MICHELLE JANE RAWLINSON, AUSTRALIAN EMBASSY. SPECIAL ATTACHE TO MILITARY ASSISTANCE COMMAND VIETNAM HEADQUARTERS, SAIGON.<br/><br/>AUSTRALIAN EMBASSY, SAIGON, 14th JANUARY 1968, 09:45am<br/><br/><div class="floatleft">(http://i.ehow.com/images/a07/ua/c9/everyday-hairstyles-60s-800x800.jpg)</div>I neatly signed the sheaf of reports; "M. Rawlinson,<em>pp</em>Sir Henry Westlake," and placed them in my out tray. Along with all the others. I leaned back and stretched, easing a muscle in my neck. Looking out the window Saigon below me on the avenue was doing what Saigon always does, being hot and wet and noisy and smelly.<br/><br/>At least I had a window. My first six months here had been spent mostly in what we called the 'conference room' but which was probably the vault of our embassy – a building that had once been the People's Bank of Saigon. Windows were what promotion got you.<br/><br/>Coming to Saigon had seemed like a good move, a step up the ladder but after nearly two years I was still not much more than a glorified clerk. Signing this, requisitioning that, acting the tour guide for these suits and those suits, arranging this and that meeting. Wearing a skirt was the problem holding me back, I was certain of it.<br/><br/>James stuck his head round the door.<strong><em>"Hello Mitch, Sir Aitch wants you, pronto."</em></strong><br/><br/><strong>"Oh? Wants a fresh pot of coffee does he?"</strong>James didn't grin at my weak humour.<br/><br/><strong><em>"No. It’s the Laos thing. Trouble is brewing."</em></strong><br/><br/><strong>"Laos? Then why's he want me? Miss Trim Ankles and Cute Ass?"</strong><br/><br/>James just shrugged,<strong><em>"You better get up there. He sounds excited. There's a meeting with General Westmoreland this morning."</em></strong><br/><br/>=========================================================<br/><br/>AMBASSADOR SIR HENRY WESTLAKE'S OFFICE, 10:03am<br/><br/><strong><em>"It is settled then. I am meeting General Westmorland in-"</em></strong>Sir Henry checked his watch,<strong><em>"-seventeen minutes. I shall then need to send a diplomatic presence to Laos. That cannot be me. Bring an overnight bag, I fear events may begin to proceed rather apace."</em></strong>I accepted the thin vanilla card file of flimsies from Sir Henry and with a brief<strong>"Yes, Sir Henry,"</strong>(only the fourth, fifth and sixth words I had spoken since entering the ambassadors office and an exact repeat of the first three words I'd uttered twelve minutes before), I left the room only to bump into James right outside the door.<br/><br/>I baulked, then rushed past him,<strong>"Jim, if you're going to snoop go join MI5 or something."</strong><br/><br/><strong><em>"What's going on?"</em></strong><br/><br/><strong>"No idea,"</strong>I lied,<strong>"But we need a car to Westmoreland's HQ right now and I haven't time to call for one. Ring Bruce would you? He's our best driver. And tell him to wear his cap this time, its important. And wipe that bird poo off the bonnet! Bugger, I need to get my bag from the hotel."</strong><br/><br/>I rushed downstairs and out the door into the living wall of fetid heat that is Saigon. Two squaddies held up their rifles in a sharp port arms salute as I ran down the steps. I imagined their sheepish eyes watching my rear end as I trotted around the driveway of the circular lawn, their salute for embassy staff not really applicable to pieces of cute skirt. Oh well… Two more stood like sentinels either side of the garden gate posts. As usual a cluster of eager<em>xe-om</em>drivers were gathered outside. I saw a boy I recognized and threw him twenty piasters.<br/><br/><strong>"Hotel White Star. Fast-fast. Go now."</strong>The lad grinned at the coins and revving his scooter we zoomed off into a sea of bicycles, rickshaws and hurtling<em>xe-oms</em>.<br/><br/>=========================================================<br/><br/>GENERAL WESTMORELAND'S HEADQUARTERS, 11:07am<br/><br/>Sir Henry Westlake was like a benevolent grandfather. Sixty-four, silver-haired and thin as a bean pole, he exuded the classic education he received at Eton near London and at Magdalene College Oxford. He was fastidiously precise, polite to a tee and so punctual that you could set your watch by him. He dressed in crisp standing-collar shirts that he imported from Saville Row, wilting the collars at the rate of three or four a day. To see him out of his depth never happened and despite the odd situation that was unrolling in front of us at the meeting with the Americans, he never once showed his fear at the strange events that were hurling us onwards.<br/><br/>Not until we were outside, that is. He turned to me and with the same sharp twinkle in his eye he always has, said,<strong><em>"Miss. Rawlinson, this is a serious and unknown situation. It is also not for me. I need a younger person to go to Vientiane. While I am needed here I could go myself. This may develop into something very significant and I could justify a full-scale diplomatic trip but that would invoke all those red-tape fellows and being ushered about and speeches and of course I would learn nothing new or interesting. I wish you to go. I want you to hand-carry a diplomatic bag to our people there today. A bit beneath you, I know, but I also want you to take a look around, get the pulse. I have a person there who can put you in touch with some of those terrible Frenchies and I never mix well with them, another reason I am choosing you. You speak their lingo too, don't you? A meeting with the Laotian Foreign ministry is scheduled for tonight at eight. Find out all that you can. You will be returning on an early morning flight. Do not worry about being caught in the middle of this mess, if there is anything to it. You will be landing in Saigon well before noon."</em></strong><br/><br/><strong>"Yes, Sir Henry."</strong>It was the only answer one could give in such moments.<strong>"I speak some Lao as well, though not much."</strong>There was something in the ambassador's tone that I noticed. Sir Henry was afraid. Of what I was not sure. I got the feeling he thought he was facing something he had never had to deal with in his forty-one years of diplomatic service.<br/><br/>Ralph at Manila had been right: "The big guy got the memo." I knew it. The Americans had been given the ultimatum to leave Laos as well as the North Vietnamese. That they denied having forces in the country was laughable. Everyone was aware they had advisors and CIA out there but also that there was no serious military presence of the usual kind.<br/><br/>Outside the meeting a crisply dressed Australian army officer approached me, I saw the flashes of a Brigadier on his shoulder tabs. He held out a hand and smiled warmly. I took it and shook firmly. He had a grip of iron. I gently retrieved my wounded limb.<br/><br/><strong><em>"Morning! Miss Michelle Rawlinson? I'm Brigadier Dunstan, but please call me Donald. We have a helicopter waiting for you, if you would please come with me?"</em></strong>He phrased it as a question but his hand on my elbow steering me quickly away and his other hand taking my overnight bag made refusal redundant.<br/><br/><strong><em>"Do forgive me but I would recommend a change of clothes. Have you a uniform?"</em></strong><br/><br/>I glanced down at my smart linen suit with its tailored jacket and A-line skirt. A silk blouse and heels could not be less military.<br/><br/><strong>"Er, no. No I don't. Donald - please call me Michelle. And I'm a diplomat, not a soldier."</strong><br/><br/><strong><em>"Of course, but we don't know where this might head off to, I mean geographically. I will ask one of my female officers to co-ordinate a few things with you. Not my area of operations you understand."</em></strong><br/><br/>We went to a Land-Rover where the Brigadier spoke on a field telephone. Then we boarded for a fifteen-minute drive through the city.<br/><br/>=========================================================<br/><br/>ROYAL AUSTRALIAN AIR FORCE BASE, PHNOM PHET, SAIGON, 11:26am<br/><br/>The Land-Rover brought us to the Australian military compound where we sped across a wide concrete apron to screech to a halt beside a thundering Wessex helicopter with RAAF roundels. Waiting beside the helicopter was another army car where a female lieutenant, a warrant officer and likely no more than a desk clerk, was waiting. I alighted and she passed me a large leather suitcase.<br/><br/><strong><em>"Miss Rawlinson?"</em></strong>she yelled, her hand cupped to my ear against the roar of the rotors,<strong><em>"I got you some uniforms organised. I hope they fit. I had to go by Brigadier Dunstan's description!"</em></strong>Wondering about what that conversation had contained and where in heck the lieutenant had found uniforms my size in fifteen minutes, I nodded my thanks and took the bulging leather bag. An army crewman was at the helicopter door and he took my own overnight bag and the suitcase. Seconds later a black limousine rolled up and James got out. He looked a bit in awe of what was happening but gave me the diplomatic bag.<br/><br/><strong><em>"Here. All sealed and official. Your contact at the embassy will be a gentleman called Etienne Gervais, some French bloke. Secret services is my guess. All your papers are in here."</em></strong>He handed me a government brown envelope. Everything done by the book.<strong><em>"And this is the latest we have on file on the situation, fresh from Sydney and London. Don't open it until you're on your way."</em></strong><br/><br/><strong>"Sure,"</strong>I shouted, joking,<strong>"I was planning to spend an hour browsing it in the VIP lounge!"</strong>We still had to yell at the tops of our voices, the hot wet air ripe with the sweet stink of aviation fuel. It was ruining my hair.<br/><br/>The crewman waved me aboard, offering me a flight helmet with an attached microphone. No way in these heels could I jump up to the Wessex's deck two feet above the hardpan so with an apology the crewman grabbed me around the middle and boosted me up. I turned and Brigadier Dunstan was there again.<br/><br/><strong><em>"Just wanted to assure you, whatever you may hear to the contrary, the Allies have no plans or preparations whatever to invade Laos."</em></strong><br/><br/>I nodded and the crewman slid the door closed. I was shown to a seat which was just a sort of canvas cot with basic crash straps. I sat down and a second crew guy, grinning from ear to ear, no doubt at his interesting passenger, strapped me in.<br/><br/>The rotors whined like mad and with a lurch and a rush and a cataclysmic din we were up, all except my stomach which stayed in Saigon for about thirty seconds before it decided it didn't want to be left behind and with a sickening whoosh caught us up.<br/><br/>Next stop in ninety minutes, Vientiane.