Frank Wilson

There is a very welcoming place in London called the Frontline Club. Right now, it’s locked down like everything else, but in normal times it’s a haven for journalists, photographers and their associates. As a gathering point for those championing media independence and free speech it offers a social and professional comfort zone, along with a programme of activities and talks. As an occasional visitor I find it congenial and always a source of stimulating discussion. But an added attraction is that the Club appeals to former Hong Kong friends who either moved to London like me, or are visiting. Taken together, these factors mean it provokes memories of the Foreign Correspondents’ Club (FCC) in Hong Kong, with which the Frontline Club in fact enjoys a reciprocal relationship.

Sited in the old Dairy Farm depot building at the top of Ice House street – a location granted in 1982 by the then governor Murray MacLehose – the FCC was one of my favourite social haunts in Hong Kong. This was particularly so in the 1990s, when I had gained membership and patronised it frequently. Founded originally in 1943 in Chongqing, the club moved to Hong Kong via Shanghai in 1949. Before landing in its current home, it occupied several premises, one being in Conduit Road, where it featured in the film of Han Suyin’s classic “Love is a Many Spendoured Thing”. John Le Carre also used it as a setting in his spy novel “The Honourable Schoolboy.”

If its history lent the FCC glamour, it was the clientele which really gave the place its rich character. It attracted not only journalists but government people, businessmen, lawyers and diverse hangers-on. This ensured a heady mix of up-to-date news, social gossip and business networking, fuelled by a steady consumption of alcohol and food from the reasonably priced bar and restaurants.

Among the more famous names I had the pleasure of meeting was the legendary British journalist Clare Hollingworth, who was commemorated as the person who broke the news of the German invasion of Poland in 1939 – the act sparking World War 2. Already in her eighties when I had cause to do business with her, she was a remarkable, rather daunting lady, who still worked and filed regular stories. She mentioned, quite casually in passing, the names of some of the leading political figures of her time she had interviewed. It really was like having a brief glimpse into the history books I had studied. Clare passed away in 2017 at the grand age of 105.

Another regular patron of the Club I had the opportunity to work with, was the prolific reporter, editor and author Kevin Sinclair. Having worked in Hong Kong since 1968, including many years with the South China Morning Post, he was a great raconteur and source of stories both amusing and amazing. The fact that he lost his voice box to cancer didn’t deter him one jot from his writing nor his ability to croak out tales of his latest exploits travelling in China. He regaled us with tales of interviewing Chinese leaders like Deng Xiaoping (spittoon and all!) or cycling over the border into Guangdong Province. This rugged New Zealander, who was awarded the MBE for his services to journalism, finally lost his battle to cancer in 2007.

I also knew the photographer of arguably the most iconic photo of the Vietnam war. This was Dutchman Hugh Van Es, who was the real deal of “Nam” veterans, at a time when many liked to claim the title. A man of few words and forbidding exterior, he was a highly respected and kindly figure, regularly propping up the bar in the club. Having arrived in Hong Kong back in 1967, Van Es lived and worked in Vietnam from ’68 to ’75, covering the full horror of that war. He was in the right spot at the right time to capture on camera the last American helicopter to leave, from a Saigon rooftop, being besieged by civilians desperate to escape the North Vietnamese as they trooped into the city. It is invariably known as the American Embassy last-minute evacuation shot, though Van Es always pointed out, it was another building!

That image hung on the wall of the main bar/restaurant area of the club, along with many historic moments captured for posterity. I gazed often at the harrowing pictures of the Vietnam War, of Tiananmen Square and its aftermath, and of Aung San Suu Kyi, among others.

In the midst of these sober images, however, a lot of fun was had. Friday nights in particular were busy, as Hong Kong offices poured out their tired workers, who headed to the FCC for relaxation, conversation and refreshment. The place would be packed by 7pm and heaving by 9pm. Such was the noisy ebullient mood, Fridays were known affectionately as “Zoo Night”. There were times when I called in on a Friday at 6pm for a quick drink on the way home, only to become seduced by the atmosphere, and find myself not reaching my flat until 2am the next morning. The FCC had a magic – both serious, as a symbol of robust journalism and free speech, and social – which I hope, for Hong Kong’s sake, will endure.

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(The writer lived in Hong Kong for more than twenty years, arriving soon after the death of Mao and leaving after the handover of the territory to China. He experienced the seismic transformation of Hong Kong on its journey from plastic flowers and T-shirts to global front runner in trade and high finance.)

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