Exhausted, Johnny shut his eyes, and tried to block out the heavy tropical heat. He imagined himself at home, walking beside the Hopkins River a mile out of Taralia. It was winter and the cropped grass between islands of blackberries was powdered with frost. Through slow-rising fog the sun sailed. The quiet was powerful, the feel of open grazing land serene. Gumtrees appeared and disappeared like ghost galleons adrift and Connelly’s grey tin woolshed, dripping with dew, waited in misty silence for shearers to arrive from places up north. In his hands Shoey carried his old man’s .22 rifle, a Lithgow single-shot.
Johnny saw himself hunting rabbits but it was the grip of the land he sought in his imagination, the state of simply being – there. And for a moment, he was, and slept.
Twenty minutes later he opened his eyes, right hand automatically finding the stock of his SLR. The self-loading rifle he’d used pretty well, and the more he used it, the more the weapon changed him into a profoundly different person. Who that person might turn out to be, he didn’t know, but he guessed he’d find out one day. If he ever got out of this place alive.
Thoughts of the Hopkins River receded, as did the fleeting and beautiful idea of becoming a travelling shearer with a ute and a dog. Refuge did not lie in the past or in wishful thinking; refuge depended wholly and solely on fighting for a future. The knowledge of that was terrifying. The big battles were coming and everyone knew it.
Twenty-three
A forested hill shrugged off Malcolm’s fences to rise from the shoulders of green paddocks. Shoey decided to climb the thing and pocketed smokes, lighter, and a bar of chocolate. Filling his water bottle from the tank, he felt a familiar sense of excitement. There was even the dark flutter of fear as his body automatically prepared and programmed for patrolling.
War’s over, idiot!
Johnny laughed, but it was only a short laugh. What was happening to him was weird and alarming. He was sweating yet he hadn’t taken a step. His hands shook as he scanned the paddocks. His nostrils flared as they drew in air. His ears sorted sounds in micro seconds.
No enemy here, ya bloody dingbat!
He banged a fist into his chest.
Snap out of it, ya dopey bastard!
Johnny strode away from the hut, standing straight, barging through blackberry canes that grew on either side of the path. It felt as if he was driving a fully loaded truck with no brakes. The inlet on his left and the farmland on his right overloaded him with input that screamed, Assess! Assess! Assess!
Shoey went down on one knee, felt his arms come up as if he was levelling his weapon. Instead his right hand unerringly fished his smokes out of his shirt pocket and he found a flat stump to sit on that butted up to a small bushy bank. Breathing hard, he searched the river and track. Then he looked overhead.
‘Nothin’,’ he muttered. ‘Bloody nothin’ but blue sky and a nice breeze.’ Breeze or no breeze, Shoey was steaming. He sucked in smoke as he forced himself to see that rocks were only rocks and trees just trees. ‘That’s a bit better, boss.’ He felt like a capsized boat righting itself, decks streaming water, until he was presented with pains in his head and an image he could not ignore.
In a jungle clearing there were two rows of bodies wrapped and strapped in green ponchos. Overhead a hammering Huey descended towards his two best mates, and seven others lying in long grass that thrashed like a crowd of hysterical mourners. Men in muddy, bloody green shirts knelt, calling the chopper down, and down it came, black-goggled doorgunners perched over matching M60s.
‘Ah, get up,’ Johnny muttered, hearing the soothing sound of cattle somewhere far up the valley. ‘And get goin’.’ So, somehow, he did.
I am nothing but that bloody war, he thought, walking unsteadily. I am nothin’ but an old map and a fistful of photos of dead faces. But I am still moving despite the fact that this dreamed-up bastard Khan walks with me – no, he doesn’t walk with me, he rises up to fire, with the one intention of getting my head or heart clear in his sights. But I am not powerless in this fight, Johnny reckoned; I will not give in.
In the evening, after eating with his parents, Khan headed down to the jetty. Conversations from the houses came and went like gently swirling water. There was a spike of laughter and a baby cried, but the human presence was less than a whisper on the night.
He had spent so much time in darkness living in the D555 cave system, night patrolling, ambushing, on resupply, or recovering in an underground hospital, he felt the blackness favoured him. It had also frightened him almost to death with what it had hidden. Now Khan sat calmly within it thinking of the broken souls, the dead and the living that the war had tossed aside as it smashed its way across the country.
I’m not completely broken, though, he thought. My better self, the pre-war Khan, is looking to the south, suggesting I should follow, to search for what might make me whole. And who knows, Khan mused, I just might venture there.
Well, you probably should, Johnny put in, because I’ve got a plan to head off in that direction myself. First port of call, all going well, would be an orchard block down on the Murray River where Barry’s folks lived. Then, if he hadn’t flipped out totally, he’d head on to Melbourne where Lex’s family were in Black Rock. And finally to Carlton, where Jilly was studying – and after that, well, who knew and who cared?
Khan looked downstream, and saw a small boat rowed by a man in black. It was Son, a citizen whose soul was also made incomplete by the war, like everyone, but in a different way.
‘Son,’ Khan called gently across the water. ‘You are back.’
‘Brother Khan,’ Son answered softly as he rowed steadily. ‘I am. We must talk.’
After Son secured the boat, they walked to Khan’s tiny house. There, as the rain swept in, they shared a bottle of Jack Daniel’s whiskey, the downpour drowning out their voices as they talked about the idea of going south.
Movement is good, Johnny thought. In battle or not, movement is good.
Johnny walked quietly through a patch of dry, rocky forest above Malcolm’s farm. It was like being in a big old house, he thought, that had been locked up for fifty years. Cobwebs hung off dead saplings. Fallen timber broke at a touch. The air was musty and the dirt powdery, softened by a silky carpet of skeletal leaves. He paused.
The top of the hill was crowned with a few sentinel trees and round boulders that reminded him vaguely of the Long Hais. There was the smell of smoke and Johnny spotted it rising straight up from among the rocks. For a moment he considered turning downhill, but the idea reeked of gutlessness. If he was trespassing it was doubtful that someone would shoot him. So he lit a cigarette, walked out, and saw with surprise it was Carly sitting alone by a small campfire.
The bottle of Jack Daniel’s its once fancy black label almost worn off, stood on the old table between Khan and Son. The bourbon had a rich smoky flavour that overwhelmed Khan with what he thought of as ‘American-ness’. He and Johnny knew that it was not intended for him to drink. The bottle had been taken from the hands of American ghosts. They were big men, some black, some white, wearing battered flak jackets, who sat in a circle, their close-cropped heads full of thoughts and anger that Khan couldn’t guess at. Behind them a flag of a screaming eagle plunged earthward, talons out in an attack never completed.
‘I am thankful for the whiskey,’ Khan said. ‘But I feel I am stealing it from bad spirits.’
Son was silent for a while. ‘This bottle came from Saigon airport, I believe.’ He smiled, lifted his eyebrows. ‘It was liberated from a bar, not taken from a dead man.’
Khan accepted Son’s explanation as authentic, although it probably wasn’t. The alcohol was warming but it also delivered a vision of the mountains and jungle floating in a swamp of sorrow, anger, and US poison. This vision would only taint the memories of his friends. So he managed to dispel it before it ruined the process of getting pleasantly drunk.
‘Khan,’ Son said. ‘I heard a rumour about a woman called Phuong from our valley. Supp
osedly she lives in a river village in an area of the south I have visited.’ He offered Khan a cigarette from a white and blue pack. ‘This Phuong is war-wounded and has not been able to return home. Of course, it might not be the same person. Phuong is not an uncommon name and northern women fighters are no great rarity.’
Khan felt his heart bump hard into his ribs. It was as if the afterworld had momentarily opened a door and Phuong walked out into the light. He saw her smile and his spirit soared. Perhaps, perhaps, he thought, it just might be her?
‘And my plan,’ Son said, topping up Khan’s cup, ‘is that we go and find her.’
‘But what about my fish?’ Stupidly, it was all Khan could think to say. ‘Who will look after them?’
Son laughed like the true river pirate his grandfather had been.
‘My mother. No one will touch them when she’s around.’
Khan could feel the allure of distant places. The power of the downstream current was coming through the walls. He sensed the complex ways of water, the righteousness of the idea of this journey, the possibilities of what might be discovered in the south, as did Johnny.
‘But I cannot row a boat, brother Son.’ Khan held up his empty sleeve with his left hand. ‘You have no room for a passenger.’
Son put his cup down. ‘You will not be a passenger. You will be my guide. As you have been since you returned from the war.’ He put out his hand. ‘To the south, my friend. To find sister Phuong.’
Khan gripped Son’s hand. ‘Yes, Son. I agree. When will we go?’
Son pulled in smoke as if it fuelled his calculations.
‘The day after tomorrow. I need to get supplies. If that suits you?’
Khan nodded. It suited him. Why not? He felt feather-light and dream-like, as if he was already afloat on the wide brown river. He studied Son, the pirate, the bad communist, and knew that sometimes the men who you felt might do the least, did the most. The war had taught him that.
We’ll see, thought Johnny. We will see.
Twenty-four
Lex lay on his stretcher, examining an American combat knife he had somehow come by. It amazed Shoey just how many different kinds of weapons were floating around the joint. He had seen captured Thompson machineguns, ancient shotguns held together by wire, homemade handguns, German Lugers, English Webley revolvers, Colt .44 Magnums, Swedish SKS rifles, Remington pump-action shotguns, crossbows, heavy machineguns, and submachineguns that looked to be old and German. All of them could kill you, he knew that.
‘This fire base we’re going to build—’ Lex examined the long silver blade, ‘will be right in the middle of tiger country. And it’ll be our job to be the goats tied to a post. It really does sound like something the RSPCA should take an interest in, John. You know, even farm animals have feelings.’
As usual, Johnny laughed at Lex, and blew a cloud of smoke at the sagging green tent top. For a while he listened to the heavy drumming of the rain. A fine mist filtered down, leaving the taste of canvas on his tongue. Sometimes he simply imagined he was on a Scout camp, everyone mucking around with ropes, pearl-handled pocketknives, smouldering fires and him, at least, puffing on one of his dad’s smuggled smokes.
‘There’ll be tanks, though,’ Johnny said. ‘There’ll be jets and APCs. There’ll be gunships and there’ll be Spookies. There’ll be bloody everything.’
‘There’ll be bloody us,’ Barry put in, crew-cut head hunched between thick shoulders as he studied the wooden floor, hands draped over his knees. ‘And two thousand of those other little brown bastards.’
Lex grinned, head on his pillow. He waved the knife like a conductor leading an orchestra.
‘Barry-boy,’ he said. ‘No one on earth could’ve said it better.’
Barry raised his head, made no comment, looked outside at rain that fell in bright grey sheets as if washing sunlight from the sky. Lex rested the combat knife on the ammo crate that Shoey had barked his shin on about forty times.
‘Have you girls heard what they’re goin’ to call this new base?’ He laughed, pinged a fat rubber band from home he wore around his left wrist for good luck. ‘Charlie’ll shit himself when he hears it. No, it’s not Bearcat, Mrs Shoebridge. Or Black Horse or Hellsville, Barry, like the Yanks. It’s Fire Base . . . Leslie. Named after Captain Rat Tooth’s lovely wife.’
Barry spat into the rain. ‘His wife’s a bloke.’
Johnny wove his fingers together to help him think, as his sister had taught him when he was five. He glanced at his two mates, and felt in the strangest and most powerful of ways, that this leaky green tent was possibly the best place he had ever been.
When it was Khan’s turn to view the model of an Australian fire base that had been attacked, unsuccessfully, he dutifully lined up with Thang and Trung and the rest of their section. Captain Van, using a stick, pointed out the strengths and weaknesses of the defences encountered by the two battalions who had been repulsed with minor losses.
‘As Uncle Ho tells us,’ Van began, ‘the battalions made noise from the east, with gongs and bugles, then attacked from the west. Although the fighters entered and killed a number of men, they were driven away. This time, with this new base we are hearing about, our informants will give us better information. And we will have more men and greater mortar and artillery support. The flood will hit the gates and the gates will open.’
Khan studied the model. He noted where the Australian troops had been deployed, the artillery positions, mortar crews, machinegun posts, and Armoured Personnel Carriers. He also saw a tiny model pig tucked in behind a bunker. When he caught Trung’s eye, Trung winked.
‘The new base,’ said Captain Van, ‘according to our informants, will be stronger than this old one. But we will attack in our thousands. We will be joined by other battalions at full fighting strength.’
It seemed illogical to Khan that the commanders would take such an obvious bait dropped in on their doorstep. Didn’t they know Phantoms flew at a thousand kilometres an hour? That fleets of fifty choppers could bring machinegun and rocket fire like rain? The Americans would love to help the bastard Australians in this kind of battle – which was exactly why, he figured, the base would be built, to call the men from the north in from the mountains and jungles and mow them down like grass.
‘Our greatest courage,’ Captain Van announced, the words echoing in the darkest reaches of the cave, ‘will deliver a great victory. As we speak, two of the finest People’s Liberation Army Battalions are on their way to join us. They are young, well trained, and fearless.’
Khan looked at the miniature pig behind the model sandbag walls. He could see its fluted ears and corkscrew tail. It was beautifully made. He could imagine Trung’s fine fingers shaping it. Perhaps we are all bred for slaughter, he thought. It seems like the popular opinion.
‘Have we ever lost a war?’ Captain Van asked quietly, studying his men. ‘Has any foreign army ever beaten us? No. You must see and believe that we know how to win.’
Khan did believe because it was true. He knew that a battle like this could be won. The battalions could smash through the flames and carnage, but the cost would be high – as was the chance of him not making it back to the cave with his friends, to his blanket, sleep, and safety.
Roll the dice.
Again and again.
And eventually, Johnny thought, someone will win. Or perhaps we might all lose. In a war, that can happen. Especially to the people sent to fight it.
Twenty-five
Johnny sat by the fire drinking tea with Carly. He felt a fragile calmness that stood over the exhaustion brought on by the newsreels in his head. Right now there was a flickering film showing the remains of a VC guerrilla fighter in black pyjamas. The man had been run over by a tank, and Johnny and Barry had been detailed to bury him. In ten seconds Johnny remembered the whole awful hour, in colours he wished never to see again, before managing to shove the images down into a black corner.
‘You can see a lot from u
p here.’ Carly pointed to the treed coastline edged with pale rock. ‘They used to hunt whales from that bay. In rowboats. I’m glad they don’t anymore.’
Johnny looked at the dark blue sea. Men like ants pickin’ on a big dumb critter. Typical.
‘Not a job I’d take if it was offered at the CES.’ He was pleased that he was able to make a joke, even if he felt as thin as a tin Chinese whistle, capable of nothing but a single note. ‘No way.’
Carly sat with her back against a boulder, hugging her knees.
‘Me neither.’ She looked at Johnny, released her knees, and put her hand down on old gum leaves as soft as cloth. ‘So how you are you feelin’ now? You seem better. Calmer. A bit less jumpy.’
Johnny nodded slowly, sipped tea. ‘Yeah, maybe. Anyway, I’m gunna go down south in a day or two. I gotta go see the folks of a couple of blokes I was with. Blokes that, ah, got killed. Good blokes.’ He felt a burst of hard pain. ‘My mates. Best blokes ever.’
Carly knelt, moved, and rested her hands on his shoulders. She kissed him once on the cheek then studied him, not taking her hands away.
‘You’re a good guy, Johnny.’
Around him the air swirled. The closeness of her, the scent, softness, and toughness of her made him dizzy. Her hands, light, flat, and hard, pinned him. He knew she’d been through the mill. He knew she might never get away from this place, might live a fractured life, had a cloudy future and a violent past, but as injured as she was she was giving him hope. Something he wished he could give back to her.
‘Carly,’ he said. ‘You’re a beautiful girl. I can’t tell you how good you are. You’re gunna have a good life.’ Thoughts pressed hard as he imagined how this might go, if he acted now. But if she did let him, or want him, it would be all wrong because his ideas of sex and love had been twisted by the war in ways he didn’t understand. One thing he did know was that Carly deserved better than being with the wrong person at the wrong time. ‘Thanks.’ He touched her arm. ‘For everythin’, yeah?’
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