The Wounds of War. Gary Blinco
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rooms, cluttering his brain and slowing down his thoughts, robbing him of mental energy. And at night when he slept the doors of the little rooms in his mind burst open and the nightmare images broke free to rampage through his dreams.
The dreams continued with a growing intensity and Bishop began to wonder how much he cried out in his sleep, or if he was losing control of his mind. He thought of approaching the medical officer with his problem, but decided that this would probably lead to endless psychological tests and possibly a medical downgrading. He had seen it happen to others, and he did not want to end up behind a desk or in a store room, burnt out for real soldiering at twenty-three; or jettisoned into civilian life with an inadequate pension to rot away for the rest of his life.
The only answer, he decided at last, was to return to the war and confront the memories where they had begun. Like a child thrown from a horse, he had to get back in the saddle and try again before he lost his nerve forever. He would deal with this problem as he had dealt with so many others in his life. The family’s poverty, his missed opportunities as a child and then later as a young man had prepared him for a life of challenge. He had faced many obstacles and won, he would beat this thing too, if only he could meet it face to face.
Momentarily coming back to the present he shuddered as he sat in the hot room under the lazy overhead fan, as if a cold chill had passed over him, then his mind returned to the past. He had met a girl named Leanne shortly after returning from the tour, marrying her after just three months. He wondered if perhaps he was secretly trying to fill the gap he felt in his heart after the loss of his father, but his instant attraction to the girl had been so intense.
He had met her at one of the many parties that seemed to spring up like mushrooms around the army base, and he felt a wave of warmth now as he recalled that first meeting. It was the classic case of eyes locking across a crowded room. He had looked up to see her staring steadily at him through a haze of cigarette smoke, and he felt his heart flutter as if he had taken a hard hit in the centre of his body. Then a warm glow seemed to seep through him, like hot oil had been poured into the empty gaps that had been torn out of him by his recent experiences. Despite his usual shyness, he had walked over to her and introduced himself at once, and he was encouraged by her eager response to his approach.
She was what his mother and the world at large would describe as a ‘nice girl’, from a good, solid and decent family, and the relationship blossomed quickly. She appeared to adore him, accepting his unusual job and his moody disposition. Bishop had a healthy respect for the institution of marriage; his own life had been built on the family unit that he loved. He was sure that this was the girl who would help him form his own family in the future, that she was the right one for him because she stirred his emotions and mind in a way that was totally new to him. He was so sure of his feelings that he proposed to her after only a few weeks, and he was delighted when she accepted at once.
After the wedding they had taken a small flat near the army base and attempted to set up a normal domestic life together. The intense physical passion of the marriage was still there, even as they slipped into the tentative routine of a married couple, and Bishop had felt fulfilled and happy with the relationship. But after the first few weeks he knew he could not completely settle down to normal civilian and domestic life until he had cleared the many dark clouds from his head. He knew he had to do something to put an end to the nightmares that haunted him.
Leanne often wondered aloud how long the violent nightmares would continue, and she was often forced to leave their bed and watch him toss and turn as he wrestled with the demons in his head. She had expressed surprise, even a little anger, when he extended his National Service obligation to undertake another tour of Vietnam but, after some reservations, she seemed to resolve herself to the situation and offered no further resistance. Perhaps she too felt it was the only way for him to confront whatever it was that possessed him, or perhaps she was exhausted after the intensity of their first few weeks together and felt the need of a break.
Bishop had no doubts as to what he must do. He knew that he must either get back to the war and some action, to get on top of his problem, or get out of the army completely. Somehow the thought of civilian life filled him with dread. He could not face any attempt to re-enter his old life. The transitional gap seemed far too wide. Another trip to the war seemed to him the only solution, so he signed on for further service. The tour meant an immediate promotion to the rank of sergeant, despite his young age of twenty-three, and his mere two and a half-years of service.
Apart from his pressing desire, his need, to face the bad memories on their own turf, he wanted to learn more about the Vietnamese people. Perhaps if he could understand the people and what they felt, then he could probably understand the war and himself better as well. And he wanted to know more about how the army worked behind the scenes, how the hundreds of tiny cogs of the military machine meshed and turned to churn out this thing called war.
During the first tour he had felt insulated from the people of the country and the army establishment, so much so that he sometimes wondered what he was doing here and why he was doing it. Questions that plagued every soldier in every war at one time or another, usually only until they could rationalise their position by deferring the whole situation to their governments and their commanders.
The relentless patrols had kept the troops isolated from the army and the country at large. They became anonymous, dirty jungle animals who emerged from the gloom every six weeks to have a bath, get screwed and get drunk. Then they went back into the bush and began the cycle all over again. So they rarely even saw a Vietnamese, unless it was a dead Vietcong or a bar girl on her back in some sordid bar in the resort town of Vung Tau where they took their regular recreation leave.
He grinned at the comparison. He was either killing them or fucking them, not a good way to get a balanced view of the country and its people. Fucking them? The thought brought a thin smile to his lips and sent his mind churning off on another journey. Memories of hot, boozy nights in the arms of a bargirl came back to him.
Gaudy bars with makeshift rooms out the back, mere sheds made of packing crates and sheets of tin that had been internally decorated to look like modern home units. Slabs of colourful carpet on the floor, black market refrigerators full of black market booze, creature comforts that ultimately came from the American USO or PK. Bishop had shameful images of waking up in many of these dingy places, his head fuzzy with over-priced drink, his throat dry with thirst. He would sit holding his pounding head and take in the noise and stink of the war that hung over the land like a warm wet shawl. The sky was alive with the planes, bullets and bombs of combat, and the earth below crawled with disillusioned soldiers and civilians, or corrupt officers and officials who used the conflict for their own private ends.
The scene was repeated over and over. Stale sweat, sticky and itching on his body, a raging hunger in his belly and a 1000 dong ‘all nighter’ bargirl in a deep sleep by his side, his semen dribbling from her body as she slept. Most of these bargirls were aligned to the Vietcong, or so he had been told, even married to them. Bishop took these reports to be propaganda. In any case his basic instincts mostly overrode his sense of righteousness, and his personal aim to maintain absolute moral integrity in this war.
His sheltered upbringing had not prepared him for such temptation, and he could never overcome the self-loathing that crawled over him when he woke up in one of these places. His raw animal needs fuelled by the cheap grog had led him on and he had obeyed. Later he would curse himself for his lack of willpower, hating himself for his weakness, for wasting his precious passion in such pointless indulgence. Other men rationalised this conduct on the basis that they could be killed at any time, but Bishop saw this excuse as a shallow lie, and his comrades laughed at his outraged righteousness.
‘Father Bishop is worried that his naughty doodle will lead him into hell’, they would taunt; but his regret had nothing to do with any religious beliefs at all.
It was just that this liaison with bargirls was out of character for him. His upbringing had been strict and based on respect for himself and others, particularly women. While his army mates would sit on a hotel verandah giving a ‘fuckability rating’ to the passing females,