Part 5
I haven’t had much to do with Frid during the journey, and only felt close during the prayer gathering for Frank and Olga, whose bodies will be flown out on a chopper once clear of the jungle.
Yesterday, our eighteenth day, Frid’s truck broke an axle. This morning, Thomas instructed her to ride with me. The number 6 truck is to be abandoned, and its relief supplies strapped, any way possible, to the remaining trucks; making them even more difficult to handle.
When Frid brought the child to me yesterday, it was to ask what we should name her. We decided she should have the name of her rescuer, Olga. In a couple more days we will hand her over to the nuns at the U.N. camp.
Here she comes now, her muscled frame gleaming with sweat, as if she has prepared to demonstrate her physique in a body-beautiful contest, with her blonde hair tied back in a pony-tail, and sharp-sculptured cheeks blossoming below jade-green eyes. She is a sight to behold, striding toward me, the early morning sun poking fingers through the trees, in her boots, kaki pants, and dirty shirt.
Hi, Frid. How’s it goin’ back there?
Goot, Harry, she says, her accent enchanting, and reminding me of its similarity to Katherine’s Swedish accent. Thomas, he say more rebel up ahead, she informs me.
That’s the word, I reply.
She steps in closer, as close as I’ve ever stood to her, and places a hand on my arm.
The Commander, he tell me what happen back there. I sorry for you.
I feel suddenly warmed by the gentleness of her.
The baby live, Harry.
I want to say something like: yes, her life cost the lives of two friends, but at any moment tears are going to happen, so I keep my reply short, she has three hearts, Frid.
Her hand tightens on my arm before she turns to climb into the truck.
I just have a few maintenance checks, I tell her.
I’m surprised by her gentleness, its sincerity is changing my perceptions of who she is. I open the truck door, reaching in for a rag and pull on the bonnet lever. The oil level is okay. The windscreen wash bottle is empty. With all my engine checks complete, I take a wire brush from the tool box and begin to scourge away the caked mud, built up around the bolt that releases the spare wheel.
Porky is disassembling the breakfast tent. He cooks for people who still have no stomach for food. It’s just three days since our friends were killed. There’s no lively banter that can overcome the mood within the convoy. Porky cooks anyway, just in case. I realize there are all types of hero, Porky has his place among them.
No-one can prepare themselves for what we’ve seen. These guerrillas don’t need AK 47’s to carry out their killings, as the blood splattered hoes have evidenced, lying close to dead and mutilated bodies.
The peasants I’ve seen, well they are just as afraid of the Cambodian soldiers as they are of the Khmer Rouge guerrillas. What few government soldiers we’ve seen are either drunk, or doped to the sky, and without pay.
The Khmer Rouge, led by Pol Pot, might be evil and corrupt, but so is the Cambodian Government. Whatever I once thought, well, there’s just no politics out here. The jungle is crawling with remnants of the Khmer Rouge, loyal to Pol Pot, and armed by the Chinese. The US has turned their backs on the whole mess, leaving the U.N. to sort it out. Madness has taken over and no matter who I think to blame for it, the fact remains, Cambodians are slaughtering Cambodians and Nixon has his head firmly up his arse — and it’s being held there by Kissinger.
It’s a whole fucking mess.
I climb into the truck. Frid hands me a bottle of water.
Frank, he tell me you a sailor, Harry.
I grew up with Frank. He chose the Dragoons to escape island living. I chose the Air Force. We rarely saw each other for over a decade. In the last seven years, Frank had fought with British troops in Oman and Biafra. I had taken command of a new Puma helicopter squadron, serving in Cypress. When Frank was de-mobbed, I had joined the coastguard, flying the Sea King, just to stay in the air.
He told you that, did he? I answer, slamming the truck into first gear, waiting for truck 1 to move off.
Yes, we sailed a bit.
Frank was bloody hopeless at sailing. Ours was a great childhood. Some said we terrorized the island community. I don’t know why this should leap to mind, but there was never a reason to learn how to make bamboo mines, nor were we ever left to starve, or fear for our lives.
You know, Frid, if we ever wanted to know where the devil resides, we found it. Here is shame. Here is where anger is fearfully stupid. It is impossible for me to grasp the truth. We live in a world without justice; while sane and insane are hardly effective words in language. Pity, well it’s all but redundant and if ever a place needed Jesus to come down and walk on troubled waters, He should look no farther than here in Cambodia.
I don’t know why — but those words just came out, or what they meant even. But in their speaking I feel tears welling up.
Truck 1 is moving off.
