The Odd Angry Shot Read Online Free

reference 261.292. Upon investigation it was found that the bodies were NVA, probably killed by Monday’s air strike. There have been no contacts reported in the area for the past eight days, so either the bastards have all gone home, or they’ve gone underground.’
    â€˜Any reports of bunker systems or fortifications?’
    â€˜No, the only thing reported was a small camp at 260.294, no more than six or ten inhabitants. You will be instructed at 0930 hours tomorrow so be ready to move at 0800 hours on the dot.’
    â€˜Yessir, Herr Field Marshal.’
    The intelligence corporal turns up his nose.
    â€˜Why the mad hurry to get us into a dead area?’ asks Harry.
    â€˜Jesus only knows,’ I reply.
    â€˜He’s probably not too sure about it himself,’ says Shaw.
    â€˜Hey, fellas,’ it’s the intelligence corporal again. ‘Just got a signal. You’ll patrol the same area but you’ll now be scouting for one of the battalions. I’ll brief you in half an hour.’
    â€˜That should make us look nice and obvious with seventy odd bloody nashos wandering around with us,’ complains Rogers.
    â€˜It’s not that bad; all the better if we run into a great mob from the opposing team, at least we’ll have support. There’s safety in numbers you know,’ says Shaw. I think I notice a note of hope in his voice.
    â€˜My arse there’s safety in numbers. Those poor bastards don’t want to even hear about war. Bloody civilians in uniform.’
    â€˜It’s not their fault.’
    â€˜S’pose not.’
    Conversation ended. Wonder what’s for lunch.
    â€˜WHO needs ammunition?’ yells the supply corporal, pushing his head through the tent flap.
    â€˜The Viet Cong do,’ retorts Harry.
    â€˜Don’t need any, eh?’
    â€˜No thanks. We’ve got more things in here that go bang than they had on D Day.’
    Remember how it was the same every time: rifle propped against sandbags, gleaming like a rigid snake; eight magazines, second last round tracer. Assemble your fighting belt: two HE grenades, one white phosphorus, one red smoke; one hundred and fifty spare rounds 7.62 in the middle pouches. Water bottles, magazine thirty round—stolen from the Q Store—knife. Set your watches. Pick up your rifle clip in the thirty-round magazine. One last look at your pack straps. Check your maps. Now wait.
    â€˜OK, fellas,’ comes through the tent flap. ‘I’ll give you the info on where you are to pick up the battalion.’
    Heard it all before. Grid reference 123456. Yeah, password is blah. Yeah, terrific. Piss off, will you, so we can get some sleep.
    0800. The chopper lay on the Task Force LZ, looking for all the world like three huge eggs with tails and plastic eyes.
    â€˜G’day fellas. You this morning’s hiking party?’
    We’ve had this chopper crew before. Good fellas.
    â€˜Yep, in the absence of Steve McQueen it looks like us.’
    â€˜OK. Pile in.’
    Shaw and Rogers sit on the back bench and rest their heads on the quilted padding, legs dangling outside. My rifle feels good as it rests on my lap, oiled and shiny. Twenty-eight rounds of keep Australia free from sin and yellow bastards. Shit, I’d love a glass of Passiona.
    The chopper dips forward as it leaves the ground and seems to drag its nose—almost as if it doesn’t want to go. I smile at the gunner who grins and nods at me as he cocks the twin sixties. Camaraderie here, you can feel it, these RAAF blokes are OK. How come he’s wearing glasses? He’s got acne too.
    The morning wind lashes my face as it curls around the fuselage. Small patches of fog on the ground, green pond, yellow patches on the ground appear between the fog over the highway that leads, I think, to Vung Tan. Jesus, I’d love a screw.
    â€˜Almost there. Stand by,’ yells the navigator co-pilot and strokes the air