Desolation Game

by Greg McLean

‘Ah, so you folks headed up through the Little Sandy Desert . . . Because if you are . . .’

  ‘What I miss?’ the cute number with the long blonde hair and straw hat said, returning from the bathroom.

  ‘My charming conversation,’ Clapper said.

  ‘Oh, well, okay. Hello,’ the girl said as she sat down at one of the tables.

  ‘Hello, pretty miss. I was just saying that you should stop off at Durba Springs if you were heading that way. Lovely spot to camp.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, that’s just where we’re heading after we leave here,’ the pretty blonde said.

  ‘Yeah, we were going to camp at Rudall River National Park, but, well, we kinda decided against that,’ said the first young man.

  ‘Yeah, don’t blame ya,’ Clapper said. ‘It’s a fair hike to Rudall River. Anyway, Durba Springs is nicer. Also, if you head a little further east . . .’

  Mick had heard enough.

  He waited for Terrance to bring the group their food before sculling his beer and slipping outside, his steak and chips left half eaten. So as not to make a scene earlier, he made sure he paid for the meal upon ordering rather than at its conclusion. Terrance had given him a strange look, but he’d happily taken the money.

  As Mick walked past the group’s van, he saw that it was one of the ones popular with the hippies. He had seen Kombis brightly painted with flowers and peace symbols, doves and words such as ‘love’. He’d even seen ones with portraits of rock stars painted on their sides. This van simply had ‘Sand Surfer’s Overland Wilderness Tours’ painted on the side in red and white writing (the ‘wild’ part of ‘wilderness’ was in a different, curvier font). It was a remarkably plain and boring VW.

  Still, the sight of the hippie van aroused feelings of anger within Mick. It reminded him of the war protests, long-hairs standing on vans such as these and shouting at him, acting like the war was his fault. Goddamn hippies. What the hell did they know about the war? What did they know about him and what he had done over there?

  They called him a killer, a coward.

  Sure, he was a killer. Christ, if they only knew. If those pale, skinny kids with their long hair and funny clothes knew what he had done in Vietnam, they’d probably pass out.

  Many a night he had dreamt about taking a bunch of protesters out into the desert, setting them free and hunting them like he had hunted the VC. Give them a taste of what war was like. What fear was like. What death was like.

  But that had only been a dream, a fantasy that helped him reach climax and keep sane.

  Now, it looked like fantasy might turn into reality. The group inside weren’t hippies, but they were close enough. In fact, they were better than protesters.

  They were tourists. Alone in this great wide state.

  At the mercy of the environment.

  At the mercy of predators.

  Mick hurried around to the back of the roadhouse, to where he had parked his truck. He hopped in and rolled away from Emu Flat.

  Instead of heading back towards the Great Northern Highway (the quickest route from his mine to the roadhouse), he hopped onto the old dirt track that led to the Rudall River Highway. He waited until he was a little ways from the roadhouse before stepping on the accelerator.

  He wanted to find a good position and be set up before the van arrived.

  Just like in Vietnam, he was going to put his sniping skills to good use.

  Mick grinned.

  Vietnam. What a time he’d had over there – in many ways, it was the best time of his life.

  3

  Vietnam

  August 1966

  ‘Christ, it’s bloody humid!’

  Mick takes a bite of a cheese-covered biscuit and looks over at Woody. Young, lanky Russ Woods is wiping his face with his sweat rag.

  ‘I’m from Glenelg – I’m not used to this bloody humidity,’ Woody continues. ‘Christ, I thought Canungra was bad. What I wouldn’t give to be on the beach, sucking back a few cans of VB.’

  He’s talking to no one and everyone.

  There are a few grumbles among 13 Platoon, but most of the grunts are too buggered to do much else other than murmur in acknowledgment.

  They’re currently stretched out on a muddy dirt road a short distance from the seaside village of Long Hai. They’ve stopped to bolt down a quick feed and to gather themselves before heading off on the afternoon’s operation.

  ‘And I hate this cheese. It tastes like Sluggo’s pants smell.’

  The machine gunner sticks his finger up at Woody. ‘Well then hold ya nose while ya eat,’ Bill ‘Sluggo’ Short says. ‘Then have a quick drink of brew. But most of all, stop bloody complaining.’ He shakes his head and mutters, ‘Hell, there’s one in every platoon.’ He sips his coffee.

  Woody sighs. ‘But this brew tastes almost as bad as the cheese.’ He takes off his bush hat and starts fanning his face.

  ‘I like it,’ Mick says, finishing off his meagre lunch of ham and lima beans, cheese and crackers. He licks his grimy fingers, tastes a combination of gritty mud and the smokehouse-flavoured imitation cheese.

  ‘Christ, Bushie, how can you like that shit?’ Woody says, placing his hat back on his damp head.

  ‘Squizzy likes shit, that’s why,’ another bloke answers.

  Mick turns and stares at Fred ‘Stretch’ Perry. The tall, wiry second scout is grinning at him. His off-white teeth appear luminous surrounded by the dark face paint. His beady eyes reveal contempt for Mick – a feeling that is more than mutual.

  Mick has only been in-country for six days. He’s still getting to know his platoon, but most of the guys seem okay – even the commander and sergeant seem like decent blokes, for skippers, that is. But Mick has taken an instant disliking to Stretch. For starters, he’s a nasho. There are a number of them in 13 Platoon, and while Mick has less respect for the national servicemen, most are harmless enough. A few even seem to have a pair. But Stretch is different. For a nasho, he’s unreasonably cocky. The six-foot-six kid doesn’t even want to be here, and yet he still has the gumption to act like he’s a born soldier, coming from a long line of soldiers. Mick can at least understand a nasho who is scared, crapping his pants at every mortar bomb. But a nasho who acts like he can kill every Charlie from here to Hanoi? That rubs Mick the wrong way. He even has ‘Don’t fuck with me: I’m a Nasho’ scrawled on the back of his brimless bush hat.

  But it isn’t just his unduly cockiness: Stretch Perry has been riding Mick ever since he landed in the Dat less than a week ago. Mick isn’t sure, but he thinks the digger Mick replaced was a friend of Stretch’s – after all, he’s sharing a tent with him.

  ‘What, you got somethin’ to say to me, Bushie? Six days in country and already you think you got balls of steel?’

  Mick huffs, finishes off his brew and snaps the handle down on his mug. ‘Nah, they’re not made of steel. I’ll let you fondle them tonight so you can see what they’re made of.’

  Guffaws spread throughout the platoon: even Sergeant Atkin is laughing.

  Stretch isn’t.

  ‘Good one, Squizzy,’ Woody says.

  Mick winks at Stretch, and then turns away.

  A short time later Lieutenant Patterson calls the section commanders in for a briefing. Lunch break is over and it’s time to head off.

  Mick looks behind. His lunch partner, the quiet, sullen forward scout Daniel Merritt, is still listening to his transistor, so Mick nudges him. ‘Rowdy’, as the others call him – a lame nickname, Mick reckons – takes out his earpiece.

  ‘We’re on the move,’ Mick says.

  Rowdy looks around and nods.

  As Mick stands and hauls on his pack, he asks, ‘What were ya listening to?’

  ‘The races,’ Daniel says, softly.

  Mick picks up his rifle. ‘You pick any winners?’

  Rowdy shrugs his shoulders. ‘Nah. Never do.’

  Along with the shyness, Rowdy is pale and too thin. Most of the platoon is too thin, but
Daniel looks sick.

  Maybe it’s just his position. The others talk about how no one wants to be a lead scout: too much stress. If there are mines about, the forward scout is the one most likely to get hit, and if there are snipers waiting ahead in the jungle, they’re the ones in the firing line.

  Mick understands this, but he still thinks it sounds like the ultimate position within the platoon: the ultimate challenge. It’s the forward scout’s job to look for any booby traps or mines. It’s their job to study the jungle for any signs of the enemy. It’s just like being a tracker – only with a greater threat of danger.

  Mick’s section commander, Harry ‘Jacko’ Jackson, comes over and briefs section two about the plans for 13 Platoon. They’re to head into the Long Hai hills, where they’re to sweep the south-eastern corner, while the other two platoons of E company are to sweep the north-eastern and south-western sections.

  The Long Hais are known to contain several bases of the D445 Battalion. Although the American 173rd Airborne Brigade swept through the hills a few months back and discovered many bases, they didn’t have time to destroy all of them. As a result, there is a need for a larger sweep through the hills, to wipe out the bases and capture any supplies the Viet Cong may have taken with them.

  D Company started the operation last week and yesterday discovered a company-sized camp deep within the hills, complete with crawl trenches between the main weapon pits and guarded by dreaded punji stick pits. Air and artillery bombardment destroyed the camp, likewise the three other camps that were discovered close by. But perhaps the most significant find by D Company was a series of foot tracks, made by a group of around a hundred VC, identifiable from the distinctive marks Ho Chi Minh sandals left in the mud. The tracks headed towards the south-east corner, and it is 13 Platoon’s job to locate the group and destroy them.

  As the platoon start getting into position, Stretch stops beside Mick, leans in and says: ‘You’d better not fuck up, Bushie. This is your first op, and most new guys go weak at the knees at the first sign of Charlie. I don’t want you fucking up, got it?’

  Mick gives Stretch a cold, emotionless stare.

  ‘I know you’ve got somethin’ wrong with your legs; I’ve seen the way you wince and rub them while on TAOR patrols. I don’t know how you passed the physical, or what’s wrong with ya. Don’t much care. All I care about is making it through this damn op and making it back home in one piece. If you do anything to screw that up, you’ll have a big fucking headache. Understand, roomie?’

  He holds his M16 close to Mick’s face before moving to his point as second scout.

  Dickhead, Mick thinks. What does he know?

  Once the radioman has finished sending messages back to company headquarters, 13 Platoon head out, with Rowdy taking the lead.

  Walking about ten paces apart, they leave the dirt road and start across the lush green expanse of the rice paddy. With all the recent rain, the field is ankle deep with water, and it’s a hard slog. Even though the sky is currently clear and blue, Mick’s clothes and webbing are still saturated, and combined with the pack, grenade and rocket launchers, he’s weighed down like he has three men slung across his back. His SLR is slippery in his hands as he trudges through the field.

  The diggers move slowly, quiet but for the sloshing of the water.

  Mick can feel the nervous tension rising from each soldier, thick like the humidity shimmering in the air. No one likes walking across rice paddies – it makes you open targets, a line of almost thirty men just asking to be picked off by machine-gun fire.

  Then there are the mines that could be hidden under the water and grass.

  But there’s no other way to access the south-eastern corner of the hills.

  Mick gazes ahead at Rowdy, moving cautiously, looking both ahead at the approaching scrub and down at the rice field. He’ll be the one to cop the blast if there are mines planted in this field. Mick almost feels sorry for the guy.

  But they make it across the field and into the scrub at the base of the hill without incident.

  The tall, rugged hills loom before them. Mick is itching to go in there and find a large base camp and zap a bunch of nogs.

  The scrub starts to thicken. Rowdy is just metres from where the land begins to climb into the hills when there’s a red flash surrounded by a halo of black smoke.

  ‘Shit!’ Stretch cries, and a third of the platoon – including Mick – drop to the ground as an explosion cracks through the steamy afternoon air.

  Ears ringing from the blast, Mick watches as Rowdy is blown off his feet. Metal fragments slice through the air. The scout crashes to the ground, blood gushing from his right foot. He’s wailing, a horrible screeching that sounds almost inhuman.

  Then the mass of screaming starts.

  ‘My eye! I’ve lost my eye!’

  ‘Arrrgh, help me!’

  Mostly it’s just a throng of wordless screams and cries as men writhe on the ground.

  The possibility of more booby traps crosses Mick’s mind, but he doesn’t let it paralyse him. Instead, down on one knee, he scans the forest ahead for any sign of Charlie.

  ‘Freeze!’ Lieutenant Patterson shouts. ‘Don’t anyone move! Use your bayonets to probe for more traps. How many casualties?’

  Far behind, over the noise of the injured, Mick hears John Brown sending a radio message back to headquarters: ‘. . . have mines, we have casualties, need dustoff. More to come. Wait, out.’

  Someone close by is screaming, and Mick looks over and sees Lance Corporal Haddon with half his left wrist missing. He’s gripping his damaged arm with his other hand, staring with wide eyes and an ashen face as blood pours from the gaping wound. The red-haired larrikin will surely lose the use of that hand, but Mick can’t worry about that now.

  While the platoon medic, Paul ‘Nobby’ Clarke, is busy tending to the injured, Mick turns back to the hill.

  Crack!

  A rifle shot rings out, felling Blue. The lance corporal drops to the ground, head smashed, as two more shots burst from the dense bush ahead.

  ‘Sluggo, fire!’ the section commander screams, and Bill moves up, aims his M60 up the slope and lets the machine gun rip. The noise is deafening. Bullets pour out, shredding the foliage and hitting the boulders, ricocheting. Granite flies along with leaves, branches and dirt.

  After a short spell, Corporal Jackson cries, ‘Cease fire!’

  The machine gun stops, Mick’s ears are ringing again. He can barely hear Brownie shouting into the handset, informing HQ they have been hit with enemy fire.

  ‘Did we get him?’ someone shouts.

  There’s a pause.

  And then more rifle fire. Green tracers come dangerously close to Mick. Holy shit! The sound of the bullets are like angry mozzies. Up ahead, Stretch grabs hold of Rowdy and drags him towards a small rock. The sniper fires at them, but Stretch manages to haul Rowdy to safety behind the rock before either gets hit.

  ‘Medic!’ Stretch shouts.

  Nobby attempts to crawl over to Rowdy, but the sniper’s fire keeps him back.

  Sluggo once again cuts loose, but this time he’s joined by the cracking of semi-automatic rifles and the booming fire of M79s as the other diggers open fire on the VC sniper.

  Mick holds his fire, waiting patiently for that perfect shot. Come on, show yourself, ya bastard. I only need a bit of ya . . .

  Finally the nog reveals the top of his head. It’s just a small portion, slick black hair barely visible over the top of the rock, but it’s enough. Mick aims his SLR carefully and, with a steady finger, pulls the trigger.

  The VC’s head explodes in a shower of blood and brains. The sniper falls backwards, and the green tracers cease.

  When the soldiers realise what has happened, the firefight soon comes to an end. Echoes of gunfire and the smell of smoke and blood fill the humid air, burning Mick’s nostrils.

  ‘Who the fuck was that?’

  Mick lowers his rifle and raises a hand.
/>
  ‘Fucken hell, Bushie. Nice shot.’

  Mick turns and looks down at the burly figure of Sergeant Gary Atkin, who gives a thumbs up. Mick nods.

  He surveys the scene behind him: a number of the men have been wounded from the red-hot shrapnel that flew in a deadly spray from the booby trap. Arms, legs and faces have been shredded, and the medic hurriedly does what he can to stop the death toll from rising. He’s got morphine for those writhing in agony, and he winds bandages around profusely bleeding limbs.

  Soon there’s the familiar and welcoming sound of Hueys in the distance. A smoke grenade is released and red clouds sail into the air.

  While Sluggo and a few others head up the hill to search the dead VC’s bodies, Mick watches Stretch give Rowdy a cigarette, while the young scout rests on the ground. Rowdy shakes as he puffs. It’s going to be touch and go. Hopefully he can be saved by the bloody angels down at the Vung Tau field hospital, but he’s lost a lot of blood.

  Stretch glances over at Mick. He spits on the ground and then turns back to Rowdy.

  Mick allows himself a smile. How’s that for weak knees?

  It’s his first real introduction to the war, and he likes what he has tasted. Back home, he’d be hounded down and put in prison for killing someone.

  Here, he’s given the thumbs up.

  Yeah, he has a feeling he’s going to like Vietnam.

  4

  Western Australia

  February 1968

  Steve’s gut felt bloated – his belt was like a boa constrictor around his belly. He was still unsure of what to make of the meat pie he’d had for lunch: chunks of meat – he was told it was beef, but Christ, it could have been kangaroo for all he knew – and gravy encased in pastry. While it was moderately tasty, he was able to make it more palatable by smothering it in ketchup – ‘tomato sauce’ they called it here. He slathered it on the fries too – sorry, ‘chips’ – and washed it all down with a couple of tall glasses of beer.

  Now, he was paying the price for eating all that rich, greasy food. He let out a deep, gassy burp, trying his best to conceal it, and continued to stare out the window at the never-ending stretch of red desert. In between the cloudbursts, he saw that low hills had begun to appear on the landscape; otherwise, the vast desert was monotonous in its sameness.