‘The Boss wants to see you,’ Andy yelled. ‘And he said right now!’
They left the mill together.
‘He didn’t seem in a very good mood,’ Andy warned when they were outside and the noise had abated to a dull roar.
‘Next time you have tin hat,’ Luigi ordered once again pointing to Andy’s bare head.
‘But the Boss –’
‘I don’ care, tin hat in mill.’
Waving the boy away, Luigi started towards the office and as he did he saw Paola step out of the main doors. They walked towards each other, meeting halfway in the dust fifty metres between the office and the mill.
‘Why you leave work?’ he asked. She looks worried, he thought.
‘Mr Durham told me to go to lunch,’ she said.
‘But is not lunchtime.’
‘He was angry, Papa. He knows, I can tell.’
‘
Non ti preoccupari
, Paola,’ he took her hand in both of his reassuringly, ‘
andrà tutto bene. Prometto
.’
Paola smiled tremulously. Her father’s promise that everything would be all right was of some comfort, but it did not stop her worrying. Stanley Durham frightened her.
Stanley Durham did not, however, frighten Luigi.
‘What the hell do you think you’re up to?’ Stan demanded the moment the Italian had closed the office door behind him. He did not invite Luigi to sit, nor did he sit himself, instead the two faced each other squarely across the large office desk. ‘What’s possessed you, man! Are you mad? The whole idea’s preposterous!’ Stan was in one of his ranting moods. ‘Why in God’s name would you grant permission for your daughter to marry my son! Give me one good reason. Why the hell would you do that!’
‘They are in love.’
Stan was flabbergasted. ‘In love, you have to be joking. You think it’s that simple.’
‘
Si
.’
‘Oh for Christ’s sake, Luigi, don’t take me for a fool. You’re telling me you’d allow your daughter to marry a Protestant, you of all people!’
Luigi paused, uncertain how to respond. Stanley Durham did not know that his son planned to convert. But then Alan had said his father had not taken the situation seriously, that he’d dismissed the idea altogether. Stan the Man obviously underestimated the scale of his son’s intent. But it is not my place to tell him this, Luigi thought. Alan will do so when the time is right.
‘I think,’ he said with great care, ‘is best I allow my daughter to decide.’
Stan had noted the Italian’s hesitance and now studied him shrewdly. What was Luigi after? He appeared to have a plan. Was he misguided enough to think that a union between his daughter and the Boss’s son might gain him wealth and elevate his family to a position of power? Such self-interest seemed out of keeping with the Italian, but of course greed altered every man’s perspective.
‘What do you hope to profit from this, Luigi?’ he asked. ‘You must realise that I am quite prepared to disinherit my son should he insist upon following such a path. You and your daughter and family would not benefit.’
Luigi found Stanley Durham’s suggestion not only surprising, but deeply insulting. There had been a time when he and Stan had been on the friendliest of terms. Their children had grown up together. Always they had maintained the distance dictated by their status, but never once had they been disrespectful to one another.
‘I seek nothing,’ he said coldly.
‘Good. Because there will be nothing. There will be nothing for you or your daughter or your brothers and their wives, there will be nothing for any of you, I hope you understand that.’
‘You would insult the Fiorelli family?’ Luigi’s eyes flashed dangerously, but he contained his anger. ‘You are a brave man to do such a thing, Mr Stan.’
Stan suddenly realised that he’d gone too far, and in no insignificant way. Luigi’s response carried an inherent threat that even he in his position would be foolish to ignore. Luigi Fiorelli was a proud man. So were his brothers. And his brothers’ sons, now men, were also proud. One did not insult a powerful clan like the Fiorellis.
‘I intend no insult to your family, Luigi,’ he said stiffly, ‘I simply wish to make myself clear.’
‘You make yourself clear, I understand. Now I make myself clear. Alan and Paola, they have my blessing. They have the blessing of my family. What you do . . .’ Luigi gave a dismissive shrug; his flash of anger had passed ‘. . . what you do, it is your business.’
‘Very well.’ Stan was not prepared for one minute to leave the confrontation on an equal footing, certainly not when he held the trump card. ‘But I suggest you warn Paola this union will never take place,’ he said, ‘I will forbid my son to marry your daughter.’
‘If that is what you wish.’ Luigi felt sorry for Stanley Durham. How little you know your son, he thought. You are about to lose him.
‘That is what I wish. And with regard to your daughter’s position here, I think it would be more comfortable for all concerned if –’
‘Paola will get a job in town,’ Luigi interrupted. ‘I will arrange this. Is not good she work here, she will be unhappy.’
‘Good, we understand each other.’ Stan sat. ‘You may go now, Luigi.’
Neil had continued to write to his sister every fortnight, sometimes even weekly when he felt the desire to confide. He would tell her as much as was possible while guarding his secret and avoiding army censorship. Kate had no trouble at all reading between the lines.
I have come to know these people, Kate
, he wrote,
those with whom I work and others I have met personally on trips into town
. She knew instantly that he was referring to Yen.
They are a modest hard-working people with a love of family. They respect their elders and lend support to one another, sharing the responsibility of children and the burden of poverty
. He’s telling me about his wife and her family, Kate thought, he’s painting a picture for me.
It is a great shame this war is tearing apart such a peaceful community
.
Neil continued to paint pictures in his letters, describing huts and villages, never giving place names that would be censored, but creating what appeared to be a sort of general travelogue, which Kate knew was intensely personal. This is Yen’s village, she would think, this is the hut where her family lives.
They are a physically beautiful people, particularly the women
, he wrote,
but of course like most men I would be biased in that direction. The women are petite and delicately featured with the finest of skin and the blackest of hair that often seems tinged with a blue-ish sheen
. As she read his words, Kate could see Yen, just as Neil intended she should.
They are sometimes shy, sometimes bold, sometimes funny, but unlike their Australian counterparts always the essence of femininity. Oh dear
, he added with wry humour,
what have I done? I don’t mean to insult Australian womanhood, Sis, really I don’t, but Vietnamese women, even while suffering the severest of hardship maintain a grace that I find quite extraordinary.
Kate smiled as she read on, knowing that her brother was not really referring to Vietnamese women in general, but rather talking specifically about his wife, and with such love. She was touched that he should so wish to share his feelings with her, but as always she kept her reply frivolous.
Dear Neil,
I promise I shall endeavour to achieve the grace that is gifted to Vietnamese women having now been informed that we clumsy Australians are so sadly lacking. I have of course passed your letter on to my feminist friends who I am sure will follow suit . . .
Not all of Neil’s letters were veiled accounts of his wife and her family, however, and not always was Kate able to respond frivolously. There were times when he wrote of the war, times when he felt the need to unburden himself.
This is a terrible war, Kate. As if there is ever any war that isn’t, of course, but in past wars men have at least known their enemy. That’s not the case here. Friend and foe are so often indistinguishable . . .
Kate received the most revealing of Neil’s letters in mid-November. She’d completed her exam in the Great Hall that morning and upon collecting her mail at the university post office was surprised to find only one letter from him. She hadn’t received word for over three weeks and when such was the case, given the sporadic nature of army delivery, usually two or even three letters would arrive at the same time. But upon opening the envelope where she stood in the street and upon reading her brother’s first words, she understood why. The strain of battle had been taking its toll and, unable to write in the chatty fashion he preferred, Neil had refrained from writing at all. But he needed to talk now, as he had on past occasions. He needed to relieve the pressure, and she was his outlet.
She returned the letter unread to its envelope and walked on as planned to the Fisher Library where, outside, the huge jacaranda was ablaze with purple blossom. The blossoming of the jacaranda had a frightening significance for most students, coinciding as it always did with the end-of-year examinations that could determine their very future.
Inside the library, a number of cubicles were occupied by those desperately bent on last-minute cramming, but Kate found an empty one and took up possession, spreading her study books out before her. She had no further examination that afternoon and, well-prepared as she was, no need for last-minute cramming, but she preferred the quiet of the library to the tension and lunchtime chatter that abounded at the Union or at Manning House where students were sure to be comparing notes about the horror of final exams. She would do some refresher reading and jot down some reminders for her next exam, but first, Neil’s letter. She took it from its envelope and proceeded to read, hearing her brother’s voice as he unburdened himself to her.
If we were fighting the North Vietnamese army alone, things would be a great deal simpler, but the Viet Cong guerrilla forces make it impossible to discern who’s who, and their methods are ruthless . . .
The platoon of forty or so men approached the village with caution. Viet Cong activity had increased around Nui Dat since the battalion’s return from Operation Hawkesbury on the Long Khanh–Bien Hoa border.
It was an unseasonably warm day for late November, with a light drizzle that did nothing to relieve the humidity, difficult to believe in this heat that winter was just around the corner.
They spread out as they entered the village where, among the tangle of tin shanties and thatched huts, bodies lay sprawled on the ground – men, women and children. The Viet Cong had not discriminated.
‘Don’t touch anything,’ the sergeant yelled, ‘they’re bound to have left booby traps,’ and the troops split into units of two, working their way through the village, exploring each hut and shanty in turn.
Life means nothing to them. The Viet Cong will happily sacrifice their own people. They’ll destroy whole villages, and plant booby traps on dead bodies . . .
The village appeared completely deserted – deserted of the living, anyway: the bodies were numerous; and here and there even dogs lay dead – but the men practised extreme caution as they went from hut to hut. The possibility of ambush was unlikely, although their eyes scanned every nook and cranny for movement just in case: far more dangerous was the threat of explosives planted by the departing enemy.
‘Jesus Christ,’ young Sam Brennan muttered as he and Neil entered the hut.
‘Don’t touch anything, private.’ Corporal Neil Durham barked a repetition of the Sergeant’s order. Sam was a nasho and this was his first taste of the real thing. He’s rattled, Neil thought, and why the hell wouldn’t he be.
Neil felt sickened himself as he looked about at the scene, which told a story in explicit detail, a scene and a story all too familiar to him. A man lay dead outside the door of the hut, they’d had to skirt around his body to enter, and inside the hut the family he had tried to defend had been systematically slaughtered. The woman still held her dead baby to her breast and on either side of her lay the bodies of two small children. Upturned bowls were beside them, rice was scattered everywhere, and a dish of stewed vegetables sat undamaged in the centre of the matting that served as table and floor in one. The family had clearly been sharing a meal.
The people who suffer most are the innocent villagers. Not only those whom the Viet Cong so brutally annihilate, but those who are forced to live in a state of abject terror. Many villagers fear for their own lives and for the lives of their family.
These are good people, Kate, as I have told you before, but when we enter a village that is presumed friendly we don’t know who we might confront. We don’t know who might be housing the Viet Cong out of sheer terror, or who might have been used to plant a trap . . .
Neil and the young private left the dead family as they were and once outside continued silently on to another hut. All about them other soldiers were doing the same, moving with stealth through the drizzle that had turned the dirt beneath their boots to mud, carefully skirting bodies, exchanging only the barest muttered comment one to another, eyes searching keenly for any sign of a trap.
Nearby, a dog barked, shattering the eerie silence, and to a man they jumped, startled by the noise. Then from behind a tin shanty, the animal appeared. A lean and bedraggled mongrel, the only sign of life in the village, the dog stood its ground and gave another bold bark, as if ordering the soldiers to leave. Wry smiles were shared all round and the men continued their search.
Then, as Neil and young Sam approached a hut, another noise from within, barely discernible: the muffled whimper of a human baby. They both heard it.
The two exchanged a glance. Neil gave a nod and, rifles at the ready, they entered.
Seated on the ground, her back against the hut’s rear wall, was a young woman, a baby in her arms. She held the child’s head tucked tightly into her chest in an attempt to stifle its whimpers and her eyes were wide with fear. When she saw the soldiers she started to tremble, her body visibly shaking.
Neil could see the beads of sweat on her brow. He could hear her laboured breathing. Something’s wrong, he thought.