by Jack Twist
Chapter 21
It was Tony who shook me awake in the morning and I dragged myself into the showers as the rest of the drivers made their way down to the compound. “Good luck,” he said.
“You’ll need it,” Barry Love added.
But the major was a respectful listener, as was the Intelligence captain who sat in the corner taking notes. When I said that the killers weren’t aiming at Lieutenant Jefferies this man interrupted with, “What makes you say that?” They were the only words he spoke.
I was back in the hut late in the morning and fell asleep until I woke in a sweat in the mid-afternoon. I had another shower and lay back on my bunk wondering about Abbie. I decided she would be put onto a plane out of the country before I was. She may even have gone already.
The rain was starting when I heard the trucks coming into the compound so I hurried up to the canteen. Doug ‘Smiley’ Meehan, the corporal in charge, lifted his head from down behind the bar where he was loading beer cans. “You’re early. Didn’t you go out? Officers givin’ you a wide berth?” He opened the can for me, as near as he could get to an offer of condolence.
I don’t think Corporal Meehan knew his nick name was Smiley. No one was ready to tell him because he had a reputation for insanity, with violence, when drunk. Rumour had it that he took on the boozer job so he would have to stay off the booze. Few spoke to him except to order beer which he served with a brisk and absolute contempt. But he kept it cold.
I took a chair in the corner. The rain thundered on the tin roof.
But the memory of Lieutenant Jefferies was fading already in the minds of the men he had commanded and as the first wave of drivers bustled into the boozer out of the rain, even the withdrawal was being overlooked. The buzz was all about an even newer development in operations.
Bushfire Daniels, salesman of anything that would sell, including beach sand to the villagers at Dat Do, led them in. “Well they know where they can ram that,” he declared, prompting laughter from the mob that followed.
I moved over to the bar. I had forgotten about the national day march in Saigon. It was taking place in a few days time, still required just one volunteer and I was surprised to hear that Captain O’Brien had agreed to let Daniels represent our platoon instead of Lyle O’Malley.
“O’Brien wants Lyle here,” Barry Love told me.
“So what’s Bushfire on about? Doesn’t he want to go now?”
Barry was passed a can and laughed his high-pitched laugh as he took a swig. “O’Brien’s told Bush he can go to Saigon for the march so long as he has Crazy Al as his shotgun on the Dat evac, right up until we go.”
“Why’s he need a shotgun rider?”
“We all do. No one goes outside without one now.” With the army on the move extra precautions were being set in place. “A grunt was killed the other day. Army doesn’t want any more.”
So Daniels went on moaning and cursing about having to spend the rest of his working days in the company of Al Stanley and the more he did the more everyone enjoyed it.
“You seen Al since you got back?” Barry asked me as the group moved over to the tables.
“No. He’s been on CB”
“Yeh. That’s ‘cause he’s completely flipped. He’s crazier than ever. He refused to take a load of grunts out into the scrub. Refused. And they’re out to get him. They don’t like jackmen, ‘specially when they’re mad like Al. And now they’re down on all of us. All ‘cause Al’s a nut case.”
Greg Urquhart had turned to listen. “Mutiny,” he declared with his derisive laugh. “He’s mutinied. I reckon they should court martial the bastard.”
As we sat around the table, laughing at Bushfire Daniels’ dilemma, I weighed things up carefully before I said. “I’ll swap with you, Bush.”
There was a moment’s silence. “The rest of your time? With Al? You’d swap for that.”
I nodded. “If I can march too. And if it’s okay with O’Brien. I got to like Saigon.”
“So do I. But not if I gotta spend every other day with Crazy Al Stanley.”
Greg Urquhart was shaking his head. “That’d be right.”
“You must be mad as Al,” Barry cackled.
“You could mutiny with ’im,” said Urquhart. “Steal a truck and head for Thailand and live happily ever after. Just the two of you.”
Barry laughed and it annoyed me. With his narrow, sharp features, little moustache and brown hair hanging on his forehead, I thought he looked like a rat. Barry Love was Daniels’ mate, and our longest server, the only one in the platoon then to serve a full twelve month tour, less a couple of weeks. He was also the only one to have been shot at during my time incountry, while we were out in convoy.
An Adelaide rev-head, Barry had been detailing cars for a living at the time of his conscription. His complaints about army life were superficial. After all, he got to drive vehicles, and, as often as he could get away with it, drive them fast.
On the day he picked up that set of bullet holes along the side of his truck, no action was taken against anyone. The incident must have shaken him. It bothered all of us. There was always an element of bravado, but as days passed Barry seemed to get comfortable with what had happened, almost cherished the moment, took photographs and sent some of them to friends and family back home.
“Me girlfriend’s gunna be rapt,” he said, looking at the photos.
“Why?” Moll asked. “ ‘Cause someone could’ve killed you?”
It was lost on Barry. “She’s gunna think I’m a hero.”
From that day on Barry Love could always tell the rest of us to “get some war up.”
I had little to talk to him about, but Daniels had been distracted and if I wanted to wait for my chance, a chance maybe to get back to Saigon, I’d have to stay at the table until I could catch his eye.
“Bushfire? What do you think?”
He moved his chair closer to mine, outside the circle of merry drinkers.
“Yeh. I’m thinkin’ about it, if O’Brien’ll okay it. But see, I got this other problem.” He looked around, rubbed the red bristles on his chin contemplatively, almost as if some ethical consideration weighed on his mind, which looked ironic, since probably nothing could be more antithetical to the Bushfire Daniels persona than ethical considerations. “Ya see. I had this other little venture goin’, on the side, to make some spendin’ money for the trip.”
“What little venture?”
“Oh, just a little international trade, you know. Lots of girls in Saigon with expensive tastes. I didn’t want to arrive there with no spendin’ money. And I was just wonderin’, since you’re so keen to get back there, if you’d like to pull off a simple little deal for me.” I watched him in silence. “It’s nothin’ really. But they’re startin’ to watch me a bit, you know. Not like that’s a problem. The regs are all up to their ears with the evac. But I’m thinking, since you’re so keen. You’ve had this funny look in your eye since you got back.”
“Listen, Bush. I just want another trip to Saigon. I don’t want to finish up on MP hill.” The military police jail was situated on top of one of the sandhills.
“There’s no risk. You drop a little load of goods various in a side street in Baria. Couple of nogs named Tran will be there to meet and greet you and give you lots of money.”
“But there’s artillery, isn’t there? Armoured personnel carriers and heavy gear watching everything now. Makin’ sure no one goes missing?”
“Yeh. They got ‘em stationed here and there along the roadside, mostly for show, I reckon. They’re not gunna care if a truck takes a little detour for a few minutes. They won’t even know. You just say you’re droppin’ off a pile of laundry. Tran and Tran are always on time.”
“Tran and Tran?”
“They’re brothers or somethin’. Slimy pair of bastards but their money’s as good as anyone’s. Nothin’ to it. Two or three minutes and you’ve got yourself a nice little pile.”
&nb
sp; “What’s in it for you?”
“Fifty-fifty seems fair. I set it up. You deliver and collect, c.o.d. Fifty-fifty.”
So I asked the age old question. “How much?”
He took a swig from his can and looked around him for a moment. “You’re not gunna believe it. You stand to collect, for two minutes work, ten thousand dollars.”
I didn’t believe him. He nodded and moved in a little closer. “Fifty-fifty. So you finish with five.” And he knew that my next question would be about the ‘goods various’. “Of course for that amount the customers are expecting a little more than the usual grog and ciggies. They’re expecting a supply of smokes, but on this special occasion, as a farewell gift, they’d like to take the truck they come on as well.” He moved on quickly. “Now wait a minute. It’s not really that big a deal. All the army cares about now is gettin’ out with no more casualties. What’s one truck? One less to load on the ship.”
“You’re serious.”
“Yeh. Blood oath. It’s good money. Good, easy money.”
“You want to sell a truck. Bushfire, army trucks are not for sale. The army likes ‘em. They’re worth a lot of money.”
“Yeh. A little shit’ll hit the fan. And we’ll all be back home in Oz, and everyone’ll be happy about that, and no one will give a rat’s about one dirty old truck.”
“What would I say? I mean there’d be trouble. An inquiry.”
“That you took some clothes into the laundry. I’ve arranged it just near the laundry there. When you came back out, truck’s gone. What could you do? Nogs are thieves. Everyone knows that.” He laughed and I couldn’t help laughing with him but then I shook my head. “Don’t look like that. Finish your beer. I’ll get you another one.”
I sat back and drained my can. He strode to the bar, joking with someone there while he waited for the beer and getting caught up in another conversation. I wondered if he was organising another ‘little venture’ and just how much he was taking home. And here I was considering one of his deals. But he might be my ticket back to Saigon.
Bushfire Daniels had been a fitter and turner at the steel mill in Wollongong before the army. Expelled from school at fourteen, he had started his apprenticeship early, knocked around with an older crowd, grew up, if that’s what it was, young. At the time of his call-up he’d been living with a single mum, five years older. He liked to give us detailed descriptions of their sex life and he seemed so comfortable with the more outrageous segments that what should have stretched credibility somehow didn’t. Even the menage a trois.“Fair dinkum. I was like a kid in a lolly shop. Didn’t know where to start.”
He also bragged about the freedom the relationship gave him. Friday night at the pub, Saturday the races, Sunday the footy. And other girls. Hardened women before their time, they sounded like, who enjoyed long sessions of pool at the pub as much as the boys did.
And yet he wrote to his girlfriend regularly and he’d bought jewellery for her and toys for the toddler from the PX store at Saigon’s Tan Son Nhut Airport. None of it was cheap, and he planned on buying more on his way home.
But as a soldier, he was all about making his national service serve him. When he alone volunteered for the South Vietnam national day march in Saigon, the officers saw it immediately for what it was, a chance for a change of night life, and they ignored him. But conditions had now changed.
He was still talking at the bar. I looked around the canteen. Conversations were loud, competing with the drumming of rain on the roof. The biggest crowd sat at the corner table near the bar. Moll Mollineau at the centre. Lyle O’Malley beside him, his physical
opposite, grinning, his head bowed forward as though he had something to be ashamed of.
Moll was laughing, which was a little unusual. More often than not he’d be the only onenot laughing. At the centre of it all, as drunk as anyone, but with nothing more than that ironic grin on show. Unless engaged in one of his tirades at someone who hadn’t measured up to his standards, someone who’d let down the group and its culture. Then he was all anger and outrage. The night Al Stanley had labeled the infantry ‘cannon fodder’ for example. That had sent Moll into one of his more memorable rages. He even got physical that time, leaping from his chair, leading with his belly to push Al off his chair, no hands, belly wobbling enormously from the assault, and Moll looking fit to burst with angry indignation. Everyone else was laughing, even Al, almost. Because no matter how serious the victim’s misdemeanour, or how intense Moll’s admonishment, the joke, in the end, was always on Moll, at least as much as the driver on the end of his vitriol. Moll made sure of that.
There was nothing particularly self-mocking about the Bushfire, returning now to my table. He was all business, despite the gruff, licentious laugh as he left the bar. Immorality on two legs, coming at me with beer, freckles and red hair, and deals to rip off Australian taxpayers to the tune of one army truck.
“So, wha’d you think? Want some good easy money or not?”
“They wouldn’t let me go to Saigon,” I said as he sat down and handed me a can. “Even if I got away with it. What’s Collins going to say? ‘Lost your truck? Dear me. Take a trip to Saigon to get over it’.”
He threw his big head back and drank. He burped and watched me, his small eyes showing nothing. “Ten thousand US dollars.” He leaned forward in earnest. “Listen. These two nogs told me, weeks ago, that we’re withdrawin’ and that the army won’t care about one less truck. They told me. They know more about what the army’s doin’ than we do. Millions of dollars go missing in this fucked-up country every week.It’s all arranged. They’ll have the money. But they want the truck.”
“But I wouldn’t be allowed go to Saigon.”
He shrugged. “You might. You can’t help it if this country’s full a’ thieves. Anyway. So what? It’s still a lot of money. What’s the big deal about going up there anyhow, after what happened last time?”
“I want to go back there.” He was watching me. “And they wouldn’t let me.” He said nothing and I shook my head. “I won’t sell army trucks, Bush.”
He sat back, exposing his belly. “Not even for ten thousand dollars?”
“No, thanks.”
He picked up his can suddenly and took another drink. “Nah. I can’t either.”
“What?”
He shook his head. “My mate at the post office who exchanged the money has gone home. Ten thousand might scare the other guy there.” And then he laughed out loud. “Had to try you out though, didn’t I.”
“You prick.”
He laughed louder.
“What?” Barry Love wanted to know.
But he just shook his head and turned to me. “Five might be okay, from two different people.”
I shook my head.“Anyway. I don’t even know if they’d agree to a swap.”
“They should. O’Brien doesn’t like the idea of me goin’. And you’re skinnier than me. But, I won’t say I don’t want to go no more unless you do the swap. You have to take Al as your co-driver for the rest of your time, and make this delivery.”
I looked at the corner table again. Moll was shouting at someone. The usual histrionics, and the whole table was laughing.
“Just the smokes? No truck?”
“Okay. Just the smokes.”
“How much?”
“One thousand dollars. Five hundred each.”
The rain had eased when Daniels turned his attention back to Barry Love, Greg Urquhart and company. Moll’s table had settled. Someone’s failing had been exposed and castigated and they were back to drinking. Moll’s fierce glare fading to wry smile, he looked pleased enough with the company again.
Unlike any other private soldier I knew, Moll Mollineau had attended a prestigious private school. ‘A social student,’ he told us. Chief party organiser for the rugger set, he enjoyed all that raucous, boys-at-play kind of mateship. And he didn’t even have to be in the army. He had known a doctor, father of a sch
ool friend, who would have given him a certificate for asthma, to ensure he failed the medical. Moll declined. And on the night he put Al Stanley on the boozer floor, we learnt that he had applied for infantry from basic. “I thought, fuck it. If I’m going to be a soldier I might as well be a real one.” No one asked why he’d failed, but his application raised him in our estimation, to the point where he had become our moral guardian, of sorts. A few, like Tony Carmody, thought him a bit too proudly dissipated and self-indulgent, but we all went along with the joke, accepted his harsh judgments, and harsher reprimands, because in the end, they were about working in, about group harmony. All the heavy boozing notwithstanding, Moll had this moral streak. And he was good for morale.
He disapproved of shirkers, light drinkers, even the prostitutes in town, although a cynic might have suggested that this had less to do with morality and more to do with the irreverent bar girl who had asked him if he had a baby in his belly. His authority was never officially recognised. Lyle O’Malley had recently been given his lance-corporal’s stripe but we knew Moll’s authority existed beyond the essential irrelevance of army regulations. It was about the way we lived with each other, about morale, group morality.
He was laughing again as I finished my can to leave, laughing hard, harder than I’d ever seen. Red faced, exposed stomach a giant jumping jelly in his lap, he looked like he could be reduced to tears at any moment. It was infectious for a moment but then it seemed to undermine his usual cool. And got me wondering. Could Moll really be that happy? Drinking all that beer? Making himself an old man before his time? He took a swig from his can. Self-inflicted, that was Moll. Had he gone too far? And where to from here for the joker? Would the Bank of New South Wales still want him on a teller’s counter looking like that?
He was still laughing as I left the boozer. Laugh, Moll. Laugh till you cry.
