Desolation Game

by Greg McLean

  23

  Vietnam

  March 1967

  13 Platoon is three days into the patrol, deep within the Nui Dinh Mountains, when they come across a track with signs of enemy use.

  The narrow dirt path is scuffed with sandal marks, and on the branches overhanging the track, there’s the odour of sweat and that sweet perfume smell from the oil that some of the North Vietnamese use in their hair.

  It’s clear that a group of NVA – the North’s soldiers – have been using this path, and so Lieutenant Patterson decides to set up for a night ambush.

  Patto orders the platoon into a dense circle of jungle, and soon after, Sarge comes over to Mick’s section. ‘Jacko, your section is doing the ambush tonight.’

  Jacko nods. ‘Okay, let’s get the recce over and done with.’

  A look passes between Sarge and the section commander. It’s fleeting, but Mick sees it. ‘Mick, Sluggo, you two come with us.’

  Sarge starts walking out of the thicket, into the slightly less dense but still wild jungle, and Sluggo follows.

  Mick hesitates. His gut is telling him that something is wrong. He doesn’t know what, but some of the men in his platoon have been acting strange these past few day. It’s been a tough three days slogging up and down this rugged mountain. The heat has been almost unbearable and a gastro bug has swept through the platoon, affecting half the men. Mick put the strange behaviour down to the utter exhaustion, but now he’s not sure.

  ‘Mick, you coming?’ Sarge says.

  The Platoon sergeant’s face is like stone. Mick always found Sarge hard to read.

  ‘We ain’t got all day,’ Sarge says.

  Mick looks around at the tired, dirty group of diggers. None of them look at him. Even Patto is facing away. Something definitely smells fishy, and it ain’t the nogs’ BO.

  With a sigh, Mick follows the trio.

  They walk for about five minutes before stopping. The track before them stretches straight for about one hundred and fifty feet, before taking a sharp left.

  ‘I think we should place the main group across from the bend,’ Sarge says. ‘The enemy will be at its slowest while taking the turn. We can hit ’em good with the Claymores.’

  ‘Yeah, sounds like a smart move,’ Jacko says.

  ‘Mick, why don’t you check out the area above the bend, make sure it’s all clear?’ Sarge says.

  Mick looks between the three men. Sarge’s expression is flat; Jacko is having trouble looking Mick in the eyes; Sluggo’s eyes are full of hate. Mick thinks back to the meeting these three had in the mess the day before heading out. He has a fair idea now what that meeting was about.

  He realises that his own men aim to kill him.

  He swallows, finds it difficult – he needs a drink. Although inside his gut is churning and his mind is a whirlwind of emotions and questions, he tries to maintain an outward appearance of calm. But how the hell is he going to get out of this?

  ‘Sure thing,’ Mick says. Holding tight onto his M16, he starts walking up a small rise, towards the track. Will they be so gutless as to shoot him in the back? He decides not to wait to find out.

  Mick scans the jungle and spots a helpful covering tree close by. When he hears guns being readied behind him, it’s his cue. He races to the left.

  Gunfire pops, slicing through the air. Mick makes it to the tree and hides behind its trunk. He’s breathing fast. He checks himself and sees no blood spurting. No sting of a wound.

  ‘Come on, Mick!’ Sarge says once the shooting has stopped. ‘There’s no use hiding. It’s three against one.’

  ‘You may be a crack shot, Crack Shot,’ Sluggo says, ‘but I’ve got the machine gun. I can rip through that tree like it was paper.’

  Standing behind the tree, Mick flicks his M16 to auto. ‘Why?’ he calls out.

  ‘You know why,’ Sluggo growls. ‘You fucken killed Stretch.’

  ‘The fuck I did!’ Mick cries.

  ‘We know all about it,’ Jacko says. ‘Sarge told us about how you did it.’

  Mick frowns to himself. ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘No use denying it,’ Sarge says. ‘I told them what you said to me. How you confessed to killing Stretch. We can’t have someone like that in our platoon. Someone who murders their own men.’

  Mick feels the wind leave his lungs, like he’s been sucker-punched in the gut. Then he gulps and shouts back: ‘You lying sack of shit. I never told you jack.’

  ‘I can’t believe you did it,’ Sluggo says. ‘Trickin’ Stretch like —’

  Mick uses this moment to strike.

  In one rapid movement, he steps out, rifle ready, and fires. He sends a flurry of bullets into Sluggo’s chest, knocking the machine gunner backwards. Sluggo grunts as he falls, but his dying breaths are drowned out by the report of Sarge’s and Jacko’s rifles, as Mick ducks back behind the tree. Bullets zip past, dirt and leaves kick up.

  He can feel bullets strike the trunk. Bark flies around him.

  Soon, the firing stops. The air is left with the echoes of the shots and smoke.

  Mick waits, then snatches a glimpse around the tree. Sarge and Jacko are positioned behind trees about twenty feet away. Sluggo is lying still, a widening pool of blood around his body. His machine gun lies beside him.

  The jungle is quiet. There’s no rush of footsteps, no platoon hurrying over to see what all the commotion is about. ‘I don’t suppose Patto and the rest are comin’, hey?’ Mick says, giving a small, humourless chuckle.

  ‘He knows to stay put until we return.’ Sarge says.

  ‘Without me?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Killed by the sneaky NVA, huh? They ambush us and, wouldn’t ya know it, they got Mick. What a damn shame.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘We really didn’t want to do this,’ Jacko says. He sounds genuinely sad. ‘Shit, Mick, why’d ya do it?’

  ‘Because he was a cruel bastard who was always riding me,’ Mick spits. ‘But this isn’t about Stretch. Isn’t that right, Sarge?’

  ‘Course it is,’ Sarge says, voice wavering slightly.

  More gunfire opens up on Mick’s tree.

  Amid the cloud of shredded foliage and bark, Mick gets down and scurries into some bushes a short distance ahead. He hides in the bush, branches poking him in the back and arms, and waits until the firing stops.

  Through a small gap in the foliage, he can still see them.

  ‘Mick?’ Sarge calls.

  Mick keeps quiet.

  ‘Did we get him?’ Jacko says, peering cautiously around his tree.

  ‘I can’t see,’ Sarge says.

  Mick raises his rifle, aims it squarely at Jacko’s face. A much bigger target than the top of that nog sniper’s head. He squeezes the trigger.

  Half of Jacko’s face is torn away as it’s pummelled with bullets.

  Sarge opens fire, spraying lead into the jungle. Mick lies flat on his stomach. Bullets whizz by, cutting the foliage and showering Mick with leaves and twigs.

  The firing stops and Mick hears the click of an empty chamber. He looks up and sees Sarge back behind the tree.

  While he’s busy reloading, Mick sneaks out of the bush. He crawls along the ground till he reaches a rock and hides behind it. He carefully peers over the top, and can now see Sarge from the side. It’s enough.

  He positions his M16 atop the uneven surface of the rock. Aims his sights at Sarge’s mid-section. Steadies his arms. Fires.

  There’s a sharp cry as Sarge drops to the ground.

  Mick jumps up and jogs forward.

  Sarge is writhing on the ground. There’s a bloody hole in the right side of his body. There are cartridges strewn all around him. He attempts to raise his gun as Mick comes near.

  Mick steps on Sarge’s gun hand, reaches down and yanks the rifle out of his grasp. Sarge grunts as Mick tosses it away.

  ‘What the hell was all this?’ Mick breathes. ‘Christ, Sarge, I thought
we was mates?’

  Sarge, tears streaming down his face, looks up at Mick.

  ‘I couldn’t risk you spilling your guts about the village attack,’ the sergeant breathes. ‘We may be mates, but even mates can sell you out. I had to protect myself.’

  ‘So you put the blame for Stretch’s death on me?’

  Sarge’s bloody lips curl into a smile. ‘But I was right about that, after all.’

  Mick nods.

  ‘Shit,’ Sarge says panting. ‘Three against one and you still manage to come out the winner. Fucken . . . Crack . . . Shot.’

  Mick points his Armalite at Sarge’s sweaty forehead. ‘Sorry, skipper. I have to do this. You understand.’

  Sarge closes his eyes. ‘Just make it quick.’

  ‘We had some fun. Pity it has to end this way.’

  Mick pulls the trigger.

  The sergeant’s head explodes and Mick gets a face full of blood and brains.

  He doesn’t bother wiping the muck away. He hasn’t got time.

  Mick knows that when the shooting stops and the three soldiers don’t return soon after, Patto will start to wonder what’s happened. Mick doesn’t want to be around when the rest of the platoon venture over to see the outcome of the supposed NVA ambush. He may have managed to kill three of his own men, but to face twenty-five? He isn’t that good.

  Mick turns away from Sarge’s body and heads in the opposite direction from where his platoon is positioned.

  He wonders how long it will be before they find the bodies and realise that he’s gone. He wonders whether they will bother searching for him.

  Probably not. He figures Patto will leave him at the mercy of the jungle, assuming Mick will be killed by the enemy soon enough.

  Mick is certain the official story will be: the four scouts were ambushed by a group of NVA, which resulted in three dead and one MIA. They’ll look for Mick in the weeks to follow, but when they don’t find him, they’ll give up, thinking he’s dead.

  He’ll be listed as MIA and that will be the end of Mick Taylor’s involvement in the Vietnam War.

  He’s disappointed his time here is over, sooner than anticipated, but such is life.

  It’s fortunate he isn’t too far from Vung Tau. As long as he makes it safely out of these mountains, he just has to get down to Ba Ria and catch a ride down Route 15 to Vungers. By this time tomorrow, he could well be back in Australia.

  As Mick powers through the jungle, he’s left with his own thoughts, and they’re of blood, violence and self-preservation.

  This may be a crazy fucking war, but it’s the best damn time he’s ever had.

  He’s never felt so alive.

  24

  Western Australia

  February 1968

  Officer Ellis stopped the squad car at the bottom of the hill. He turned off the lights, then the engine.

  All became quiet in the desert.

  The gunshots they had heard earlier had ceased. Bruce couldn’t decide if that was a good sign or a very bad sign – it depended on who had been doing the shooting.

  When their eyes adjusted to just the dull hint of moonlight, the two men hopped out of the car.

  ‘So, how do we do this?’ Bruce asked.

  Ellis checked his revolver then slipped it into the holster. He grabbed his shotgun. ‘As an officer of the law, I would ask you to stay here.’

  Ellis stared at Bruce. His eyes were like two black stones set in a face made of granite.

  ‘But I know you want to see Mick pay,’ he continued, ‘and so as a man who believes in justice, I won’t stop you.’

  Ellis started walking up to the road that led to the mine.

  Bruce followed. The road was wet, slippery and dotted with puddles. The cop stopped only a short way along. When Bruce joined him he looked up the hill and saw why.

  ‘Holy shit,’ Bruce gasped, at the sight of the body caught in the high barbed-wire fence.

  He couldn’t tell from this distance who it was, although the body was as still as the night sky.

  ‘I take it that fence wasn’t there earlier?’ Ellis asked.

  ‘No,’ Bruce said.

  Ellis turned around and walked back to the car, Bruce close behind him. ‘Maybe you should call for backup.’

  Ellis opened the boot and rummaged around. ‘No. I don’t want anyone else here. This is personal. That bastard killed my brother-in-law, and who knows how many others.’

  ‘But don’t you think you might need —’

  ‘What I need is this,’ Ellis said, holding up a wire cutter. He strode back to the road.

  Bruce thought about staying behind. He knew it was probably the smarter thing to do, but he simply had to know what had happened to his friends. He had to be a part of this, whatever the outcome. If they needed help, he wanted to be there for them.

  He followed the cop back up the road.

  ‘Are you sure you want to come?’ Ellis said, turning back to him. ‘I can’t give you a weapon.’

  ‘I know. And yes.’

  ‘At least . . . I can’t give you one unless I feel you’re in danger. And a man caught in a barbed-wire fence constitutes danger in my opinion.’

  Ellis stopped and pulled out a modest handgun from the small of his back. He handed it to Bruce. It looked more like a toy.

  ‘It’s a .25 ACP. She’s not the most powerful gun, but she’s reliable.’

  Small or not, Bruce was glad to have something.

  They powered up the steep road and stopped at the fence.

  ‘It’s Sam,’ Bruce said. ‘Shit. This Mick guy’s a psycho. Jesus Christ.’

  Ellis grimaced and started snipping at the wire with the clippers, away from Sam’s suspended body. After cutting a few, he carefully bent the wires apart and then stepped through the gap he had made.

  Bruce followed him, and the cop stepped over to Sam and checked for a pulse. He turned to Bruce and shook his head. It had already been obvious but the blow still hit Bruce hard. If he’d had any doubts about Mick’s intentions, they were dispelled.

  ‘Keep quiet and stay alert,’ Ellis said grimly.

  Heart thumping, Bruce tailed Ellis, who looked about constantly as they trudged up the drive through the mud.

  The only light in the compound came from the biggest shed in the distance: its door was open, illuminating the wet ground. Rather than head straight there, Ellis made a detour to the first trailer they came to, stepping up to its dilapidated exterior and looking through one of its windows. Bruce followed suit and gulped at the sight of a great deal of blood on the floor. His gut tightened as his worse fears about what might have transpired here took hold. There was no sign of a body.

  He trotted after Ellis, who continued down the mine towards the main shed. When they came upon the Kombi, they stopped again.

  Bruce saw Ursula was in ruins. The muddy van was littered with bullet holes and most of its windows were shattered.

  But when he spotted the body on the ground, near the back of the van, a feeling like pins and needles scurried through his body. Oh shit, Bruce thought, no, no, no . . .

  There was no need for Ellis to check for a pulse this time. Duncan’s head had been blown open. If the cop was unused to such sights, he wasn’t letting on. He kept a watchful eye on the gloom beyond them.

  Bruce felt faint. He’d never seen anyone who had been shot dead before – that this lifeless body was his friend was unimaginable. He swallowed back tears. He should have gotten back sooner. He should have been able to help.

  Then he remembered: The guns!

  Willing himself to step around Duncan’s body, he went to the back of the Kombi, and searched for the bag of weapons. Not surprisingly, it was missing. He scrambled around behind the front seats, but found the handguns were gone, too. He hoped they’d fallen into the right hands. But he had to admit that so far, it wasn’t looking good that they had.

  He knew he had to keep alert so he scanned the grounds for Ellis, who had moved off. He
saw the cop standing only ten feet away. And his normally determined face was curled into a look of horror.

  When Bruce joined him, he saw what had shocked the steely cop.

  He unconsciously took a step back at the sight of Akira’s head sitting on the pole. Sour bile rose in his gullet at the Japanese man’s slack mouth and half-open eyes, his skin dirty with blood and mud, and at the strings of flesh and tendons that curled down the pole like worms.

  Looking tense, gun gripped in both hands, Ellis tentatively walked toward the pole and the small shed it seemed to mark out. Bruce, shocked, remained behind while Ellis stepped up to the door and peered inside.

  The cop soon turned away, face drained of colour, and waved at Bruce to follow him as they continued their search. Bruce was glad to get away from the carnage. They stopped at each of the remaining trailers and all were mercifully empty, save for some lonely sleeping bags and forgotten suitcases.

  They moved on again towards the main shed, its light always making it seem their likely destination.

  They discovered Matt near the entrance to one of the mine shafts. The teenager had been shot twice: once in the chest, once in the head.

  Okay, Bruce thought, trying to calm his mind enough to think clearly. That leaves Amber, Cindy, Steve, Chiyo and Jewel. Surely some of them were still alive. Mick was a nutcase, but he wasn’t supernatural. He couldn’t have killed everyone. Steve wouldn’t have gone down without a fight, and Jewel and Cindy weren’t pushovers, either.

  He could only hope they would find Mick’s body inside the shed, and the rest still alive somewhere nearby.

  If they didn’t find Mick in the shed, Bruce knew they would have to start searching the mines. And he really didn’t fancy the thought of doing that.

  At the large shed Ellis stopped by the door, holding his shotgun against his chest. He held up one hand for Bruce to stay put, then he jumped in through the open door.

  When no firefight exploded, Ellis popped his head out and ushered Bruce forward. Bruce stepped gingerly inside, pathetically small pistol feeling slick in his hand.

  Amber was on the floor, hands and feet bound with rope.

  Bruce hurried over to her. She was still alive, although her face was cut and badly bruised. She was filthy and smelt rank – the whole shed had a nauseating smell about it.