The Odd Angry Shot Page 8

  ‘Get stuffed,’ sneers Bung right back at me.

  The girl returns to the table. I notice that there are only four drinks on the tray.

  ‘Where’s yours?’ I ask.

  ‘No time now, must go to work,’ answers the girl, running her fingers along my epaulette and smiling.

  ‘Good to meet all of you. Goodbye.’

  She smiles, nods her head first to Bung, then myself, bids her girlfriend good-day, turns and walks out into the street.

  ‘My friend, she teach at school,’ says the bar girl, her head framed against Harry’s green cotton shoulder.

  Bung falls forward onto the table hitting his head and roaring with laughter.

  ‘Six thousand harlots in this bloody town, and we land a fucking schoolteacher,’ laughs Bung, his face still resting on the table. ‘Let’s go find ourselves another bar, eh?’ He punches me on the shoulder.

  ‘Couldn’t do any worse.’

  ‘One and one are two, two and two are four, three and three…’ laughs Harry from behind me as we walk towards the sunlit doorway.

  ‘Get stuffed,’ I snarl.

  As we reach the footpath, Bung breaks into a rough soft shoe and starts to sing, ‘Got an apple for the teacher…’ bouncing from side to side on his filthy combat boots.

  ‘And you can tell Margot Fonteyn over there to get stuffed too,’ I snarl again, standing with hands on hips and looking at Harry.

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ says Bung, walking up and offering me a cigarette.

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask, accepting his offer.

  ‘I never had a schoolteacher who looked like that.’

  ‘Neither did he,’ says Harry pointing at me and grinning.

  THE morning passed, the three of us, now on the downhill side of sober, sway up the lane towards the ramshackle building at the end of the notorious off limits walkway known to every soldier in Three Corps area as Hundred Pee Alley.

  An ugly ageing Mama San sits in the doorway.

  ‘What you want?’

  ‘A fuck, my dear. Three in fact.’

  ‘You pay now. Three hundred pee.’

  Hands reach into pockets and count crumpled paper into the old woman’s hands.

  ‘You want girls?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You want girls? Maybe you want boys?’

  ‘Shit, no. Just girls.’

  ‘OK. You go inside. You wait.’

  We wait for about a minute and watch as the six young Vietnamese prostitutes parade before us.

  ‘You like me?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You come with me, we go make love.’

  Make love? Here you go again; this is love? OK. If this is love, grab yourself a slice and run.

  ‘You clean?’ she asks.

  ‘Like Snow White’s bum.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘You like me.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Oh, you big.’

  ‘I’ll bet you say that to all the heroes.’

  ‘Come, we lie down.’

  ‘No. Let’s stand,’ I say, feeling antagonistic.

  ‘You mad?’

  ‘Probably.’

  And at five o’clock in South Yarra, wearing white, Miss Penelope ‘What sort of car do you drive?’ is selling out for a slightly higher figure and a bouquet of frangipani.

  ‘YOU want change money? Ucdai loi?’

  ‘Fuck off, slope head.’

  ‘You got US green? You want change?’

  ‘Oh yeah.’

  ‘How much you got?’

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘Give you three to one. You change now?’

  Harry pulls his wallet out from his back pocket and slides the green and white note from the unzippered money compartment. The short Vietnamese youth takes the note from Harry’s extended hand and pushes a thin roll of Vietnamese currency into Harry’s palm. As Harry begins to unroll the small wad, the youth pushes him aside and runs down the street, weaving through the crowd.

  ‘Newspaper, the cunt,’ screams Harry.

  ‘Grab that bastard,’ calls Bung to two black American marines standing on the street corner.

  The inside marine extends his hand as the youth runs past, grabbing the squealing Vietnamese by the arm.

  ‘You want this slope, man?’ asks the huge, green-clad black man, walking towards us with the wriggling youth in his vice-like right hand.

  ‘Too bloody right we do,’ says Bung.

  ‘Why, man?’

  ‘The little prick changed our money and slipped us a roll of newspaper,’ answers Harry.

  ‘Shit, that’s the oldest con there is.’ The marine looks at the cowering Vietnamese.

  ‘Split fifty-fifty on all he’s got,’ says the other marine, ‘OK?’

  ‘Right,’ says Harry, ‘fifty-fifty.’

  ‘Into the alley up here,’ says the first marine pointing to a thin space between buildings about thirty feet from us.

  The marine pushes the terrified youth against the brick wall of the alley, banging the Viet’s head against the rock-hard surface.

  ‘OK, sonny. Now we’re gonna teach you all about the evils of robbing poor soldiers. You gentlemen may have first pitch.’

  Harry crashes his fist into the squat face and at the same time brings his knee up into the youth’s groin.

  We take turns, not saying a word. As each one beats the youth to the ground, the next one lifts him up and continues to rain punches and kicks into the screaming figure.

  Harry rolls the youth over, face up.

  ‘Maybe we’ve killed him,’ says Bung.

  ‘Nah, still lots of life in the bastard,’ says Harry, kneeling beside the groaning shape.

  ‘What’s he got on him?’ asks the marine.

  Harry produces four, neatly rolled, three-inch thick wads from the bloodied figure’s pockets.

  ‘The little cunt’s loaded,’ says Bung, taking the money from Harry and handing it to the second marine.

  ‘Jesus H. Christ! Will you look at this,’ says the first marine, grinning.

  ‘OK, boys,’ says Harry. ‘Let’s go have a drink and split this up, eh?’

  ‘Them’s the nicest words I’ve heard since I’ve been in this country,’ laughs the first marine blowing on his knuckles.

  ‘One for luck,’ smiles Harry and, turning, sends the toe of his boot into the youth’s face.

  BUNG sits dwarf-like beside the two huge marines. Harry and I sit facing them across the table.

  ‘Five hundred and two dollars, no cents.’

  ‘Not bad for a night’s work, eh?’ smiles Harry.

  ‘Cheers, boys,’ says the first marine, raising his glass and nodding to each of us in turn.

  ‘Want to split now?’ asks Bung. ‘Fifty-fifty.’

  ‘I got a better idea,’ says the second marine, putting his hands behind his head and leaning back against the cubicle headrest.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘Why don’t we just stay here and get ourselves a room and the best whores in the joint and have us a party. Whaddya say?’

  ‘God bless America,’ yells Bung, clapping his hands.

  We all laughed, remember.

  ‘OK. Plan of action,’ says the first marine. To Harry, ‘You get the room. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  To the other marine, ‘You get the booze, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  To Bung, ‘And you and I are the bank, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Right. To the appointed tasks, gentlemen,’ says our black organiser. We jump to our feet and disappear in four different directions.

  ‘I WANT five girls.’

  ‘You want how many?’ asks the sixteen-year-old bellboy, looking first at my face and then my crotch, his face a picture of amazement and sly interest.

  ‘Five.’ I hold up my hand.

  ‘All for you?’

  ‘Jesus, no.’

  ‘OK
. Be back in one minute. You wait.’

  One minute later, to the second, he reappears at the head of a line of ten girls.

  ‘You wan pick?’

  I select five girls from the line.

  ‘OK. You pay now, three thousand five hundred each.’

  ‘Follow me,’ I reply, walking down the corridor towards the room that the second marine has just entered carrying a large carton with the words CHAMPAGNE—PRODUCT OF FRANCE printed diagonally on the side.

  ‘The man would like to be paid,’ I grin at the first marine who appears, jacket front undone, in the doorway.

  ‘My pleasure,’ answers the black man and peels note after note from the huge pile that rests in his hand.

  ‘And five hundred for you, slipei,’ as he hands the youth five one-hundred-pee notes.

  ‘Thank you sir.’

  ‘Yeah, go buy yourself a hat.’

  The door closes on the amazed face of the Vietnamese bellboy.

  ‘Any one of you ladies like a drink?’ asks Harry raising a green bottle to his lips.

  ‘WE want to see a Private Rogers.’

  ‘Australian?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  The young American nurse walks her fingers along a pile of file index cards that sit in a green steel box on the desk at the entrance to the hospital ward.

  ‘Bed twenty-eight, left-hand side.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Harry, Bung and I walk down the aisle that separates the rows of beds, our rubber-soled boots squeaking on the polished floor.

  ‘Twenty-seven, twenty-eight,’ counts Bung as we pass by the beds.

  A bandaged figure lies on the bed before us. The only visible part of the face is one very alert eye, blinking.

  Rogers slips his hand down to the note pad that lies beside his leg on the red-crossed sheet. We lean over the bed as he slowly begins to print the word BALLS.

  ‘What’s he mean?’ asks Bung.

  Rogers taps the pen point into the pad face, then points the pen in the direction of his genital region. The plastic tubes lodged in his arms look for all the world like tree branches.

  ‘He wants to know if he’s still got his balls,’ says Harry.

  ‘Well, tell him,’ says Bung.

  Harry bends and lifts the sheet at the side of the bed and glances underneath.

  ‘Yep, still there,’ he says, standing again.

  Harry nods at Rogers.

  ‘You’ll have to go now, thanks,’ says the American nurse standing beside Harry.

  ‘How is he?’ asks Bung.

  ‘Pretty good, considering,’ she answers. ‘They’re going to make him as good as new again.’

  We walk down the white, brick-like path at the front of the hospital ward, past a sign that reads SURGICAL WARD—96 EVAC HOSP.

  ‘Good as new, eh?’ says Harry adjusting his trousers.

  ‘What’s a foot or two between friends?’

  ‘Twenty-four inches,’ grins Bung shrugging his shoulders, ‘or something like that.’

  BUNG is seated on an ammunition case, his hands submerged in the muddy water that laps and splashes over the side of the fire bucket that serves as our wash trough. A pile of faded wet clothing consisting of camouflage suits, sweat rags and green handkerchiefs lies crumpled together on the small piece of plastic sheeting that serves as our laundry bag.

  ‘Don’t know why I even bother,’ says Bung, his eyes fixed on the piece of wet green wool that hangs dead, fish-like, in his hands.

  ‘Bother to do what?’ asks Harry, momentarily distracted from the ten-times-read letter he is holding.

  ‘Wash these bloody things.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well for a start,’ answers Bung, ‘the only reason we wash the bloody things is to get rid of the stink, and ten minutes after you put them on again, they smell just as fucking bad.’

  ‘Sure it’s not you?’ asks Harry, folding the once-white sheets of paper and carefully putting them in his shirt pocket.

  ‘If it’s me, then you’ve caught whatever it is too.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah, you smell like a shithouse in a heatwave.’

  ‘Well there’s not much you can do about it, mate,’ says Harry, unscrewing the top of the bourbon bottle that stands beside him on the rotting sandbags.

  ‘I wonder if we’ll stink when we get out of this place?’ says Bung, now standing and dusting the seat of his trousers.

  ‘I’ve got no idea,’ answers Harry, taking the bottle from his lips and giving vent to a loud belch.

  ‘I used to live in the country when I was young,’ continues Bung. ‘We had a nightman who’d been carting shit for twenty years and you could smell him twenty yards away even if the wind was blowing in the opposite direction.’

  ‘How’s that?’ says Harry, the bottle now held between his legs.

  ‘My father said it was because the stink had gone right into his body,’ replies Bung.

  ‘I’ll be buggered. You mean a man could smell like we do for years to come, even when he’s out of this arsehole country?’

  ‘Maybe,’ says Bung, still standing sentinel-like over the wet pile of washing.

  ‘Shit! I hope not. How’d a man go trying to get on to a bird if he smelt like we do now, back home?’ demands Harry, worried. ‘You’d have no bloody hope against all those sweet-smelling bastards who cover themselves in aftershave every day, I can tell you now.’

  ‘Anyway,’ says Bung, ‘a lot of birds back home haven’t got a great deal to rave about.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ says Harry.

  ‘Shit, I would,’ says Bung.

  ‘Well in fuck’s name, tell me why?’ says Harry, a look of annoyance on his face.

  ‘OK. Prepare yourself for a lecture, my boy,’ says Bung, walking over and leaning on the sandbags beside Harry. ‘I’d say that women, especially in the mornings, are the most shit-awful things a man can lay his eyes on.’

  ‘Go on,’ says Harry, amazed.

  ‘They belch and groan and fart and complain and half of them look nothing like they did the night before when you met them.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll agree with you there,’ says Harry his eyes full of interest.

  ‘On the other hand,’ says Bung, now seating himself on the sandbag wall, ‘you can take a bloke, roll him in the shit, jump on his head, get him pissed and so on, then shove him under a shower, give him a bit of a scrub and nine times out of ten he’ll come up good as new.’

  ‘You’re right, you know,’ answers Harry thoughtfully.

  ‘Think you’ll ever get married again, Harry?’ asks Bung, his eyes fixed in the dirt.

  ‘Not much chance.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Well, I could say that I got married when I was too young.’

  ‘How old were you?’

  ‘About twenty. No, nineteen.’

  ‘What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘Well I got married with the idea of settling down and looking after the woman. You know, I’d been out rooting birds since I was sixteen, and going nowhere. So I think to myself, now here’s one that’s different, this one I can really do the right thing by, look after and all, so after a few bust-ups and a few things like an abortion, and her going out with other fellows, we finally get down to the business of getting married. Anyway, from there on in, well from about ten months after the event, she starts to ring up now and again saying she’s working late, or at a work party or something, or one of her old girlfriends is in town.’

  ‘What, was she in and out of the cot with other fellows?’

  ‘Don’t think so, well I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure she wasn’t then. It just seemed like she didn’t want to be with me.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I thought. Anyway, one weekend, she rings up on the Friday night, it was our anniversary, and says she’s been invited out by some people she w
orks with.’

  ‘Christ, what did you do?’

  ‘Well, I cut up rough and yelled for a while. Then I started to plead with her.’

  ‘So what did she say?’

  ‘She just said she’d been invited and that she wanted to go. Simple as that.’

  ‘Didn’t you ask her if you’d been invited as well?’

  ‘Yeah, and you know what she said?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She said that they weren’t my sort of people and that I wasn’t really the type that would fit in with them. So I hung up the phone, packed my case and put it in the wardrobe. I didn’t really know if I’d leave, until she came home about three in the morning rotten drunk. Well, she just collapsed on the couch and went to sleep.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Well, I got dressed, took the case from the wardrobe and went and stood at the end of the couch. You know, I stood there for about an hour just looking at her and wishing she’d wake up and say that she was sorry. Anyway, she didn’t. So I went up and kissed her on the forehead and told her I loved her.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I stood at the end of the couch again and told her I loved her, walked out the door, joined the army the next day and here I am.’

  ‘Shit! What did you do for a living before you joined up?’

  ‘I was a painter, as in pictures. I even had one or two exhibitions.’

  ‘I’ll be fucked.’

  ‘Yeah. I was, well and truly,’ says Harry sliding down from the sandbags and picking up the bundle of washing. ‘Well and truly.’

  THE afternoon sun is stifling. Out of the corner of my eye I am watching Harry pull small shreds of dead skin from his cracked lips.

  The stagnant water, home to countless mosquitoes, sits soft and vomit-like in the bottom of the disused irrigation ditch, lapping over and seeping through the lace eyelets in our boots. A wet, sour-smelling line of thirty infantrymen.

  ‘I’ll bet the leeches are having a field day,’ whispers Harry, shifting his legs and disturbing the congregation of large blue flies that have found a resting place on his ammunition pouches.

  ‘If they bite you they’ll end up pissed,’ says Bung, his hand hooked over the shiny black butt of the M-60 that sits on its bipod like an inquisitive lizard held to its keeper by the crumpled belt-chain of linked ammunition.