We listened to the fall of Saigon on the BBC World Service as we crossed the Indian ocean on the Benlawers on a hot week in April, westbound for South Africa again with a full cargo from the Far East. I followed the news intensely, having had my escapade there fifteen months beforehand. I knew several people who were now sailing on the Singapore to Saigon run, carrying jet fuel to Nha Bè, as I had done. The BBC coverage was graphic, the event stood out as an iconic moment in history. The American administration under President Nixon had seen the writing on the wall and agreed a ceasefire with North Vietnam in January 1973, as a prelude to the USA getting out. The next two years saw the US forces disengage from South Vietnam and return home. South Vietnam was left to prepare itself for the final conflict. North Vietnam, under the leadership of Ho Chi Minh, largely ignored the ceasefire, they continued to harry and hassle the South.

Eventually, in early 1975, there was a collapse of resistance from the South Vietnamese army; the towns of Hue and Da Nang fell in March, allowing the North Vietnamese war machine to roll south down the country and take everything in its path. Qui Nhon was captured after a brief fight, then Nha Trang, then Da Lat. Finally, Xuan Loc, the last line of defence before Saigon, fell in early April, and Saigon was left wide open. The place was in a panic, the roads to the airport were jammed, all flights out were booked, the army and police beat people back. North Vietnamese rockets destroyed the runway. The US embassy was besieged by people waving their passports, begging to be let in, US Marines held them back at gunpoint. The North Vietnamese entered the city at the end of April, US helicopters airlifted the last Americans off the roof of the US embassy and took them to the US Seventh Fleet waiting offshore in the South China Sea. it was a massive retreat of power. Commentators speculated whether the dominoes would now start to fall to the communists all over the Far East: Laos, Cambodia, Thailand, Burma, and Malaysia. Perhaps even the Philippines, perhaps even Indonesia. We were all Far East men, we talked about it nightly. We wondered whether China would use the occasion and the atmosphere to roll over the border into Hong Kong, crushing the tiny British garrison. Saigon fell and was renamed Ho Chi Minh City and all news of what was going on in the inside of Vietnam dried up. rumours of horrors filled the airways: mass executions, city clearances, re-education programmes for all. it was an Orwellian nightmare to make you shiver.

The fall of Vietnam didn’t affect our lives, apart from the boat people. The boat people were refugees fleeing the Vietnam regime, hundreds of souls crammed into small craft and heading out into the South China Sea, intent on being rescued by big ships and taken to a better world. Many merchant ships had orders to steam on by, some boat people adopted the tactic of opening the valves and starting to sink when a big ship was close, so they had to pick them up. Most ships did, but some still steamed on by. our orders from Head office were to avoid areas where we would be likely to encounter boat people, although if we did come across them we were to drop supplies and only stop to stop and pick them up if they were in obvious distress. We never came across any boat people while I was on the Benlawers.

We arrived in Durban after a second round trip of the Far East, and were told to go to the anchorage again for an estimated ten days. We also received notification that virtually the entire officer complement and crew were being relieved when we berthed. We celebrated with a massive party. For us the trip was over, a few days idling at anchor before we went alongside to hand over the ship for others to do the cargo work. The stewards were livid because passengers traditionally tipped when they left the ship and the current passenger crop was due to depart in Cape Town. This meant that the new stewards, who by that time would have been on board for two or three weeks, would get all the tips. The stewards slouched around the ship with wounded faces, sighing theatrically at every request, occasionally banging our food down in front of us in the dining saloon.

Our leaving party was arranged as a huge beano on Saturday. To accommodate the different watches, it would start at half past five in the afternoon, which would allow the twelve-to-four watch and the day-workers to kick it off. The evening meal would be a buffet served in the bar so that the party could carry on uninterrupted. after eight o’clock, the four-to eight watch would arrive, after midnight, the eight-to-midnight watch would arrive, and so on, until things wound down in the early hours. I paced the bridge for my four hour anchor watch from eight until midnight, clockwatching. The second mate arrived at ten past midnight, looking ill after having stayed up too late before hitting his bunk. I did a 30-second handover and vaulted down the steps to the bar. The whole crowd was there, the old Man, chief engineer, chief mate, first mate, fourth mate, cadets, Sparks and most of the engineers. They were all well-oiled and making a merry racket, the bins behind the bar were overflowing with empties. They hooted when I came in, “Just in time to solve the crisis, Third Mate,” said the old Man. I signalled for a beer and looked at him enquiringly.

“We need someone in sober authority to go and get the padlock key for the beer locker from the second steward, we’re running out. No one wants to go and get it from him.”

The stewards had all been in a foul mood for the past few days over the loss of tips from the passengers, and no one wanted to wake up the senior second steward for the key in case he pretended he couldn’t find it, or gave them a hard time. The second steward was very prickly, a pinched and angry little man who people didn’t like to upset. I said, ‘Why hasn’t someone just gone and said to him, “give me the key for the beer locker?” That sounds simple enough to me.’

They all looked away, coughing and muttering and scratching their heads and mumbling that he was asleep. it apparently wasn’t that simple. Someone muttered that they had knocked on his door several times but there was no answer. it was plain they were scared of the angry little second steward, and no one wanted to wake him up.

I looked at the chief mate. “I’ll tell you what. The second steward keeps the key to the beer locker hanging on the hook just inside his cabin. Let me have your master key and I’ll quietly open his door and take the key. No fuss.”

The chief engineer banged his glass on the bar and shouted, “Brilliant! give him the master key.”

I went down to the next deck and slowly slid the master key into the lock. I opened the door as quietly as I could. There was a pale yellow light inside coming from the overhead bunk light. I peered around the edge of the door. My jaw dropped on its hinges, I stared. The big beefy cabin steward was frozen. I had caught them in a very embarrassing position. Both their heads turned towards me, eyes wide like startled rabbits in the headlights, mouths hanging open, the dim bunk lamp causing a halo of light on the dark pelt that covered the cabin steward’s back. No doubt his manhood was wilting fast. We stared at each other. Several seconds passed. I reached in and plucked the key from the hook.

I said, “Carry on chaps,” then closed and locked the door. I returned to the bar with a case of beer under each arm. Everyone cheered. “No trouble getting the key, Third Mate?” said the old Man. “No Captain, he didn’t say a word, he just stared at me.” at breakfast the next day, the two stewards eyed me with terror as they served breakfast.

I smiled at them. They didn’t bang down my plate.

This is the final extract taken from Simon’s book “Chasing Conrad”