Four Fires (96 page)

Special Forces adviser.

He looks doubtful, but translates this and immediately there's a great deal of yapping going on.

My platoon has been talking to the gaggle of dispirited Vietnamese Irregulars waiting around the
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clearing. Finally the platoon commander turns back to me.

'No go. Viet Minh, Viet Minh,' he points down the ridgeline. Velly bad! Helicopter bring more soldier, we go, Trung si.'

I know what he means by Viet Minh. It is their name for the regular troops of the North Vietnamese Army. These are not your local Viet Cong in their black pyjamas and light weapons who are down at the ridgeline, it is the Viet Minh, the legendary troops of Ho Chi Minh, who whipped the best the French could muster, including the Foreign Legion, at the Battle of Dien Bien Phu.

I shake my head and indicate that we're going, like it or not, to pick up their gear. The enemy have been driven back with the napalm and the bombing, but they'll be back to do their own reconnaissance, so we don't have a lot of time. I order them again and nobody moves. So much for my forceful leadership. There's no way they'll move till the rest of the company lands.

I can't think what else to do, but I feel like shooting the lot of them, do the job for the enemy. So I use a few choice words that would land me on my back if I said them to any Australian. Then I walk over to the medical orderly and take a first-aid kit. I move out alone and see the platoon commander is following, about twenty paces behind me. But he's on his own and his men haven't been persuaded to follow him.

I enter the jungle and almost immediately come up to a group of Vietnamese soldiers still manning a 30 cal machine gun that is pointing directly down the ridge. I indicate that I'm going in and I want them to watch for my return. They look at me blankly, and then the platoon commander, who must have understood, comes up and explains and they nod their heads, indicating, I hope, that they know what it is I want them to do. I walk on, then turn to see where my platoon commander is. He's still standing with the machine-gunners and drops his head, avoiding my eyes. I'm learning this game fast.

So there I am, heading down the ridgeline, my own forward scout. It doesn't take a genius to read the battlefield, the telltale signs are there for all to see. I think how different it would be with a jungle-ready Aussie company. Here's the track made by the company snaking along single file, then the broken stems and fallen leaves verifying the progress they've made. After that, on either side of the track, are all the signs of a hasty retreat; vegetation trampled by feet in a panic, foliage indicating the backwards direction of the retreat, though it's more like running away, there's no apparent design, these are soldiers moving out of order, every man for himself.

A while further on I see where one platoon has suddenly broken off and turned sharply to the left, that will be a left hook to attack the enemy's flank. Moments later, I see where the rear elements of the forward platoon have gone to ground. It will not be far to where the forward troops have engaged the enemy.

I sense that there's a clearing ahead, I don't know how I know, it's something to do with the light.

So I prop and wait on a bit, there's no sound, that's unusual, then I pick up the scent of burning tyres. I've only read about it, but that's what napalm is supposed to smell like afterwards. The clearing, if there is one, would be well before where the napalm hit, or the smell would be stronger. I move forward, pausing with each step to listen, then I see the change in the intensity of the light, which must be the clearing. Now there's piles of spent cartridges everywhere though no sign of the enemy. The air strike and the napalm have driven the enemy back, caused them to withdraw

from the immediate area, but I'd be very surprised, with us on the run, if they don't come back soon enough.

Then a sound. I'm down on one knee, my Ml6 to my shoulder, pointing in the direction of the sound, which I now recognise as human. My eyes are straining to see through the undergrowth, trying to adapt to the changing light conditions. Then I see it, the jungle greens are doing what they're supposed to do, concealing the wearer. It's the Australian, our bloke.

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I move slowly up to him and kneel down beside him, his wounds are bad but the bleeding has been staunched by shell dressings. He has a broken arm roughly bandaged and wounds to both legs. He is also unconscious but breathing. I learn lesson number two, don't expect the Vietnamese Civil Irregular to carry out a wounded adviser. Even in withdrawal, there is no question that this man would have been taken along in an Australian outfit. Still and all, at least the medical orderly stopped long enough to staunch his blood and tie his arm. I'll find out who he is and get him a commendation.

My first aid is not a strong part of my army knowledge, we all learn it, of course, but you get to depend on the medical orderlies and get on with other things. I struggle to remember what it was about administering morphine, which this bloke is going to need when he comes to.

Something to do with head wounds. That's it, never administer morphine unless you have to and never if the casualty has a head wound. It's got something to do with masking the condition and leading to a misdiagnosis when the man reaches a hospital. Too bad about the pain, eh? I think briefly of Tommy and how he must have felt when the butt of Kawakami's rifle smashed his face in.

The first priority seeing the blood is staunched is to splint the arm. I cast about for a stick.

Breaking one off would make a noise, so it's a matter of searching. I find one and bandage it securely to the adviser's arm. Then I put the arm in a sling. So far I'm not doing too bad. I wrap more shell dressings around his leg wounds. If I have to move him, I don't want him to lose any more blood.

He half wakes up and tries to move his arm and gasps with the pain, but doesn't pass out again.

'Soldier, it's bloody good to see you,'he whispers. His face is crusted with dried blood and I have to check he

hasn't got a bad head wound, I want to give the poor bastard morphine if I can. I take my scarf and wet it from my water bottle and start to clean the blood from his face, from his nose and his scalp where he's fallen. The blood is superficial. That's good, I can give him a shot of morph. I wipe his face as clean as I can and then, I can't believe what I'm looking at, I'm looking straight into Murray Templeton's face.

Jesus Christ, how could this happen? Why didn't I know before? But then how could I have?

They wouldn't have told me in Australia and I've been in Vietnam less than twenty-four hours.

The shock is too much for me, what with what's happened in the last few hours and suddenly I know I'm going to throw up. I get up and take a few paces and vomit. I can leave Murray Templeton where I found him, nobody will ever know. I'll simply return to my troops. Shrug my shoulders, I don't even have to explain anything to them.

I'm ashamed, dead ashamed the thought occurs to me. Of course, it's not on. Never was. Fate has presented me with the perfect murder, the perfect revenge for what he did to my sister, my precious Sarah. I tell myself the bastard's a coward, the way he wouldn't face up to things and ran away. I even try to tell myself I've got a right to walk away, let him die without me laying a hand on him. It's all bullshit that's going on in my mind because it can't happen. I'm bound in duty to the army brotherhood. I have no choice. I have to save him. Or I have to try, give it my best shot, even if I have to give my own life in the attempt.

Then I hear a stick breaking. Fuck, what was that? Just the tiny snap more than a hundred yards away brings me out of my shock. The sound came from the direction of the enemy. I was right, they've come back, it's their reconnaissance patrol returning. I've just about finished cleaning Murray Templeton's face and head when he regains consciousness. I clamp my hand over his mouth, he's in great pain and he could call out, give us away. He grimaces but remains silent as I remove my hand, poor bugger, but he's holding the pain in. My hand over his mouth alerted him that we're in danger.

I reach into the first-aid tin and take out what I've always thought looked like an artist's tube of paint, though I know what it is. The needle is protected by the plastic cap screwed into the top.

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I've done

this only once in practice nearly a year ago and I'm trying to remember the procedure. Inserted down the needle's hollow stem is a piece of wire of the tiniest diameter. I'm supposed to pull that out, or do I press it? Press it, I think. If I get it wrong there isn't another one. I press down on the wire and the seal breaks on the lead tube. I pull the wire out and press gently on the tube and the needle fills with morphine, a tiny drop escaping from the end. Think, think,' I urge myself, 'where is the best vein?' Then I remember, if there's too much blood lost, the veins are hard to find, they've collapsed. Then another stick cracks, this time closer, maybe eighty yards. I tie a piece of bandage just above the elbow of Murray Templeton's good arm, making a tourniquet. He's too weak to make a fist to pump the blood into one of the bigger veins behind his wrist. Morphine can be injected into muscle but its effect is considerably delayed as it tries to get into the bloodstream. I can see a vein, still blue behind his wrist, the big veins I seem to remember are not always the certainties but I have to take a chance. My luck holds, the needle glides in at a shallow angle and instantly the morphine colours red as the blood pumps into the plastic needle. I squeeze the tube slow as I can and the liquid in the needle clears and the morphine enters Templeton's body.

I wait, anxious to see what happens. I've never seen this in real life. Suddenly a smile crosses Murray's face, not a smile really, just relief flooding his face. Thank Christ for that. Now he'll stay stumm.

I can hear legs brushing against the foliage and twigs breaking. Then a lowered human voice.

Then two. The enemy have stopped twenty yards away.

I wonder if I can catch them by surprise and whether I can take them out. But a recce patrol will probably be of section strength and include a machine gun, so I can't really take them on. If I try to drag Murray Templeton, they'll hear us. If I pick him up, they'll see me and 111 be helpless to defend myself. My mind is in turmoil. There's no chance now of both of us getting out of this.

Maybe on my own. I've done the best I can for him. Taken him out of his pain. What more can I do? I've got a right to try and escape. In fact, it's my duty. But in my mind's eye I see Tommy kissing The Gold-Toothed-Shin-Kicking-Bastard's boots, begging for the lives of his mates, knowing they'll

kill him. I have to stay. Fuck! I've been in active combat three hours and I'm going to die. All that training, and I'm dead meat the moment I step into a jungle where there's a fair-dinkum stoush going on.

I look up, there's a big tree, not as big as the Maloney tree, but big, buttresses stretching fifteen feet, splayed out like toes gripping the earth, their walls four or five feet above the ground. I can't believe my eyes. It's a big buttress tree, just like the Mengarris, the big tree at Sandakan. It must be some sort of sign or am I just bullshitting myself, clutching at straws trying to make my own luck?

Then it happens. Just like Tommy said it happened that first day when they discovered they were going to build an airport at Sandakan. The heavens opened. That's the whole point about tropical rain, there's no warning, it's all or nothing, a deluge coming down in seconds. It buckets down so that you'd have to scream hard to be heard as the water crashes into the vegetation. If a shot went off, you wouldn't know where it was coming from and it's impossible to see more than ten yards. It's my chance to escape if I can carry Murray Templeton.

I get up and hoist him onto my shoulders, I can't believe my luck. I move forward about twenty paces when my foot goes into a hole and I crash down and I spill Murray Templeton. Christ, I hope the morphine's working, though luckily he falls fairly softly. But I realise I've done my ankle. I try to walk on it, but I collapse, I'm history. Somehow I manage to grab a hold of him and drag him along the ground to the big tree and shove him between two thick buttresses with walls on either side about five feet off the ground. Then I crawl in beside him and strap my ankle
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as tight as I can.

It rains for half an hour and stops as suddenly as it started, just like Tommy said it did that day at Sandakan when they were cutting a path to where the aerodrome was going to be. Suddenly there's silence, the odd drip, drip, drip of water splashing off the bigger leaves. I hear voices again. I take my rifle and limp around the buttress and take a look. It's the enemy, four of them, they're taking off their waterproof groundsheets and shaking themselves like dogs. They're in NVA uniform and carrying AK47s and are preparing to continue their reconnaissance. Four soldiers doesn't mean there ain't more, I'd expect a recce patrol to have a few more, including a machine-gunner.

I try to think, keep my wits about me. This is not a target to be taken out with a burst of automatic fire; automatic fire makes the rifle jump and it takes too much time to re-aim. I'm a good shot, I don't like to say it, but I'm close to the best in the battalion. The task now is to fire with complete finesse. Four beautifully aimed shots so fast that the enemy soldiers don't have time to react. I've done it hundreds of times with rabbits, four bunnies going like the clappers of hell for their burrows and bang, bang, bang, bang. Tommy would laugh and say, 'You done good, all four good shots.'

But these Nogs are not bunnies, they're elite fighting soldiers, trained to react quickly and fire back. They'll start moving any second now and then I'll lose my chance. I slip the catch on my M16 to single shot. I become calm, visualisation is everything when you're going for this kind of multiple shooting. The universe recedes, it's just me and the rifle and the four chests in front of me crossed diagonally with canvas magazine pouches.