The Odd Angry Shot Read online

  ‘Christ, they’re corpses. There must be sixty-odd in that lot.’

  ‘Are they what I think they are?’ I ask.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Plenty more where they came from.’

  ‘Fuck,’ is all I can say.

  ‘TO Nui Dat by truck is approximately thirty minutes’ ride. The highway you will be travelling on has been under Viet Cong control for the last twelve years. I want one man in each truck to act as shotgun. If we have a contact we will go into a standard vehicle ambush drill. Shotguns, keep your eyes open and don’t kill any fucking villagers. On the way,’ words of wisdom from the squadron sergeant major.

  ‘Any questions?’

  ‘Sir, how do we know the difference between villagers and Charlies?’

  ‘When they blow yer stupid head off, does that answer your question?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  We all laughed—the sergeant major laughed too.

  I am almost disappointed that no one shoots at us. Shit it feels good, the local nogs are as scared as all Christ of us.

  ‘D’ja see the looks on their faces?’

  ‘Really make you feel welcome, don’t they.’

  Remember as soon as you got there—rain. Remember how you said that you’d never seen rain like it but you got used to it after a couple of days and anyway it was good to wash in; the small waterfalls it made when it spilled down from the roof of the supply tent, much better than that chlorinated cats’ piss that the sappers used to get from the well.

  There were times when it was good to lie in your own little sandbagged and plastic covered world. In the afternoons, when it rained—it always rained on time.

  ‘You could set your watch by this fucking rain,’ said Harry—every day, day after day. It became a ritual after a while, remember, as soon as it would start to rain the whole troop of sixteen men would scream in unison: ‘What could you set your watch by, Harry?’ and Harry would scream back, ‘This fucking rain.’

  AND yes, there were the card games. The OC had strictly forbidden gambling in the lines, everyone from 2 IC down gambled. Pontoon, of course, and always in the supply tent where Black Ronnie, the quartermaster, ran the games, every night.

  ‘Pay twenty.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that fuck ya; eighteen.’

  ‘That’s the third in a row.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be cheatin’ your comrades in arms would you, Ronnie?’

  ‘Who? Me? No way.’

  ‘My arse.’

  ‘Buy one—and another.’

  ‘Bust me for four bucks.’

  ‘What are you on?’

  ‘Sixteen.’

  ‘Sixteen and ten is twenty six.’

  ‘Thanks, cunt.’

  ‘You are most welcome, my boy.’

  ‘Bets thanks, fellas.’

  Every night it went on except when you were out on operations.

  ‘Are you playing or not?’

  ‘Buy one.’

  ‘Shuddup. Listen.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Shuddup.’

  Crump, crump, crump, crump…footsteps of death. Jesus Christ, Incoming Mortars Incoming. The clash beside the tent made you stop dead. Christ, the stink. Crump, crump, crump. Cordite. Oh shit, remember how Black Ronnie crashed forward over the table and how you froze when you saw the hole in the back of his head and how he started to vomit. Shit, oh Jesus no—and when you went to grab him, the gush of blood from his mouth that hit you full in the face—blood and vomit. ‘Oh fuck,’ you said. ‘Ronnie,’ you yelled, ‘Oh Jesus.’ Crump, crump—remember how you could see the grey-blue brain pulse out its last few, jerky movements, and Ronnie’s eyes. One more cough, more blood. Remember how you swore that he wouldn’t die and you knew damn well that you were holding a corpse and that you were standing like a fool holding him across the table under the arms while he spewed blood over the cards. Remember how you thought that the cards would get messed up.

  ‘Bets thanks, fellas.’

  Remember how the daze passed by and you pulled him onto the table, moved yourself back into life; the world was coming back now, the mess was on fire—and how you started to hear voices again.

  The medic running along the road outside, his aid kit flying behind him.

  ‘Everyone OK over here?’

  ‘Medic!’

  ‘On my way.’

  ‘Jesus, you hit?’

  ‘No, Ronnie’s dead.’

  ‘You OK? You sure?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Medic, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘I’ve only got one pair of fucking legs, mate.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Roberts.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Lost his gut. Walked straight out of the tent. Went off about two feet from him.’

  ‘Roll him over, keep his legs down.’

  Remember how he screamed.

  ‘Oh shit, what a mess. I don’t think he’ll make it,’ said the medic.

  ‘Signallers have got two dead, one wounded,’ someone yelled.

  ‘What a night. Got a smoke?’

  ‘Thanks, mate.’

  The medic runs to the signal lines, past the burning mess.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Two dead, one wounded.’

  The signals corporal grabs the medic by the shirt.

  ‘You sure they’re dead?’

  ‘How fucking sure would you like me to be?’

  ‘Let him go, you stupid shit.’

  ‘Sorry, mate.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s OK. Forget it.’

  ‘One got it full in the face, and the other lost his chest.’

  ‘How about the other one?’

  ‘Over here.’

  ‘Where’s the torch?’

  ‘Ahhh, oh shit, it hurts.’

  Remember how you stood beside the medic and watched another professional whimper and you started to have doubts.

  ‘He’s OK. His thigh’s ripped open.’

  ‘Will they cut my leg off corporal?’

  ‘Not unless they’re pissed they won’t, mate.’

  Morphine, clamps, saline, shell dressings.

  ‘Move him carefully, we got a live one here.’

  ‘Do we own a piece of board or plank or something?’ ‘How about a rifle?’

  ‘Great.’

  The four of us watch as the medic slides the rifle under the leg.

  ‘Stick your hand underneath and see if the muzzle is near his arse yet.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘OK. Now lift his arse, roll it over a bit. Yeah, that’s it and slide the rifle up to his hip.’

  ‘It’s there.’

  ‘Shit hot. Right, now hang on and try not to jolt him. One, two, three lift. OK, now gently forward to the RAP.’

  Remember how it was outside the hospital that night. Some battalions had been hit a lot harder than we had. Seven land rovers full of casualties. Some were minor, some wouldn’t see morning and some, like the one with both eyes gone, would still be around in the morning but wouldn’t see anything.

  ‘I’d rather be dead.’ It was Harry.

  ‘Yeah, what a shit trick,’ I replied grimly.

  Good on you Harry. Remember him sitting beside you in the mud.

  ‘Were you with Ronnie?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘You look as though you’ve been used as a tampon.’

  I started to laugh.

  ‘C’mon we’ll get those clothes off you and I’ll buy you a beer.’

  ‘Buy me ten eh?’

  ‘You’re on.’

  REMEMBER the mess line the morning after. Remember how Harry and I were three parts drunk.

  The Officers’ and Sergeants’ Mess had a huge hole in the roof, the result of a direct hit last night.

  ‘Right place, wrong time,’ came from some wit farther up the mess line.

  ‘What’s this shit?’ says Harry.

  ‘Powdered egg
.’

  ‘You’ve really excelled yourself this morning, cookie.’

  ‘You know why they call cooks fitters and turners, cookie?’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘Because you fit food into pots and turn it into shit.’

  A bumble of mirthful snickering and faces break into smiles.

  ‘Up your arse,’ comes the stern reply.

  ‘Be nice, cookie, or I’ll piss in your powdered egg.’

  Exit Harry. Be sure to tune in again tomorrow for another episode in the continuing saga of Harry and the Baitlayer.

  Remember that mail. Parks and kids, kids and parks, sleep tight but don’t forget that we are protecting you all, so do please put pen to paper.

  ‘Rogers. Small. Small. Small.’

  ‘He writes ’em himself.’

  ‘Shuddup. Clarke. Westfield. Shaw.’

  Remember how good it was to get a letter. You never wrote too many—maybe you should have written more—but anyway it was good. What’s this? Re-addressed.

  Dear Sir,

  We find it necessary to remind you that your account is overdue. We would be pleased if you would settle as soon as possible—amount $3.50.

  ‘Shit, one of mine’s a bill.’

  ‘Who do you owe money to here?’

  ‘No. Re-addressed from Australia.’

  Reply:

  Dear Sir,

  I find it necessary to inform you that I am at present indisposed, and what’s more I don’t care a rat’s arse about your $3.50.

  Kind regards,

  Son of Anzac.

  Letter number two:

  My Darling,

  I’m sorry I haven’t written sooner but I’ve been so busy. I’ve just moved flats and you know what moving’s like. I must tell you something. I think it would be a good thing if we broke it off while you are away. I don’t want you to have to worry about me while you are over there because I’m sure that you have enough on your mind without me there too. Anyhow, must go.

  Bye for now,

  Love…Whatever. Whoever.

  Reply:

  I can’t even remember what she looks like. Thanks for nothing.

  REMEMBER how it seemed warm and cosy inside the tent when it rained. You liked to watch the rain. Remember when you were a little boy and you used to get your arse smacked by your mother when you stayed out in it. Remember how you used to walk up and down beside the hedge and whistle ‘Singing in the Rain’—it seemed like a good thing to do at the time—and you were only six. Thirteen years isn’t that long.

  It was good inside the tent. The sandbags looked solid, protective in their uniformity. Someone said they looked like Besser Bricks. Oh give me a slice of suburbia and a Holden.

  HARRY is cleaning his AK47. Shaw and Rogers are writing letters.

  ‘I think my feet have had the chop. Have a look at this.’

  I display my feet like two red spotted candelabra in front of Shaw’s face.

  ‘Jesus, they don’t look good, mate. Maybe you’ve got leprosy.’

  ‘My feet are OK. It’s my crotch,’ says Rogers.

  ‘Yeah, we know. You can’t leave it alone.’

  ‘You may as well forget it, everyone else in the Task Force has it too.’

  ‘What? Roger’s crotch?’ says Harry, ‘I always thought there was a bit of poof in the boy.’

  ‘Up your arse,’ says Rogers.

  ‘See I told you, a dead-set queen.’

  ‘Is there something that can cure my afflicted tootsies,’ I demand.

  ‘I’m told that it helps if you piss on them,’ says Harry.

  ‘What’s it do?’ I enquire.

  ‘The stink kills you and you don’t have to worry,’ says Shaw.

  ‘Go and get stuffed the lot of you. I’ll go and see the medic.’

  ‘He won’t do you much good,’ says Harry.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s got it himself.’

  ‘Anyone got any porno?’ I ask, and fall back onto my bed.

  ‘YOU will patrol the area from the road here—to the edge of the plantation here.’

  ‘What’s in the area?’ asks Shaw.

  ‘Mostly VC. There have been a few isolated reports and yesterday morning’s briefing reported that two fresh graves have been found in the area of grid reference 261.292. Upon investigation it was found that the bodies were NVA, probably killed by Monday’s air strike. There have been no contacts reported in the area for the past eight days, so either the bastards have all gone home, or they’ve gone underground.’

  ‘Any reports of bunker systems or fortifications?’

  ‘No, the only thing reported was a small camp at 260.294, no more than six or ten inhabitants. You will be instructed at 0930 hours tomorrow so be ready to move at 0800 hours on the dot.’

  ‘Yessir, Herr Field Marshal.’

  The intelligence corporal turns up his nose.

  ‘Why the mad hurry to get us into a dead area?’ asks Harry.

  ‘Jesus only knows,’ I reply.

  ‘He’s probably not too sure about it himself,’ says Shaw.

  ‘Hey, fellas,’ it’s the intelligence corporal again. ‘Just got a signal. You’ll patrol the same area but you’ll now be scouting for one of the battalions. I’ll brief you in half an hour.’

  ‘That should make us look nice and obvious with seventy odd bloody nashos wandering around with us,’ complains Rogers.

  ‘It’s not that bad; all the better if we run into a great mob from the opposing team, at least we’ll have support. There’s safety in numbers you know,’ says Shaw. I think I notice a note of hope in his voice.

  ‘My arse there’s safety in numbers. Those poor bastards don’t want to even hear about war. Bloody civilians in uniform.’

  ‘It’s not their fault.’

  ‘S’pose not.’

  Conversation ended. Wonder what’s for lunch.

  ‘WHO needs ammunition?’ yells the supply corporal, pushing his head through the tent flap.

  ‘The Viet Cong do,’ retorts Harry.

  ‘Don’t need any, eh?’

  ‘No thanks. We’ve got more things in here that go bang than they had on D Day.’

  Remember how it was the same every time: rifle propped against sandbags, gleaming like a rigid snake; eight magazines, second last round tracer. Assemble your fighting belt: two HE grenades, one white phosphorus, one red smoke; one hundred and fifty spare rounds 7.62 in the middle pouches. Water bottles, magazine thirty round—stolen from the Q Store—knife. Set your watches. Pick up your rifle clip in the thirty-round magazine. One last look at your pack straps. Check your maps. Now wait.

  ‘OK, fellas,’ comes through the tent flap. ‘I’ll give you the info on where you are to pick up the battalion.’

  Heard it all before. Grid reference 123456. Yeah, password is blah. Yeah, terrific. Piss off, will you, so we can get some sleep.

  0800. The chopper lay on the Task Force LZ, looking for all the world like three huge eggs with tails and plastic eyes.

  ‘G’day fellas. You this morning’s hiking party?’

  We’ve had this chopper crew before. Good fellas.

  ‘Yep, in the absence of Steve McQueen it looks like us.’

  ‘OK. Pile in.’

  Shaw and Rogers sit on the back bench and rest their heads on the quilted padding, legs dangling outside. My rifle feels good as it rests on my lap, oiled and shiny. Twenty-eight rounds of keep Australia free from sin and yellow bastards. Shit, I’d love a glass of Passiona.

  The chopper dips forward as it leaves the ground and seems to drag its nose—almost as if it doesn’t want to go. I smile at the gunner who grins and nods at me as he cocks the twin sixties. Camaraderie here, you can feel it, these RAAF blokes are OK. How come he’s wearing glasses? He’s got acne too.

  The morning wind lashes my face as it curls around the fuselage. Small patches of fog on the ground, green pond, yellow patches on the ground appear between the fog over the highw
ay that leads, I think, to Vung Tan. Jesus, I’d love a screw.

  ‘Almost there. Stand by,’ yells the navigator co-pilot and strokes the air with his hand indicating a patch of bamboo on the ground. Shaw moves down behind me. It looks calm enough. Turn your rifle on its side; one last look; half cock it—yep, one up the spout. The gold cartridge looks reassuring.

  ‘Ready—go,’ I scream as I leap from the skid. A sensation of falling and landing in a heap on the ground—nothing broken. My hands are covered in mud.

  Confusion. Rotors are deafening. One quick wave to the pilot and the chopper lifts away, dragging its nose again. We’re in business.

  Shaw edges his way into the bamboo ahead, me next, then Rogers. Harry’s tail-end Charlie. Peer into the growth. Starting to sweat—our clothes are drenched.

  Halt, thumbs down. Jesus Christ, a contact this early in the piece. Shaw smiles back at me over his shoulder and makes the thumbs up sign. Thank Christ, it’s the battalion. I feel a twinge in the pit of my stomach. Relief. Look back over my shoulder. Harry grins stupidly.

  ‘What a ragged-arse bunch,’ whispers Rogers to me.

  A young second lieutenant comes forward to meet us, handshakes.

  ‘Golonka,’ he says.

  ‘That’s not the password,’ says Rogers.

  ‘That’s my name, soldier.’

  I grin.

  ‘OK, sir, what’s the situation?’

  Golonka, who looks as if he hasn’t slept for days, pulls a map, plastic covered, from his shirt pocket. His clothes are covered with a film of red-brown mud.

  ‘See this rise here?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Well, we suspect that there are about twenty or thirty nogs dug in about forty or fifty yards from it, about here,’ points with a grubby finger.

  ‘VC or NVA?’ asks Harry.

  ‘Who gives a fuck what they are. They all want to kill you,’ Golonka replies.

  ‘S’pose you’re right,’ says Harry, resigning himself to the ninety-day-wonder’s logic.

  ‘Why not call in an air strike?’ asks Shaw hopefully.

  ‘Want to find out what they’ve got in there. We suspect it’s weapons and food cache. Might be some documents too.’

  ‘OK. When do you want to move out?’ I ask.