The Odd Angry Shot (12 page)

‘OK, stupid, just take a look around the unit, better still the Task Force. How many silver-spoon types do you see here?'

‘None that I know of. Even most of the officers are pretty poor, money-wise,' answers Bung, now staring at Harry.

‘Right! And I'm here to tell you that you're not too bloody likely to see too many, either. It's the poor man, the shit shoveller with the arse out of his pants and two bob in his pocket that makes Australia.

‘Every time the shit hits the fan there he is, standing like a fool at the recruiting office with his hand out for a rifle, while all the rich boys are hanging on waiting for a commission or for their fathers to get them into a safe job. And while you're stuck overseas with some other poor bastard from the other side shooting at you, who's as scared as you are, the rich boys at home are probably down having a bit of a slum and a chop at your bird.'

Harry's speech falters for a moment. ‘I didn't mean that.'

‘What? Forget it,' grins Bung. ‘Mess time. You going to eat?'

‘Nothing else to do.'

‘You may have something there,' says Bung, picking up his tin plates and following Harry out into the sunlight.

DAWN is breaking. The morning sun is starting to suck the damp out of the plantation and its occupants.

‘Choppers are working overtime,' mumbles Harry, half asleep, his face hidden from view by the green mosquito net that hangs over his stretcher.

‘Supply or dustoffs?' comes Bung's voice from his sandbagged corner of the world.

‘Too early for the supply mob,' replies Harry, getting up and looking towards the chopper pads.

‘Jesus! There must be a whole squadron parked there; all dustoffs,' a tone of amazement creeps into Harry's voice.

Bung and I join Harry at the tent entrance. The three of us stand naked in the dawn light and watch as the green machines disgorge bodies and bearers in an almost endless stream that runs from the landing area to the clearing station.

‘There's more up there, too,' says Harry, squinting into the darkness at the small barely visible shapes that hang far off in the air and grow larger by the second as they draw nearer.

‘Wonder who's copped it,' Bung queries.

‘No idea. Thank the Jesus it's not us though,' replies Harry, now sliding into his camouflage suit and lacing his boots with a well-practised motion.

‘Must be one of the battalions. There's no one else out is there?' asks Bung.

‘Not that I know of. Shit, they've really taken a beating whoever they are,' says Harry, rejoining us at the tent doorway.

‘Everyone up. Ready to move in fifteen minutes.'

The squadron sergeant major is running along the line of tents fully dressed and carrying his rifle in his left hand. The supply corporal is following him in small-terrier fashion. ‘Ammunition issue in five minutes.'

‘All patrol commanders report to the orderly room in five minutes.' The sar-major disappears down the road still followed by the supply corporal.

‘Oh Jesus. Here we go again,' snarls Bung wrapping his heavily laden fighting belt around his waist.

‘Hope it's all over by the time we get there. I don't feel much like playing this stupid bloody game at all today,' Harry growls, slinging his belt over his shoulder and wincing as the half dozen grenades hanging there smack into his back. ‘Shit, a man'll be a write-off before he even gets to the bun fight,' he adds, picking up his rifle and walking out into the early morning air.

‘C'mon, oh fearless spawn of Anzac,' grins Bung, ‘there's a whole big war out there just waiting for us.'

Bung and I walk down the road towards the group of men that has assembled in front of the orderly room.

‘Must be a big one.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Either the arse has fallen out of the war or Marshal Ky's lost his dog.'

‘What's the news?' asks Joey Flynn from fifteen section.

‘Don't know,' I reply, ‘Bung says Marshal Ky's lost his dog.'

‘Probably right,' comes from behind me.

‘OK. Pay attention.'

The OC is standing on an upturned supply carton, slapping his right leg with a half unfolded map.

‘At 0200 hours this morning, the provincial capital, Baria, was overrun by what is believed to be the advance elements of a regular North Vietnamese force.' He unfolds the map and indicates the printed brown and black rectangle that represents the town.

‘We believe, and I would add at this stage that this is still unconfirmed, that the NVA are in possession of the northern half of the town. This, as you know, incorporates the main square, the bridge and the market, so there's no use telling you that it's going to be a walkover. We'll be air lifted in as soon as the one-seventy-third and the first air cavalry's choppers have refuelled. Enemy strength on the ground and in action half an hour ago…' looks at watch, ‘at 0500 was estimated at three hundred plus. They have heavy weapons in support. Any questions so far?'

‘Sir?'

‘Yes.'

‘What about the ARVN garrison troops?'

‘Funnily enough, no one seems to know where they are at the moment,' replies the OC, shrugging his shoulders.

‘That'd be right too,' someone cracks from the rear of the group.

‘Par for the course with them,' mumbles someone else. ‘Missing, believed shit-scared.'

‘OK. That's enough. Quieten down. If you can't say anything nice don't say anything at all,' grins the OC.

‘You will be divided into two groups. Patrols one to twenty will travel in the one-seventy-third's choppers and their objective will be the market. Patrols twenty-one to forty will travel, needless to say, in the first air cav's choppers and their objectives are the bridge and the main square. Any questions?'

Silence, except for the shuffling of feet and the rustle of equipment.

‘Right. Good luck. Oh yes, I will be in command of the operation, Captain Prowse will be in command of patrols one to twenty. Captain O'Leary will be in command of the other group. Attention.'

We stiffen to attention. Our clothes are already starting to dampen as the sweat trickles down our faces and bodies. My fighting belt is biting into my hip. The sergeant major joins the group and the OC nods in his direction.

‘Your parade, sar-major.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

The sar-major and the OC exchange salutes.

‘OK. Now listen in. You will draw whatever ammunition you need as soon as you are dismissed. As soon as you've done that, you will assemble your patrols in single file on the road here, ready to go in ten minutes.

Every fifth patrol will draw one M-60. Make sure that you all have enough water for two days. Any questions?'

Silence again.

‘Any money?' smiles the sar-major. ‘OK. Keep your arses down and your wits about you. Good luck. Attention.' We stiffen our backs and lift our heads again, as the sar-major's eyes brush over us. ‘Dismiss.'

‘AND what would you like, Bung me boy,' asks the supply corporal, standing in the midst of a pile of open ammunition cases, his rifle leaning against his left leg.

‘A wet cunt would be nice if you've got any,' replies Bung, raising his eyebrows.

‘Yeah, we'd all like some of that. How about ammunition?'

‘Oh, all right. I'll have some dry ammunition please.'

‘How much would you like?'

‘Two bandoliers 7.62 and two white phosphorous eggs.'

‘For Christ's sake, will you get on with it and hurry up,' groans from behind me.

‘Bite your arse,' replies Bung. ‘Don't interrupt while I'm doing my shopping.'

The supply corporal hands Bung the two green cotton bandoliers and the two white painted grenades. Bung slips the bandoliers over his head.

‘Thank you my man.'

‘My pleasure. Do come again. And what would you like?'

‘A plane ticket home.'

And the nonsense conversation continues as the line grows smaller.

‘BUILT for speed, not for comfort,' mumbles Harry, as he seats himself beside me in the chopper's port-side doorway.

The hiss of the turbines and the thwack of the rotor blades slicing through the air sharpens my senses as Harry and myself brace ourselves and wait for the aircraft to take off.

Bung is sitting on the rear wall seat between our signaller and a member of sixteen patrol. He starts to sing: ‘We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when but I know we'll meet again some bloody day.'

We all join in, drawing a look of amazed amusement from the American chopper crew, who, judging by their expressions, obviously think that we have all gone quite mad.

The chopper lifts, dips its nose and moves forward, gaining height as it leaves the airstrip behind.

‘What's the time by you?' yells Bung to the signaller, trying to make himself heard over the din of the rotors.

‘What?' replies the signaller.

‘The time…THE TIME,' Bung screams.

‘What?'

Bung points to his wrist.

‘Six fifteen,' replies the signaller.

Harry nudges me in the ribs with his elbow and points down to where the town lies spread out some fifteen hundred feet below us. I notice that small fires are burning all around the market place, at least they look like small fires from where we are. Now and again small orange flashes flare up on the ground and quickly turn into white puffs of smoke as our artillery bursts its way in short five-round patterns among the cluttered buildings. Four dustoff choppers pass us at about five hundred yards' distance. One of the medics waves to us, we wave back.

‘Hope he's not looking for customers,' Harry yells.

‘Morbid bastard,' I reply.

‘GO.' The choppers bounce up from the ground as we pile out into the dust clouds raised by the rotor blades. Bits of dry grass and leaves swirl into the air and stick to our arms and faces. The dust is already turning to mud as it covers our clothing and bodies in a thin red film that mingles, as always, with the sweat.

We race towards the canal at the edge of the town, past a small ditch where four or five medics are bent over a line of bodies. I notice that two of the casualties are covered head to foot by a strip of canvas. A crimson stain is seeping through the cloth piece that hides the smashed head of the right-hand corpse. We arrive at the canal wall, flinging ourselves down under the protective brickwork. A burst of fire slams into the wall, ripping into the hard clay and showering us with dust and rock chips.

‘This is a bit bloody hairy,' snarls Harry, his face looking screwed up and savage. ‘A man could get his arse shot off very easily.'

The enemy fire, well directed and carefully aimed as always, rakes the wall again.

‘OK. Let's move. Let's go, let's go,' the sar-major is crawling past us, up towards the head of the line that has taken temporary refuge behind the wall. The signaller is crawling, edging his way along through the dust in the sar-major's wake, chattering into the headset of his radio, calling for mortar support. Almost before he finishes speaking the bombs start to burst on the enemy-held side of the canal. A stray round explodes in the canal itself. An arching wave of mud and water hovers in the air momentarily and falls like spattering excrement on top of us.

The mortar fire stops.

‘See if you can make it to the other side of the road,' the sar-major calls to Bung who now heads the line. Bung starts to run. He is almost halfway across, running sideways and firing short bursts from the hip, when his feet collide with the corpse of a North Viet soldier that lies spreadeagled, its intestines coiled and broken beside it, near the far side guttering. Bung's feet slip on the still-moist gut and he falls and rolls flinging his rifle into the air, smashing his face into the bitumen roadway.

He is on his knees, shaking his head as if to try to regain his senses, crawling stupidly back out onto the road in search of his rifle when the knife-like 7.92 Spandau burst catches him full in the side of the head. I see Harry, crouched beside me, close his eyes as our old friend Bung's face explodes in a hundred, never to be assembled again, jigsaw pieces of flying bone, flesh and once never-lost-for-a-laugh grey brain. Bung's faceless corpse spins and falls backwards onto the roadway.

‘You stupid cunt, Bung,' I hear Harry's voice from beside me somewhere as senses dulled.

I see the sar-major and Harry lurch forward and head for where Bung's body lies. They leap over the corpse and fling themselves down on the pavement.

‘COME ON! Fuck you! MOVE!' screams the sarmajor. ‘We'll cover you across.'

The sar-major's rifle spits and bucks as he fires a series of short bursts at the enemy position on the fore end of the bridge.

Six of us move forward, leaping over Bung's body like lambs over a fence. We reach the other side. Miraculously, none of us is hit. Down, sight, just like we did when we were recruits. I yank back hard on the trigger, spraying the enemy position, not letting go until I see the tracer round that lies second from the bottom of the magazine turn its way from the muzzle of my rifle. Hands shove into basic pouch. Change magazines. Cock the rifle. I hear the familiar metallic slap as the bolt guides a new round into the chamber. Squeeze the trigger again. The spent cartridge cases rise in a golden arc from the right-hand side of my rifle. Stoppage. Jesus Christ, what a time to get a stoppage. Cock the rifle. Look inside the chamber. It's clear. Thank Christ it's not a jammed case. Spin the gas regulation down one notch, release the bolt, continue firing.

Remember what the man said: ‘Look after your rifle and it'll look after you.'

Funny how the man never told us what to do when you trip on an enemy corpse. Well, you can't cover everything in a drill manual can you?

Harry is edging forward, the white egg-shape of a phosphorous grenade in his right hand.