Smoky Joe's Cafe (10 page)

‘And then suddenly the shit hits the fan in a big way.
We cop heavy fire on our left flank and hit the deck fast where we manoeuvre to return fire. Chunks of bark are flying through the air, the latex running down the trunks of the rubber trees, striping them with these milky-white lines.'

I look up at Wendy again, ‘Funny, how you notice dumb things like that. We can see nothing. The tracers are coming at us but there's nothing to fire at, just trees and the undergrowth concealing the enemy. Then I see a stream of tracers coming out of the top of the trees, like ten feet or maybe a little higher up. “Two o'clock up, the trees, about ten feet!” I shout to Mo, who's on my left, like always. We both fire into the thick rubber leaves and so help me, three Noggies fall out of the dark green canopy and if they'd been any deader when they landed they would've had to have been dug up.'

I hear Wendy laugh, but I don't look up at her.

‘Then something happens we don't expect, Charlie starts coming at us in a direct assault, we can see them emerging from the bushes in good order. Jesus, we're the ones supposed to be the attacking force and suddenly we're going nowhere and they're coming at us. We hit them with everything we've got and they go to ground. But they keep firing at us, like they know what they're doing.

‘After a while we settle down, holding our own. Thank Christ for Canungra, it's what all those contact drills have been about. If it's the VC, I tell myself, they'll have a go at us and then get out. That's their way, we'll just have to keep giving them curry and hang on a little longer.

‘But this time they're here to stay. Suddenly the plantation ahead of us lights up like a Christmas tree. The first lot were just messing around, this second bunch coming at us . . .man, they're serious warriors. Then we realise it's the NVA, the North Vietnamese Army. Suddenly we're up to our eyebrows in excrement! They're attacking in extended line, the way we've been trained ourselves, about two yards apart, walking at a steady controlled pace and firing from the hip. It's straight out of the flamin' military manual.

‘We knock down the first lot but the bastards keep comin', wave after wave. They're not the VC, not the black pyjamas, they ain't scared of us, these bastards know how to fight. The Asian hordes are upon us. As we cut each wave down, the survivors go to ground not too far to our front and continue to fire. It's only a matter of time and we're history.

‘And then the platoon's right flank is attacked and our right-hand section is fighting for its life. The
firepower coming in against us is awesome. Thousands of tiny green lights emerge from the rubber and the bush, most of it below knee height.

‘We're on our bellies, there's no moving forward or, matter of fact, in any direction, anything more vertical than a leopard crawl and you're dead meat. We're taking casualties as we try to move to find the best cover. We've never been in anything like this before. But I've got to say it, the blokes are still identifying targets and yelling out the location. The noise is becoming deafening, even to be heard by the bloke next to you, you have to shout. It's amazing how much shouting goes on in a battle like this and I'm doin' me best to try to follow it and to direct the fire accordingly.'

I glance up, Wendy is looking at me, her eyes real soft and smoky. She looks like she's about to cry.

‘It's about this time that Mr Blunt, our platoon commander, is killed while putting his head up to see where the artillery is landing so that we can call it in closer to us.

‘Shorty takes over. I'm not aware of this at the time, I'm too busy trying to keep me own section intact, fighting the battle and attending to our casualties. It's the Australian way, you don't let a mate bleed to death for lack of attention, even in the heat of a battle.

‘Then quite suddenly the rain comes, the way it does
in Vietnam. Nothing, then everything, the full monsoon. The sudden roar of the water even drowns the sounds of the fighting. It's coming down in solid sheets so we can't see more than about sixty or seventy yards. There's Noggies, dark shapes in the downpour, still spread out, in extended line and comin' for us. There's no way we can hold ‘em, half our blokes are out of action and we're running dangerously low on ammo. It's all over, Red Rover.

‘But then, as Lawsy once put it, “Cometh hope from the Heavens”. We're stuffed five different ways and crucified twice over and our artillery, which seems to have taken forever to find its range, now hits spot on. They're dropping salvos just ahead of us. Even with the rain and the noise of battle we can hear the beautiful whistle of the shells. Then the ripping sound, like the air being torn apart, is followed by a blue flash.
Kerboom
! Suddenly there are Noggies being blown sky high, limbs hurled through the air, screams, headless, armless, legless torsos rolling, flying, somersaulting, bouncing, sliding in the mud. Talk about just in time!

‘But the bastards only stop for a moment.

‘By now the rubber plantation is just mud and tracer bullets kicking up same, with the rain competing for attention. The VC are yelling blue murder. It's weird,
but you can hear the human voice through just about anything. They're going ape-shit as they come at us, jumping over low bushes, running straight, keeping formation, firing from the hip. Who was it trained these bastards?

‘Our artillery is now coming in real heavy and real close. There's wholesale slaughter in Charlie's ranks, but you could've fooled me, they're still advancing, the bastards must be high on something.

‘We've been going about an hour and a half and finally, we, I mean, our artillery, get the better of them and we bring them to a halt, but the enemy fire is still heavy. By this time, I reckon half our platoon is dead or seriously wounded.

‘With the frontal assault halted for the moment I now see a Noggie machine gunner's got our range. In the heat of the battle I should've seen him, but I didn't. I only see him when he takes out Maloney, who has moved to help out McKenzie, who's wounded. I crawl over, they're both dead.

‘The VC machine gunner puts a line of tracers no more than eighteen inches ahead of Mo and me, the mud the bullets kick up splattering our greens. I have a rough idea where the firing is coming from, I try to get what's left of the section to concentrate their fire in the
direction. But it doesn't work. Either I've got the direction wrong or he's got real good cover which gives him the confidence to keep havin' a go at us.

‘The machine gunner has to be stopped or he'll kill us all. He can be got at from the left but our blokes are all dead or wounded out there. We're pinned down like bugs in a museum and he knows it.

‘Being run over by the Asian hordes, sheer numbers, is one thing. Being taken to the New Jerusalem by a Noggie machine gunner and his mates is quite another. A disgrace. Not on.

‘The artillery is still coming in magic. It's landing so close that the Noggies out the front of us who are not pulverised are putting their heads down as the salvos are about to land. I notice that even the machine gunner stops firing as the incoming salvo screams down and hits and he doesn't start again for a good few seconds after the blast.

‘Just as another salvo hits I shout to Mo, tell him what I'm gunna do and instruct him to stay put, to get the blokes to give me whatever covering fire they can. He nods and puts up his thumb. The racket is something terrible and me throat is hoarse from shouting.

‘I've spotted what looks like a hollow in the ground. Unfortunately it's within a small clearing with no rubber
trees for protection, but it's in just the right spot to take out the Viet Cong gunner, that is if I can get close enough.

‘I wait for the next salvo. I hear the whistle and the scream as it is about to land. I'm on my knees and elbows digging dirt, into the mud and slush, staying flat to the ground as the salvo lands, moving towards the hollow.

‘I hope like hell the machine gunner and his mates have their heads down, I'm expecting any second to be blown apart. The salvo lands. The rain is still pissing down as I slide sideways into the hollow, it's half filled with rainwater and I send up a huge muddy spray. I'm safe. I'm lying in eight inches of water, but I'm safe. Then the machine gun starts up again. The bastards have picked up my movement and there's bullets spraying every which way. I'm grinning, old Thommo is safe in his ditch, snug as a bug in a rug. Then I see it's not me they've picked up on, it's Mo, he's coming at me, sliding across the mud. The dip in the ground isn't big enough for both of us and when he sees this and stops his slide he's more exposed than ever. The machine gun is kicking up mud everywhere. Mo takes up a firing position in the open beside me.

“Oh, Jesus, no!” I scream, then Mo's head explodes and isn't there any more. Warm blood spurts from his
neck in an arch, two feet high, landing on my back and neck. It feels warm. The muddy water I'm lying in turns crimson. The rain is still beating down.

“Oh no! Oh, Jesus, Mo's dead! The machine gunner! You fucking arsehole! The Nogmachinefuckin
gunnerrr
!” Something slides down my cheek and splashes into the water and bobs up again. It's Mo's eye, attached to membrane, floating in the blood and rain-pocked water.

‘I'm losing it fast. But somehow I've got the instinct to wait for the next salvo coming in. I can hear it coming. It's like I'm riding the shell myself. I'm riding the salvo piggy-back. I only want to live as long as it takes me to kill the machine gunner. Nothing else matters. The salvo lands with a deafening roar and seems to be right next to me with the shrapnel whistling over my head. “Please God don't let me get killed before I get to him,” is all I can think. I scramble towards the machine gunner, the rain battering my face. I'm within fifteen yards and his head ain't up yet. I've got a grenade in my hand and I've pulled the pin out and used up a couple more seconds before I throw it. I can now see where the machine gun is and I prop and lob it perfectly.

‘This is the first time I realise I won't make it back. Nobody could, leastwise a big bastard like me. I'm flinching as I scramble away, expecting any moment to
feel the bullets ripping into me. The grenade explodes, maybe it will keep the enemy from firing elsewhere just a few moments longer. I go for it, crouching, head down, legs pumping, hands clawing the mud. I'm not dead yet, though I should be. The air is full of every kind of deadly shit again, tracers whipping past me. I slide the last few feet, boots first into the hollow. This time a great scarlet sheet splashes up out of the scooped-out earth. The artery in Mo's neck is now pumping a three-inch arc, a spent pipe. The machine-gun post is silent. I lie in the hollow howling like a dingo. “Gotcha! Mincemeat! Fucking hamburger!”'

Now my own voice is back and I can feel the shakes beginning. I fight it, I fight back the panic.

Wendy reaches out and grabs my hand and holds on tight as I start to sob, ‘Mo's dead.'

I turn to Wendy, ‘We've made this pact, see.' I pull up my sleeve to show her, though she's seen it thousands of times. ‘The tat on me arm of the M16 with “Mo” wrote on the butt, he's got one exact the same with “Thommo” on his.' I've never told her that. ‘Two warriors never to be parted.' Now I'm blubbing like a kid.

Wendy pulls me hand up to her lips and kisses it, ‘Go on, Thommo, get it all out,' she whispers. I can
sense there's tears running down her face but I can't see them, my eyes are turned inwards somewhere I don't want to look.

Now I'm sobbing and out of control. I can't hold meself together no more. Wendy is standing behind me and has her arms about me. ‘I'm a bloody coward. Oh shit, what am I gunna do? I'm a heap o' shit. They give me a medal. I let me best mate die, took the ditch for meself and they give me a fucking medal! A lousy medal.'

Dimly I can hear Wendy shouting my name. ‘Thommo! Listen to me, Thommo!' She's kissing me on the eyes and the cheeks and screaming out. ‘Thommo, listen to me, mate!' Her voice is suddenly hysterical and it cuts through, ‘Hear me, you bastard!!'

I stop whimpering and I hear her say, ‘You told Mo to stay, to cover you. He disobeyed. It wasn't your fault. You killed the machine gunner and God knows how many others.'

‘The noise, he didn't hear me. He must've thought I said to come, be my cover, me and him together, like always. I should've died with him. There was no chance I'd survive, I was good as dead after I'd used the grenade. Oh, Jesus, why didn't I die.'

‘Thommo, I love you, I'm proud of you.' Now she's
sobbing, her arms around me neck, her head against my back, her shoulders heaving.

Later, after I've had a couple of stiff shots and Wendy, who doesn't normally drink, has had a nip of Scotch as well, she reaches out and picks up the doll and stands it upright on the table. The little Vietnamese doll dressed in national costume makes it seem like it was a thousand years ago and, then again, like it happened yesterday. She smiles, her eyes are still red from blubbing, but they're smoky again, then she nods towards the little doll, ‘Anna's medal, tell me the story again.'

I try to laugh, glad to come away from where we've just been. The doll story is one of the few things I have told her about Vietnam. But now, with the story at the back of my mind, I can talk about the stuff I couldn't before.

‘There's a whole lot more that happens towards the end of the day. Shorty gives the order to pull out and Animal shouts, “Thommo, get the fuck outta there, we're moving out.”

‘I get lucky and scramble over to him, mostly on my elbows and knees, then we're off like jack rabbits, zigzagging, hoping for the best, Nog bullets stinging the air around us. I suddenly see yellow smoke through the rubber and grab Animal by the arm and pull him over. “D Company!” I shout, “That's our smoke.”