The Wounds of War

coincidental.

About the author

Gary Blinco is a Vietnam Veteran, having completed two tours of duty as an infantry soldier after being conscripted during the National Service era of the sixties and early seventies. This is his second book and he has two further novels for release soon.

While his work to date has been largely about soldiering and the Vietnam War, his writing shows a deep insight into the human condition and deals with personal relationships, including conflict and romance, which provides a solid balance for the harshness of military combat.

Gary works in sales and marketing in the financial services industry and lives on the central coast of New South Wales.

You can visit his Web site at: www.gary-blinco- books.webcentral.com.au

Dedication

This book is dedicated to those who continue to hurt, nursing the wounds of war, long after the last soldier sleeps.

Also by Gary Blinco

Down a Country Lane - Published by Zeus Publications

Under the Harvest Moon - Published by Zeus Publications

A novel set during the first bulk wheat harvest on the Darling Downs in 1957. Relationships, romance and murder in a simple rural community in a time of prosperity and change.

The Mystical Swagman – Published by Zeus Publications

Set in early colonial Australia, Brennan is an orphan who goes on the Wallaby Track about the bush with two old swagmen. As he grows to manhood he gains mystical powers and a collection of strange companions.

A Place in Time – Published by Zeus Publications

Acknowledgments

I wish to thank my family for their patience and tolerance as I sat for hours at the keyboard whenever the story flowed and my military comrades (you know who you are), who gave me the experience to make a work like this possible.

Thanks to Mary Weaver for editing the manuscript.

Disclaimer

This story is entirely fictitious, the events described, and the characters depicted never existed, except in the imagination of the author.

Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any relationship to similar events that may have occurred is also coincidental.

The Wounds of War

Old soldier can you tell me,

Why you’ve lost the gentle touch?

That bloomed like desert flowers after rain,

And the dreams you dreamed so sweetly,

While they spurred your heart so much,

Seem broken now and blackened by your pain.

Forget the war they say, the past is over,

The wrongs of yesterday will slip away.

Time heals the deepest wounds, at last forever,

And your pain recedes behind another day.

But I’ll be here beside you,

When you wake up with the dawn

And I’ll hold you if the night becomes too long.

Each day I’m searching deeper,

For the one I knew so well,

When youth was ours and simple pleasures grew,

All the joys of life were sweeter,

Where hopes and dreams could dwell,

And a future free of war was calling through.

Forget the war they say, the past is over,

A world of love and peace is here to stay.

But soldiers know that peace is not forever,

And the future’s just a friend of yesterday.

But I’ll be here beside you,

When you wake up with the dawn

And I’ll hold you if the night becomes too long.

Now I see the look so haunted,

In your eyes and on your face.

As I hold your sweat-soaked body in the dawn,

And the peace of mind you’ve wanted,

Since you left that wicked place,

Now mocks you in a world of silent scorn.

Forget the war they say, the past is over,

The wrongs of yesterday fill hearts with shame.

Old soldiers now, just like a secret lover,

Are best put out to rest without a name.

But I’ll be here beside you,

When you wake up with the dawn,

And I’ll hold you if the night becomes too long.

So the questions go unheeded,

They lie etched upon your face.

As your tired eyes burn feebly in your head,

What you thought your country needed,

Somehow fills you with disgrace,

‘Til you envy those old soldiers who are dead.

Don’t talk about the war, the past is over,

And righteous hearts regret our sinful ways.

Old soldiers are a bitter sad reminder,

Of the follies of our blinded yesterdays.

But I’ll be here beside you,

When you face your final dawn,

And I’ll hold you ‘till at last the pain has gone.

 Gary Blinco, April 1998

CHAPTER ONE

‘And that, quite simply, is my dilemma’, General Landsdown said flatly, his face red with anger and frustration. ‘I cannot really trust the security of the American military machine in this case; any security leaks will undermine the operation completely. Public awareness back in the world is becoming strong about this war, and the balance is swinging the wrong way for those who have to fight the bloody battles. The slightest slip-up will be used to discredit our activities and cost us resources and political support; and God knows we are fighting with one hand tied behind our back as it is.

‘And the negative image of the war is fuelled by contrived reports from the various newshounds whom my political masters allow to infest the bases around the country. Left-wing journalists who are only after sensational stories, not necessarily the truth. The bastards would not recognise the truth if it sat on their faces.’

The American was a large man. The high dome of his bald head drew attention away from his rather more interesting, florid face. His huge sagging jowls and small, sharp, pointed teeth made him look like an English bulldog. Small watery grey eyes completed the image. Like most American officers, his chest was festooned with rows of ribbons, most of which meant nothing to the Australian, Brigadier Anthony Jacob, who sat opposite him across the desk.

The Australian was a small man by comparison, compact and fit looking, his small head cropped with tight, curly, grey hair. He smiled at the mental image he had formed of his companion, and the man’s arrogant definition of America as ‘the world’. The term was popular with the American enlisted men, exposing a view that the good old USA was the centre of the universe. But Jacob had never heard a senior officer use the term before.

‘So just what do you want me to provide, General?’ Jacob asked. The big American rose suddenly from his chair and walked across the room to stand thoughtfully before a large map that hung on the wall. Jacob took the opportunity to study the rather lavishly appointed room. Unlike the austere conditions endured at the Australian base at Nui Dat, the American Army clearly enjoyed a wide range of creature comforts. The building had a feeling of permanence about it, not the temporary makeshift nature of the demountable, Conex-style buildings of the Australian Task Force.

This building was constructed of solid timber, with real glass windows and a peaked iron roof that helped keep the room cool. A small air-conditioning unit finished the job and the inside temperature was delightfully bracing. The decor was subdued and comfortable, with soft rugs on the floor and bright prints complementing the military photographs on the walls. Jacob looked with envy at the family portraits on the American’s desk, and the high-backed swivel chair that still rotated slowly from the big man’s sudden vacating of the leather seat.

‘Well, Mr Jacob’, the American said, startling Jacob a little as he had been concentrating on the furnishings and not on his companion, he had almost forgotten the question he had asked. ‘As we have already discussed, we know that the Cong are sneaking supplies, ammunition and troops down through Laos and Cambodia. But I need to be able to prove it.’

‘Why not send some of those nosy journalists you mentioned into the place?’ the Australian said, cutting the American short. ‘They are always after a big story and they can go pretty much where they like in this sector; not like we poor silly bloody soldiers.’

General Landsdown turned to peer at him with his small watery bulldog eyes. ‘You are right on both counts’, he agreed. ‘But finding information to discredit the Cong would be against the popular theme of ‘war bashing’. The general public would not like it, probably not believe it, anyway. America, and I suspect Australia as well, is divided into three groups. A handful who are vehemently opposed to the war, another handful who are equally focused in their support for it, and the majority who couldn’t give a shit either way. We need to gather our facts, using the resources of the allied countries to build credibility. Then I may be able to do something about it; may be able to harness some of the apathetic fence sitters so we can get the funding and resources we need to finish this bloody war off.’

The general returned to his seat behind the desk, rolling backward in the big chair with his hands clasped behind his head as he frowned slightly at the Australian. Jacob had remained seated, his legs crossed comfortably. The small man looked relaxed, in control, not in the least intimidated by his high-powered host. ‘So we get back to my question, how can I help?’

‘I want you to put together a patrol made up of Australian, New Zealand, Vietnamese and American specialists to sneak across the borders and report on activity’, the general said simply. ‘I don’t think you guys have the security of information risks that I have, and a multinational exercise will lend more credibility to the findings of the patrol, whatever they may be; as if I didn’t already know.’

The brigadier nodded, smiling thinly. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment, and thank you’, he said. ‘But how does that solve the security problem? Given the proposed make-up of the mission.’

‘Because’, the general rasped a little impatiently — he was accustomed to power and he hated people to miss his point or question his opinion — ‘The Americans and the Vietnamese will be hand picked by me. God knows security in the South Vietnamese ranks is worse than ours, those bastards are more interested in the black market and featherbedding than they are in their war’. Jacob smiled thinly at the ‘their war’ comment, but he held his tongue. ‘But I can find two Americans and a South Vietnamese who will be beyond reproach. You find the rest.’

‘You will have access to some air support and whatever else you need, though the pilots will not know the exact nature of any strikes called for, or the patrol insertion process. Those flyboys will attack any target we mark; they’d bomb the shit out of Nui Dat if the Forward Air Controllers (FAC) spotted it as a target. If we accidentally dump a bit of shit across borders, tough! The FAC must have got the references wrong, shit happens in war.’

The general rose and walked to a cabinet in the corner. ‘Drink?’, he asked, staring at the Australian. ‘Please, scotch, no ice.’ The general poured some whisky into the glasses without measuring. He returned to the desk and handed a glass to Jacob. ‘Cheers’, he said, raising his glass and taking a deep pull on the strong drink.

‘I’m afraid I can’t risk allowing the mission to have the standard radio codes, or detailed maps of the neutral countries; in case they get captured’, he said, smacking his lips as he savoured the scotch. ‘I hope the reasons will be obvious. So you will have to devise other methods of communicating reports and for navigation, but I’m told you are good at that.’

The brigadier grinned, sipping his drink. ‘I have a few ideas that worked for me in Burma during the last big war’, he said.

‘Good’, the General said, rising and signalling the end of the meeting. ‘I’ll have my three men to you on the fifteenth, that’s ten days from now. You will need to have your selections of Australians and New Zealanders made by then as well. I want the numbers restricted to six men for this one; you can pick the mix for your lot. Just let me know what else you need. The communication will be directly between you and me, no one else will have enough details to figure out what we are up to.

‘And I figure the use of fairly ordinary soldiers rather than the Green Berets or your hot shit SAS should give us a better chance of keeping the thing quiet internally. The spies watch the crack units like freekin’ hawks. The monsoon is about due, which is one of the reasons for doing the job at this time. I want to see what is happening now and then, how the little buggers cope once the wet sets in. Your patrol will effectively straddle the seasons. Good luck.’ They shook hands and the Australian took his leave, walking slowly and thoughtfully from the building to the waiting helicopter.

Sergeant Gary Bishop slipped nimbly from the Army Land Rover in front of the Australian Task Force headquarters at Nui Dat. He waved and nodded to the driver before marching up the gravelled path to the building marked ‘Headquarters First Australian Task Force’. Some 105 millimetre howitzer shells formed a border along the sides of the path, and a few sorry looking plants and flowers of unknown origin and title adorned the Task Force Commander’s excuse for a garden. The shells had been painted in various colours, like wartime garden gnomes, affording the expended weapons a peaceful image inconsistent with their design.

Bishop walked briskly to the front door, his movements lithe and economical, suggesting fitness and strength. His bright blue eyes flicked to the left and right as he moved, in the manner of one accustomed to taking in every detail around him. He was on his second tour of duty in Vietnam. His first tour had been as an infantry section leader, a good one, and he had not lost the forward scout’s art of constant observation. Section leaders often acted as their own scouts in this strange war, where most Australian field infantry units were sadly undermanned.

Bishop was a National Service conscript, and at just twenty-four, one of the youngest senior NCOs in the regiment. He worked as an ‘in country’ instructor at the reinforcement unit, a sort of holding bay where reserve troops were kept to fill the gaps created by those killed or wounded in action. Some soldiers called the unit the ‘butcher shop’, but the inference in the name did not bother Bishop. His sensitivities to such things had long since been bludgeoned out of him during that first bloody tour.

He fronted the rough desk near the entrance to the building and was greeted by a pimply-faced corporal. ‘Can I help you, mate?’ The corporal asked without looking up from the pile of papers on his desk.

‘You better be able to, and don’t fuckin’ call me mate, Corporal. I busted my guts to get these hooks.’ The corporal looked up from his papers, scrambling to his feet, his face burning as he noted the name tag on Bishop’s shirt. ‘Sorry, Sergeant Bishop’, he stammered. ‘We get so much high brass around here that we get a bit complacent, how can I help you?’

He resented this upstart young sergeant. This place was alive with very senior officers, none of whom required him to stand to address them.

Bishop grinned, suddenly friendly now that he had asserted his position. ‘I’m here for a briefing with Brigadier Jacob’, he said. ‘I’m ten minutes early, but seeing as he is a brigadier, and I’m a baggy-arsed sergeant, I thought I’d play it safe.’

‘Good move’, the corporal agreed, gratefully accepting the change in Bishop’s manner. ‘Follow me and I’ll take you to the meeting room.’ Bishop followed the corporal down the narrow hall of the demountable building and was shown into a small briefing room. ‘If you wait here’, the corporal said, ‘the brigadier will be along shortly. Can I get you a mug of tea of coffee?’ he added, his eyes revealing a desire for the answer to be no.

‘No’, Bishop replied, grinning as the relief washed over the man’s pimply face. ‘I’ll just wait for the action, whatever it proves to be.’

The corporal nodded and left and Bishop looked around the room. It was spartan and sparsely furnished with the usual military fittings of desks and plastic chairs, but spotlessly clean. Maps of the province and beyond festooned the walls, an overhead projector sat on a table and there was a large chalkboard set on the wall above a slightly raised stage area at the front of the room. Two large ceiling fans beat slowly overhead, moving the hot tropical air about the room but providing little cooling effect. The jungle greens clung to Bishop’s skin as the sweat oozed from his pores.

He wondered what this briefing was all about and he felt a tight clutch of apprehension in his gut. His commanding officer had been pretty sketchy with details. ‘I think you’re getting bored with this war, Sergeant’, the CO had growled. ‘You need a new challenge, something to refocus those military skills of yours. Well, as it happens, I’ve been asked to provide a senior NCO with a good track record for a special task.’ He had studied Bishop’s face for a moment, perhaps waiting for some reaction. Bishop’s face remained impassive. ‘I think you’re the man. I should tell you that other commanders within the task force were also asked to nominate a starter. However, you have been chosen as the most appropriate candidate. It is also opportune that your security clearance is to top secret level, a requirement for this job I’m told.’

Bishop raised his eyebrows and made no comment, frankly he did not know what to say. The CO was thoughtful as he watched the young sergeant’s face. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you what it’s all about, even if I wanted to, because quite simply, I don’t know. But I do know it presents an opportunity for you to make some sort of a name for yourself.’ He looked at Bishop and his eyes narrowed. ‘Which probably also means you have an above average chance of getting yourself killed.’

The CO had stood up then, abruptly signalling an end to the meeting. ‘There is a briefing at task force headquarters tomorrow at zero nine hundred hours. Report to the orderly room and ask for Brigadier Jacob. Just present yourself in normal uniform and carry your pistol, nothing else is required for now. I have been told that, if you accept the task, you will not be coming back here, you’ll leave directly from task force headquarters. Are you game?’

‘Of course’, Bishop said nodding, trying not to sound too enthusiastic and hiding his real need to get back into the thick of the action. ‘And you’re right sir’, he added, ‘I have been getting a bit stale, this second tour has been a bit flat so far’.

His CO slapped him on the back as they walked from the office. ‘Well, this might put some spice into it for you’, he said. He offered his hand to the younger man. ‘If I don’t get to see you again for a while, good luck.’ Bishop shook the offered hand, saluted, then turned and marched from the room.

Deep down he hoped for some real action. He needed to revisit some old experiences to help him clear his head of the uncertainties that had followed him since the last tour. This second tour of duty had so far been a holiday compared to his last stint as a section leader. Training reinforcements or sitting in the senior NCO’s mess drinking booze somehow made the time drag badly; he felt like a seasoned and prepared football player watching the game from the sidelines. And then there was his real reason for coming back, the secret motive he held for choosing to return to this place, the one that could never be satisfied by a base camp role.

His father had died during his first tour, leaving a huge gap in his life; the family unit he had loved so much, and depended upon so completely, was suddenly not the same any more. While his mother still maintained a home with his younger siblings, it was not the warm family base he had known, and Bishop felt his world had somehow changed forever. The fond memories of his simple and unfettered childhood had gone, driven from his heart and mind by the trials of this other life, created in and by war.

Cold recollections now invaded his sleep, stark images of his father’s withered body, his eyes wide in his cancer-shrunken face. Anger, confusion and bitter shock blended with the fear and clouded those eyes, until they looked like the eyes of a frightened child. His father had been a dreamer, oblivious to reality at times, but always focused on the better days that he alone saw in the future. Then suddenly, inexplicably the future was gone and the present loomed with hopeless finality.

The long sleepless nights he had spent listening to his father’s hacking cough as the cancer ate its way through his body now returned to Bishop in his dreams. He remembered those final days before beginning the last tour, how he would leave his bed to go and peer into his parents’ room in the old house. Memories of the vague forms in the bed came back to clutch his heart, ghostly shadows in the soft light of the street lamp that filtered through the window. His father would be semi-conscious, the wasted body convulsed with the deep coughs that rose up through him and burst from his mouth accompanied by phlegm and blood. Scarcely audible moans of pain escaped his dry, cracked lips between the coughs.

His mother’s body would be curled in a dark question mark of love and comfort against her husband’s side as she stroked his face. Her eyes were wide and unblinking in the darkness, two bright, glassy orbs that glistened in the gloom, her head pressed deeply into her tear-soaked pillow. The family watched painfully as the once strong and proud man succumbed to the disease that chewed away at his tissue, poisoned his blood and sapped his strength, leading him down a dark spiral of misery to certain death.

Bishop remembered his mother in the early days on the little farm where he had grown up, and the image was a far cry from the more recent one that loomed in his mind. She had loved the simple, uncomplicated bush life, and her husband and children were the centre of her world. They had been dirt poor, but having no basis for comparison, blissfully happy. His mother was always full of life — an impish smile about her mouth and amusement in her eyes — these were the images he had of her. Somehow she managed to make her husband and her nine children feel as if each of them was the only one in her care at times, and they all had a special bond of love with her.

Then the cancer came to visit the household, infecting her husband but affecting them all at the same time. Slowly the spring ebbed from her step, the light drained from her eyes and the colour was bleached from her hair. Her face became haggard, her eyes dull and flat within the lines of grief and care that appeared, almost over night, on her face. Bishop knew that every single day his father managed to add to his own life; somehow struck several days off the end of hers. But she never complained, withdrawing into herself to suffer, emerging bravely when she was needed to nurture and support her brood, steeling her heart and mind to a future she feared, but could not change.

Bishop felt hot tears well up in his eyes as he remembered those final days, how he was relieved to go off to war rather than face the hopelessness he saw in his father’s face every day. The guilt of his cowardice was hidden from others who admired his apparent courage in going off to war at such a time, but he knew the truth.

Then there was the first tour of duty and the experiences that spawned new nightmares, vivid and terrifying experiences that somehow joined with his personal pain to romp over him, to tease and taunt him as he fought for sleep each night. The Australians had what appeared to be a small role to play in the war, at least compared to the heavy fighting faced by their American allies to the north. But Bishop’s unit had been involved in a number of major actions and had suffered heavy casualties during the tour. Those bloody actions were seared into his mind, feeding a monotonous cavalcade of disturbing dreams that invaded his sleep and plagued his waking mind.

The nightmares followed a regular pattern, one that rolled through his head with a certainty that eventually made bed a place to fear. As the scenes of his dying father faded from his subconscious memories, they were replaced with a new image, that of a routine creek crossing during a monsoonal downpour in the dark brooding jungle. Bishop had argued with the officer about the folly of wading across a swollen stream without first securing the far bank, but he had been warned about his insubordination and then ordered to take his squad across first.

They were halfway across the creek when the Vietcong sprung the ambush. Secure in their bunkers along the far bank of the stream they poured fire down on the Australians, picking them off as easily as shooting fish in a barrel. Bishop took no smug comfort in the fact that he had been right about the need to secure the crossing, but he wished the officer had shared the stream with them to take a just punishment for his folly. The sudden violence of the attack had wiped out half of his squad in just a few seconds; they crumpled like ragdolls as the Vietcong bullets met them in the middle of the swirling waters.

He watched in helpless frustration as hungry bullets raised little waterspouts across the surface of the stream, dancing after his troops until they found their target; thudding into flesh and bone with a sickening sound, like a butcher chopping up a side of beef. It was an image that was seared into his soul, one that would follow him to his grave.

Somehow he had found his way under the barrage that cracked over his head, until he made it to the shelter of an overhang on the far bank. He wallowed in the water that swirled under the overhang, clinging to the root of a tree; his breath coming in great sobbing gulps which burned his lungs. But at least the overhang was hidden from the Vietcong and sheltered from the gunfire. He heard again the screams and shouts of frightened men and the deafening rattle of weapons, saw the churning waters foam pink with blood as the dead and wounded were carried downstream by the current.

One of his men had struggled towards him through the carnage, his eyes wide with fear, his mouth working silently behind the noise of battle. The man reached out his hand for support, Bishop felt the touch of clammy skin,