Desolation Game

by Greg McLean

  There’s no gunfire to greet them, and when Mick reaches the top of the hill, he sees the enemy bunker system. The hill slopes down before levelling off to a small area of flat ground, surrounded on all sides by low mounds. Bodies lay strewn around the flat ground, twisted and bloody from the onslaught of machine-gun fire. The female who Sarge shot lies closest to them, her ponytail splashed with blood.

  ‘Gather the guns, but leave the bodies for now,’ Sarge tells the soldiers. ‘Then wait up here until we get back.’ Sarge turns to Mick. ‘You ready?’

  Mick smiles and nods.

  Mick follows Sarge towards the tunnel. Looking around, he notices numerous firing slits: logs built into the low hills with gaps between them. Ordinarily these bunkers would be filled with nogs, gun barrels pointing out, ready to fire on any enemy fool enough to step into the camp unawares. Lucky for them the VC were caught with their pants down and simply retreated into the tunnels. The entrance is an opening in the side of a mound, about four feet high and two feet wide.

  It doesn’t look so small. He thought these tunnels were supposed to be tiny. It almost looks like the mine shaft back in the desert.

  It’s not until he gets close that he sees the tunnel itself. Most of the entrance is supported by planks of wood that are fixed into the side of the mound. The hole is below this wooden partition and it’s only around twenty inches square. A kid would have to squeeze into it. Mick wonders how the hell a grown man will get through it.

  Sarge stops at the entrance. He gets down on his hands and knees and looks around, head bobbing this way and that.

  ‘Can’t see any wires,’ he says. ‘I’ll go in first. If anything happens to me, get the fuck out.’

  Mick nods. ‘Just don’t fart in my face, okay?’

  Sarge’s lips twitch.

  Mick can tell the sergeant is nervous, but there’s also excitement in his eyes. Like Mick, he loves this shit – the hunt, the anticipation of the kill. Most officers would have called in the sappers and then fired smoke down the tunnel before blasting it. Then they would have just waited.

  Not Sarge.

  The sergeant switches on his torch and holds it and his bayonet in his left hand, and his the pistol in right. He wriggles into the hole arms first, with some difficulty.

  When Sarge’s boots finally pull in after him, Mick follows.

  Mick is thin, but broad shouldered. He has to angle himself across the tiny square hole from corner to corner and push hard in order to fit. Once in, there’s a drop of about three feet. As Mick slips down, his torch lighting the earth below, he thinks how it would have been easier to go feet first, but it’s too late for that. His hands touch the earth. He crawls forward, bringing his whole body down into the underground burrow.

  With Sarge’s boots in his sights, Mick starts to crawl.

  The tunnel itself is narrow – barely two feet wide and just a little over that in height. Mick hopes it won’t get any narrower, or else he and Sarge might get stuck.

  It’s uncomfortably warm down here, too. Mick can feel slick sweat all over his body. The smell, however, is surprisingly pleasant, earthy, like freshly dug soil.

  Sarge moves slowly, stopping every so often and checking the ground, walls and ceiling for booby traps. The earth is compacted, almost like cement, and it scrapes Mick’s knees and elbows as he crawls. He notices that they’re crawling over a trail of blood, like a dark snail trail – it’s fresh. One of the nogs must have been wounded in the firefight.

  They crawl by a few passing bays as they move through the tunnel – small niches dug into the walls. Up ahead, the tunnel bends. Before they reach it, Sarge switches off his torch, so Mick does the same.

  Complete blackness engulfs them.

  Sarge doesn’t speak but Mick figures he has heard or seen something, so he stays still, ears open, waiting for something to happen.

  Then Mick hears it: a quiet whimpering. It sounds close, somewhere around the corner.

  Sarge begins to shuffle forward and Mick follows him. Without the benefit of light, Mick knocks against the tunnel wall as it curves. The whimpering gets louder, until the sound is right in front of them.

  Suddenly light bursts apart the darkness. Sarge trains his torch beam ahead and next to him in its light, Mick sees a VC lying in one of the tiny passing bays.

  Sarge has his Browning aimed at the prone man, but he doesn’t fire. The young VC, surely no older than twenty, grabs for his AK-47, but Sarge gets it first. Mick can see the man is bleeding from his left shoulder, and looks also to be hit around his thighs – his dark pyjama-like pants are wet with blood. He’s breathing heavily and his face is pale grey in the glow of the light.

  ‘No point asking you where your friends ran off to, eh?’ Sarge says. ‘You can’t understand me, can ya, monkey?’

  The VC mumbles something in his native tongue.

  Sarge hands the Russian assault rifle to Mick, who slings the weapon over his shoulder. ‘We gonna kill him and then look for the others?’

  Mick shines his torch beam down the tunnel – he can’t see any Charlies coming. More than likely the rest of the group are gone. Charlie rarely stays and fights the larger and better-equipped armies. They’re a hit-and-run type of soldier, relying on guerrilla tactics and deadly booby traps to defeat the enemy.

  Still, Mick is on guard, one ear focused down the tunnel in case the enemy do decide to come back.

  ‘In a moment,’ Sarge says. ‘But first, let me teach you about something called “head on a stick”. You heard about it?’

  Mick shakes his head.

  ‘It’s most commonly used as a way of getting information out of the enemy, but sometimes it’s used to incapacitate them without the use of gunfire. It’s useful for when you don’t want to alert any nearby enemy.’

  The VC gasps and then groans as Sarge reaches out and flips him over. The young man lies facedown.

  Sarge raises his long bayonet. ‘The idea is to hit the spine.’

  The warped glee in his voice surprises Mick. Mick knows the skipper has a dark side to him, a violent side, but this is different than the way he is around the girls at the village.

  ‘You sever the nerves of the spinal cord, and the bugger can’t move anything below the head.’

  Mick raises his eyebrows. ‘Hence the name.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  He jabs the bayonet into their captive’s back. The young man shrieks with pain into the hard-packed floor.

  Sarge grinds the knife hard as blood flows from the wound, spurting onto his hand.

  Crouched there in the hot tunnel, Mick feels something dark and primal wash over him. Maybe it’s the steamy heat, or the smell of blood, but his body fills with elation and his head with voices. They’re telling him that murder is part of him; that death is something he should enjoy, not merely a way to deal with problems. That blood is his element.

  In the past, he’d killed either out of anger or necessity. He enjoyed it, but perhaps not as much as he could have. He was too worried about getting caught, or even getting killed by the Others. He killed for survival, and when he succeeded, it was satisfying, an accomplishment. But shit, why does killing have to just be a job? Why couldn’t he kill for fun? For the simple thrill of the hunt and the power it gave him? War provided plenty of opportunities.

  ‘Can I have a go?’ Mick asks.

  Sarge, face contorted, blood speckling his clothes, nods and he moves down the tunnel.

  Mick looks down at the VC, who’s crying softly while blood seeps from his body. Mick chooses a spot on the man’s back a few inches down from Sarge’s wound. He plunges the bayonet into the VC and the man’s body tightens and he lets out a wail.

  Mick can feel muscle as he works the thick blade hard. ‘How do ya like that, nog?’ Mick breathes. His body is tingling, his cock throbbing. ‘Think you and your nog mates can kill us, huh? Well, fuck you. We’re gonna gut the lot of ya and feed ya entrails to the poor and hungry villagers.’

>   Mick pulls the knife out; blood flicks his face.

  He wipes the blood from his eyes and licks his lips. He tastes the salty tang of the VC’s life force.

  ‘“Head on a stick”?’ Mick says, smiling. ‘I’ll show you a fucken head on a stick.’

  Mick grabs the VC by the hair and lifts his head, exposing his neck. He slices the blade deeply across the man’s throat. The man gurgles as blood gushes out, and he is soon silent. Mick continues to saw back and forth.

  ‘Fucken hell, Mick,’ Sarge says, eyes wide and unblinking as he watches Mick from over his shoulder.

  With a great deal of effort, Mick manages to sever the man’s head. The mutilated body falls against the wall, spurting dark red fluid onto the hard soil.

  Blood pools on the floor of the tunnel and small rivers run in front of them, where the tunnel slopes downwards.

  ‘Got a stick handy, Skipper?’

  Sarge smiles, shakes his head. ‘You’re one fucked-up individual, Crack Shot. Luckily for you, here in ’Nam, that’s a good thing. Come on, let’s get out and see if we can’t bag us some more nogs.’

  Mick keeps hold of the head as they continue through the tunnel.

  It’s slow going and they have to brave a few more U-turns and even a pit containing steel spikes (which Sarge thankfully sees ahead of time and they avoid by using a passing bay) before they reach the tunnel’s end.

  Kneeling, the Sarge checks the trapdoor they’ve come to for any wires. When he’s satisfied there aren’t any, he carefully lifts the door, slides a hand up and feels for any wires outside.

  ‘All clear,’ Sarge says. He flips the trapdoor up and then pulls himself out of the tunnel.

  Mick follows, first tossing the head out, and then squeezing himself up and out of the tight rectangular hole.

  The moment they’re out, they scan the jungle for any sign of the enemy.

  ‘Seems clear,’ Mick says, looking at Sarge. The sergeant is dirty with blood, especially his right arm.

  Looking down at himself, Mick sees that he’s even more drenched.

  ‘Looks like this tunnel is more of an escape route,’ Sarge says.

  They’ve found themselves over on the other side of the creek, in a dense section of jungle. The tunnel entrance would be almost impossible to see with the trapdoor down and covered over with leaves and dirt.

  Mick has heard about the great network of underground tunnels, like the ones in the Ho Bo Woods; subterranean mini-cities, complete with hospitals, schools and sleeping bays. Mick would love to go down into one of those bunker systems. He’d have a field day with the enemy.

  This escape tunnel is a mere fraction of what the VC has created.

  ‘We should get going,’ Sarge says. ‘But first, let’s have a quick wash.’

  Mick agrees.

  Before they head down to the creek, Mick steps over to a tree, breaks off a large branch, rips off its foliage, and then sinks one end into the earth near the tunnel entrance.

  He then picks up the head of the VC and jams it atop the branch. There’s a squelching sound and blood and other fluids dribble down the shaft. He steps away and the head remains on the pole. He smiles. ‘A present for the VC.’

  Sarge smiles. ‘It’s a work of art.’

  When Mick and Sarge arrive back at the bunker complex, they find Lieutenant Patterson standing in the clearing with other members from his half-platoon.

  He doesn’t look happy.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing, Atkin? Why didn’t you call me or headquarters?’

  Sarge shrugs. ‘I didn’t want to lose the enemy. I thought by the time backup arrives, they’ll be long gone.’

  ‘And did you find and kill any more of them?’

  Sarge licks his lips. ‘Just one. We found him in the tunnel, wounded.’

  ‘And the rest?’

  ‘Got away.’

  Patto sighs. ‘Jesus Christ, Sarge, a tunnel? Without blowing smoke down there first?’

  ‘I know, I know, it was stupid.’

  ‘Damn right it was. At least tell me you guys found some good trophies? Documents? Cache of ammo and guns?’

  Mick holds the AK-47 out to the platoon commander.

  Patto huffs. ‘That’s it?’

  ‘It’s just an escape tunnel,’ Sarge says. ‘Leads over to the other side of the creek. No rooms or anything like that.’

  Patto gives a big sigh to the hot jungle. ‘Shit.’ He looks around. ‘Well, at least you got some of ’em. Crack Shot, you’ve got the wonderful job of burying the bodies.’

  ‘Aw, what? Why me?’ Mick says, looking around at the ten corpses.

  ‘Because I said so.’

  With the heat, the bodies are swarming with flies and are already beginning to smell. ‘I can’t bury all of these bodies by m’self. Take me all day.’

  Patto turns to the group of men. ‘Stretch, help bury these bodies.’

  Shit – not Stretch.

  ‘On second thought, I’ll manage.’

  Patto shoots him a look and Mick knows the matter is final.

  ‘The rest of you guys, come with me. Sarge, blow up the tunnel before you leave.’

  ‘My gear is down below,’ Mick says. ‘Can I at least go down and get my pack? I need my rifle and shovel.’

  ‘Someone will bring it up,’ Patto says. ‘Be quick about the burials, we have to move out and look for the rest of the VC group. And don’t forget – bury them face up.’

  ‘The fuck do they care? They’re dead,’ Mick mutters.

  Patto shoots him another glare and then the commander, along with the rest of his men, disappears down the hill, leaving Mick, Sarge and Stretch alone in the clearing.

  ‘You blokes stand back,’ Sarge says, pulling out an M26 hand grenade.

  He pulls the pin and throws the small green explosive down the hole. They run to get as far back as possible. There’s a boom! and dirt and dust flies out of the hole. The wooden beams are shattered.

  ‘Okay, have fun, boys,’ Sarge says, and starts down the path. ‘Don’t forget,’ he calls back, ‘check each one carefully before moving ’em.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Stretch says, and when Sarge is gone, he gives him the bird.

  ‘Hey, Sarge didn’t give you this job, it ain’t his fault,’ Mick says.

  ‘Whatever, let’s just get this over with.’

  ‘Well I ain’t got my shovel, so how ’bout you start digging graves and I’ll start checking the nogs.’

  ‘Fine,’ Stretch sighs, and then he gets to work.

  Fucken dipshit, Mick thinks. He gets to work checking the VC. Not only does he have to make sure they’re dead, but he also has to check they haven’t booby-trapped themselves by placing a live grenade under their body as they die. He’s also looking for papers, documents and spare ammo. All the guns and RPGs have already been taken.

  Just as he begins, Woody comes up over the little hill and tosses Mick’s pack down.

  ‘I believe it’s also customary to give each one a kiss before you bury them,’ he says, grinning.

  ‘The only smelly cunt I kiss is your mother’s,’ Mick says, and Woody flips him the finger.

  ‘Have fun, girls,’ Woody says, and then leaves.

  Mick snatches up his Armalite, then continues checking the dead.

  It’s at the fourth body that he finds a grenade.

  The VC is lying on his belly, one arm hidden underneath. Mick snakes his hand under the body and touches the man’s cold hand. Clenched in it is a hard round ball of metal.

  Mick swallows a dry lump.

  He carefully withdraws his hand from under the VC and stands. Stretch is working hard digging the graves.

  ‘Would ya hurry the fuck up already?’ Stretch says, upon seeing Mick standing there.

  Mick’s about to tell him about the grenade, but he holds his tongue and moves onto the next body.

  ‘Fuck, I would have thought you would be exempt from doing this shit,’ Stretch says, dirt flying
into the air.

  ‘Yeah, why’s that?’

  ‘You being so buddy-buddy with the sarge and all. You guys were down in the tunnel a long time, especially considering it was only a rat run. What didja do down there?’

  Mick can see Stretch’s grin from where he’s standing.

  ‘We sucked each other’s cocks, what do ya think?’ Mick snarls. ‘Christ, you’re a bitter cunt. You got the hots for the skipper or somethin’? You jealous?’

  Stretch snorts and continues his work.

  Mick finishes his job quickly and finds nothing more of interest. He strides over to Stretch and sees he has dug half-a-dozen shallow graves.

  ‘I can continue if you start hauling the bodies over,’ Mick says.

  Stretch straightens. His arms and clothes are covered with dirt. His face is streaming brown sweat. ‘You giving me orders? Fuck you.’ He takes off his hat, wipes his forehead and neck, and then puts it back on.

  ‘Fine with me, I’ll drag the bodies. You keep digging, but get your back into it – we don’t wanna be here all day.’

  Mick starts walking towards the bodies.

  ‘No, fuck that. You dig for a change,’ Stretch calls.

  Mick smiles to himself, then turns around with a surly expression. ‘Christ, whatever.’

  He grabs his shovel and begins digging a fresh ditch next to the others.

  He watches Stretch amble over to the closest body. The second scout bends over and grabs the dead VC by the ankles. He rises, and hunched over slightly, drags the body towards an empty grave.

  ‘Face up, remember?’ Mick says when Stretch dumps the body into the hole facedown.

  ‘Who gives a shit?’ Stretch says, panting.

  ‘It’s against their religion or somethin’,’ Mick tells him. ‘Whichever, you don’t want Patto coming up here to check on us and seeing the bodies facedown. He’s pissed enough as it is – do you really want him any more angry?’

  With a deep sigh, Stretch reaches down and turns the corpse over so it’s staring up at the sun, then he resumes dragging the others over and dumping them into the holes.

  Mick is digging his second grave when it happens.

  He watches as Stretch staggers over to the VC with the grenade hidden under his body. Mick considers shouting out to him – maybe it’s too much – but it’s too late for that. If he tells him now, Stretch will know that he knew earlier and said nothing. He’d tell the others and . . .