Read Online Smoky Joe's Cafe by Bryce Courtenay - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bryce Courtenay
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they see you coming towards them!â
It went on like this all day and half the night as a regular army sergeant mouthed off at you. The worst part was that the bastard could do all the stuff that
was breaking your heart and your bones and not even crease his jungle greens. There was a fast-growing agreement among us that the brown envelope wasnât such a shit-hot lottery to win after all.
Slowly we got the hang of this kind of soldiering and developed into something weâd never thought we could become. We became lean as a droverâs dog, fit as a mallee bull and, most importantly, weâd learned to act and think for ourselves. It probably saved our lives a dozen times over in Vietnam. If there are three words that are sweet to the lips of any Vietnam vet it is them three â âContact bloody Drillâ.
When we got to Vietnam we found that the Australians were the only force there who were jungle ready. Hardened to the fray.
And so to South Vietnam, Phuoc Tuy province and Nui Dat, the headquarters of the 1st Australian Task Force, 1 ATF for short. Nui Dat was situated in an old rubber plantation about twenty miles from a town named Baria. They called it the Funny Farm, because there was nothing funny about it. Just people in black pyjamas and conical hats who all looked and dressed the same, friend and foe alike.
These were a people who, during the dark of the night, would send seven-year-old children, mostly little
girls, into the six-mile minefield weâd laid between the Horseshoe and the coast. The minefield was supposed to form a barrier that would prevent the VC, who were hiding in an area known as the Long Green, from getting to the villages and their rice fields.
Patrolling the boundaries of the minefield was the responsibility of a South Vietnamese infantry battalion and some Regional Force units. Not being the most interested soldiers in the world, they didnât bother. Now you might as well not have a minefield if you donât keep a careful watch over it. So these skinny kids, about the size of an Australian four-year-old, would sneak into the minefield at night. Their tiny feet and delicate sensitive toes were like little noses sniffing out the M16 jumping jack mines. They would shuffle along, their toes scraping the surface of the earth until they gently nudged the metal prong or side of the mine, trying to be so gentle so as not to set the mine off. Then the mine would be lifted and put someplace else they werenât meant to be so weâd be the ones to step on them next day.
Once in a while a truck which had been along Route 44 would report seeing bits of rag and broken flesh hanging on the barbed wire in the sunlight. Another seven-year-old had given her life for the Funny Farm.
It was getting late at the cafe and some of the blokes had fallen asleep. It had been a long day for all of us, it was time for beddy-byes in the pub. But there was one last thing. During the whole night Nam Tran hadnât said much. Every time I looked over at him he was nodding and smiling but he didnât say nothing. Then right at the end he stands up, heâs pissed, but then we all are. He waves his tinnie around. âYou know why I come Australia?â he says.
âYeah, so yiz can fuck us up like we done you blokes,â Animal shouts, his usual self, subtle as a smack to the side of the head.
The little man ignores him. âI come because you fight good, same Vietnamese.â He means the Viet Cong, of course, not the South Vietnamese government mob. He looks around and I can see he wants to say more. âAlso, you bury our dead.â He taps his chest with his finger, âYou show me respect.â Then he sits down and stands up again almost immediately. âIn North Vietnam Army we say, âWalk without footprint, cook without smoke, speak without sound, move at night like a falling leaf.ââ Then he sits down and starts to cry.
Iâve never
It went on like this all day and half the night as a regular army sergeant mouthed off at you. The worst part was that the bastard could do all the stuff that
was breaking your heart and your bones and not even crease his jungle greens. There was a fast-growing agreement among us that the brown envelope wasnât such a shit-hot lottery to win after all.
Slowly we got the hang of this kind of soldiering and developed into something weâd never thought we could become. We became lean as a droverâs dog, fit as a mallee bull and, most importantly, weâd learned to act and think for ourselves. It probably saved our lives a dozen times over in Vietnam. If there are three words that are sweet to the lips of any Vietnam vet it is them three â âContact bloody Drillâ.
When we got to Vietnam we found that the Australians were the only force there who were jungle ready. Hardened to the fray.
And so to South Vietnam, Phuoc Tuy province and Nui Dat, the headquarters of the 1st Australian Task Force, 1 ATF for short. Nui Dat was situated in an old rubber plantation about twenty miles from a town named Baria. They called it the Funny Farm, because there was nothing funny about it. Just people in black pyjamas and conical hats who all looked and dressed the same, friend and foe alike.
These were a people who, during the dark of the night, would send seven-year-old children, mostly little
girls, into the six-mile minefield weâd laid between the Horseshoe and the coast. The minefield was supposed to form a barrier that would prevent the VC, who were hiding in an area known as the Long Green, from getting to the villages and their rice fields.
Patrolling the boundaries of the minefield was the responsibility of a South Vietnamese infantry battalion and some Regional Force units. Not being the most interested soldiers in the world, they didnât bother. Now you might as well not have a minefield if you donât keep a careful watch over it. So these skinny kids, about the size of an Australian four-year-old, would sneak into the minefield at night. Their tiny feet and delicate sensitive toes were like little noses sniffing out the M16 jumping jack mines. They would shuffle along, their toes scraping the surface of the earth until they gently nudged the metal prong or side of the mine, trying to be so gentle so as not to set the mine off. Then the mine would be lifted and put someplace else they werenât meant to be so weâd be the ones to step on them next day.
Once in a while a truck which had been along Route 44 would report seeing bits of rag and broken flesh hanging on the barbed wire in the sunlight. Another seven-year-old had given her life for the Funny Farm.
It was getting late at the cafe and some of the blokes had fallen asleep. It had been a long day for all of us, it was time for beddy-byes in the pub. But there was one last thing. During the whole night Nam Tran hadnât said much. Every time I looked over at him he was nodding and smiling but he didnât say nothing. Then right at the end he stands up, heâs pissed, but then we all are. He waves his tinnie around. âYou know why I come Australia?â he says.
âYeah, so yiz can fuck us up like we done you blokes,â Animal shouts, his usual self, subtle as a smack to the side of the head.
The little man ignores him. âI come because you fight good, same Vietnamese.â He means the Viet Cong, of course, not the South Vietnamese government mob. He looks around and I can see he wants to say more. âAlso, you bury our dead.â He taps his chest with his finger, âYou show me respect.â Then he sits down and stands up again almost immediately. âIn North Vietnam Army we say, âWalk without footprint, cook without smoke, speak without sound, move at night like a falling leaf.ââ Then he sits down and starts to cry.
Iâve never
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