Читать книгу The Wounds of War - Gary Blinco - Страница 9
ОглавлениеCHAPTER ONE
‘And that, quite simply, is my dilemma’, General Landsdown said flatly, his face red with anger and frustration. ‘I cannot really trust the security of the American military machine in this case; any security leaks will undermine the operation completely. Public awareness back in the world is becoming strong about this war, and the balance is swinging the wrong way for those who have to fight the bloody battles. The slightest slip-up will be used to discredit our activities and cost us resources and political support; and God knows we are fighting with one hand tied behind our back as it is.
‘And the negative image of the war is fuelled by contrived reports from the various newshounds whom my political masters allow to infest the bases around the country. Left-wing journalists who are only after sensational stories, not necessarily the truth. The bastards would not recognise the truth if it sat on their faces.’
The American was a large man. The high dome of his bald head drew attention away from his rather more interesting, florid face. His huge sagging jowls and small, sharp, pointed teeth made him look like an English bulldog. Small watery grey eyes completed the image. Like most American officers, his chest was festooned with rows of ribbons, most of which meant nothing to the Australian, Brigadier Anthony Jacob, who sat opposite him across the desk.
The Australian was a small man by comparison, compact and fit looking, his small head cropped with tight, curly, grey hair. He smiled at the mental image he had formed of his companion, and the man’s arrogant definition of America as ‘the world’. The term was popular with the American enlisted men, exposing a view that the good old USA was the centre of the universe. But Jacob had never heard a senior officer use the term before.
‘So just what do you want me to provide, General?’ Jacob asked. The big American rose suddenly from his chair and walked across the room to stand thoughtfully before a large map that hung on the wall. Jacob took the opportunity to study the rather lavishly appointed room. Unlike the austere conditions endured at the Australian base at Nui Dat, the American Army clearly enjoyed a wide range of creature comforts. The building had a feeling of permanence about it, not the temporary makeshift nature of the demountable, Conex-style buildings of the Australian Task Force.
This building was constructed of solid timber, with real glass windows and a peaked iron roof that helped keep the room cool. A small air-conditioning unit finished the job and the inside temperature was delightfully bracing. The decor was subdued and comfortable, with soft rugs on the floor and bright prints complementing the military photographs on the walls. Jacob looked with envy at the family portraits on the American’s desk, and the high-backed swivel chair that still rotated slowly from the big man’s sudden vacating of the leather seat.
‘Well, Mr Jacob’, the American said, startling Jacob a little as he had been concentrating on the furnishings and not on his companion, he had almost forgotten the question he had asked. ‘As we have already discussed, we know that the Cong are sneaking supplies, ammunition and troops down through Laos and Cambodia. But I need to be able to prove it.’
‘Why not send some of those nosy journalists you mentioned into the place?’ the Australian said, cutting the American short. ‘They are always after a big story and they can go pretty much where they like in this sector; not like we poor silly bloody soldiers.’
General Landsdown turned to peer at him with his small watery bulldog eyes. ‘You are right on both counts’, he agreed. ‘But finding information to discredit the Cong would be against the popular theme of ‘war bashing’. The general public would not like it, probably not believe it, anyway. America, and I suspect Australia as well, is divided into three groups. A handful who are vehemently opposed to the war, another handful who are equally focused in their support for it, and the majority who couldn’t give a shit either way. We need to gather our facts, using the resources of the allied countries to build credibility. Then I may be able to do something about it; may be able to harness some of the apathetic fence sitters so we can get the funding and resources we need to finish this bloody war off.’
The general returned to his seat behind the desk, rolling backward in the big chair with his hands clasped behind his head as he frowned slightly at the Australian. Jacob had remained seated, his legs crossed comfortably. The small man looked relaxed, in control, not in the least intimidated by his high-powered host. ‘So we get back to my question, how can I help?’
‘I want you to put together a patrol made up of Australian, New Zealand, Vietnamese and American specialists to sneak across the borders and report on activity’, the general said simply. ‘I don’t think you guys have the security of information risks that I have, and a multinational exercise will lend more credibility to the findings of the patrol, whatever they may be; as if I didn’t already know.’
The brigadier nodded, smiling thinly. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment, and thank you’, he said. ‘But how does that solve the security problem? Given the proposed make-up of the mission.’
‘Because’, the general rasped a little impatiently — he was accustomed to power and he hated people to miss his point or question his opinion — ‘The Americans and the Vietnamese will be hand picked by me. God knows security in the South Vietnamese ranks is worse than ours, those bastards are more interested in the black market and featherbedding than they are in their war’. Jacob smiled thinly at the ‘their war’ comment, but he held his tongue. ‘But I can find two Americans and a South Vietnamese who will be beyond reproach. You find the rest.’
‘You will have access to some air support and whatever else you need, though the pilots will not know the exact nature of any strikes called for, or the patrol insertion process. Those flyboys will attack any target we mark; they’d bomb the shit out of Nui Dat if the Forward Air Controllers (FAC) spotted it as a target. If we accidentally dump a bit of shit across borders, tough! The FAC must have got the references wrong, shit happens in war.’
The general rose and walked to a cabinet in the corner. ‘Drink?’, he asked, staring at the Australian. ‘Please, scotch, no ice.’ The general poured some whisky into the glasses without measuring. He returned to the desk and handed a glass to Jacob. ‘Cheers’, he said, raising his glass and taking a deep pull on the strong drink.
‘I’m afraid I can’t risk allowing the mission to have the standard radio codes, or detailed maps of the neutral countries; in case they get captured’, he said, smacking his lips as he savoured the scotch. ‘I hope the reasons will be obvious. So you will have to devise other methods of communicating reports and for navigation, but I’m told you are good at that.’
The brigadier grinned, sipping his drink. ‘I have a few ideas that worked for me in Burma during the last big war’, he said.
‘Good’, the General said, rising and signalling the end of the meeting. ‘I’ll have my three men to you on the fifteenth, that’s ten days from now. You will need to have your selections of Australians and New Zealanders made by then as well. I want the numbers restricted to six men for this one; you can pick the mix for your lot. Just let me know what else you need. The communication will be directly between you and me, no one else will have enough details to figure out what we are up to.
‘And I figure the use of fairly ordinary soldiers rather than the Green Berets or your hot shit SAS should give us a better chance of keeping the thing quiet internally. The spies watch the crack units like freekin’ hawks. The monsoon is about due, which is one of the reasons for doing the job at this time. I want to see what is happening now and then, how the little buggers cope once the wet sets in. Your patrol will effectively straddle the seasons. Good luck.’ They shook hands and the Australian took his leave, walking slowly and thoughtfully from the building to the waiting helicopter.
Sergeant Gary Bishop slipped nimbly from the Army Land Rover in front of the Australian Task Force headquarters at Nui Dat. He waved and nodded to the driver before marching up the gravelled path to the building marked ‘Headquarters First Australian Task Force’. Some 105 millimetre howitzer shells formed a border along the sides of the path, and a few sorry looking plants and flowers of unknown origin and title adorned the Task Force Commander’s excuse for a garden. The shells had been painted in various colours, like wartime garden gnomes, affording the expended weapons a peaceful image inconsistent with their design.
Bishop walked briskly to the front door, his movements lithe and economical, suggesting fitness and strength. His bright blue eyes flicked to the left and right as he moved, in the manner of one accustomed to taking in every detail around him. He was on his second tour of duty in Vietnam. His first tour had been as an infantry section leader, a good one, and he had not lost the forward scout’s art of constant observation. Section leaders often acted as their own scouts in this strange war, where most Australian field infantry units were sadly undermanned.
Bishop was a National Service conscript, and at just twenty-four, one of the youngest senior NCOs in the regiment. He worked as an ‘in country’ instructor at the reinforcement unit, a sort of holding bay where reserve troops were kept to fill the gaps created by those killed or wounded in action. Some soldiers called the unit the ‘butcher shop’, but the inference in the name did not bother Bishop. His sensitivities to such things had long since been bludgeoned out of him during that first bloody tour.
He fronted the rough desk near the entrance to the building and was greeted by a pimply-faced corporal. ‘Can I help you, mate?’ The corporal asked without looking up from the pile of papers on his desk.
‘You better be able to, and don’t fuckin’ call me mate, Corporal. I busted my guts to get these hooks.’ The corporal looked up from his papers, scrambling to his feet, his face burning as he noted the name tag on Bishop’s shirt. ‘Sorry, Sergeant Bishop’, he stammered. ‘We get so much high brass around here that we get a bit complacent, how can I help you?’
He resented this upstart young sergeant. This place was alive with very senior officers, none of whom required him to stand to address them.
Bishop grinned, suddenly friendly now that he had asserted his position. ‘I’m here for a briefing with Brigadier Jacob’, he said. ‘I’m ten minutes early, but seeing as he is a brigadier, and I’m a baggy-arsed sergeant, I thought I’d play it safe.’
‘Good move’, the corporal agreed, gratefully accepting the change in Bishop’s manner. ‘Follow me and I’ll take you to the meeting room.’ Bishop followed the corporal down the narrow hall of the demountable building and was shown into a small briefing room. ‘If you wait here’, the corporal said, ‘the brigadier will be along shortly. Can I get you a mug of tea of coffee?’ he added, his eyes revealing a desire for the answer to be no.
‘No’, Bishop replied, grinning as the relief washed over the man’s pimply face. ‘I’ll just wait for the action, whatever it proves to be.’
The corporal nodded and left and Bishop looked around the room. It was spartan and sparsely furnished with the usual military fittings of desks and plastic chairs, but spotlessly clean. Maps of the province and beyond festooned the walls, an overhead projector sat on a table and there was a large chalkboard set on the wall above a slightly raised stage area at the front of the room. Two large ceiling fans beat slowly overhead, moving the hot tropical air about the room but providing little cooling effect. The jungle greens clung to Bishop’s skin as the sweat oozed from his pores.
He wondered what this briefing was all about and he felt a tight clutch of apprehension in his gut. His commanding officer had been pretty sketchy with details. ‘I think you’re getting bored with this war, Sergeant’, the CO had growled. ‘You need a new challenge, something to refocus those military skills of yours. Well, as it happens, I’ve been asked to provide a senior NCO with a good track record for a special task.’ He had studied Bishop’s face for a moment, perhaps waiting for some reaction. Bishop’s face remained impassive. ‘I think you’re the man. I should tell you that other commanders within the task force were also asked to nominate a starter. However, you have been chosen as the most appropriate candidate. It is also opportune that your security clearance is to top secret level, a requirement for this job I’m told.’
Bishop raised his eyebrows and made no comment, frankly he did not know what to say. The CO was thoughtful as he watched the young sergeant’s face. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you what it’s all about, even if I wanted to, because quite simply, I don’t know. But I do know it presents an opportunity for you to make some sort of a name for yourself.’ He looked at Bishop and his eyes narrowed. ‘Which probably also means you have an above average chance of getting yourself killed.’
The CO had stood up then, abruptly signalling an end to the meeting. ‘There is a briefing at task force headquarters tomorrow at zero nine hundred hours. Report to the orderly room and ask for Brigadier Jacob. Just present yourself in normal uniform and carry your pistol, nothing else is required for now. I have been told that, if you accept the task, you will not be coming back here, you’ll leave directly from task force headquarters. Are you game?’
‘Of course’, Bishop said nodding, trying not to sound too enthusiastic and hiding his real need to get back into the thick of the action. ‘And you’re right sir’, he added, ‘I have been getting a bit stale, this second tour has been a bit flat so far’.
His CO slapped him on the back as they walked from the office. ‘Well, this might put some spice into it for you’, he said. He offered his hand to the younger man. ‘If I don’t get to see you again for a while, good luck.’ Bishop shook the offered hand, saluted, then turned and marched from the room.
Deep down he hoped for some real action. He needed to revisit some old experiences to help him clear his head of the uncertainties that had followed him since the last tour. This second tour of duty had so far been a holiday compared to his last stint as a section leader. Training reinforcements or sitting in the senior NCO’s mess drinking booze somehow made the time drag badly; he felt like a seasoned and prepared football player watching the game from the sidelines. And then there was his real reason for coming back, the secret motive he held for choosing to return to this place, the one that could never be satisfied by a base camp role.
His father had died during his first tour, leaving a huge gap in his life; the family unit he had loved so much, and depended upon so completely, was suddenly not the same any more. While his mother still maintained a home with his younger siblings, it was not the warm family base he had known, and Bishop felt his world had somehow changed forever. The fond memories of his simple and unfettered childhood had gone, driven from his heart and mind by the trials of this other life, created in and by war.
Cold recollections now invaded his sleep, stark images of his father’s withered body, his eyes wide in his cancer-shrunken face. Anger, confusion and bitter shock blended with the fear and clouded those eyes, until they looked like the eyes of a frightened child. His father had been a dreamer, oblivious to reality at times, but always focused on the better days that he alone saw in the future. Then suddenly, inexplicably the future was gone and the present loomed with hopeless finality.
The long sleepless nights he had spent listening to his father’s hacking cough as the cancer ate its way through his body now returned to Bishop in his dreams. He remembered those final days before beginning the last tour, how he would leave his bed to go and peer into his parents’ room in the old house. Memories of the vague forms in the bed came back to clutch his heart, ghostly shadows in the soft light of the street lamp that filtered through the window. His father would be semi-conscious, the wasted body convulsed with the deep coughs that rose up through him and burst from his mouth accompanied by phlegm and blood. Scarcely audible moans of pain escaped his dry, cracked lips between the coughs.
His mother’s body would be curled in a dark question mark of love and comfort against her husband’s side as she stroked his face. Her eyes were wide and unblinking in the darkness, two bright, glassy orbs that glistened in the gloom, her head pressed deeply into her tear-soaked pillow. The family watched painfully as the once strong and proud man succumbed to the disease that chewed away at his tissue, poisoned his blood and sapped his strength, leading him down a dark spiral of misery to certain death.
Bishop remembered his mother in the early days on the little farm where he had grown up, and the image was a far cry from the more recent one that loomed in his mind. She had loved the simple, uncomplicated bush life, and her husband and children were the centre of her world. They had been dirt poor, but having no basis for comparison, blissfully happy. His mother was always full of life — an impish smile about her mouth and amusement in her eyes — these were the images he had of her. Somehow she managed to make her husband and her nine children feel as if each of them was the only one in her care at times, and they all had a special bond of love with her.
Then the cancer came to visit the household, infecting her husband but affecting them all at the same time. Slowly the spring ebbed from her step, the light drained from her eyes and the colour was bleached from her hair. Her face became haggard, her eyes dull and flat within the lines of grief and care that appeared, almost over night, on her face. Bishop knew that every single day his father managed to add to his own life; somehow struck several days off the end of hers. But she never complained, withdrawing into herself to suffer, emerging bravely when she was needed to nurture and support her brood, steeling her heart and mind to a future she feared, but could not change.
Bishop felt hot tears well up in his eyes as he remembered those final days, how he was relieved to go off to war rather than face the hopelessness he saw in his father’s face every day. The guilt of his cowardice was hidden from others who admired his apparent courage in going off to war at such a time, but he knew the truth.
Then there was the first tour of duty and the experiences that spawned new nightmares, vivid and terrifying experiences that somehow joined with his personal pain to romp over him, to tease and taunt him as he fought for sleep each night. The Australians had what appeared to be a small role to play in the war, at least compared to the heavy fighting faced by their American allies to the north. But Bishop’s unit had been involved in a number of major actions and had suffered heavy casualties during the tour. Those bloody actions were seared into his mind, feeding a monotonous cavalcade of disturbing dreams that invaded his sleep and plagued his waking mind.
The nightmares followed a regular pattern, one that rolled through his head with a certainty that eventually made bed a place to fear. As the scenes of his dying father faded from his subconscious memories, they were replaced with a new image, that of a routine creek crossing during a monsoonal downpour in the dark brooding jungle. Bishop had argued with the officer about the folly of wading across a swollen stream without first securing the far bank, but he had been warned about his insubordination and then ordered to take his squad across first.
They were halfway across the creek when the Vietcong sprung the ambush. Secure in their bunkers along the far bank of the stream they poured fire down on the Australians, picking them off as easily as shooting fish in a barrel. Bishop took no smug comfort in the fact that he had been right about the need to secure the crossing, but he wished the officer had shared the stream with them to take a just punishment for his folly. The sudden violence of the attack had wiped out half of his squad in just a few seconds; they crumpled like ragdolls as the Vietcong bullets met them in the middle of the swirling waters.
He watched in helpless frustration as hungry bullets raised little waterspouts across the surface of the stream, dancing after his troops until they found their target; thudding into flesh and bone with a sickening sound, like a butcher chopping up a side of beef. It was an image that was seared into his soul, one that would follow him to his grave.
Somehow he had found his way under the barrage that cracked over his head, until he made it to the shelter of an overhang on the far bank. He wallowed in the water that swirled under the overhang, clinging to the root of a tree; his breath coming in great sobbing gulps which burned his lungs. But at least the overhang was hidden from the Vietcong and sheltered from the gunfire. He heard again the screams and shouts of frightened men and the deafening rattle of weapons, saw the churning waters foam pink with blood as the dead and wounded were carried downstream by the current.
One of his men had struggled towards him through the carnage, his eyes wide with fear, his mouth working silently behind the noise of battle. The man reached out his hand for support, Bishop felt the touch of clammy skin, and then hot rounds from an AK47 began hammering into the man’s body. Surprise and confusion suddenly mixed with the fear until the death mask slid across his features. Blood welled from his mouth, eyes and ears; then he slipped under the water and was gone.
Then the nightmares would shift to a new scene, the bad dreams moving from plot to plot, like the trailers of a movie. Bishop was in an American helicopter, sharing the dawn sky with a dozen other craft as they skimmed across the humid landscape at the level of the treetops. His chopper suddenly swooped on a wide clearing, a disused paddy field somewhere deep in the featureless jungle. The side gunners opened up as the choppers slid below the tree line, saturating the jungle fringe with bullets to ward off any lurking Vietcong. The practice was designed to give some comfort and protection to the infantry soldiers who would soon disgorge from the aircraft and melt into the undergrowth to begin another patrol.
The chopper was still a foot from the ground when Bishop saw the crewman mouthing the order for them to get out. He signalled to his men and rolled from the hovering craft as the gunfire started up from the tree line. The side gunner was torn apart from the first burst and Bishop saw several of his men get hit and sprawl in the long grass of the paddy field. The stricken chopper somehow struggled form the field like a wounded pelican, with the dead gunner hanging limply from his harness.
Bishop cursed wildly and began to crawl through the tall grass, praying that it was high enough to cover him as he moved obliquely towards the jungle fringe, away from the torment of the Vietcong fire. Taking his lead, the remains of his men followed, a terrified and bloodied procession under the cracking exchange of bullets from both sides of the battle.
They left the gunfire behind as the last of the choppers rose away above the treetops, banked and returned with angry, roaring engines and throbbing rotors to pour streams of tracer rounds into the Vietcong position. Then the choppers were gone and silence fell over the jungle with awesome suddenness. Bishop knew their enemies would be leaving the protection of their bunkers and melting in ones and twos into the bush.
He knew also that some of them would skirt along the jungle fringe to try to pick off any stragglers they could find before slipping away, a parting gesture of defiance against their stronger and better-equipped tormentors. Three of Bishop’s men were now either dead or badly wounded back on the paddy field, the other six slumped together in a small clearing, fear clouding their faces and the breath burning in their lungs as they looked to him for leadership. Bishop sat with his back against a tree as he contemplated his next move, his M16 across his knees. As he looked up at the dense green wall of jungle that frowned down on the little clearing, he saw a Vietcong soldier’s face framed in the leaves. The image looked posed, like a photograph that one might see in a photographer’s window. The man’s face was young, little more than a boy’s face, the skin pale, opaque like a china doll from months, perhaps years, in the shaded permanent twilight of the jungle.
Bishop met the dark eyes of his sometime enemy; both of them somehow frozen in fear and wonder, then a slight smile played about the mouth of the Vietcong. Suddenly the face exploded in a bloody mess of minced meat as one of Bishop’s men sent a burst of M16 fire into the bushes, tearing the life from the young face and hurling Bishop out his nightmare into a cold awakening.
He always woke with a start at this point in the dream, his body bolt upright in the bed, his heart pounding and the bed linen wet and musty with his sweat. He would sit quietly in his bed then, waiting for the pounding of his heart and the rasping of his breath to subside, willing his mind to lock out the images forever.
When he awoke alone in some military bed he could cope with his condition; it was his problem and his alone. But, when he was back in his old bed in the family home, he ached with confusion and embarrassment as his concerned family appeared in his room, their eyes gaping in wonder as he tried to explain the thing away with a joke. Once or twice was easy to explain, but as the dreams continued he began to despair at his lack of control.
He had learned to cope with the daylight hours, somehow locking the bad experiences away in secret compartments in his mind, like little rooms in a house where one stores unwanted junk. But his mind was becoming crammed with small locked rooms, cluttering his brain and slowing down his thoughts, robbing him of mental energy. And at night when he slept the doors of the little rooms in his mind burst open and the nightmare images broke free to rampage through his dreams.
The dreams continued with a growing intensity and Bishop began to wonder how much he cried out in his sleep, or if he was losing control of his mind. He thought of approaching the medical officer with his problem, but decided that this would probably lead to endless psychological tests and possibly a medical downgrading. He had seen it happen to others, and he did not want to end up behind a desk or in a store room, burnt out for real soldiering at twenty-three; or jettisoned into civilian life with an inadequate pension to rot away for the rest of his life.
The only answer, he decided at last, was to return to the war and confront the memories where they had begun. Like a child thrown from a horse, he had to get back in the saddle and try again before he lost his nerve forever. He would deal with this problem as he had dealt with so many others in his life. The family’s poverty, his missed opportunities as a child and then later as a young man had prepared him for a life of challenge. He had faced many obstacles and won, he would beat this thing too, if only he could meet it face to face.
Momentarily coming back to the present he shuddered as he sat in the hot room under the lazy overhead fan, as if a cold chill had passed over him, then his mind returned to the past. He had met a girl named Leanne shortly after returning from the tour, marrying her after just three months. He wondered if perhaps he was secretly trying to fill the gap he felt in his heart after the loss of his father, but his instant attraction to the girl had been so intense.
He had met her at one of the many parties that seemed to spring up like mushrooms around the army base, and he felt a wave of warmth now as he recalled that first meeting. It was the classic case of eyes locking across a crowded room. He had looked up to see her staring steadily at him through a haze of cigarette smoke, and he felt his heart flutter as if he had taken a hard hit in the centre of his body. Then a warm glow seemed to seep through him, like hot oil had been poured into the empty gaps that had been torn out of him by his recent experiences. Despite his usual shyness, he had walked over to her and introduced himself at once, and he was encouraged by her eager response to his approach.
She was what his mother and the world at large would describe as a ‘nice girl’, from a good, solid and decent family, and the relationship blossomed quickly. She appeared to adore him, accepting his unusual job and his moody disposition. Bishop had a healthy respect for the institution of marriage; his own life had been built on the family unit that he loved. He was sure that this was the girl who would help him form his own family in the future, that she was the right one for him because she stirred his emotions and mind in a way that was totally new to him. He was so sure of his feelings that he proposed to her after only a few weeks, and he was delighted when she accepted at once.
After the wedding they had taken a small flat near the army base and attempted to set up a normal domestic life together. The intense physical passion of the marriage was still there, even as they slipped into the tentative routine of a married couple, and Bishop had felt fulfilled and happy with the relationship. But after the first few weeks he knew he could not completely settle down to normal civilian and domestic life until he had cleared the many dark clouds from his head. He knew he had to do something to put an end to the nightmares that haunted him.
Leanne often wondered aloud how long the violent nightmares would continue, and she was often forced to leave their bed and watch him toss and turn as he wrestled with the demons in his head. She had expressed surprise, even a little anger, when he extended his National Service obligation to undertake another tour of Vietnam but, after some reservations, she seemed to resolve herself to the situation and offered no further resistance. Perhaps she too felt it was the only way for him to confront whatever it was that possessed him, or perhaps she was exhausted after the intensity of their first few weeks together and felt the need of a break.
Bishop had no doubts as to what he must do. He knew that he must either get back to the war and some action, to get on top of his problem, or get out of the army completely. Somehow the thought of civilian life filled him with dread. He could not face any attempt to re-enter his old life. The transitional gap seemed far too wide. Another trip to the war seemed to him the only solution, so he signed on for further service. The tour meant an immediate promotion to the rank of sergeant, despite his young age of twenty-three, and his mere two and a half-years of service.
Apart from his pressing desire, his need, to face the bad memories on their own turf, he wanted to learn more about the Vietnamese people. Perhaps if he could understand the people and what they felt, then he could probably understand the war and himself better as well. And he wanted to know more about how the army worked behind the scenes, how the hundreds of tiny cogs of the military machine meshed and turned to churn out this thing called war.
During the first tour he had felt insulated from the people of the country and the army establishment, so much so that he sometimes wondered what he was doing here and why he was doing it. Questions that plagued every soldier in every war at one time or another, usually only until they could rationalise their position by deferring the whole situation to their governments and their commanders.
The relentless patrols had kept the troops isolated from the army and the country at large. They became anonymous, dirty jungle animals who emerged from the gloom every six weeks to have a bath, get screwed and get drunk. Then they went back into the bush and began the cycle all over again. So they rarely even saw a Vietnamese, unless it was a dead Vietcong or a bar girl on her back in some sordid bar in the resort town of Vung Tau where they took their regular recreation leave.
He grinned at the comparison. He was either killing them or fucking them, not a good way to get a balanced view of the country and its people. Fucking them? The thought brought a thin smile to his lips and sent his mind churning off on another journey. Memories of hot, boozy nights in the arms of a bargirl came back to him.
Gaudy bars with makeshift rooms out the back, mere sheds made of packing crates and sheets of tin that had been internally decorated to look like modern home units. Slabs of colourful carpet on the floor, black market refrigerators full of black market booze, creature comforts that ultimately came from the American USO or PK. Bishop had shameful images of waking up in many of these dingy places, his head fuzzy with over-priced drink, his throat dry with thirst. He would sit holding his pounding head and take in the noise and stink of the war that hung over the land like a warm wet shawl. The sky was alive with the planes, bullets and bombs of combat, and the earth below crawled with disillusioned soldiers and civilians, or corrupt officers and officials who used the conflict for their own private ends.
The scene was repeated over and over. Stale sweat, sticky and itching on his body, a raging hunger in his belly and a 1000 dong ‘all nighter’ bargirl in a deep sleep by his side, his semen dribbling from her body as she slept. Most of these bargirls were aligned to the Vietcong, or so he had been told, even married to them. Bishop took these reports to be propaganda. In any case his basic instincts mostly overrode his sense of righteousness, and his personal aim to maintain absolute moral integrity in this war.
His sheltered upbringing had not prepared him for such temptation, and he could never overcome the self-loathing that crawled over him when he woke up in one of these places. His raw animal needs fuelled by the cheap grog had led him on and he had obeyed. Later he would curse himself for his lack of willpower, hating himself for his weakness, for wasting his precious passion in such pointless indulgence. Other men rationalised this conduct on the basis that they could be killed at any time, but Bishop saw this excuse as a shallow lie, and his comrades laughed at his outraged righteousness.
‘Father Bishop is worried that his naughty doodle will lead him into hell’, they would taunt; but his regret had nothing to do with any religious beliefs at all.
It was just that this liaison with bargirls was out of character for him. His upbringing had been strict and based on respect for himself and others, particularly women. While his army mates would sit on a hotel verandah giving a ‘fuckability rating’ to the passing females, Bishop would observe the behaviour with disapproval. He had four sisters and he hated to think that they would ever be subjected to such conduct.
But months of military experience had worn him down, at least when the woman was offering a business transaction. At last, weakened by the environment and the grog he succumbed to the desires of his healthy, hungry body; but it was a purely physical thing, and a business transaction between buyer and seller. But the damage to his resolve was done. Later, in Australia, and in the arms of the woman he loved, he found it difficult to connect on any but a physical level. He knew he had to work on that aspect of their relationship, but he was sure of his love for her. ‘First the demons, then I can concentrate on the marriage’, he reasoned.
Unlike most of his original squad members, Bishop had survived the tour, at least in a physical sense. The pointless and avoidable ambush in the creek, and the attack they suffered on a supposedly secure landing zone, had wiped out most of his men. They were replaced with newcomers from the reinforcement unit, the unit where he now served. Bishop rationalised the loss of his men over and over in his mind, it had not been his fault, but he could not shake off the guilt he felt. He should have defied the officers, been more forceful with his arguments.
And now, through all of the confusion, he had been compelled to return to a chapter of his life that, deep down in his heart he wanted to close forever. Adding to his confusion was the fact that he could not discuss his strange desire to return to the war with anyone, even his mother or Leanne. But he knew he must return; that he could not face the rest of his life with so many unanswered questions in his heart.
Now as he sat in the briefing room with his mind churning, waiting for others to appear, he wondered if he had made some wrong decisions — in getting married, in returning to this war and in chasing phamtoms. He was surprised, even disturbed to find how little he missed his home, his new wife and his family. His conscience troubled him when he thought of his new bride, again living with her parents while he cleared his head in Vietnam. But there was little he could do about it now. He felt guilty too about leaving his mother after only four months at home. She had endured so much hardship, nursing his father until the cancer finally claimed him, and she deserved some support now.
The door burst open, the sudden action interrupting his thoughts as a middle-aged brigadier entered the room bringing Bishop jerkily to his feet. The older man pinned Bishop with a steely gaze, his thick black eyebrows creased over piercing dark eyes. ‘Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?’, the old man barked.
Bishop felt a stab of resentment as he wrestled his mind back to the present. Surely the pimply-faced corporal had told the officer that Bishop was waiting in the briefing room? ‘Sergeant Bishop, sir’, he said evenly. ‘I was asked to report here for a meeting. Major Smithton from the REO unit sent me. Are you Brigadier Jacob?’
The senior officer glared hotly. ‘Break your fuckin’ arm on the way did you?’, he growled. Bishop remembered the protocols and saluted smartly, his face burning with angry embarrassment.
The older man’s manner softened at once as he beckoned other soldiers into the room. ‘You’ve arrived early Bishop, good. Sit down, sit down! Everyone sit down and we’ll go through the formal introductions.’ Bishop resumed his seat as instructed and watched as a procession of soldiers entered the room. There was a South Vietnamese officer and another senior NCO who looked like a New Zealander. A pimply-faced American private soldier and a young American captain followed a small Australian captain into the room.
The brigadier took charge of the introductions, making sure they all met one another. ‘Sergeant Gary Bishop, Australian Infantry; Captain Don Hackman, American Green Berets; Captain Thai Trung, Army Republic of Vietnam (ARVN) Special Forces; Captain Jerry Taylor, Australian Intelligence Corps; Sergeant Keith Jackson, New Zealand Infantry; and Private First Class, Paul Toms, American Special Forces Intelligence Corps, radio and code specialist. That about covers it, please sit down, you’ll know each other very well soon enough.’
Bishop noted that the body language of his new companions was guarded and expectant as they filed into the room and sat down. The men looked curiously at one another with sly sidelong glances, each taking a silent and experienced measure of the others. But all eyes soon turned to rest on the-aged brigadier. While he waited for the old man to begin the briefing, Bishop studied the men in turn, pleased to have a new subject with which to occupy his mind.
The young American captain looked like a movie star. A thick shock of blond hair bounced about his head as he removed his cap. He seemed to have an almost perfect physique, deeply tanned skin, well-muscled body and clear blue eyes. He was poised, openly conscious of his perfection, almost as if some hidden camera was rolling.
The New Zealand sergeant was dark, probably about a half or quarter Maori, Bishop reasoned. He was a huge man, his barrel chest strained against the fabric of his jungle green uniform and the biceps in his arms were almost a big as Bishop’s thighs. His dark eyes darted suspiciously around the room and his tongue flicked nervously across his lips. The Australian captain was small and had freckled skin. He was dwarfed by the huge New Zealander, slight even when compared to the Vietnamese officer. Everything about the captain appeared to be small and delicate. His hands, his features and his build and stature. He looked, Bishop thought, like an effeminate schoolteacher. But he appeared relaxed, even a little amused by the proceedings as he took a seat. The small man’s brows creased as he studied the brigadier. He was clearly anxious for the plot to unfold. The American private, who wore the badge of the Special Forces on his beret, hovered on the sidelines like an unobtrusive waiter until he was directly requested by the brigadier to be seated. The man looked detached, surly and defiant in the presence of his higher ranked companions.
The South Vietnamese captain, who sat somewhat apart from the rest of the group, intrigued Bishop. He was small and stocky like the men of his race, immaculately presented in a spotless uniform with razor-sharp creases down the sleeves of his shirt and up the front of his trouser leggings. While the others had removed their headdress, the Vietnamese sat with his back ramrod straight, his beret remaining firmly on his head. He seemed aloof, defensive and curious. When they were seated the brigadier strode to the front of the room and cleared his throat.
‘Gentlemen’, he began, ‘you have all been carefully selected for a particular task. I won’t bore you with the selection details or criteria, but it is sufficient to say that each one of you has an impeccable record in his particular field. Every one of you has demonstrated a commitment to the direction of this war, and your loyalty and security clearance is beyond question’. He glanced around the room, meeting and holding each of their eyes in turn before continuing. ‘It will be obvious that each of you represents one of the allied forces in this particular campaign, with apologies to the Koreans who are non-combatants this time around. Without wishing to be too melodramatic about it, we are here for a very specific purpose, with a very delicate mission before us.’
The brigadier paced up and down the small, elevated stage in front of his now captive audience. ‘Perhaps I should begin with an overview of the operation we are planning, and then cover the more intricate details after that. As you are no doubt aware, the North Vietnamese regulars support the Vietcong with supplies, troops and training resources. These supplies come largely from the North’s allies, and I don’t need to tell you who these are. Traditionally, most of the supplies have filtered down from the north via the Ho Chi Minh Trail.’ He paused to let his words sink in. ‘There are all kinds of feeder arteries that run like a delta into the main route to form the Ho Chi Minh trail from the north. ‘Trucks, ox-carts, boats and couriers, in fact, all manner of transport is used in the operation. They come from all directions, from the far north, from China, from Russia, but by the time they reach the South Vietnamese border, they have mostly degenerated to ox-carts and porters. They do it the tough but silent way to bring the enemy’s precious supplies south. Now the brave lads of the American forces bomb the shit out of the Ho Chi Minh trail.’ Bishop looked at the American captain who grinned smugly. ‘And while no ground forces actually enter North Vietnam, at least not officially or willingly’, the brigadier continued, ‘constant air and artillery strikes are directed at the area in an effort to break up the supply lines, and to intimidate the Cong’.
‘All of this is history, and that’s the easy part.’ The brigadier paused again to walk back and forth across the small stage. No one spoke, a wall clock ticked audibly in the pauses, the ceiling fans whirred quietly overhead and outside the helicopters throbbed about the heavy, humid sky above the task force area. The artillery battery nearby suddenly pounded out a fire mission in support of some distant infantry unit in combat, or perhaps it was just one of the routine harassment fire missions that were spotted over the province on likely enemy concentration areas.
‘What is not generally known, however’, the brigadier continued, ‘is that the North Vietnamese and the Vietcong are not as stupid as our politicians seem to assume. We know in fact that they are now moving significant supplies through the safety of Laos and Cambodia as these areas are politically outside the combat zone. You don’t have to be Einstein to study a map of the two parts of Vietnam and notice that it is a long thin country, hugging the coastline. While it’s thousands of miles long, a good golfer with a number one wood could almost hit a ball across its narrowest extremity, which just happens to be somewhere near the Laos, Vietnamese and Cambodian borders. We have always believed this configuration made our job of interrupting the supply lines easier.
‘But while we are busting our arses bombing the shit out of the Ho Chi Minh trail, our enemies are simply slipping across the borders. Then they move south just inside Laos and Cambodia, bringing the necessities of war south to our doorstep. There are still some supplies ferried down the Mekong River, but like the Ho Trail, that is also under constant bombardment. Our biggest problem is the one we must now address, the supposedly non-existent motor roads.
‘Therefore, the mission for which you erstwhile gentlemen have been chosen is to form a surveillance unit to observe, and report on, these activities. The Green Berets, the SAS and some crack ARVN units are watching the Ho Chi Minh Trail and the various arteries that lead into the trail. But jack shit is happening to observe the passage of weapons, troops and other supplies that are streaming south under the political protection of the Laotian and Cambodian borders.’
The brigadier glowered at the group. ‘So what this means, put succinctly, is, if our enemies see fit to break or stretch the rules, then we have to be able to observe and report on these activities.’ He paused to let his words sink in. Bishop watched the young American captain who postured, glancing around the room dramatically, once again as if the cameras were rolling.
‘Hence gentlemen’, said the brigadier, ‘the rather multinational composition of this meeting. While this mission must be discreet and secret, if the shit does hit the fan, so to speak, at least it will be seen as a defensive exercise by the various allies — a sort of spirit of cooperation thing — to combat the breaches of the strange protocols of this fucking war by our enemies. Now, let’s get down to the nitty-gritty details because we have only one week to prepare our operation’.
It was after eight at night when the old man finally called a halt for the day. He looked around the group, seemingly pleased with the results to date. ‘I am happy, gentlemen, with the way we are progressing’, he said confidentially, looking from one to the other. ‘But you will understand that we are now confined to barracks. You will see that you are more or less ordinary soldiers, rather than the so-called crack units of SAS and Green Berets class.’
Hackman frowned, clearly put out by the comment. His frown was not lost on the old man who smiled. ‘Some of you, of course have the credentials of these specialists, but are not currently serving in that capacity. Sadly, the security of some of our special force operations has been compromised. We cannot take any risks, hence the reason why this group must remain isolated from the rest of the task force and, indeed, from your own comrades. We will be spending the next few days together in getting to know each other, and in understanding our respective roles.
‘You will have no contact outside this group, and a few other carefully selected interfaces, before the mission actually takes place. In fact, you will eat together, sleep together and shit together until we get you inserted into the mission area. Put simply, we cannot risk any breaches of security, there is too much at stake. The big picture and the objectives are far more important than any one of the individuals here.
‘However’, he added, searching the eyes of the group again, ‘if anyone gets cold feet, or decides, for whatever reason, not to proceed, that is your choice. But I’m afraid you’ll be interned without contact with the outside world until the mission is over. Should you choose not to proceed, I need to know your decision now.’
The men in the room exchanged glances; they were tired and a little frustrated. Their nerves were becoming stretched from the constant briefing, the seemingly one-way traffic from the old officer, and they were all hungry, thirsty and tired. But it was clear that they were all going to participate in the mission. The brigadier laughed, reading the body language. ‘Okay’, he said, ‘I take it we are all in. Now the fact that we are all thrown together in this mission does not mean that we cannot relax a little. I’ve organised private messing facilities where we can now retire for a drink and some food. We will all get to know each other a little better for the next couple of hours, then we’ll all get some rest’. The old man rose and beckoned them to follow. ‘We will continue the official process in the morning, meanwhile, please join me for some refreshments.’
The brigadier led the way to a compound that had apparently been prepared for this group specifically. There was a row of tents, and a small demountable building that appeared to act as a mess hall and bar area. A high wall had been erected around the area and enclosed in barbed wire, rather like a motor vehicle or ammunition compound. As they walked through the gates, Bishop noticed a sign proclaiming, ‘No Admittance. Task Force Ammunitions and Weapons Depot’. He reasoned that this compound had been modified purely for the purpose of this exercise, a fact that further hammered home the importance the task force placed on the security of the mission and the mission itself. As they sat drinking quietly before dining in the cosy confines of the mess hut, the brigadier continued to dominate proceedings, deftly directing discussions between the members of the group. They dined rather lavishly on fresh rations and good wine but, despite the old man’s efforts, the men talked little among themselves, preferring to be led by their senior officer.
The brigadier opened discussions about many things, but little was said about the war or the mission. The reality and proximity of the war, however, filtered into the small club area. Choppers throbbed angrily overhead and mortar and artillery fire interrupted the conversation. The room was hot, the overhead fans doing little to ease the heat. The hot platters of food piled on the table only added to the high temperature of the room.
At last the brigadier called a halt to the night, the strain of the day’s proceedings showing clearly on his weathered face. ‘I’m sorry gentlemen’, he said, standing and looking quickly around the group, ‘but I think it’s time we got some rest. You will find everything you need in the row of tents outside, including clothing, toiletries and so on. We have spared little in pursuit of your creature comforts. I will allow you to select your own house companions, all the tents are the same and there is room for four in each tent’. He paused. ‘By the way, there is little point in seeking to leave this compound. It is well guarded. I am sure you understand that this is a secure area.’
They left the club and filtered out into the hot Vietnamese night, there was little discussion as they moved to the tent lines in search of bunks. Bishop was too tired to care who shared his accommodation. He simply moved to the nearest tent, selected one of the cubicles and prepared for sleep. Tall lockers were arranged to act as walls, dividing the interior of the tents into quarters, thus providing some privacy to each section. A single bed and a small bedside table occupied each cubicle, the bed tucked protectively against the sandbag blast wall of the tent. A drab olive green mosquito net covered each bed. Bishop opened the locker and found toiletries, underwear and a change of uniform.
The uniforms seemed a little on the large side, presumably to cater for the different sizes of the group. Better to be too large than too small, he thought. Being of medium build, Bishop was lucky, the small Australian officer and the large Kiwi would find some discomfort with the garments. Bishop noticed with interest that the Vietnamese, the Kiwi and the American private soldier were to share his accommodation. There was no communication between them, save for a guarded nod of the head as they entered the tent.
Within fifteen minutes they were all in bed, the lights extinguished. Bishop lay silently under the clean sheets of the single bunk listening to the sounds of the war. His companions in the tent were equally silent and he assumed that they were doing the same as he. One thing was now certain, this tour would no longer be boring, and he could hardly wait for the morning to learn more about this unique assignment. Sleep claimed him quickly, even before his mind could start churning over the events of the day. He slept heavily without dreams, his regular nightmare companions thankfully absent.
