The Wounds of War. Gary Blinco
‘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