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 colours, like wartime garden gnomes, affording the expended weapons a peaceful image inconsistent with their design.
Bishop walked briskly to the front door, his movements lithe and economical, suggesting fitness and strength. His bright blue eyes flicked to the left and right as he moved, in the manner of one accustomed to taking in every detail around him. He was on his second tour of duty in Vietnam. His first tour had been as an infantry section leader, a good one, and he had not lost the forward scout’s art of constant observation. Section leaders often acted as their own scouts in this strange war, where most Australian field infantry units were sadly undermanned.
Bishop was a National Service conscript, and at just twenty-four, one of the youngest senior NCOs in the regiment. He worked as an ‘in country’ instructor at the reinforcement unit, a sort of holding bay where reserve troops were kept to fill the gaps created by those killed or wounded in action. Some soldiers called the unit the ‘butcher shop’, but the inference in the name did not bother Bishop. His sensitivities to such things had long since been bludgeoned out of him during that first bloody tour.
He fronted the rough desk near the entrance to the building and was greeted by a pimply-faced corporal. ‘Can I help you, mate?’ The corporal asked without looking up from the pile of papers on his desk.
‘You better be able to, and don’t fuckin’ call me mate, Corporal. I busted my guts to get these hooks.’ The corporal looked up from his papers, scrambling to his feet, his face burning as he noted the name tag on Bishop’s shirt. ‘Sorry, Sergeant Bishop’, he stammered. ‘We get so much high brass around here that we get a bit complacent, how can I help you?’
He resented this upstart young sergeant. This place was alive with very senior officers, none of whom required him to stand to address them.
Bishop grinned, suddenly friendly now that he had asserted his position. ‘I’m here for a briefing with Brigadier Jacob’, he said. ‘I’m ten minutes early, but seeing as he is a brigadier, and I’m a baggy-arsed sergeant, I thought I’d play it safe.’
‘Good move’, the corporal agreed, gratefully accepting the change in Bishop’s manner. ‘Follow me and I’ll take you to the meeting room.’ Bishop followed the corporal down the narrow hall of the demountable building and was shown into a small briefing room. ‘If you wait here’, the corporal said, ‘the brigadier will be along shortly. Can I get you a mug of tea of coffee?’ he added, his eyes revealing a desire for the answer to be no.
‘No’, Bishop replied, grinning as the relief washed over the man’s pimply face. ‘I’ll just wait for the action, whatever it proves to be.’
The corporal nodded and left and Bishop looked around the room. It was spartan and sparsely furnished with the usual military fittings of desks and plastic chairs, but spotlessly clean. Maps of the province and beyond festooned the walls, an overhead projector sat on a table and there was a large chalkboard set on the wall above a slightly raised stage area at the front of the room. Two large ceiling fans beat slowly overhead, moving the hot tropical air about the room but providing little cooling effect. The jungle greens clung to Bishop’s skin as the sweat oozed from his pores.
He wondered what this briefing was all about and he felt a tight clutch of apprehension in his gut. His commanding officer had been pretty sketchy with details. ‘I think you’re getting bored with this war, Sergeant’, the CO had growled. ‘You need a new challenge, something to refocus those military skills of yours. Well, as it happens, I’ve been asked to provide a senior NCO with a good track record for a special task.’ He had studied Bishop’s face for a moment, perhaps waiting for some reaction. Bishop’s face remained impassive. ‘I think you’re the man. I should tell you that other commanders within the task force were also asked to nominate a starter. However, you have been chosen as the most appropriate candidate. It is also opportune that your security clearance is to top secret level, a requirement for this job I’m told.’
Bishop raised his eyebrows and made no comment, frankly he did not know what to say. The CO was thoughtful as he watched the young sergeant’s face. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you what it’s all about, even if I wanted to, because quite simply, I don’t know. But I do know it presents an opportunity for you to make some sort of a name for yourself.’ He looked at Bishop and his eyes narrowed. ‘Which probably also means you have an above average chance of getting yourself killed.’
The CO had stood up then, abruptly signalling an end to the meeting. ‘There is a briefing at task force headquarters tomorrow at zero nine hundred hours. Report to the orderly room and ask for Brigadier Jacob. Just present yourself in normal uniform and carry your pistol, nothing else is required for now. I have been told that, if you accept the task, you will not be coming back here, you’ll leave directly from task force headquarters. Are you game?’
‘Of course’, Bishop said nodding, trying not to sound too enthusiastic and hiding his real need to get back into the thick of the action. ‘And you’re right sir’, he added, ‘I have been getting a bit stale, this second tour has been a bit flat so far’.
His CO slapped him on the back as they walked from the office. ‘Well, this might put some spice into it for you’, he said. He offered his hand to the younger man. ‘If I don’t get to see you again for a while, good luck.’ Bishop shook the offered hand, saluted, then turned and marched from the room.
Deep down he hoped for some real action. He needed to revisit some old experiences to help him clear his head of the uncertainties that had followed him since the last tour. This second tour of duty had so far been a holiday compared to his last stint as a section leader. Training
