We all join in, drawing a look of amazed amusement from the American chopper crew, who, judging by their expressions, obviously think that we have all gone quite mad.
The chopper lifts, dips its nose and moves forward, gaining height as it leaves the airstrip behind.
‘What’s the time by you?’ yells Bung to the signaller, trying to make himself heard over the din of the rotors.
‘What?’ replies the signaller.
‘The time…THE TIME,’ Bung screams.
‘What?’
Bung points to his wrist.
‘Six fifteen,’ replies the signaller.
Harry nudges me in the ribs with his elbow and points down to where the town lies spread out some fifteen hundred feet below us. I notice that small fires are burning all around the market place, at least they look like small fires from where we are. Now and again small orange flashes flare up on the ground and quickly turn into white puffs of smoke as our artillery bursts its way in short five-round patterns among the cluttered buildings. Four dustoff choppers pass us at about five hundred yards’ distance. One of the medics waves to us, we wave back.
‘Hope he’s not looking for customers,’ Harry yells.
‘Morbid bastard,’ I reply.
‘GO.’ The choppers bounce up from the ground as we pile out into the dust clouds raised by the rotor blades. Bits of dry grass and leaves swirl into the air and stick to our arms and faces. The dust is already turning to mud as it covers our clothing and bodies in a thin red film that mingles, as always, with the sweat.
We race towards the canal at the edge of the town, past a small ditch where four or five medics are bent over a line of bodies. I notice that two of the casualties are covered head to foot by a strip of canvas. A crimson stain is seeping through the cloth piece that hides the smashed head of the right-hand corpse. We arrive at the canal wall, flinging ourselves down under the protective brickwork. A burst of fire slams into the wall, ripping into the hard clay and showering us with dust and rock chips.
‘This is a bit bloody hairy,’ snarls Harry, his face looking screwed up and savage. ‘A man could get his arse shot off very easily.’
The enemy fire, well directed and carefully aimed as always, rakes the wall again.
‘OK. Let’s move. Let’s go, let’s go,’ the sar-major is crawling past us, up towards the head of the line that has taken temporary refuge behind the wall. The signaller is crawling, edging his way along through the dust in the sar-major’s wake, chattering into the headset of his radio, calling for mortar support. Almost before he finishes speaking the bombs start to burst on the enemy-held side of the canal. A stray round explodes in the canal itself. An arching wave of mud and water hovers in the air momentarily and falls like spattering excrement on top of us.
The mortar fire stops.
‘See if you can make it to the other side of the road,’ the sar-major calls to Bung who now heads the line. Bung starts to run. He is almost halfway across, running sideways and firing short bursts from the hip, when his feet collide with the corpse of a North Viet soldier that lies spreadeagled, its intestines coiled and broken beside it, near the far side guttering. Bung’s feet slip on the still-moist gut and he falls and rolls flinging his rifle into the air, smashing his face into the bitumen roadway.
He is on his knees, shaking his head as if to try to regain his senses, crawling stupidly back out onto the road in search of his rifle when the knife-like 7.92 Spandau burst catches him full in the side of the head. I see Harry, crouched beside me, close his eyes as our old friend Bung’s face explodes in a hundred, never to be assembled again, jigsaw pieces of flying bone, flesh and once never-lost-for-a-laugh grey brain. Bung’s faceless corpse spins and falls backwards onto the roadway.
‘You stupid cunt, Bung,’ I hear Harry’s voice from beside me somewhere as senses dulled.
I see the sar-major and Harry lurch forward and head for where Bung’s body lies. They leap over the corpse and fling themselves down on the pavement.
‘COME ON! Fuck you! MOVE!’ screams the sarmajor. ‘We’ll cover you across.’
The sar-major’s rifle spits and bucks as he fires a series of short bursts at the enemy position on the fore end of the bridge.
Six of us move forward, leaping over Bung’s body like lambs over a fence. We reach the other side. Miraculously, none of us is hit. Down, sight, just like we did when we were recruits. I yank back hard on the trigger, spraying the enemy position, not letting go until I see the tracer round that lies second from the bottom of the magazine turn its way from the muzzle of my rifle. Hands shove into basic pouch. Change magazines. Cock the rifle. I hear the familiar metallic slap as the bolt guides a new round into the chamber. Squeeze the trigger again. The spent cartridge cases rise in a golden arc from the right-hand side of my rifle. Stoppage. Jesus Christ, what a time to get a stoppage. Cock the rifle. Look inside the chamber. It’s clear. Thank Christ it’s not a jammed case. Spin the gas regulation down one notch, release the bolt, continue firing.
Remember what the man said: ‘Look after your rifle and it’ll look after you.’
Funny how the man never told us what to do when you trip on an enemy corpse. Well, you can’t cover everything in a drill manual can you?
Harry is edging forward, the white egg-shape of a phosphorous grenade in his right hand.
‘Keep firing. Cover him,’ the sar-major is yelling again. I’m scared and he is starting to give me the shits…always yelling.
Harry lunges forward, runs ten or so feet and flings the grenade. Heads down, hide your faces.
The grenade explodes with a sharp, almost ridiculous, crack and a fountain of deadly white phosphorous showers onto the enemy position.
A North Viet soldier, his head on fire, runs shrieking onto the road, twisting, squirming arms flailing the air as he tries desperately to extinguish the flames.
‘One for Bung,’ smiles the signaller lying beside me, as he sends a burst into the screaming man’s legs.
The North Viet collapses writing on the ground.
‘Finish him off,’ someone calls.
‘Let the cunt burn,’ replies the signaller, the cold smile still on his face.
The sar-major sights and puts a round into the head of the screaming enemy.
‘Who’s the fucking humanitarian?’ grunts the signaller, changing magazines.
WE move across the bridge in single file, past the smouldering corpse. The smell of roasted flesh hangs thickly, sick-sweet, in the air as we pass the enemy gun crew, roasted, still manning their guns now damaged beyond repair by Harry’s grenade.
I look behind me and see a medic cutting Bung’s lower dog tag from the green cord that circles our dead comrade’s throat.
My toe has cracked open again. Bloody tinea.
‘How does the saying go?’ asks Harry from behind me.
‘What saying?’
‘“You knew the job was dangerous when you took it.” That saying.’
‘Oh that saying,’ I reply.
A gunship passes over our heads and makes several sweeps across the market place. Puffs of smoke drift from the electrically operated Gatling guns mounted just above its skids as it rakes the wooden buildings.
A dirty, brown-coloured dog runs past us and stops next to the North Vietnamese corpse that claimed Bung. Wagging its tail, it dips its head then races down the road and across the bridge, a length of grey intestine dangling from its mouth. No gun carriages here…and it’s cheaper than Pal.
‘Got a cigarette?’ Harry asks, lengthening his step and moving up beside me.
I am waiting for him to mention Bung.
He takes the cigarette and falls back in behind me.
He says nothing.
THE rain, the most welcome mid-morning rain, starts to splash down on the smashed town in large heavy drops, drenching and cooling friend and enemy alike. Small bursts of popping, sizzling steam rise from the charred and smouldering market place. No one relaxes.
>
Our tired, sweaty assault group, wet clothes hanging from our smelly bodies like soaked sheets of newspaper, lies peering into deserted and burning buildings. Seventeen patrol, struggling under the weight of their M-60 and several green-painted ammunition canisters, moves up past the three-tread concrete steps behind which Harry and myself shelter. Harry is reloading the small jewel-box-size magazines of his Armalite from several compact white cardboard packages, each stamped repetitiously with the words REMINGTON CAL .222.
‘Finished,’ he mutters as he shoves a fresh magazine into the open metal housing that sits like a square toothless mouth in the belly of his weapon. His index and middle fingers hook themselves over the T shape of the cocking handle and the tendons stand out in uniformly spread lines on the back of his hand as he draws the bolt back then releases his grip to let it crack hungrily forward in search of the shiny new round.
The rain, cooling and welcome half an hour ago, now becomes irritating. The whole thing has gone beyond a joke. No more warrior camaraderie now. Each of us sits and waits for the counter-attack that we know must come soon.
NO more striving to become part of the efficient professional world of the professional soldier. Fuck their professionalism. The war has been lost, we realise it at last. The politicians and we the imbecile followers, imbeciles to follow, know that we have been betrayed for a political lie. Yet we are here, we can’t go home when it’s over, when the protest is over or when the RSL closes.
We are stuck here, refusing to admit defeat, an army of frustrated pawns, tired, wet and sold out. Yet we still believe in our task; still, after all this, we are bound together all over the world, friend and enemy alike, the soldier, the green-clad, second-class citizen of the earth, more professional in our hopelessness than all the other professional men of the world put together.
We charge no high fees to defend a grubby street. We demand no increases in rates to make calls at night. We will arrive at any dictated hour to join in our pastime—to hunt and dispose of each other in the ultimate test of the mind, the reward of which is life for another day, another week. You have angered us, all of us, your praetorians from the red tabs downwards are angry.
You have lied to us for the last time. We, the survivors, will come home, will move amongst you, will wait, will be revenged.
‘You blokes like a biscuit?’ The signaller extends a hand. Harry and I take a hard slab of oatmeal from the brown paper package held between grubby wet fingers.
‘Ta awfully,’ comes from Harry’s oatmeal-filled mouth.
STEAM rises from the road as the sun reclaims its cooling water, drying our faces and clothes. Islands appear, white-ringed salt cakes drawn on acne-covered, green-hidden backs.
‘What’s that place?’ a finger points, sabring the air towards the yellow walled building with sepia rust bleedings smeared down its sides.
‘It’s the orphanage.’
‘You four. Over the wall and see if it’s clear.’
‘Call down some artillery. Why not?’
‘Might be kids in there. Can’t take the chance. The newspapers would have us for breakfast if we called a fire mission on kids.’
‘Don’t see too many newspapermen around here.’
‘Don’t argue. Just do it.’
‘Bugger the kids.’
Four men dive across the street. A rifle ridges two pairs of hands as a dirty boot with white worn toe leather springs up from the ground, pauses on it for a moment, then swings over the wall.
‘OK.’ Muffled.
The other three scramble up the yellow stone and vanish.
‘Glad it’s not me,’ hisses Harry, blowing his nose on his fingers.
I can’t be bothered answering him. Two large blue flies perform a love ritual on my left forearm. I brush them away savagely, annoyed by their presence and the possibility of their enjoyment.
Up from behind the steps and make for the next doorway. A short burst of fire, then the familiar crump of a grenade as another building is cleared and exchanges loyalties.
‘How many were there?’
‘Two only.’ Two fingers held aloft signify the kill.
‘How’s your ammunition?’
‘Fine, how’s yours?’
‘Well set up at the end of this street.’ The sar-major is yelling again. ‘Move out. GO.’
We run the thirty or so yards to where the street ends in a confusion of broken masonry and projectile-chiselled holes. Smoke drifts from a small crater in the road. M-60 bipods clatter to the ground, push forward, sliding into fire positions as gun crews shelter behind thirty-six-inch black barrels and chained ammunition, consoling their weapons with grunts and boot shuffles, dragged through the town by their black, reptilian protectors.
Magazines changing, hooking, pulling back and clicking home. Familiar sounds again.
A water bottle arcs up from the half-diamond sweat patch of a green back and glues itself to its supplicant’s dry lips. There’s a purpose for everything. Even insanity.
Scan the tread soles, the worn tread soles of combat boots, green cotton pulled lash tight over bent knees and thighs.
A pair of hands followed by a head appears at the lip of the orphanage wall.
‘Seems to be clear.’
‘What’s in there?’
‘Only a few nuns.’
‘Do they screw?’ comes from the cigarette-punctuated mouth of a machine gunner. A few of us laugh. Most of us don’t even bother to listen.
‘Sir,’ the signaller is calling the sar-major.
‘Yeah?’
‘Sunray, sir. We’re ordered back. Choppers on the way.’
The four scouting infantrymen slide back over the wall, the last one ripping his shirt on the iron railing as he drops to the roadway.
‘OK. Pull back.’
‘Sir?’ The signaller again.
‘What now?’
‘Sunray’s congratulations on taking the bridge.’
‘My compliments to Sunray. Inform him we’re moving back now.’
‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it. A whole morning’s work for nothing,’ grunts Harry getting to his feet and blowing his nose on his fingers.
‘ARE you awake?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re going home.’
‘What?’ Sitting up.
‘You’re going home.’
‘Who?’
‘You.’
‘Just me?’
‘No. You and you.’ The 2 IC’s pointing finger sweeps, stops, hovers at Harry and myself.
‘How soon can you be ready?’
‘Soon as you like, sir.’
‘Right. There’s a Caribou to Saigon in an hour, correction, fifty minutes. Hand your weapons in as soon as possible.’
‘I don’t believe it…YOU FUCKING SCREAMER.’ Harry is jumping up and down and yelling, shaking my hand, laughing.
A few sets of camouflage clothing thrown into kitbags. Boots blackened…impossible to shine. Half-clean set of green fatigues. Thrown on badges. Ribbon bars pinned on shirts.
Weapons handed in. Look after your rifle, it’ll look after you. Try to picture home streets, old friends, families. Be there soon.
‘There’s no pull-through here.’ The supply corporal.
‘Aw Jesus, who cares?’
‘OK. Forget it. Have a good trip, you lucky bastards.’
‘Yeah. Look after yourself.’
Packed, ready.
One last look around the tent. Bye Shaw, Bung, footless Rogers.
Walk down the road… ‘Hey, cookie!’
‘Yeah?’
‘GET FUCKED.’
‘You too.’
Handshakes. Harry and the cook.
‘Look after yourself, cookie.’
‘You too.’
HARRY and I. Sydney Airport. More handshakes.
‘Wanna beer?’
‘Wanna beer?’
‘Why not?’
‘When’s your flight?’
/> ‘Eight tomorrow.’ Climb the stairs to the bar.
Red carpets. Carpets. When was the last time…
‘Two of your best beers, please.’
‘You just back from Vietnam?’
‘No,’ answers Harry.
‘Oh.’ The barman moves away.
Harry and I grin at one another. Looks at his watch.
‘I gotta make a telephone call.’
‘See you downstairs.’ And on my own, I start thinking. Now for tribute and trappings…War Service Homes and new, second-hand Holdens. All one has to do…
‘Another beer?’
‘Thanks.’
…is raise the deposit. Bullshit’s a deposit. Festooned. Still dust carrying. Still with tinea. Open your gates. Strew my path with the roses of your admiration, and I shall strut, medals, wings, badges flailing on my trusty free gift to all the participants; Boots, General Purpose…slightly used. Smile knowingly.
Pitch your condescending change to the organ grinder’s monkey dressed in his green. Well, green once. (The girl beside me at the bar is making gestures as if to advertise the fact that I stink.) And I will lick up the droplets of your pitying safety and clutch them to my inept self, and sniff the dog’s arse of your offerings, and let the wash of your pious love hang about my ears as the lace curtain of my military halo.
Shake your heads and let the small change purses of your mouths, so elegantly preened and purged of all grossness, whisper and grunt platitudes.
HARRY is at the bottom of the stairs, his right foot resting on a large green kit bag.
‘Well,’ he asks. ‘What now?’
‘Let’s get pissed,’ I answer.
‘We’ll drop this shit off first.’ He indicates his kit bag, ‘And see if we can grab two harlots. Just for fun, eh?’
‘What a nice idea,’ I grin.
Back at the Watsons Bay Hotel.
‘Two beers please,’ says Harry. Looks at me. Lapses into fluent cliché.
‘Hasn’t changed a bit has it? Seems like only yesterday.’ The beer drips from my chin and onto my shirt front.
‘What, this joint?’
The Odd Angry Shot Page 10