Territory (45 page)

Someone was slapping his face. It was very annoying.

‘Malcolm, it's me, Kit. Are you all right?'

‘Kit?'
Good God, I've shelled my own men.
‘Kit?' Malcolm stared stupidly, uncomprehendingly, back at his brother. Then he turned to once more gaze down the hill.
How could I have shelled my own men!
He raised the binoculars which still hung around his neck and peered through the clearing smoke.
That's where Charlie is,
he thought blankly as he swept the binoculars in an arc over the enemy territory.
That's where the shells should have landed.
He stared at the jungle and the thick, heavy grasses on the edge of the killing area. Then, out of the grasses, he saw figures rising, others stepping from behind the trees.
Charlie.
‘They're coming,' he said.

Kit ripped the binoculars from his brother's neck and followed the direction of Malcolm's vacant gaze.

They were coming from the north-west. In full force, it appeared. His initial instincts had been right, Kit thought. The enemy shell fire had been a decoy.

He grabbed Malcolm, thrusting the radio receiver into his brother's hand as he frantically checked the grid references on the map.

‘Ring through these coordinates,' he said urgently, ‘grid 454 662!'

But Malcolm was staring at the handpiece as if he wasn't sure what it was.
Ring through the coordinates? But I've already done that. And they were wrong.
He stood in a state of utter stupefaction.
What's the point of ringing through the wrong …
Suddenly he felt an almighty blow across his left cheek and he staggered back a step. It was Kit. Kit had hit him. With the flat of his hand, admittedly, but with all his might and it stung like hell. Why would Kit do that? And he was yelling too.

‘For God's sake, Malcolm, ring through the coordinates! Grid 454 662!'

A glimmer of clarity found its way into Malcolm's brain.
The coordinates. Of course. I have to ring through the coordinates. Grid 454 662.

‘Grid 454 662,' he repeated, pressing the radio's transmit button.

As Malcolm, still dazed but at least functioning, radioed artillery, Kit raced out into the open and down the hill. In the gunpits, the crews would have their arcs of fire set to cover the wrong direction and, through the mayhem which surrounded them, they wouldn't even see the enemy's approach until it was too late to reposition the heavy guns and make the correction.

‘Enemy to the left!' he yelled as he threw himself onto the ground beside the pit. ‘Swing 'em left! Swing 'em left!' For a split second, the men looked at the young private as if he was mad. ‘Skipper's instructions!' Kit yelled. ‘Reposition! Correct your arc!' And he stood, pointing in the
specific direction of the advance. Behind him, the men lifted the heavy weapon to reposition it.

Seconds later, Kit was racing on to the next gunpit, yelling, ‘Skipper's orders, correct your arc!' Once again he exposed himself to enemy fire as he openly stood, drawing the gunners' attention to the advancing NVA infantry, calling target instructions. Then he was off once more, sprinting, dodging, weaving, to the next gunpit.

He didn't stop at the next gunpit, though. He barely slowed down, there was little point, it no longer existed. As he raced past the remains of men, he saw, briefly but clearly, Beady's freckled face staring up at him, mouth open as if in protest, eyes comically wide with astonishment. Ten metres from the pit, he stumbled and fell. Something had tripped him. It was a leg. He picked himself up and ran on, wondering vaguely if it was Beady's.

At the next gunpit. ‘Skipper's orders …!' But, aware by now, the crew was already in the act of repositioning their machine gun.

The first wave of enemy troops had crossed into the killing area and were in range of their weapons. Bullets were whizzing all about Kit, whistling past his head, kicking up clods of earth. But, miraculously, he was unscathed, and by now the machine guns were finding their mark, defending their position, slowing the enemy's advance.

They were successfully buying time, Kit thought, but for how long? Fresh hordes of NVA troops were pouring out of the jungle, backing-up the first assault. Where the hell was the artillery?

Even as he thought it, he heard the first distant scream of the shells and, seconds later, the world erupted. Thank God! But he had to get back to the radio, he had to call in air support. The attack was massive, they needed all the help they could get.

As he raced up the hill, Kit barely felt the bullet that caught him in the arm. He barely felt anything except the
heaving of his lungs as he once again dodged and weaved, legs pumping, hands clawing the air as if to pull himself along faster and faster, any minute expecting a bullet in the back.

Malcolm stared down at the battlefield, transfixed, his mind numb. There was something he must remember. What was it? Something terrible had happened. He tried desperately to remember what it was, but he couldn't. A safety mechanism had been triggered in his brain. He could not recall the hideous knowledge that he had caused the deaths of his own men. Something would not allow him to do so.

Then, out of the smoke and the chaos of battle, he saw Kit running up the hill, staggering, falling, recovering himself and running on.

Malcolm was galvanised into action. He could see nothing but his young brother. Kit was in trouble. He must save Kit. Nothing else mattered. He ran from the observation post. The noise was deafening as shells shrieked overhead to explode in the distance. Amongst the scream of the artillery which had come to their rescue, it was impossible to discern the one missile heading in the opposite direction.

Malcolm was barely ten metres from the observation post when he felt himself lifted off his feet by the impact. For a split second he was aware that he was airborne. But he didn't feel himself land, by then everything was black.

Kit too felt the blast. He felt it before he saw it. He'd been looking down at the ground as he ran, careful of falling again, aware that, in his exhausted state, he must keep up his momentum. He hesitated briefly as he was sprayed with debris. The bloody NVA gun, he thought, and he looked up. The roof of the observation post had been blown away and he prayed that the radio was intact. Then he noticed the body lying face down on the ground. He ran and knelt beside it. He didn't need to roll it over to
know who it was, he saw the pips on the shoulder.

Malcolm was alive. Unconscious but breathing, and Kit dragged him into the nearby trench. He couldn't tell the extent of his brother's injuries and there was no time to examine him. The unit needed air support. Gunships. He had to find the radio.

He did. Amongst the ruins, the radio was mercifully intact. Breath still rasping in his throat, lungs feeling they might burst, Kit made the call.

Malcolm was floating, it could have been for a lifetime, as he lay there in the trench, drifting in and out of consciousness. But it wasn't, it was only a minute or so. He tried to move but he couldn't, not a muscle it seemed, and something told him he was dying. Strangely enough he didn't seem to care. He wasn't in any pain and that was the main thing. It was the pain he feared most, they all did. There wasn't a man amongst them who wasn't terrified at the thought of dying in agony.

It was quite pleasant, just floating. But there was something he needed to remember. Concentration was difficult. What the hell was it? He'd been calling in artillery support. And Kit had been with him.

Kit!
He suddenly remembered. Kit! He'd seen Kit racing up the hill like a madman.
Kit! Was Kit all right?
He'd gone out to help him, and that was all he could remember.

‘Malcolm.'

Thank God!
Kit was kneeling beside him, concern in his eyes, anxiety in his voice. ‘Are you all right?' Kit was saying. Malcolm nodded.

‘Are you in pain?' How badly hurt was he, Kit wondered. He was in one piece, no limbs blown off, but his body was so limp. Internal injuries? Broken back? His face was stark white and, except for his eyes, he seemed utterly lifeless.

Malcolm stared at Kit. The initial relief at his brother's safety was replaced with the shocking memory which the
sight of Kit had restored. They'd been in the observation post. He'd been radioing for artillery support. He'd given the wrong coordinates. It all flooded back. The memory which his brain had so successfully blocked out engulfed him.
I killed my own men!

Kit saw his brother's eyes widen with horror. Was it death? Was he dying? Malcolm's mouth was open as if he was gasping for air. Kit didn't know what to do. Should he get him some water? No, that wasn't the right thing to do if he had internal injuries.

‘I'm sorry, Malcolm.' He stroked his brother's forehead and cheeks, wiping away the dirt and the grime. He felt so useless he wanted to cry. ‘I'm sorry. I don't know what to do.'

The plea in Malcolm's eyes was desperate. ‘Kit … Kit …' he whispered and Kit leaned close to his brother's mouth to catch the words.

‘What is it? What is it? Tell me what to do?'

‘Don't tell Dad.' It was the faintest breath upon Kit's cheek, but the words were as clear to him as if Malcolm had yelled them. ‘Don't tell Dad,' Malcolm whispered again, for fear his brother might not have heard.
Tell him I died a hero's death
, he wanted to say, but how could he? He'd killed his own men.
Don't tell Dad
, his mind screamed,
please, please, Kit, don't tell Dad
.

Kit nodded. ‘Sshh,' he said, ‘sshh,' stroking his brother's forehead as Malcolm drifted into a semi-conscious state.

He sat there for a long time, hearing the arrival of the gunships. Two Hueys with their mini-guns. It'd be over soon, he thought. And it was.

Somebody called in the CASEVACs, he wasn't sure who. But he was feeling very weak by then, he'd lost a fair bit of blood and he kept blacking out. He wanted to walk to the Huey, but they put him on a stretcher instead.

‘Jesus Christ,' someone said, ‘that's The Kid. He saved the whole fucking lot of us.' But Kit didn't hear.

As they put him on the stretcher, he gestured to Malcolm, and he heard the medic say, not unkindly but practically, ‘Too late mate, he's gone.'

When Tom Sullivan told Paul Trewinnard about the portrait of his grandmother in which she was depicted wearing the locket, Paul was initially confused.

‘Your grandmother was a young woman posing with her new baby, you say?'

‘Yes,' Tom excitedly responded, ‘and the baby was my Dad! They'd even dressed him in his christening robes.'

‘But how could your father possibly maintain that he bought the locket if your grandmother was pictured wearing it shortly after he was born?'

‘I don't think Dad's ever realised she was wearing the locket in the painting, I didn't myself until my grandmother pointed it out to me. My father hasn't even seen the portrait for the past two years, it's been hanging in Grandma Em's sitting room.'

Paul darted a glance at Foong Lee. Did they dare hope, his eyes said. Could they really be this lucky?

‘Can we get hold of the portrait without your father knowing?' Paul asked. ‘If he gets wind of its significance you can bet your last penny it'll disappear.'

‘Miriam,' Tom said with a confident grin. In response to
the mystified looks on both men's faces, he added, ‘she's one of my sisters-in-law, the only one sympathetic to my cause.'

Miriam Sullivan was more than sympathetic to Tom's cause. A bitter woman, she detested her father-in-law only fractionally more than she detested her husband. She'd married for money and, supposedly, the position and power that went with it, but she was paying the price. Within the patriarchal family, Miriam was expected to know her place, like all Sullivan women should, and her place was to bear children and keep well in the background. Miriam didn't like it one bit. She'd wished Tom well when he'd left for the goldfields. ‘Good luck to you, Tom,' she'd said, ‘get as far away as you can.' And now that the contentious issue of the locket had presented itself and the case was to go to court, she'd said, ‘Teach the greedy bastards a lesson, Tom. Win if you can,' although she'd not thought it possible for a moment.

‘Miriam will help us,' Tom said.

And Miriam did. The portrait had been removed from Emily's sitting room and stored in the basement of the family home, awaiting general sale along with many of her possessions which Matthew had considered of little individual value to the family. A resourceful woman, and one bent on revenge, Miriam had little trouble smuggling it out and delivering it to Tom.

Tom now propped it up against the wall on Foong Lee's desk and the three men stood back to admire it.

‘Well, well, well,' Paul said. So this was Emily Sullivan, he thought. A pretty woman with a feisty glint in her eye, and the locket as clear as daylight around her slim young neck. The shape and dimensions were exact and, on close inspection, one could see the shapes of the mountain and the sun. The artist had obviously found the locket intriguing.

‘We've got him,' Paul muttered to Foong Lee. ‘We've got the bastard. Oh I'm sorry, Tom,' he hastily added.

‘No you're not, and neither am I. You're quite right, we've got the bastard.'

Paul insisted that they talk about their options. ‘We could show Sullivan the painting,' he said. ‘We could settle out of court.' He looked at Foong Lee. ‘No, I didn't think you'd want to do that.'

‘It's up to Tom,' Foong Lee insisted.

‘It's my reputation too,' Tom said. And the die was cast.

 

‘Well if that's what you call being a “little rusty” …' Foong Lee muttered to Paul as they sat in court. The doctor's opinion regarding Emily Sullivan's frail mental condition had been severely undermined in the face of evidence supplied by a number of witnesses whom Paul had called forward, all citizens of fine standing who had known Emily well.

After losing the battle as to Emily Sullivan's sanity, the prosecuting attorney concentrated on the legal ownership of the locket. Every evidence was produced attesting that Emily Sullivan had personally owned not one item amongst her many possessions, they had all been purchased for her by her son. The fact that there was no documentation for the purchase of the locket was incidental, there was no documentation for many of the gifts.

When the defence was called upon to present its evidence, Paul did not immediately produce the portrait. He held a minor card up his sleeve to further undermine Matthew Sullivan's credibility before producing his ace.

Jim ‘Bully' Bullmore was a colourful witness. A gold miner by trade, Bully, as a small boy, had known old Benjamin Sullivan.

‘He showed that locket to my dad,' Bully said. ‘I remember it plain as the nose on my face. Said he got it from a Larrakia princess. Dad said it was a load of bullshit.'

Everyone laughed, except the prosecuting attorney who cast an anxious look at Matthew Sullivan. This was
unexpected. Matthew gave him a confident nod which said Bully's story was sheer fabrication and, after a break in proceedings and a conference with his client, the attorney went on to successfully discredit the witness. Jim ‘Bully' Bullmore was a layabout and a drunk, well known to many.

There was to be no argument about fabrication, however, when the portrait was finally presented. The artist's signature and the year he'd painted his subject were clearly marked in the corner, it was noted, and the locket depicted hanging around the neck of young Emily Sullivan was the very same locket which had been tendered to the court.

As Matthew stared at the painting, utterly flabbergasted, he cursed his son and his mother and the dirty little Chink and the smartarse Pommie lawyer, but there was nothing he could do. He had perjured himself in a court of law and he backed down at the rate of knots. He'd obviously been mistaken, he admitted to the judge, he'd bought so many items for his mother over the years that he'd assumed the locket had been one of them.

‘A costly assumption, Mr Sullivan,' the judge dryly remarked.

Matthew Sullivan was ordered to pay damages to his son, Tom, and to Mr Foong Lee. He was further ordered to meet all legal expenses for both parties and, to top it all off, he was severely reprimanded for wasting the court's time. Matthew Sullivan had been made a laughing stock.

 

‘I owe you my life, Paul.'

‘Hardly,' Paul grinned. They were sitting in the courtyard at the back of the shop and Foong Lee had accepted a glass of Scotch to toast their success.

But Foong Lee did not return Paul's grin. ‘My honour is my life,' he said, ‘and as you have saved my honour, therefore you have saved my life.'

Paul had not intended to trivialise the situation. ‘I am
simply returning the favour, Foong Lee,' he said in all seriousness.

The two men had never once referred to the threat of Paul's opium addiction, but Foong Lee now bowed his head briefly, appreciating the acknowledgement. A life for a life. It was good. For one man to owe such a debt to another could become a terrible burden.

‘Nevertheless,' he said, ‘I wish you to accept a gift.'

‘It's not necessary.'

But Foong Lee wasn't listening. He took a small parcel of beige kid cloth from his pocket and put it on the table.

‘I wish you to have it,' he said as he unwrapped the locket. He handed it to Paul, who held it up to the light, the diamonds sparkling in the sun.

‘It is the most glorious thing, isn't it?' Paul said.

‘It is,' Foong Lee agreed.

Paul pressed the clasp and opened the locket to reveal the initials inside. ‘You know of course I can't possibly accept it.'

‘You would insult me if you didn't.'

‘It's a symbol of love …' Paul said. Foong Lee nodded agreement. ‘… and it should be hanging around the neck of a woman.' Foong Lee nodded again, and Paul laughed out loud. ‘So who the hell would I give it to?' he said, handing it back.

Foong Lee accepted the locket, but he would not be deterred. ‘It is yours nonetheless.' And before Paul could interrupt, he added, ‘I shall look after it for you until the time presents itself.'

‘As you wish,' Paul said, politely inclining his head and parroting one of Foong Lee's favourite phrases. ‘Now for God's sake, man, will you get drunk with me just this once!'