Smoky Joe's Cafe by Bryce Courtenay Page B

now see where the machine gun is and I prop and lob it perfectly.
    â€˜This is the first time I realise I won’t make it back. Nobody could, leastwise a big bastard like me. I’m flinching as I scramble away, expecting any moment to
feel the bullets ripping into me. The grenade explodes, maybe it will keep the enemy from firing elsewhere just a few moments longer. I go for it, crouching, head down, legs pumping, hands clawing the mud. I’m not dead yet, though I should be. The air is full of every kind of deadly shit again, tracers whipping past me. I slide the last few feet, boots first into the hollow. This time a great scarlet sheet splashes up out of the scooped-out earth. The artery in Mo’s neck is now pumping a three-inch arc, a spent pipe. The machine-gun post is silent. I lie in the hollow howling like a dingo. “Gotcha! Mincemeat! Fucking hamburger!”’
    Now my own voice is back and I can feel the shakes beginning. I fight it, I fight back the panic.
    Wendy reaches out and grabs my hand and holds on tight as I start to sob, ‘Mo’s dead.’
    I turn to Wendy, ‘We’ve made this pact, see.’ I pull up my sleeve to show her, though she’s seen it thousands of times. ‘The tat on me arm of the M16 with “Mo” wrote on the butt, he’s got one exact the same with “Thommo” on his.’ I’ve never told her that. ‘Two warriors never to be parted.’ Now I’m blubbing like a kid.
    Wendy pulls me hand up to her lips and kisses it, ‘Go on, Thommo, get it all out,’ she whispers. I can
sense there’s tears running down her face but I can’t see them, my eyes are turned inwards somewhere I don’t want to look.
    Now I’m sobbing and out of control. I can’t hold meself together no more. Wendy is standing behind me and has her arms about me. ‘I’m a bloody coward. Oh shit, what am I gunna do? I’m a heap o’ shit. They give me a medal. I let me best mate die, took the ditch for meself and they give me a fucking medal! A lousy medal.’
    Dimly I can hear Wendy shouting my name. ‘Thommo! Listen to me, Thommo!’ She’s kissing me on the eyes and the cheeks and screaming out. ‘Thommo, listen to me, mate!’ Her voice is suddenly hysterical and it cuts through, ‘Hear me, you bastard!!’
    I stop whimpering and I hear her say, ‘You told Mo to stay, to cover you. He disobeyed. It wasn’t your fault. You killed the machine gunner and God knows how many others.’
    â€˜The noise, he didn’t hear me. He must’ve thought I said to come, be my cover, me and him together, like always. I should’ve died with him. There was no chance I’d survive, I was good as dead after I’d used the grenade. Oh, Jesus, why didn’t I die.’
    â€˜Thommo, I love you, I’m proud of you.’ Now she’s
sobbing, her arms around me neck, her head against my back, her shoulders heaving.
    Later, after I’ve had a couple of stiff shots and Wendy, who doesn’t normally drink, has had a nip of Scotch as well, she reaches out and picks up the doll and stands it upright on the table. The little Vietnamese doll dressed in national costume makes it seem like it was a thousand years ago and, then again, like it happened yesterday. She smiles, her eyes are still red from blubbing, but they’re smoky again, then she nods towards the little doll, ‘Anna’s medal, tell me the story again.’
    I try to laugh, glad to come away from where we’ve just been. The doll story is one of the few things I have told her about Vietnam. But now, with the story at the back of my mind, I can talk about the stuff I couldn’t before.
    â€˜There’s a whole lot more that happens towards the end of the day. Shorty gives the order to pull out and Animal shouts, “Thommo, get the fuck outta there, we’re moving out.”
    â€˜I