The Operators

by Barry Heard

  I didn’t understand, got up, walked to the door, ready to get off. Later that night, I told all my flatmates about the incident, the man, and, finally, the pig thing on his tie. Not one knew what it meant. However, I knew I would always be grateful to that old man.

  At the end of that week, I got a phone call. One you never forget. It was the man on the train, I couldn’t remember his name, but more importantly, he had a couple of jobs lined up. About a day’s work, he reckoned. The following weekend, via a train and bus, I ended up in Glen Huntly. The man’s name was Joe, Joe Hunter, although he said everyone called him Grunter. He wanted me to wash all the house windows and, if time permitted, clean the gutters or spout. He said he would give me a good feed and $120 for a full day’s work.

  Wow, I was on $8.50 an hour at the hotel, my other part-time compulsory job. Anyhow, on the day, I didn’t quite finish, went as hard as I could. He made me stop for lunch and told me to knock off at 4.00 p.m. I thought that was very generous. Then Mr Grunter invited me for a barbecue, adding he would run me home afterwards.

  The interesting thing for me, Wally — he was more than polite and caring. I was sensing something else. We chatted at the barbecue, although I didn’t say much, when a mate, Roger — or Bones was how Grunter addressed him — arrived with two other men, Rabbit and Nobby. For me, it was obvious they were all very close. Very good mates. Then when Bluey, or David, arrived, a little late, he got heckled a lot. Never had I seen such humour. When suddenly, I noticed his cap. It was maroon in colour and had a yellow-coloured pig on the front, with ‘7RAR’ underneath. I just had to ask.

  Well, talk about laugh. The reasons and stories behind the pig emblem were hilarious. They were so funny. Turns out, all the men at his barbecue, they were all Vietnam Veterans — Pigs from 7th Battalion. Bones, Rabbit, and Nobby were artillery attached to 7RAR. Yes, from a war well before my time and one I knew nothing about.

  I wanted to ask so many questions. However, very soon all their interest homed in on me. Who are you, what do you do, how — yes, those tough questions. So I explained the overseas-student visa system, the hospitality courses, and how we were barely coping. I wasn’t seeking sympathy, just letting them and Grunter know, as I wanted to ensure he realised how much this money would help.

  Then Bones asked, ‘How much rent do you pay?’ I answered, $175 dollars a week. Bones said that was fair and reckoned I’d get by okay, just need to get a bit organised. However, when I mentioned there were four of us in the tiny two-bedroom unit, and each one of us paying that amount, he was taken aback and said, ‘You’re kidding! That’s bloody criminal!’

  ‘So frigging typical,’ said Wally. ‘If it’s government-sponsored, the sharks thrive.’

  Diyab nodded.

  I was almost in tears then. So, after Mr Hunter drove me to the unit that night, within a week I had another phone call from Mr Hunter. Next, all the Vets met up and then drove over to my address. We were so excited. I introduced the Vets to my fellow boarders, all Indonesian. Soon, a plan developed. Between them, the Vets organised a caravan and a granny flat. The granny flat was out the back of a Pig’s house in Bentleigh, a Melbourne suburb. This Pig, Snoz, his real name was Gary, he and his wife were about to head off on a six-month caravan tour around Australia. Like many Vietnam Vets I met, they caravanned regularly. Normally, while away, they hired a gardener, a dog helper, got the neighbour to collect mail, mates would check on the house.

  The Vets not only warmed to us young Indonesians, they straight off were so affectionate, gentle, polite, and yet so happy. All the Vets wanted this plan of accommodation to work. They believed there were winners on both sides. Hired helpers, security, very happy dogs …

  Two students were in the spare caravan. Me and another were in the two-bedroom granny flat, originally built for Snoz’s mum. She had passed on. The rent, $15 a week each, with no power or water bills.

  Diyab stopped talking. There followed a period of silence. Not an awkward pause, simply a long moment of quiet. Wally had closed his eyes, thinking of those wonderful mates — the Pigs.

  Diyab sobbed softly. He tried several times to continue the story. There was so much to tell. Yes, how he and his fellow students went from poverty to a decent living. How the enormous financial strain had been taken from their families. But the tears were too powerful — they replaced words for this young man.

  It wasn’t only Pigs who gave of themselves, but many Vets. It was a paradox that these same Vets, as young men returning home from that war, had received only abuse and isolation. Surely, they should be bitter and unforgiving. But seeing the terrible suffering of the Vietnamese during that war had left a bigger impression on the Vets than they first realised. Wally had heard many stories of compassion like this. And yet, this story … this particular story …

  Wally tried to sit up but nearly rolled out of the hammock — Diyab grabbed him. Convenient. The two hugged, patted backs, and enjoyed the beautiful bond, a precious connection. Finally, Wally asked Diyab to help him back into the hammock.

  ‘I see Bluey a bit,’ said Wally. ‘I know Rabbit, or Bruce. He and Bones were both a pair of wild bastards in Vietnam, like chalk and cheese. Doesn’t surprise me what you just said. I must admit, I’ve actually heard your story.’

  Surprise and yet not surprise joined on Diyab’s face.

  ‘Basil told me, another Vet. There are so many stories, Diyab my friend, so many good stories.’

  Chapter 16

  Early the next morning, Wally woke feeling bright, alert, aware of his whereabouts, and much calmer. Cautiously, he rolled to one side in the hammock and tugged at the blackout curtain. He could just see people already plodding, making their way up the steep fields beyond the fence. He watched until they reached a certain point where some bent over and began picking selected tea-leaves. His inquisitiveness demanded to know why, why pick only those single leaves and not just cut them all off. Following several pickers with his eyes, he noticed other workers tying bags while squatting. It fascinated him how Asians could be comfortable in that funny squat, their backsides just off the ground and their knees at chin level.

  In the distance, beyond the tea plantation, Wally noticed a tall mountain with a shawl of jungle. The peak of this sharp crag hid that rising yellow smudge, the sun. Misty clouds curled around several ridges. Then, just below, a flat man-made terrace followed the contours of the steep inclines. The soil was a rich red colour. Banana trees were planted near the top; the lower terraces grew rice. Such a concentrated use of prime land.

  Several of Diyab’s relations worked on the tea plantation. They lugged the bagged tea to the initial transportation pick-up mound, near the end of the path that ran behind Badal’s house. From that mound, it was a twenty-minute walk to the first plants.

  Time to get up. The sky had a glow of soft grey-orange.

  Clinging fast to the hammock rope and planting a foot firmly on the floor, Wally reached out to the long cord Diyab had tied to the rafter overheard. By pulling himself up, he managed to stand.

  He relieved himself behind the vine. He hadn’t been at all surprised when told the dwelling had no plumbed toilet. In fact, Aulia had given him a small wad of toilet paper and a spade.

  Next, he walked quietly around the side of the tiny house. Out the front, scooters and bikes started to clog the narrow dirt lane they called a road. It reminded him of Vietnam. Further up, at the intersection with the so-called main road, he could see small cars, motorbikes, tray trucks carrying people, and even more bicycles and motor scooters, all packed in a mad chaos of incremental movement. The occasional large four-wheel drive, BMW, or Audi — vehicles belonging to the nation’s elite — joined the traffic. Few locals owned land here; corporations held the reins.

  Inside the house, Diyab’s mother, Selina, stirred the open fire. Wally entered, smiling warmly, and with his hand politely indicated he would like a drink. Moments
later, he was handed a cup of sweet tea. He returned to ‘his chair’ out the back and sat.

  For the first time in days, he delved deeply into his recollections of recent events. He decided to go back to the beginnings of this journey, to tease out just what he could remember. Yes, he recalled leaving Australia.

  The flight was on time, a window seat, Melbourne covered in cloud as usual. Good flight, nice meal. That’s right, yep, a good movie, The Sapphires.

  Time warped again. Out of nowhere, that ever-familiar sound. A disturbing interruption for any Vietnam Veteran. The helicopter flew over the jungle just above the banana plantation. A media chopper. Of all sounds, this one haunted him the most. Was it looking for him? He prepared to run, to hide inside the house, when the moment of anxiety eased. His logic returned. He stood under cover of the verandah and stared.

  The sound faded to nothing.

  He sipped his tea and resumed the journey inside his head. Confusion had returned. Why now? As he rubbed both eyes and started to sweat, into his head came the image of the barrel of a pistol. The sound of someone saying, ‘Get out.’

  Yes, that’s right. But that was Jakarta, I think?

  I remember being …

  I remember … nothing. Just waking up in the train, in bloody Indonesia.

  Yet again Wally’s mind went blank, a brick wall. He began again. The Melbourne airport, the Jakarta airport, Steve waiting, yes, good …

  He heard another sound; it was Diyab, coming through the doorway. He walked past Wally and urinated in the garden. Finished, he greeted Wally with a smile and asked what he would like to eat.

  ‘Nothing, thank you, this tea is enough. Do you have to go to work today?’

  ‘Yes, both of us, Aulia and me. We leave shortly, we will take the hired scooter, only a thirty-five to forty minute trip.’

  ‘Can I get a taxi or something and come to your work?’

  ‘Come with us, on the scooter. I hired it for a week, just for you. Anyhow, it’s hard to get a taxi from around here, and I don’t have a phone. It’ll all be okay with the scooter, Aulia will stand up as we travel, on the foot pegs. She does this whenever I bring my other sister on her boyfriend’s scooter. The most I’ve carried is four, though one was a kid.’

  ‘I can come with you, you sure? I’d like to go into town and visit a hotel, get a phone, and ring home. Get on the internet. Charge my phone. Oh, and what day is it?’

  ‘Friday the eleventh, and, yes, stop worrying — you can come with us.’

  On hearing the date, Wally sunk back into confusion. ‘Flew out of Melbourne on Tuesday first, and this is the eleventh?’ His mind raced. ‘I’ve been here, in your house, two days?’

  ‘Yes, this is the third day actually.’

  Diyab returned inside, but Wally had to sit.

  I’ve been away for almost two weeks?

  Then an idea — check the passport. Rising, Wally retrieved the man bag. He checked inside: the pistol, Leon’s phone, and his passport. He took it out.

  Yep, it’s definitely mine. Stamped, Jakarta. I arrived in Indonesia at the beginning of last week — so that’s right.

  Yet Wally found it hard to accept this gap in time. He recalled having an operation on his knee, decades ago, and waking afterwards, bewildered by the hour of missing time due to anaesthetic. He could grasp that. But now … days on end … that baffled him.

  Noise rose from the kitchen, a beehive of activity. Diyab returned; Wally asked him to keep an eye on the door. He wanted some privacy. In a matter of seconds, he reached into the man bag, found the rolls of money, and handed over a large sum to Diyab, $1000.

  ‘For the family. Ask no questions, mate, I’m loaded, got heaps of Yankee notes. More importantly, I will see if I can book into a pub or guesthouse near where you work, got any ideas?’

  Diyab smiled.

  ‘I know just the one. I work at two hotels. One, low class, only attracts low-income travellers or locals. But it’s got internet. I will point it out before we arrive, then drop you off. Then you can walk in alone and check in. I will arrive shortly after you and will pretend I don’t know you. I don’t spend a lot of time in that hotel, mainly the classy one, not too far away.’

  ‘Good idea, that is smart.’

  Next, Wally checked his local clothes were on correctly and made sure he had the scarf. After a brief breakfast (actually brief), the three were ready. Aulia grabbed Wally’s suitcase.

  It was emotional for all when Diyab explained that Wally was coming with him to his hotel. Wally shook Badal’s hand and said goodbye to the family. Diyab, Aulia, and Wally then mounted the scooter. At the last moment, Diyab handed the money over to his father and nodded towards Wally. The old man gasped, bowed with his hands clasped, and thanked Wally, unable to hold back more tears.

  Diyab drove off steadily, easing into the rush.

  They dropped Aulia off at her work at a transport shed.

  One hundred metres from the laneway leading down to the Maple Hotel and Guest House, Diyab stopped, gave the necessary instructions to Wally, and rode off.

  Wally, still dressed like a local, blended in. His welcome at the Maple’s front office was amusing, to put it politely. The manager assumed he was a scruffy old trader selling cheap wares — a large suitcase-full. The staff shouted at him, but Wally had no idea what any of it meant, as the abuse flowed in Indonesian. However, when he waved ten American notes, things calmed rapidly. The staff quieted and bowed, and Wally asked for someone who could speak good English. They all looked at the manager, who at least spoke basic English.

  ‘I can, we do simple things, but better you wait. Soon, soon be a man, I have just sent message, so then you can check in with your English.’

  Wally signed in using his own name, no other details. He paid for two nights with cash.

  And so here we are: After signing him in at the hotel reception, the senior staff member named Diyab escorted Wally Flannagan into a very cheap, very small room.

  Cleaned up and dressed in his stinking clothes again, Wally read the two Facebook posts on his Wally’s Bucket page. As mentioned at the beginning of this story, the first time Wally was able to access a computer in that cheap hotel, what he read stunned him.

  The first message, from one mate:

  All OK mate?

  The second, from Basil Hester:

  Going to my grandson’s christening, have to dust-off the suit jacket.

  Basil’s message contained a warning. There was only one word of significance — ‘dust-off’.

  Ask any Vietnam Vet what that word ‘dust-off’ means — ‘help, immediately, I need a helicopter’. Usually conveyed over a radio. Someone wounded … gunfire, a booby trap …

  In Vietnam, ambulance helicopters were called a ‘dust-off’.

  Wally turned off the computer and returned to his room. He needed to think, decide carefully his next move.

  Forty-five minutes later, he headed back to reception and approached a staff member about hiring a phone. Within minutes, he had a borrowed mobile phone in his hands.

  First call he made was to Mandy, their neighbour, a woman who lived across the paddock from the dairy farm in Stratford. She answered. Wally was polite, precise, and clear. He claimed he had tried to ring Meredith several times, but her phone and computer network didn’t seem to be working. Would it be too much to ask if Mandy could take her phone over to Meredith? He would ring back in about ten to fifteen minutes. Mandy agreed, keen to help. She would hop on the quad bike and go straight across.

  Wally rang again, Meredith answered, Wally spoke.

  ‘Hi, my sweet, I must be brief. Trip to the flower not going to happen, big problem has come up. I am okay, in a hotel in Indonesia, and must stay here until I sort things out. I was kidnapped, managed to escape, and I am safe. I’m using a borrowed phone. I am about to contact my
Vet mate Basil, and we will sort this out. My sweet, please don’t tell anyone, contact anyone, or say anything. The kidnappers have bugged or infiltrated our phones and computer, got private details. Basil will contact you soon, within hours. Okay?’

  Meredith sat down, looked politely towards Mandy, and answered Wally in a quiet voice, ‘Sure.’

  She handed the phone back to Mandy and thanked her, saying little else. Mandy guessed something was wrong — but not serious — and left. Meredith waved goodbye, turned, and stood on the verandah, thinking.

  ‘I should have known,’ she said. ‘Wally has messed up, he usually does. But kidnapped, I don’t understand. Please, Basil, ring me soon.’

  Second call: Tom Grinter.

  ‘Can you talk, Tom? It’s Wally Flannagan.’

  ‘Sure, mate. This is a surprise, you’re on a holiday or something? You okay for diesel, I was at your joint only four weeks ago, remember?’

  Wally faltered for a moment.

  ‘Not diesel, Tom. Sorry, mate, I’ve lost Basil Hester’s number, phone’s nearly flat, and I need someone to contact him. Knew you’d be on the road or yakking to someone. Can’t contact Meredith, would you mind, just a short message to Basil, okay?’

  Tom agreed, and Wally relayed the message: ‘Cut the holiday short, home soon, leave me a message on Facebook about that christening. Not too much, Tom?’

  The truck driver laughed, repeated the message, then said, ‘Sure, no problem, mate. He’ll have it by 5.30 p.m. I thought those bloody days were over — you know, that christening stuff. I’ll ring Basil at my next stop, Thorpdale, need to get his number.’

  Sometime later, Wally returned to the hotel computer. He logged in to Facebook, then navigated to Wally’s Bucket. Sure enough, there was a message from Basil.