to concentrate their fire in the
direction. But it doesnât work. Either Iâve got the direction wrong or heâs got real good cover which gives him the confidence to keep havinâ a go at us.
âThe machine gunner has to be stopped or heâll kill us all. He can be got at from the left but our blokes are all dead or wounded out there. Weâre pinned down like bugs in a museum and he knows it.
âBeing run over by the Asian hordes, sheer numbers, is one thing. Being taken to the New Jerusalem by a Noggie machine gunner and his mates is quite another. A disgrace. Not on.
âThe artillery is still coming in magic. Itâs landing so close that the Noggies out the front of us who are not pulverised are putting their heads down as the salvos are about to land. I notice that even the machine gunner stops firing as the incoming salvo screams down and hits and he doesnât start again for a good few seconds after the blast.
âJust as another salvo hits I shout to Mo, tell him what Iâm gunna do and instruct him to stay put, to get the blokes to give me whatever covering fire they can. He nods and puts up his thumb. The racket is something terrible and me throat is hoarse from shouting.
âIâve spotted what looks like a hollow in the ground. Unfortunately itâs within a small clearing with no rubber
trees for protection, but itâs in just the right spot to take out the Viet Cong gunner, that is if I can get close enough.
âI wait for the next salvo. I hear the whistle and the scream as it is about to land. Iâm on my knees and elbows digging dirt, into the mud and slush, staying flat to the ground as the salvo lands, moving towards the hollow.
âI hope like hell the machine gunner and his mates have their heads down, Iâm expecting any second to be blown apart. The salvo lands. The rain is still pissing down as I slide sideways into the hollow, itâs half filled with rainwater and I send up a huge muddy spray. Iâm safe. Iâm lying in eight inches of water, but Iâm safe. Then the machine gun starts up again. The bastards have picked up my movement and thereâs bullets spraying every which way. Iâm grinning, old Thommo is safe in his ditch, snug as a bug in a rug. Then I see itâs not me theyâve picked up on, itâs Mo, heâs coming at me, sliding across the mud. The dip in the ground isnât big enough for both of us and when he sees this and stops his slide heâs more exposed than ever. The machine gun is kicking up mud everywhere. Mo takes up a firing position in the open beside me.
âOh, Jesus, no!â I scream, then Moâs head explodes and isnât there any more. Warm blood spurts from his
neck in an arch, two feet high, landing on my back and neck. It feels warm. The muddy water Iâm lying in turns crimson. The rain is still beating down.
âOh no! Oh, Jesus, Moâs dead! The machine gunner! You fucking arsehole! The Nogmachinefuckin
gunnerrr
!â Something slides down my cheek and splashes into the water and bobs up again. Itâs Moâs eye, attached to membrane, floating in the blood and rain-pocked water.
âIâm losing it fast. But somehow Iâve got the instinct to wait for the next salvo coming in. I can hear it coming. Itâs like Iâm riding the shell myself. Iâm riding the salvo piggy-back. I only want to live as long as it takes me to kill the machine gunner. Nothing else matters. The salvo lands with a deafening roar and seems to be right next to me with the shrapnel whistling over my head. âPlease God donât let me get killed before I get to him,â is all I can think. I scramble towards the machine gunner, the rain battering my face. Iâm within fifteen yards and his head ainât up yet. Iâve got a grenade in my hand and Iâve pulled the pin out and used up a couple more seconds before I throw it. I can
direction. But it doesnât work. Either Iâve got the direction wrong or heâs got real good cover which gives him the confidence to keep havinâ a go at us.
âThe machine gunner has to be stopped or heâll kill us all. He can be got at from the left but our blokes are all dead or wounded out there. Weâre pinned down like bugs in a museum and he knows it.
âBeing run over by the Asian hordes, sheer numbers, is one thing. Being taken to the New Jerusalem by a Noggie machine gunner and his mates is quite another. A disgrace. Not on.
âThe artillery is still coming in magic. Itâs landing so close that the Noggies out the front of us who are not pulverised are putting their heads down as the salvos are about to land. I notice that even the machine gunner stops firing as the incoming salvo screams down and hits and he doesnât start again for a good few seconds after the blast.
âJust as another salvo hits I shout to Mo, tell him what Iâm gunna do and instruct him to stay put, to get the blokes to give me whatever covering fire they can. He nods and puts up his thumb. The racket is something terrible and me throat is hoarse from shouting.
âIâve spotted what looks like a hollow in the ground. Unfortunately itâs within a small clearing with no rubber
trees for protection, but itâs in just the right spot to take out the Viet Cong gunner, that is if I can get close enough.
âI wait for the next salvo. I hear the whistle and the scream as it is about to land. Iâm on my knees and elbows digging dirt, into the mud and slush, staying flat to the ground as the salvo lands, moving towards the hollow.
âI hope like hell the machine gunner and his mates have their heads down, Iâm expecting any second to be blown apart. The salvo lands. The rain is still pissing down as I slide sideways into the hollow, itâs half filled with rainwater and I send up a huge muddy spray. Iâm safe. Iâm lying in eight inches of water, but Iâm safe. Then the machine gun starts up again. The bastards have picked up my movement and thereâs bullets spraying every which way. Iâm grinning, old Thommo is safe in his ditch, snug as a bug in a rug. Then I see itâs not me theyâve picked up on, itâs Mo, heâs coming at me, sliding across the mud. The dip in the ground isnât big enough for both of us and when he sees this and stops his slide heâs more exposed than ever. The machine gun is kicking up mud everywhere. Mo takes up a firing position in the open beside me.
âOh, Jesus, no!â I scream, then Moâs head explodes and isnât there any more. Warm blood spurts from his
neck in an arch, two feet high, landing on my back and neck. It feels warm. The muddy water Iâm lying in turns crimson. The rain is still beating down.
âOh no! Oh, Jesus, Moâs dead! The machine gunner! You fucking arsehole! The Nogmachinefuckin
gunnerrr
!â Something slides down my cheek and splashes into the water and bobs up again. Itâs Moâs eye, attached to membrane, floating in the blood and rain-pocked water.
âIâm losing it fast. But somehow Iâve got the instinct to wait for the next salvo coming in. I can hear it coming. Itâs like Iâm riding the shell myself. Iâm riding the salvo piggy-back. I only want to live as long as it takes me to kill the machine gunner. Nothing else matters. The salvo lands with a deafening roar and seems to be right next to me with the shrapnel whistling over my head. âPlease God donât let me get killed before I get to him,â is all I can think. I scramble towards the machine gunner, the rain battering my face. Iâm within fifteen yards and his head ainât up yet. Iâve got a grenade in my hand and Iâve pulled the pin out and used up a couple more seconds before I throw it. I can
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