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
