Witi Ihimaera - Uncle's Story

They were really going through their ammunition, spraying the area in front of them, peppering and stitching up the base — and it really was like movie time, when the good guys came riding into the sleepy town and helped the defenceless villagers against the bad gringo guys.

Sam placed his rifle beside him, swung the M79 into his right shoulder and fired. Six grenades soared and exploded, showering the Vietcong with metal shrapnel. Then he was up and running again, George and Turei with him all the way. Ahead the grenades were going off like fireworks in the air, Roman candles, golden showers, Fourth of July, Guy Fawke’s Day —

All around Sam, the troops of Victor Company were advancing.

A line of little spouts tracked towards Sam in the red dust. Jesus! Transfixed, paralysed, he watched as rounds went right around him.

‘Oh, you are one lucky son of a bitch.’

He raised his rifle and let a whole magazine fly towards the bullets’ source. Empty magazines were scattered where soldiers had been reaching and slamming them in, emptying one and reaching for another, slamming it in and emptying it — just letting the rounds fly. By return, a ferocious barrage of enemy machine-gun fire erupted from the front, red-hot slithers of metal and B-40 rockets. The soldier next to Sam was cut in half at the waist. No time to think about that. Just keep moving. Fire from the hip, keep firing, and change magazines.

‘Was it like this for Dad, when he was in the Maori Battalion?’

All of a sudden, Sam was through the base’s defensive perimeter and in among the bunker system. Charlie was popping up everywhere.

Aim, squeeze the trigger, let off the shot. Aim, squeeze, and another Chuck goes to Vietnam Heaven. Take down as many enemy as you could before they hugged you by your belt.

All around him, other soldiers were engaging in hand to hand combat.

Magazine empty. Ahead an enemy soldier was charging him. Sam reached for a new magazine and hit the release on the bolt receiver. Oh, shit. His rifle had jammed.

The enemy soldier raised his rifle. Incredibly, it jammed too.

With a cry, Sam launched himself at the man. The stench of the soldier overpowered him as they grappled at close quarters. Then the concussion from an exploding bomb kicked them and hurled them into the air. Dazed, Sam sat up. The Vietcong was crawling towards him, knife in hand. He raised it and —

George was there, shooting the enemy soldier in the mouth, unclipping a grenade, pulling out its pin and throwing it into a Vietcong bunker.

Boom, and smoke exploded out of the opening.

Sin loi, enemy soldiers. Too bad.

Sam rolled and dived for the rifle that still smoked in the hands of a dead comrade. Ahead, the enemy were beating feet, breaking contact, spilling out of the bunkers and running before the assault. An image came into Sam’s mind of having jumped into a chicken coop: All those chickens.

Men were firing, firing, firing. One of the chickens sprayed blood and lost a wing. Another had its head shot off and was flapping around, a headless chicken, running off into the distance.

And Sam was in among the bunkers, lifting his bullet stream and directing it down into the enemy who cowered there. He saw the pleading look as he blew a Vietcong soldier out of his Ho Chi Minh sandals. Twisting to his right, he fired into another bunker where three of the enemy had thrown themselves together to protect each other. All around him, Sam’s team was in a feeding frenzy. Throwing grenades like lethal fruit. Moving through the smoke and destruction and firing at anything at all. If it moves, fuck it.

There was no concept of time. It was winding up before him and unwinding behind him. He was running to breast some finishing tape and Dad was cheering: Go, son!

He was tired, sucking massive air, and the adrenalin was absolutely coming through his ears. He was living a lifetime of stark terror. He kept firing and firing. An infantryman near him had a flame thrower, but he was shot in the face as he lifted it. Another bullet, crack , and his spinal cord was severed.

Enraged, Sam picked up the flame thrower, flicked the switch and sent the flame into the enemy foxhole. Take that, arseholes.

Five screaming figures, human torches, spilled up and over the lip of the hole. Their bodies danced like candles. Sam saw his mother putting her hands to her eyes. She didn’t want to look. And the tape was in front of him and —

‘You did it, Sam, you won!’

Sam heard somebody screaming. Out of control, Quincey was running amok through the enemy base, laughing his head off. The sound was like a buzzsaw and it cut through Sam’s bloodlust.

OhmyGod.

He looked around him. The sheer lunacy. The sheer madness. And all of a sudden silence fell. All except Quincey, still laughing, gun spent, but still pressing the trigger.

Glory, glory hallelujah

glory, glory hallelujah

glory, glory hallelujah

His truth is marching on!

After the battle, there was a cloudy cooling breeze. It was mop-up time. The attack had reaped a bitter harvest.

‘If I ever wanted to picture Hell, this must be what it’s like,’ Sam thought.

Everything moved into slow motion. Rapid casualty evacuations were occurring. Dust, grass and other debris swirled in the air as choppers ferried the wounded back to Vung Tau. On the ground medics rushed to administer morphine, to stabilise the wounds, stem the bleeding or resuscitate hearts. Men shook and screamed. There was blood everywhere, and the powerful stench of open wounds. One man’s flesh had been fireballed off his face, neck and shoulders. Another looked as if his torso was a leg of pork, filleted open. His bicep muscle was visible and yellow sinews poked out from his wounds.

Sam saw Lieutenant Haapu beside one of the wounded who was making a hacking sound and dribbling blood from his mouth. The soldier had been smacked hard and his chest had been turned to mush. Lying next to him was a soldier who had his back blown out. He was dying.

‘Mum, have you come to get me? Is it time to go home now?’

Further along, a priest administered last rites to another soldier.

‘Please don’t talk to me, Padre,’ the soldier whimpered. ‘I’m not dying, I’m not dying, please, I’m not —’

The dead lay waiting in baskets covered with blood-splattered ponchos. Soldiers on detail loaded the bodies into a Chinook. Sam saw a head fall from a basket and roll like a melon in the dust. Turning away, he tripped over a boot and saw a foot in it. For a moment he had the absurd notion that he should take the foot with him and ask if anybody wanted it.

Lost a foot? Will this one do?

His thoughts were interrupted by the whining of another Chinook as it worked with rigging straps to ferry away one of the downed gunships. He heard a voice shrieking above the thunder of the chopper:

‘Lai dai! Lai dai! Come here, you Charlie bastards, and lie the fuck down.’

Enemy prisoners were being herded brutally into a makeshift compound. Some had half their clothes blown off. Others had suffered grievous wounds.

Sam moved on towards the enemy bunkers. In some of them the bodies were so mangled they didn’t look human at all. Some had been fused together, monstrous creations of war with three heads and flame-soldered tentacles for arms. How many enemy were dead? Sam didn’t know. He saw drag marks where some had tried to carry their friends in the headlong escape from the attack.

In a daze, Sam moved to the lip of a foxhole and sat down. He bowed his head in his hands. Then, across the sunlight, he saw Turei advancing on George with a small snake, waggling it furiously.

In the middle of all this — an absurdity.