She nodded and moved away. Smiling, she smoothed her dress and sat.
‘Yeah. The truth’s a good thing,’ she said. ‘You’ll be right, Johnny.’
That he’d ever be right he did not know. What he did know was that the truth came in a thousand forms; perhaps even in the form of an imagined enemy fighter known as Khan who at one time was as real as Johnny himself. He shrugged, feeling as if he was full of scrap metal when all he wanted to be was that pliable young bloke who took it as it came, gave without thinking, and had not carried out orders to kill people.
‘So,’ he said, ‘what are you gunna do for the rest of the arvo?’
Carly looked where three folds of land, blurred by trees, formed two small valleys.
‘I’m gunna help my old man get some timber.’ She surveyed the forest below as if pinpointing where her father was to work. ‘He’s cuttin’ ironbark for a stockyard.’
‘I’ll help,’ Johnny said, sitting up. ‘Shit, yeah. I can use a chainsaw or an axe. I wouldn’t want money, Carly.’ He simply wanted to do something good and honest, do something to show her something of what he felt, what he was. ‘Just give you a hand. Before I go.’
Carly looked at him. He could see she didn’t think this was a great idea. Now, skilfully, she tied her hair back, as if other things could be rearranged as easily, just this once.
‘Okay.’ She knelt, brushing leaf scraps off her hip. ‘But we’d better get goin’ because Wesley won’t wait. Impatient is his middle name.’
Johnny put out the fire as Carly gathered the tea things.
‘We go that way.’ She pointed downhill.
‘South,’ Johnny said, as if she’d asked.
After Son had rowed away, Khan sat on the wet jetty. Below, his cages of fish were invisible in the olive-coloured water. For once he thought of the soldiers he had killed and wondered what would happen if he invited their souls to sit with him. He doubted they would, the Australians, unless perhaps he also invited the men they’d killed so it was equal.
Way too soon, feller, Johnny thought. The dead would only want to be with their own. Even I know that.
It occurred to Khan, as it had occurred to Johnny, that he’d hadn’t truly hated the enemy all the time, apart from the B-52 crews, in Khan’s case. Khan detested them and always would. But he hadn’t burned to massacre every enemy soldier, although given the chance, he would have. He grinned. Better just to send the bastards home. That would have suited everyone. He wagged his head in agreement, admitting he was fairly well gone on Jack Daniel’s.
No, he mused, it didn’t seem hate was involved with every moment of day-to-day fighting. It was more like hate was a big black umbrella over the entire country that everyone fought under. So who were the idiots who put that umbrella up in the first place?
Shiny-faced men far away, as always, in countries, like America, Australia, France, and China.
Which is where we, the people of the countryside, came in, Khan thought. Those with the least power were brought together to create a breaking wave of violence that cost a million lives. But it had gained a victory, it surely had.
‘I am as hollow as a drum,’ he muttered, lit a cigarette Son had left him, and studied the cloudy sky. The moon rode high, a pale horse without a rider, he thought. Or perhaps it was a seahorse swimming in the waves. A lonely traveller, anyway, in a lonely world. ‘Khan is as empty as a bottle of Jack Daniel’s,’ he added for his own drunken benefit. ‘Everything poured out. Nothing is left.’
What I’d like, he thought, is for someone or something beautiful to come into my life. He looked down, his bare feet above the water, three green nylon ropes piercing the surface, anchoring his fish cages. As well as you boys, he corrected himself. As well as you boys!
He smoked on, thinking that at least he could still believe in the possibility of beautiful things. That seemed like a miracle of some sort.
Oh, they’re out there, all right, Johnny agreed, those things. It’s just that they’re mighty hard to find for people like us. But we cannot give up the search in case we stumble on something sometime, somewhere, somehow. It could happen. You never know.
Shoey made his way along the trunk of the felled ironbark, lopping branches with an axe so sharp it scared him. Ten steps behind, Carly cleared away the fallen limbs as her father, Wesley, wielded a chainsaw. Sawdust spurted like blood as the timber-getter dismembered the tree with quick cuts. It was, Johnny thought, like butchering a giant, the crushed undergrowth like the velvet padding of a coffin. An old General Motors truck fitted with a heavy winch stood on the track, and down in the valley, Carly’s house sat like a small white Lego block on a couple of open green hectares.
With one final furious smoky blast, the howl of the chainsaw flew off into the trees. Silence settled. Wesley pushed away a branch with a lumpy black boot.
‘Cuppa tea, eh?’ He spoke like a man who did not like speaking. ‘We’re gettin’ there.’
Shoey wanted to hold his arms out to the forest. It stood over and around him. It swaddled his senses and cooled his mind. He would’ve liked to wander off down the track by himself, sit on the ground, and have a smoke. Except he was pretty sure Lex and Barry would be waiting around the next corner, grinning like monkeys.
Instead Shoey got up onto the back of the truck with Carly and her dad. There, tea was poured and fruitcake taken from a plastic lunchbox.
‘So, John.’ Wesley looked at him from under the brim of a smashed felt hat. ‘Vietnam, eh?’
Johnny was aware, suddenly, the boys had climbed up onto the truck to sit on either side of him. He could feel their shoulders, hard and warm, as they waited, enjoying this turn of events – that once again he was on trial, about to have his courage tested. Shoey nodded slowly but his knee was jiggling and his hand was shaking.
‘Yep.’ The word towered over everything else in his life. ‘That’s right.’
‘Welcome home.’ Wesley looked away, sipped tea from a chipped white mug, let silence return.
It was as surprising as an uppercut. Barry and Lex, with a laugh and a pat on Johnny’s back, jumped down to walk away, lighting smokes as they went. See, Shoe? Not so bad. Not everyone hates our guts. Elephant stamp, cobber. Gold star. Keep up the good work.
‘Thanks, Wesley,’ Shoey said. ‘Thanks.’
Khan wobbled his way back to his room as quietly as he could, trying to not wake his parents. For a while he sat by a small oil lamp and drank tea. Then he took his AK-47 from its hiding place in the wall. It was swathed like a metallic baby in a towel and plastic, oily to the touch, the wooden stock worn and scarred. Three magazines, ammunition, and the AKM bayonet he left safely wrapped and hidden in one of the bamboo roof supports.
He tucked the assault rifle into his shoulder and singlehandedly swept the darkness. Then he lay it down, staring at it, a thing he had once loved. But he wouldn’t take it to the south. Khan doubted he’d find any sort of future at gunpoint again. In fact, he doubted that he’d find any sort of future at all. Yet he would go with Son because Son was a trader, and who knew what things they might find that the war had left behind?
I’ve gotta say, Khan, Johnny thought, although you’d better keep this a secret from the Australian government; you’re more human than I thought. I also know that although we were both killers, I would like to state here and now that we were not killers at heart and that we did not murder anyone. And even if the world does not care about this, or understand what it means, it is possibly the most important thing of all.
Twenty-six
Shoey’s company rested inland forty metres from the slow-moving river, their perimeter set. The heat, saturated with humidity and smelling of mud, pressed down. To Shoey it felt as if he was in the grip of some deadly tropical disease. In an effort to counter it he thought of Ballarat, where he’d visited his sick grandma every two weeks for six long months. He remembered a city of stone buildings soaked by misty rain and a freezing wind blowing old people down the stre
ets like boats with wet sails.
‘Farrrk me.’ Lex leant against his pack, M16 poking up between his knees. ‘There was nothin’ in the brochure about this bloody weather, Johnson-berry. I’ve hardly brought the right clothes. Something cotton and white would be good, don’t you think, Baz? Cheesecloth, maybe. Or linen. Jesus. How bloody hot is it?’
Barry sipped water from his canteen. ‘Too fuckin’ hot.’
Shoey marvelled at Barry’s ability to remain silent. Those were the first words he’d uttered all day, and it was the middle of the afternoon. Lex laughed, snapped back into the moment.
‘Baz,’ he said, ‘Channel Two weatherman. You’d be bloody brilliant.’
Barry’s eyes moved but that was about all. ‘Wouldn’t I?’
Young Pete, the radio guy, crawled over, a cigarette in his mouth scribing circles as he made progress like a three-legged dog.
‘Fantastic,’ Lex said. ‘Here comes Mr Squiggle.’
Johnny reckoned Young Pete looked about ten. Beneath the green and black camo grease, his pixie face glowed pink, and his ears stuck out like the handles on a trophy.
‘There’s a big Yank patrol comin’ up behind,’ he said quietly. ‘The skipper said don’t shoot the bastards. They’ll be here in five.’
The boys swapped looks. Heads swivelled. A quiet buzz went through the company. Then along a track the Aussies would never have used, fifty men in helmets and battered flak jackets appeared from the bush. Shoey could hear them clearly, the sound tempting him to crawl away as far and as fast as possible. He knew the skipper would be going nuts. Making noise like that was madness.
‘Yo, Aussies.’ A tall Marine, holding an M60 tucked casually under a thick arm banded with tattoos, nodded. ‘Happenin’?’
‘Hopefully,’ someone said, ‘fuck all.’
Johnny saw the skipper was talking to the American captain, a tall, gangly guy with round glasses. His men, Marines, had slung off massive packs and sunk down on open ground close to the river. They reminded Johnny of beasts settling, except wrists flicked Zippos, and blue smoke drifted.
‘You know, Aussie,’ a big Marine drawled to Johnny, an ace of spades tucked into the band of his helmet, ‘we hear we the big hammer and you the anvil. That’s the plan.’
‘Don’t forget the jets,’ Lex said. ‘As well as the hammer. Bring as many jets as you’ve got. And tanks, we’ll have a hundred. Bigger the better. And Spooky. We love that thing. It’s on our Christmas list. Bring it all.’
The Marine nodded as if he was listening to distant music. His dark skin glistened. His temples shone like mirrors. His eyes looked red and unhealthy.
‘We do, friend. We always do.’
Johnny was aware a few of the diggers had slipped a little further back into the bush. Casually they’d hunkered down, holding their weapons. The Marines appeared not to give a stuff about anything. But never did Shoey underestimate them or their firepower. They talked loudly. They languished against their packs and tossed cigarettes and lighters around. But they’d fought up north in battles the Aussies could only imagine. Johnny was glad to see them. But like the skipper, when they moved out, wishing good luck, he felt he sat in a safer place.
‘One minute.’ The boss knelt, compass in hand, map on the ground. ‘That way.’ He pointed towards a wall of bush. ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ he added, ‘I like those guys. But Jesus Christ, they scare the shit outta me. Right. Let’s move.’
The company melted into the scrub. Around them heat and silence settled, and again Shoey felt the fear. It pressed hard and he pushed back, drawing from the boys, the power of his weapon, his innermost self, and the inevitability of the situation. It was like being dragged underwater and having to fight there, endlessly.
In the middle of the night, Khan’s D555 battalion exited the caves of the Long Hai Hills. Below, the land blended with the blackness like the shore with the sea. Khan, listening to the sound of hundreds of pairs of sandals and boots, knew he was part of a powerful migration to the west. The slender bag of rice he carried might well be a one-way ticket. He fought the idea. It would not help.
Thang was in front of him and Trung behind. There was no turning back. The informants had done their job. Both sides were setting their traps, and although Khan sensed a lack of cunning in the operation, he knew that the commanders looked over the heads of the men to the higher objective – and that was to win the war and not save souls. It was obvious that death marched with D555. Khan sensed it kept pace, studying the faces, selecting those it would take. Johnny knew how he felt. It was like having an iron hand hovering, ready to bring a samurai sword down hard on his skull.
Khan made sure to look only ahead, concentrating on Thang’s powerful shoulders. He did not want to meet death’s stare. Forty kilometres away, the brand-new Australian fire base was rising from the raw earth. In one night’s time it would be the white-hot centre of fire and fear. It would be a place for the dead, the dying, and the wildly fortunate. And it would be love and hate that would fuel the furnace, because that was what the Vietnamese people fought with.
Khan walked on, knowingly heading for the precipice. And there he would have to jump. You and me both, Johnny agreed. We’re in this thing together – as enemies, my friend, as sworn enemies.
Twenty-seven
Shoey set off for Malcolm’s place but the closer he got the slower he walked until he stopped. Not yet able to see the house, he could picture the private village surrounded by prime green grazing land. The thought of being given orders was too much. Johnny did not want to work for the big man anymore.
‘Bugger it.’ He wondered if this was the beginning of the end, if he was now unable to do anything a normal person was supposed to do. He looked around, hoping for something in the landscape that might give him strength, but saw nothing. ‘No way,’ he murmured. ‘Not today.’
Johnny knew, suddenly, that beliefs he’d always held – that work was good, that he was a kind person, that his country and its citizens were fair, and that the attractions of women were endless – were like birds dead at his feet. It wasn’t stubbornness. He wasn’t simply pissed off with the job, lazy, or annoyed. He was changed.
Working for the big man was just not do-able. Why not? Because it made no sense to Johnny. And why did it not make sense?
No reason. That was the worst bit. No reason at all.
Walk, Johnny told himself. Walk up the bloody hill and get to work. But he knew he wouldn’t. Well, he would walk up there to get his dough, and tell Malcolm he was leaving but that was it. So he set off, feeling as if he’d lost the lot but couldn’t remember having placed a bet.
‘Square one, idiot,’ he said. ‘That’s where you are.’
For a moment he looked down at the inlet. It was time, he decided, to visit Carly, and say goodbye. Then he’d head out on the mission he had set for himself, no matter that it might leave him in a far worse place than he already was. Bad luck. It had to be done.
Son steadied the rowboat as Khan climbed down from the jetty. It was a boat neither Khan nor Johnny had seen before, long and slender, loaded with boxes wrapped in green plastic. The river trader took Khan’s bag and stowed it.
‘I am like a snail,’ Khan said. ‘I can carry everything I own on my back.’
‘It’s good to travel light.’ Son flipped the mooring rope off the post, waited for Khan to settle himself then gently pushed the boat out into the current. ‘It gives you options.’ He grinned as he fitted the oars into rowlocks. ‘Like cash.’
The waterway took hold of the wooden craft. Khan was immediately aware of an entrancing and timeless sensation, as if the spirit of the river welcomed him on this journey, would gladly show him the country it flowed through, the country he had walked over and fought for, the country whose stomach he had slept down deep in. He gave himself up to the waterway as he would to sleep and dreaming. What would happen in the south would happen.
Son rowed elegantly, a stroke here, a stroke there, res
ting with the oars out like slender wings. Mostly he let the river do the work.
‘Say goodbye, Khan, to this place.’ Son nodded towards the village that huddled in heavy rain, the jetty deserted, standing on bandy legs thrust into olive-green water. ‘For a while.’
Khan looked at their village and was moved by its perfect beauty and simplicity. It lay on a plain of rice and rivers, in sight of hump-backed limestone hills caught in low clouds. He wondered if Thang and Trung might wander the hamlet’s tight little lanes at night; going where they pleased and taking what they needed without anything being touched. He hoped so, because they deserved to share in the peace hard-won in the south, and brought back to the north by the ragged remains of the victorious peasant army.
To go home after war, Khan thought, was as close as one could get to heaven on earth. He took the cigarette Son offered as the long bends of the river took them further away from his little room and old parents. So why was he leaving?
To find Phuong.
It was a plan as simple as it was impossible. Yet here he was, moving downstream towards her because whether she was alive or dead, it was in the south where she would be.
‘Something will happen, Khan.’ Son looked like a movie star in a black jacket and tiger-striped combat pants. ‘Because something always does.’
You better believe it, boys, Johnny thought. I hope I do.
Malcolm handed Johnny an envelope that he shoved into a back pocket. It wasn’t that Shoey didn’t like the big man. It was something that shimmered within himself, the colour of a migraine. It was a feeling of hopelessness that made it impossible to see that the work had any value.
Was it the newsreels in his head that had stuffed him?
No, it was the reality they recorded. And the fact he was always remembering the boys whose souls were shot out of them on that one God-awful night. It just wasn’t possible to wash away that much blood with soap and water, time, words, work, sleep, or beer.
Dreaming the Enemy Page 13