Maybe he just spun out. Who knows?’
Kowalski thought of the wreckage, the shattered wings, the dead engine, the wasted bomb-load. The Cong would take the tailplane and put it on a stick and take pictures of it.
‘A million-dollar peasant,’ he said savagely. ‘Did we get him?’
‘He wasn’t there.’
Kowalski screwed the flight report into a ball.
‘A trap,’ he whispered. ‘A goddam Cong trap!’ He took out his gun and spun the chamber furiously while he thought. Also, he smiled, in a private, military way.
‘Maybe the guy just went for lunch,’ murmured the pilot. But Kowalski did not hear.
That afternoon, six aircraft took off on a seek-and-destroy mission to knock out the anti-aircraft sites Kowalski had pinpointed for them. That done, a second strike was to go in and silence the peasant.
Three bombers returned. The Vietnamese, having found themselves suddenly in a strategic position, had called up a couple of heavy machine-guns to defend their village, both of which had survived the attack that had homed in on the largest building, the school.
‘School, huh?’ said Kowalski, with a certain amount of relief, due to his having originally attributed the smallness of the bodies in the photographs to some fault in his aerial cameras. He turned to his wireless operator. ‘Send this: Major-General Kowalski to USAF HQ – In a pre-emptive strike against major supply dumps north of the DMZ, an A4F Skyhawk was downed by enemy fire. A retaliatory strike against anti-aircraft positions resulted in the loss of three further Hawks. However, a major VC training-camp was destroyed, with many – make that hundreds – dead. Ten thousand rounds of ordnance and one hundred tons of bombs were expended. Attacks continue. Message ends.’
The commander smiled triumphantly upon his staff.
‘We got ourselves some war, gentlemen,’ he said.
‘For four Hawks,’ said a captain laconically, ‘they’ll want results.’
‘They’ll get results. Tomorrow, we’ll hit the missile sites.’
They looked at him.
‘Missile sites?’
‘If I know the Cong,’ said Kowalski, ‘and I know them, I can smell them, there’ll be missile sites. They got the whole night to set ’em up.’
He was right. At dawn on the following day, twenty-four Skyhawks, heavy with HE and napalm, ran into a wave of North Vietnamese GAMs. Six were shot down, one crash-landed in the DMZ; two helicopters were lost trying to bring back the pilot, who died slowly, but was recommended for the Medal of Honour by Kowalski. It was good for morale.
‘To the folks back home,’ he told his men on the parade-ground the following morning, and his voice trembled through the loudspeakers, ‘that medal isn’t just Charlie Fitzgerald’s medal. It belongs to every man out here fighting for liberty, justice, and the flag. To your mothers and dads, and sisters and brothers, every one of you is a hero.’
The airmen shuffled their feet, and blushed. Some of them were very young. Pride welled up in them, diluting fear. Reminded of what they were there for, they climbed back into their cockpits in good heart, knowing that death could have a purpose. Pride filled Kowalski, too, as he watched them go.
‘This is a major offensive,’ he told his 2IC. ‘Vital to the war. Strategic. If we break here, we break everywhere. But,’ he patted his holster, ‘no-one’s gonna break.’
That night, he went to bed happy. True, half his strike force had failed to return, but the day’s sorties had racked up a tally of a thousand tons of bombs and rockets, which was a record for his sector of the front. Also, a large area of possibly strategic jungle had been defoliated, the district hospital had been razed, and innumerable chickens would not now find their way into the lunch-baskets of General Giap and his friends. Kowalski, wide-awake, was still calculating the size of reinforcements he would need to call up in order to maintain his escalation at the prescribed textbook level, when the first mortar shell hit the airstrip. Snatching his revolver and knife from beneath their respective pillows, Kowalski leapt out into the night.
It glowed bright as day. Burning fuel silhouetted planes for the few seconds necessary for their bomb-loads to explode, shells and flaming debris rained down, men in pyjamas ran about barefoot, shouting, firing at anything that moved. Kowalski, trapped by the twin agony and joy of war, stood rooted to the spot, gun cocked, breathing in the heady fumes: it took two lieutenant-colonels and a cook to carry him away to a makeshift dug-out.
‘I knew it!’ cried the major-general. Beside him, a man fell dead, half his head shot away. ‘I knew they’d have to come! They walked right into it.’ His words were sucked away as an ammunition dump went up, tearing the night apart, but they came again ‘… what you call war, gentlemen! Tomorrow, we’ll get three divisions in here, four, we’ll get two hundred Hawks, we’ll get ground-to-grounds, and whole batteries of Lazy Dogs, we’ll get nuclear …’
A grenade blew out the side of the bunker, flinging what was left of his second-in-command against Kowalski. The man looked up at his commander, dying.
‘I wonder,’ he murmured, ‘I wonder – whatever happened to that – to that peasant?’
‘What peasant?’ shrieked Kowalski. He looked round wildly. ‘What’s he talking about?’
But before anyone had the chance to answer, and despite Mrs Kowalski’s expensive Christmas present, they were overrun.
Under the Influence of Literature
My mother was the first person to learn that I had begun to take literature seriously. The intimation came in the form of a note slid under my bedroom door on the morning of February 4 (I think), 1952. It said, quite simply:
Dear Mother,
Please do not be alarmed, but I have turned into a big black bug. In spite of this I am still your son so do not treat me any different. It must have happened in the night. On no account throw any apples in case they stick in my back which could kill me.
Your son.
I hasten to add that this turned out to be a lousy diagnosis on my part. But the night before I had gone to bed hugging my giant panda and a collected Kafka found under a piano leg, and since, when I woke up, I was flat on my back, it seemed only reasonable to suppose that I’d metamorphosed along with Gregor Samsa, and was now a fully paid-up cockroach. The fit passed by lunchtime, but for years my father used the story to stagger people who asked him why he was so young and so grey.
Thing is, I was pushing fourteen at the time, and caught in that miserable No-Man’s-Land between Meccano and Sex, wide open to suggestions that life was hell. My long trousers were a travesty of manhood, and shaving was a matter of tweezers and hope. Suddenly aware of how tall girls were, and of how poorly a box of dead butterflies and a luminous compass fit a man for a smooth initiation
