Desolation Game

by Greg McLean

Jewel stepped over and placed an arm around him. He was sodden, cold. ‘I’m sure she is. Don’t worry, we’ll find her.’

  ‘Yeah, we’ll find her,’ Amber echoed.

  A familiar voice bellowed over the streaming rain outside: ‘What the bloody hell are ya doin’ up at this hour?’

  Jewel let go of Akira and hurried to the window. Through its grime-coated glass she saw the unmistakeable lumbering shape of Mick walking towards the Kombi, which was out of her sight behind one of the trailers. He must have come upon Duncan.

  ‘I thought I heard voices and then I noticed lights on.’ Mick glanced at the shed as he walked by, before vanishing behind the trailer. ‘What are you doin’ out in this rain?’

  Amber, Cindy and Sam joined Jewel at the window.

  ‘Something’s happened,’ Duncan said, his voice almost lost in the storm. ‘Two of our group are missing. Chiyo and Steve.’

  ‘No shit?’

  ‘Yeah. We were going to come and get you, let you know, but —’

  ‘No need, tiger,’ Mick said. ‘I already knew they’re gone.’

  Jewel frowned.

  ‘Huh?’ Sam muttered from behind.

  ‘You do?’ Duncan said.

  ‘Yeah, I killed them meself.’

  The group at the window froze, the only sound that of heavy rain on the roof. Then a gunshot shattered the black night.

  Mick looked at the body sprawled on the wet ground. At what was left of Duncan’s head.

  ‘Good riddance,’ he said, and spat on the mass of broken skull and worm-like brains.

  He reloaded the rifle, turned and walked towards the small shed, from where could hear cries and screams.

  When he pushed open the metal door, the people inside scurried about like mice.

  ‘Get away!’ the blonde girl cried. ‘Leave us alone!’

  Mick stood in the doorway and chuckled. ‘Now why would I want to do that? I’m only just gettin’ started.’

  The girl ducked under the old wooden card table, Dad and the Yank woman were backpedalling, desperately trying to get something between him and them. Mick figured the skinny girl and the boy were behind the two chests of drawers over on his left.

  The Asian bloke was standing still in the room, not attempting to move at all.

  ‘You killed my Chiyo,’ he said, tears and snot dribbling down his yellow face. ‘Why did you kill her?’

  ‘Don’t pretend like ya don’t know,’ Mick said.

  The little man glared at him. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I discovered her little secret. I know all about you two.’

  The prisoner’s mouth gaped and he shook his head.

  ‘I know you’re both Viet Cong. That you were surveying this area so you could find the perfect place to set up a new VC base.’

  ‘You crazy.’

  Without warning, the nog charged.

  He screamed as he ran forward, feet slapping on the concrete floor: ‘You bastard! Youkilledmy—!’

  Mick swung the rifle and smacked the butt across his assailant’s face. The little Asian grunted and was knocked sideways. He dropped to the floor and lay there, groaning.

  Mick looked up and smiled. ‘Alright you lot, no need to hide. A block of wood ain’t gonna stop a bullet. So you may as well come out.’

  The Yank and the teenager’s father had given up trying to hide anyway. They stood at the back of the shed as Mick took a few steps in.

  ‘Did you really kill Steve?’ she said. Her voice was soft and wavering.

  ‘Technically, no.’

  She frowned and wiped tears from her eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I did shoot him, but the wounds weren’t fatal. And he fell into one of my traps. I didn’t push him or nothin’. Just a bad accident, that’s all. Hell, when I left him, he was still alive.’

  She drew in breath. ‘He was?’

  Mick nodded.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’

  Mick turned, catching sight of the other girl, Jewel. She had also realised the futility of hiding and was standing behind one of the warped and chipped chests of drawers. There was still no sign of the teenager, but Mick was pretty sure he was cowering behind the other drawers.

  ‘Why?’ he said, turning back to the woman. ‘Because it’s fun.’

  ‘Fun?’ the father, Sam, said. He was breathing hard. ‘Killing is fun for you?’

  ‘Yeah. You mean it’s not for you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, my mistake. I thought, you know, with the guns and all, you lot liked huntin’ and killin’. You seemed to have fun the other morning shooting.’

  ‘You saw us?’ Jewel gasped.

  Mick grinned. ‘Yeah.’

  The teenager sneezed.

  Mick turned towards the second set of drawers. ‘Come on, up ya get, ya cheeky little bugger.’

  When the teenager didn’t appear, Mick stepped over to where the boy was crouched.

  ‘Please don’t kill me,’ the boy blubbered. His long hair hung over his face, concealing his eyes and acne-ridden skin.

  Mick sniffed. ‘Ya piss ya pants? Christ, stop being a baby and get to your feet.’

  The boy jumped up.

  Mick turned and faced the group.

  ‘Okay, here’s the deal. To show you all that I’m not a complete bastard, I’m gonna give ya a chance. I’ll give ya a five-minute headstart. Run the fuck away and try to hide – I’ll hunt ya down. Kind of like my version of hide-and-go-seek.’

  Amber sobbed.

  ‘Please, you don’t have to do this,’ Sam said.

  Mick turned and stared at the pudgy, bespectacled father. ‘You’d rather me shoot ya here and now?’

  Sam swallowed. He nodded. ‘Yes, I would. At least that would be humane. Chasing us like a group of mangy dogs is . . . sick.’

  Mick was surprised. The bookish man was the last person he expected to take a stand. ‘Well, good to see you got some balls. Pity your son didn’t inherit any. I tell ya what. I’ll shoot ya kid and you can watch. Then, I’ll shoot you. Nice and quick. Deal?’

  ‘What? No!’ Sam cried.

  ‘It’s your choice, Sammy. Either take your chances out there, or die in here.’

  Sam looked to his son, and his chin started to tremble. ‘Okay, okay. Matt, come over here.’

  The snivelling teenager shuffled over. His father put an arm around him.

  ‘Aw, ain’t that sweet, everyone?’ Mick said.

  ‘Just don’t hurt my son.’

  ‘Can’t promise ya that. Okay, are ya all ready?’

  Mick glanced down at the VC. He was still conscious, but he’d been knocked down good. The left side of his face was bleeding. ‘All except for you, monkey. You stay here with me.’

  The crumpled figure moaned.

  Mick grinned and turned back to the others, stepping away from the door. ‘Alrighty, time starts . . . now! Five minutes and I’m coming after ya!’

  Nobody moved.

  Mick shook his head. ‘What, you think I’m joking? Go! Hurry!’

  This time they all scrambled for the door.

  Once they were out, Mick stepped over to his VC captive and squatted in front of him. The man turned slowly and gazed up at Mick. Mick drew his knife.

  ‘I skinned your fiancée with this. But I’ve got other plans for you.’

  His victim breathed heavily, his eyes wide, staring. Blood trickled down his cheek.

  Mick drove the blade into the Commie’s throat.

  Akira’s eyes bulged and he began bucking as blood gushed onto the floor.

  ‘This is what I do to Charlies.’

  Mick grunted as he dragged the blade across Akira’s throat and ripped open his jugular. He shivered with satisfaction and for a moment he was down in the tunnel with Sarge, the smell of dirt in his nostrils and the voices guiding him.

  It seemed like the strength he had acquired from the land after the sacrifice had been immense. He cut de
ep and strong. Once he had successfully severed Akira’s head from his body, Mick walked outside.

  ‘Five minutes is up!’ he called.

  He looked at the head clutched in his hand and smiled. ‘Time for some doggin’,’ he muttered as warm rain washed the blood from his hands and face.

  15

  Vietnam

  January 1967

  The morning is hot and dry, with no hint of wind. As 13 Platoon move slowly through the dense jungle, the sound of twenty-seven men crunching through the foliage is like firecrackers being set off.

  Mick, at the head of the patrol, holds his M16 in one hand, his ghost stick in the other. He sweeps the sapling in an arc ahead of him, a mechanical action that comes from months of practice. If the stick snags a wire, he’ll know. He doesn’t need to see it – he’ll feel it. All his attention is focused on the bush ahead. His eyes roam the thick jungle for any sign of Charlie.

  They’ve been searching this mountain for almost a week, and so far have only had small, brief encounters with the enemy, resulting in zero casualties. Bigger groups are certainly around – other companies have been ambushed in this vast collection of hills – but so far 13 Platoon, despite their unlucky number, has had good luck.

  Almost a week in the J, with only the most basic of rations, no chance to wash, and little sleep. And what sleep they manage is restless and interrupted with night pickets and the constant presence of mosquitoes and red ants.

  The creek they are following is low, barely moving, but it looks inviting, and Mick wonders whether Patto will let them take an extended lunch break for a quick wash in the water. Lord knows they need it – they stink almost as much as the nogs they’re hunting.

  Up ahead, Mick notices a forest of tall green bamboos. Nogs love to plant traps in bamboo fields. He stops and looks back at Jacko. The section commander is checking his compass. He looks up at Mick, nods, and Mick continues to proceed cautiously through the bamboo thicket.

  He’s exhausted. He’s never felt a tiredness like this before. This is the longest operation he’s been on, and while he doesn’t mind the lack of food, the insects, even the threat of Charlie around every green corner, the utter exhaustion is starting to wear on him.

  Sweat is teeming down his face, the beads catching in his short black beard. He wipes the sweat away with one scarred and bleeding hand – those damn wait-a-while vines are motherfuckers, and in this dry heat, the twigs and branches are like needles. It doesn’t do any good. His face is drenched with perspiration again seconds later.

  Mick leads the platoon through the bamboo, his heart racing that little bit faster as he pushes away green pole after green pole. There’s no path to follow in here, no good view of the area ahead. The enemy could be standing mere metres away and you wouldn’t know it until too late. His ghost stick is clenched tight in his right hand, his eyes scanning the ground for any tell-tale signs of mines.

  Finally the bamboo thicket ends and Mick eases out a shallow sigh of relief. Locating the narrow path, he continues to follow the creek. When he comes to a thick tangle of trees, he stops, gets out his secateurs and begins cutting away the branches.

  The platoon continues this way for another hour before the jungle starts to open up. They come across a track that has been blackened from a recent drop of napalm. Mick stops and inspects the ground. He can’t see any signs of enemy use: no foot or sandal marks. It doesn’t mean there aren’t old clusters of mines set in the earth, so he crosses with care, looking at the ground for any metal.

  The platoon follow Mick’s path, and he’s just crossed the dirt track when the chopper they’d heard approaching roars past, flying just above the treetops.

  The noise is deafening and the minor gale from the whirring blades shakes the trees.

  The Huey soon disappears, leaving the jungle still and quiet once again.

  There are patrols and choppers searching all over these mountains. Ever since the tunnels were discovered up north in Cu Chi, there has been a concerted effort to uncover more of the Viet Cong’s underground bunker systems. Two large systems have been discovered in the western and southern areas of these hills. E Company has been given the task of sweeping the northern corner.

  Mick looks back at his section commander. Jacko waves at him to head left.

  Once they’re back on compass bearing, Mick continues through the jungle.

  Around ten minutes on, Mick comes across an open patch of dirt, close to the edge of the creek bed. Imprinted in the dirt are the familiar tread of the VC’s Ho Chi Minh sandals.

  He stops, turns and crosses an arm over his weapon.

  The platoon halts. Nervous eyes begin surveying the immediate area, and Mick knows they’re all wondering what he’s seen.

  Jacko moves forward, along with Sluggo, and when they reach Mick, Mick points to the ground. Both men take only the quickest of looks. It’s all they need. Sluggo stays alongside Mick while Jacko jogs back to inform the platoon commander of the discovery.

  Mick kneels on one knee and gazes around, down the jungle where the prints lead and across the shallow creek. Sluggo, also down on one knee, has his M60 ready to fire at the first sign of Charlie.

  A short time later, Mick hears the clicking of fingers, and looking back, he sees Jacko. The section commander motions for Mick and Sluggo to fall back, and they rejoin him. Jacko whispers to them that Lieutenant Patterson has decided to split the platoon into two groups. He figures two mini-platoons can cover more ground, and hopefully one of the groups will find the enemy.

  The platoon is split in half. Mick is relieved to find himself in the group led by Sergeant Atkin. Unfortunately, his half-platoon also contains Stretch, but ever since the punch-up a month ago, Stretch hasn’t been too much of a problem.

  As Patto moves out with his half-platoon, away from the creek and deeper into the jungle, Sarge says, ‘Okay, we’re heading up the creek. Mick, you’re the lead scout as usual. Stretch, remain second.’ He turns to Sluggo. ‘You’re our only machine gunner, so stay alert and be ready.’

  Sluggo nods.

  ‘Be on special lookout for any signs of bunkers,’ Sarge says to the small group. His gaze lingers longest on Mick. ‘We may only come across a small group of nogs, but we may also find a big fucking enemy camp. If that happens, we’re to radio Patterson and wait for reinforcement.’

  ‘But what if Charlie sees us first?’ Woody asks.

  Sarge shrugs. ‘We hit and we hit hard.’

  The men get into line and then move out.

  Mick, ghost stick in one hand, rifle in the other, is tense, yet the butterflies that flutter in his gut aren’t from nervousness, but excitement. After a week of slogging through this hot, scratchy jungle, battling nothing worse than stale rolls, flies and Stretch’s noxious farting, it looks like they’re finally going to see some real action. And judging by the number of sandal marks in the dirt, if they come across the enemy, it’ll be a big firefight.

  The footprints begin to fall away as the vegetation eats up the narrow dirt path along the creek. Mick starts to wonder whether they’re following the correct path, and he begins to feel frustrated at the idea of Patto’s group being the one that comes upon the enemy.

  But the ground starts to rise and Mick notices more sets of sandal prints in a small dirt track leading up the hill.

  He stops and when he calls Sarge up for a look, the sergeant has Sluggo join them. Together, the three men lead the way, Sarge now out in front.

  When they notice tree stumps with dirt and grass piled on top for camouflage, Mick knows there has to be an enemy camp close by.

  The ground rises sharply to the right, and Sarge stops at the sight of the patch of grass on top of a small dirt mound. The grass is compressed, like someone has been sitting there, and there are cigarette butts all over the place. It looks like someone was sitting sentry until very recently. He continues up the little hill, with Mick and Sluggo close behind.

  When Sarge gets near the top, he
stops.

  Mick soon sees why.

  There’s a woman standing a short distance away. She’s facing away from them, her long black ponytail almost lost against her clothes. She’s talking to someone.

  Suddenly the talk ceases and the woman starts to turn around.

  Sarge guns her down with four shots from his rifle.

  Sluggo jogs the rest of the way up the hill and just as he reaches the top, the familiar sound of AK-47s erupts. Sluggo lets fly with his M60 as Sarge and Mick dive to the ground and crawl back down the hill. The mini-platoon get behind anything they can find: rocks, tree stumps, logs. Mick spots a large boulder and ducks behind it.

  Soon the machine guns stop. With the echo of the blasts still ringing in the air, Sarge scrambles over to Mick.

  ‘Fucking bunker,’ Sarge breathes. ‘About twenty noggies just sitting there. Shit, they looked as much in shock as I was.’

  Sluggo comes sliding down, his ammunition belt now half the size.

  ‘I got about half of ’em,’ he says. ‘The rest hightailed it into a tunnel.’

  Sarge calls the men in close.

  ‘There’s an enemy bunker over the hill,’ he says. ‘About ten Charlies are left. I’m gonna go into the tunnel and get the rest of the fuckers. I need another man to come with me.’

  Mick doesn’t hesitate. ‘I’ll go, Skipper.’

  Sarge nods.

  ‘Maybe we should call in the sappers,’ Stretch says. ‘Or at least Lieutenant Patterson.’

  Most of the other grunts agree.

  ‘Yeah, I reckon we should just bomb ’em down there and wait for the tunnel rats. Shit, that’s their job,’ Nobby says.

  ‘No, by the time we wait for the sappers, the nogs will have gotten away.’

  Sarge takes off his pack, lays down his rifle, and pulls out his pistol and torch. Lastly, he disconnects the bayonet from his gun and slips it in his belt.

  ‘Mick, leave everything here except for your Browning, bayonet and torch.’

  Mick does as he is ordered.

  ‘Sluggo, Jacko, Woody – you guys wait down here and be on lookout. The rest, follow me and cover us up at the bunker.’

  Sarge leads the half-dozen men up the rise, slowing when he reaches the top.