The Wounds of War. Gary Blinco

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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, Bishop would observe the behaviour with disapproval. He had four sisters and 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, СКАЧАТЬ