War Baby

by Colin Falconer

  ‘Yes it does,’ she said.

  She curled into him like a child, and he held her. After a while he realized she was asleep, even if she didn’t want to be.

  * * *

  Some time during the night he heard the hum of rotors, and then someone running down the corridor outside, hammering on the doors. ‘Let’s go, Mickey. Mas-cal. We’re on!’

  In a moment she was on her feet fumbling in the darkness for her clothes. By the time he had swung his feet out of the bed the door was yawning open and she was gone. He watched the other nurses running out of the hooch.

  At dawn the helicopters were still coming, landing one after the other outside the hospital. Webb got dressed and drove back to Saigon. By ten o’clock that morning he was back in the Delta with the 25th.

  Chapter 7

  The cathedral was on the Tu Do, across the road from the post office, a monstrosity in red brick. Ryan sat at the back during the service, and did not leave his pew to take communion. He thought that might be a bit rich, even for someone as tolerant as Jesus.

  Instead he watched Souer Odile at the brass communion rail, her hands joined in prayer, eyes closed. What am I going to do about this?

  * * *

  What am I to do about this?

  Odile had asked the question of herself many times, but the Divine had so far withheld his guidance. She wanted to live as simply as other women. She wished to be a wife and a mother. Was it sin to want to be a woman more than wanting to serve God? In the darkness of the cathedral she looked for grace.

  She prayed for strength. She raised her face to the Madonna and begged for purity. She stared into the candles on the altar and asked for faith.

  Just a few weeks ago, before she met Ryan, her choices were clear. But he had muddied everything. What was it he had said? You have to listen to your heart. You’ve only got one life. She wished he had never said those words. When she only thought them to herself they had no power over her. When he said them, it made them seem … possible.

  After she had accepted communion, Odile rose from the altar steps and walked, head bowed, back to the pews. She raised her eyes for a moment and saw him, in the shadows at the back of the church, and it took her breath away. She knelt down again, beside her fellow nuns and novices, and lowered her head once more in prayer.

  How can I concentrate on the eternal when all I can think of is now?

  After the Mass he found her on the steps outside, with the canonesse and several other novices, in conversation with the French curé and a Catholic Vietnamese family. When she saw him she left the group and approached him. ‘Monsieur Ryan?’

  ‘I have to see you again,’ he said.

  The canonesse was watching them over the priest’s shoulder.

  ‘This is so easy for you. Is not so easy for me.’

  ‘Falling in love with a nun is easy?’

  Her eyes went wide. She looked around at the canonesse, and then back at Ryan. ‘Do not say it if you do not mean it.’

  ‘I mean it.’

  She bit her lip. Ryan waited. ‘Tomorrow. In the Jardins Botaniques. Ten o’clock.’

  She walked away.

  They were all watching him now. He knew what they were thinking. Bugger them all. He’d had enough of nuns to last him a lifetime.

  Except for this one.

  * * *

  The caretaker at the Hashish Hilton was a Vietnamese called Duc, who had inevitably been rechristened Donald by the tenants. Donald Duc acted as their intermediary with the Tonkinese landlady, organized their food and their laundry, cronied the work out between the members of his immediate family, who all lived in one of the downstairs rooms. For a little extra he also procured opium or girls.

  When he got back that afternoon Ryan found Cochrane lying on his bed, smoking opium; Donald’s uncle lay on the floor, on some raffia matting, lighting pipes for Cochrane and for Prescott, who sat in Ryan’s chair by the window. Mick Jagger was wailing his way through ‘Paint It Black’. Webb sat at the foot of the bed, smoking a large opium-laced cigarette. The air conditioner had broken again and the air was thick with pungent smoke.

  ‘Sean,’ Webb said.

  ‘Spider,’ Ryan said.

  ‘How’s the arm?’

  ‘Still bloody sore. You got back from Quang Ngai in one piece?’

  ‘Brought you this.’ He held up two bottles of Courvoisier. ‘From the PX at Danang. A small token of my esteem. That bullet in your shoulder had my name on it.’

  ‘Then it’s a bloody good job you’ve got a short name.’ Ryan took the proffered bottles. ‘Been hearing great things about you, mate. Croz reckons you’re David Bailey in jungle greens.’ He unscrewed the Courvoisier and fetched two beer glasses. He splashed some brandy in each. ‘Health.’

  ‘Long life.’

  ‘Christ, no. If I thought I was going to have a long life I’d have to start eating properly and taking care of myself. ‘He sat down on the end of the bed, resting the Courvoisier on one knee. Dust drifted on the yellow sunlight that slanted through the blinds. ‘So, you’ve been here six weeks. Have you figured out a reasonable political solution for the Vietnam people?’

  ‘No, have you?’

  ‘Know what this American colonel said to me the other day? He had the perfect solution, he reckoned. First, you go round the whole country, get everyone you’re absolutely certain is on your side and you put them on a boat. You sail that boat into the China Sea. Then you nuke the whole country, north and south. And then . . .’ Ryan drained his brandy and poured another. ‘… then you sink the boat. It’s called Winning Hearts and Minds.’

  ‘The Americans can’t win this. Trying to find the Viet Cong is like trying to find a needle in the proverbial haystack.’

  ‘Know how the Americans find a needle in a haystack? They napalm the haystack and anything that’s left is going to be a needle.’

  Webb didn’t like thinking about the politics of the war. What had seemed like a simple conflict between his country’s traditional allies and the communists, a word he had equated with villainy from childhood, was in reality far more complex, more tragic, more disturbing. For the first time he had started to wonder if he was on the right side.

  Ryan finished his brandy. Webb held out the bottle and poured three fingers into his glass. The opium smoke and the brandy was already making him light-headed. ‘You ever think of getting out of Vietnam?’ he said.

  Ryan shook his head. ‘It’s not much of a war, but right now it’s the only one I’ve got.’

  * * *

  The noise of the Saigon traffic was muted, almost drowned out by the chirrup of crickets. A few old amahs squatted on their haunches on the grass and sparrows fussed and fluttered in the bushes.

  Ryan wandered around the botanic gardens for almost half an hour before he found her, sitting alone on a wooden bench in the shade of a giant tamarind tree. She was wearing a white silk ao dai with a mandarin collar, her hands clutched tightly at her knees. She looked as fragile as porcelain.

  He sat down beside her. She did not look up.

  ‘Odile,’ he said.

  He had not called her ‘sister’, as she was accustomed. ‘Monsieur Ryan,’ she said, carefully.

  ‘I thought you might not come.’

  ‘But of course. I promise you.’

  It was sticky hot and his shoulder itched under the swathe of bandages. ‘I can’t stop thinking about you. Night and day. I even dream about you.’

  ‘It is a sin. I am for God. You must ask for absolution.’

  ‘From you?’

  ‘From your confessor.’

  ‘I don’t have a confessor.’

  ‘You make my life impossible,’ she whispered.

  ‘Like you’re making mine.’

  ‘I do not do anything to you!’

  ‘You drive me crazy. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘If you do not stop, I will go.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘If
you do not confess your thoughts, you will be damned!’

  ‘Damned if I do, damned if I don’t,’ Ryan said. He touched her arm, very lightly. She gasped. ‘Listen, I haven’t met many women that I’ve really admired. Not just for their looks, for what they are.’

  ‘It is impossible for us. I come here today to tell you this.’

  ‘Do you really want to shut yourself away for the rest of your life knowing there was a bloke who was crazy about you, who would have married you and given you children? I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I won’t let you walk away from me. I won’t lose you, I won’t.’

  He noticed the fluttery rise and fall of her breasts beneath the ao dai. I mean what I say, Ryan assured himself. Right now, I mean it.

  He reached up with his good arm and stroked her hair. ‘You’ve got the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen,’ he said, and his voice dreamy.

  She slid away from him, along the bench. ‘C’est impossible! I must have time to think.’

  She stood up abruptly and walked away, slim and straight, leaving ghosts of patchouli and incense. The most exotic creature he had ever seen.

  God forgive me.

  * * *

  Odile walked blindly, fighting an instinct to run. She had come here today to end this, before it could begin, to return to the safety of a life ordered by duty, by virtue. She had been imprisoned by the circumstances of her life and now the jailer had left the door ajar for a moment, unguarded, and for a moment she could see out. Impossible not to approach that door, curious to see beyond.

  If only her faith were a stronger, faith in God, or faith in herself.

  Chapter 8

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ Mickey asked him.

  ‘Nothing,’ Webb said, forcing Private Judge from his mind.

  ‘We have an agreement, remember?’

  He did remember. He would not talk about his work, and she would not talk about hers. But it was an easy bargain to keep. Mickey finished her beer and Webb signaled the waiter for two more. They were in the Royale, a seedy, once glorious old hotel in a side street between the Tu Do and the Nguyen Hue, the Street of Flowers. Outside, the street boiled in the noonday sun.

  ‘My Mister Nice Guy,’ she said.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Last time you were up at Bien Hoa I was rolling drunk. You could have done what you wanted.’

  ‘How do you know I didn’t?’

  ‘No cold, sticky mess in the middle of the night. It’s where women first learn their job in life is to clean up after men.’

  ‘You were upset. It didn’t seem right.’

  ‘Please, don’t say stuff like that. Before I know it, I’ll end up liking you.’

  ‘I went to an English grammar school. We were taught chivalry and good manners.’

  ‘I saw a movie about an English grammar school. Didn’t you play cricket and rape little boys?’

  ‘No, that’s the public schools. They’re called public schools because they’re private. I went to a grammar school. You only get to rape the new kids on special occasions. Christmas, Easter.’

  ‘It sounds quaint.’

  ‘I suppose it was. I didn’t like cricket though. The sodomy was the best part.’

  She laughed. ‘I never met an Englishman before. I watched a lot of movies back home with Englishmen in them and I always loved the accent. Where you grew up, did it have thatched cottages and a haunted church and a duke and everything?’

  ‘Of course. I went fox hunting every week in the summer.’

  Their lunch arrived. A sallow-faced Vietnamese in a white jacket brought a tray with two plates under silver covers. He removed the covers with a flourish; two small water buffalo steaks and two spherical mounds of mashed potato.

  ‘Jesus I need a hamburger,’ she said. ‘Eighty-three days and a wake-up to go. What about you? How long do you intend to stick this out?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mickey. No time frame for me.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather be taking photographs of skinny models in bikinis or sunsets on a Pacific island?’

  He jabbed at the mashed potato with his fork. It was rare. The steak was overcooked. At least the beer was cold. ‘I was eighteen years old when I realized I really didn’t have any talent,’ he said.

  She stopped eating and stared at him. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s why I’m here. Back home I’m just another hack.’

  ‘You have a talent,’ she said. ‘You take photographs. Damned good ones.’

  ‘No, I have a good camera, that doesn’t make me a good photographer. But I don’t need talent when I have Vietnam. I just have to stay alive to be good at what I do.’

  She shook her head. ‘Sorry, but it’s hard to think of the things I see every day as stepping stones to a career. Was going back for the wounded lieutenant part of the game plan?’

  ‘Like I said, you shamed me into it. Anyway, I thought we agreed we weren’t going to talk shop.’

  ‘One last question. Do you enjoy it?’

  ‘Not really. They said I would but, no, I just got used to it.’

  ‘I guess that’s a good thing.’

  ‘Is it? I have no idea.’ He finished playing with his steak and pushed the plate away. ‘Do you think I’m a ghoul?’

  ‘I don’t know you well enough.’

  ‘Sometimes I think so. When you’re taking photographs of … well, I know some of the grunts think that. There was this time, I was on a medevac and this Marine lieutenant was lying there, holding a compress on some other guy’s chest wound, and there was blood in his hair, it was caked in his ears, he had one eye bandaged up, and he leaned forward and tapped me on the shoulder. Know what he said? Could I take a photograph of him so he could send it to his wife.’ He fidgeted with his glass. ‘We weren’t going to talk about this.’

  ‘My fault, I guess.’ She gave up on her lunch as well. She stared at him, her head cocked to one side. ‘So look, you say you have no talent, but I figure everyone’s good at something. Is there anything you think you can surprise me with?’

  * * *

  The room was steamy hot, a slow fan on the ceiling hardly stirred the air. A pale gekko darted along the wall. Mickey pushed back the tangled sheet, raised her arms above her head, let the sweat cool on her body, her heart hammering in her chest. After a while she sat up and knelt astride his thighs. She leaned forward so that her hair grazed his face. His eyes blinked open and he smiled at her.

  ‘You see. Youo were wrong.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘You have an enormous talent,’ she said. ‘Absolutely enormous.’

  * * *

  ‘I want to see Soeur Odile,’ Ryan said.

  ‘C'est impossible,’ the old nun said. ‘Au revoir, monsieur.’ She shook her head and tried to close the heavy wooden door, but Ryan kept his foot there.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Allez-y!’ Soeur Marie said, peering through the crack.

  Ryan put his weight against the door and gently forced it open. Soeur Marie squealed in alarm. Ryan squeezed inside.

  ‘Quel scandale! Vous êtes fou!’

  ‘Calm down. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just need to speak Odile.’

  A man’s voice had never before disturbed the crystal sanctity of the chapel. Every face turned to stare at the intruder. Ryan strode in, Soeur Marie at his heels like a fussing hen. He stopped just inside the door and looked straight at her.

  There was no need for words. It seemed to Odile in that moment that the decision had been taken from her. He raised his hands in a helpless gesture as if to say: I can’t help this and neither can you.

  The canonesse rose from her knees to confront him. Ryan backed slowly out of the chapel. Odile felt her cheeks burning with shame. But there was something else, too, something she had not felt since she was a child.

  Joy.

  Chapter 8

  Mickey heard doors banging in the hooch. In the distance, through the recedin
g mist of her dreams, she heard the distant whump-whump-whump of the medevac rotors. She tried to focus on the green dial of her watch.

  Someone hammered a fist on her door and threw it open. ‘‘Come on, kiddo, mas-cal!’ The light hurt her eyes. She rolled out of her cot and fumbled for her fatigues.

  She stumbled out of the hooch, her boot laces dragging on the ground. The first Hueys were settling on the landing pads. The roar was deafening; dirt and grit picked up by the downdraught of the rotors stung her face and eyes.

  I can’t do this anymore, I can’t face another boy with no legs.

  ‘Mickey, c’mon!’

  A doctor and two nurses ran towards one of the Hueys with a gurney. She started running with them. Please God, get me through another night.

  * * *

  The canonesse looked out of the window to the courtyard below. The big Australian towered over the orphanage children, as happy and exuberant as a large dog, shouting and laughing with them as they kicked a plastic football around the quadrangle. He was like a big child himself, and like a child he could cause a lot of damage without intention.

  She turned away. Soeur Odile sat with her head bowed.

  ‘You intend to marry him?’ the canonesse asked her.

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘When?’

  Soeur Odile did not answer.

  ‘I hope you have thought this through.’

  ‘I trust him, Mother.’

  ‘He has been one of our greatest benefactors. But charity and responsibility are not always found in the same person.’

  ‘I have made up my mind.’

  ‘Yes, I was afraid of that.’

  She sat down at her desk. A rosary clicked softly between her fingers. She wondered if Ryan really understood young Odile at all. The girl was sincere, and she too had a good heart, and she was beautiful, certainly. But she was not bright, and she was naïve, she had no knowledge of the world outside of her cloistered upbringing here and in Dalat. Perhaps Ryan had mistaken vacuity for mystery. She really was no match for such a man.