Mending Michael

By Robert Ennever

Traumatised by horrific experiences in Vietnam,

Michael Johnston is repatriated to Australia and

placed in a psychiatric ward. Eventually discharged

into an uncaring world, the disenchanted soldier

descends into acute depression.

To escape city pressures, Michael finds work on a

cattle property. Th

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publicious Book Publishing
• Release date: Oct 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9780995362130

Robert Ennever

Rob Ennever was born in Sydney, Australia in 1933. He attended North Sydney Boys' High School and graduated as a pharmacist from Sydney University in 1954. After marrying his childhood sweetheart he opened a number of successful pharmacies on the North Shore and Northern Beaches of Sydney, inaugurating Chambers of Commerce and Merchants' Associations in the process. The birth of a son and daughter during this time added to his happy life. An inveterate seeker of new challenges, at forty-nine Rob sold his pharmacies, to become a property developer and student of Mid-Eastern History and the Italian language. Then came the call of the land, when he devoted his time and energy to farming a fifteen hundred acre cattle and wheat property in the Cowra region of New South Wales, down-sizing nine years later to start Australia's first 'Goosey Gander Geese' farm, along with a Tukidale carpet-wool sheep stud, on three hundred acres in the Southern Highlands of New South Wales. In her mid-fifties Rob's wife developed a progressive degenerative neurological disorder and he became her full-time carer until finally she had to be admitted to a Nursing Home when he served as a Community Representative on the Division of General Practice. It was during this time Rob developed a love of writing. It provided him with a degree of escape from the reality of the shattering of their life together. Over this period he wrote five novels in total, including Anna's Story which speaks of his wife's tragic terminal illness and its impact on their lives. Fee-Jee, the Cannibal Islands, Sinclair's Retreat, The Chaos Vortex, Sardinia, the Brotherhood of Orso and Anna's Story were all penned in the early hours while his wife slept. In 2009 Rob remarried and continued to live on his mountain-top at Mittagong, New South Wales with his second wife Trish until 2015, when they moved into the township of Bowral. His passion for the land and large scale gardening has now been replaced with a passion for leisurely walks into the village for morning cappuccinos! He still teaches Italian, travels extensively and is involved more than ever with his writing. His latest works are 'Loveridge...and they call this Progress?', an attempt to express his concerns about some aspects of modern life, and 'Mending Michael' which deals with the ongoing traumas suffered by war veterans and the effect these can have on those who share their lives.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The early Eighteen Hundreds.

The Simpson Desert, Central Australia.

The aborigine stood transfixed, an ebony statue against the brightness of the red sand below. No sound escaped his lips, no movement or gesture betrayed emotion; a slight dilation of his nostrils was the only indication of his surprise.

From his vantage point high on the crest of the dune, the pathetic group of men and horses stumbling across the desert below brought to Apurta’s mind a straggling trail of honey ants intent on gathering the nectar from a Red Mulga tree. Except, they weren’t honey ants! They were strange creatures unlike any he or his people had ever seen before.

His eyes widened in incredulity as bodies detached from the four-legged under portions which now moved about independently. Bodies similar to his own, but pale, the colour of death; spirits returning from the after-life.

Terror filled his being. His first instinct was to flee, to re-join his wife and child and warn the rest of the tribe. But curiosity overcame his fear. He crouched lower behind a protective emu bush and squinted, trying to pierce the shimmering heat haze and focus more clearly on these apparitions.

The sun was hot on his back; he had not eaten since sun-up and his mouth was dry with thirst. Still he lingered, intrigued as the intruders formed a rough circle in the shade of a clump of ghost gums. He watched as they removed large bundles from the backs of the four-legged creatures, stacked them in an untidy heap and then sank to the ground in an apparent state of collapse.

The shadows of the trees were lengthening across the parched earth; the animals, for that was how he now perceived them, stood motionless, heads drooping, frustrated by their futile foraging in this barren place. And the bodies, which so resembled his own despite the outlandish coverings distorting their form and the pallor of their skin, lay crumpled against the tree-trunks.

The heat was going out of the day, to be replaced by the first chill breeze of evening, and still there was no movement from the camp. There was no attempt to gather wood or light a fire, no effort made to cook a meal or replenish the fluids lost during the day. And as the first stars stood out against the velvet blackness of the night sky, the man, Apurta the ‘Stone’ who had this land in his blood, knew in his bones that all was not well. These travellers, whether sprits of the dead or humans like himself, were in trouble. The immutable law of generations of his forebears dictated he go to their aid.

He waited until moonlight first filtered through the overcast. Then, heart thumping in his chest, fear rising in his craw, he crept towards where they lay.

*****

The prickles of the spinifex stung like a thousand ant bites as Apurta wormed his way into the white men’s bivouac. A stealthy glance at the first two bodies confirmed his suspicions; the opaque dullness of their staring sightless eyes indicated their owners had passed from the land of the living. Turning to the third body the aborigine noted its closed eyelids. Perhaps this one is sleeping? He lowered his cheek close to its nostrils.

There it was! The faintest breath, soft as the kiss of a butterfly’s landing. A startled Apurta sprang to his feet and studied the emaciated body carefully. Its hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, its cracked lips, its gaunt torso and the bones protruding against the slack, scaly parchment-like skin all told him what had befallen this tragic party. They had run out of water.

How foolish these people have been! Apurta no longer regarded them as spirits. Spirits can’t die! Haven’t they learned that ghost gums choose to grow on dry creek flats? Don’t they know that if you dig there you will find water?

Frantically Apurta dropped to his knees and began to scoop out the sandy soil.

*****

William Fortescue stirred in his delirium, drifting in and out of consciousness. His head ached and when he ran his swollen tongue around his mouth it stuck against the mucus caked on his gums. A severe cramp caused him to gasp as his calf muscle contracted painfully and, in an attempt to ease his discomfort, he rose on his elbows and began to massage the affected limb.

Apurta grunted with satisfaction as his gouging fingers encountered moist subsoil. Several more handfuls and water started to seep into the hole. Using his hands as a bowl he filled them with the precious liquid and headed back to the stricken man.

William looked up from the leg he was kneading. Horrified, he perceived a dark silhouette advancing on him.

It’s holding something in its hands! One of the black bastards I’ve been warned about is about to attack me! He snatched up the pistol laid as a precaution by his side.

The aborigine bent forward, proffering the drink.

William squeezed the trigger.

The blast at such short range slammed Apurta backwards, the neat hole in his chest a gaping exit wound in his back. Within seconds blood pooled about his corpse, mixed with the spilt water, and soaked into the surrounding earth.

Exhausted both by panic and the stress of his ordeal William lay back. Thirst consumed him. Torpor robbed him of motivation and he succumbed to a great weariness. His mind wandered, and he did not live to see the dawn.

*****

This incident was the start of what was not the only war in which Australia would become involved; there were to be many others. But it was the first shot fired in a struggle which has continued for more than two hundred years

CHAPTER 1

June 10th, 1971

A Flat, Ashfield, Sydney.

The door slammed shut with frightening finality. Its side window rattled in protest.

Numbed, disbelieving, the woman thought, So this is how it ends! The last chapter of a blighted story. The end of a futile dream.

*****

Michael’s footsteps echoed along the corridor until he reached the front entrance.

Sarah slumped in her chair, the welt where he had slapped her reddening, its initial numbness replaced by pain. Shocked, she watched the stain of wine from the overturned glass spread to the table edge and drip to the floor.

Why did I do it? I promised him I’d quit weeks ago. And I did try, God knows I tried! Kicking the habit was too hard. But what gave him the right to hit me?.

It had been too hard, alone in the apartment with time on her hands; hours when uncertainty surfaced, when insecurity gave way to anxiety and Michael wasn’t there to cause her to maintain the pretence. Today had been one of those days. Her husband had returned unexpectedly, before she had had time to clean her teeth and use the mouthwash.

He had bent to kiss her, smelled the tobacco on her breath, recoiled and hit her hard across the cheek.

‘You bitch! You pathetic, cheating bitch! Where are they? Get me the fucking packet.’

He went to strike her a second time but she cringed and whimpered, ‘Please don’t! Don’t hit me again.’ She spoke more in shock than anger. Michael had never struck her before. She crossed to the pantry, reached behind an unopened bag of flour and handed him the packet of cigarettes.

He examined it. ‘There are only eight left. Tonight isn’t a one-off, is it?’ he accused her. ‘A momentary aberration?’ His lip curled in a sneer.

The veins in his forearm stood out as he crumpled the packet into a ball and threw it into the bin. ‘God Almighty, you’re weak.’ He flopped into a chair, looked at her with withering contempt, and said, ‘Why do I bother? Whatever made me think you were worth the effort?’ He shook his head in frustration. ‘What’s there to eat?’

‘It’s not ready yet.’ She was apologetic, tearful. ‘I’ve been busy.’

He looked around the kitchen; he took in the dirty dishes in the sink, the ironing waiting to be done in one corner, the overflowing rubbish bin, the half empty bottle of wine on the table. Suddenly the alcohol in him took control, unleashing his rage. ‘I’m out of this fucking pig-sty!’

That was when he slammed the door.

Michael was gone, and Sarah doubted he would ever return. Perhaps she didn’t want him back? But it was a dreadful way to end. An awful waste of what had once been love.

She went to the bin, fossicked until she found the packet, pulled out a mangled cigarette, rolled it on the table-top to restore some shape and lit it. Inhaling deeply, she tilted her head back and watched the blue smoke spiral towards the ceiling.

It’s a poison, I know. An addictive poison.

The nicotine was as nothing compared to the poison festering inside her.

*****

‘I shouldn’t have hit her,’ Michael muttered to himself as he wobbled out of the hotel, ‘I’ve never hit a woman!’

It was after midnight and he had over-indulged. It was inexcusable but it had been a bastard of a day. To be laid off after such loyal service!

‘I’m sorry Michael,’ his boss had appeared regretful, ‘it’s this damned down-turn. We’ve had to make adjustments. People had to go. We’ll give you a good reference, you’ll get the holiday pay due, long service leave and a redundancy payout. You’ll find something else. I’m really sorry.’

I’ll bet you are, you smug bastard! Sorry about parting with the money, not with me.

With a start Michael realised he had reached the flat. He rummaged in his pocket for the key, fumbled as he put it in the lock, and pushed open the door.

The place was in darkness. Cautiously he felt his way to the bedroom, guilty for his earlier outburst and not wishing to wake his wife. He didn’t need her anger, or worse, her silent recriminations. Not bothering to undress, he slid into the bed.

It was empty!

*****

Sarah sat, shaken and incredulous. Michael had struck her!

No-one had ever done that. Gingerly she felt her cheek. It still smarted and had begun to swell. Too stunned to cry, her initial hurt and indignation sparked outrage. Anger ignited. Michael didn’t have the right to hit her. No man had that right!

Fury started to burn more fiercely, injustice fed the flames. Who did her husband think he was? What entitled him to control her? She had tried her best to be a good wife, to support and understand his needs while supressing and ignoring her own. She had resolutely pushed aside the awful tragedy of their child and uncomplainingly lived with the daily sorrow that she would never be a mother.

All this she had done because she loved him. And this was how he repaid her!

Sarah surveyed the ash-tray on the table. It held three more stubs. She had been sitting in a stupor, chain-smoking. Not because she needed to, but because she couldn’t think of anything better to do.

The walls of the flat were closing in on her, trapping her in a prison of mediocrity.

Like my life! I have to break free, find space to discover what I am, do something wild and to hell with consequences. It’s not my fault! Michael’s driven me to it. Our relationship has been building to a crisis for months. Now he’s become violent!

The slap had hurt, physically but more so emotionally.

Perhaps it was for the best. It’s forced me to confront reality.

Which is?

We’ve reached a dead end!

Sarah had no new strategies to try, could envisage no means of rectifying the rift between them. Every alternative explored arrived at the same conclusion.

The marriage is over. Time to cut my losses and run. But where?

I need a drink. Something strong, something to give me courage.

She looked at her watch. The bars would still be open.

No mileage in drinking alone! Tonight she needed a sympathetic shoulder, a stranger who wasn’t involved; someone who, when she explained her version of the battle, would see what a bastard Michael had become.

The war is to blame. There’s no doubt about that. But that was a long time ago. Time enough to put it all behind him and get on with life. It’s no excuse for punishing me! I ‘m not the problem. He is! Her rage was now an inferno consuming her.

Sarah jumped up, resolved, pulled on a coat, glanced in the mirror, grabbed her purse, ruffled through it until she found her lipstick, did her lips and strode defiantly out into the night.

‘I’ll show Michael!’

CHAPTER 2

1966

Phuoc Tuy Province, Vietnam.

The jungle was hot, steamy, ominous. Never completely silent.

The song of birds, the drone of insects, the faintest rustle of leaves; everything was magnified by a heightened awareness, every sense attuned to the slightest sign of danger.

For there was danger, sudden, hidden, deadly. Everyone pretended to ignore it, to put it away in the back of his mind, but couldn’t. Even blind drunk its reality surfaced. There was no escape, no safe refuge.

The patrol had left at dawn, heading for a village reputed to be a haven for Viet Cong. Reports kept coming in of supposed guerrilla bases but, whenever a patrol arrived, there was no sign of the enemy. They were ghosts, their presence everywhere. In the air one breathed, under the earth one trod. Always invisible.

‘I heard some Yanks last night, in the bar, saying it’ll all be over any day now,’ Johnny whispered to Michael.

‘Can’t end bloody soon enough!’ Michael swatted at the swarm of mosquitoes hovering about his head.

What in God’s name am I doing here? He was wondering, as he did most days. Why am I fighting this war? It’s not my battle, I don’t hate these people, they’re ordinary folk like I used to be and never will be again; men, women and children going about their everyday business, struggling to exist, their only fight, to survive!

He’d had no choice, the ballot decided for him. He was conscripted, given basic training, some indoctrination, then shipped off to this hell-hole to kill people he knew nothing about, except what the politicians back home constantly spruiked.

As if those hypocrites in Canberra have the faintest idea of what it’s like! To be a mere pawn in a battle we didn’t start, fighting a war we can’t win, against an enemy we seldom see but who is out to kill us! Caught up in a futile struggle with no end in sight!

The carnage was all around. It was constant, unavoidable. Michael was suffocated by the mounting toll of dead and wounded. The stench of napalm-scorched flesh was in his nostrils; if he closed his eyes he couldn’t shut out the vision of dismembered bodies and torn-off limbs; his ears rang to the shrieks of the maimed and dying.

Then there’s the fear.

No-one speaks about the fear, but we’re all afraid. Deep in our guts we’re terrified, and the fear gnaws at us, eats away our resolve, makes us do things which shame us. Unspeakable things. Deeds we try to erase from memory but which we can never forget. Even in sleep we can’t escape the fear because, if we sleep, then the nightmares come and we relive the horrors of the day.

*****

‘Might’ve had one or two too many, last night, mate!’

Johnny was an aborigine. Black as the Ace of Spades, but with a cheeky grin and eyes alight with mischief, he had volunteered for service in the mistaken belief that, in Vietnam, he could escape the prejudice which was his everyday lot in the country town where he had grown up.

Ever cheerful, he had known adversity and managed to survive it. Accustomed to being treated as a lesser being, he had found his niche in the camaraderie of the Army, an acceptance for who he was rather than what he was which had eluded him in civilian life. Johnny, to his mates, was a ‘good bloke’, ‘Someone you could count on in a crisis!’

Today, however, he looked the worse for wear as he fought his way through the tangle of vines blocking the path.

‘One girl in particular wouldn’t leave me alone.’ Johnny liked to brag about his conquests, even if they were bought. ‘Kept pestering me to buy her another drink. Don’t reckon it was m’body she was after, just my cash. ‘You want, you like? I give you special treat, good price, I clean’. Shit, the bitch must have been all of fifteen!’

Michael nodded sadly, he wasn’t feeling on top of the world either.

*****

The previous evening.

Vung Tau.

In Vietnam sex was cheap and available.

The bar was crowded with ‘butterfly girls’, their postures provocative, their fixed smiles inviting. Until you looked into their eyes and the moist sadness there quenched any fire smouldering in your loins.

So Michael and Johnny opted instead to drown the ever-present tension by drinking steadily and purposefully, munching handfuls of salted nuts, and smoking non-stop. Sleep, when it came, brought not replenishment, rather a deliberate plunge into oblivion. Unfortunately there would always be the next day, and the next night.

‘You Ozzie? You buy me drink?’ Sleek black hair hung to her waist, her eyes were almond-shaped and deep brown pools. Inscrutable. She was reed-slim and barely reached Johnny’s shoulder.

‘I told you, girlie, I’m not buying anyone a drink. I hate this fucking country! All I want is to get out of here.’

‘I give you good time. I very cheap. Anything you like.’

Johnny shook his head and turned to Michael. ‘How old do you reckon she is?’

‘Eighteen, going on twenty perhaps. Why don’t you ask her?’

Johnny turned to the girl who was still hanging by his side. ‘How old are you?’

‘You buy me drink? I tell you!’ She moved closer and rested her hand on his thigh. ‘You nice man, I like.’

‘You can’t get rid of them, can you? I mean, they’re like bloody flies in this god-forsaken country. Hang around you like dogs around trash-bins.’ He lit another cigarette.

The girl pouted. ‘One for me?’

‘Get lost!’ He turned his back on her.

‘For Christ’s sake mate, give the poor bitch a cigarette.’ Michael started to reach into his pocket, but Johnny grabbed his hand to restrain him.

‘Okay, Mike, okay! I’ll do it! Just to prove to you I’m not the hard-hearted bastard you think.’ He flipped open the packet and turned to the girl. ‘Here, sweetie, help yourself!’

The girl put the cigarette between her lips, gave a suggestive smle and leant towards Johnny. ‘Got a match, soldier?’ Her hand slid further up his thigh, reached his groin and massaged teasingly.

Johnny pretended not to notice. The girl tried harder.

‘Do you know if we’re on patrol again tomorrow, Mike?’ Johnny appeared indifferent to her ministrations, but his voice was unsteady.

‘We won’t be told anything until morning, not officially at any rate. But I heard Sarge chatting to our Lieutenant at the bar earlier. About a village the Yanks believe is a hideout for Gooks.’ Michael tossed down the last of his beer. ‘Time for another, mate, let’s get really pissed! Who knows when we’ll get the chance again, or if this will be our last.’ He motioned to the bar girl. ‘Make it two schooners!’

‘Cheerful bugger!’ Johnny didn’t sound confident either.

The ‘butterfly’ girl accepted she was getting nowhere and removed her hand. ‘I give good blow-job! I try hard please you.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘You kind man. You give money. My brother sick. He not eat two days. Please, I do anything!’

For the first time Johnny seemed interested. ‘How old are you?’

"I fifteen. No mum, no dad. Brother work for Yankees. Tell them how talk my people, what means words. Viet Cong say they traitors, kill them both. Only brother and me, us all left.’ She was crying, the child she really was.

‘Oh, what the hell! One last fuck before I die! Why not?’ Johnny looked her up and down, appraising her. ‘How much?’

‘Two dolla. You like?’

‘One dollar! And you’d better be good!’ He fished a note from his wallet. ‘What’s your name?’ He held up the dollar.

‘Huong. It mean perfume.’

Johnny tucked the money into her shirt, sliding it sensually between her breasts. ‘Okay Huong, let’s get at it!’ He took her hand and led her to the stairs.

Michael watched, strangely moved by the sad resignation of the girl’s shoulders as she followed his comrade.

CHAPTER 3

The Tunnel, Long Phuoc.

Dung paused to wipe away the sweat stinging his eyes. On his knees, he was scrabbling with a short-handled pick at the soft soil. An oil lamp’s feeble light illuminated the confined space; its smoke irritated his lungs.

Behind him Bao used his bare hands to gather the spoil from his digging into a basket, before passing it back along the chain of labourers, to be distributed far from the tunnel into a river, where its tell-tale evidence would not disclose the network of underground passages.

‘I must have dug my share for today,’ Dung whispered. ‘Time to change teams.’

‘I’ve been marking the count on the wall, we’ve done our one hundred baskets.’ Bao was as eager as Dung to stand upright, to breathe the fresh air, to feel the warmth of the sun on his back. ‘A bowl of rice and pak choy and a drink would—‘

‘Ssssh!’ Dung clamped a hand over his companion’s mouth as they felt the vibrations of footsteps overhead.

‘May the Buddha protect us! I hope we haven’t tunnelled too close to the surface.’

Bao’s face betrayed his fear.

More footsteps sounded.

‘There’s more than one,’ he breathed. ‘Maybe villagers?’

‘If they were you’d hear them talking. Listen! The steps are following one after the other. There’s no chatter. It has to be a patrol!’

None of the team moved a muscle.

*****

The Rice Paddy.

Like her husband, Linh too was bent over, but squatting in a rice paddy. One by one she pushed green rice shoots into the soft mud beneath the shallow water. Other women worked alongside, broad-brimmed straw hats shielding their heads from the heat of the sun.

Water buffalo foraged lazily on the bank, ostensibly under the care of children engaged in energetic mud-fights.

Linh shaded her eyes as she gazed skywards, then at her shortened shadow.

‘Time to prepare something for our menfolk! They’ll be tired and hungry. They’ve been working hard.’

‘And we haven’t?’ laughed the woman nearest.

*****

The Tunnel.

Dien eased the lid of the tunnel open a fraction. Blinking against the glare of the daylight, he scanned the small clearing beneath which they were digging. He froze.

Not twenty paces from his hiding-place an Allied soldier was urinating against the base of a poinciana tree.

‘Hang on, mates, just having a leak!’ Johnny called to his comrades’ retreating backs.

‘Stupid bugger! If you laid off the grog they flog at those rip-off bars, your bladder wouldn’t be as weak as the piss which passes for beer here!’ Tom, the lance-corporal, always had something to say.

‘I’m coming! Give me a second to put the old fellow away!’ The soldier shook himself dry, replaced his penis and did up his pants. He turned to follow the patrol and looked straight at Dien.

‘Shit! A Gook!’ he yelled. They were his last words. Bullets from Dien’s AK40 almost disembowelled him.

Michael dived into the undergrowth for cover. The rest of the patrol had disappeared into whatever shelter they could find.

Michael unslung his binoculars and surveyed the clearing. It appeared deserted. There was no sign of the enemy.

‘Keep me covered’, he ordered his unseen squad. Step by step he explored the ground, seeking the passage entrance. They’re cunning buggers, he grudgingly admitted. Not a trace!

The glint of a spent cartridge case caught his eye. It must have fallen as the Gook was firing. The entrance has to be close by.

On hands and knees he probed the tangled mat of fallen leaves covering the ground.

Got you, you bugger! His heart was beating too fast and his hands were shaking as he traced the outline of the tunnel cover.

He reached and drew a grenade from his webbing, reminding himself it had a seven second fuse. If I release the striker too soon the bastard below will have time to fling it back at me! He tried with reluctant fingers to prise the entry hatch open, testing whether it was fastened from inside. It moved easily.

Michael withdrew the grenade safety pin and, heart in his mouth, let go the striker. He began to count off the seconds. One and, two and, three and,—

With a single motion he wrenched the lid open, dropped the grenade inside and flung himself, face down, away from the opening.

The roar of the explosion was somewhat muffled by the soil above the tunnel. But that didn’t mask the trembling of the earth beneath him, or protect him from the rain of rubble bursting from the passage entrance.

At first his ears were ringing. He was deafened. Gradually his hearing returned. All around was deathly quiet.

He raised his head. What’s that bloodied thing in front of me? God, it’s a hand attached to a shattered forearm. He vomited.

‘Are you okay, Mike?’ The patrol clustered around him.

He tried to collect his thoughts. I have to think. What do we do next? His head was spinning and he could not stop shaking.

‘What now, Corp?’ The young conscript was frightened and looked at Michael for reassurance.

They’re my responsibility, a grim Michael realised. The noise of the shooting and the grenade will have alerted every Viet Cong within earshot. ‘We get the hell out of here!’ He hoped he sounded decisive, he didn’t feel it.

‘What about Johnny? What do we do with him?’ Mark was on his second tour of duty. He had seen it all before.

Shit, I’d forgotten about Johnny. How could I? Michael tried to clear his head as he walked towards the crumpled body.

He was feet away when he heard the moan. It was Johnny. Michael looked at his friend and retched. Johnny’s eyes were open and wide with shock, the white eyeballs a stark contrast to his dark skin. A large portion of his intestine hung out and he was bleeding profusely from the right thigh. Bright red arterial blood!

‘I’m fucked, mate.’ Michael had to bend his ear to Johnny’s mouth to make out the words. ‘I’m a ‘gonner’, Mike. The pain’s just starting. Its’ bloody awful! Don’t leave me here for those buggers to find. There’s no hope. Finish me off, please!’

Michael shook his head. ‘No way! We’ll get you back to base.’

‘We both know I’d never make it.’ The words were indistinct, barely audible. ‘Shoot me, mate, it’s the only way.’ Johnny moaned again, clutching his spilling innards in both hands. The pool of blood from his leg spread over the jungle floor.

An excited chatter of Vietnamese voices was fast approaching.

‘Shit, they’re coming for us!’ It was the conscript. He had fouled his trousers.

I have to act or we’re all dead! Michael lifted his gun and looked at his friend’s stricken face. Johnny could no longer speak, he was fading fast, but he gave the slightest nod of assent.

Michael pulled the trigger.

*****

The Tunnel.

Dien’s body thudded into Dung’s back, propelling him headfirst against the rough floor and shielding him from the full force of the grenade’s explosion.

For some seconds Dung lay supine, deafened by the blast. Then, fearing the enemy may already be entering the tunnel, he pulled himself to his feet. Running his hands down legs which had lost any sensation, he was surprised at the warm stickiness soaking through his trousers. He explored further until his fingers encountered a jagged piece of shrapnel protruding from his lower calf. His first impulse was to remove it but instinct prevented him. Perhaps it’s blocking more bleeding?

Pain replaced the initial shocked numbness and he bit his lip to stifle a cry of agony. I must get out of here! Groping in the blackness, he visualized the layout of the network of passages as he felt his way along the wall. The second tunnel on my right is the one. It surfaces near the village.

His foot tripped over an obstacle and he stumbled to his knees. Reaching out, he recoiled in horror when his hand touched the remnants of a man’s upper torso. Nausea churned his gut. He vomited and continued his slow progress. His head was beginning to swim and he felt faint. I must get home. I need help!

A few more steps and weakness engulfed him. He slumped to the dirt.

*****

‘Dung! Dung! Wake up!’ Bao shook his friend. ‘We have to keep going!’ He knelt and hefted Dung over one shoulder, staggering at the inert weight and unable to stand upright in the partially blocked passage as he sidled along the wall. Thanh hoang, save me from death and I will light a thousand joss sticks to you! He prayed silently to the village god.

The tunnel seemed to have no end. Have I taken the wrong turn? I should be at the exit by now. His legs felt like rubber. I need to stop, have a rest. But what if the Yankees are following? Cupping a hand to his ear he listened intently. Nothing! I’ll risk it. Just until I get my breath back. He lowered Dung to the ground and sank down beside him.

The change of position caused Dung to stir. He moaned. ‘Where are we? Who are you?’

‘It’s me, Bao. I’ll get you to the village. Just give me a moment. Can you walk?’

Dung tried to stand but the instant he put weight on his injured leg he gasped with pain. ‘There’s a piece of metal in my leg.’ He bit his lip, fighting against the agony. ‘I’ll manage.’ He ventured another step and groaned.

‘I’ll carry you.’ Bao lifted Dung onto his back. ‘The way out can’t be much further.’

‘You are truly my friend. I’ll never forget what you’ve done. Perhaps, one day, I will be able to repay you.’

‘When this is over, I’ll remind you. But first we need to reach home.’

They hobbled on.

*****

The Jungle Patrol.

Michael pulled the folded map from his shirt pocket, studied it and muttered, ‘We must almost be at this bloody village.’ He looked at his compass. ‘Due north-east, about a mile. Might as well look it over today, rather than have to come back tomorrow.’ He realized he wasn’t thinking clearly. He was still in shock. He had shot Johnny, killed his best mate.

‘Might be better to leave it, Mike,’ Mark sensed the mood of the patrol. ‘We’ve all had a gutful of shit today. It’s getting late. Time to go back to base and get pissed. We can’t change what’s happened. Best to drown out the whole bloody mess and try to forget!’

Michael was grateful for the let-out. He was beyond caring about duty or how he would explain his failure to carry out the reconnaissance to his superiors. All he could think of was getting back to camp, soaking under a hot shower and blotting out the events of the day with a ‘joint’. Perhaps two ‘joints’!

‘What’s it to be then, Mike?’ They were waiting for his decision.

Christ, I’m bloody hopeless. Pull yourself together, Soldier! ‘Right, back to base it is then. Let’s get the fuck out of here!’ He squared his shoulders and headed towards the path they had followed on their way out, only to find his way blocked by Mark.

‘Easy on, mate.’ The older man grasped him by the shoulder, reassuring, calm. Mark had seen it all before. The unravelling, the inability to function. Nerves stretched past endurance until they snapped. ‘What about Johnny?’

‘Johnny?’

‘We can’t just leave him here.’

‘Oh shit!’ Michael began to sob. ‘I’d forgotten about Johnny.’

*****

No-one spoke as Mark led the patrol to the clearing. The men were avoiding eye contact with each other. Embarrassed, uncertain, confidence in their leader shot to pieces.

Michael stumbled along beside Mark, a man in a trance, beyond coherent thought, incapable of decisive action. Until they approached the crumpled form which was Johnny. Then he let out a strangled cry. ‘The bastards, the bloody bastards!’

Falling to his knees he nursed his friend’s head in his arms, heedless of the blood and gore spilling from the shattered back of the skull where the bullet had removed a large section of bone. ‘I’ll make the Gooks pay for this. If it’s the last thing I ever do, the murdering buggers will pay a thousand times over.’ There was wildness in his eyes, a look of madness which scared the watching soldiers.

Releasing Johnny’s head and laying it gently on the bloodied ground, he pulled the ground-sheet from his haversack and passed it to the young conscript. ‘Here, wrap him in this. Get someone to help you carry him.’ Then, as the youth hesitated and began to shake, he added bitterly, ‘Yes, you! You’d better get used to it. You’ll see plenty more like this, only, please God, next time it will be a Gook!’

And, if I have my way, you’ll see plenty of dead Gooks! Beginning tomorrow!

CHAPTER 4

Long Phuoc Village.

Linh stirred the pot of boiled rice, wondering whether it was too early to prepare the bok choy.

Dung should be home anytime now, his tunnel shift must be almost finished.

She liked to have his meal ready, her husband would be tired and hungry.

Da`o tugged at her mother’s black pants and she smiled at the child. Their little girl would turn six by the next festival for Thanh hoang, the village god, and was a healthy, mischievous imp who delighted her mother and led her father a merry dance.

‘Come, Ma, I can hear the crickets!’

It was her favourite game at dusk, when the sun was setting and the crickets began their evening shrilling. Da`o would listen to their song, identify where it originated , then run and stamp on the ground to silence them. Each success brought an outburst of childish giggles.

Linh glanced again at the pot, added a dash of water to ensure the rice wouldn’t dry out, and followed her daughter outside.

Bok choi only takes a minute anyway!

They had interrupted three crickets’ mating ritual when they heard the distant staccato chatter of an AK 40 followed by a muffled explosion. Then silence.

Linh looked around, saw nothing and hurried her child inside. Sounds of fighting were nothing unusual. Hardly a day went past without gunfire. It was the way of the war. A skirmish here, a fight somewhere in the jungle, people killed. She had no idea of what it was all about, why it had started, when it would end.

Passers-by told stories of death and destruction. Homes destroyed, villages burned, crops defoliated. Horrific tales of ghastly burns inflicted by tongues of fire which spurted from packs on soldiers’ backs or forked down from the sky. Linh believed these stories, but they happened to other folk, at other places, to other villages. It could never happen here! Here, where she lived! Why would anyone want to damage her village? To harm her? Or her child? They had never done anything to anyone!

‘Ma, can we go out again?’

‘No darling. Daddy will be home soon. He’ll want his precious girl to be here to give him the biggest hug and kiss. Now where is that scallywag brother of yours?’

‘He’s with the boys minding the buffalos.’

‘He’s naughty. He should be home by now.’ Linh shook her head in mock disapproval. Boys would be boys!

*****

The Tunnel.

‘Where am I?’ Dung had lapsed into and out of consciousness several times as they edged along the passageway. It must be the loss of blood, he thought. The pain heightened and he winced.

‘Nearly there!’ Bao paused to re-gather his strength. My legs have turned to limp seaweed. If only I could stand upright instead of having to crouch. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘I’ve felt better.’ Dung attempted a smile but failed. ‘What happened?’

‘It must have been a grenade. Dien copped most of the blast. It was probably his body which protected us from the worst.’ Bao hoisted Dung onto his shoulder again. ‘Not much further.’

‘Isn’t Dien’s wife about to have a baby?’

‘Yes. Any day now.’

‘Someone will have to tell her.’

*****

It was almost dark as the two weary men emerged from the tunnel.

‘You look like a ghost. You’re covered in whitish dirt from the blast.’ Bao dusted himself down. ‘Linh will get a fright. Do you want to clean up a bit first?’

‘I’m too done in to bother. She’ll have to put up with me as I am.’

‘Can you walk by yourself, or would you like me to carry you again?’

‘That would only frighten her more. I can manage.’ Dung gritted his teeth and set out across the village open space. ‘Thank you, you are a good friend.’

*****

Da`o was the first to notice the limping figure materializing out of the darkening gloom. ‘Pa!’ she yelled.