proceed, I need to know your decision now.’
The men in the room exchanged glances; they were tired and a little frustrated. Their nerves were becoming stretched from the constant briefing, the seemingly one-way traffic from the old officer, and they were all hungry, thirsty and tired. But it was clear that they were all going to participate in the mission. The brigadier laughed, reading the body language. ‘Okay’, he said, ‘I take it we are all in. Now the fact that we are all thrown together in this mission does not mean that we cannot relax a little. I’ve organised private messing facilities where we can now retire for a drink and some food. We will all get to know each other a little better for the next couple of hours, then we’ll all get some rest’. The old man rose and beckoned them to follow. ‘We will continue the official process in the morning, meanwhile, please join me for some refreshments.’
The brigadier led the way to a compound that had apparently been prepared for this group specifically. There was a row of tents, and a small demountable building that appeared to act as a mess hall and bar area. A high wall had been erected around the area and enclosed in barbed wire, rather like a motor vehicle or ammunition compound. As they walked through the gates, Bishop noticed a sign proclaiming, ‘No Admittance. Task Force Ammunitions and Weapons Depot’. He reasoned that this compound had been modified purely for the purpose of this exercise, a fact that further hammered home the importance the task force placed on the security of the mission and the mission itself. As they sat drinking quietly before dining in the cosy confines of the mess hut, the brigadier continued to dominate proceedings, deftly directing discussions between the members of the group. They dined rather lavishly on fresh rations and good wine but, despite the old man’s efforts, the men talked little among themselves, preferring to be led by their senior officer.
The brigadier opened discussions about many things, but little was said about the war or the mission. The reality and proximity of the war, however, filtered into the small club area. Choppers throbbed angrily overhead and mortar and artillery fire interrupted the conversation. The room was hot, the overhead fans doing little to ease the heat. The hot platters of food piled on the table only added to the high temperature of the room.
At last the brigadier called a halt to the night, the strain of the day’s proceedings showing clearly on his weathered face. ‘I’m sorry gentlemen’, he said, standing and looking quickly around the group, ‘but I think it’s time we got some rest. You will find everything you need in the row of tents outside, including clothing, toiletries and so on. We have spared little in pursuit of your creature comforts. I will allow you to select your own house companions, all the tents are the same and there is room for four in each tent’. He paused. ‘By the way, there is little point in seeking to leave this compound. It is well guarded. I am sure you understand that this is a secure area.’
They left the club and filtered out into the hot Vietnamese night, there was little discussion as they moved to the tent lines in search of bunks. Bishop was too tired to care who shared his accommodation. He simply moved to the nearest tent, selected one of the cubicles and prepared for sleep. Tall lockers were arranged to act as walls, dividing the interior of the tents into quarters, thus providing some privacy to each section. A single bed and a small bedside table occupied each cubicle, the bed tucked protectively against the sandbag blast wall of the tent. A drab olive green mosquito net covered each bed. Bishop opened the locker and found toiletries, underwear and a change of uniform.
The uniforms seemed a little on the large side, presumably to cater for the different sizes of the group. Better to be too large than too small, he thought. Being of medium build, Bishop was lucky, the small Australian officer and the large Kiwi would find some discomfort with the garments. Bishop noticed with interest that the Vietnamese, the Kiwi and the American private soldier were to share his accommodation. There was no communication between them, save for a guarded nod of the head as they entered the tent.
Within fifteen minutes they were all in bed, the lights extinguished. Bishop lay silently under the clean sheets of the single bunk listening to the sounds of the war. His companions in the tent were equally silent and he assumed that they were doing the same as he. One thing was now certain, this tour would no longer be boring, and he could hardly wait for the morning to learn more about this unique assignment. Sleep claimed him quickly, even before his mind could start churning over the events of the day. He slept heavily without dreams, his regular nightmare companions thankfully absent.
CHAPTER TWO
Leanne Bishop finished putting back on the clothes she had removed in haste a few minutes before. She looked at herself in the small mirror on the wall, pouting her full lips as she replenished her lipstick and patted her hair into place. She knew she was very pretty, perhaps even beautiful, but it had never gone to her head. Her body was small but well proportioned and attractive. She had seen the way men, and women, looked at her and she felt confident about her appearance. She checked her make-up again, making sure that powder still covered the splash of freckles across her nose and cheeks. The deep green eyes stared back at her from the mirror with a hint of surprise, as if she were looking at herself for the first time.
There were small dark circles under her eyes, and the fatigue and nausea she had been feeling over the last two weeks showed in her face. She was rarely ill and avoided doctors as a matter of principle, but she had been unable to deny the strange things that were happening in her body and, at last, the need to seek help had surpassed her fear of a medical examination. She came from behind the screen and sat opposite the small dark man at the desk. He smiled at her, his perfect white teeth a stark contrast to the darkness of his skin. ‘Well?’, she asked quietly.
‘Nothing sinister, Leanne. However, you are pregnant’, Doctor Prakash Sharman said in his soothing, lilting voice. She was never sure if he was an Indian or a Pakistani, ‘about six weeks along in fact’. He studied her face for a moment to gauge her reaction. There was none, so he turned his attention to the calendar on his desk. ‘That would make the baby due at the end of November.’ He smiled at her. ‘I hope this is good news to share with your man tonight.’ He studied the girl’s face again, there was a rather painful little smile about her lips this time which froze into a grimace at his last comment. ‘My husband is away’, she said, ‘he’s in the army, fighting I think they call it, in Vietnam. He left pretty well straight after our honeymoon’. She became thoughtful, then smiled again when she saw the look of concern in the doctor’s eyes. ‘Looks like he gave me quite a present on the honeymoon, just like the 1950s or something, don’t you think?’
‘Unusual in this day and age because of the Pill but not that uncommon’, the doctor agreed. ‘Some brides are already pregnant but a lot of others are usually taking some precautions’. He raised his eyebrows at her and she blushed.
‘Neither for me, I’m afraid’, she said firmly, ‘getting pregnant just never occurred to me at all. My sister is the worldly wise one in the family’. She looked at him steadily. ‘What happens from here?’ She asked, remembering the misery of the last two weeks and dreading a continuation of the tiredness and nausea. He frowned, seemingly a little confused by the question. She laughed at his creased brows. ‘I’m sorry’, she said, ‘what I mean is, well, will I feel sicker than I have already been? Can I keep working? That sort of thing.’
‘Ah’, he said, understanding her at last. ‘Well, the nausea and tiredness should cease in another six weeks but can be helped by eating small portions of food regularly. You will probably see some increases in your sensitivities to certain things, both physical and emotional. You may develop a heightened sense of smell and taste, for example, not always in a pleasant way. Little things that never bothered you before may become more of an issue.’ He looked at her face carefully. ‘Your husband being away at this time may cause you some distress. Are you alone or with relatives?’
‘I’m
