by Greg McLean
‘Then it’s settled,’ Steve said. ‘We go with Mick.’
‘I’ll go and tell Mick that we’re good to go,’ Duncan said. ‘Everyone cool with that?’
There was general agreement.
‘Bruce?’
‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘Hey, man, just relax,’ Duncan said. ‘Tonight, when we’re chilling out at Mick’s place, we’ll down a couple of beers and forget about today. By this time tomorrow, we’ll be cruising up at Rudall River, shooting some roos, and life will be golden. Okay?’
Bruce nodded, and Duncan wandered over to Mick. He had a quick chat with him, then jogged back.
‘Okay, Mick’s hooked up and ready to go. He said he’ll have to go slow, so it will take a couple of hours to get to his place. He said we should relax and not to worry about a thing. Bruce, you right to steer the van?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Cool. Okay, everyone in.’
As they all took their positions inside the Kombi, Jewel paused. She looked over at the helpful mechanic.
Mick took out his cigarette, dropped it to the ground, then stepped on it. As he ground the butt, he looked over and waved.
Jewel didn’t wave back as she hopped into the van.
Mick flicked on the truck’s headlights as the sun started to dip into the horizon. The powerful beams lit the winding dirt track ahead. The road, which was little more than two well-worn tyre tracks in the desert earth, was rarely used – Mick was sure only he knew it existed. He guessed it was an old route used by the miners to connect the mine to the Rudall River Highway a long time ago, before the Great Northern was built. He kept the pace steady, the cable between the vehicles taut.
It was a rough old path, but Mick’s truck was able to handle the rutted surface. Its former owners had rigged it up tough. He smiled at the thought of the tourists back there in their big old Kombi with the two flat tyres, getting jostled about.
Sure enough, he could see in the rear-view mirror that the van was shaking like a cat left out in the rain.
‘Serves those jackasses right,’ Mick muttered.
There were a couple of moments when he thought the jackasses would refuse to play along. He’d let his mask slip a few times, had gotten too caught up with trying to persuade them that his way was the best way. He’d worried some of them may have seen through his act, to his true self.
He guessed he still had some ways to go before he had perfected his act. But there would come a time when his mask would be indistinguishable from his real face.
It was that cunt Bruce. He pushed Mick’s buttons. There he was, all calm and ready to play the perfect gentleman, but there was something about that guy that got to him. He’d let his emotions get the better of him, and as a result there had been some doubt within the group. Even with his eyes hidden, he’d let his true personality slip.
He wouldn’t let it happen again.
It was like he had told that stupid kid, Opey, back at the cattle station: never show the bastards anything. Never show anyone anything.
He tried living by that credo, but it wasn’t always easy. It took practice. And, as they say, practice makes perfect.
The Kombi’s headlights came on, but they were weak compared to the truck’s.
Weak, just like most of the tourists. The only two that might give him some trouble were Bruce and Steve. Particularly Steve. The guy looked stronger and fitter than Mick had initially thought. There was definitely something of a soldier about him – it wasn’t just his build and haircut, it was also his eyes. There was a deadness in them, a pain that Mick was all too familiar with. He’d seen the look in many of his fellow grunts.
He planned on sussing Steve out some more tonight. It wouldn’t surprise him to learn that Steve had done a tour. A fellow vet. Should make things interesting.
If his suspicions were correct, he would have to immobilise Steve as quickly as possible, then separate the two young tour operators quickly thereafter. As long as he got rid of those three, and managed to get hold of the bag of guns, then he’d be the winner.
Then he’d have some fun.
But it was getting through the first round that was going to be tricky. He had to play it smart. He couldn’t rush things, even though he desperately wanted to have fun with the two pretty girls. The female Yank he didn’t care too much about. He found her unattractive and irritating – though she might be useful for a plaything, a torture doll, like the village girls near the Nui Dat base camp. Mick smiled at the memories of those girls, the things he and Sarge used to do to them.
He’d already decided who his first sacrifice would be – either of the Japs would do.
Japs, my arse. He had a sneaking suspicion they were really VC, sent by the North Vietnamese government to infiltrate Australian soil. Shit, he’d be doing this country a favour by killing those two spies. It wasn’t always easy to tell Asians apart, but he knew the Vietnamese people well, and the more he looked at the two Asian tourists, the more he was convinced they were VC.
Can’t fool me. Can’t fool Michael Taylor, that’s for damn sure.
Yeah, he’d sacrifice one of the Vietnamese first, and once the land had fed on the blood, he would inherit the nog’s power, just like Eddie said he would. That would help him in his hunt. The VC were quick, cunning and ruthless – traits he possessed too, but not on the scale of those jungle rats.
Soon he would be like them: only a better version. A bigger, stronger version. He’d be unstoppable, and all the Steves in the world wouldn’t be able to touch him.
Mick grinned as he continued leading the VW and its occupants deeper into the darkening desert.
6
Vietnam
September 1966
Mick is in his tent, getting flogged at poker by Woody, when Sergeant Atkin steps inside. The large platoon sergeant smiles down at the four diggers sitting around the table. ‘Woody winning again, I see. Christ, why do you buggers insist on playing with him?’
Mick takes a long drink of Foster’s. ‘Because we just take it all back from the little runt afterwards.’
The other cardplayers – Jacko and Nobby – laugh.
‘You ain’t taking my winnings,’ Woody says, placing his skinny arms over his stash of Salems and Playboy magazines. ‘These are worth more to me than gold.’
Still smiling, the sergeant turns to Mick. ‘Mick, can I borrow you for a minute?’
‘Ooooh,’ Nobby says, drawing on a Marlboro. ‘Looks like someone’s gonna be put on a fizzer.’
‘Yeah, what did ya do this time, Crack Shot?’ Nobby says, grinning, face beaded with sweat.
‘Forgot to pay your mother,’ Mick says, and everyone except the signaller laughs.
‘Nah, it’s nothing like that,’ Sergeant Atkin says.
Mick sculls the rest of his beer and then gets to his feet. He slaps down his cards – a rotten hand, like all his others. ‘Thanks for the game, boys. Maybe next time I’ll win for a change.’
Woody smiles. ‘I’ll let you borrow one of my magazines later.’
‘Fuck off. Don’t want your sticky seconds.’
Leaving his tent and the guffaws of his mates, Mick follows the sergeant out of the lines.
The morning is humid and all over the camp the ground is soggy with red mud. The farting grumble of supply trucks mingles with the sound of radios. It’s tinny rock music in the main, as well as the adventures of ‘Chickenman’ – most of the diggers love the show, but Mick reckons it’s a waste of airtime. It’s all part of living within the Nui Dat base camp, as familiar to Mick now as anything he has ever known. He has only been in country a little over a month, but already he feels at home here. The J, the Dat, it doesn’t matter – it’s all the same to him. This whole country is one great big party, and unlike most of the diggers, he doesn’t want to leave. He’s already considering a second tour once his twelve months is up.
He doesn’t even mind the smell: the piss from the latrines; the constant stench of damp and mouldy cl
othes and tents; the sweet tang of rain that seems to be in the air even when it’s not bucketing down.
And ever since his first op, taking out that lone VC sniper, he’s noticed a difference in the way the other soldiers treat him. Sure they hang shit on him, play pranks like they do every other grunt, but there’s a newfound respect, evident in his name changing from ‘Squizzy’ to ‘Crack Shot’. He likes it. He’s never had respect before. He’s even known now as E company’s best scout – hell, Mick privately reckons he’s the 5th Battalion’s best. Better even than most visual trackers or bushman scouts. Mick has taken over from Rowdy, who is back home in Sydney and recuperating well – although the poor bugger did lose his right foot.
He doesn’t see what all the fuss is about. Searching the jungle for signs of booby traps or the enemy isn’t hard, it’s common sense – not a whole lot different from tracking dingoes in the bush back home. You see some bent leaves or broken limbs, a group of ants defending a broken nest, or smell the pungent stench of fish and sweat, and you knew the enemy wasn’t far away. Mick has taken to using a ‘ghost stick’ to trip any booby traps that may be hidden in the weeds. The long, thin sapling has saved his arse a few times, alerting him of a wire he didn’t spot, sparing him from getting a chest full of metal fragments.
Mick follows Sergeant Atkin along the duckboards, over to the mess. It’s empty now, breakfast having been and gone, but Atkin takes Mick into the kitchen.
‘What the bloomin’ hell am I doing in here? I ain’t doing the washing up, am I? Shit, I am on the fizzer, aren’t I?’
The sergeant places a hand on Mick’s shoulder. ‘Relax, private. I have got a job for you, but I think it’s one you’re gonna like.’ He points over to a group of bins. ‘You see the one to the right of the others?’
Mick sees two dirty metal bins, and one new, remarkably clean bin, kept separate. ‘Yeah, so?’
‘That’s our special bin. The bait layers know to only fill that one up with the good scraps.’
Mick frowns. ‘Good scraps? Excuse the French, Sarge, but what the fuck are you on about?’
‘Those other bins are used for all the slops: tea bags, gravy, scraps of mashed potato; that kind of shit. Anything half decent, such as bits of bread, leftover bits of meat, tins, goes into the root bin.’
‘Root bin?’
‘Yeah. Come on, help me load them all onto the truck and I’ll tell you about it on the way. We ain’t got much time.’
Puzzled, Mick helps to carry the two rotten, stinking bins and the one clean bin to a waiting truck. They hop into the truck and the sergeant drives towards the camp entrance.
‘So, are you gonna fill me in on why we’re suddenly on rubbish duty? Christ, there are collectors who come regularly to do this job. I don’t know of any other skippers who carry out this stinkin’ task. Shit, is it even regulation?’
As they leave the camp and start driving along the dirt road that winds through the rubber plantation, Sarge turns and smiles at Mick.
‘Ya know, that’s one reason why I like you, Mick. You’re not afraid to speak ya mind. There’s no bullshit with you.’
Mick nods uncertainly and keeps his eyes on the road.
‘I wasn’t sure about you at first, but now I see you’re . . . different to the others. I think we’re a lot alike.’
Mick spits to the wind as the truck bumps along the wet, uneven road. ‘You’re not queer, are ya? I mean, ya talk about a root bin, ya bring me out here and start talking about how we’re alike and shit . . .’
The sergeant laughs. ‘Shit, Crack Shot, you couldn’t be further from the truth.’
‘Well then, where the hell are we going? It ain’t normal to leave the wire like this.’
‘We’re going to the tip. Where else would we take rubbish bins?’
Mick huffs, shakes his head, but notices the sly grin on the sergeant’s face. He turns away and watches the forest of tall, thin rubber trees as he rocks and lurches inside the truck.
They drive for around ten minutes before arriving at a large clearing. Sarge stops the truck but he doesn’t hop out. The tip, a pile of stinking, steaming rubbish, is swarming with both flies and humans. Women and children are sifting through it, looking for useful scraps. The sight turns Mick’s stomach.
‘The first couple of times the men came here to dump the rubbish, they came across these old villagers who were so poor they had to scrounge the tip for any bits of food. To them, the scraps in our bins were fresh and they wanted first dibs. Shit, you smelled those bins – would you want to eat from them? But compared to the shit left here for weeks in the heat and rain, I guess our bins were fresh. Anyway, in order to get first dibs on our bins, the old women started offering favours to the men.’
‘Favours?’
Sergeant Atkin smiles and makes a wanking motion. ‘Some even offered blowjobs.’
Mick gazes out the windscreen at the tiny stooped women. They have noticed the truck and are looking over. Again, his stomach turns and he wrinkles his nose in distaste.
‘Hey, ya get what you can out here,’ the sergeant says, ‘and it’s a hell of a lot cheaper and quicker than going down to Vungers or Saigon.’
‘Yeah, I get that, but still . . .’
‘That didn’t last long. The men learnt of a nearby village, still poor, but with younger girls. And they figured if the old bags were willing to offer sexual favours in exchange for scraps, maybe the girls would too. But they figured in order to get the younger, prettier ladies, they had to offer better quality scraps.’
‘Hence the “root bin”,’ Mick says.
‘You got it.’
‘So these mangy old dogs . . .?’
‘We dump the two old bins filled with rotten scraps and then take a short drive to the village to dump the root bin. That’s if you’re interested.’
The sergeant considers Mick as his words sink in.
Mick has always thought Sarge to be a decent bloke, perhaps a bit uptight and straight, but most skippers are that way. His broad face, small eyes and high forehead radiate banality – just another nice but boring digger. Sitting in the truck, Mick sees another side to him. He notices life inside those small dark eyes that he has never seen before, and a smirk that suggests nefarious thoughts.
Mick smiles back. ‘Hell yeah, I’m interested.’
‘I thought so. But this is strictly between us, got it? Only a small number of the men know about this, and this is illegal as shit, so all we’re doing is dumping the bins here, because they were full and because it’s hot and they were starting to stink like an open shit-house. We couldn’t wait for the rubbish trucks to come by in a few days.’
‘Got it. So does Patto know?’
‘Christ, no,’ Sarge says. ‘If the lieutenant knew about this scheme he’d have my balls. So not a word.’
Mick pretends to zip his lips.
‘Good. Okay. Let’s dump the bins and get over to the village.’
It’s tiny, even by rural Vietnam standards. There are around a dozen thatched huts, a scattering of chickens and a couple of starved dogs. Ancient women sit outside their huts, mouths chewing, red liquid spilling down their chins.
Children, their skinny naked bodies little more than bones covered with skin, run around, chasing chickens and each other.
At the sound of the truck, younger girls emerge from various huts. Mick counts five, and most of them are lookers – attractive enough, anyway.
‘Be on lookout,’ the sergeant says. ‘The VC have never been found here, but you never know. You stay and keep the truck idling. I won’t be too long. Then we’ll swap.’
Sarge slaps Mick on the back, then jumps out and disappears around the back of the truck to grab the shiny bin filled with the good scraps. He walks it over to the group of young girls. He sets the bin down and talks with them, making lots of hand gestures, even pointing over to Mick in the truck. The girls talk loudly, desperately – a few lunge at the bin, attempting to grab at the cont
ents inside.
Eventually Sarge picks up the bin and follows one of the girls into a hut. The rest of them leave, disappointment on their gaunt, shiny faces.
Mick waits in the truck and scans the area for any signs of the enemy.
Some of the village kids come up and talk to him in their strange, clipped language. Mick simply gives a straight smile and nods.
Around ten minutes later the sergeant steps out of the hut. He wanders over to the truck, a self-satisfied smile on his face.
‘Your turn, Crack Shot. I chose a pretty one, so have fun.’
Mick collects his SLR and hops out of the truck.
‘She was very grateful for the food,’ Sarge calls down. ‘You can do whatever you like to her. Whatever you like.’ He winks, and a darkness flits across his face. ‘When you’re finished, don’t forget the bin. Just empty the shit on the ground.’
Mick walks across the muddy ground, over to the hut, takes another quick look around in the forest, then steps inside.
The girl is naked and lying on top of a straw bed.
There’s a strong smell of sweat, coupled with the stench of food scraps. She’s young, barely out of her teens, and has tiny breasts, a flat stomach and thin arms and legs. The dark tuft of hair between her legs is moist and leaking the sergeant’s love-juice.
Her dead eyes are looking up at the ceiling – she doesn’t acknowledge his presence. Mick notices blood trickling from her nose, and there are cuts on her cheeks and red welts on her breasts.
‘So the sarge likes to play rough,’ Mick mutters.
He’s beginning to like the sergeant more and more. Mick licks his lips, wishes he brought along a knife. Or was that going too far? The sergeant said he could whatever he likes.
Mick looks around the small hut. He spots some gardening tools leaning against a wall: a machete, a hoe and a rake. He steps over and picks up the machete.
When he turns back, he notices that the peasant girl is breathing harder. Her stomach rises and falls in quick bursts. He moves over to her.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not gonna hurt ya,’ he says. Then adds, ‘Much.’