The Story of Danny Dunn (80 page)

Sam, tired and sweaty, and her clothes smelling of stale cigarette smoke from the disco, agreed that a shower would be nice. ‘I need to sober up. A shower might help,' she said. In fact, she was in much better shape than D.P., who had been drinking straight bourbon all night, while she'd skipped several rounds. She wasn't a regular drinker and now felt somewhat woozy, nicely relaxed, uninhibited and ready for a bit of reckless fun – the state of mind every male hopes to bring about in his partner when on a serious date.

Sam removed her clothes, leaving them lying on the bedroom carpet, and when she was down to her panties she allowed them to drop to her ankles, stepped out of the left leg and kicked them at D.P., who caught the pretty black lacy nothing, laughing and bringing it to his lips. ‘C'mon, soldier boy, get your exciting parts out of Uncle Sam's fancy dress – Raymond Chandler,
Farewell My Lovely
,' Sam giggled, now completely nude.

‘Jesus, Sam, you're beautiful!' D.P. exclaimed, starting to undo his shirt buttons.

Sam knew she was gorgeous. She was still fit and swam a mile every day – or 1.6 kilometres, as they'd soon be calling it once the change to metric measurements was complete – and she worked out in the university gym.

They showered together, soaping each other, laughing and kissing and spurting water at one another. Then Sam, her skin flushed from the hot water, towelled D.P. down and, giggling, dried his erection. Kneeling, she took him gently in her mouth, something she'd never done before but had read about in Anaïs Nin's
The Four-Chambered Heart
, which had excited her enormously and led to countless nocturnal rubbings. ‘Oh, Jesus, fuck! Wait on, honey!' D.P. moaned.

Sam grabbed an extra towel and followed him back to the bedroom, towelling her own body and head, then wrapping the fresh towel turban-style around her damp hair. She'd read about brewer's droop but happily D.P. seemed not to suffer from the condition; maybe bourbon was different and had the reverse effect. She felt much better – quite sober, really, although she knew she wasn't. She'd never before showered with a boy or taken his thingy (a childhood twinny word) in her mouth, but she had enjoyed both, and Sam knew she wanted more. Her imagined trysts were never in the back of a Holden or in somebody's spare bedroom at a party, like the couplings of some of her university friends. In fact, the three times she'd made love to D.P. hadn't exactly been romantic either – first the narrow Village Medical Centre cot, and twice, half-dressed in case his aunt returned from shopping, on the chaise longue in New Orleans. But she'd been in love, so it didn't matter. Now the double bed with crisp white sheets in Sydney's newest hotel seemed by contrast to be very posh and romantic. Besides, she was drunk and happy and horny as hell.

D.P. sat on the bed holding a bent teaspoon above the bedside table, heating it with a cheap plastic cigarette lighter.

‘What are you doing?' Sam asked, a bit taken aback.

‘Cooking up a little horse.' D.P. grinned.

‘Horse . . . you mean heroin?' Sam asked, her knowledge of the drug only from books and movies.

‘Uh huh,' D.P. said casually.

‘Oh, God!' Sam cried in alarm.

‘Now, Mademoiselle Sam, don't get excited, honey. I just use a little to take the edge off.'

‘The edge?'

‘Nam – it's how we cope.'

‘But . . . but it's dangerous, D.P!'

‘Naw,' D.P. replied. ‘Not if you jes taste, honey. A little taste, that's all.' He reached for the syringe on the small bedside table and used it to draw up the liquid in the teaspoon. ‘You'll love it, the rush. We'll make love, and you'll fly! It's a high you'll never forget. You'll come like a choir of angels.'

Sam looked doubtful and D.P. laughed. ‘I most sincerely promise, Mademoiselle Sam. And, honey, you can't get hooked on a little taste.'

‘You sure?' Sam asked, still seeking reassurance.

D.P. gave her his boyish grin, the same look he'd worn when he'd walked into the Village Medical Centre ward in his pyjamas. Now he sat on the edge of the bed naked, the athlete's muscular body still clean and sharp, and Sam knew she wanted him badly. ‘Honest Injun, trust me,' he said in his deep southern drawl.

‘Okay, just once then,' Sam said, her heart beating furiously.

They made love and D.P. was right – the feeling transcended Sam's wildest nocturnal fantasies. The rush had started in her head and moved down throughout her entire body. It stayed with her while they made passionate love. When Sam finally reached orgasm, it was more marvellous than anything she'd experienced in the entire eighteen years of her life. It was also the first big thing, she knew, that she could never share with her twin. Sam now felt completely euphoric and sober.

Afterwards, propped up in bed against the big white pillows, she lay in D.P.'s arms with her head on his chest. ‘How long have you been . . . ah, tasting?' Sam asked.

‘That's easy,' D.P. replied. ‘Ever since the Battle of Hamburger Hill.'

Sam grinned. ‘The Americans do that so well!'

‘Do what? Battles?'

‘No, name them: The Battle of Wounded Knee, General Custer's Last Stand – and now the Battle at Hamburger Hill.'

‘
Of
Hamburger Hill,' D.P. corrected.

‘Will you tell me about it, or would you rather not?' Sam asked.

‘Sure. Now we've had a little horse, I guess I can,' D.P. said.

‘No, then don't,' Sam said gently. ‘I don't want to bring back bad memories.'

‘No, Mademoiselle
Sam, I'd like to . . . yer know, get it off my chest. I haven't talked about it before.'

Sam noted that D.P. seemed almost sober and wasn't slurring his words.

‘When did it happen? Recently?'

‘No. I'd only just arrived in Vietnam – a greenhorn through and through. It was my first experience of the enemy – tenth to twentieth of May this year. You're supposed to be excited about your first battle, about leading a platoon – the usual bullshit, no guts no glory – but instead I was pooping my fatigues. The gooks were dug in on an outcrop 937 metres high; we called it Hill 937 before it got its other name.'

‘Why Hamburger, though?' Sam asked.

‘That comes later, honey. We got our ass whupped bad. Steep slopes covered in bamboo thickets and dense jungle, everything you don't want to find yourself fighting in. The hill, on the Laotian border, rose out of the A Shau Valley, and our job was to clear the valley. The motherfuckers – er, excuse my language, the NVA – were sitting upstairs picking us off, easy as you like. The valley was booby-trapped with landmines, bamboo pits, pillboxes that cost us dear to take out, seemingly manned by gooks positively happy to die. We were green, me and mah platoon; we were unfamiliar with the ways and means and the jungle. I had some experienced men, but mostly grunts – southern boys like me, jes outa high school. They were drafted, then after basic training, sent straight to Nam. Their mamas were still washing their socks, ironing their shirts, kissing them goodnight before bed . . . We didn't know our ass from our elbow, and with the other infantry we were tasked with destroying, that is, storming uphill through dense jungle and destroying three NVA battalions dug in real good. The enemy were good, seasoned fighters and they held the high ground. They also had a valley full of nasty surprises waiting for us below. Mademoiselle Sam,
I was truly outta mah depth, I admit it, shaking like a leaf, expecting to die any moment. I was no brave officer, that's for sure. Mah sergeant, James P. Corn – they called him Jimmy Popcorn – a Negro from New Orleans, he took me aside and said, “Lootenant, yoh ain't gonna make it lessen I fix yoh some,” and there in the valley, beside a stand of high bamboo creaking and groaning, he cooked me up some horse and injected me a taste. “Not too much,” he said. “Jes a taste, mah good man, den you gonna fly up dat fuckin' hill, man!”'

‘And it got you through the battle?' Sam asked.

‘Honey, in Nam there ain't no
through
; there ain't no victory. We called it Hamburger Hill because they, the NVA, made mincemeat outta us – prime hamburger mince. Sure, we took the hill – seventy-two US dead and 372 wounded, over 600 NVA dead – that's way beyond acceptable, considering they had rifles, a few rockets and machine guns, and we'd thrown the whole of World War Two at them and then some.'

‘NVA? You keep using the term.'

‘North Vietnamese Army; they're gooks, but they're regular soldiers. Not civilians by day and Vietcong at night – men in uniform,' D.P. explained. ‘Yeah, we kinda won the Battle of Hamburger Hill, but I had three men left in my platoon, twelve dead, fifteen wounded.'

‘Jimmy Popcorn?'

‘Dead. When we got back, the colonel called me in to HQ. “Lootenant Montgomery, why are you not dead, son?” he asked. “You're a fuckin' disgrace – the worst platoon fatalities on Hill 937. Next time you come back dead and bring me more live men, and that's an order, you son of a bitch!” He picked up mah papers. “I see you were at the Olympics,” he said.

‘“Yessir!” I replied.

‘“Pentathlon?”

‘“Yessir,” I said again.

‘“Collapsed in the 3000-metres?”

‘“Stomach cramps . . . severe diarrhoea, sir!”

‘“Fucking coward, you mean. No guts. You let down America, son! You're doing it again! A fucking disgrace! A second lootenant is
supposed
to die! You are expendable,
not
your sergeant! Get the hell outta my sight, son!”'

‘D.P., how awful! You poor, poor darling,' Sam said, kissing him.

‘That ain't all, Mademoiselle
Sam. Two weeks later we just up and abandoned Hamburger Hill. Gave it and the A Shau Valley right back to the gooks. “There you go, we've decided we don't want it after all; we've eaten all the hamburger we need.”'

‘But why?' Sam cried.

D.P. shrugged. ‘Don't ask me, honey. There was no official explanation. We were just left to wonder why all our buddies had to die.' He turned and looked directly at Sam. ‘There, that's another damn good reason for tasting horse.'

Sam got home just as dawn was breaking over the harbour. She'd been drunk, sobered up, tasted once again and then tasted D.P. again. Then, she'd been secretly shocked out of her socks when he'd said, after the second teaspoon boil-up, ‘Mademoiselle
Sam, I wanna lick you real bad.' But she was high as a kite and this wasn't a night to be prudish. Besides, her inhibitions had long since deserted her. Later, she'd been delighted by the orgasm that followed, and more so when D.P. said, ‘Ah, I've dreamed about having you, going down on you, babe. I jes knew you'd taste real good, the finest pussy, honey.'

Sam didn't know why, but D.P. saying that put her in mind of Gabby's hit song, ‘Wild Bush Honey
'
, now number five on the hit parade. She had added two more ‘actuals' to what had hitherto been purely bedtime fantasies, but she couldn't remember being quite so bone weary since collapsing after the Olympic 100-metres final. Following the second heroin rush she seemed to be floating, a balloon slowly coming down to earth, not sure if she was going to hit something sharp and pop when she landed, but by the time she arrived home she was experiencing a raw, edgy, unfamiliar feeling she didn't like.

Danny was waiting for her. Sam knew that look on his face. He'd never beaten her, but she knew the fury about to explode within him would be far worse. Sam was spent, her usual inner resources gone. The years of learning to deal with his anger, cop it sweet, allow it to do the minimum damage, had dwindled to nothing. She waited, trembling, feeling close to collapse, as though she wanted him to beat her so she could crawl into a corner and die. ‘Get your swimmers on and meet me at the skiff in five minutes,' Danny snapped. ‘Go!'

Sam took the centre oars. She was cold in the spring dawn but soon warmed up as they rowed for an hour and a half until they reached South Head, at the entrance to Sydney Harbour. Apart from a few grunts, Danny hadn't spoken a word. Now he simply pointed to the water. ‘Jump in. Swim home,' he commanded. It was 6.30 a.m.

Sam almost gave up on several occasions, too exhausted to continue. ‘Swim, you little whore!' Danny demanded each time. At one stage when she tried to regain the side of the boat, he pushed her away with the end of an oar. Somehow Sam managed to get home. She tried to stand on the shelving pebbled beach next to the boathouse, but collapsed face down in the shallow water. Danny jumped from the skiff and grabbed her arm, pulling her roughly onto the beach, and left her there. Gabby came running from the house towards her unconscious twin, yelling. Danny stopped dragging the skiff up the ramp and pointed back at the house. ‘Git!' he barked, with a flick of his head. ‘Leave the trollop alone!'

Moments later, as Gabby hesitated, her hands to her face in shock and confusion, Helen raced across the front lawn, her face contorted with rage. She fell to her knees on the beach beside Sam. ‘You bastard!' she screamed at Danny. ‘You sick fucking bastard!' she howled, pulling Sam's head onto her lap.