The Odd Angry Shot (2 page)

A Qantas 707. ‘Shit! This is the way to go to war,' said Harry.

Sleep a little. Wake up after a short while, check my pistol. Most illegal—half the units carrying their own. Beretta 7.65 mm—just in case. Only a pro would have his own pistol. Sleep. Bye-bye kids and parks. We'll protect you.

REMEMBER the bus, chartered, seemed all a bit unmilitary, but what the hell anyway, your mate Charlie had come out to see you off.

‘Take care of yourself, you skinny shit.'

‘Make sure they're all dead when I get there.'

‘Don't drink all the piss over there.'

It had dawned on you as you pulled your greatcoat collar up around your ears that you were going to war. No—it had dawned on you a few days earlier when you were slumped on your bed in Room 17 and for a moment you were scared. ‘Shit,' you thought, ‘you're a pro. Pro's don't get scared, and if they do they certainly don't show it.'

You remembered that someone had said that more people die in road accidents in Australia than get killed in Vietnam. That was reassuring. You told yourself that you didn't need reassuring, you were a pro—you'd jumped out of planes, climbed cliffs, had wings on your sleeve—you were better than the rest of them already; you could take it; what the hell anyway.

You hoped that the bitch who hadn't written to you for weeks would miss you when you were gone. She'd write—she'd wake up to the fact that you were a man and that you were the type of man who would look after her and protect her etc.

Remember when you got to the airport, seven days' pre-embarkation leave, that's what it said on the leave pass, you had to stand in the queue and wait to check your baggage in, but you didn't. You knew that they were only civilians, and you somehow felt better than them—superior—you were protecting them. Luggage checked in. ‘Go for a walk, eh?' Yeah, let's have a bit of a stroll around the place. Strain your ears when you walk past groups of people; they knew you were going to war; they knew you weren't like all these long-haired bastards; they knew that you were one of the gutsy ones, you'd lay down your life for them—and, by Jesus, for your country too—yeah, your country was important, they knew that.

Strain your ears a bit more, are they talking about us—they looked at us—shit, they might be here to see us off. Isn't that bloody nice of them, you know they're the type of Australian we're fighting for. Good on 'em. Notice a poster—WELCOME HOME ROBYN. Remember feeling like you wished that you could have taken Robyn's place—it wasn't us after all—feel a little stupid? Fuck 'em, rotten bastards, they could all drop dead right now and you wouldn't lose one ounce of sleep—wouldn't bat an eyelid.

Courage regained, you're still on top. Who the hell was Robyn anyway—your war was in the papers every day.

Bloody Robyn wasn't more important than you anyway.

THE party tonight, you weren't nineteen until Monday, but it was better to hold it tonight. It's only a day, you shrugged to your mother. Your bird had arrived—she was a bit pissed by nine o'clock—everyone was there, all of them, about eighty people. Shit! Eighty people.

‘Well, a bloke
could
get his arse shot off,' ruggedly.

‘Oh yes, I expect we'll see a bit of action,' nonchalantly.

‘Don't worry, they'll get you, too, soon,' knowingly.

Eighty people—and the presents.

Shit, it was good of them to give you all those presents wasn't it?

Travelling cases, shaving kit in a leather folder.

Records—that's a bit impractical, but thanks, Jesus, thanks anyway.

Everyone's pissed. Some bird being groped at the top of the stairs.

You'd got yours out in the back yard—remember how you'd got her out there and grabbed her straight between the legs.

Well you had kissed her first—shit, a man didn't go the grope straight off. You were nineteen.

Remember how wet she was—that was good eh, meant she wanted it.

You'd laid her down beside the garage.

‘Will someone come?'

‘No.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Yes. No one will come.'

Pink panties coming off. Remember finding it—the slippery, wet slit. Going in. She moaned. She's enjoying it.

‘Ah, fuck me!' Moves faster. She's blown. Squeezes her thighs into you.

‘Come out,' she says. Surprise, she's sucking me off.

And I thought I wasn't going to get anything.

You kissed her again, went inside, no one missed you. You'd do it again later; she was staying the night anyway—enjoy yourself.

We're all singing songs. We'll drink a toast to the future. No longer will men suffer. That'll upset the neighbours.

‘GET one fer me.' Yeah, you bet, mate.

Stand on the station.

‘See you mate.' Remember the handshakes, the twinge when you pulled out of the station. You hung out of the window—waved—yes, keep waving. Hang on. This is it.

A curve in the line. They're gone; for twelve months they're gone. Find some comrades. What, a suitcase full of large cans? Shit, yeah, forget all that family shit; you're a pro, pro's don't have families. You are a member of the Elite Regiment of the Australian Army—you're a pro.

‘Got an opener?'

REMEMBER Saigon, Jesus, Tan Son Nhut. You'd never realised just how much equipment the Yanks had.

Squat down next to the coke machine, notice the holes in the metal work, mortar shrapnel. Things go better with coke—even mortars. Packs arranged in neat lines of threes, ham steaks courtesy of Qantas for lunch.

‘Christ, look at that,' says Harry.

‘Where?' I'm nearly asleep. Shit, I'm thirsty.

‘The Hercules.' My eyes travel onto a four-engined cargo plane. A group of Americans in fatigues are loading large plastic bags from trolleys.

‘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.