The Wounds of War. Gary Blinco
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he hated to think that they would ever be subjected to such conduct.
But months of military experience had worn him down, at least when the woman was offering a business transaction. At last, weakened by the environment and the grog he succumbed to the desires of his healthy, hungry body; but it was a purely physical thing, and a business transaction between buyer and seller. But the damage to his resolve was done. Later, in Australia, and in the arms of the woman he loved, he found it difficult to connect on any but a physical level. He knew he had to work on that aspect of their relationship, but he was sure of his love for her. ‘First the demons, then I can concentrate on the marriage’, he reasoned.
Unlike most of his original squad members, Bishop had survived the tour, at least in a physical sense. The pointless and avoidable ambush in the creek, and the attack they suffered on a supposedly secure landing zone, had wiped out most of his men. They were replaced with newcomers from the reinforcement unit, the unit where he now served. Bishop rationalised the loss of his men over and over in his mind, it had not been his fault, but he could not shake off the guilt he felt. He should have defied the officers, been more forceful with his arguments.
And now, through all of the confusion, he had been compelled to return to a chapter of his life that, deep down in his heart he wanted to close forever. Adding to his confusion was the fact that he could not discuss his strange desire to return to the war with anyone, even his mother or Leanne. But he knew he must return; that he could not face the rest of his life with so many unanswered questions in his heart.
Now as he sat in the briefing room with his mind churning, waiting for others to appear, he wondered if he had made some wrong decisions — in getting married, in returning to this war and in chasing phamtoms. He was surprised, even disturbed to find how little he missed his home, his new wife and his family. His conscience troubled him when he thought of his new bride, again living with her parents while he cleared his head in Vietnam. But there was little he could do about it now. He felt guilty too about leaving his mother after only four months at home. She had endured so much hardship, nursing his father until the cancer finally claimed him, and she deserved some support now.
The door burst open, the sudden action interrupting his thoughts as a middle-aged brigadier entered the room bringing Bishop jerkily to his feet. The older man pinned Bishop with a steely gaze, his thick black eyebrows creased over piercing dark eyes. ‘Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?’, the old man barked.
Bishop felt a stab of resentment as he wrestled his mind back to the present. Surely the pimply-faced corporal had told the officer that Bishop was waiting in the briefing room? ‘Sergeant Bishop, sir’, he said evenly. ‘I was asked to report here for a meeting. Major Smithton from the REO unit sent me. Are you Brigadier Jacob?’
The senior officer glared hotly. ‘Break your fuckin’ arm on the way did you?’, he growled. Bishop remembered the protocols and saluted smartly, his face burning with angry embarrassment.
The older man’s manner softened at once as he beckoned other soldiers into the room. ‘You’ve arrived early Bishop, good. Sit down, sit down! Everyone sit down and we’ll go through the formal introductions.’ Bishop resumed his seat as instructed and watched as a procession of soldiers entered the room. There was a South Vietnamese officer and another senior NCO who looked like a New Zealander. A pimply-faced American private soldier and a young American captain followed a small Australian captain into the room.
The brigadier took charge of the introductions, making sure they all met one another. ‘Sergeant Gary Bishop, Australian Infantry; Captain Don Hackman, American Green Berets; Captain Thai Trung, Army Republic of Vietnam (ARVN) Special Forces; Captain Jerry Taylor, Australian Intelligence Corps; Sergeant Keith Jackson, New Zealand Infantry; and Private First Class, Paul Toms, American Special Forces Intelligence Corps, radio and code specialist. That about covers it, please sit down, you’ll know each other very well soon enough.’
Bishop noted that the body language of his new companions was guarded and expectant as they filed into the room and sat down. The men looked curiously at one another with sly sidelong glances, each taking a silent and experienced measure of the others. But all eyes soon turned to rest on the-aged brigadier. While he waited for the old man to begin the briefing, Bishop studied the men in turn, pleased to have a new subject with which to occupy his mind.
The young American captain looked like a movie star. A thick shock of blond hair bounced about his head as he removed his cap. He seemed to have an almost perfect physique, deeply tanned skin, well-muscled body and clear blue eyes. He was poised, openly conscious of his perfection, almost as if some hidden camera was rolling.
The New Zealand sergeant was dark, probably about a half or quarter Maori, Bishop reasoned. He was a huge man, his barrel chest strained against the fabric of his jungle green uniform and the biceps in his arms were almost a big as Bishop’s thighs. His dark eyes darted suspiciously around the room and his tongue flicked nervously across his lips. The Australian captain was small and had freckled skin. He was dwarfed by the huge New Zealander, slight even when compared to the Vietnamese officer. Everything about the captain appeared to be small and delicate. His hands, his features and his build and stature. He looked, Bishop thought, like an effeminate schoolteacher. But he appeared relaxed, even a little amused by the proceedings as he took a seat. The small man’s brows creased as he studied the brigadier. He was clearly anxious for the plot to unfold. The American private, who wore the badge of the Special Forces on his beret, hovered on the sidelines like an unobtrusive waiter until he was directly requested by the brigadier to be seated. The man looked detached, surly and defiant in the presence of his higher ranked companions.
The South Vietnamese captain, who sat somewhat apart from the rest of the group, intrigued Bishop. He was small and stocky like the men of his race, immaculately presented in a spotless uniform with razor-sharp creases down the sleeves of his shirt and up the front of his trouser leggings. While the others had removed their headdress, the Vietnamese sat with his back ramrod straight, his beret remaining firmly on his head. He seemed aloof, defensive and curious. When they were seated the brigadier strode to the front of the room and cleared his throat.
‘Gentlemen’, he began, ‘you have all been carefully selected for a particular task. I won’t bore you with the selection details or criteria, but it is sufficient to say that each one of you has an impeccable record in his particular field. Every one of you has demonstrated a commitment to the direction of this war, and your loyalty and security clearance is beyond question’. He glanced around the room, meeting and holding each of their eyes in turn before continuing. ‘It will be obvious that each of you represents one of the allied forces in this particular campaign, with apologies to the Koreans who are non-combatants this time around. Without wishing to be too melodramatic about it, we are here for a very specific purpose, with a very delicate mission before us.’
The brigadier paced up and down the small, elevated stage in front of his now captive audience. ‘Perhaps I should begin with an overview of the operation we are planning, and then cover the more intricate details after that. As you are no doubt aware, the North Vietnamese regulars support the Vietcong with supplies, troops and training resources. These supplies come largely from the North’s allies, and I don’t need to tell you who these are. Traditionally, most of the supplies have filtered down from the north via the Ho Chi Minh Trail.’ He paused to let his words sink in. ‘There are all kinds of feeder arteries that run like a delta into the main route to form the Ho Chi Minh trail from the north. ‘Trucks, ox-carts, boats and couriers, in fact, all manner of transport is used in the operation. They come from all directions, from the far north, from China, from Russia, but by the time they reach the South Vietnamese border, they have mostly degenerated to ox-carts and porters. They do it the tough but silent way to bring the enemy’s precious supplies south. Now the brave lads of the American forces bomb the shit out of the Ho Chi Minh trail.’ Bishop looked at the American captain who grinned smugly. ‘And while no ground forces actually enter North Vietnam, at least not officially or willingly’, the brigadier continued, ‘constant air and artillery strikes are directed at the area in an effort to break up the supply lines, and to intimidate