‘C’mon, Sam, you party animal!’
Laughing and protesting at the same time, Sam gestured ruefully at Harper and was gone. He wasn’t to know that his departure hit Harper with a deep sense of loss. As if, coming down the slope on the sled, Sam had fallen off and tumbled away into the snow.
On Victor Company’s return to Nui Dat, Sam was surprised to find Lieutenant Haapu waiting for them.
‘Did your men have a good time, Sergeant? Good. Now it’s time for work. Assemble the men for an urgent briefing.’
Turei looked excitedly at George.
‘Do you think this is what I’m thinking it is?’
Half an hour later, Major Worsnop began the briefing.
‘This is it, men,’ he began. ‘I know you’ve been waiting patiently. Tomorrow our battalion will join with other Australian and American battalions in a major offensive against the Communists.’
The announcement took Sam’s breath away. Some of the men cheered.
‘Victor Company is going in the advance group to set up the base camp. Now is the time to put your training to good purpose. Good luck.’
‘The code name is Operation Bucephalus.’
The men worked deep into the night, preparing for the operation at company, platoon and section level. Every man prepared himself, making his own check of his personal weapon and equipment: helmet and flak jacket, webbing, harness and belt, butt pack, ammunition pouch, pistol belt, water bottles, bayonet or machete, belted machine-gun ammunition. Lightest of all, NZ freeze-dry rations. Just add water and mix. Then it was a matter of waiting for lights out and hoping you could get some sleep.
Sam spent his time reading letters from Arapeta, his mother Florence and his little sister Patty. His father’s letter was formal, expressing the hope that Sam was upholding the mana of the iwi. Florence’s letter looked as if it was spotted with her tears. Patty had sent a drawing of her new pony. She complained that little brother Monty always broke things. The letters made Sam sentimental. He put them aside. For some reason — perhaps loneliness or stress — he thought of Harper.
For the rest of the evening, Sam lay in his bunk looking at the moon. Operation Bucephalus was time for payback. For Sam to take utu for Jim’s death.
In the quiet of the night George began to strum his guitar and sing:
‘E pari ra, nga tai ki te ahau —’
An old World War Two song, the words reminded Sam of his father and Arapeta’s war. Would he prove to be as good as his father?
Suddenly George gave a sharp intake of breath, and began to speak.
Intrigued, Sam joined Turei at George’s side.
‘Who are you talking to?’ Sam asked.
George’s face was drawn and haunted. He pointed to the trees. At first Sam couldn’t see what George was pointing at. Then something moved. Something blinked.
Perched on the branch of one of the trees, maintaining an unwavering stare, was a russet brown owl.
‘I’ve just had a visitor,’ George said, laughing. ‘See? It spoke my name. I don’t think I’m going to get out of this war alive.’
Fearlessly George began to serenade the owl.
‘E hotu ra ko taku manawa—’
The owl stared down at George. Screeched. A harsh cry, freezing the blood.
‘Don’t you like my song?’ George asked.
The owl gave him one last look. Blinked again.
One moment it was there. Next moment, with a rustle, like velvet, it was gone, flying up and into the centre of the moon.
Chapter Seven
Four in the morning. Still dark. Sam felt a tap on his shoulder. Lieutenant Haapu, whispering to him.
‘Time to go. Rouse the men.’
Sam’s feet hit the floor. He was through the tent in a second.
‘Get up, guys. Shower and over to the Mess to eat.’
By 5.00, dawn was approaching. Throughout Nui Dat the Australian and New Zealand battalions prepared to move to Luscombe airfield.
‘On the double. Pick it up. Pick it up.’
At 5.30, Victor Company took up the all-round defensive harbour position at the airfield. The choppers were firing up.
The gunships left first. Reciprocating engines began to turn. Ignition, blue smoke, the smell of petrol fuel. From dead silence to thundering noise in one second. The helicopters rocked, rolled and shimmied as the blades rotated. The sunlight glinted on the whirling rotors. The lead gunship taxied out.
‘Mission control, this is Woody Woodpecker. Radio check over.’
‘Woody Woodpecker, I hear you five by.’
‘Affirmative. We’re lifting off.’
Harper pulled pitch. With a sudden juddering, the nose of the chopper dipped, the tail rose, the rotating blades began to go pop pop pop, and the gunship lifted off the ground. As was his custom, Harper saluted the soldiers below. He promised to do his job and keep the enemy pinned down while the troop insertions were underway. He said a prayer for all those poor bastards who would soon be face to face with the enemy.
‘Come back in one piece, Sam.’
By 6.00 the Australian companies had left. Now it was time for Victor Company.
‘Get ready to move,’ Sam called.
Already, the infantrymen were running at speed to board their assigned craft. Sam saw Lieutenant Haapu shepherding the platoon’s mortar section, orderly, signaller and medic on board the first chopper. Of all the platoon, the signaller was the one man the enemy snipers tried to take out. Without him to relay orders, and call for backup or a dustoff helicopter to pull out the wounded, you were in big trouble.
‘Move, move, move,’ Sam called.
The sun leapt into the sky like a chariot. Sam led his men through its spokes, moving swiftly to board their craft. There, the co-pilot acknowledged Sam with a nod. It was Seymour, one of the American basketball players. He and Sam counted in the men: George, Turei, Mandy Manderson, Jock Johanssen, Red Fleming and six riflemen. All were carrying extra pieces of equipment — disposable single-shot anti-tank rocket launchers that were strapped to their packs. If the enemy thought that bunkers would save them, these babies would get them out.
Sam gave Seymour the thumbs-up. The chopper rose, dipped and joined the battle formation. Six hundred metres below, the ground swept past.
Twenty minutes later, the landscape ahead began to explode and erupt.
‘It’s our artillery,’ Sam reassured the men. ‘They’re giving us cover fire to keep the Vietcong busy while we get in.’
There was a sudden increase in radio traffic, and the clattering air armada began to descend to the landing zone — the most dangerous moment of all for the fleet.
Sam heard the pilot radioing the support gunships.
‘One minute to dump time. Negative enemy sighted on LZ. Gunship Leader, I’m making a final approach for insertion. Is it a go, Woody Woodpecker?’
‘Roger. It’s a go.’
The chopper banked to the left and slid into the side of a dark mountain terrain. In a dizzying rush the ground came up and they were there — hovering above a small patch of barren ground surrounded by jungle. The chopper flared for a stop, swaying six metres off the ground.
Sam caught Red Fleming’s eye. ‘You okay?’ Sam asked.
‘I haven’t pissed my pants, Sarge, if that’s what you mean. Yet.’
Then, as if the pilot had said ‘Whoa’, the chopper was swaying three feet off the ground right above the landing zone.
‘Go go go,’ Seymour called.
In a second Sam had jumped to the ground. The fine red soil was a whirlwind around him as he ran for the nearest cover and hit the dirt, rifle at the ready, waiting for the bullet that would announce an enemy sniper. His heart was beating so hard it interfered with his hearing.