by David Vernon
Her mother had told her not to trust the white people. There were stories about white fellas taking children like her away, but she didn’t know if they were true. She knew the white boys threw stones though. Before she could make up her mind whether or not to climb down and make a run for it past the skinny white girl, the branch she was sitting on cracked and she plummeted to the ground, landing with a sickening thud.
Annie opened her eyes. Pain shot up from her ankle. She bolted upright and tried to stand, nearly knocking the white girl over. Falling over she couldn’t help but moan in pain as she looked down and saw her ankle twisted at an odd angle. “You won’t be able to get home like that,” said the white girl. Annie spun her head around to see the white girl standing awkwardly to the side.
“I’m Mary,” she said, smiling shyly as she walked over to the little Aboriginal girl and placed a supporting arm around her waist. “Let me help you home,” she said. The girl looked at Mary, surprised. She’d never talked to a white girl before. Hesitantly, she used Mary’s arm as a crutch.
“What’s your name?” asked Mary.
“Annie.”
“Where do you live?”
“North side of town,” she replied timidly.
“What happened to your face, Annie?” asked Mary hesitantly.
“Some boys,” she mumbled.
Mary glanced at her surroundings. She had never been in this part of town before, and felt sorry for the girl limping along beside her. “Which house do you live in Annie?” she asked, gesturing to the houses which were in various states of decay. Annie pointed to a dilapidated house on the right side of the lane, glancing at the other black children watching near the shade of a tree, and hoped they wouldn’t hurt Mary.
They almost made it to the house when a faint rumble sounded down the lane. Not understanding, Annie and Mary ignored it as they reached Annie’s home. They made it through the gate when Mary tripped, sending them both sprawling behind a scraggly mulberry bush.
The rumbling grew louder and stopped abruptly. Coarse men’s voices echoed throughout the street, sending shivers up and down Annie’s spine. The children under the tree screamed and ran. A group of white men left the truck, running after the children. The ones they managed to catch were thrown into the truck.
Crying mothers came out of their houses to see children being heaved into the back of a truck. Some of them tried to rescue their children but the white men would just hit them until they fell to the ground. Annie thought she would be safe where she was hiding, but she hadn’t noticed the men running behind the houses to catch any strays. Nor did she notice the heavy footfalls, nor the rustle of fabric as a heavy woollen bag was thrown over her head.
The truck echoed with the sounds of children snivelling. Wide-eyed and terrified, they barely contained their sobbing. Only the fear of a severe whipping curbed their cries. The truck unexpectedly lurched to a halt. She didn’t know if Mary was there; everyone was quiet and the truck was too dark to tell. It wasn’t until a red-faced, bull-necked man threw the doors open and yelled at them to get out that Annie caught sight of Mary. The man whacked them as they got out, sending them sprawling to the ground. Mary helped Annie to stand in line with the others, not seeing the policeman standing silently by a tall white woman, a small pistol in his hand.
The woman walked up and down the line of children. She was dressed in pristine starched white linen; her hair piled immaculately high up on her head. She turned to face the children, pausing often to study each child with her icy-cold and calculating blue eyes. A small light skinned boy stared defiantly into the woman’s eyes.
“I’m not afraid of you,” he said, raising his chin. This act of defiance earned him a vicious slap from the woman.
She turned to face the other children, and in a harsh voice of steel whispered, “You are dirty children, not worthy of the bed you are to sleep in, nor the food you will be given to eat.” Small globules of spit hurtled towards the tear streaked faces. “You will eat. You will learn. You will say your prayers. You will sleep. You are lower than dirt. You belong in the gutter! But, because of me,” she said, more calmly now, “you are going to learn the way to be a good Christian.” The children stood silently, afraid to move.
The child standing next to Mary, suddenly bolted. In a matter of milliseconds, all of the children were gone. Mary and Annie however, weren’t so lucky. With Annie’s ankle and Mary supporting her, they could run at only a quarter the pace of the other children. None of them heard the policeman cock his pistol. Unsure, Mary stopped running and turned to see what was happening. The policeman, etched against the setting sun, looked so tall, larger even than her father as he pointed a black object at her.
The policeman saw the young girl turn. Her brown curly hair framed her dirty tear-streaked face and he was strangely reminded of his daughter. Anger seized him and, shaking the image from his head, he aimed, and fired.
Pain exploded in Annie’s ribcage. Blood splattered on the ground. Her body followed it. Distantly, she heard three more shots in quick succession. She saw Mary’s grubby face appear beside her. Before closing her eyes and giving in to the blackness, Annie reached out and grabbed her hand.
The policeman jogged over to where two still bodies lay on the ground. He crouched by the girl with the brown curly hair. Bile rose in his throat. He rolled over the body of a little girl, wearing a dress he recognised, having only bought it for his daughter yesterday. Her curling brown hair so like her mothers, framed her grimy face. A pair of lifeless blue eyes, so similar to his own, looked up at him. Shock registered on his face as he stared down at his little girl. A single tear coursed down his cheek, followed by another. Silent sobs shook him as he tried to comprehend what he had just done.
He stared silently at the small coffin containing his tiny daughter, absorbed in his grief. He glanced upwards, over the heads of mourners, focusing on the piercing brown eyes of a black woman. He noticed there were two little children standing next to her. Their skin was not quite white, yet not quite black. Anger surged within him. His mind went back to that terrible day. He cursed them. It wasn’t his fault that white people had to take in the half-caste brats and give them a white upbringing. Their actions; their running off, caused him to shoot innocent people. Of course, he hadn’t meant to kill them, just scare them. He glanced again at the black woman and despised her. It was because of her and her half-caste children that his little girl was dead. He would never understand how they had gotten hold of her. He would never forgive them.
She stared down at the small pile of dirt that covered her Annie. Looking up, watching the thick circle of people mourning the death of a white girl and wondered why she had died. She glanced at faces, not taking anything in, when she met a pair of gloomy blue eyes. The local policeman — the one who shot her Annie. They told her that it was a simple mistake. She knew there was never a mistake when shooting a black person. She would teach her children to never have anything to do with white fellas. She swore to herself that she would always protect her children, never let them be taken away like her Annie. She collected the small hands of her children and took them home. She would never forgive him.
Lecinda Stringer is based in Melbourne, Victoria. She is an avid reader who enjoys taking photos, baking, catching up with friends, writing and blogging in her spare time.
Historical note: The Colour of Innocence is a fictional story, originally written several years ago and was inspired by the stories of Aboriginal children throughout the period of Australian history now referred to as the Stolen Generations.
Dung Ly
— Karen Lethlean
You have to understand, he was my only son. Like so many others he’d left school and didn’t have any burning ambitions. He’d had various jobs, part time, but nothing you might call a career. Although he talked about, well he’d even filled in the paperwork, so I suppose it was more than talk, trying to get a place in the Engineering course at the University of Sydney. Writing
your names on forms doesn’t mean you are in, or that you have signed up for the thing.
Then he got the letter, just after his nineteenth birthday. He was to report to the Commonwealth Employment Service for a medical. He’d been conscripted. Other boys were pedantic about listening to the draw on the radio and kept an ear out for their birthdays. But not our Brad, he never went straight to the pub, or slapped others on the back when the numbers skipped over their day. Or sought out the company of pals and sink a few coldies — as if this negated being called up to fight a war.
I suppose Bradley was too busy going out, playing in his bit of a ‘band’. Not really my type of music but he liked it. He was pretty good too, so I’d been told. Sure, Brad did sink a few drinks occasionally. Or spent time getting in a bit of surfing. He never gave the war in Vietnam a second thought.
I wasn’t there when the letter arrived. My wife called and said there was a letter from the government addressed to Brad. He was in his room playing his guitar.
Brad had talked about enrolling in the Army, not long before, trying to get into engineering. I mean he thought it might be a foot in the door to a course later, get the eighteen months ‘Nasho’ done with, then knuckle down to some real study. Test out if he was going to like being an engineer by building bridges over jungle creeks; maybe blow up a few things.
When that letter came he’d just finished with his girlfriend, lovely girl, but she’d ended it. I can’t say I blame her. Brad didn’t, and well he didn’t seem to show much enthusiasm for things engineering. He just went real quiet, stayed in his room, and then before you knew it he was off to Puckapunyal.
Ten weeks basic training, thrown in the deep end with those drill instructors, waking up early in the morning: if your bed wasn’t made so tight they could bounce a twenty cent coin on it, the whole thing would be pulled apart. Your gear had to be hung up neat, no messy cupboards. Ten mile runs, twenty mile marches in full packs, constant pressure, weapons training, physical training, the whole bit. Bradley said some of the boys would whimper after lights out.
He was working with bayonets, shooting targets. The instructors made recruits shoot into 44 gallon drums of water. Show them the holes in the other side, gaping holes in the other side where the bullets passed through and the water was gushing out. Told them this was what they’d look like if they got hit. Holes in metal, nothing compared to what might happen to a human body, prepared those boys for nothing but fear. Like the cruel bastards wanted those poor boys shitting bricks before they’d even got there.
After basic training it was about a month and a half down in Ingleburn. Bradley wrote and told us this was where the military prison was. After that his letters started coming from Queensland, the land warfare centre at Canungra. Each time they moved him he left the people he’d met for a place where he didn’t know anyone. All this shipping off to new locations must have been really tough on a lad so used to having his friends and family around. After three weeks at Canungra he had a week of what they call ‘pre-embarkation’ leave. Bradley came home.
His mother took one look at him and burst into tears. He had lost so much weight. But he had gained something too, a troubled look, like all this was weighing him down. He wasn’t the carefree lad anymore. World of troubles on his shoulders; going off to the Asian jungles to fight a war, poor kid. For most of the week he moped around home. Except for the last night when he went to visit his ex-girlfriend.
They put him on a bus out to Richmond air base then flew him to a place called Thanh Son Nui near Saigon. My skinny son Bradley in a Hercules transport plane, I just can’t picture it. After his first few footsteps in the country he was off to Nui Dat where he joined a battalion, 3RAR. He didn’t know a bloody soul there — no one.
The first day he was there, he was sent out on a night ambush. The group with Bradley had a job to rig up Claymores, that’s a command-detonated mine. Attached to the covering are electrical leads connected to what they call ‘clackers’. Troops set these things up, and when VCs are within range they can set off an instantaneous explosion.
Some mines had been set up in trees on the route villagers took at night smuggling food to the Viet Cong. Bradley was part of a group lying in ambush. Now apparently they had to wait in utter silence, not a word, not a movement. Well, they waited a few hours in the middle of the Vietnamese jungle. What must he have been thinking? What goes through a young man’s mind at a time like that? They waited a few hours and sure enough a group of villagers came their way, men and women, with food under their arms. They had to be VC sympathisers moving about, because there was a curfew and no one else had any other reason for being there. In the dark it was difficult to see which were men and which were women. They’re so skinny anyway; it’s hard to tell their womenfolk, especially at night. Two or three of them were carrying children, babies on their backs. The commander saw these children and let them all pass without a scratch. You see, it was hard to imagine any of the villagers taking their babies along to smuggle food to the VC. And any attempt to question them would’ve divulged the Australians’ position. So they let them go and continued waiting. It was more than two hours before another group came the same way, carrying more provisions. It occurred to the commander that the babies must be some new tactic or trick the villages had come up with to lend a cloak of innocence to their movements if they were caught. The 3RAR boys had heard of nine-year-old children coming into bars where the troops were relaxing and blowing themselves up.
Having mulled it over after the second group of villagers had gone through, his commander ordered that when the next lot came through mines were to be detonated. It was a smaller group the next time. Only one child could be seen. Bradley was one of the boys who hit the clackers. Not one villager survived. That was his first night in the country.
A night lying in ambush doesn’t entitle you to anything. It’s part of the job, a job he didn’t apply for. The next day Bradley was at a place called Binh Ba. It’s a rubber plantation the French established before the war. I don’t know how much sleep he had but can’t have been much, how would you sleep after you’d seen a group of villagers, knowing a kid was amongst them, blown to bits? Troopers were always in this kind of sleep-deprived state, he can’t have been the only one. Eyes half open, not able to lift tired limbs, fogged out; and these are the soldiers engaged in open warfare.
At Binh Ba his platoon were fighting in close, out in the open. Bradley was in a field, they said. And children were running all over the place from a nearby school, trying to run out of the line of fire. Bradley was yelling at the children, “Dung ly! Dung ly!” which is the Vietnamese word for ‘stop’ and waving his hands around.
A child was running towards him, not knowing whether Bradley represented safety or danger, I suppose. When the little girl got close enough Bradley stood up and caught her, covering her with his body. He was just a child himself, trying to save another young one. At the moment he stood up to catch her, that’s when he was hit the first time. He fell on the little girl and, in that position the second bullet hit him and crushed his skull. He was, after that, unrecognisable. Some of the bullets were probably our own fire. Nobody there knew him as a friend, or brother, or even someone who might need to be protected, no telling if he was on the same side.
At least they could tell our son from his identity tags. Two days in Vietnam, that was all he lasted. Still, I don’t blame the place, hell, I don’t blame the people. Children on both sides were the real victims.
His mother only talks about childhood, or youthful doings. Things he did at school, where he used to surf, his bad language from the soccer goal square, even beginnings of his first romance. She has many stories about him from that time I’ve never heard before. She’s angry with me. I’ve tried to find out something about all this, how I might be responsible. I never gave Bradley the idea for any heroics. Anyway he was conscripted. It was not as though he was schooled in war stories and military adventure.
Engineer
ing, that’s what it was. I did encourage him, but not enough; I should have pushed him more. I should have made him enrol sooner, I should have wetted his ambition, isn’t that what a young man needs? Safely in that engineering course he could’ve grown older discussing the Vietnam War over dinner like the rest of us.
Karen Lethlean was born in Perth in 1956. She is a triathlete and teacher at a Senior College. Writing has always an interest and is now proving an outlet for creativity. She has had some success with competitions and pieces being published in collections (most recently The Fake One appears in an anthology Journey: Experiences with Breast Cancer) has become a way to prove to students that teachers ‘can do it!’ She hopes to see her memoirs published some day.
Historical note: The events of this story are as a result of my husband’s recall of winning a conscription lottery draw. Thankfully his military service did not eventuate due to a change of government. Nonetheless he lived in fear like so many of his peers, stating “I was happy to do my duty, but not kill anyone!” Some tales of his friends also inform this story. I also tried to imagine how my students, who are only just younger than these conscripts, would deal with the Vietnam experience.
Mosquito Coils and Holidays
— Grahame Maclean
When my brothers and I were young our family owned a wonderful holiday house in a tiny Northern Coastal town called Wagstaff, which we called ‘Waggy’. The house was named Te Whare Ra. Our Dad told us it was Maori for house in the sun. It was indeed a house in the sun, a house that smelled of mosquito coils and fried fish.
