by Judy Nunn
Foong Lee laughed long and loud. Paul Trewinnard was still a lost man in many ways, perhaps he would never fully find himself, but at least he was not destined to follow the path of destruction which had so strongly beckoned.
In taking on Foong Lee’s case against Matthew Sullivan, Paul was also representing young Tom and, upon their first meeting, he was pleased to discover that not only did he believe in the lad’s innocence, he genuinely liked Tom Sullivan. In fact they had much in common. Like Tom, Paul too had been considered a ne’er-do-well, the black sheep of a very respectable family. Well, Paul would take on that family and, come hell or high water, he said, they’d win.
But it was not going to be easy, Matthew Sullivan was pulling out the big guns. He had purchased the locket for his mother, he swore, along with many other valuable items over the years. His son had either forged the letter, or coerced the feeble-minded old lady into writing it, and the Chinese shopkeeper, Foong Lee, in purchasing the piece, had done so with full knowledge of the facts. Matthew was out to get both of them, and the case was to be heard in the Adelaide Supreme Court.
‘It’ll be our word against theirs,’ Paul told Tom and Foong Lee. ‘They’ll drop the forgery tack I’m sure, handwriting analysts will vouch for the letter’s authenticity. But they’ll try to prove that you dictated it to your grandmother, Tom, and they’ll probably pay a doctor to testify she wasn’t of sound mind.’
Tom was obviously concerned. ‘Don’t worry,’ Paul assured him, ‘I’m sure we’ll be able to discredit the witness, Foong Lee tells me there are many who can attest to the fact that Emily Sullivan was as smart as a whip.’
Paul looked at the two of them, they were hanging on his every word. ‘We’ve a very good chance of saving both your reputations,’ he continued, with a greater confidence than he actually felt, ‘but not the locket, I’m afraid. Your father’s final defence will be that it was never Emily’s to give away in the first place. He’ll swear under oath that he purchased the locket and that it belonged to the family along with the rest of her jewellery, and it’ll be nigh on impossible to prove otherwise.’
Tom grinned. ‘I can help you there,’ he said.
Malcolm heard the Huey before he saw it. He’d been anticipating its arrival, but he was in the command post with his replacement platoon sergeant, Hugh McKay, a dour Scot who’d lived in Australia for twenty years but still had an accent you could cut with a knife. Malcolm missed Big Stan, the previous platoon sergeant who’d served with him since he’d first come to Vietnam. Hugh ‘Mac’ McKay had been with the platoon for the past three weeks, since the battalion had occupied Fire Support Base Tango, but Malcolm found that he couldn’t really warm to Mac. It was probably his own fault, he realised. He didn’t warm to anyone much these days.
The two men were engrossed in the maps spread out before them, Mac’s cigarette smoke wafting irritatingly past Malcolm’s nose, when the incessant thud of the helicopter’s blades announced its presence overhead. A comforting sound, Malcolm thought.
‘I’ll make some tea,’ Mac said affably as Malcolm went out to greet the new arrivals.
‘Good idea.’ He knew his reply was surly, and once again he chastised himself. Mac was a nice enough bloke. It wasn’t Mac’s fault that he wasn’t Big Stan. But Malcolm’s moods had been getting the better of him lately. ‘Thanks,’ he added brusquely, stepping outside.
Sullen bastard, Mac thought.
Malcolm walked the fifty metres or so from the platoon HQ pits to the helipad and watched the Huey descend. Hueys were a welcome presence in the field. Be they gunships mounted with twin 7.62mm mini-guns, an upgrade of the Gatling gun that fired 6,000 rounds a minute, or resupply ships dropping essential ammunition and rations, or CASEVACs, with the Red Cross insignia, collecting the wounded, Hueys meant help was at hand. The familiar sight and sound was a reassurance.
Of course they weren’t quite such a reassurance if they were dropping you into a combat zone, Malcolm thought, bracing himself against the blast of air and watching the helicopter come to rest like a giant jungle-green dragon fly. When they were dropping you into battle, they hovered above ground and, as you prepared to make the jump and run for cover, the rapid rhythm of the Huey’s blades matched the terrified beating of your heart. Not that you ever admitted to it.
This time, however, the Huey was delivering ammunition and, even more importantly, an officer from the supporting field artillery battery. Malcolm had advised his higher HQ that if his beleaguered men were to maintain their sector of Fire Support Base Tango at all costs, as had been his orders, then immediate direct artillery support was required. His platoon had been under intermittent fire for the past three weeks, and Malcolm was convinced that the North Vietnamese Army, aware of the strategic importance of Fire Support Base Tango, were about to launch a full-scale attack through his sector.
It was a crisp wintry morning in January. Ominously still. No sound from the enemy who, in any event, would not wish to give away their position to the Huey and risk a possible air attack. From his vantage point, Malcolm had a clear view of his platoon’s position, its gunsites and their fields of fire. The entire hill had been selectively denuded of vegetation for that very purpose. Throughout his position, the foxholes were linked by a series of trenches to gunpits further down the hill where machine-gun crews were ever at the ready, their M-60s each covering a fixed arc. Beyond the gunpits, sentries covered likely enemy approaches, and barbed wire was positioned to channel the enemy into the machine guns’ killing area. A dangerous position, there had recently been two casualties in a ferocious burst of enemy gunfire from the north.
Over the past week the NVA appeared to be probing, in the main from the north. But it was sporadic. Diversionary tactics, with sniper fire from other directions. It was impossible to tell how, or where, they were massed, even with aggressive patrolling outside the position. Beyond the killing area, 800 metres away, lay the impenetrable jungle of trees and lush undergrowth which housed the unseen enemy. Malcolm had ordered the arcs of machine-gun fire altered to concentrate on the north but, because of his uncertainty of the enemy’s position, the alteration had been minimal.
‘G’day. Bill Perseman, I’m your forward observer.’ The captain, having alighted from the Huey, introduced himself with the twang of a Queenslander. He was a tough, leathery little man in his mid-thirties. ‘Call me Perse,’ he said as he offered his hand.
‘Hello, Perse, I’m Malcolm Galloway.’ The handshake was a knucklebuster, Malcolm registered.
‘This is my signaller,’ Perse gestured to the artillery man who had unloaded the radio transmitter from the Huey and was walking towards them, ‘I reckon you blokes know each other,’ he grinned.
‘G’day, Malcolm.’ The gangly young gunner put down the transmitter and smiled at the incredulous expression on the lieutenant’s face. ‘Close your mouth or the flies’ll get in,’ he said. It was an expression their mother had often used when they were children.
‘Kit!’ The brothers embraced. ‘Jesus, I knew you were in artillery, but what the hell are they doing sending you here?’ The pleasure of seeing his young brother was strongly overridden by Malcolm’s fear for Kit’s safety.
‘I’m the signaller,’ Kit shrugged, ‘I’m here to operate the radio.’
‘He’s probably here to look after me,’ Perse said, and in response to Malcolm’s querying look he added, ‘he’s a crack bloody shot your little brother, best in the whole bloody regiment.’
‘Come to the HQ pits,’ Malcolm said, ‘Mac’s brewing us a cuppa.’
‘Be with you in a tick.’ Perse returned to the Huey, which was preparing for takeoff. He didn’t really need to chat with the pilot but he thought the brothers might like a few minutes alone together. Bill Perseman was a tough little bloke, but he could be surprisingly sensitive.
‘Crack bloody shot, eh?’ Malcolm muttered as he and Kit walked to the HQ pits where the command post had been extended to accommodate the additional
artillery men. ‘You stupid bastard.’
‘Why?’
‘Being a crack bloody shot gets you into trouble, that’s why.’
‘Comes with the territory, eh?’ Kit grinned.
‘Don’t be a smartarse. It’s because you’re a crack bloody shot that you’ve got yourself moved to a forward command position. You’d have been much safer if you’d kept your mouth shut and stayed at the rear with the rest of the pack.’
‘Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound.’ It was another of their mother’s sayings, and Malcolm cuffed Kit good naturedly over the back of the head.
Throughout the day Malcolm and Perse examined their maps, checking coordinates and grid references. From the observation post adjoining the CP, with its raised roof and wide view of the terrain on all sides, they studied the area through binoculars. But, even as they discussed tactics, they agreed there was really nothing they could do. It was up to the enemy to make the first move.
‘We can’t even be sure where the bastards are,’ Malcolm said.
In the CP that night, the corporal section commanders welcomed Perse and Kit in their customary ribald fashion.
‘Bloody nepotism it is, mate,’ Ben the Tasmanian said to Kit. ‘Bloody nepotism landing a cushy job like this. You’re a lucky young bastard to be right here where it’s all about to happen.’ He incited the others with a series of none-too-subtle nudges and winks. ‘Always who you know, isn’t it?’ and the others loudly voiced their agreement.
Perse had spread the word that Kit was a crack shot, he was proud of his young signaller. And, always impressed by marksmanship, the men compared notes.
‘Bet he’s not as good as Beady,’ Ben the Tasmanian said.
‘I’d put good money on it that he is.’ Perse hadn’t even met Beady, but he’d back Kit against any man.
The wager was on. The Kid against Beady. Kit was by far the youngest at the base and was already being referred to as ‘The Kid’. He didn’t really mind, they were good blokes all round.
Two hours later when Beady, a freckle-faced man with a shock of red hair, came off sentry duty he said, ‘I hear you’re a crack shot, Kid.’
‘I heard the same about you.’
Mac, who’d come off radio duty for a quick smoko, said ‘Ben tells me there’s a wager.’ Mac was a betting man. ‘The Kid against Beady, count me in.’ He dragged heavily on his Winfield.
In the dim overhead light of the CP, the men hadn’t noticed the arrival of their officer, but they were instantly silenced by the voice which cut through their bonhomie.
‘We’ll hardly be having a shooting contest when we’re about to engage with the enemy.’
Each man turned to the figure of Lieutenant Galloway standing in the shadows of the CP entrance.
‘Sure Skipper, we know that,’ Ben said hastily.
Mac and Beady exchanged a look, which did not go unnoticed by Bill Perseman. ‘We’re talking about after,’ Beady added.
‘After what?’
‘They mean after we’ve sorted out Charlie,’ Mac said as patiently as he could. Christ the Skipper was a moody bastard, couldn’t he just let the men have a good time?
Malcolm had heard the men’s good-humoured jibes about nepotism, and the obvious inference to the danger of their situation had unnerved him all the more. What the hell was Kit doing here? And now the men were setting him up against Beady, the crack shot of the battalion. Kit was already expected to perform like a hero. Hell, he shouldn’t have been in Vietnam in the first place, let alone in a bloody battle zone.
‘Then that’s exactly what we’ll do, Mac,’ Malcolm replied. Christ, why did the Scot’s implacability so get on his nerves, he thought, it was an admirable quality in a platoon sergeant. But he couldn’t help himself, he disliked Mac. ‘We’ll sort out Charlie. Then maybe we’ll talk about who’s the crack shot.’
‘Of course, Skipper.’ Mac’s reply was casual, but he knew he’d just received an order. He took another drag on his cigarette. ‘I’ll make that quite clear to the men.’
‘See that you do.’ Malcolm was agitated, nervy, and the tic in his right eye, which for the most part he managed to keep hidden from the others, was starting its involuntary action. He left the CP, closely observed by Bill Perseman.
That night the dreams were more vivid than ever.
Malcolm could see the village in Phuoc Toy, some of the huts still smouldering, the bodies left to rot, humans, pigs and chickens, all treated with the same disregard. He could smell the cordite and the sickly odour of burned and rotting flesh. He could hear the incessant buzzing of the sluggish, fat blowflies and, despite the stench, he breathed through his nose, not daring to open his mouth for fear he might swallow one. As he dragged a woman’s body to the makeshift mass grave, he saw the flesh tear apart to expose the maggots feeding on her insides.
It had supposedly been a routine public relations patrol. They were to keep the villagers happy and gain their confidence, they were to hand out medical supplies, and food and sweets to the children.
But Malcolm’s platoon sergeant, Big Stan Munday, a tough seasoned soldier of forty, well versed in the ways of jungle warfare, had known that something was wrong.
‘That smoke’s not from cooking fires,’ he’d said.
They’d circled the village and approached with caution. Upon discovery of the carnage, Malcolm had tried to cover his sickened sense of shock by commenting upon the Vietcong’s slaughter of pigs and chickens for no purpose.
‘They do it all the time,’ Big Stan had said, rolling the body of a piglet over with his boot. ‘Bloody waste, they’ll be maggot ridden by now.’
Malcolm had tried to adopt Stan Munday’s detachment. It hadn’t been easy, but he’d done it. He and Big Stan had served together since Malcolm’s training camp days, well over a year now, and Big Stan, although his inferior in rank, had been Malcolm’s true mentor. Everything Malcolm Galloway knew about active service he’d learned from Big Stan Munday.
It was after they’d dug the mass grave and started burying the bodies that one of the men saw the child.
‘Hey, I think that kid’s alive,’ he called.
No-one had noticed the child, a boy of around ten, seated on the ground in the shade of a tree, leaning comfortably against its trunk, his eyes open, his hand resting on his stomach.
The young private crossed to the child.
‘Don’t touch him!’ Big Stan bellowed at the top of his voice.
But the private wasn’t listening. ‘It’s okay, little fella,’ he said quietly to the boy. The child wasn’t moving, perhaps he was dead after all. But he appeared unscathed. Perhaps he was catatonic, in a state of shock. The private knelt beside him.
For a big man, Stan Munday could move with lightning speed. ‘Don’t touch him!’ he roared again as he hurled himself towards the tree and the soldier and the boy.
The private lifted the boy’s hand from his stomach to see if the child was wounded and, just as he did so, Stan Munday reached him. The big man bent down and grabbed the soldier’s arm to wrench him away. Too late. The grenade planted on the dead child’s body, pin removed, the little boy’s weighted hand keeping the explosive mechanism in check, went off. The tree, the private and the boy were destroyed, and so was Big Stan Munday.
Malcolm hadn’t lost his nerve. Not there and then. The men needed leadership, he was in command, it was up to him to maintain control. They’d got on with the job at hand. It was only afterwards that Malcolm had lost his nerve. In his head, where no-one could see, Malcolm became a mess. He’d relied upon Big Stan and now he was on his own. Well that was war, he told himself, you don’t have Stan Munday, so get over it and get on with things.
But he couldn’t get over it. He couldn’t get over the shock of the booby trap and the sight of Big Stan with half his face blown away. And without Big Stan Munday, Malcolm’s professional detachment deserted him. Every memory of the village and its desecration remained a personal horror.
And now Kit was with him, and that night the dreams took on a chilling new aspect. The ghastly image of Big Stan’s mutilated face became that of young Kit Galloway. His baby brother, drenched in blood, no eyes, no nose, just gore where his face had been.
Malcolm rose before dawn and prowled about the camp, willing the practicality and purpose of the day to begin, to rid him of his imaginings. But an hour or so later when Kit bounded up, youthful, eager, awaiting his orders, the images returned, and Malcolm found himself shaken and unnerved. Damn them! Why had they sent his little brother!
The day progressed like many others. There was no action from the enemy, so the men maintained their customary routine. Around lunchtime, several who were off sentry duty tossed a baseball about. Not ostentatiously, and not far from the trenches. Just whiling away the time, relieving the boredom and frustration, they would have said if questioned. In truth they were distracting themselves from the underlying anxiety which always accompanied the waiting game.
Bill Perseman knocked back Kit’s offer to chuck the ball around. He’d noticed Mac over at the helipad, sitting on the ground, soaking up the sun, enjoying a smoke. Good, he thought, glad of the opportunity for a private chat with the sergeant, he’d been wanting to seek him out.
‘G’day, Mac.’
‘Sir.’ Mac seemed quite happy to have his moment of privacy interrupted. ‘Do you want a smoke?’ He dived his hand into his top pocket for his Winfields but Perse shook his head. He’d given up a year ago and, like many a reformed smoker, he loathed the habit.
Perse squatted comfortably, elbows on his knees. ‘Couldn’t help but notice a bit of tension last night.’ Perse always got straight to the point. ‘Everything all right with your Skipper?’