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Authors: Josephine Rowe
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Tau Ferry.
The mess Tetch made of his hands. Didnât even bother to make it look like an accident.
Black leopard at the Pucka barracks. Sociable little bastard. Name meant Chief in some Asian language. Or maybe it was Latin. Never was much chop with languages.
that you are required, in accordance with the provisions of the National Service Act
Kepala , that was him. General. Big boss. Even though he was only the size of a terrier when he was smuggled in. No-one knew the first thing about panthers. Or black leopards; there a difference? Didnât matter. He grew burly on mess scraps, chicken carcasses. Cookie said he liked rat-pack beef best. His enclosure a cute little training project for the sappers. Donât forget the spa bath, boys .
Let me repeat, in simple terms, why we are in Vietnam.
Turned twenty-one propped up on a sandbag in a rubber plantation. You too, hey?
Yeah, and Foxy , said Wilson . Trifecta.
See these little pricks today with their caps turned wrong way round. Smart-mouthing outside the supermarket. Wanna give them a belting and a haircut and another belting.
Trifecta alright. Hope whoever grabbed those marbles got himself a lotto ticket.
Well I hope he got syphilis. Black syphilis.
One year. One stinking year out of forty-four, and a lifetime of four hoursâ sleep on a good night, waking to the same dark dread every morning, same lead in the belly. Life split in half, a neat whack with a hatchet, into the Before and the After. Good things still happened in the After but it was like they were echoes. Shadows of things from the first two decades. Things that got ripped to rags trying to sneak across that one-year wire.
Whatâre you waiting for Burroughs? Written invitation? In you hop, boy-oh. Thatâs where it startedâJackrabbit Burroughs, tunnel rat. Pisser. Remember going in. Wet webbing across the face, gut like a sack of live snakes. Donât remember climbing out. That poetry? What the head-quacks would say to that.
We are there because we believe in the right of people to be free.
Smell of hexamine. Dragging arse through the light green and someone singing Blue Bayou . Miserable cunt.
Foxy asking, like an idiot, What do yâreckon weâre doing here? That started them.
Weâre here, Foxy my darling, because Ho Chi Minh kicked over Mr Presidentâs tricycle.
Boredom and rain. Some of the guys learnt to whittle linking chains from dead branches or wood salvaged out of trashed villages. Foxy could get them up to a couple of feet. Just something to pass the time and pass the time ⦠But it came to be a kind of code. How is it today? Oh, itâs a six-link day . Meaning: Here we all are in the sweet-fuck-all.
required, in accordance with the provisions of the National Service Act, to submit yourself to medical examination before a Medical Board
In Queensland Finch was studying marine science, but in Vietnam he studied coin and card and knife tricks. You name it, heâd mangle it. Is this your card? And âcourse it never was. Heâd be holding up a two of clubs when Papa Dickson had pulled a seven of spades.
We are there because we want peace, not war ⦠doing his best Harold Holt.
Seppo jokes left over from World War Two. Hand-me-down humour. What do you get when you cross a ⦠Where does a Yank keep his ⦠Beer like sex in a canoe. How do ya separate two mating crocodiles?
Letters home lousy with white lies. Then big fibs. Then nothing.
Looked up one night, and there was that jackrabbit moon riding over the Song Dong Nai. So glad to see that little bastard. Shouldâve guessed then; Dear-Johned first mail after Balmoral. Not much to do about it. Have a few bottles of tiger piss and get defoliated.
We are there because we do not believe our great Pacific partner, the United States, should stand alone for freedom.
Letters from home saying useless things, soft things. Remembered Tetch as a kid. Crying and pissing
The mess Tetch made of his hands. Didnât even bother to make it look like an accident.
Black leopard at the Pucka barracks. Sociable little bastard. Name meant Chief in some Asian language. Or maybe it was Latin. Never was much chop with languages.
that you are required, in accordance with the provisions of the National Service Act
Kepala , that was him. General. Big boss. Even though he was only the size of a terrier when he was smuggled in. No-one knew the first thing about panthers. Or black leopards; there a difference? Didnât matter. He grew burly on mess scraps, chicken carcasses. Cookie said he liked rat-pack beef best. His enclosure a cute little training project for the sappers. Donât forget the spa bath, boys .
Let me repeat, in simple terms, why we are in Vietnam.
Turned twenty-one propped up on a sandbag in a rubber plantation. You too, hey?
Yeah, and Foxy , said Wilson . Trifecta.
See these little pricks today with their caps turned wrong way round. Smart-mouthing outside the supermarket. Wanna give them a belting and a haircut and another belting.
Trifecta alright. Hope whoever grabbed those marbles got himself a lotto ticket.
Well I hope he got syphilis. Black syphilis.
One year. One stinking year out of forty-four, and a lifetime of four hoursâ sleep on a good night, waking to the same dark dread every morning, same lead in the belly. Life split in half, a neat whack with a hatchet, into the Before and the After. Good things still happened in the After but it was like they were echoes. Shadows of things from the first two decades. Things that got ripped to rags trying to sneak across that one-year wire.
Whatâre you waiting for Burroughs? Written invitation? In you hop, boy-oh. Thatâs where it startedâJackrabbit Burroughs, tunnel rat. Pisser. Remember going in. Wet webbing across the face, gut like a sack of live snakes. Donât remember climbing out. That poetry? What the head-quacks would say to that.
We are there because we believe in the right of people to be free.
Smell of hexamine. Dragging arse through the light green and someone singing Blue Bayou . Miserable cunt.
Foxy asking, like an idiot, What do yâreckon weâre doing here? That started them.
Weâre here, Foxy my darling, because Ho Chi Minh kicked over Mr Presidentâs tricycle.
Boredom and rain. Some of the guys learnt to whittle linking chains from dead branches or wood salvaged out of trashed villages. Foxy could get them up to a couple of feet. Just something to pass the time and pass the time ⦠But it came to be a kind of code. How is it today? Oh, itâs a six-link day . Meaning: Here we all are in the sweet-fuck-all.
required, in accordance with the provisions of the National Service Act, to submit yourself to medical examination before a Medical Board
In Queensland Finch was studying marine science, but in Vietnam he studied coin and card and knife tricks. You name it, heâd mangle it. Is this your card? And âcourse it never was. Heâd be holding up a two of clubs when Papa Dickson had pulled a seven of spades.
We are there because we want peace, not war ⦠doing his best Harold Holt.
Seppo jokes left over from World War Two. Hand-me-down humour. What do you get when you cross a ⦠Where does a Yank keep his ⦠Beer like sex in a canoe. How do ya separate two mating crocodiles?
Letters home lousy with white lies. Then big fibs. Then nothing.
Looked up one night, and there was that jackrabbit moon riding over the Song Dong Nai. So glad to see that little bastard. Shouldâve guessed then; Dear-Johned first mail after Balmoral. Not much to do about it. Have a few bottles of tiger piss and get defoliated.
We are there because we do not believe our great Pacific partner, the United States, should stand alone for freedom.
Letters from home saying useless things, soft things. Remembered Tetch as a kid. Crying and pissing
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