The Odd Angry Shot (8 page)

‘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 face 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.

‘I don't know,' I reply.

‘Two lesbians,' smiles Harry. Back to the toe jam.

‘I THINK I've got piles,' says Rogers, arising from the mound of newspapers that litters the floor beside his stretcher.

‘Poofters get piles,' says Bung.

‘How?' asks Rogers.

I am amazed at his innocence. How can a man whose life is centred on death be so innocent?

We are the arbiters. We are more powerful than God. We decide. Like clockwork in school: Check magazine. Sight, pull trigger. Head explodes. One more to the score for the Regiment's honour. Remember the German kids at school? What's the point? Two months to go.

‘Because they root each other,' says Bung, his words punctuated by the snap as the metal top on the bourbon bottle separates.

THE land rover bounces along the road like a green-painted, four-wheel ball.

Harry's face is supported by his cigarette.

‘Shit, look! A nog on a bike,' yells Rogers excitedly, waving his arms.

‘Where? Where?' asks Bung, standing up and swaying against the roll of the vehicle.

‘Up in front,' says Harry, lifting his foot slightly and easing the pressure on the metal accelerator.

Rogers takes a matchbox from his shirt pocket and climbs over the low wall that separates the driving compartment from the tray of the vehicle.

‘Wait until we're about two feet from him,' says Harry as the land rover draws closer to the hunched, pedalling figure with the two containers balancing on the long pole that bounces with every depression of the rider's feet on the pedals. We draw up alongside the cyclist.

‘Now,' says Harry. Rogers lobs the burning match container into the rear container which immediately bursts into flame. At the same time, Bung leans far out over the side of the vehicle and swings his rifle, knocking the pole and sending the cyclist spinning down the embankment at the side of the road into the mud that waits like discoloured porridge. Harry stops the land rover and we peer at the mud-caked figure lying in the black slime.

‘Flamer,' yells Rogers, grinning.

‘Ho Chi Minh's a cunt,' calls Bung to the dismantled figure.

We drive on knowing full well that we have just struck another blow for the cause of world communism…

Who cares?

THE frail, grey-haired, anyone-at-home's-mother-could-look-like-her figure pounds fists into Harry's shirt front, raising small puffs of dust.

The search and clear mission is now two days old. My nose is bleeding from the heat of the afternoon sun. I lean on the muzzle of my rifle and watch the spectacle with impartial interest.

‘I think she wants to fuck you, Harry,' laughs Rogers, spitting and licking his lips at the same time.

Harry raises a restraining, severe, don't-come-any-closer hand and pushes the old woman back toward the open-fronted shack that has served as her home for the past sixty years.