by Judy Nunn
Mac looked sharply at him. The captain had a bit of a hide expecting him to rat on the Skipper. ‘Sure,’ he said, ‘why shouldn’t it be?’ Hell, Mac thought as he rose to his feet and ground his cigarette butt out with the heel of his boot, he might dislike the Skipper on occasions, but he’d never be disloyal to his officer.
Perse also rose. He was aware of Mac’s unspoken outrage and realised he’d been too abrupt. But, as the harm had already been done, he decided the best way out was to be truthful. ‘No offence, Mac, I’m not asking you to badmouth him. I just sensed your Skipper was a bit tense and I wondered if anything had happened, that’s all. No offence intended, I swear.’
The honest look of concern in the tough little Queenslander’s face was enough to convince Mac that he’d overreacted. ‘None taken,’ he said, once again producing his packet of Winfields. ‘You sure?’ he asked, offering the pack.
‘Why not.’ Perse grinned and accepted the cigarette. Sharing a fag’d clear the air, he thought, it’d taste like shit but he wouldn’t inhale.
They lit up and sat once again, side by side on the helipad, smoking in companionable silence.
‘Skipper’s always had a bit of a temper,’ Mac admitted finally. Hell nothing disloyal in that, everyone was aware of the Skipper’s quick temper. ‘But the men understand that. They know better than to rile the Skipper, it keeps them in line.’ Mac sucked heavily on his cigarette. ‘It seems I’m the one who rubs him up the wrong way. For no particular reason,’ he added as he exhaled.
‘Why do you reckon that is?’
‘Personality clash, I suppose,’ Mac shrugged, ‘and the fact that I’m not Stan Munday.’
This seemed to be going somewhere, Perse thought. ‘Oh?’ he queried taking a second tentative drag on his cigarette, his mouth tasting like dry camel dung.
‘Stan Munday was his previous platoon sergeant,’ Mac continued, ‘an older bloke, quite a hero with the men, I believe. Or at least that’s what Beady tells me.’
Perse nodded, it was all making sense. Stan Munday would have been a hero to Malcolm Galloway too, he thought. He’d seen it before. A young officer losing his right-hand man could be pushed to the brink. ‘What happened to Stan Munday?’ he asked.
‘A booby trap.’
‘Ah.’ So that was it, Perse thought.
Bill Perseman had witnessed something in Malcolm Galloway’s behaviour the previous night, something far more than a quick temper. The lieutenant was losing it, he was sure. Poor bastard. It was a big worry under the circumstances, however. Perse stood and stubbed out his cigarette. He’d have to keep a close eye on Lieutenant Galloway.
‘Thanks for the smoke, Mac,’ he said.
‘You’re welcome, sir.’
Shit his mouth tasted foul, Perse thought. ‘I’m going to get a cuppa,’ he said, ‘do you want—’
He stopped mid-sentence as an artillery shell commenced its angry squeal. At the same time, the yell ‘incoming!’ sounded out clearly from the gunpits, and the squeal became a scream as the missile shrieked its way towards them.
Ben the Tasmanian had his arm raised and was about to throw to Kit when he heard the first chilling sound. He dropped the baseball. ‘Run Kid,’ he yelled, even before the call sounded from the gunpits, and he dived for the nearest trench, the others following close behind.
Perse and Mac turned to race for the control post, their nearest protective cover. Only fifty metres! Their ears were ringing. The sound was like the demented scream of a banshee, the shell was directly overhead. Thirty metres! Twenty-five! Twenty! It took them only seconds, but then it took the missile only seconds too. They didn’t make it. The shell landed a little short of its intended mark. It had been intended to take out the three foxholes on the very peak of the hill, but it landed directly in between the CP and the helipad. As if it had been intended for Perse and Mac.
They’ve got artillery within range, Malcolm thought the moment he heard the scream of the shell. I didn’t know they had any bloody artillery. He was in No. 3 foxhole with the machine-gun crew. But there’ve been no intelligence reports of artillery movement. His mind was racing. Even in the seconds before the shell hit, he was trying desperately to analyse the situation. Then there was an almighty explosion. Over near the CP. Jesus!
‘Check the CP.’ In the trenches connecting the foxhole, several men were already racing to the CP to see who might have copped it. ‘Only one of you, for Christ’s sake,’ Malcolm barked, and the men halted. ‘You, corporal, check the CP,’ and Ben the Tasmanian disappeared. ‘Where’s the FO, where’s Captain Perseman?’ Of the three remaining men in the vicinity, no-one seemed to know. Malcolm turned to Kit who’d suddenly appeared by his side. ‘Where’s Perseman?’ he snapped.
Oh God! Kit paled. He’d asked Perse if he wanted to chuck the ball around, and Perse had said no, and he’d headed off towards Mac, and Mac had been sitting over on the helipad. Just past the CP …
Malcolm registered the look on his younger brother’s face. Shit, don’t tell me I’ve lost my Forward Observer, he thought, don’t tell me that! ‘Get the radio,’ he ordered.
Barely a minute later Kit returned with the radio transmitter, but by then the news had come back about Perse and Mac.
‘Both dead, sir. Direct hit, killed outright.’
Oh Christ! ‘And the CP?’
‘Damaged. Only two blokes there, neither of them badly injured, sir.’
‘Good.’ Malcolm instructed the three privates to retrieve the bodies of Perse and Mac, then return to their posts. ‘Corporal,’ he turned to Ben, ‘order all troops to maintain full alert and repair all damage.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Come with me, Kit.’ The brusque efficiency of Malcolm’s voice belied the shattered state of his nerves. Two in one hit! a voice was screaming in his head. Jesus fucking Christ! You’ve got no forward observer! You’ve got no platoon sergeant. Jesus fucking Christ!
Kit shouldered the transmitter in its backpack and followed Malcolm to the observation post.
‘Set up the radio,’ Malcolm ordered, and he bent over the map spread out on the ground, ‘I’m calling in the artillery.’ There was a sheet of paper beside the map with notations in Bill Perseman’s surprisingly neat hand. Had it been only yesterday they’d studied the map together? Shit, why isn’t Perse here!
Kit obeyed the order. He set up the transmitter which was tuned to the special artillery frequency, but as he did so he looked at his brother in amazement. ‘You’re calling in the artillery?’
‘What else would you suggest, private?’ It was a patronising sneer, but the tic in Malcolm’s right eye had started to flicker. ‘They have artillery out there, we need support.’ He picked up the binoculars, looping them around his neck, and looked out over the base, mainly to avoid Kit noticing the humiliating tic.
Kit realised, with a sense of shock, that his brother’s nerves seemed to be getting the better of him. ‘I think they’ve only got one gun, maybe two at the most,’ he suggested reasonably. There’d been silence from the enemy for a full five minutes. If the NVA had more artillery they wouldn’t have fired just one shell, he thought, they’d have shot the shit out of the place by now.
‘Oh they’ve only got one gun,’ Malcolm said sarcastically, ‘that’s what you think is it?’ You smartarse bastard, they could have a whole fucking battery down there! Lowering the binoculars, he turned on his brother. ‘And how the hell would you know?’
‘If they had more artillery, they wouldn’t have fired just one shell. It might be a …’ Kit stopped mid-sentence. The burgeoning scream of another shell interrupted, as if bent upon proving him a liar.
The brothers stood staring at each other for a split second before they dived to the ground, covering their heads. Again, a massive explosion, dirt and debris showering them. But again, the shell fell short of its mark and, when they rose to their feet and looked out over the position, it was obvious that no real damage had been inflicted.
/> In Malcolm’s fragile state, however, the explosion had been enough to push him to the very edge of the emotional precipice upon which he teetered.
Grabbing the radio handpiece, he pressed the transmit button. He couldn’t go to pieces, there was a job at hand, he was in command. He forced his voice to remain steady. ‘Golf 41 this is 31 Fire Mission Battery, over.’
‘31 this is Golf 41, over.’
As he heard the answering response, Malcolm traced, with his finger, the lines on the map before him. The fire had come from the north, but how far away were they? What distance should he call? What was the east-west grid reference? The lines on the map were dancing in front of his eyes. Shit! Shit! Shit! What are the bloody coordinates?
Kit watched, dumbfounded. It was madness to call in the artillery. Surely the fact that it had been five minutes between shells proved that the NVA had only one gun. Perhaps it was a setup, perhaps the shells had been intended as a decoy. They should be analysing the situation, Kit thought, not calling for help.
‘Golf 41 from 31 … request immediate artillery fire …’ The map was mocking him, the lines wouldn’t stay still. What are the fucking coordinates!
A moment’s pause. The voice once again through the handpiece. This time requesting coordinates.
Shit! Shit! Shit! Perse’s notes. Thank Christ! Malcolm grabbed the sheet of paper, once again steadying his voice. ‘Coordinates are grid 453 658, height 215 metres, over.’
The reply came, ‘Require confirmation of coordinates grid 453 658, height 215 metres. Do you confirm? Over.’
Nervous beads of sweat were forming on Malcolm’s brow. ‘Golf 41 from 31, coordinates confirmed. Counter battery fire, one round fire for effect, over.’
‘31 from Golf 41, counter battery fire, one round fire for effect, out.’
Malcolm put down the handpiece, overwhelmed with relief. Thank Christ that’s over. He looked at his brother, who was staring at him. Rather strangely he thought. He straightened his back, glad that he hadn’t lost control. In front of Kit of all people! Hell, it’d been close. He’d nearly lost it altogether. What a terrible thing, what on earth had happened to him? Oh well, they were all right now. The day was saved. Help was at hand. For some unknown reason, a string of cliches ran through Malcolm’s mind and he wanted to laugh. Minutes later, when the deafening sound of a half a dozen heavy artillery shells screamed overhead, he did. He laughed out loud.
‘Help is at hand,’ he said, thinking that he sounded rather like his father as he said it.
From their shelter the two men looked down the hill and out over the killing area to the jungle beyond. But the shells didn’t land in enemy territory. The perimeter of the base suddenly disappeared as the missiles detonated, throwing a wall of earth high in the air. God almighty, Kit thought, the shells aren’t landing in enemy territory. They’re not even landing in the killing area! We’re firing on ourselves! He grabbed the handpiece of the radio transmitter.
‘Check fire!’ he yelled. ‘Check fire! Check fire! Check fire!’ Even as he yelled it, a shell landed higher up the hill and Kit watched in horror as one of their own gunpits disappeared. A direct hit. Somewhere in that shower of dirt, men had been blown to pieces. Then all was silence.
Malcolm stared down at the gutted position. He stared at the gunpit, clouded with smoke, from which there appeared no movement. But he wasn’t seeing anything. The coordinates had been wrong, how had that happened? He tried to remember. Yesterday afternoon he and Perse had made notes. That’s right. And at one stage Perse had written down their own coordinates. The grid references of Fire Support Base Tango’s outer perimeter. Ah yes, Perse’s notes. That’s what went wrong.
Someone was slapping his face. It was very annoying.
‘Malcolm, it’s me, Kit. Are you all right?’
‘Kit?’ Good God, I’ve shelled my own men. ‘Kit?’ Malcolm stared stupidly, uncomprehendingly, back at his brother. Then he turned to once more gaze down the hill. How could I have shelled my own men! He raised the binoculars which still hung around his neck and peered through the clearing smoke. That’s where Charlie is, he thought blankly as he swept the binoculars in an arc over the enemy territory. That’s where the shells should have landed. He stared at the jungle and the thick, heavy grasses on the edge of the killing area. Then, out of the grasses, he saw figures rising, others stepping from behind the trees. Charlie. ‘They’re coming,’ he said.
Kit ripped the binoculars from his brother’s neck and followed the direction of Malcolm’s vacant gaze.
They were coming from the north-west. In full force, it appeared. His initial instincts had been right, Kit thought. The enemy shell fire had been a decoy.
He grabbed Malcolm, thrusting the radio receiver into his brother’s hand as he frantically checked the grid references on the map.
‘Ring through these coordinates,’ he said urgently, ‘grid 454 662!’
But Malcolm was staring at the handpiece as if he wasn’t sure what it was. Ring through the coordinates? But I’ve already done that. And they were wrong. He stood in a state of utter stupefaction. What’s the point of ringing through the wrong … Suddenly he felt an almighty blow across his left cheek and he staggered back a step. It was Kit. Kit had hit him. With the flat of his hand, admittedly, but with all his might and it stung like hell. Why would Kit do that? And he was yelling too.
‘For God’s sake, Malcolm, ring through the coordinates! Grid 454 662!’
A glimmer of clarity found its way into Malcolm’s brain. The coordinates. Of course. I have to ring through the coordinates. Grid 454 662.
‘Grid 454 662,’ he repeated, pressing the radio’s transmit button.
As Malcolm, still dazed but at least functioning, radioed artillery, Kit raced out into the open and down the hill. In the gunpits, the crews would have their arcs of fire set to cover the wrong direction and, through the mayhem which surrounded them, they wouldn’t even see the enemy’s approach until it was too late to reposition the heavy guns and make the correction.
‘Enemy to the left!’ he yelled as he threw himself onto the ground beside the pit. ‘Swing ’em left! Swing ’em left!’ For a split second, the men looked at the young private as if he was mad. ‘Skipper’s instructions!’ Kit yelled. ‘Reposition! Correct your arc!’ And he stood, pointing in the specific direction of the advance. Behind him, the men lifted the heavy weapon to reposition it.
Seconds later, Kit was racing on to the next gunpit, yelling, ‘Skipper’s orders, correct your arc!’ Once again he exposed himself to enemy fire as he openly stood, drawing the gunners’ attention to the advancing NVA infantry, calling target instructions. Then he was off once more, sprinting, dodging, weaving, to the next gunpit.
He didn’t stop at the next gunpit, though. He barely slowed down, there was little point, it no longer existed. As he raced past the remains of men, he saw, briefly but clearly, Beady’s freckled face staring up at him, mouth open as if in protest, eyes comically wide with astonishment. Ten metres from the pit, he stumbled and fell. Something had tripped him. It was a leg. He picked himself up and ran on, wondering vaguely if it was Beady’s.
At the next gunpit. ‘Skipper’s orders …!’ But, aware by now, the crew was already in the act of repositioning their machine gun.
The first wave of enemy troops had crossed into the killing area and were in range of their weapons. Bullets were whizzing all about Kit, whistling past his head, kicking up clods of earth. But, miraculously, he was unscathed, and by now the machine guns were finding their mark, defending their position, slowing the enemy’s advance.
They were successfully buying time, Kit thought, but for how long? Fresh hordes of NVA troops were pouring out of the jungle, backing-up the first assault. Where the hell was the artillery?
Even as he thought it, he heard the first distant scream of the shells and, seconds later, the world erupted. Thank God! But he had to get back to the radio, he had to call in air support. The attack was
massive, they needed all the help they could get.
As he raced up the hill, Kit barely felt the bullet that caught him in the arm. He barely felt anything except the heaving of his lungs as he once again dodged and weaved, legs pumping, hands clawing the air as if to pull himself along faster and faster, any minute expecting a bullet in the back.
Malcolm stared down at the battlefield, transfixed, his mind numb. There was something he must remember. What was it? Something terrible had happened. He tried desperately to remember what it was, but he couldn’t. A safety mechanism had been triggered in his brain. He could not recall the hideous knowledge that he had caused the deaths of his own men. Something would not allow him to do so.
Then, out of the smoke and the chaos of battle, he saw Kit running up the hill, staggering, falling, recovering himself and running on.
Malcolm was galvanised into action. He could see nothing but his young brother. Kit was in trouble. He must save Kit. Nothing else mattered. He ran from the observation post. The noise was deafening as shells shrieked overhead to explode in the distance. Amongst the scream of the artillery which had come to their rescue, it was impossible to discern the one missile heading in the opposite direction.
Malcolm was barely ten metres from the observation post when he felt himself lifted off his feet by the impact. For a split second he was aware that he was airborne. But he didn’t feel himself land, by then everything was black.
Kit too felt the blast. He felt it before he saw it. He’d been looking down at the ground as he ran, careful of falling again, aware that, in his exhausted state, he must keep up his momentum. He hesitated briefly as he was sprayed with debris. The bloody NVA gun, he thought, and he looked up. The roof of the observation post had been blown away and he prayed that the radio was intact. Then he noticed the body lying face down on the ground. He ran and knelt beside it. He didn’t need to roll it over to know who it was, he saw the pips on the shoulder.
Malcolm was alive. Unconscious but breathing, and Kit dragged him into the nearby trench. He couldn’t tell the extent of his brother’s injuries and there was no time to examine him. The unit needed air support. Gunships. He had to find the radio.
