From the Stars Above

by Peter Watt

  When they reached cover, they quickly took up defensive firing positions. Michael reloaded his grenade launcher, while the radio man continued his communication with the pilot of the chopper they could now hear somewhere overhead through the thick foliage. They were instructed by the Huey pilot that the extraction would be by a cable lowered through the tree canopy.

  The section leader threw a smoke grenade a short distance away.

  ‘I see groovy grape,’ came the answer from the chopper pilot, and the purple colour of the smoke was confirmed by the patrol leader.

  The experienced pilot brought his chopper overhead and, within a very short time, the extraction line crashed through the trees only ten metres from the team. But the smoke drifting on the humid air indicated their position to the enemy, and the helicopter was receiving small-arms fire from the ground. Seconds counted, and the first two of the SASR troopers were winched up into the belly of the chopper, while Michael and the section commander provided covering fire. It was just as Michael and the section commander grasped the lowered cable that the enemy burst through the undergrowth onto their position.

  Michael released his grip on the cable to fire his grenade launcher into the mass of enemy screaming in their perceived victory, and immediately switched to full automatic on his M16, spraying the oncoming figures. He saw some fall, but the incoming fire was intense. His section leader was yelling at him to hitch up to the cable, but just then a bullet smashed into Michael’s hip, spinning him around to fall to the earth.

  ‘Get out!’ he screamed at his section leader, who was holding the line. ‘I’m done for.’

  The section leader let go of the cable to move towards Michael, but the incoming AK-47 fire was kicking up earth at his feet and splattering Michael with twigs and branches from the scrub around him. Michael made a desperate waving action with his rifle, and the section leader could clearly see that he would not be able to help. He turned, gripped the line and was hoisted through the trees.

  Michael quickly changed rifle magazines and rolled onto his stomach, screaming at the pain from his shattered hip when he did so. Directly to his front was an NVA soldier with a bayonet-tipped rifle, and Michael raised his own weapon to fire a short burst into him. Then the firing pin clicked on empty.

  He could hear the chopper flying away, small-arms fire from the ground following it. Then Michael could no longer hear the sound of the chopper and a strange silence fell on the scrub as the rifle fire died away. Michael knew that he was alone and completely surrounded by the enemy, who were acting a little more cautiously in their approach on the sole special forces soldier in the tiny clearing. A pretty red-base Jezebel butterfly flitted above his head, oblivious to the danger.

  Michael heard the plop of something near his position and looked over to see the NVA grenade just before it went off, throwing him off the ground. The shrapnel had riddled his body but had not killed him outright. Blood dripped into his eyes from a head wound, and he tried feebly to wipe it away. But his hand was shattered, and he laid his cheek upon the earth. A bullet from an AK-47 slammed into his back, and the heir to the Macintosh millions was killed so far from home as the butterfly alighted on his bloody face.

  *

  Hardly anyone took notice of the pretty young woman standing outside Sydney Town Hall, watching the crowd of anti-war protestors assembling with their placards. It was a festive atmosphere and even the uniformed police appointed to manage the milling demonstrators appeared at ease. No one noticed the tears in her eyes as she watched from the footpath. Only hours earlier she had read that Trooper Michael Macintosh of the Special Air Service Regiment was missing in action. Her brother, Jacob, had visited her at the coffee shop and handed her the morning paper. He had known about his sister being head over heels in love with an SAS soldier currently on service in South Vietnam.

  ‘Poor bastard’s been brassed,’ Jacob muttered. ‘Sorry, sis.’ Her brother had served as a radio operator with an infantry rifle company and he had come home a different person. But at least he had come home.

  Jacob had told her that missing in action for a SAS soldier held out little hope of him surviving. The enemy were known to torture any prisoners to death rather than take them captive. One method of execution was slitting the victim’s belly and pulling out their entrails on a stick. Jacob reckoned that Michael would be better off dead than to have been taken alive.

  Mila had taken off her apron, excused herself from work at the coffee shop and caught a train to Town Hall Station, where she knew a moratorium protest was due to assemble. She watched the crowd gather. They were mainly students from her own university, and she recognised a few of them. She saw some faces filled with rage and wondered if they really considered the sacrifice being made by young men their own age. She thought bitterly that some of these same protestors, safe on the streets of Sydney, would graduate their courses and go on to dominate Australian politics and industry, while the young men returning were being spat on and scorned by these same ranting people. None of her friends had ever had to bear the grief of losing someone to the war.

  ‘Hey, Mila, come and join us,’ a voice called from across the street. ‘It’s going to be a groovy day.’

  Mila wiped her eyes, turned her back on the crowd and walked away. She would go home to her little flat and stare at the walls, remembering that she had written a letter to post this day. A very special letter to tell Michael she was pregnant. She had feared that he might not welcome her news, but that was a moot point now. All she knew was that she would give birth to their child and never let it go. And she would not tell Michael’s mother, who had made it plain to Michael that Mila was not welcome in the family. Well, Sarah Macintosh would never know that her son was the father of a child. Only her own loving parents would know the truth.

  *

  Donald Macintosh saw Michael Macintosh’s name in the list of dead, missing and wounded, and felt a deep sadness. The media was giving poor coverage of what he had worked out was a major battle being fought by the Australians in Bien Hoa Province. He read that the vicious conflict was taking Australian lives on an almost daily basis. Centurion tanks had joined the battle, and he knew from experience that what was happening was a full-scale brigade operation. All arms and the air forces were involved to stem off the overwhelming numbers of enemy making contact every day with the Australians in the field. There had been no letters from Bryce in weeks.

  It was late afternoon and Jessica joined her husband on the verandah. She sat down beside him and stared at the horizon. Donald knew what she was looking for in the distance, and she was not disappointed. The mail delivery truck threw up dust as it trailed its way towards Glen View. Jessica leapt up from her chair, hurrying to meet the mailman at the front gate. Donald watched as he handed his wife a pile of letters and small parcels. He waved to Donald, who waved back and left on his long route to the next property.

  Jessica walked back to the house, flipping through the mail, and when her face lit up Donald knew she had found that one very precious letter. She waved it in the air.

  ‘It’s from Bryce,’ she yelled.

  Sitting down again beside Donald, she opened the letter with a trembling hand.

  ‘Read it out loud,’ Donald said, and Jessica put on her spectacles. Her son apologised for not writing for a while because he had been a bit busy. He said very little about the events at his fire-support base but reassured them he did not have much more time before his service was up and he could return home.

  ‘I told you Bryce would be okay,’ Donald said. ‘He has your stubborn will to survive, and probably has Wallarie looking out for him. I read some bad news today, though. Young Michael Macintosh is listed as missing in action.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Jessica cried. ‘I can still remember when he first came here as a little boy, so quiet and shy. Your sister will be devastated.’

  ‘My sister has no feelings fo
r anyone but herself, but I think losing Michael will have an impact on her. I will write a condolence letter. Not that there are any words that can give solace to someone who has just lost a son.’

  Jessica carefully folded the letter from Bryce and gazed at the setting sun. She had lost the fortune she had for years struggled to build, but she still had her son and the land that they walked on. Life was short, and Sarah’s millions could not bring back her one and only heir. Despite their differences, Jessica felt a terrible sadness for her sister-in-law. No mother should bear the pain of losing a child.

  Jessica and Donald sat in reflective silence as the sun disappeared from the sky and the cries of the curlews drifted out across the brigalow scrub.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Sarah Macintosh rose at dawn in the empty mansion. The housekeeper had been granted a couple of days’ leave, so Sarah decided that she would have breakfast at a stylish cafe not far from her office before she went to work. She ordered her chauffeur to pick her up early as she had a very busy day ahead with her managers, organising to consolidate their victory over the sudden crash of the Duffy companies. Sarah smiled sadly at her reflection in the long bedroom mirror. She could see that she was still a very attractive woman, and she contemplated how she might find a new lover to share her bed.

  Beneath the bedroom window she heard the crunch of tyres on the long gravel driveway and was annoyed that her driver had arrived earlier than instructed. She would go downstairs and chide the man, but when she opened the door she found a grim-faced police officer and an army officer wearing the uniform of a military chaplain. Sarah was confused.

  ‘Mrs Sarah Macintosh?’ the policeman asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘May we come inside?’ the chaplain asked.

  Sarah opened the door to the two men and turned to them in the hallway with a quizzical expression.

  It was the policeman who spoke. ‘I am afraid that I have sad news concerning your son, Trooper Michael Macintosh. He has been reported missing in action in an incident occurring a couple of days ago in the Republic of South Vietnam. Is there anyone we can call at this moment to be with you?’

  Sarah stood stricken. How could Michael be missing? He was only weeks away from leaving the army and joining her in the family enterprises. It was he who would take the Macintosh name into the next century. All hope of gaining his daughter, Victoria, to be groomed was well and truly dead without the co-operation of the White family. Her only option was for her son to return.

  ‘No,’ she finally replied, and the two men excused themselves, leaving her standing in the hallway in a state of emotional turmoil.

  Sarah suddenly realised how very much alone she was. Her dreams of her son continuing the dynasty were gone forever, and all the money and power she possessed meant nought at this moment in her life. She could hear the police car driving down the driveway and stared into the empty hall.

  ‘The curse,’ she whispered, staggering towards the stairway where she had once murdered her father to gain power.

  What was left? The question echoed without an answer.

  Slowly, Sarah climbed the stairs to go to the library.

  What was left?

  *

  When the driver arrived at the Macintosh mansion, there was no answer to his knock on the front door. He waited patiently for an hour, occasionally attempting to raise his boss, but still she did not appear. Finally he drove to the Macintosh offices and reported the matter to her senior staff, who were waiting for her in the boardroom.

  ‘I read in the papers this morning that young Michael was reported as missing in action in Vietnam,’ one of the senior managers said. ‘I think someone should go and see if she is all right.’

  The other managers agreed, and two of them organised to drive to Sarah’s house on the harbour. They knocked on the door but did not get a reply. In their concern, they called the police, who arrived and made a forced entry. The two police officers entered, calling her name without a response. One went upstairs, glancing into the dimly lit library.

  ‘Hey, Rod,’ he called down the stairs. ‘I think you had better get up here. I think I’ve found Miss Macintosh.’ He was joined by his colleague, and both men stood in the doorway, staring at the body of a woman hanging from a stout curtain rod. Her face was almost black, and her swollen tongue protruded from her mouth. It was obvious that she was dead.

  ‘Bloody horrible way to die,’ Rod said. ‘Slowly choking to death.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ the other policemen swore. ‘Did you see that?’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘I could have sworn I saw a blackfella standing in the corner watching us,’ the shaken constable replied. ‘I must have been spooked by the dead woman.’

  *

  Sergeant Major Patrick Duffy crawled towards the forward platoon under 122 millimetre enemy rockets flying overhead in an NVA attack on his company position. The fiery trails of a small-arms tracer lit the night sky as he crawled forward. A frantic radio call from the platoon commander to company headquarters had informed them that ammunition was running low, and Patrick had taken it upon himself to crawl along the dusty earth, dragging a case of rifle ammunition to the shallow forward pits of the men defending the perimeter. He knew the platoon sergeant, who would normally have arranged for resupply, and felt that he would be too busy just trying to stay alive in the confusion of the battle.

  Dirt splattered his face when a bullet hit the ground inches from him. Patrick paused, spitting out earth he had swallowed when the bullet hit. It was a week and a half since the enemy first launched attacks against the Australians at FSB Coral, and in that time all the units in the AO had been under constant attack. Casualties were mounting, but Patrick knew that the NVA were losing a lot more of their soldiers. It had come down to a war of attrition: seeing which side would be the last one standing.

  He could see the silhouette of a bush hat only metres away and knew he was close to his own company platoon. It was then that he felt the impact of a bullet slam into his collarbone. He did not see the ricochet of the tracer AK-47 bullet but could immediately feel phosphorous burning in his chest. He did not remember screaming, but he must have as he lay on his stomach under the incoming enemy rounds. Patrick let his grip on the ammunition case go and was vaguely aware a shadowy soldier had grabbed it.

  ‘You okay, sir?’ the soldier asked him, crouching down.

  ‘Shot.’ Patrick gasped in pain as another soldier joined them in the dark.

  ‘The CSM has been wounded,’ he heard the first soldier say. ‘Dunno where though.’

  ‘Chest,’ Patrick groaned. ‘Went through the top of my shoulder, left side.’

  ‘Get the medic when you get the ammo to the boss,’ the second soldier said. ‘I’ll keep an eye on the CSM.’

  Within minutes Patrick was aware of someone’s fingers probing his shoulder. ‘Looks like a round has hit the CSM. We have to get a dust-off for him as soon as possible. I think the bullet is in his chest.’

  Patrick was dragged back to the company HQ, where Major Stan Gauden was one of the first to see him.

  ‘Bloody hell, Pat, what were you doing out there?’

  ‘The boys needed ammo,’ Patrick said through gritted teeth. ‘I wasn’t doing much so I thought I might help.’

  ‘Get a dust-off organised now,’ Major Gauden said, turning to his radio operator. ‘He is not walking wounded.’

  By now the medic who had accompanied the rescue party back to company HQ had cut away Patrick’s shirt and the small purple jagged hole could be clearly seen at the top of his collarbone. There was no blood, as the red-hot bullet had cauterised the entrance in its deadly path.

  In the early hours of the morning, the medivac chopper flew Patrick and two other wounded soldiers out. As he lay on the floor of the chopper, Patrick realised that he was wavering between life and dea
th, but a strange voice in his head told him that he would not die. This was not his destiny. Patrick had the thought that it was a man’s voice, before he slipped into a blissful state of unconsciousness.

  *

  The surgeons in Australia considered their patient to be extremely lucky to still be alive. His condition had been stabilised as much as possible en route from the field hospitals in Vietnam to the highly qualified surgeons in Australia who were able to open him up and remove the bullet, but they still wondered whether their patient would live. But Patrick did, and after a few weeks he was almost back on his feet.

  He had expected his first visitor in Concord Hospital to be Sean Duffy, but he’d received a message that Sean and Rose were off on a cruise. Sean had sent him a telegram saying he had signed over the deeds of the Sydney flat to him and would return as soon as he could. So in fact his first visitor was David Macintosh. Patrick was very pleased to see the man he had idolised when he was growing up.

  ‘I heard you copped a bullet in Vietnam,’ David said, sitting down on a chair beside Patrick’s bed. ‘Good to see you made it through.’

  ‘I heard about Michael. I’m sorry.’

  David looked away at the mention of his son’s death. He had used his influence amongst his old comrades in government to have the combat incident passed on to him. When David read the report, he knew from his experience as a soldier that his son would not have survived the contact. Missing in action simply meant that the army had not recovered his body. Sarah was also dead, by her own hand. It seemed the age-old story of a curse on his family could almost be believed. The Macintosh dynasty was drawing to a close, with only David and Donald still standing.