The Odd Angry Shot (3 page)

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 highway 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.

‘Soon as you like. You're scouting for us, you know.'

‘Who's the forward scout?'

I indicate Shaw.

‘OK. Let's go.' I push myself into a standing position.

SHAW is on the point. Slowly. Watch where you're walking. Don't want to blow our balls off with one of those jumping jacks do we?

Check the map, almost there.

Thumbs down. We've arrived. My lips are dry.

Christ I'm thirsty.

Shaw turns, holds up five fingers, closes his fist, then five more again.

Shit, only ten. Something's wrong.

CRASH…What? Shaw starts to scream, bent double. Gutshot.

Down flat onto the mud. Raise your eyes and peer ahead into the foliage.

‘Contact front,' screams Harry.

The world bursts open right in front of your face.

Shaw is still screaming—a long open-mouthed scream and his legs are moving as though he is trying to run away. Leaves, branches fall around you.

‘Is it a contact or an ambush?' screams Golonka.

Rounds crack over our heads from the left hand side of the track. More wood chips fly into the air. One hits your hand, takes off a layer of skin.

‘Ambush,' screams Golonka.

‘See if you can get Shaw,' yells Harry.

‘Cover me and don't shoot me in the arse.'

Rogers moves towards Shaw, grabs him by the collar. He's still screaming.

I can taste the sweat as it drips from my nose. Salty.

I think I'm going to be sick. My stomach contracts.

‘Shit. Please God, don't let me be killed.'

‘Medic! Medic!' comes from behind me. Someone else has been hit.

I turn the safety catch on my rifle to full automatic and let the whole twenty-eight rounds go into the shrubs on the side of the track, golden cartridge cases fly into the air. The jerking in my hand stops suddenly. Panic. Oh Jesus. Another magazine. No time, there he goes. I catch a glimpse of black, not more than ten feet from me. New magazine. Jesus, hurry, hurry.

Click…home it goes…cock; the bolt springs forward like a dog on a leash.

Where is the bastard?

There he goes. The foresight and the black shape meet. Three round burst. He screams…got him. No, he's gone. Wounded him anyway. I can still hear him screaming.

Shaw's intestines have started to ooze out onto the track as he writhes in the mud. I am fascinated by the blue-coloured bowel, so that's what it looks like. Rogers and the medic are lying beside him. The medic's hands are covered in blood. He's trying to shovel the smashed intestines back inside with a shell dressing. I wonder how they'll get the mud out of his stomach.

We've broken contact.

‘How many casualties?' yells Golonka.

‘One wounded here,' yells Rogers.

Shaw is still screaming. For Christ's sake, shut up!

‘Two killed, five wounded,' comes from somewhere behind me.

‘Dustoff's on its way,' the radio's op says, almost inaudibly.

‘Another one's snuffed it down here,' comes the voice again.

‘What happened?' yells Golonka.

Hell, I wish he wouldn't keep yelling.

‘Lung shot, shock killed him,' someone replies.

And at lunch on the five thousandth day of play the score is Home team eight, Visitors one.

‘SHIT, that was the worst chopper ride I've ever had,' said Harry, rubbing his behind and dumping his pack on the floor.

Remember how it felt to be back in base? Safe.

Back into the tent and out of this stinking camouflage suit. Clean clothes.

‘How's Shaw?'

‘What happened? Gutshot eh?'

‘Feel OK? Debrief in an hour.'

‘You blokes like a beer?' Heads appear, asking questions.

STANDING under the shower.

‘This fucking soap is making my hair fall out,' says Rogers, his face covered in lather.

‘Who makes the shit anyway?'

The water feels good. It'll rain soon. The afternoon sun has taken the chill out of the water.

‘I think it's a leftover lot from Belsen.'

‘Who's Belsen?'

‘Where's Isaacs? Hey, Isaacs. Do you realise you're probably washing with your grandmother.'

‘My grandmother is in Melbourne driving a big Chevy and she wouldn't piss on you,' replies Isaacs and raises two fingers. Everyone laughs.

‘I still can't do anything with my tinea,' remarks Rogers.

‘Neither can I.'

‘Hey Isaacs, do you know how we can cure our tinea?' I ask.