Dawn of the Tiger

by Gus Frazer

  ‘Come here, son’, said Tom, pulling him in for an even bigger bear-hug. ‘Missed you, mate. Glad to see you made it through training in one piece.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad. It’s great to see you guys, too.’

  ‘Come on then, let’s go inside. I want to hear all about it,’ said Sonia.

  They had so many questions for him. He did his best to answer them. Tom seemed genuinely interested in what Finn had to say. Gone was the anger and bitterness when he had left for training. He seemed to have done a 180 and was supporting Finn in what he was doing. Finn had to congratulate his mum — she sure knew how to play his father.

  Later that afternoon while Sonia was out of the room, Tom leaned over to Finn. ‘Look mate,’ he said, his forehead creasing with regret, ‘I’m really sorry about the way I behaved when you left … ’

  ‘Dad, stop, you really don’t need to apologise, I … ’

  ‘No, son. Just listen for a moment. I’m sorry for what I said and how I reacted. You’re a man now and you can make your own decisions. And I honestly do admire you for what you are doing. You feel like you need to do this, and you’re doing it. It takes courage to make a decision like that. I see that now, mate. I didn’t before. I just saw you going off to be cannon fodder out in the bush.’

  Finn had listened intently, touched by the words of his dad. He’d never heard him talk about anything with so much emotion. It felt awkward.

  ‘Dad, I could still wind up cannon fodder,’ said Finn with a smirk. ‘Seriously though, I think the new strategy is going to be much better. General Stephens knows what he’s doing. We’re being trained in tactical, guerrilla warfare. We won’t be doing the all-out, head-on assault that we saw in the beginning. It’ll be different from now on, trust me.’

  ‘I hope so, Finn — for your sake and the sake of the country, because no one else seems to care if it goes down the drain.’

  ‘Dad, don’t think for a minute that there aren’t people ready to fight. There are thousands of soldiers being trained just on the other side of the Blue Mountains. God knows how many more camps there are scattered around the rest of the country.’

  Tom stared at Finn blankly before forcing an imitation of a smile and slapped his big hand on his son’s knee.

  ‘Son, I just want you to know that I support what you’re doing and I’m sorry for the way I reacted. Now, we’re out of beer, so I’m going to pop down to the bottle-o.’

  Finn watched his father stand up and walk towards the door. ‘Okay, Dad. Thanks.’

  The two weeks of leave flew by. Finn split his time between his parents’ house on the Northern Beaches and Chris’s parents’ place in the Eastern Suburbs. Life was good. The weather was cooler but the sharp, clear days were a welcome relief from the hot, sweltering training of the last few months.

  Finn and Chris had numerous nights out, and had quickly discovered that telling the girls that Finn was heading out to fight the Chinese worked a treat.

  But Finn also noticed a new tension between him and Chris. Late one afternoon the pair stepped into the Golden Sheaf in Double Bay. The bar was quiet and it was cold outside as the sun dropped, so the warm, inviting bar was a welcome sanctuary. As usual, Finn had positioned himself at a spot on the bar where he had a good view of the room, with an eye on the entrance. He did it without thinking — it had become his second nature. He’d also found himself scanning every new space he entered, as though assessing it for possible threats. When they were on their third beer, Chris, out of nowhere and in total seriousness, said, ‘Mate, you’ve changed. I can’t explain exactly how, but you seem different, don’t you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’re telling the story, not me,’ replied Finn.

  ‘Don’t be a twat, mate. You have changed — you’re more serious. It’s like a control thing. You’re not letting go of yourself like you used to.’

  ‘Dude, of course I’ve fucking changed. I’ve just had three months of bollockings and physical and mental torture. I’ve learnt how to kill a person 20 different ways for chrissakes,’ snapped Finn — more aggressively than he had intended.

  ‘Yeah, I get that mate. I was just making an observation,’ said Chris.

  Sitting there at the bar it dawned on Finn that he had changed — and a lot more than he was showing Chris or anyone else. He was now a trained killer and, in all likelihood, that’s exactly what he would be doing. There was an edge, or hardness, to Finn now that he never knew he had.

  ‘I’m going to have to go out there soon,’ Finn said, pointing to the west, ‘and in all likelihood kill someone, or be killed myself. I’m not looking for anyone to be impressed, but mate, you gotta understand that I’m scared and I’m a little, well, angry too.’

  ‘Angry about what, dude?’ quizzed Chris.

  ‘Angry that I’m going out there to fight while so many others sit around doing fuck-all. That’s what I’m angry about,’ replied Finn, staring into his half-full beer bottle.

  ‘I see, so it’s “fuck you Chris, stay at home with your mum and dad and masturbate yourself to sleep every night while I, Finn Hunt, go save Australia,” is that what you’re saying? Fuck you, mate.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that, and you know it.’

  ‘Yeah, right. But that’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?’ said Chris, now getting fired up.

  Finn had gone too far to back down now. ‘Dude, why don’t you join up and fight then? How can you be happy letting people lose their lives for you while you do literally nothing?’

  ‘“Fight”? You call what the army did up north “fighting”? In case you missed it on BBCNN, they were fucking slaughtered. Dude, what’s the point of fighting against a force like that? You’re just going to be target practice for the enemy.’

  Feeling suddenly sober, Finn looked at Chris. ‘What’s the point of living if you never put anything on the line? Your life is as safe as a toddler’s. How does that feel?’

  ‘That’s not the point,’ Chris responded, visibly stung, ‘You’re fighting for nothing. We don’t need the mines to carry on with a good life. What we need is to focus on rebuilding Australia’s economy. Instead of you tossers running around playing with your guns, we should be putting our minds to the task of getting things back on track.’

  ‘You’re a fucking idiot, Chris. Do you really think that the Chinese will stop at a few mines in the outback? Think about it: we’re now their bitches. Whatever we create in the future will be taken away from us as soon as the Chinese want it, because that’s what bullies do. Me? I don’t want to live my life as somebody’s bitch and I don’t want my future children growing up like that either.’

  Fuming, the two sat facing each other at the bar. The bartender, overhearing them as their voices became louder, had quietly gone out the back. The rest of the bar was empty and quiet.

  ‘You’re the fucking idiot if you think that going out there to fight is going to make any difference,’ Chris growled through clenched teeth. ‘You’ll be killed — and for what? Some shitty red earth and a load of iron ore — I mean, who gives a fuck?’

  ‘You got it wrong, mate. This isn’t about iron ore, it’s about standing up and fighting for our independence — controlling our own destiny.’

  ‘Ah, fuck you, mate. Since when did you become such a nationalistic fuck?’

  ‘About the same time you turned into a coward,’ said Finn, turning to raise his bottle to his lips.

  Expecting to feel the cold glass of the bottle, Finn instead felt a force smash the side of his cheek. The blow from Chris’s fist snapped Finn’s head around unnaturally and he had to steady himself from falling off the barstool.

  Turning, Finn launched himself at Chris, tackling him to the ground and then sinking his fists into Chris’s ribs.

  The two of them were blindly punching at each other in pure rage. Finn wrestled himself on top of Chris and planted a glancing punch to the side of Chris’s nose. Blood spurted out of his friend’s face.

&nbs
p; Finn had him pinned down and his arm cocked above him, ready to deliver a final punishing blow. He suddenly looked at Chris’s face: smeared in blood, eyes barely open, nose broken and angled to the side. He couldn’t do it.

  ‘Fuck!’ he yelled, standing up, rubbing his rapidly swelling jaw.

  Finn snatched MiLA off the bar as others came in to help Chris.

  ‘Damn it,’ Finn whispered to himself, spitting blood from his cut cheek, furious with himself and Chris.

  As he walked downstairs, bouncers ran past him into the bar, oblivious that they had missed all the action. Stepping onto the street, Finn buckled himself into a ball, burying his head in his hands.

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ he muttered to himself.

  People walking past gave him a wide berth, staring at him, but mindful not to make eye contact with this crazy man.

  He kept running it through in his head. All the opportunities he’d had to change the subject, to crack a joke, to lighten the conversation. But he hadn’t. He just kept on going, had to make his point, had to make it clear he thought Chris was a coward, a pussy, a fucking pathetic piece of shit.

  Finn could think of only one thing to do — drink. So, off to the one place where he felt comfortable sitting and drinking on his own — Trinity Bar in Surry Hills, an old Irish bar that had endured the changing trends in bars for the last hundred-odd years. Hailing a taxi, he threw himself in the backseat and told the cabbie where to go. Pulling up on Crown Street outside the Trinity, Finn paid the cabbie and walked into the bar. Pushing open the door, without looking around at any of the other patrons, he went straight for the furthest end of the bar and mounted a stool. Ordering two double Jack Daniels and Cokes he set about the task of numbing his mind. This was work. He was not drinking for pleasure now.

  Two hours later the bar was heaving and Finn had achieved his mission: the rawness of his fight with Chris had been blunted. His mind dulled, he was working on autopilot now. Have to get home, he thought. Have to get out of here. Too many people now.

  Pushing past patrons, he stumbled out onto Crown Street. Finn had no problem hailing a cab. By the time he had got to his parents’ place, he was tired and at the height of his drunkenness. Fumbling with MiLA, he tried to unlock the door by passing the device over the doorbell a few times, missing the security pad by a large margin. Sonia, who heard the scraping at the door, came downstairs and opened the door to find a person resembling her son. Calling for help from Tom, they took him straight to his bed where he collapsed in a drunken stupor.

  Sonia stood over him, her frizzy silver-shot bedhead casting a strange shadow over his ravaged face. She looked at him, concerned. Tom led her out by the hand. He knew the only thing they could do for Finn now was to let him sleep.

  The next day Finn slept until 11 am, and even then he could barely move without wanting to vomit. Head pounding, mouth dry, eyes puffy and aching, his whole body felt broken, especially his aching jaw. Thinking a shower might miraculously cure him, he stumbled into the bathroom. While in the shower he had painful flashbacks from the night. He remembered bits about the argument with Chris, about being angry, and he remembered hitting the JDs hard. The rest was a blur. A wave of nausea hit him in the gut. Out of the shower, he dressed and went downstairs to face his mum, who had made him a cup of tea and some toast. She could see her son was suffering, and not just from the hangover.

  The day was pretty much a write-off. He couldn’t face talking to Chris yet, and physically he felt incapacitated — not how he wanted to spend his last full day in Sydney.

  The following day, Finn woke feeling much better. The only good thing about a hangover, thought Finn, is the next day when normal feels amazing. He had to report back to base by 1600 hours, which meant leaving his parents by 2 pm. He considered dropping in to see Chris, but still couldn’t face dealing with it.

  He decided to call and apologise. The call went straight to voicemail so Finn, a little unprepared, left a stuttering message. ‘Hey, mate. Look, I — ah, I’m really sorry about the other night. Don’t know what got into me. I don’t remember exactly what I said but I’m, err, you know, sorry. Anyway, I’m heading back to base this afternoon. If you get this message, gimme a yell. Cheers, mate. Talk soon.’

  This time, Tom drove him to the base. Chris had still not called back and Finn was relieved that he didn’t need to have an awkward conversation. After giving his dad a hug and saying goodbye, Finn headed through the gates. Immediately, he could feel the atmosphere. There was far more activity around the camp than he had ever seen. He headed straight to his barracks, where he found Sergeant Higgins. ‘Sarge, what’s going on?’

  ‘We’ve been put on alert. Our division is being mobilised. Not sure where yet, but we’ll be on the road tomorrow.’

  Finn was animated now. ‘All right! What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Report to the armoury. They’ll need some help with the gear. This is it, Hunt. Training is over — time to start learning.’

  ‘Yessir,’ Finn saluted, turning and briskly walking out of the barracks. On his way to the armoury he replayed what Higgins had said: ‘Training’s over, time to start learning’. What the hell had they been doing for the last few months if not learning?

  Higgins watched Finn walking away. He knew all too well that training prepared the soldier, but only combat created the warrior. There was no substitute for battle, no proxy for being faced with death, no words to truly describe what it was like to be faced with the basest of human scenarios — fight or flight. Or, as Higgins believed, fight or die. He hoped Hunt was up to it.

  The next day the convoy of trucks started leaving the camp. There was no point leaving under the cover of darkness. The Chinese had satellites with thermal imaging that could spot movements at night just as easily as in broad daylight. The air was cool and a light wind was blowing from the east, carrying with it the faintest scent of the ocean. With the breeze Finn felt a wave of melancholy, knowing he had to leave all his feelings from home behind. The other men were also quiet and introspective. They were leaving the safety of the camp that they had all grown fond of, despite its basic conditions. They were heading out into the unknown.

  The convoy was enormous. The first truck headed out the gates at 0500 hours. An hour later the truck Finn and his squad were travelling in lurched forward and joined the long line snaking its way towards the west. The men on the truck remained silent. The noise of the engine meant they all had to wear earplugs, so there was no conversation. It was an uncomfortable ride and after two hours everyone was in need of a break, but that was not going to happen. The convoy had planned stops for fuel roughly every four hours. When they did stop the men were tired and sore, ears ringing from the roar of the engine despite the earplugs.

  For two days the convoy rumbled west with very little respite. As they moved further inland, the heat became more and more unbearable. With no air-conditioning and a canvas roof, the back of the truck became an oven by 0900 each morning.

  In each town the convoy passed through, crowds gathered. The welcome wasn’t always that of heroes going off to do battle. Some towns seemed to consider the convoy with disdain, as though it was a rude interruption to their daily lives. But most of the time, the townspeople were receptive and excited to see the huge trucks rumbling through their streets.

  Once the convoy reached Broken Hill, it headed north and the roads deteriorated rapidly, making the journey even more strained. Another two days on the road and they hit the dry, barren Sturt National Park, at the juncture of New South Wales, Queensland and South Australia. Finn and the other soldiers didn’t see much of it, given there were no windows in the truck and the flap at the back had to be kept down to limit the relentless dust being blown in.

  Their efforts at minimizing the dust were futile. The topic of dust seemed to fill the conversational void and quickly became their sole focus. Every time they stopped, the conversation always came back to the dust. They were constantly breaking down their
weapons to clean them out. In the anticipation of going to battle, the dust became their obsession, their enemy — at least until they came face-to-face with the invaders.

  From Sturt they headed northwest, which is when things got really interesting for the convoy. They were no longer on roads. They were travelling on dried-up riverbeds, unmarked trails and pure, untravelled country that only the sturdiest of 4WDs could handle. The convoy slowed to a snail’s pace due to numerous gear failures and vehicles getting stuck. It took them another week to travel the 700 kilometres to the eastern corner of the Simpson Desert. Along the way, it was hard not to comment on the Mars-like landscape. There was no denying it: the barren, red earth looked alien and unholy. It amazed Finn that Aborigines had survived out here in the desert for so long. What hard and resourceful people they must have been. The army was here, and even with all the technology and equipment, they were struggling.

  At around midday on what Finn guessed was the fifth day of travel, their truck stopped. The men, who had been travelling for four hours, were already covered in red dust. Finn climbed down from the truck carefully. They weren’t allowed to jump off, for fear of a rolled ankle or some other lame injury. Finn looked about the expanse. ‘Where the fuck are we?’ he muttered to himself.

  ‘Hell,’ said Higgins from behind him.

  ‘Some say this is one of Australia’s greatest marvels, Sarge,’ said Dave, one of the older guys from the squad. He was scrawny to the point of emaciation, but tough as nails and a devastating sniper.

  ‘Bullshit, Dave,’ said Higgins. ‘Anyone who says that has only travelled through here in an air-conditioned, air-sprung 4WD mobile palace. Trust me, boys. This ain’t no place to relax in. The human body is not designed to last outside in these conditions for too long.’

  ‘Well the Aborigines managed pretty well, didn’t they?’ said Dave, unwilling to let it go.

  ‘Mate, the Aborigines survived off the land through generations of learning. How many generations of your family have been out here, living off the land? Fucking idiot.’ Higgins, as he had a tendency to do, finished the conversation by walking away.