The Odd Angry Shot

by William Nagle

  ‘Fair enough,’ answers Harry.

  ‘Now, as far as refreshments go, we’ve got hold of thirty dozen cans of Budweiser, and we’ve decided that as the CO and 2 IC are in Vung Tau for a few days next week that we’d make it a barbecue cum sports afternoon with the spider–scorpion contest as the highlight,’ says shoulder holster scratching his neck.

  ‘What about the other pigs?’ asks Harry. ‘Are they all going to Vung Tau too?’

  ‘I’m the only one left,’ says shoulder holster.

  ‘You’re an officer?’ I ask in a tone of definite disbelief.

  ‘Lieutenant Clifford, Royal Australian Engineers,’ replies shoulder holster.

  ‘Bullshit,’ counters Bung now nursing the ammunition box in which lies our fanged contender.

  ‘No bullshit,’ shoulder holster replies and hands me his playbook. I examine the brown cover.

  ‘Well?’ says Harry.

  ‘He’s on the level,’ I answer as I show him the cover on which is written in large block letters the words CLIFFORD. P. I. L. T.

  ‘No bullshit, sir,’ groans Bung raising his eyes skyward.

  ‘OK, fellas,’ says shoulder holster getting to his feet, ‘see you and your mob next Wednesday around two o’clock, and don’t forget to bring your spider, eh?’

  ‘We’ll be there and our spider will chew the arse right off your scorpion,’ yells Bung, at the departing pair.

  ‘All bets off if one tries to root the other,’ Harry calls after them.

  ‘It’s a deal,’ laughs shoulder holster as he walks out onto the road at the end of the line of tents.

  ‘WAKE up, the padre’s here. Quick, get up.’

  Rogers’ words reach my ears and register slowly in my alcohol-sodden brain. My eyes squint open painfully and the green shape before me gains form as the images come together.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask, as the throbbing pain forces me to close my eyes again.

  ‘The padre’s here, we’re going to present him with his gift,’ booms in my ears.

  I roll onto my side and swing my legs off the side of the stretcher, levering my body into an upright position with my left arm.

  ‘Where is he?’ I ask, trying to avoid the hot morning sunlight that knifes in through the tent flap.

  ‘Outside on the road. Harry’s bringing him here now.’

  My head feels as if it is about to crack in the middle. I focus on the empty rum bottle lying on the sandbags behind my head. My throat contracts. Jesus, a whole bottle, I think painfully.

  With no small effort, I drag my boots on and haphazardly wrap the laces around the dust-stained canvas sides. The fawn, brown and green camouflage shirt slides onto my back, and my nostrils contract as the smell of stale perspiration rises from the garment.

  I stand, swaying slightly forward, and reach for the sandbag wall to steady myself. Two painful steps and I lean my behind against the sandbags as I button the fly of the camouflage trousers.

  ‘Christ I stink. I’ve been sweating alcohol for the last six, no, eight hours.’

  I buckle on the belt from which hangs my heavy Browning automatic in its green canvas holster and push it down low to take the pressure from my stomach. My stomach contracts and I belch.

  God, what a mess, I think surveying the pile of empty cans that litter the dirt floor. Rogers comes back in and starts to laugh.

  ‘If you don’t shut up, I’ll kill you, you grinning bastard,’ I say through clenched teeth, trying not to move my facial muscles at all.

  ‘You don’t look at all well,’ the voice belongs to Bung, who has also started to laugh.

  ‘Could this be the same freedom fighter that we saw last night drinking half a bottle of rum while standing on his head, in this very tent?’

  ‘So that’s how it happened?’ I ask meekly.

  ‘You were the life of the party, oh fearless leader of mine,’ laughs Bung now almost in a state of hysterical collapse.

  ‘You even let Gladys Moncrieff sit on your arm,’ says Rogers still grinning.

  ‘Who?’ I ask, not fully registering, and still trying to avoid the sunlight.

  ‘Gladys Moncrieff, my pet spider,’ says Bung now squatting on the floor and holding his stomach, tears pouring from his eyes.

  ‘Oh Jesus, no! I promise myself that I’ll never touch alcohol again, never.’

  Bung gets up slowly from the corner. I notice his right eyebrow with an open gash above it and that his nose is red and slightly swollen.

  ‘How’d you do that?’ I ask.

  ‘Have a look in the mirror,’ says Rogers handing me the four-inch square piece of glass.

  My eyes focus on a swollen black mound with broken skin in the centre of my forehead.

  ‘How?’ I ask, feeling the spot gently.

  ‘You and Bung had a slight disagreement last night,’ says Rogers smiling.

  ‘What about?’ I ask, as Bung extends his right hand towards me.

  ‘Don’t know,’ answers Rogers, ‘one minute you were all sitting here playing cards and the next you and Bung were beating the hell out of each other.’

  ‘Don’t you even remember it?’ says Bung.

  ‘No, not a thing,’ I answer.

  ‘Never mind,’ says Bung touching the cut on his forehead. ‘What’s a smack in the eye between friends?’

  I follow the two of them out into the hot sunlight.

  Remember when Harry said the rot had set in, remember that?

  ‘Jesus,’ is all I can say.

  THE presentation goes off without a hitch. Harry does the honours.

  ‘On behalf of ourselves and all the other unit members present, we would like to present you with this small token of our esteem, and it is with, er, profound gratitude for all the wonderful things that you have done to make our stay in this poor country just a little more enjoyable, padre.’

  ‘Don’t forget the jubes,’ comes from within the dust-covered group that constitutes the audience.

  ‘…And the jubes, padre,’ says Harry handing the blue painted box to the padre.

  The poor man looks ridiculous, I think as I look at him standing there with his baggy shorts and matchstick legs. The padre bows his head as if to collect his thoughts and begins to speak softly.

  ‘Boys, this is one of the nicest moments of my life. It’s not easy being a padre, trying to bring God’s word to angry groups of men whose sole business is fighting wars, but I would have you understand that it’s moments like these that make an outsider, and although I’ve been in this man’s army for over fifteen years, at times I still feel an outsider, feel as though he has a place alongside you.’

  ‘I almost feel ashamed,’ whispers Rogers.

  The padre bows his head again and then raises it.

  A broad smile creeps over his face as he speaks again.

  ‘In closing I would just like to say that this is the most well-constructed wanking machine I’ve ever seen.’

  Have you ever seen twenty-five war-weary young soldiers stand as though touched with a wand and turned to stone?

  ‘Thanks fellas. Anyone like a jube?’ asks the padre, still smiling.

  A ripple of laughter now rising to a roar and punctuated with shouts of:

  ‘Good on yer padre.’

  ‘You’re OK, mate.’

  ‘You’ll do us, padre,’ sweeps through the ragged looking group standing in the dust outside their canvas and sandbag homes.

  Someone starts to sing ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’. Everyone present joins in except Rogers, who is still standing in open-mouthed shock at the padre’s words.

  ‘Have to go, fellas. God bless you,’ says the padre, turning and walking away towards the road.

  ‘WORTH a look,’ whispers Bung to me as he edges through the dust to the side of the road.

  ‘What do you think?’ asks Harry, handing me the green binoculars.

  ‘Christ knows if there’s anything in there,’ says Bung as I press the eyepieces to my fac
e and peer at the ornate, overgrown structure.

  Rogers arrives, lies down beside Harry and leans forward in order to speak to me, turning his head on the side.

  ‘D Company from the battalion are right behind so our arses are safe.’

  Second Lieutenant Pawlicki, a platoon commander from D Company, crawls up and stops at my feet.

  ‘What is it?’ he asks, rubbing his nose with the back of his dirty hand.

  ‘Buddhist temple. Looks as though it’s deserted,’ I answer.

  ‘Feel like a look?’ asks Pawlicki, almost hopefully.

  ‘Filthy, dirty, sex-crazed man that you are,’ grins Bung at the young platoon commander.

  Pawlicki avoids Bung’s gaze as he tries to recover his dented, twenty-one-year-old officer’s pride. Bung has found a victim.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Yeah?’ asks Pawlicki. ‘What?’

  ‘I think I love you, sir,’ says Bung grinning like a mad cat.

  ‘Shut up, Bung,’ Harry snaps.

  ‘Well,’ says Pawlicki, ‘are you going to have a look or not?’

  ‘Why not!’ I answer.

  ‘Away you go, Bung,’ says Harry and gives him a shove.

  Bung slides across the dirt road like a snake, reaches the other side and rolls into the ditch leaving a small cloud of red dust in his wake. I see his hand appear, thumbs up.

  Me next. I feel the rough gravel cut into my knees and palms as I slide across the road. My elbow slips from under me and my face lands in a small pothole that has been conveniently filled with dust. My left eye is full of dirt. So are my nostrils and mouth.

  I reach the other side of the road and roll down beside Bung, spitting and trying to clear my nose. I up-end my water bottle, throw my head back and pour some of the contents into my eye. I blink involuntarily, my eye feels better, and I take a long pull at the water bottle, rubbing the spilt liquid over my face.

  Thumbs up. Harry arrives, followed by Melford the signaller, then Pawlicki, then finally Rogers.

  ‘We’ll make for the corner of the building nearest us,’ says Pawlicki, wiping his nose with his hand again.

  I notice my trousers and shirt. The crawl across the road has caused the red dust to adhere to my already sweat-sodden clothes and has forced a fine layer of mud from my neck to my hips and down the side of my left leg. I glance around at the four figures lying beside me. We are all the same, covered in red mud and sweat—filthy. I feel disgusted with my appearance.

  ‘You always wear such nice clothes.’ Remember when she used to say that…If only you could smell me now, baby.

  ‘OK. Here we go.’

  Pawlicki’s voice snaps me back to reality, away from the full-breasted, dark-haired girl I was with, how long ago? Five hundred years, maybe six. Remember how you stank…

  ‘Go,’ yells Pawlicki, slamming his fist into Bung’s back. Bung takes off and heads straight for the corner of the building that looms and sparkles before us in the scorching morning sun. I wait until he has gone about ten feet and jerk myself into a run. The sweat pours down my face and I feel my sodden trousers cling to my legs as I tear after him. We reach the corner of the building and throw ourselves down in the dust beside the wall. Rogers is lying beside me, panting like a large dog. A trickle of saliva runs down his chin.

  Bung edges his way towards the front of the building and stops at the corner. The rest of us move along behind him, half crouched, our rifle butts fitted snugly under our armpits.

  We’ve reached the corner. I move up beside Bung.

  ‘You ready?’ he asks, grinning and trying to hide his fears.

  ‘Why not?’ I answer, terrified as I think of what may be waiting less than twelve inches from my nose.

  ‘Go,’ yells Bung and flings himself forward, covering the distance from the corner to the steps at the edge of the front porch in better than Olympic time. I roll over and swing my rifle into line with the doorway.

  ‘Nothing,’ whispers Bung.

  Harry and Rogers edge past me and around and past Bung who has now lit a cigarette.

  ‘Bugger all,’ says Harry from the other side of the porch. Harry’s head appears from inside the doorway.

  ‘Nothing in here either.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’ asks Pawlicki. There is a definite note of disappointment in his voice.

  ‘Nup. Nuffin,’ says Rogers, walking out onto the porch and slipping down on the steps.

  ‘Just a few statues of Buddha. Nothing else,’ says Harry, leaning against the doorway and wiping his eyes with his hands.

  ‘OK,’ says Pawlicki, ‘not much point in staying here. Move out.’

  ‘Saved again,’ says Harry.

  ‘Yes, whatever your bloody name is, there is a Santa Claus.’

  ‘WHO’LL give me fives the spider? Eh? Jesus, fours then. Who’ll give me fours the spider?’ Bung is standing on a green forty-four gallon drum screaming odds at the engineers.

  ‘Make it tens and I’ll talk to you,’ a drunken engineer with a mouthful of steak sandwich and a can of beer in every pocket of his clothing screams back at Bung.

  ‘Who let you in here, you street urchin? Begone, you wretch or I’ll have you whipped,’ says Bung looking straight down his nose at the engineer.

  ‘Piss orf,’ yells the engineer. He throws the remains of his steak sandwich at Bung, and then collapses against the drum.

  ‘Drunken fool,’ shrieks Bung, ‘get away from the betting pavilion.’ Bung is enjoying himself immensely.

  The engineers have constructed an arena, consisting of a wooden floor surrounded by four large wooden planks. The bets have been duly laid. The contest is about to begin. Bung is in one corner of the arena, the engineer scorpion trainer in the other.

  The master of ceremonies steps into the arena, bows to the audience and is immediately pelted with empty cans and pieces of bread. The master of ceremonies immediately retires from the arena, and stands a safe distance within the confines of the audience. He tries again.

  ‘Quiet! Quiet! Shuddup, bugger you!’ screams the master of ceremonies. The crowd hushes.

  ‘Gentlemen, loose your insects.’

  It’s a disaster from the start for our spider. Bung, already well over his limit, tips our contender from the ammunition box and, as misfortune will have it, our Gladys lands upside down on the floor of the arena.

  The scorpion, taking full advantage of our contender’s plight, rushes forward and impales our Gladys with its tail. Gladys gives a few twitches and expires.

  ‘You bloody beauty,’ yells an engineer, jumping up and down and spraying those around him with the contents of his can.

  Bung is heartbroken and, in a fury of disappointment, jumps straight into the arena and stamps his foot on the scorpion.

  ‘You rotten bastard,’ gurgles the scorpion trainer. He launches himself across the arena. The two are quickly separated before they can do any damage to each other. Bung is carried away screaming obscenities and the occasional ‘Murderers! Unfair! Murderers!’

  We sing every ribald song known both to ourselves and to the engineers, drink everything there is to drink and, having demolished the engineers’ mess tent and set fire to the insect arena, stagger back across the road to our lines.

  We are almost at the entrance to the tents when Harry grabs my arm.

  ‘Look, over here,’ says Harry, pointing an unsteady finger.

  I focus slowly on the figure seated in the ditch at the side of the road. It’s Bung. He is sitting with his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking, a piece of white paper in his hands.

  ‘Jesus,’ says Harry, shaking his head and blinking.

  ‘What’s the matter Bung?’ I ask, kneeling in the dirt beside him. Bung reaches out for my arm.

  Like a kid, I think as I move to squat.

  ‘What’s the trouble Bung?’ asks Harry moving to Bung’s side and kneeling.

  Bung buries his face further between his knees and starts to sob loudly.

 
‘Bung, for Christ’s sake what’s the matter?’ demands Harry, taking him by the shoulders and shaking him.

  ‘Probably lamenting his spider,’ I hear Rogers crack from behind me.

  I notice another figure standing about ten feet from us. My eyes peer into the darkness as I try to make out the face.

  ‘It’s the 2 IC,’ says Harry as the figure approaches the little group.

  ‘Can I have a word with you?’ asks the 2 IC pointing at me. I stand and walk up out of the ditch, my hands brushing dust from the knees of my already filthy trousers.

  The 2 IC turns and walks back to his former position. I follow him. He outlines the situation in a few terse sentences. Two hours ago the unit received a signal that Bung’s mother and girlfriend were killed in a road accident in the early hours of yesterday morning.

  ‘I’ve been keeping an eye on him, from back here,’ the 2 IC says. ‘Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid, eh?’

  ‘Do you want us to pack his gear, sir?’

  ‘Says he doesn’t want to go home; wants to stay here,’ answers the 2 IC. ‘Look after him, eh?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  I turn and walk back towards the group on the road.

  ‘Mother,’ I mouth to Harry.

  Harry slides his hands under Bung’s arms and drags him to his feet.

  ‘Take his other arm,’ says Harry.

  I feel the warm sweat patch under Bung’s arm as the forlorn little group shuffles down past the line of tents. I turn my head and look at Harry. Harry looks at me and shrugs his shoulders. A droplet of sweat falls from the nose of the sobbing figure between us.

  ‘WHAT’S got four legs and flies?’ asks Harry, cleaning the grey skin from between his toes.

  I watch the cleaning ritual. Harry does this every day. Toe jam is the backbone of the Task Force I think.

  Ah, slimy toe jam…the Queen has toe jam too.

  ‘Don’t you ever wash your feet?’ my mother says.

  I am three again.

  The crease created by the squeezing of the knee joint in Harry’s hairy leg reminds me of female genitalia. Sniff a little, you bitch. I can smell your eagerness… Smell me, eh? I know what I’ll do when I come home. You’ll beg for me. Moan, eh? I’ll blow right into your ‘middle-class trimmed party by the swimming pool and your brother studying law’ womanhood.