‘Four fucking hours we’ve been in this sewer,’ snarls a twenty-year-old infantryman as his finger scrapes the collected dust from inside his nostrils.
‘Well I hope they get this over before five o’clock. I’m taking a bird out to dinner,’ cracks some wit looking at his watch, his face a study of mock annoyance.
‘Bloody hard to get a taxi at this hour of night too,’ he adds as an afterthought.
‘Well, I don’t know about you,’ says Bung, ‘but I think I’ll go home and watch television. If I’m lucky I might even catch a war movie.’
‘Shit. Can I come over?’ asks the nose-picking infantryman.
‘Only if you promise not to pick your nose in front of the women. They don’t mind getting their gear off and a bit of perversion, but they do draw the line at nose picking.’
‘OK. Can I bring my whip?’ asks the nose picker.
‘Now look,’ says Bung,’ these girls are all novice nuns on holiday and I don’t want you coming over and boring them to death with dull things like whips.’
Quiet laughter passes up and down the line of ten or so within earshot of the conversation. A series of popping sounds snaps us back from the far-away mood of the hopeless discussion.
‘Mortars!’ screams someone farther up the soggy line of men. No sooner has he spoken than the earth around us erupts, showering us with large clumps of earth and sending waves of screaming shrapnel over our heads.
‘Kiss your arse goodbye,’ sneers Bung as he plunges into the foul water at the ditch bottom, dragging the machine gun after him. Its linked belt snaps down the ditch side like a length of golden intestine, following him into the slime.
A shower of water and mud, mingled with broken rifles and ripped, green-cotton-wrapped limbs, bursts into the air about thirty feet from where Bung’s gun group lies half-submerged.
Then it stops. The only reminder of its savage visit is the cordite smoke that hangs in the air, and the metalpunctured bodies of the wounded.
One of the medics is dragging a casualty over the lip of the ditch, pulling the man after him by the collar. He reaches the flat ground at the ditch front and rolls the man over. A dirty green shirt is ripped from tail to neck revealing a white back spotted with small, contusionringed holes, from each of which runs a rivulet of blood.
‘Where’d they come from?’ asks an infantry sergeant, sitting bent double on the edge of the ditch, his face squeezed into a thousand pain wrinkles as he cups his shattered right elbow in his left hand, the blood plooping from the smashed joint into the dust in a taplike stream. ‘What direction?’
The distant rattle of small-arms fire cuts across the query.
‘B Company have sprung a Charlie mortar platoon,’ calls the signaller lying beside his radio, his ear glued to the headset.
‘Must be the cunts that hit us,’ says the platoon commander, standing knee deep in the slimy water, and wiping his arms with his hat.
A young infantryman, his nerves shaken to the point of no return, lies screaming on the ditch lip while two of his comrades remove the half a dozen or so blood-filled leeches that have attached themselves to the side of his face and behind his right ear.
A medic runs over to where the man lies, drops to his knees beside him and crashes an open palm into the hysterical face.
‘Shut up, fuck you.’
The medic sits the now sobbing figure up and slides his arm around shuddering shoulders.
‘Come on lad, you’re OK.’
The man whimpers and sobs nasally as the medic drags him to his feet and offers him a canteen.
‘Want a drink?’
‘No…’ Shaking his head.
‘OK. Keep your eye on him,’ to the other two.
‘Dustoff’s on the way,’ calls the signaller again.
‘How many?’
‘Didn’t say, sir. Just said they’d scrambled.’
‘Well, we’ll know soon enough. OK. We’ll move back two hundred metres. On your feet.’
‘Here, you want some of this shit?’ Bung throws a one-hundred-round link belt to Harry.
‘Have I a choice?’
‘No bloody way,’ answers Bung slamming the black breech cover down and covering the lead that lies there.
We walk through the dry grass to our new position.
‘How’s he?’ asks Harry of one of the four infantrymen walking beside us. They are carrying one of the stretcher cases, face down, on a dirty green half shelter.
‘Pretty good. The medic just knocked him out with a shot of morphine. He’s got a nice chunk out of his arse though.’
‘Jesus, this bloody thing’s heavy.’ Bung is sweating under the weight of the large black machine gun.
‘Stop moaning, or we’ll give you the radio as well,’ cracks one of the stretcher party.
‘Up yours.’
‘I’M going to kill you,’ says Harry, his face a mask of fury as he enters the tent.
‘Why?’
‘One of those bloody harlots that you organised for that party…’
‘What party?’
‘The party with the two marines in Vung Tau, you stupid shit.’
‘What about the lovely ladies?’
‘One of them’s given me a dose.’
‘Of what?’ I ask, feigning innocence.
‘The jack, you grinning bastard. What do you think?’
‘Ah well, nothing to worry about,’ says Bung, ‘a few jabs in the arse and you’ll be as good as new.’
‘The medic’s taken me off the booze for a week as well.’
‘Now that’s serious,’ says Bung, getting up and taking a green can of fly spray from under his bed.
‘Now come here, Harry my boy.’
Harry follows Bung out into the sunlight. They stop and I see Bung turn quickly and start to spray Harry with the contents of the aerosol can.
‘Unclean, unclean,’ shrieks Bung as Harry begins to chase him down the line of tents and out onto the road. A roar of laughter goes up from the lines as the two figures, one squirting aerosol spray over his shoulder and the other in hot pursuit of his tormentor, tear down the road, leaving a small cloud of dust behind them.
That was the start of a week of torment for Harry. Bung’s new pastimes consisted of piling all of Harry’s belongings on his stretcher and dragging it outside the tent with signs around it which read PLAGUE. DO NOT APPROACH. FOUL GROUND and anything else that his agile mind latched onto.
Finally it all became too much for Harry, and in a fit of revenge he chopped off Bung’s newly acquired pet tree snake with his bayonet. Not to be outdone, Bung held a simple ceremony and then buried the rotting reptile in Harry’s mattress. It stank for weeks.
‘DO you suppose we’re doing any good by being here?’ asks Bung, his feet immersed in a violet solution of Condy’s crystals.
‘Not much,’ answers Harry, scraping the soap from his face with the blunted razor blade, the blood flowing in small streams from the nicked heads of the sweat pimples that nestle in the crease between his neck and chin.
‘Why not?’ asks Bung, cupping some of the violet water in his hands and washing the lower part of his legs. ‘Fucking tinea,’ he adds disgustedly.
‘Because when we get home, we’ll be an embarrassment to all of our wonderful nation. The only bastards who’ll want to know about us are the silly buggers in this man’s army. Let’s face it, we’ve got no one else.’
‘You mean the whole attitude will have changed? About the war, I mean.’
‘Yeah, and the fact that we didn’t win it. Oh, we may have held the fort for a while, but the commos will eventually get hold of this place. It just stands to reason.’
‘And what about the people back home?’
‘Well, I suppose it’ll just be like it’s been after every other war.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Oh, a few bods will come along and pat you on the back and tell you what a good fellow you were. That’ll last about a week, and t
hen no bastard will want to even hear about it.’
‘Are you serious. Do you really think they’ll treat us like that?’
‘Five’ll get you ten I’m serious,’ answers Harry wiping the razor on a piece of green towelling. ‘They’ll make a big deal about it, probably even make it an election issue, and you can bet your arse that within five years, every one of us wearing a uniform from the chief of the general staff downwards will have been sold out by some sticky-fingered bloody politician.’
‘Then what the fuck am I doing here?’ asks Bung, a look of annoyance on his face.
‘You’re a soldier the same as every other silly cunt in this tossed-up, fucked-up, never-come-down land and that’s why you’re here; because there’s no one else, and everyone’s got to be somewhere. And you’re here, so get used to it, pal.’
‘Fucking tinea,’ says Bung returning his attention to the violet liquid that laps around his feet.
The face of the platoon sergeant appears at the tent opening. ‘I just thought that you gentlemen might be interested to learn that the wharfies back home have refused to load our supply ships.’
‘Nice of them, isn’t it?’ says Harry sitting on his stretcher and grinning at the sergeant.
‘Maybe they think they’re doing the right thing,’ says Bung. ‘After all, it is a democracy.’
‘What is?’
‘Australia.’
‘Yeah, if you’ve got enough dough it is.’
‘Beg pardon?’
‘I said if you’ve got enough dough it is.’
‘Why’s that? What’s money got to do with it?’
‘OK, stupid, just take a look around the unit, better still the Task Force. How many silver-spoon types do you see here?’
‘None that I know of. Even most of the officers are pretty poor, money-wise,’ answers Bung, now staring at Harry.
‘Right! And I’m here to tell you that you’re not too bloody likely to see too many, either. It’s the poor man, the shit shoveller with the arse out of his pants and two bob in his pocket that makes Australia.
‘Every time the shit hits the fan there he is, standing like a fool at the recruiting office with his hand out for a rifle, while all the rich boys are hanging on waiting for a commission or for their fathers to get them into a safe job. And while you’re stuck overseas with some other poor bastard from the other side shooting at you, who’s as scared as you are, the rich boys at home are probably down having a bit of a slum and a chop at your bird.’
Harry’s speech falters for a moment. ‘I didn’t mean that.’
‘What? Forget it,’ grins Bung. ‘Mess time. You going to eat?’
‘Nothing else to do.’
‘You may have something there,’ says Bung, picking up his tin plates and following Harry out into the sunlight.
DAWN is breaking. The morning sun is starting to suck the damp out of the plantation and its occupants.
‘Choppers are working overtime,’ mumbles Harry, half asleep, his face hidden from view by the green mosquito net that hangs over his stretcher.
‘Supply or dustoffs?’ comes Bung’s voice from his sandbagged corner of the world.
‘Too early for the supply mob,’ replies Harry, getting up and looking towards the chopper pads.
‘Jesus! There must be a whole squadron parked there; all dustoffs,’ a tone of amazement creeps into Harry’s voice.
Bung and I join Harry at the tent entrance. The three of us stand naked in the dawn light and watch as the green machines disgorge bodies and bearers in an almost endless stream that runs from the landing area to the clearing station.
‘There’s more up there, too,’ says Harry, squinting into the darkness at the small barely visible shapes that hang far off in the air and grow larger by the second as they draw nearer.
‘Wonder who’s copped it,’ Bung queries.
‘No idea. Thank the Jesus it’s not us though,’ replies Harry, now sliding into his camouflage suit and lacing his boots with a well-practised motion.
‘Must be one of the battalions. There’s no one else out is there?’ asks Bung.
‘Not that I know of. Shit, they’ve really taken a beating whoever they are,’ says Harry, rejoining us at the tent doorway.
‘Everyone up. Ready to move in fifteen minutes.’
The squadron sergeant major is running along the line of tents fully dressed and carrying his rifle in his left hand. The supply corporal is following him in small-terrier fashion. ‘Ammunition issue in five minutes.’
‘All patrol commanders report to the orderly room in five minutes.’ The sar-major disappears down the road still followed by the supply corporal.
‘Oh Jesus. Here we go again,’ snarls Bung wrapping his heavily laden fighting belt around his waist.
‘Hope it’s all over by the time we get there. I don’t feel much like playing this stupid bloody game at all today,’ Harry growls, slinging his belt over his shoulder and wincing as the half dozen grenades hanging there smack into his back. ‘Shit, a man’ll be a write-off before he even gets to the bun fight,’ he adds, picking up his rifle and walking out into the early morning air.
‘C’mon, oh fearless spawn of Anzac,’ grins Bung, ‘there’s a whole big war out there just waiting for us.’
Bung and I walk down the road towards the group of men that has assembled in front of the orderly room.
‘Must be a big one.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Either the arse has fallen out of the war or Marshal Ky’s lost his dog.’
‘What’s the news?’ asks Joey Flynn from fifteen section.
‘Don’t know,’ I reply, ‘Bung says Marshal Ky’s lost his dog.’
‘Probably right,’ comes from behind me.
‘OK. Pay attention.’
The OC is standing on an upturned supply carton, slapping his right leg with a half unfolded map.
‘At 0200 hours this morning, the provincial capital, Baria, was overrun by what is believed to be the advance elements of a regular North Vietnamese force.’ He unfolds the map and indicates the printed brown and black rectangle that represents the town.
‘We believe, and I would add at this stage that this is still unconfirmed, that the NVA are in possession of the northern half of the town. This, as you know, incorporates the main square, the bridge and the market, so there’s no use telling you that it’s going to be a walkover. We’ll be air lifted in as soon as the one-seventy-third and the first air cavalry’s choppers have refuelled. Enemy strength on the ground and in action half an hour ago…’ looks at watch, ‘at 0500 was estimated at three hundred plus. They have heavy weapons in support. Any questions so far?’
‘Sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about the ARVN garrison troops?’
‘Funnily enough, no one seems to know where they are at the moment,’ replies the OC, shrugging his shoulders.
‘That’d be right too,’ someone cracks from the rear of the group.
‘Par for the course with them,’ mumbles someone else. ‘Missing, believed shit-scared.’
‘OK. That’s enough. Quieten down. If you can’t say anything nice don’t say anything at all,’ grins the OC.
‘You will be divided into two groups. Patrols one to twenty will travel in the one-seventy-third’s choppers and their objective will be the market. Patrols twenty-one to forty will travel, needless to say, in the first air cav’s choppers and their objectives are the bridge and the main square. Any questions?’
Silence, except for the shuffling of feet and the rustle of equipment.
‘Right. Good luck. Oh yes, I will be in command of the operation, Captain Prowse will be in command of patrols one to twenty. Captain O’Leary will be in command of the other group. Attention.’
We stiffen to attention. Our clothes are already starting to dampen as the sweat trickles down our faces and bodies. My fighting belt is biting into my hip. The sergeant major joins the group and the OC nods in his
direction.
‘Your parade, sar-major.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
The sar-major and the OC exchange salutes.
‘OK. Now listen in. You will draw whatever ammunition you need as soon as you are dismissed. As soon as you’ve done that, you will assemble your patrols in single file on the road here, ready to go in ten minutes.
Every fifth patrol will draw one M-60. Make sure that you all have enough water for two days. Any questions?’
Silence again.
‘Any money?’ smiles the sar-major. ‘OK. Keep your arses down and your wits about you. Good luck. Attention.’ We stiffen our backs and lift our heads again, as the sar-major’s eyes brush over us. ‘Dismiss.’
‘AND what would you like, Bung me boy,’ asks the supply corporal, standing in the midst of a pile of open ammunition cases, his rifle leaning against his left leg.
‘A wet cunt would be nice if you’ve got any,’ replies Bung, raising his eyebrows.
‘Yeah, we’d all like some of that. How about ammunition?’
‘Oh, all right. I’ll have some dry ammunition please.’
‘How much would you like?’
‘Two bandoliers 7.62 and two white phosphorous eggs.’
‘For Christ’s sake, will you get on with it and hurry up,’ groans from behind me.
‘Bite your arse,’ replies Bung. ‘Don’t interrupt while I’m doing my shopping.’
The supply corporal hands Bung the two green cotton bandoliers and the two white painted grenades. Bung slips the bandoliers over his head.
‘Thank you my man.’
‘My pleasure. Do come again. And what would you like?’
‘A plane ticket home.’
And the nonsense conversation continues as the line grows smaller.
‘BUILT for speed, not for comfort,’ mumbles Harry, as he seats himself beside me in the chopper’s port-side doorway.
The hiss of the turbines and the thwack of the rotor blades slicing through the air sharpens my senses as Harry and myself brace ourselves and wait for the aircraft to take off.
Bung is sitting on the rear wall seat between our signaller and a member of sixteen patrol. He starts to sing: ‘We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when but I know we’ll meet again some bloody day.’
The Odd Angry Shot Page 9