Johnny stood, stepped over a couple of dead Main Force fighters, jumped down into the mortar pit and found Barry. Kneeling, he touched his friend’s face but what he felt only reinforced what he knew; that everything was breaking down and would stay that way forever.
‘Give us a bloody hand, mate!’ a medic yelled at Shoey. ‘Over here. Quick.’
Shoey leapt across, crouching by a digger heaving for breath. It was Jimmy the Smoke, the only guy in Delta Company who didn’t smoke. Johnny saw the soldier’s eyes were wide open, as if he was staring at a place just up the road that frightened the hell out of him.
‘Stay with us, Jimmy,’ the medic chanted as he rigged an IV unit. ‘This don’t look too bad. You’ll be right. Back in bloody Bondi in a couple of weeks. No sweat. Just stay with us, mate. We gotcha.’
As Johnny held the IV pouch arm-high, he realised he’d been praying since the first rocket hit. For one mad metallic moment, he wondered if God had sent the jets. And that thought, he decided, made about as much sense as anything else he could come up with.
The Australians defending the mortar pits reminded Khan of fish in a trap. He fired into them and at them. He did not know if he hit anybody. He did not know how he could miss or how he was not killed. Men went down, others reared up as he staggered on, half-blinded by muzzle blasts and half-stunned by concussion.
It was a whirlpool of violence that Khan expected would suck him down and rip him apart at any moment. Amazed he was alive, he fought on, until an unseen arm dragged him backwards. The tide had turned. American machines filled the sky and Australian troops poured in to reinforce positions. The battle was lost.
Khan leapt from the pit to join the retreat. Stopping once, he managed to lift a fighter with no face, and staggered to the wire. Across the cleared ground the bush blazed like a burning city while overhead the sky shuddered. And Khan, seeing that evil thing, Spooky, knew that the spirits of his best friends, Thang and Trung, and many others, were leaving the battlefield. Their duty was done. Now they sought a world that would welcome them to lie down and rest, but he could not, and staggered on, carrying his dying comrade towards the trees.
Johnny, given the chance, would have stopped him with a well-aimed bullet. And that, he reckoned, would’ve have put an end to this imagining before it started. But he hadn’t killed Khan and he knew that it was impossible to kill a ghost of his own creation – although he prayed it might be possible, some day, one day, to lay one to rest.
Thirty-seven
Shoey could not stay at Barry’s place. In a way he wanted to but in the end he couldn’t. The pain was obvious and too great, like a bad burn, hurting whichever way he turned. It was palpable among the fruit trees and in the yard. It was present in the kitchen and at the table, tethering the family. And Johnny had the feeling that Barry, standing a few rows back in the orchard, arms crossed and faintly amused, was watching as Johnny attempted to extricate himself from a situation that was tightening like a snare.
It was Ron Grainger who released him. Barry’s father held up a hand and settled everybody down, knowing that staying was for family only – as it was the family who would endure the birthdays, the mounting anniversaries, the demise of the dog, unwelcome government letters, and the awful visits to the cemetery where it seemed a bitter wind always blew.
‘Thank you, John,’ was all Barry’s mum said, but she said it half a dozen times. ‘Thank you so much. Please come back and see us.’
Johnny promised that he would, shook Luke’s hand then drove away over dry dirt under a luminous sky. At the letterbox he stopped, left a single sad honk of the horn hanging, then turned for the highway. Smoke filled the cabin as he lit up, the glow of the Marlboro reminding him of the tailpipe of a Phantom as it halved the sky. But when he looked up all he could see were stars.
‘Thank God,’ he muttered, and found himself thinking of Khan on his river journey with that other bastard Son. ‘We’re all going somewhere, I guess,’ he added, as he drove into a flat grey town where a barred gun-shop window was the brightest thing in the place. ‘Even to a dump like this.’
Along the river Khan and Son asked if anyone might know of a woman called Phuong, a northern Main Force fighter who had settled in the district. The locals, fishermen and farmers, would look at the long-haired Son in his silver sunglasses. Then their eyes would slide to one-armed Khan, who listened more than he spoke, adding a degree of respectability to the pair. Or this is how Johnny figured things might go.
In a fishing village, Son and Khan were led to a reed hut that stood on a mud bank. With a window on either side of the small entrance, it reminded Khan of a skull sitting on an old plate.
‘Inside is a woman from the north,’ said the village chief. ‘An important man from the party instructed us to look after her. Maybe she is this Phuong you are looking for. If so, you can—’
Khan and Son exchanged looks. The chief gestured with a hand as scaly and twisted as a chicken’s foot.
‘Go in.’
Son stepped back and Khan walked forward. Johnny watched from above. At the door Khan raised his hand to knock.
‘No need for that.’ The chief did not explain.
Khan knocked anyway, softly. To enter the hut he had to duck. Inside the heat was thick and there was a sweet smell that soon became sour and sickly. Seeing in the dim light was like trying to peer into a dank pool. A woman lay on a bed, dressed, staring at the thatched ceiling. For a moment Khan thought she was dead until he saw her chest rise. He greeted her quietly.
The woman did not stir, although he saw that she blinked. It was not Phuong. On a small table beside the bed there was a plastic bowl, a scatter of petals floating in clean water. A worn cotton cloth was folded beside it.
‘I see you, sister.’ Khan knelt, taking up a hand that was cold and limp. ‘I pray that you are peaceful. The war has finished. You are safe.’ He studied her for a moment before replacing her hand by her side. Then he dampened the cloth and carefully ran it over her face, thinking that this person had become silence itself. ‘Imagine a cool clearing in the early morning,’ he murmured. ‘The dew is on the grass. The sun is on your face. The day is beautiful and you are free. There is no danger. Only birds and flowers. And this one day will go on forever.’
Khan rinsed the cloth and draped it over the side of the bowl. He told the woman he would pray for her and left the hut. Once outside, breathing deeply, he felt he had reentered the world, that he had stepped away from some bombardment, torture session, or catastrophic ambush that the woman had survived, leaving her true self behind.
‘It is not Phuong.’ He addressed no one in particular then turned to the village chief. ‘Thank you for caring for this person. She is not well, obviously.’
The man accepted Khan’s thanks, inclining his head politely as they stood in the bright heat.
‘The war has thrown up a thousand complications and contradictions for us,’ the chief said. ‘She is just one fragment. This village has suffered at the hands of many.’ He looked at Khan. ‘Now, all we want is to live quietly. Thank you for visiting.’
Son offered the head man a cigarette as they walked to the pontoon where the boat was tied. The chief smoked it as he watched them row away. Khan and Son remained quiet until rounding a bend in the river.
‘I am sorry, Khan,’ Son said.
To Khan the sound of the dipping oars was soothing. He watched the slow swirl of the river and wondered about the nature of whirlpools and eddies.
‘Be sorry for that woman,’ he said. ‘But be thankful she was not sister Phuong.’
Son nodded, rowing slowly and surely. ‘Well, friend, the search goes on.’
You can say that again, Johnny thought; and it occurred to him, the emotion arriving without force or fanfare, that he wasn’t able to hate all North Vietnamese anymore – and that he wished his enemy luck in his search for this woman, Phuong, because to return for those who are missing, or lost in action, was a most honourable thing
to do.
Thirty-eight
The Huey lifted off, rising fast, blades thwacking like the heaviest of heartbeats. Johnny watched it, black-bellied in the grey sky, him way below like one green ant among many on a swarming brown nest. One hundred metres away the roaring of Brutus the bulldozer took over as it pushed dead VC, bloodied arms flapping, into a mass grave. This was the image that Johnny held as he walked around the fire base over the next four days. A whole other mindful of horrors he hoped he would never recall – but random, rolling images refused to be subdued.
Fast and bloody they flashed behind his eyelids. There were pictures of the dead and dying. There were pictures of the broken faces of the loved and the hated – and although Johnny refused to watch, he experienced this merry-go-round of autopsy continually.
‘End of the fuckin’ earth,’ said a digger called Graeme, as he and Johnny stacked sandbags. ‘Quite frankly, I’d rather be in Iceland.’
‘Jesus,’ said Johnny. ‘I reckon.’ He drank water that had a weird, heavenly taste. ‘Gaol. I’d take that.’
But he kept on working, smoking and talking, knowing there was a good chance he would have to fight through something like it again, or worse. And now it was sunset. He looked towards the blackened bush. Skeletal trees proclaimed the area as a memorial forest for the dead. And in that wasteland, he knew living battalions assembled with nothing but killing on their minds.
Was that bastard Khan from the bamboo grove out there, Johnny wondered? Or all three of those guys he’d shot at in the rice ten months ago? One way or another, he had no doubt they were.
It was in this destroyed forest, where the young fighters had screamed their burning lungs out, that Khan prepared for the next battle. On the fourth night, an hour after midnight, the bugles signalled for the broken battalions to form up, and the mad lights again began to flicker like angry spirits. The men and women, in silence, waited for the order to attack.
Johnny, sensing a deep murmur beyond the wire, lifted his weapon.
‘The butcher shop,’ he whispered, ‘is now open for business.’
Thirty-nine
The grim, unknown little town, with a few bright lights, had managed to stop Johnny’s ute on the false promise of a hot coffee and a decent hamburger. But no shop was open; it was only the gun store that was lit up like a high-security gaol. Nice-lookin’ toys, he thought, checking out the ’scoped rifles locked in soldierly racks – but toys certainly powerful enough to blow your head off, if that was what you wanted.
Johnny stared into darkness that was purple-tinged and smelled of distant bushfire. How good, he thought, would it be to see the reddening tips of two cigarettes in the shadows across the street, and know it was Lex and Baz waiting for him. Surprise, surprise, Johnny-boy, we were just havin’ you on! We’re all right! We’re okay! Get your arse over here! That’d be some reunion, all right – but there was no one, of course. What there was, he saw, sited a short way back from the street, was a small RSL hall made of biscuit-yellow bricks, its foyer lit by sick neon light. Parked out the front was a Second World War field gun aimed at the sky.
Well, I’m a returned soldier, Johnny thought. Perhaps the bastards might serve me a beer and a steak. And who knows, someone in there might even be cheerful. He put out his cigarette, locked the car, and crossed the road. A flag of no colour, he saw, hung limp from a metal pole.
In the foyer, Shoey took a quick look at the photographs of young blokes in old uniforms and leathery war memorabilia. Respects paid, he went into the lounge. Empty round brown tables reflected harsh light. Three middle-aged men sat on stools, contemplating sudsy-looking beers. Shoey approached the bar. It seemed silence had followed him in.
‘Gidday.’ He spoke generally as he took a fiver from his wallet. ‘Warm night.’
One bloke nodded but no one spoke. As far as Shoey could see there were no bar staff, only a doorway that might have led to a secret passageway. He waited, thinking, I can play this game all night, you bastards.
‘Vietnam, mate?’ The closest drinker turned, a short man with fat hands and hair like varnished hay. ‘Or are yer just buyin’ the shirts at the army disposals?’
Shoey ran his fingertips along the crease he’d put in the pink note. Suddenly everything about the place was wrong. He knew it for sure, like he should’ve known it five minutes ago when he laid eyes on the mustard-coloured, badly lit, cheaply built biscuit box. Too late, cobber, he thought, but I will give these smart bastards nothing.
‘Yeah, that’s right.’ His pulse rose as he named his battalion; one number and three letters he carried soul-deep. ‘Been back for a couple of months.’
The drinkers exchanged looks. The hay-haired bloke rotated a degree or two in Shoey’s direction.
‘Couldn’t really call it a war, could yer? A few little brown blokes armed with second-hand Chinese shit sticks. A skirmish, mate. By our standards. Just say boo and they all woulda buggered off.’
The drinkers chuckled noiselessly. In unison they hoisted their beers, looked wise. The biggest bloke placed a box of matches on his cigarettes as if playing draughts.
‘Put salt on their tails,’ he said, giving the ceiling his undivided attention. ‘Belt ’em with a cricket bat. Save the ammo.’
The ground opened up, Shoey seeing the core of the earth, the blood-soaked pit, and the boys. The drinkers sensed a change.
‘Ah, you’re right, mate,’ said the bloke with yellow hair. ‘Terry’ll be back in a sec. You’ll like the beer. Just put on a new keg.’
Johnny swayed in a red mist. His right knee shook. His fists he disguised as open hands. His vision was down a short tunnel and these three blokes were the only things in it.
‘I wouldn’t drink with you dickheads,’ he said quietly, ‘for all the fuckin’ tea in China.’ He stepped back, hands up, still open, gesturing. ‘Come on. I’ll show yers a fuckin’ war if yers want one. Right here. Right now.’ He was ready to go like never before. ‘Come on. One of yers. All of yers, I couldn’t give a fuck.’
The biggest drinker turned slowly. Everything about him was large and worn. He looked at Johnny as if he was a pest to be flicked.
‘Piss off, son. Before you get hurt.’
Johnny laughed. He saw nothing to fear. This bloke’d go down despite what he thought of himself. Johnny did not care how it might end. They could kill him – but he’d do some damage first.
‘Outside, ya fat mongrel.’ Johnny pointed to the exit. ‘I’ll be there.’ He shouldered through one glass door, kicked open the next, and took the steps three at a time. On a concrete strip he paced up and down like a mad bull. ‘Come on! Get out ’ere, you fat gutless bastards!’
He gave it three minutes. He gave it five. Then he spat, laughed like a madman, and walked back to his ute. Beneath his feet the bitumen slid like a river and overhead an angry orange moon lit the sky.
‘I fuckin’ win.’ He got into his car and started it. And I don’t even know the name of this stinking hole, he thought. Good.
Johnny pulled out and accelerated, feeling as if he trailed fury like a meteor trailed fire. At his point he knew only two things: one, he was heading south to Melbourne to see Lex’s family, and two, he would try to find Jilly. Beyond that, the future, as far as he could see, had no meaning at all.
A bare-chested boy, his ribs like stripes, ran along the riverbank calling out to Khan and Son. He easily kept pace with the boat, jumping over roots, dodging around trees, surefooted on the slopes of mud. Son shipped the oars and watched with amusement, as did Johnny, because he’d seen fifty little guys like this, up for anything.
‘He’s a determined little frog,’ Son said.
Khan could see the kid was grinning, slowing to a trot, figuring that his request had been heard. Now, with the ease of an otter, the boy made his skidding way down to the water’s edge where he cupped his hands around his mouth.
‘Hullo, kind misters! I have a message!’ He waded into the river that was paler than
his knees. ‘You are looking for someone, yes? A lost sister from the war?’
Hope spiked. Khan looked at the messenger and pressed it down. There were broken-down sisters and brothers from the war just about everywhere. He himself was one, and certainly no wonderful rarity.
‘This young crab might be a river pirate like you, Son,’ Khan said. ‘By the looks of things.’
‘I prefer to call myself a river trader.’ Son sounded a little offended. ‘A person who pursues opportunities for mutual gain. Shall we go and talk to the little cricket?’
‘Why not?’ Khan needed a break from the boat. His backside was sore and the heat of the day was implacable. The sun baked his head through his green battle hat. The shade on the shore beckoned. ‘He’s been sent by someone.’
Son steered the rowboat into the bank. The waterway was wide and open, the vegetation lush and green. The place seemed to offer possibilities, Khan thought. The boy waited keenly.
‘Word travels up and down rivers like the wind,’ Son said. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, Khan. These people will skin you alive for a buck. The war has only made them poorer.’ He nosed the rowboat gently into mud, Khan stepping ashore with the mooring rope.
The boy stood hatless in the harsh sunshine. Khan guessed he was about eight or nine. On his left side he had a birthmark shaped like an apple. The heat of the day hummed.
‘Who is this person you are so keen to tell us about, my friend?’ Khan held the slack rope. ‘How did you know we are looking for a woman from the war, anyhow? Are you magic?’
The kid grinned, his body spattered with mud rapidly puckering into pale freckles of dirt. His hair shone as if he wore a silver helmet.
‘Oh, everybody knows you are looking for a war lady. And this one ended up in our village after a very bad battle. What did you say this comrade’s name was? Please?’
Dreaming the Enemy Page 17