From the Stars Above

by Peter Watt

  *

  Trooper Michael Macintosh laid out his cleaned M16 rifle on his camp stretcher. He had watched from SAS Hill as the infantry and arty units were moved to Bien Hoa Province from the taskforce HQ at Nui Dat. He knew why, and also knew that he and his special force comrades would be tasked to assist with intelligence gathering. They would be required to move into the province to collect information on NVA and VC units: numbers, weapons and locations. The intelligence they collected was beyond value for military commanders; it could mean the difference between winning and losing in a war where forest and jungle concealed the movement of large formations.

  ‘Hey, Macca, you have mail,’ the HQ clerk said, walking between the SAS soldiers sitting around on beds or cleaning weapons. ‘You blokes hear the joke about a North Vietnamese noggie who had orders to take a mortar bomb down the Ho Chi Minh trail?’

  ‘No, Smithy,’ replied one of the soldiers.

  ‘Well, he spends weeks going down the track under B-52 bombs, rain and all the other crap, to finally find the noggie mortar crew. They take the bomb off him and drop it down the tube. Then one of the crew turns to him and says, “We want you to go back up to Hanoi and get another one.”’

  ‘So, what’s funny?’ the special forces soldier asked.

  ‘The noggie quit and deserted.’

  No one laughed and Michael reflected on a certain amount of truth in the story. The people they were fighting were as tough and resourceful as any soldiers in the world.

  Michael took the letter and instantly recognised the handwriting on the envelope posted from Australia. He sat down on an empty ammo box to read it. He smiled as her loving words flowed through the pages to him, and for a moment he was not in a war zone but in a tiny flat and a particularly comfortable bed occupied by a beautiful and passionate young woman he had come to love.

  ‘Okay, fellas, we have a briefing in ten minutes,’ Michael’s sergeant said, popping his head around the flap of the tent. ‘Looks like the boys over in Bien Hoa might be in for a rough time.’

  Michael slipped the letter into its envelope, placing it with the others in a metal ammo box he used to contain his few valuables. Roll on 1969, he thought as he headed for the briefing. He had had enough of war, and the thought of returning to Mila was almost overpowering.

  The SAS sergeant’s statement had been an understatement. Forces of enemy soldiers vastly outnumbering the Australians were already assembling to unleash hell on the defenders still digging in. Gunner Bryce Duffy-Macintosh was about to learn that being in artillery was not the safest job in the army after all.

  *

  Sergeant Terituba Duffy swatted one of the many irritating, crawling insects from the back of his neck. The tall grass concealed his platoon but held in the high humidity of this tropical country. He smiled wryly at the memory of other places he had campaigned – always bloody extreme heat and humidity. Even when the torrential rains fell, it did not ease the heat and humidity. Always thirst dogged the soldiers. No matter how many extra water bottles they carried, it was never enough.

  The platoon commander was only a few metres away, and Terituba knew that he must keep an eye on the young, inexperienced national serviceman who had graduated from the officer training school of Scheyville. Terituba was pleased to see that the young officer was smart enough to listen to his advice and felt that he would turn into a good leader of men. The two-week company patrol in search of the elusive enemy was into its fifth day and nothing had been found.

  Terituba pushed aside the tall grass with the barrel of his SLR, and suddenly the lead scout of the platoon a few metres from him signalled a halt. Terituba slowly lowered himself to the musty earth on one knee, keeping the scout in sight. The explosive blast of a landmine to his front hurled Terituba backwards. He was vaguely aware that it had lifted him off the ground and he was lying on his back in the long grass.

  ‘Get a dust-off!’ a voice yelled above the loud screams of the soldier wounded by the landmine.

  Terituba recognised the voice of the leading section’s corporal and thought that it was strange the man was leaning over him, staring at him with a shocked expression.

  ‘Sarge, stay still. Don’t try to move,’ he said, and Terituba now felt the pain overtake his body. He could see a lot of blood on the corporal’s hands, and it dawned on Terituba that it was his blood. It was squirting from a ruptured artery in his neck and a strange peace was overwhelming him. He closed his eyes and could hear a desperate voice saying, ‘Get a hand over the neck to stop the bleeding.’

  ‘The chopper is on its way,’ someone said, and then the darkness came to Sergeant Terituba Duffy. He could see a dim figure and knew it was Wallarie, waiting to meet him.

  Terituba did not hear the next few words from the corporal.

  ‘Boss, I think he’s gone.’

  *

  Sean Duffy paced the living room of the Potts Point mansion. He knew the case was next to hopeless. David would be convicted on the word of the witnesses. The committal hearing was set down for less than a week and, right now, he needed a miracle. The press were pushing the fact that David had viciously attacked a war hero, and one thing Sean knew was that Markham was no war hero. A desperate thought entered Sean’s mind. The Prime Minister was a real war hero for his RAAF service as a fighter pilot in the battle for the skies of Singapore. He had to contact the PM’s office in Canberra and request his help.

  Sean picked up the phone and dialled David’s office in Canberra. He was not there, but his personal assistant took the call. Sean explained who he was and what he needed. David’s personal assistant was a young lady who idolised her boss, and without hesitating she said she would do as Sean asked. There was one man who could help, and Sean prayed he was still alive and could be located.

  *

  The telephone call she received from her project manager in Sydney caused Jessica to experience a sudden rush of pure fear. She had only just returned to her Strathfield house and hardly had time to walk in the house before the phone started ringing in the hallway.

  Jessica placed the phone back on the receiver and was met by Shannon.

  ‘What is it, Mum?’ she asked, seeing the stricken expression on Jessica’s face. ‘Has someone died?’

  Jessica turned to her daughter. ‘Just a small matter. I have to return to the office to sort it out.’ Shannon was not fooled. She could tell that something was terribly wrong.

  Jessica rang for a taxi and within the hour stood in her office with the project manager.

  ‘The company that was to assist us with the funding for the project has gone bankrupt, and the investors learned before we did,’ he said. ‘They are wanting to sue us for breach of contract. We are running out of options.’

  Jessica walked over to the large glass window to gaze out at the vacant lot of land in a row of newly rising buildings. The vacant block was now like a tooth had been removed, leaving the wound ulcerated.

  ‘Sarah!’ Jessica snarled. ‘She’s behind this.’

  ‘Do you mean Sarah Macintosh?’ the project manager asked. ‘It was definitely a Macintosh company that went down. But I cannot see how any person of her reputation would allow that to happen.’

  Jessica turned to the project manager. ‘You do not know the lengths to which my sister-in-law will go to destroy me. Even at the cost to her own reputation. Set up a meeting with her. We have to get this matter sorted before word gets out to our shareholders.’

  ‘I will get on to it immediately,’ he said.

  Jessica bid him goodnight and slumped down in her comfortable leather chair behind her desk. The sun was setting over Sydney and a cold shiver ran through her. Jessica had gambled on the project, but that was the nature of business. She cursed herself for entering into a deal with her arch enemy. She had thought the ace card was the money that would be made for both of them, but she had underesti
mated Sarah Macintosh’s overriding need for revenge.

  Jessica returned home but did not sleep well. The following morning, the sound of the newspaper boy’s bike and the thump of the paper on the porch brought her out of a restless state of half-sleep.

  Jessica rose from her bed, slipped on a dressing gown and went into the kitchen. Shannon was already at the table with the paper and a glass of orange juice. Ever since the escapade with Tania, for which they were lucky not to be expelled, Shannon had been the model daughter.

  Jessica greeted her daughter with a kiss and a hug.

  ‘I brought the paper in,’ Shannon said.

  ‘Thank you, darling,’ Jessica said, sitting down.

  She flipped open the newspaper, and when she reached page four she gasped.

  ‘What’s wrong, Mum?’ This was the second time in less than twelve hours Shannon had seen the stricken expression on her mother’s face.

  Jessica stared at the bold print: DUFFY ENTERPRISES ON THE SLIDE TO POSSIBLE LIQUIDATION. Jessica had no doubt who was behind the rumour.

  *

  The meeting was arranged for that afternoon, and Sarah had insisted it be held in her boardroom. Jessica had little choice, knowing that the confrontation would take place on Sarah’s battlefield. Sarah had informed Jessica that the meeting would involve only the two of them. Even that decision smelled of malice to Jessica.

  Jessica arrived at the Macintosh offices and was ushered directly to the boardroom, where she saw Sarah sitting at the head of the table. Jessica took a seat at the opposite end of the long table, not wanting to be near her despised sister-in-law.

  ‘Well, Sarah, how did you succeed in destroying an enterprise that would have made us both a lot richer?’

  ‘Good afternoon to you too.’ Sarah smirked. ‘I am not sure what you are insinuating.’

  ‘You know bloody well what I am talking about. Your company that was supposed to help fund the project went belly up.’

  ‘That was terribly unfortunate,’ Sarah replied with a sigh. ‘But you know the risks we take on a daily basis in business. I suppose I should have taken legal steps in our contract to indemnify against such an unforeseen situation. But, as your lawyers will tell you, I forgot.’

  Jessica stared at Sarah and wondered if she had the slightest hint of a soul. ‘What do you want?’ she asked.

  ‘What I like about you, dear sister-in-law, is your ability to get to the point. I am sure by now you know your shareholders are selling off their stock. I suppose it is a normal reaction to this morning’s report in the papers.’

  ‘I wonder who fed the media the news about my share in the project being at risk,’ Jessica said, thinking how much she would like to strangle the smirk off the woman at the end of the table. After all, Jessica had killed in war and this was a financial battle.

  ‘I will bail you out if you sign over Glen View to me. I am sure you will get back on your feet again. After all, what is a piece of dusty land in Queensland worth, compared to the future of your vast financial investments? It is nothing, and I am sure you could move my brother to another one of your properties so that he can run around with his ringers. Oh, I forgot, you sold all your other cattle stations to fund the project in Sydney.’

  Jessica stared for a short time at her opponent, and then slowly broke into a smile. ‘You lost your beloved David to another woman, and now I am going to deny you the other thing you most want – Glen View. I think I might consider retiring from business and return to my property to be with those who love me. I have always found so much peace sitting on the verandah, gazing across the red earth of my ancestors. You will never have what you most desire.’ Jessica rose from the chair.

  ‘You are a bloody fool, Jessica,’ Sarah yelled. ‘Within a week you will see all that you have worked for crumble around you – unless I step in to help. Is some obscure cattle station worth that?’

  ‘It is to me – and to your brother,’ Jessica replied. ‘Do your worst, and I hope one day you rot in hell. Remember, the spirits of my Aboriginal ancestors look over my family.’

  Jessica left the boardroom feeling as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She had no doubt that Sarah could take away all that she had worked for, but, to Jessica, family was far more important than all the money she had. Her father had given his life to defend that obscure, dusty patch of brigalow scrub on the plains of Queensland, and she was not going to let it go. Jessica broke into a broad smile as she made her way out onto the street. Yes, Sarah might be able to destroy her financially, but Glen View would remain in her family forever.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Gunner Bryce Duffy-Macintosh was forcing himself to stay awake behind the M60 belt-fed machine gun. His number two beside him was having the same problem. The hard physical work of the previous hours and the sapping heat had taken its toll. Behind him the big 105 millimetre howitzers were bedded down behind earthen walls. Beside him lay an M79 grenade launcher. The shotgun-like weapon could fire what appeared to be a giant bullet with an explosive head.

  Bryce knew he would not get much sleep tonight, as he also had to do radio piquet. He lay in almost total darkness, taking in the sounds of the tropical night. He could hear the distant whistle of high-flying jets on their way to seek out targets; at a lower level was the distinctive whop-whop of helicopter blades, and the constant twinkling of flares lighting up some distant patch of jungle.

  The rumour from the old hands was that they expected an attack in the night. How many would assault and when was not known. Even this knowledge was not enough to ward off the overpowering desire to sleep. But as Bryce dozed, he could hear the bursts of small-arms fire, rocket-propelled grenades and mortar bombs exploding. He knew the sounds of the firefight were coming from within the area of operations, but they eventually died away.

  Then it began to rain, which was welcomed by many diggers who collected the clean water, using their tent shelters to do so. A good supply of drinking water was something every frontline soldier in Vietnam valued because their canteens could not keep up with their thirst.

  The rain continued till around midnight, by which time Bryce was soaked through to the skin. Being wet, either from sweat or tropical downpours, was something soldiers lived with, along with the accompanying skin diseases. It was then that Bryce heard and saw a green machine-gun tracer flying low overhead. He remembered that the enemy used green tracers, whereas Australian tracers were red, and he felt a knot of fear in his stomach. He gripped the machine gun into his shoulder and slid his finger to the trigger. But the firing stopped, and Bryce thought it was probably a probing action by the enemy.

  Bryce relaxed a little but could not dismiss the foreboding he felt. He was frightened but there was nothing he could do about it. The overpowering instinct not to let his mates down helped settle his nerves, but he could still feel the creeping fear.

  In the very early hours of the morning he and the others in his machine-gun crew saw shadowy figures crossing a dirt track to their front.

  ‘What do we do?’ Bryce’s offsider whispered.

  A call was put in to the arty command post over the field telephone, and the answer came back that the figures had to be the enemy. Bryce noticed that the figures had moved into position where the burst of enemy fire had come from earlier. An eerie silence fell on the immediate location, and Bryce was once again gripping the pistol grip of the M60. All in the battery defensive positions could hear the rustling out to their front and knew it came from large numbers of enemy soldiers moving about in their AO. But permission to fire was denied as it was not certain where all the friendly forces were that confused night. They waited, and in the distance they could hear intermittent small-arms fire coming from the general direction of the infantry battalion locations.

  ‘Hey, Duff, you are to return to your gun,’ the voice of his bombardier commanded in the darkness. ‘We have a fir
e mission to support the grunts.’

  Bryce was pleased to return to his crew manning their 105. He felt less exposed behind the earthwork bunds.

  *

  Two kilometres away, Sergeant Major Patrick Duffy heard the incoming rocket and small-arms fire on his company. He could also hear one of the platoon’s machine guns returning fire. What he did not know was that one of the company’s platoons had taken devastating casualties from the NVA’s assault. Rocket-propelled grenades had exploded in the treetops, showering red-hot shrapnel and timber splinters down on the soldiers in their open shell scrapes. Now Patrick could hear the distant screams of his wounded men.

  But the artillery had been called in to drop high explosives on the estimated locations of the enemy. From Patrick’s long experience he calculated the enemy must have had a good idea of the dispositions of the platoons. At the company HQ he watched as the wounded were brought in, and he knew that this was just the beginning. It had all the hallmarks of an intelligent and tough enemy manoeuvring into position for a much larger assault in their AO.

  The activity seemed to quieten down. There was a good reason for that. The NVA’s primary target was the big artillery guns of Bryce’s battery. They were fully aware of how important it was to destroy them before turning their attention to mopping up the infantry. It was a basic tactical move that would have been made by the Australians in the same position.

  At least it gave time to the infantry to call a dust-off, the flying in of medivac choppers to take out the wounded. The courage of the chopper crews was evident when they risked using lights to come into the prepared landing zone. This made them easy targets for any enemy with an RPG or even a small arms fire.

  A calm had descended on FSB Coral. Grunts and drop shorts rested, some smoking at their guns or in the forward machine-gun positions.