Smithy's Cupboard (2 page)

‘A real Viking funeral for him,' I thought.

Blackie's death for me was a moment when I grew up. My box was stowed away with some reverence as it had been the spike when my life started on a journey of secrets. I grew and my hiding spots grew too – more in number and better hidden. A fork in a tree, a hole in a ground, a thick bush. In stillness, I observed the sounds, watched the mating birds, became immune to ants crawling over my body or a spider exploring, their little eyes bright and unblinking.

Sounds were not totally absent. There was usually a ringing in my ears, a shuffling sound from the soles of my feet, caused by the suction from the arches with socks stuck in my shoes, and an occasional scratch of forearms which sounded as loud as a berthing ship against a wharf. I realised it was not possible to achieve total silence and it was a thought which intrigued my whole being. Still, one must be happy with that thought, I would nod. And, I added, better than death, which would have to be total silence.

Those years of keeping secrets with all of my hidden spots, my sequential thought pattern and my heightened powers of
observation lightened my path like flares from the brave French resistance during the war showing our planes the way forward.

My destiny – the military – was locked in like a torpedo fired from a submarine and no stone would be left undisturbed.

The cadets had come and gone along with the Army Reserve unit which I had hooked up with some twelve months before. They ticked all of the boxes and added that I was an asset to the unit with my shooting skills, discipline and advanced bushcraft coupled with a natural ability to assess the ground and, of course, map reading. I was accepted for the regular army and overjoyed. Dad was happy for me, knowing of my ambition, yet Mum was teary.

Adam was home after his turn in the navy on the HMAS
Sydney III
, having escaped a posting on the HMAS
Voyager
. It was agreed that the family farm would be passed on to him and I had no objections. It was 1966 and Vietnam was raging. I would stand a good chance of being posted to the war-torn country.

An unaccountable silence between my parents had existed for months, which was unusual. However, I guessed they had their secrets the same as any couple.

I heard a grunting noise from inside the pigpen a few nights before I left to join up and I guessed it was just pigs rutting. ‘Lucky pigs,' I thought. ‘I'm yet to be deflowered. Maybe some bar girl – if I get to Vietnam, that is.'

The gate was half ajar and I saw in the half-light Mum bent over with her skirt up around her waist and her head and shoulders face down on two straw bales.

Dad was behind her with his trousers down around his ankles and he was pumping away at Mum, who was groaning.

I stepped back and put my foot in a bucket. ‘Shit,' I yelled.

Dad turned round and looked at me. I took off.

I made no comment about it, though the evening meal was silent with the sounds of swallowing, gulping and Dad's false
teeth clattering away. Mugs of tea were slurped and the cups placed down overly quietly.

Two days later, I kissed Mum on the mouth and tasted the powder on her aftershave lip and touched her tear-stained cheeks. Her hold on my shoulders was strong and it was hard to break away. I had said my farewells to Adam and my grandparents, who were now in a nursing home.

Dad started the car and we drove off. I waved goodbye. Silence reigned in the car on the trip till Dad opened up.

‘Sorry you caught us, son.'

I looked at him and grinned. ‘Any Greek in our family, Dad?'

He chuckled. ‘No. Look, your Mum and I hadn't been talking for a while – since our anniversary.'

‘Is that because you gave her a Philishave?'

Dad stopped the car. He banged his fist on the steering wheel and laughed out loud. I joined in.

‘Bit indelicate of you, Dad.'

‘Couldn't stand hairy lips.'

‘So you both adapted?'

‘Yep.'

‘Mum's after-five shadow never worried me, you know.'

‘You're the son. I'm the lover.'

‘Pretty good one, if I'm any judge.' Which ended the subject.

2

Smithy

It had all been done before: the medicals, the tests, the piddles in bottles, the psych tests and interviews conducted with pauses and long looks like a tailor appraising the client with the new suit and the tape measure draped over his shoulders, within easy reach. Then the scratching of notes. It finishes and, judging by the look on his face, it's no use blurting out, ‘Did I pass?'

I always wondered if they profiled the aspirants and attached a handle, or was it to test if the fellow was a moron? I wondered how effective they would be if overrun by an enemy and the sergeant yelled, ‘Everybody grab a weapon.'

Over the years I tried it out. Once I gave a stupid answer to ‘And how have you been?' I replied, ‘I think I'm a rabbit.'

‘Why?' the interviewer said.

I bared my top teeth and made a rabbit noise.

The same fellow interviewed me in my usual test later on. ‘Last time we met, you said you thought you were a rabbit. Any change since then?'

‘Big one, doc. I've graduated.'

‘What are you this time?'

‘A gorilla.'

He sighed and looked at me. ‘Why?'

‘I can't stop eating bananas.'

He opened up. ‘Stop pissing in my pocket.'

‘Now you've got it right.' I said.

My boss told me off later.

The recruit course was an extensive re-run of the fourteen-day one in the Reserve. There were a few drop-outs who couldn't cope. Instructors endeavoured to push us to the brink to test our ability to cope with their bag of mind games. Corporals picked on minute details of dress, deportment and leadership. Twenty-four/seven, they emphasised team spirit.

I waltzed through it all and graduated. My parents watched the passing-out parade. Then came Canungra for jungle training, weaponry being foremost. Home leave was granted before we shipped out to the war. The leave was a blur of booze, farewells and thoughts about my virgin state. I put it all aside as I did not need any distractions in the jungles of Vietnam in 1967.

Adam's old ship, the
Sydney III
, docked and we felt instantly the humid heat as it hit our faces like a sandblaster. Induction came and platoons were assigned. I was not involved in a lot of action as we were clearing patrols in an area which had been known as reasonably safe. I saw a couple of our lads wounded by landmines. Another bloke was shot by friendly fire when outside the lines because he had forgotten the password.

There was some R & R and that's when I lost my virginity to a bar girl. She looked like she was about fifteen and it seemed to be much ado about nothing. I never asked her age; besides, there wasn't much time. I paid my money and saw the size of the line waiting. And made a vow that sex had to come with love as far as I was concerned.

The months went along and just before my departure they gave as an exit interview.

‘What are your aspirations, Private Smith?'

‘The SAS, sir.'

He read my record. ‘Pass A1. Able to work effectively with minimal supervision. Helps other members. Has the highest record in shooting within the battalion. You must take on some other tasks first.'

‘Yes, sir.' I watched as he stamped my file ‘Recommended'.

I was able to view all the aspects of the SAS course and knew its pitfalls. The success rate is not high and many drop-outs occur. Yet, despite all the prior preparation and the encouragement propelling me, I found it hard going. Team spirit was high and I knew I would receive good marks. However, I found my fitness level needed more work. A counselling session caused me to review my attitude and as a result I put in over a hundred per cent. I passed in third position and was congratulated.

Mum and Dad were not able to attend the graduation ceremony in Perth. It would have been a boost for them to see their son being handed the wings and the khaki beret.

Her laughter echoed across the crowded room – words that reminded me of Mum's favourite stage play
South Pacific
. In my case it was an enchanted evening in the hall in Perth. I turned my head towards the sound and tracked the source and there she was, surrounded by all ranks. The booming humour resounded as she threw back her head, which tousled her honey blonde curls. I stared at her, running my eyes over her form and it hit me like the dull thud of a mortar being fired. She turned as if on cue homing in on the man in his polyester dress uniform. Her eyes marked me like a laser beam. I straightened my shoulders, put down my glass of half-finished Swan lager and marched towards her in a straight line, my polished black shoes picking up the reflections from the overhead lanterns spinning, twisting and marching in step with my progress.

The band struck up a Johnny O'Keefe number with one snappy roll of drums when I came close to her. I held out my arm and she took it. The cool fingers were relaxed yet they seemed to be in a dance of their own.

The entire hall stood and watched while we jitterbugged
together and somehow during that magic moment the universal sign went out to all the assembly: this was a couple who knew one another's movements without rehearsals, and love was in the air. No words were spoken or shouted. I knew I had found the love of my life in an amazing pivotal moment. The band stopped. The cheers went out and we strolled outside with slaps on the back following us, along with the murmurs of praise.

She took out a cigarette and I lit it for her just like in the movies when Bogey speaks to Bacall for the first time.

She giggled, ‘What's next?' and her hand brushed the curls off her oval face.

‘People call me Smithy. It's Dave Smith, actually.'

‘Pleased to meet you, Smithy. I'm Joan Sanders.'

I held onto the hand rather than let it go.

‘I see you've done a tour over there,' brushing my ribbons. ‘My brother's on the
Sydney
, just come back.'

Light banter continued and over the ensuing weeks I met her family, who were farmers. Her father had been a warrant officer in the war and we understood each other without any dialogue. We were in love and shared our views. An engagement followed yet marriage was held off until I returned from my second tour.

Joan moved to Melbourne with her job after I was posted. She was with the Commonwealth Public Service.

Action with the SAS in Vietnam in 1968 was a different ball game and it became more frequent as we moved silently through the jungles. Some admiration was expressed for an enemy who knew their ground. Their secret tunnels and other spots were well constructed and I knew a thing or to about those types of construction. As a sniper, my role came to the fore; killing the enemy from a secret spot caused me no remorse and I just got on with it.

My first kill was an agent in plain clothes from the South who was distributing information concerning the Australian Army. I
hid for twenty-four hours and saw him moving carefully towards the NVRA lines. He looked up in the instant I fired. He was dead before he hit the undergrowth, and silence reigned.

There were many hot extractions and intelligence briefings before another task. I was drawn into the brotherhood of the Green Berets and later the murky world of CIA agents, which honed my skill of focus and keeping secrets. My powers of observation expanded with each silent mission from which I returned unscathed.

One of our US buddies was lost and we never found him. I searched for his name on the long monument at Arlington years later and saw it there. I placed a sprig of wattle from home in his memory. I was observed by some veterans with forage caps and medals.

‘Were you with the Aussie SAS?' the older man asked in a southern drawl.

‘Yes.'

‘My brother knew you. Here's a photo of the both of you.'

I took the photo and saw the resemblance he had to his brother.

‘You're Smithy.' His voice broke and I held his shoulders while he sobbed.

‘They never found him.'

‘I know, mate. It's sad.'

He shook my hand and stood back and saluted me, in the fashion of the Americans, pushing the right hand out rather than straight down. I returned the salute and watched him march away, with his mate with no legs in a wheelchair. Jeez, what a price those guys paid, I said to myself.

We came home and I married Joan in 1969 in a great ceremony in Melbourne. Both sides of the family were in attendance. Dad and my father-in-law became bosom buddies and spent much of the time out in the Wimmera farm after Joan and I had left.

From the moment we were married, Joan became my rock and
refuge. There were lonely times for both of us particularly during the birth of my son Shane in 1972 when I was on a course in the US.

Suzie came along in 1974 and I was overjoyed to witness her birth. My life was full. As was Joan's, with her career skyrocketing. My kids were never without supervision as Mum stayed many times. Babysitters were employed. I darted home between trips away and was granted long leaves over the years.

My promotion to sergeant in 1984 had been in place for some time. It brought with it courses in intelligence, bomb clearance and resistance to interrogation.

Warrant Officer Howlen and I enjoyed a drink later.

‘Put in for the Seals course in the US. You'll get it.'

‘Do you think so?'

‘With your CIA friends, there'sno doubt.'

He smirked after the remark and I knew he was part of the secret team. I did not reply but I submitted the application and was accepted.

I had lightly brushed on the huge US intelligence scene. However, after chatting to Colonel Jack Curtis in the US, I was staggered at the resources. Jack was the classic-looking Marine type with the rangy look, steel-grey close-cropped hair and unblinking eyes which looked into the back of your skull and extracted answers without any prompting. He knew my record up and down and sideways. I had served as an agent on some tasks, and I sensed from his looks of approval that I was being offered a position within his organisation.