The Odd Angry Shot Read Free

trolleys.
    â€˜Christ, they’re corpses. There must be sixty-odd in that lot.’
    â€˜Are they what I think they are?’ I ask.
    â€˜Yep.’
    â€˜Jesus.’
    â€˜Plenty more where they came from.’
    â€˜Fuck,’ is all I can say.
    â€˜TO Nui Dat by truck is approximately thirty minutes’ ride. The highway you will be travelling on has been under Viet Cong control for the last twelve years. I want one man in each truck to act as shotgun. If we have a contact we will go into a standard vehicle ambush drill. Shotguns, keep your eyes open and don’t kill any fucking villagers. On the way,’ words of wisdom from the squadron sergeant major.
    â€˜Any questions?’
    â€˜Sir, how do we know the difference between villagers and Charlies?’
    â€˜When they blow yer stupid head off, does that answer your question?’
    â€˜Yessir.’
    We all laughed—the sergeant major laughed too.
    I am almost disappointed that no one shoots at us. Shit it feels good, the local nogs are as scared as all Christ of us.
    â€˜D’ja see the looks on their faces?’
    â€˜Really make you feel welcome, don’t they.’
    Remember as soon as you got there—rain. Remember how you said that you’d never seen rain like it but you got used to it after a couple of days and anyway it was good to wash in; the small waterfalls it made when it spilled down from the roof of the supply tent, much better than that chlorinated cats’ piss that the sappers used to get from the well.
    There were times when it was good to lie in your own little sandbagged and plastic covered world. In the afternoons, when it rained—it always rained on time.
    â€˜You could set your watch by this fucking rain,’ said Harry—every day, day after day. It became a ritual after a while, remember, as soon as it would start to rain the whole troop of sixteen men would scream in unison: ‘What could you set your watch by, Harry?’ and Harry would scream back, ‘This fucking rain.’
    AND yes, there were the card games. The OC had strictly forbidden gambling in the lines, everyone from 2 IC down gambled. Pontoon, of course, and always in the supply tent where Black Ronnie, the quartermaster, ran the games, every night.
    â€˜Pay twenty.’
    â€˜Wouldn’t that fuck ya; eighteen.’
    â€˜That’s the third in a row.’
    â€˜You wouldn’t be cheatin’ your comrades in arms would you, Ronnie?’
    â€˜Who? Me? No way.’
    â€˜My arse.’
    â€˜Buy one—and another.’
    â€˜Bust me for four bucks.’
    â€˜What are you on?’
    â€˜Sixteen.’
    â€˜Sixteen and ten is twenty six.’
    â€˜Thanks, cunt.’
    â€˜You are most welcome, my boy.’
    â€˜Bets thanks, fellas.’
    Every night it went on except when you were out on operations.
    â€˜Are you playing or not?’
    â€˜Buy one.’
    â€˜Shuddup. Listen.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Shuddup.’
    Crump, crump, crump, crump…footsteps of death. Jesus Christ, Incoming Mortars Incoming. The clash beside the tent made you stop dead. Christ, the stink. Crump, crump, crump. Cordite. Oh shit, remember how Black Ronnie crashed forward over the table and how you froze when you saw the hole in the back of his head and how he started to vomit. Shit, oh Jesus no—and when you went to grab him, the gush of blood from his mouth that hit you full in the face—blood and vomit. ‘Oh fuck,’ you said. ‘Ronnie,’ you yelled, ‘Oh Jesus.’ Crump, crump—remember how you could see the grey-blue brain pulse out its last few, jerky movements, and Ronnie’s eyes. One more cough, more blood. Remember how you swore that he wouldn’t die and you knew damn well that you were holding a corpse and that you were standing like a fool holding him across the table under the arms while he spewed blood over the cards.