOne man agendaAnd a penchant For suicide

Footnote:http://angelfire.com/in/Laos/index.html

Dedicated to those who supported the war still convincing themselves that theirs was a just cause

KOSOVO REWIND

Wolfgang’s uniformHangs with solemn prideIn his wardrobeIn every brain cellIn every waking momentAnd in his dreamsThe sound of gunfireThe smell of corditeThe sight of crumpledBodies in the ditchTerrified expressionsOn their faces.

The uniformDirects frequent inspectionBrushingPolishing of brassThe skull denotingOccupationJust like plumber

Motor mechanicVermin exterminatorBalkan villager sanitiser.

The uniform Influences quantitiesOf alcohol consumedFrequency and durationOf domestic disciplineFrau und KinderCelebration of The Führer’s birthdayThe desolationOf madness.

As all thisIs repeatedNinety-nine.

Footnote: This poem is dedicated to Gaby War is a fashion statement, don’t you know

These days you can buyTart gear micro skirtsIn cam khaki And desert biscuit tonesSAS survival camping kitFeather lite for family

Spearhead operations

I rescued a cam holsterFrom Kampala’s mudTo stash my Nokia phoneRather that than have AfricansMimic Mzungu wastefulnessAnd I wear it as an anti-statement

But have you noticed the dress codeOf Liberian rebels and theNew York street-gang namesThey award themselvesBandannas and mirror shadesReal tossers And bloody dangerous at 12

Have you watched the hi pyrotechnicFoxtel news action-packed imagesOf carnage in Fallujah Plenty of smoke and flameCarefully avoiding The shredded limbs of grandmothers

Have you tried doing microsurgery On babiesHard wired to your iPodWith Burn Mutherfucker rapBreaking your eardrumsFeel it pulsating in your veins

Now you can download the song To your cellphoneSo it becomesYour ringtoneAnd you can enjoy mass-slaughterWith every incoming call

Have you noticed howLike a creepy new belief-systemThe sacrament of the Unknown SoldierIs taking over public religious observance Yet the limbless and despairingSilently disappear into their slumsUnthanked by the triumphals

An F111 flypast somehowEnhances a River FestivalWith special tricks from Blackhawk choppersMilitarising our government-sponsored entertainment

The references to war in our sports commentariesBusiness-speak and marketing jargonAnd personal developmentHaving a moral compassIs just plain post-modern unfashionable

Till our resistance has wilted Under a firestorm of empathy-free napalmAre you ready to be frightened By smirking politiciansVisiting a sanitised Shopping mall Near youSoon

West End, Brisbane, November 2004

This poem was published in Picking Mangoes that are still green, 2006

Footnote:1. Lite now refers to soymilk, saccharine soft drinks, torture, and ‘success’ in the ‘war on terror’.2. A Mzungu is a ghost, a person lost in Africa, in short a Caucasian.3. Refers to the lyrics of Full Nelson by US rap band, Limp Bizkit, favoured by American soldiers going into combat engagements in Iraq. Lyrics: http://www.lyricsdownload.com/limp-bizkit-full-nelson-lyrics.html

Old dudes and war

Roundt’ hereyou can tell minersthirty thousand poundredundancytwenty thousand white knuckleand hearingfour by four int’ front yardlaughing they are

Allt’ pitsRoundt’ hereshut downlads joint’ armyher family’sgot oneint’ Afghanistanright now

Two lads killedFromt’ same villageI’d give his lada gun and a uniformbloody waste of timeif you ask me

Today Tony Blairapologised for slaverywe all know how muchdifference that will make

Forgotten old soldiersAsked Blair’s Cherie for legal advice

on their grievancespensions compensationfifteent’ thousand to herup frontsays “sod off”!

My matewho was in Thailandhe’s comingk’ for Christmasgoes walkabout every daylives alonegets suicidalwe’re still angrywhat it’s done to us

He drove a ScoutInt’ Radfanseen his sergeant killedmine sheared off front’ axle

Seven pounds a week to de-minethe dirt runway6 am a row of ‘emprostrateflat outwith bayonetsdaily ritualwhy would you bother?

Willy Bach © 2006 (9 November)

Footnote:Written at Nottingham railway station, after visiting veterans of the Secret War in Laos. Derbyshire coal miners were some of those who were laidoff following the reforms of the Thatcher government – at least these workers got redundancy payments. Former soldiers, particularly veterans of the Secret War are still bitter about successive governments ignoring theirneeds.

Written in the voice of the region.

Not like ordering a pizza

If we are convincedThat war is normalA routine activitySomething thatMust be doneLike the choreOf cleaning the house

Cleaning up South LebanonLevelling villagesEvicting everyoneWho can driveOr walkOr breathe

Then war is something To do when you see advantageA natural response

When the mood takes youPeriodicPart of lifeSomething to plan for

Unless someone hasThe temerityTo resist your advancesTo hinder your workCause you to reconsider

I’ll have olives and anchoviesWith mineIn say 30 minutes?

Fig Tree Pocket, Brisbane 2006

10 August 2006 – Montessori School, Fig Tree Pocket, Brisbane – during Israel’s assault on Lebanon

Footnote:[Israeli Prime Minister, Ehud] “Olmert has said Israel would welcome a robust international force in southern Lebanon. But Israel's main concern remains the presence of Hizballah fighters in the area, as Israeli Brigadier General Yossi Kupperwasser, a senior intelligence officer, told reporters in Tel Aviv on August 7.

"Some people ask, 'How come the Israeli army has not crushed Hizballah within five minutes?' So, let me tell you something: Crushing Hizballah is not like ordering a pizza. It takes time," Kupperwasser said”.http://www.rferl.org/featuresarticle/2006/08/937223ac-7aa3-4f02-87ee-18e4469ea1b2.html

The Sniper

The sniperI called himIn my head

StandingEyes focused In the distanceOf his sights

Wearing starchedWhite shirtBlack duxWelded sole boots

Stance like The two-wayWas a loaded gunHands crossedProtectivelyOver crotch

This jobLike anyVigilance taskAll that’s left

West End, Brisbane 11 October 2007After Fijian Night, Souths Leagues Club

Sadness on the demise of a rail

Just seven witnesses watchedas the head droopedand the life expiredfrom a buff banded rail

The older boy holding the corpsestood silentas his father explainedthe experimental trapwith a cardboard boxupgraded to a heavyinverted wheelbarrow

The little birdever mischievoustried to escapefelt the full forceof the wheelbarrowon its neck

“Its dead”

he declared flatlywith resignation “It doesn’t matter”they didn’t mean to hurt itdebated the meagrereward in meat

If he felt remorseit was not allowed to showlater decidedon a sand burial

Chomsky and Hermandeconstructingthe linguisticsdevised by apologistsof the Vietnam Warexpose the argumentsbetween malevolent intent and stupidity

The latter too easilyproviding excusesfor powerful agentssuperior technology

Failing to explainyears of planningcoordinationand investmentin ever more accuratefragmentation bombs

The two boyslooked for answersthe older oneflopped the rail’s headside-to-sideopened and closed its wings

The younger onestrugglingwith awfulnesswanted to knowwhy his friend’s father

had killed the birddid he do itdeliberatelyand why?

He had askedthe right questionand deserved to knowwe saidit had beenan experimentthat went wrongshould neverhave been undertaken

An early lesson learntor readily forgotten

Lady Musgrave Island, Queensland, 2007

Notes:

1. On 24 July 2007 there were seven people on the island: a man with hisson, a woman with her six year old son, her partner, not the child’sfather, Rowan and myself.2. The following day a thoughtless pair of young men, European touristsfrom a yacht, brought an unrestrained white beagle, which ran into thepisonia bush and grabbed a rail in its mouth. Luckily the dog was persuadedto drop the bird, which could still die of fright.3. Noam Chomsky and Edward S Herman wrote After the Cataclysm, post war Indochinaand the reconstruction of Imperial ideology, the political economy of Human Rights Volume II,published by South End Press, 1978. See pages 14-15. "The early Americandecisions on Indochina can be regarded as blundering efforts to do good.But by 1969 it was clear to most of the world - and most Americans - thatthe intervention had been a disastrous mistake", Anthony Lewis, New YorkTimes.

For the purposes of persuading Americans to put the war behind themand not to dig too deep for the real intentions (which are clearlyset out in the Pentagon Papers), the 'stupidity' line was perfect.Somehow Nixon, Kissinger, Generals Curtis LeMay and Westmoreland,McNamara and others could walk away from genocidal war crimes with aslap on the wrist with a wet lettuce leaf. They were not warcriminals, merely guilty of 'stupidity'

APPENDICES

Review of Service Entitlement Anomalies in Respect of South-East Asian Service1955-75

QUESTIONS PUT TO THE AUSTRALIAN GOVERNMENT THAT REMAIN UNANSWERED

Question One

Did the decision to build the airstrip result from a request fromanother power? In what form was the request received?

Question Two

What was the objective that was to be fulfilled by the constructionof the airstrip?

Question Three

What security classification was given to documents and materialspertaining to this matter? What is their current classification?

Question Four

How much has Operation Crown cost the Australian taxpayer?

Question Five

What arrangements were made to compensate local landholders for the alienation of their land? Who was responsible for making these arrangements?

Question Six

To whom was the airstrip handed over on completion?

Mark Burton, Ministry of Defence, New Zealand, wrote this on 15 January, 2003

http://www.beehive.govt.nz/release/new+medal+be+awarded+service+thailand

New medal to be awarded for service in Thailand

New Zealand personnel who served in Thailand between 1962 and 1971 will be eligible for a new medal, Minister of Defence Mark Burton announced today.

“As part of our ongoing work to ensure that our veterans’ outstanding service to New Zealand is properly recognised, this Government has agreed in principle to the institution of the New Zealand General Service Medal (non-warlike) with a ‘Thailand’ clasp.”

In the 1960’s and early 1970’s, Thailand was threatened by both Communist insurgency in the northeast and invasion along the Laos border. As part of an allied response to these threats, New Zealand deployed military forces to Thailand in the period between 1962 and 1971, including RNZAF transport aircraft, an SAS detachment, and Army engineers.

“This new medal will recognise the exceptional service of the 300 New Zealand personnel deployed to Thailand during this period,” saidMark Burton.

The institution of this medal follows last year’s establishment of the New Zealand Operational Service Medal, as well as medals to recognise a variety of other deployments dating back to 1945.

The new medal is still to be manufactured and should be available for issue by the middle of this year.

Background Information

In 1962, three RNZAF Bristol freighters with support personnel and 30 Special Air Service personnel were deployed to northeastern Thailand. They joined forces from the United States, Thailand, Australia and the United Kingdom to prepare against a feared invasion of Thailand from across the Laos border. The crisis was resolved before any invasion was launched.

In 1964 and 1965, a 33-strong New Zealand Army engineering team was deployed to northeast Thailand to assist British and Australian military engineers in the construction of a strategic military airfield at Mukdahan, near the Thai-Laos border. Two RNZAF 41 Squadron Bristol freighters supported the Army engineers throughout this period. The freighters also assisted the United States Strategic Logistic Aid to Thailand (SLAT) programme.

From 1965 to 1971, New Zealand Army engineers were involved in road construction in northeast Thailand. Due to the potential military risk in the area, the project was carried out by military personnel rather than civilians.

Each of these deployments involved service beyond the requirements of peacetime service. The New Zealand General Service Medal with theclasp “Thailand” recognises those deployed in an unstable environment with ongoing risks from insurgency. Approximately 300 people will qualify for the award.

Veterans or their families enquiring about eligibility for the medalshould write to:

Staff Officer MedalsHeadquarters New Zealand Defence ForcePrivate Bag 905UPPER HUTT

Veterans should supply as much of the following details as possible:

Service NumberService: RNZN, NZ Army, RNZAF or name of other organisationFull forename(s) and surnameName of medal being applied forDetails of service that supports the claim.

A minimum of thirty days’ operational service is required for the award of the medal.

Mark Burton Defence

[Bolding added]

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Willy Bach was sent to North-East Thailand as a British soldier with 11 Independent Field Squadron, Royal Engineers inMarch 1966. He worked on the construction site for several months. There was also an Australian Troop of around thirty men in the unit. The work being carried out by day and night was the building of an airstrip two kilometres long in 'pavement quality' concrete. The official story was that the airstrip was for the Thai government to develop the local economy by enabling the peasants to market their produce more effectively in Bangkok. The transport Caribous that would allegedly use the airstrip were capable of landing on the asphalt taxi-ways and could have used even less sophisticated surfaces. That was when he was twenty.

Twenty-two years passed. Suddenly, he felt that something hadbeen boring away at his soul and had remained hidden all that time. Something very wrong had happened at Leong Nok Tha. It was possible that the airstrip had been intended to assist in the secret bombing of Laos or Cambodia by the USAF, with help from the CIA’s undercover air force - Air America. These forces were operating from Ubon Ratchathani and other bases alongside ‘official’ forces and was made up of retired US Air Force personnel and highly paid mercenaries, Air America, ‘free agents’ out of control.

They dealt with the drug barons of the Golden Triangle, in weapons and drugs dealing in death and making fortunes for themselves. For a period of eight years Laos was the most heavily bombed country in the world, until the citizens of theUSA found out what their own Government had been doing. The legacy of unexploded bombs, millions of aerially-seeded anti-personnel mines and damage to people and productive resources continue to this day.

"Patriotism is the willingness to kill and be killed for trivial reasons." "The trouble with the world is that the stupid are cocksure and the intelligent are full of doubt." -Bertrand Russell