From the Stars Above

by Peter Watt

  Bryce sat with his back to the bund and reflected on what had just happened. He thought that with any luck the enemy was not in big enough numbers to take them on. It was wishful thinking as a large force of highly trained, fresh and well-equipped NVA continued to move stealthily towards the guns of his battery. He also did not know that infantry HQ was aware of the enemy movement, but in the dark it was impossible to locate the specific positions of the enemy. It was a waiting game.

  It was the exposed infantry mortar platoon around four in the morning who were first aware of the enemy. They could hear the voices of what one experienced soldier said amounted to at least four hundred men gathering for an attack.

  Bryce saw a green flare and then a red flare burst in the sky almost over the battery of guns. He immediately rose and scrambled to join the gun crew. Out to their front an enemy mass, who had crawled up to the outer defences of the gun position, rose as one only metres away, but dropped back to the ground when a barrage of their own mortars and rockets came crashing down on the Australian gun positions so close by.

  Bryce scrambled to the top of the bund and saw waves of enemy moving forward. He flicked off the safety and commenced firing his 20 round magazine into the massed formation. He saw enemy soldiers drop as the deadly heavy-calibre rounds found their mark. Beside him, someone else was firing their pistol, and behind him his crew were almost in a state of shock.

  Bryce could see that within seconds he would be overwhelmed by the attacking enemy, and he slid down to the base of the bund. Already the NVA were on the opposite side, hurling grenades to clear the Aussie gunners and occasionally reaching over the top to fire their AK-47s down on the gunners below. The gun sergeant realised that they could not hold off against such large numbers, disabled his gun and yelled to his gun crew to get out while they could. Bryce did not need to be told. All he wanted to do was survive.

  Bryce had fallen back amidst a scene of exploding NVA rockets, mortar bombs and the continuous babble of the enemy. He got to a gun crew who were loading splintex shells into the breech with the barrel lowered to horizontal. No artillery tables were needed to calculate fall of shot, as the gunners simply looked over the barrel at the NVA pouring towards them. The splintex antipersonnel artillery shell was like a giant shotgun blast. Each shell contained 7200 small, metal darts invented to tear into massed ranks of advancing enemy, and was devastating. Nearby one of the battery’s guns had been damaged by a rocket blast and its ammunition was being moved to the operational gun.

  The lanyard was yanked and Bryce saw one enemy soldier with an AK-47 directly in front. When the big gun barrel recoiled, the enemy soldier was virtually vaporised by the blast. As quick as the breech was slammed open another splintex round was shoved in. Over his shoulder Bryce recognised a member of the infantry mortar team join them. It was a bad sign; they must have also been overrun. At first the gun sergeant thought his half-second delay on the explosive round had not worked and he immediately changed the fuse to instant detonation. Unknown to the Australian gunners, the half-second rounds had exploded amongst the second wave of NVA forming up to reinforce the first and had decimated them, disrupting their attempt to overwhelm their enemy.

  One of the ammunition supply dumps behind the gun was hit by an RPG, and the high explosive artillery rounds began to burn. Despite the danger, four gunners remained in their positions to guard the battery command post nearby. At least the burning ammo dump provided a reference point for helicopters circling overhead in the dark. Ground-to-air communication soon had the gunships differentiating between friend and foe and they added their deadly firepower in support of the beleaguered gunners. Rockets and machine-gun rounds from the air support tore into the NVA soldiers caught in the open, and this was taking pressure off the desperate gunners. All around the besieged artillery fire-support base the infantry were engaged in their own battles to survive.

  The drone of the C47 overhead was a welcome sound. The aircraft was very much like the venerable DC3 and was armed with mini-guns and flares. Within a moment the noise of its multi-barrelled machine guns could be heard as one continuous roar – like a sheet of cloth being ripped down the middle. The propeller-driven gunships were known to the Aussies as ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’ or simply ‘Puff’. They also went by the names of ‘Snoopy’ and ‘Spooky’. The long hose-like trails of their tracer came down from the sky, sowing four hundred bullets into a ten-metre circle. It was sure death for any NVA within that radius – and the circle would keep moving, seeking out any other enemy caught in the open.

  Bryce was hardly aware of time passing. All he focused on was fusing and handing the heavy rounds to the gun crew he was supporting. There was no let-up in the tenacity of the NVA soldiers pushing forward their attack on the battery position. Despite the heavy concentration of fire on the guns, the artillerymen carried out their duties unflinchingly, firing missions in support of the infantry. Even now, three of the battery’s six guns were dedicated to answering calls of support from the battalions fighting desperately outside the fire-support base. It was a night of deafening explosions and flares drifting in the tropical air.

  *

  Sergeant Major Patrick Duffy watched the battle being fought over the location he knew marked Bryce’s artillery battery.

  ‘Looks like the poor bastards from the arty are copping it,’ Major Stan Gauden said to Patrick as they watched from the company command post.

  Patrick thought about Bryce and prayed that he would survive what he could see was a possible elimination of the artillery unit. He had a sudden image of Bryce as a young boy on Glen View. Bryce would always insist on going bush with Patrick and Terituba, and they would be annoyed by the younger boy’s company. Bryce was no longer an annoying younger boy, but a young man who should have been home working as an engineer, making lots of money and chasing girls. Patrick thought about Jessica and continued to pray that she not have to be told her son had been killed in action. If ever Wallarie was needed to protect a Duffy, it was now.

  ‘I have a feeling we will be in for it soon enough,’ Stan said, gazing at the firework-like display of deadly weapons.

  ‘If what is going on over there,’ Patrick said, ‘is any indication of the scale of operations, we have stumbled into a main force of NVA. A bit more than the intel guys estimated. If they brass the FSB they will come after us, knowing our fire support will be considerably reduced.’

  Stan nodded. For so long now the infantry had relied on the knowledge that when they were in trouble the artillery would be there for them. The major returned to the CP, leaving Patrick gazing out into the Vietnamese night. He knew that when the sun rose the enemy would withdraw in order to avoid being caught out in the open, and they would be an easy target for the prowling ground support aircraft of the American air force. He looked to the east but still could not see the first rays of a rising sun. It was the longest night of his life.

  *

  Bryce could feel the sun on his skin. His senses were hardly working as he slumped, exhausted, onto the red earth of the gun position, amongst the discarded piles of 105-millimetre brass cases. He was aware of jet engines screaming through the thick haze of cordite smoke but also that the sounds of battle were fading. The enemy were falling back to concealed positions, like vampires avoiding the sun. He wondered how he had been able to function during the previous hours of hell, and how he had been able to control his fear and keep going. Bryce glanced across at his SLR only a few feet away and remembered his training. Before he rested he must first clean his rifle. He reached for it with hands that shook so badly he wondered if cleaning his rifle was actually possible. None of the exhausted soldiers on the battleground knew that this was just the beginning of a month-long battle.

  *

  David Macintosh met Sean Duffy at the old man’s favourite pub in Sydney. Sean already had a cold beer on the table in front of him.

  ‘Sit down, Dave. I�
��ve already ordered you a beer,’ Sean said.

  David sat down. It was early morning and only a handful of diehards stood at the bar for their first drink of the day. But David immediately noticed another, half-glass of beer also on the table.

  ‘Do we have company?’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Sean answered evasively. ‘He has just headed off to the gents.’

  When his beer arrived, David took a long sip and wiped away the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘May as well have as many beers as I can before they lock me up,’ he said with a wry smile.

  ‘It’s not going to court,’ Sean said. ‘Markham and his witnesses have pulled out of giving evidence. It is only a formality for me to travel to Canberra to ask for the matter to be dismissed.’

  David was stunned by the revelation. ‘How in bloody hell did you do it?’ he asked. ‘Markham was hellbent on having me convicted.’

  Sean broke into a broad smile and leaned back in his chair. ‘You have a lot more friends than you would ever know, David Macintosh. The Prime Minister is one. I was able to contact his office and request assistance finding someone who I thought might prove to be a good witness in our cause. Using the resources of the government, we were able to track down our man and . . . Ah, here he is,’ Sean said, looking over David’s shoulder.

  ‘Hello, boss,’ the man said to David with a warm smile. ‘Long time no see.’

  David stared at the man standing in front of him and suddenly he was in the jungle of northern New Guinea, discussing a serious matter with a platoon sergeant.

  ‘Bloody hell! Sergeant Harris!’

  Harris reached out his hand and David gripped it. ‘Damn! It has been a few years,’ he said as Harris sat down to retrieve his beer.

  ‘I read about how that bastard Markham was out to get you, and how the papers were saying he was a war hero. I kind of figured that if you punched him out, it had to be natural justice for how he almost got us all killed that day. Then Mr Duffy tracked me down. I live up in Brisbane these days selling real estate. It seems that he was able to find me through my TPI pension record. Anyway, Mr Duffy had a talk to Markham’s legal eagle with me present. His solicitor must have contacted Markham about what I would say in a public court, and there you go – no case to answer.’

  ‘I informed Markham’s legal rep that Sergeant Harris was also going on television to talk about how Markham lost it under your command and should have been court-martialled for cowardice. It seems Markham’s party did not want that kind of public exposure. I believe Markham is going to make a public announcement, that in the spirit of bipartisan co-operation he would rather the matter be dropped. It will make him look magnanimous, but who cares.’

  David raised his glass. ‘To the best bloody lawyer in the country, my Uncle Sean Duffy. And to those of the battalion who are not with us today.’

  Sean and Harris raised their glasses, and they would continue to do so for some time that day. All needed taxis to get home, and David stayed the night with Sean at his old flat. In the morning he prepared to return north to Gail and his new life outside politics. He had no regrets resigning, even when the Prime Minister personally asked him to reconsider, speaking as one former warrior to another.

  THIRTY

  What a day! Sarah Macintosh had called a special meeting of her board to make the announcement. The room was packed, and the board members were surprised to see champagne glasses set before them. Sarah stood at the top of the table, while junior managers went down the table pouring the bubbly wine into each glass.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Sarah said, and a hush fell on the room. ‘No doubt you have read the newspapers, or seen reports on television, about the sudden demise of our opposition. It seems the Duffy companies are crashing. I think it is safe to say that Macintosh enterprises is the last man standing . . .’

  ‘Last woman,’ one of the board members piped up, and a ripple of subdued laughter echoed in the room.

  ‘Last woman standing,’ Sarah smiled, and the room broke into applause and chants of ‘Hear, hear!’

  ‘So, gentlemen, raise your glasses to–’ For a moment Sarah ceased speaking, and everyone in the room could see how pale she had become. She appeared to be staring at the back of the room and one or two board members turned to see what had caused her sudden change of mood. They saw nothing but the wall adorned with portraits of Macintosh men, dating back to Sir Donald.

  But Sarah could see something.

  Wallarie stood as an old man watching her. His face was a dark cloud. Then he disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared.

  ‘Miss Macintosh, are you feeling unwell?’

  The question snapped Sarah out of her trance.

  ‘No, no,’ she hurried to reassure, but her hand trembled, spilling some of her champagne. She sat down, and one of the members rose.

  ‘To the boss, and the ever-upward progress of the Macintosh enterprises.’

  All rose, turning to Sarah, and toasted the queen of the financial empire.

  Sarah hardly heard their praise. It was as if Wallarie had appeared to deliver bad news. At first she was afraid, and then she grew angry. She had finally defeated Jessica Duffy and secured an heir to her empire. Her son would finish his tour and return to Australia. He would marry a young woman of good breeding and produce the next generation to rule over the family empire. If only her father could see how successful she was. Ah, but she had murdered her own father, she remembered without any remorse. Nothing and no one, not even her father, could be allowed to stand in the way of her dynasty. She had won. So why did she feel Wallarie had come to tell her something different?

  *

  Jessica Duffy-Macintosh sat at the kitchen table of Glen View homestead with her husband, Donald.

  ‘So, this is about all we own now,’ Jessica sighed. ‘I am sorry I lost everything. Please forgive me.’

  Donald grasped her hands in his own. ‘There is absolutely nothing to apologise for,’ he said. ‘We still have the property, and now I will have you with me. Running the Duffy companies took you away from me for so long, I am almost glad the business is lost. Maybe my sister has done us a favour. I love you, Jessie. I always have, and now you have the opportunity to take over the local CWA branch.’

  Jessica laughed. ‘There is nothing more important in my life than you and the children,’ she said. ‘I pray every day that God will keep Bryce safe and bring him back to us.’

  Donald had listened to a sketchy radio report concerning a fierce fight over a fire-support base called Coral. All the report said was that a number of soldiers had been killed and wounded. Then the radio news went on to give greater coverage to the demonstrations against the war in the capital cities. Donald reassured himself that if anything had happened to his son he would have known by now, and he did not mention the war news to his wife lest she worry even more. Even so, he was concerned. He had fought at Tarakan, where he had witnessed the horrors exploding shells and small-arms fire could wreak upon the human body. He was not a religious man but he said a small prayer for his son’s safety. To be on the safe side, he also asked Wallarie for his protection. Jessica’s Aboriginal ancestry had well and truly rubbed off on him.

  *

  Trooper Michael Macintosh sat very still; so still that he could almost hear his own heart beating. He stared through the thick undergrowth of the old rubber plantation at the young Vietnamese soldier urinating into the bush opposite him. The enemy was barely three metres away, and for the moment unaware how close he was to an M16 pointing directly at him.

  Michael was with his team of four on a reconnaissance mission to locate the NVA HQ, and they had moved stealthily into the area after a helicopter had dropped them kilometres away. During the night they had been alerted to the sound of a large force moving through their area and had been driven to go to ground.

  But the NVA did not discover the Austr
alian patrol, and the four SAS soldiers had remained very still in their hide. They had taken turns sleeping back to back and were heavily camouflaged.

  At dawn the enemy had stirred in their bivouac and appeared to be readying to move on. No doubt they were headed for an assembly point to join the nightly attacks on the Australian brigade in AO Surfers. All had been going well until one NVA soldier, with an AK-47 slung on his shoulder, had walked across to their hide to relieve himself.

  Michael stared at the young soldier through the foliage and their eyes met. For a moment Michael could see the confused look on the young man’s face, as if he was trying to interpret what he was looking at. He grabbed at his weapon and Michael was forced to fire at almost point-blank range. The soldier fell back with a strangled scream as two shots of high-velocity 5.56 rounds tore into his chest. Michael instantly went to his 40-millimetre grenade launcher situated under the rifle barrel, and fired a high-explosive round at the NVA soldiers already rushing towards his position. The grenade landed amongst a bunched group, flinging them aside as the shrapnel tore into their bodies.

  ‘Gotta get out of here!’ the section leader yelled, leaping to his feet and sprinting in the opposite direction, with Michael and the other two troopers following. Small-arms fire cracked around them as the radio man in the section desperately put in a call for a hot extraction. As highly trained special forces soldiers, they took turns stopping and returning fire at the enemy pursuing them through the dense scrub and rows of old rubber trees. The leapfrog action caused the NVA to fall back to a relatively safe distance but did not stop their pursuit.

  Michael felt something sting the side of his neck and thought it must have been one of the ever-annoying fire ants that lived in the trees. He flung his hand up, found it covered in blood and realised he had been grazed by a bullet. His lungs felt like they were on fire as he used all his fitness to keep ahead of the pursuers. So far all four of the team were still alive as they hurtled towards a predesignated helicopter landing zone. But to their horror they saw figures flitting through the early morning shadows of the trees ahead of them. Michael guessed that it must be another enemy company, alerted to the presence of four SAS soldiers in the area. They were cut off from their Landing Zone. Michael could hear the radioman talking to the pilot of the Huey coming in to rescue them. They had only one hope, and that was to make a right turn and head for the thicker cover of the copse of rainforest trees to their north. They did so, forcing the enemy to follow them into the cover and concealment of the denser undergrowth. For a moment they were safe as the enemy thrashed about, seeking their location.