The Wounds of War. Gary Blinco
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the easy part.’ The brigadier paused again to walk back and forth across the small stage. No one spoke, a wall clock ticked audibly in the pauses, the ceiling fans whirred quietly overhead and outside the helicopters throbbed about the heavy, humid sky above the task force area. The artillery battery nearby suddenly pounded out a fire mission in support of some distant infantry unit in combat, or perhaps it was just one of the routine harassment fire missions that were spotted over the province on likely enemy concentration areas.
‘What is not generally known, however’, the brigadier continued, ‘is that the North Vietnamese and the Vietcong are not as stupid as our politicians seem to assume. We know in fact that they are now moving significant supplies through the safety of Laos and Cambodia as these areas are politically outside the combat zone. You don’t have to be Einstein to study a map of the two parts of Vietnam and notice that it is a long thin country, hugging the coastline. While it’s thousands of miles long, a good golfer with a number one wood could almost hit a ball across its narrowest extremity, which just happens to be somewhere near the Laos, Vietnamese and Cambodian borders. We have always believed this configuration made our job of interrupting the supply lines easier.
‘But while we are busting our arses bombing the shit out of the Ho Chi Minh trail, our enemies are simply slipping across the borders. Then they move south just inside Laos and Cambodia, bringing the necessities of war south to our doorstep. There are still some supplies ferried down the Mekong River, but like the Ho Trail, that is also under constant bombardment. Our biggest problem is the one we must now address, the supposedly non-existent motor roads.
‘Therefore, the mission for which you erstwhile gentlemen have been chosen is to form a surveillance unit to observe, and report on, these activities. The Green Berets, the SAS and some crack ARVN units are watching the Ho Chi Minh Trail and the various arteries that lead into the trail. But jack shit is happening to observe the passage of weapons, troops and other supplies that are streaming south under the political protection of the Laotian and Cambodian borders.’
The brigadier glowered at the group. ‘So what this means, put succinctly, is, if our enemies see fit to break or stretch the rules, then we have to be able to observe and report on these activities.’ He paused to let his words sink in. Bishop watched the young American captain who postured, glancing around the room dramatically, once again as if the cameras were rolling.
‘Hence gentlemen’, said the brigadier, ‘the rather multinational composition of this meeting. While this mission must be discreet and secret, if the shit does hit the fan, so to speak, at least it will be seen as a defensive exercise by the various allies — a sort of spirit of cooperation thing — to combat the breaches of the strange protocols of this fucking war by our enemies. Now, let’s get down to the nitty-gritty details because we have only one week to prepare our operation’.
It was after eight at night when the old man finally called a halt for the day. He looked around the group, seemingly pleased with the results to date. ‘I am happy, gentlemen, with the way we are progressing’, he said confidentially, looking from one to the other. ‘But you will understand that we are now confined to barracks. You will see that you are more or less ordinary soldiers, rather than the so-called crack units of SAS and Green Berets class.’
Hackman frowned, clearly put out by the comment. His frown was not lost on the old man who smiled. ‘Some of you, of course have the credentials of these specialists, but are not currently serving in that capacity. Sadly, the security of some of our special force operations has been compromised. We cannot take any risks, hence the reason why this group must remain isolated from the rest of the task force and, indeed, from your own comrades. We will be spending the next few days together in getting to know each other, and in understanding our respective roles.
‘You will have no contact outside this group, and a few other carefully selected interfaces, before the mission actually takes place. In fact, you will eat together, sleep together and shit together until we get you inserted into the mission area. Put simply, we cannot risk any breaches of security, there is too much at stake. The big picture and the objectives are far more important than any one of the individuals here.
‘However’, he added, searching the eyes of the group again, ‘if anyone gets cold feet, or decides, for whatever reason, not to proceed, that is your choice. But I’m afraid you’ll be interned without contact with the outside world until the mission is over. Should you choose not to proceed, I need to know your decision now.’
The men in the room exchanged glances; they were tired and a little frustrated. Their nerves were becoming stretched from the constant briefing, the seemingly one-way traffic from the old officer, and they were all hungry, thirsty and tired. But it was clear that they were all going to participate in the mission. The brigadier laughed, reading the body language. ‘Okay’, he said, ‘I take it we are all in. Now the fact that we are all thrown together in this mission does not mean that we cannot relax a little. I’ve organised private messing facilities where we can now retire for a drink and some food. We will all get to know each other a little better for the next couple of hours, then we’ll all get some rest’. The old man rose and beckoned them to follow. ‘We will continue the official process in the morning, meanwhile, please join me for some refreshments.’
The brigadier led the way to a compound that had apparently been prepared for this group specifically. There was a row of tents, and a small demountable building that appeared to act as a mess hall and bar area. A high wall had been erected around the area and enclosed in barbed wire, rather like a motor vehicle or ammunition compound. As they walked through the gates, Bishop noticed a sign proclaiming, ‘No Admittance. Task Force Ammunitions and Weapons Depot’. He reasoned that this compound had been modified purely for the purpose of this exercise, a fact that further hammered home the importance the task force placed on the security of the mission and the mission itself. As they sat drinking quietly before dining in the cosy confines of the mess hut, the brigadier continued to dominate proceedings, deftly directing discussions between the members of the group. They dined rather lavishly on fresh rations and good wine but, despite the old man’s efforts, the men talked little among themselves, preferring to be led by their senior officer.
The brigadier opened discussions about many things, but little was said about the war or the mission. The reality and proximity of the war, however, filtered into the small club area. Choppers throbbed angrily overhead and mortar and artillery fire interrupted the conversation. The room was hot, the overhead fans doing little to ease the heat. The hot platters of food piled on the table only added to the high temperature of the room.
At last the brigadier called a halt to the night, the strain of the day’s proceedings showing clearly on his weathered face. ‘I’m sorry gentlemen’, he said, standing and looking quickly around the group, ‘but I think it’s time we got some rest. You will find everything you need in the row of tents outside, including clothing, toiletries and so on. We have spared little in pursuit of your creature comforts. I will allow you to select your own house companions, all the tents are the same and there is room for four in each tent’. He paused. ‘By the way, there is little point in seeking to leave this compound. It is well guarded. I am sure you understand that this is a secure area.’
They left the club and filtered out into the hot Vietnamese night, there was little discussion as they moved to the tent lines in search of bunks. Bishop was too tired to care who shared his accommodation. He simply moved to the nearest tent, selected one of the cubicles and prepared for sleep. Tall lockers were arranged to act as walls, dividing the interior of the tents into quarters, thus providing some privacy to each section. A single bed and a small bedside table occupied each cubicle, the bed tucked protectively against the sandbag blast wall of the tent. A drab olive green mosquito net covered each bed. Bishop opened the locker and found toiletries, underwear and a change of uniform.
The uniforms seemed a little on the large side, presumably to cater for the different sizes of the group. Better to be too large than too small, he thought. Being of medium build, Bishop was lucky, the small Australian officer and the large Kiwi would find some discomfort with the garments. Bishop noticed with interest that