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CHAPTER 1

Ma Rung

Take a man and put him alone, Put him 5000 miles from home, Empty his heart of all, but blood, Make him live in sweat and mud.

— Anonymous Vietnam Digger, 'The Boys Up There'

'Long Green', East of Dat Do, Phuoc Tuy Province, Vietnam — 12 March, 1968.

Concealed in the jungle on a ridge above the Viet Cong mortar platoon, Sergeant Steve Lund gave the SAS patrol its instructions. He sent "Johnno" Johnson and Evans, the medic, around to the left of the enemy, while Papas and Barnes took the right flank. Lund stayed behind with Hutchinson, the signaller, to set up the M-60 bipod machine gun.

Clad in badgeless tiger-stripe uniforms, camouflage cream smeared on faces and arms, the men melted without a sound into the sun-dappled undergrowth. Jungle phantoms.

Taking up position within sight of the enemy, Johnson slid the water bottle from his belt, careful not to make a sound, and rinsed the dust from his dry mouth. Stinging sweat trickled into his eyes. He replaced the bottle and checked his rifle magazine, turning the weapon's safety catch to full automatic. Finally, he removed a white phosphorous grenade from his webbing and settled back to wait for the signal.

Insects buzzed and flitted in the hot air.

Suddenly, movement in the gully below the VC caught Johnson's attention. He swore under his breath as he recognised a patrol of hapless Diggers blundering into the enemy's line of sight.

Then there was activity from the VC — they too had seen the Australian infantrymen and were hastily repositioning their mortars.

Johnson levelled his rifle.

"Wait for the signal," hissed Evans as he took one of the white egg-shaped grenades from his own webbing and clicked it into the launcher at the end of his rifle.

There was a short series of hollow thuds from the Viet Cong position as the mortars began. Their first shells fell short, exploding in clouds of dirt, branches and other debris. But one found its mark, sending the Australian soldiers flying, shrapnel tearing through them.

Johnson gritted his teeth. He squinted with the sun in his eyes. Sweat ran in rivulets down his face, neck, and back.

Finally the signal, a burst of M-60 tracer, streamed into the VC camp. The white grenades followed from left and right, exploding with short, sharp cracks, spewing eruptions of deadly white phosphorous.

A screaming VC burst from cover, writhing, limbs flailing, the upper part of his body burning like a roman candle. But his agonised cries were cut short by a compassionate round from the M-60.

Other VC charged through the jungle towards Johnson's and Evans's position. Johnno brought his rifle to bear and spurted the full twenty-eight rounds from the magazine into the moving shrubs. A torrential rain of bullets ripped through the enemy from three points.

Then silence descended over the jungle once again.

Smoke drifted aimlessly amid the shredded foliage, the sickly-sweet smell of burnt flesh pervading the air. A lone bird began to chirp and chatter somewhere high in the trees.

Johnson slammed home a new magazine and moved cautiously forward, his rifle muzzle pointing wherever his eyes looked, his hand motioning Evans to fall in behind. Avoiding the paths and tracks, they moved swiftly and silently through the jungle, down into the gully, leaving the others to mop up any remaining pockets of VC resistance. Cries from the wounded Diggers penetrated the dense greenery and led them towards the fallen patrol.

Parting a fan of jungle fronds, Johnson revealed the clearing in which the Aussies had fallen. They lay scattered near the centre, two black-clad VC guerrillas standing over them with bloodied knives drawn.

Outrage and fury welled up and made Johnson's chest go tight. Even as he watched, the closest of the guerrillas turned his attention to a wounded Digger desperately trying to squirm to safety. Johnson yanked back hard on the trigger of his rifle and sprayed the VC, his bullets spinning the men around, shredding their chests like butcher's meat.

Entering the clearing, Johnson and Evans hurried to the aid of the two Australians still alive. Evans knelt by a corporal with most of his lower jaw missing — the man was gasping for breath, red bubbles forming and bursting in the cavity, his face splashed with blood and saliva. Johnson went to the other man, the one who had been trying to squirm away. This soldier had been hit in both legs, but appeared otherwise unharmed.

"It hurts like fuck," the man gasped as his gaze fell on the SAS corporal.

"Easy, mate." Johnson quickly jabbed him with a shot of morphine, tore a field dressing open with his teeth, and began to tend to his legs.

"The bastard was gonna kill me!"

"Take it easy, mate — dustoff choppers'll be here soon. Before you know it, you'll ..."

Johnson's head jerked up, his keen hearing had detected a sound; dry twigs or leaves crunching, the swish of foliage. He motioned the wounded man to silence and raised his rifle.

Suddenly a half-naked, frightened-looking VC guerrilla, hardly more than a kid, burst into the clearing, his AK-47 barking and kicking as it spewed tracer.

The soldier Evans was tending bucked and jerked, blood and flesh spraying from him. Evans went down with a scream as his legs were shot out from under him.

Johnson swung his weapon at the gunman, squeezed the trigger, and threw himself to the ground. His rifle squirted a round, which went high, then jammed.

The VC triumphantly turned the muzzle of his gun towards Johnson, but for some reason did not fire. Instead, the man's mouth fell open and his eyes grew wide in terror.

"Ma qui!" the VC yelped, shaking his head, his eyes bulging. He lowered his rifle, and began to back away. "Ma rung ..." It sounded like a plea for mercy.

Johnson cocked his rifle, checked the chamber with trembling fingers for a jammed case. Clear. But before he could adjust the regulator, two pistol shots rang out and the crazed VC guerrilla crumpled to the ground.

Johnson rolled over to see Steve Lund brandishing his automatic pistol, emerging from the jungle. Behind him came Hutchinson and the rest of the patrol.

"Check the VC for papers, diaries, maps," Lund snapped. "Papas, help Evans. Hutchinson, call in a dustoff chopper and get these blokes out of here." He turned to Johnson. "You all right, mate?"

Johnson clambered to his feet and shook his head slowly from side to side. "I thought I was a fuckin' goner." He threw his arm around Lund's shoulder and squeezed him. "Thanks, pal. You saved my life. Perfect timing, you scared the shit out of the nog. He had me, my rifle had a stoppage."

Lund shook his head. "It wasn't me who scared him, mate. I was still drawing my pistol when he stopped shooting. He saw something else, not me."

Johnson looked puzzled. "What'd he see?"

"Dunno. Shadows ... Somethin'." Lund blew his breath out. He lowered his voice. "Shit, Johnno, it looked like there were blokes standing over there."

"Blokes?"

"Those poor bastards behind you," Lund indicated the fallen Diggers. "I saw 'em ... I saw somethin'. He saw 'em. That's what scared the little prick, not me."

"Don't be fuckin' stupid," Johnson said. "If the brass hear you talkin' like that you'll be hauled in front of the shrink before you can say Jack Robinson."

Lund studied his friend's face for a moment, then shrugged free of his arm. "C'mon Hutchinson," he yelled, "where's that flamin' chopper?"

* * *

I got a letter from me sheila the other day, She said, "I've found a new bloke while you've been away," So I got pissed with me mates, Darryl and Fred, Best mates I ever had, but now they're both dead.

— Rob Dawson, 'Me Mates'

* * *

SAS Hill, Task Force Headquarters, Nui Dat, Vietnam — 23 April, 1968.

"What the fuck are ya doin' out there?" Steve Lund was sitting outside on a folding chair with his back to the tent, his feet soaking in an enamel dish of scarlet-purple water.

"Tryin' to get rid of this bloody tinea," Lund yelled. "Whadda ya reckon?"

"Huh?" Johnno Johnson emerged from the tent, only to shy away from the sunlight. "Jesus it's bright, dunno how ya can stand it. What's that purple shit?" "I can stand it, mate, because I stuck to Tiger beer when the Fosters ran out last night. You drank nearly a whole bottle of Bundy. That stuff'll kill ya."

"Bullshit, it puts hairs on your chest."

Lund was studying his feet. "This purple shit's Condy's crystals. Reckon it'll do any good?"

Johnson snorted. "Wouldn't count on it." He yawned and stretched, gazing bleary-eyed across the campsite, noticing men hanging around in small groups outside the tents and prefabs erected among the plantation rubber trees. "What's everyone doin' out there?"

"Same as me. Waitin' for Mouth Matthews."

"Him? Why bother?"

"'Cause the blokes over in Two Squadron got fed up with the little prick last night. They got him paralytic, walked him out to the urinals, made sure he fell into one of the drums full of piss, fished him out, chucked him in that tent over there and closed it up." Lund chuckled and looked up at the sun. "How hot do you reckon it is? Eighty? Ninety? By the time the dickhead wakes up, he'll be fuckin' ripe. I don't wanna miss it."

"Neither does half the camp," Johnson said, nodding at the men hanging around, smoking, chatting.

"What about you, Johnno? You okay today?"

"Whadda ya mean?"

"About Rhonda, droppin' ya."

"Yeah, bitch. She never could go without it for long."

"You can talk," guffawed Lund. "How many of those bar girls in Saigon and Vung Tau have you screwed?"

"That's different."

"Yeah, I know, you went on and on about it last night. Lucky I'm your mate. Nobody else would've put up with ya."

"Get stuffed." Johnson gave him two fingers. "Look at the shit I have to put up with from you."

"That's what mates are for. You can count on me, pal." He chuckled. "How about a beer? I reckon these Condy's crystals make a bloke thirsty."

Johnson disappeared into the tent and returned with two open cans of Tiger beer. "They're warm."

"Who cares as long as it's wet."

Johnson lobbed one to Lund who caught it with practised ease, holding it clear while some of the beer frothed over. "Hey, did ya hear what the nogs are callin' us?"

"Callin' who?"

"Us, the SAS."

"Nuh."

"Ma Rung. Ma-bloody-rung."

"What's it mean?"

"Umm ... Forest spirits. Tree men. Phantoms or ghosts of the jungle." Lund snorted. "Something like that. They reckon Ho Chi Minh's put a price on our head. Six thousand piastres."

"Cheap skate. We're worth a darn sight more than that. Ho Chi Minh's a cunt."

Both men laughed. Lund raised his can of beer in a toast. Johnson did the same. They touched cans, and gulped down the warm beer.

"Lundy ...?"

Lund wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "What?"

"Ma Rung ... Isn't that what that crazy VC said? You know, in the clearing after the mortar attack?" Johnson took another gulp of beer. "When you saved my life. When you reckon you saw somethin' ...?"

"I never saw anythin', mate. Shadows, that's all."

"Sure." Johnson nodded. "Whatever you say. I owe you for that, Lundy."

"Any time, pal. We're mates."

They clinked cans.

"Yeah, mates."

"You gonna hang around for Mouth Matthews?"

"Wouldn't miss it for quids."

* * *

The green banana grove, and the betel palm, Seas of green rice, and plains of silver water, All are home to the ghosts of the fallen, Who tread the paths of lost souls.

— Tran Thanh, 'Ma Rung' (translated by William Cobb)

* * *

Near Bien Hoa and Phuoc Tuy Province border, Vietnam — 9 October, 1968.

Johnson was in front on point, Hutchinson was bringing up the rear and the rest of the patrol were strung out in between. They were on a high priority reconnaissance mission into a free fire zone — here anything that moved was fair game.

During the previous half hour they had spent only ten minutes on the move, olive-drab shadows, and for the other twenty minutes they had remained as motionless as statues; listening, watching, dripping with perspiration.

It was pack-time — the time when enemy traffic was heaviest — and the SAS patrol was approaching a known North Vietnamese Army route.

Johnson gave the thumbs down signal and the six men sank into the lush undergrowth. Twelve feet from them, a North Vietnamese Army platoon was passing along an intersecting track.

They watched and counted and listened.

It was almost an hour later when eventually they moved on.

The SAS avoided tracks, instead they moved like stalking cats through the almost impenetrable walls of the jungle. When it was necessary to cross a track, they waited, listened, watched, then moved across it one by one at short intervals. Now, Johnno Johnson listened, straining hard for any sound unusual to the jungle. Birds twittered and chirped, insects buzzed. He moved ...

The low-pitched bark of a Russian-made AK-47 assault rifle sent the SAS commandos diving for the spongy musty-smelling jungle floor.

Johnson staggered as the first burst of automatic fire ripped through his upper arm. The second shattered his left kneecap and he suppressed an agonised scream as his leg collapsed and he went down hard.

In reply, another burst of automatic fire tore through the thick jungle foliage, this time the higher trilling of Papas' American-made M-16. Before the last spent cartridge had hit the ground, the splintering crack of breaking branches sounded from the canopy and a khaki-clad North Vietnamese regular plummeted from a nearby tree, his jungle-leaf hat following after him.

The confrontation was over as quickly as it had begun.

Sergeant Lund appeared at Johnson's side with Evans, the medic. After a cursory examination, they swiftly administered a pain killer, lifted Johnno between them and slipped soundlessly back into the jungle. They travelled quickly and quietly for some distance before finally stopping to attend to his injuries.

"Jeez you're a lucky bastard, Johnno," Lund said in low tones. "Fuckin' hell, you should be dead by rights."

Johnson grimaced as Evans cleaned his shoulder wound. "Thanks for the vote of confidence," he said through gritted teeth.

Lund's tone became serious. "We've got a problem, mate. We're gonna have to push on." The sergeant frowned and rubbed his crew-cut stubble. "We can't take you with us, so we're gonna have to leave you here and pick you up on our way back tomorrow. Okay?"

Johnson nodded, "Yeah, I understand."

"I can leave a bloke with you if —"

"It's all right," interrupted Johnson. "I'll be okay. You need every man for the mission. And like you said, I'm bloody lucky."

They dug Johnson in beneath a tangle of thick undergrowth at the foot of an ancient forest tree. When he was comfortable they whispered farewells and Lund signalled the patrol to move out. But as the sergeant made to follow his men, Johnson grabbed his sleeve, holding him back.

"Listen Lundy," Johnno said. "I want you to do something for me." He fiddled with the thin gold chain around his neck, trying to release the catch. "I want you to take this cross." It came loose and Johnson held it out to Lund, a small gold cross on a thin chain. "If for some reason I don't make it, I want you to make sure my mum gets this." He gave a humourless chuckle. "She gave it to me for luck."

"There's no need for this, mate. You'll be fine. All you gotta do is sit tight."

"Come on Lundy, humour me. Just in case."

"Okay, Johnno." Lund shook his head. "But you're taking a risk. What if I don't make it?"

"You better, pal. I'm relying on you."

* * *

The afternoon torrential rain started shortly after the others had left, as Johnson had known it would. It beat monotonously upon his jungle hat and drenched him to the skin within minutes. The worst part was, he knew it would fall at the same soaking rate until sometime during the night.

He was uncomfortable. Unlike his arm, which he couldn't even feel, his leg throbbed painfully. The painkillers Evans had administered were beginning to wear off, and what had started as a dull ache was now becoming difficult to bear. He contemplated the additional syringe the medic had left him, but decided to save it until the last possible moment.

He felt strangely vulnerable in his dugout refuge between the jutting roots of what looked like a giant rubber tree. Unusually so because not only was he hidden by the roots, he was also surrounded by thick undergrowth making him virtually invisible to the probing eye.

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Excerpted from "Shadows on the Wall"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Steven Paulsen.
Excerpted by permission of IFWG Publishing International.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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