by Kim Newman
"Bollocks!" said Terry.
Two shells landed in front of them in rapid succession, spattering loose change against the wall.
Bob's ears were ringing.
"They're comin'," said Casper quietly, from behind his rifle-sight. "Usin t'mud banks in t'paddy for cover. I see at least five. Can't get a bead on any yet."
"I'll tell Snudge and get the ammo," said Butler, crawling at speed towards the middle of the village.
Moments later, a vast cage of hot metal enveloped them. Mortar shells exploded all around, machine-gun bullets hammered the dirt wall. Any more and the wall would simply disintegrate.
Bloody Yanks.
The Mekon's Communist Allies, the United Socialist States of America, were pledged to support North Vietnam and the Viet Cong to the hilt. Except there were no actual Yanks in Indo. They'd learned a lesson invading Japan in '45 and liked to get others to do their fighting in the Pacific Rim. There was a supply route—the Casey Jones Trail—running through the warring statelets that used to be China, all the way down to Cambodia. By the feel of it, all that Yank ordnance was being delivered right here.
Casper fired, smoothly slid his rifle-bolt back, then forward, and bit his lower lip. He'd got one.
Butler came back, dragging two wooden boxes behind him. "Help yourselves," he said. One box contained smooth, round phosphorus grenades—gold-tops. In the other were the Mills bombs—pineapples— beloved of the Commando comics Bob and Terry had read as kids.
They spaced out behind the wall, laying out grenades and spare magazines. They'd lost interest in digging in.
There was a bigger than usual explosion behind them. Black smoke. Popping and zipping noises. The Mekon's mortars had brewed up one of the lorries, and plenty of spare ammunition by the sound of it.
Bob was breathing too fast. Was this what a panic attack felt like?
"Terry?" he shouted.
"Kiddo?" said Terry, tightening the chinstrap on his helmet.
"Nothing," said Bob.
"Aye, mate," said Terry, smiling. "Me too."
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At the far end of the wall, the Bren opened up. Short, intense bursts hammered like a pneumatic drill. Casper fired over and over, working his rifle-bolt like the pistons of the Flying Scotsman.
Bob peered over the wall, saw the top of a head—a shock of black hair—over a little mud-bank a hundred yards off. He aimed, squeezed the trigger—almighty bang!—and missed. The Bren tore up water and mud. Bob jammed himself against the wall, head well down, and held the rifle over his head with both hands, working the trigger with his thumb, trying to stop the thing flying out of his hands, firing in the general direction of the enemy.
A gold-top exploded like some pure white blossom, sending thin trails zipping out in every direction, searing squiggles into his eyeballs. Gleaming aluminium roared overhead. Trees burned like a Guy Fawkes bonfire.
"Canberras!" shouted Butler.
"English Electric Canberras," said Bob.
The napalm and the heat of the engines made the air look like the clear, freezing water of a brook in the Yorkshire Dales.
The Main Humanities Lecture Hall of the University of Sussex was packed to capacity. Students even sat cross-legged in the aisles. There were nearly a thousand of them out there, all impossibly young and fresh. Bob had only a couple of years on the older ones, but they looked like they came from another world. Clean-cut girls in college scarves and duffel-coats; Beetniki aping Russian style in goatee beards, bell-bottoms and Afghan coats; clever, angry lads from pit villages and factory towns; ironic, waspish waifs who had failed Oxbridge entrance and were going the plateglass route.
"Settle down, please," said Dr. Dixon from the podium.
Bob hadn't wanted to come, but Kenneth had pleaded. It would get into the papers, it would sell more of books.
He glanced across the stage at the men with whom he would debate. Francis Urquhart, the local MP, was talking down to the bewildered Jim Hacker, a former Eden protege serving his time as a Junior Minister. The government spokesmen sat unsubtly to the right, while Bob was next to Howard Kirk, reader in Sociology, who took the extreme left. Author of The Russians Can Bloody Have Constantinople, a book about radical opposition to British imperialism, the long-haired academic smoked a roll-up with casual arrogance.
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"I suppose this is as quiet as it's going to be," said Dixon, nervously, "perhaps we can get started."
There was a uproar and cheering as a group of students unfurled a long banner. They wore American-style broad-brimmed hats and sleeveless leather jackets with red tin sheriff star badges. Dixon attempted an apologetic smile that came out as a grimace. The thirty-foot-long banner declared WORKERS AND INTELLECTUELS UNITE AGAINST ANGLO-RUSSIAN IMPERIALISM IN INDO-CHINA.
Urquhart sneered at the misspelling. Hacker asked to have it pointed out, then laughed loudly at "intellectuels". Men with cameras—press?— took pictures of the banner.
His book had been out for five weeks and garnered good reviews. Bernard Levin, Malcolm Muggeridge and Christopher Booker praised him in the Times, Punch and the Statesman. Even a blimp called Brigadier Alistair Lethbridge-Stewart, drafted by the Daily Telegraph to pass comment, acknowledged Bob had "seen a thing or two," though he finally dismissed the book as "a rather insolent eructation from the ranks".
Dixon introduced the panel. The politicians were hissed, which upset Hacker but steeled Urquhart's contempt for young people. Kirk grinned and waved at the regimented clapping which greeted him. This was not an impartial crowd.
"And finally," said Dixon, "an Indo-China veteran who, as author of It Aint Half Hot, Mum, has done much to bring into the public arena questions about British involvement in the war."
Students cheered and whistled. For himl They kept on cheering. Kirk was a bit put out. Bob was puzzled, but thrilled. At last, he had his hero's welcome, from people who had looked down at him all his life.
"Perhaps we could begin," said Dixon, "by asking Bob for an assessment of the feelings of the ordinary soldier about service in Indo-China. Do the troops feel as though they don't belong there?"
Over and again, Captain Vinh had asked the same question, between punches, slaps, and blows from rifle-butts. Bob never did have an answer. For Vimto or anyone else.
"To be honest," he said, "most squaddies have no strong opinion on whether they should be there or not. They've been called up..."
"What I think Bob's trying to say," interrupted Kirk, "is that our soldiers have been lied to by the British and Russian governments. Well over ninety percent of our servicemen in Indo-China are conscripts..."
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"What I think Bob's trying to say," interrupted Urquhart, "is that our splendid lads are doing their duty like honest, loyal patriots..."
"What I think Bob is saying is..." interrupted Hacker.
He never got the chance to finish. The hall erupted. Some students jeered and whistled, the others chanted "Heavens no, we wont got'
Most boys here would have National Service deferred so they could complete their education. Then they'd be called up. At least half would end up in Indo during their two years. Bob wasn't sure how he felt about the politics, but he honestly couldn't blame them for not wanting to go. He'd been stupid enough to volunteer.
"This war is none of our business," shouted Kirk above the din, to huge cheers. Urquhart tried to say something about an international duty to save the world from the evils of American Communism. Hacker looked queasy.
Over to the side of the stage, a tall, muscular middle-aged bloke in a suit, short hair, thin lips, definitely ex-military—Hacker's bodyguard?— spoke into a walkie-talkie.
A knot of men in brown corduroy trousers and polo-neck sweaters moved rapidly down the left hand edge of the hall towards the stage. Bob knew at once these were serious people, not like the rich poseurs wearing Red Chic slouch hats
and tin stars.
He reached for the commando-knife taped as always to his ankle. Then he remembered he was the hero here. They'd be after the MPs.
Objects flew.
Bob's entire body flinched, and he fought the urge to throw himself flat on the stage. He heard explosions and gunfire, but it was just the slamming of spring-hinged wooden seat-bottoms as kids stood up.
He looked at Hacker and Urquhart, who were cringing behind a human wall. The bodyguard's broad back was splattered with egg-yolks.
Bob shook, uncontrollably.
With a straight face, Captain Fisher assured us our action had been an outstanding success. We had killed fifteen Viet-Cong, wounded another twenty and captured two machine guns and 42 assorted small-arms, all American-made. We listened in astonishment. There was only our platoon involved and as soon as the Raf pounded what may or may not have been enemy positions, the treens just faded away. I only saw a single dead enemy — the one Casper hit — and we certainly didn't carry off any weapons. Our score was one dead lieutenant — posthumous VC, of course, for the 14th Earl — and
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three men wounded. Nonetheless "Billy Liar" wrote it up as a victory. I don't know if anybody higher up the chain of command really believes him, but my impression is that we are sinking further into the mire oflndo because "Fisher" is too soft-hearted to tell his superiors how badly we're doing. In turn, they are too timid to tell the generals, who keep the worst of it from Enoch Powell, who tells the King we won the War in 1964. The only people who realise were losing are sergeants, and they're as inscrutable as hateful buddhas. If they had any opinions of their own, they'd die rather than let them out. Believe me, I've seen that happen.
In the senior common room Bob drank whisky with Dixon, Kirk and a few others. After the Minister and the MP fled, Kirk had turned the meeting into an anti-war rally, hijacking Bob's book for his political ends. Bob flustered and turned red at first, but part of him enjoyed the hero-worship of a thousand passionate and intelligent young people. And it was hard to argue with Kirk's line that Britain had no business in Indo-China.
Dixon came over, evidently half-cut. "You know, old man, we tried to get your pal to come along." lerry?
The name was a stone in Bob's mouth.
"He's controversial, isn't he? Does he mean it?"
He was vaguely surprised Terry hadn't come up earlier.
"Yes, Dr. Dixon."
"Jim, please."
"Yes, Jim. Terry means what he says."
Bob hadn't seen Terry since coming back, and Terry had made no attempt to contact him. Most people thought what Terry had done was treasonable, but Bob hadn't written it that way. The least he could do was give his oldest friend the benefit of a doubt.
Would Terry have got three cheers from the students? Yes, he probably would.
"Hello," said a woman. Bob looked into startling eyes. She was in her late teens or early twenties and slim, with long straight hair and an elfin face. She wore blue corduroy bell-bottoms and an embroidered Afghantsy coat.
"Bob, this is Diana. Diana Scott."
"I'm a drama student," she said. "I'm with Howard. Dr. Kirk."
Bob guessed what that meant. Lucky bastard.
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A woman in early middle aged bustled into the room, all smiles and theatrical kisses.
"Who's that?" said Bob.
"Howard's wife," admitted Diana. "Probably come to collect him. It's her birthday. They're going to the theatre. The latest Rattigan. Howard's looking forward to shredding it."
He looked funny at her, trying to work it out. She sighed and smiled indulgently. Bob must seem amazingly provincial to her. He was painfully conscious of his accent.
"It's an open marriage. They're well-known for it. They regard wedlock as patriarchal and exploitative."
Bob had read about this kind of thing in the Observer. Him and Thelma would be in bed together of a Sunday morning, with the papers. He'd make fun of it, but secretly be envious; she'd be disgusted, but be secretly threatened.
That was back when they were still sharing a bed. Recently, Thelma was losing interest in sex, and objected to him screaming in his sleep. Then there was the business of keeping the commando-knife under the pillow. Just in case burglars came in when they were asleep, he said.
Everybody nagged them both about having kids.
"Come on, Bob," said Diana. "I don't want to spend the rest of the evening drowning in sherry with these tweedy codgers. There's a wine bar just opened in town. From there we can go on to a discotheque."
They had 72 hours' leave. Lieutenant Noote, the padre, had tried to muster a team for "a game of footer against our ARVN friends." Bob was deputed to tell him that the platoon would rather spend time in Saigon.
It was hard to explain without mentioning whores. Bob knew Noote understood the situation exactly, but still felt guilty for disappointing the poor man. The padre was okay.
He tried not to think about Thelma.
During awkward pauses in the conversation, Noote's office rattled with skiffle from his wireless. Mostly, the Forces Broadcasting Service played ballads and big band, but there was one anarchic announcer— Simon Dee—who played Lonnie Donegan, Chas McDevitt and Ray Ellington, and was starting to give needle-time to radical new music coming out of Russia and Ireland and even Great Britain.
You never heard Lulu or Cilia Black, who sang as if they were desperate for a shag, on Two-Way Family Favourites, and certainly you never heard
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Alan Price or the Quarrymen, or Newcastle's own People's Balladeer, Alan Hull. Those songs made Bob feel things he'd couldn't say out loud. Angry, joyous, sexual, Northern things. He couldn't hear Price's "Kalinka" without wanting to explode, and there was something dreadful in the Quarrymen's "gallant cossack horsemen in their thousands dying" he couldn't get out of his mind.
Saigon would have been wonderful if there wasn't a war on. All the mystery of the orient combined with the chic of France, the former colonial power. Many of the buildings are elegant, the food — if you can be bothered to wander beyond the NAAFI — is a marvellous mixture of French and oriental, the streets are full of bustle and life. Whole families riding on Russian motorbikes, street traders selling cigarettes and souvenirs, kids asking for buckshee... and the women. But before a squaddy could find himself a nice girl and exchange ten shillings for three or four minutes of true love, he had to get tanked up. That was easy in Saigon, if dangerous. Walking into a bar where the Anzacs were drinking was asking to be duffed up. When Aussies get more than two "tubes" of Fosters in them, they start wondering what they are doing in Indo. Then they reason Britain got them in the war. Their next impulse is to find a Pom and knock his teeth out.
The air was thick with the screeches: a I want you give me one, Tommy." " Bet you fancy me, Brian." " Sucky-fucky, ten-bob note?
As Terry negotiated with some fifteen-year-old street angel, her younger sister was draping herself around Bob, fingers fluttering against his fly.
"I love you long-time, Tommy," she cooed in his ear. "Do you fine knee-trembler."
Butler came along and unpeeled the girl.
Bob wanted to deck the cockney bastard. But he was also grateful. The longer he was in Indo, the harder he found it to be unfaithful to Thelma. At first, like everyone, he had been on holiday; all arrangements were suspended, all bets were off. Sex was affordable and available all the time, and no one thought less of you for whoring.
Every time, he thought more about Thelma and disappointed himself. The funny thing was that sometimes he couldn't even remember what Thelma looked like.
All around him were tiny, pretty faces. Almond eyes dark as night, tiny teeth sharp as pins.
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"Watch the door, our kid," Terry said, as he and Bob went upstairs.
Bob nodded.
Often, s
oldiers were interrupted in flagrante by chopper-waving young men claiming to be brothers or fiances of supposedly nice girls. It took a lot more than ten bob to square them.
Down the street, a radio was playing. "A Mouse Lived in a Windmill in Old Amsterdam" by Ronnie Hilton. All signs were in faded French and Vietnamese, battered English and new-painted Cyrillic. Everywhere, there were posters for Vimto. Some of the whores believed douching with the stuff prevented conception and VD.
The Russians were taking over in Indo-China, relieving the British in the south, particularly the Mekong and the Piedmont areas. The Brits ran the show on the coastal plains and the highlands, where most guerilla activity was. HM Forces had more practice at dealing with that than Ivan. Popeye Popplewell said the year before you could get "sucky-fucky" in Saigon for half a crown. The Russkies drove prices up, and wore girls out. They did everything to excess. Including, so dark rumour had it, commit war crimes.
A staff car cruised by, scattering children. In the back, an ARVN officer sat bolt upright, with more braid on his uniform than a cinema usher. With him sat a veiled Dragon Lady, one of the daughters of Fu Manchu.
An ox-cart got in the way and the car stopped. The officer stood up to shriek at a peasant, who shrugged. The officer ordered his driver to reverse. The Dragon Lady leaned forward to whisper in the driver's ear and something flashed. The driver's head tilted back, a red yawn opening in his throat. Bob saw, but the officer didn't.
A tiny gun went off, and the top of the officer's head came off in his hat. He tumbled out of the car like an unstrung Muffin the Mule.
The Dragon Lady vaulted out of the car, ao dai riding up to reveal bare and boyish calves. She paused, pointing a gloved hand at Bob. Her ladylike gun was almost swallowed by her velvet fist.
His guts were ice. The sound was turned way down.
A breeze lifted the veil and he saw a man's face. A European face. The world wasn't making sense.
Then he was gone and noise fell in on Bob. Ronnie Hilton was still singing that a windmill with mice in was hardly surprising. The staff car's engine was still turning over.