Smithy's Cupboard Page 2

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.

  ‘That’s it, sergeant. You still maintain your military duties, though more limited. A promotion to warrant officer is in the air. Think about it after you finish the course.’

  I completed the course and went to see Curtis straight after. ‘Will it involve being transferred to the US?’

  ‘No, Dave. We want you over there as one of our agents.’

  ‘I’ve been asked to assist the British SAS for a short time in Northern Ireland.’

  ‘Come outside. The walls have ears.’

  We stood on the steps outside in the cool air.

  ‘I know, Dave, I know. They wanted a sniper and we gave you a tick, as did your boss.’

  I realised at that point I was in amongst the big boys and I should forget about ever leaving.

  3

  Belfast, Northern Ireland

  In Belfast, the British SAS squad lay in wait for the arrival of the IRA cell members. The Australian SAS man, nicknamed Smithy, with an impeccable record which included war service and duties as an agent in his country and the US, sat on his haunches on top of a tall building opposite the target area.

  He was sent a signal by a mobile phone which gave out two words from the top pocket of his green work shirt.

  The officer had an educated accent with a slight wisp. ‘OK, Dave.’

  Dave looked through the sights of his rifle as the three IRA men knocked on the door of the house opposite. He squeezed off three shots from the silenced rifle which hit all of the targets in the centre of the chest. They lay still, bleeding and dead.

  The squad ran over and kicked in the door. An ambulance nearby picked up the three bodies and drove away

  ‘Come over, Dave,’ the officer said.

  Smithy walked in the open door, noting that the blood on the pavement had already been scrubbed away.

  ‘Great shooting, Dave.’

  Noting the captain’s look of concern, Smithy said, ‘What’s up, skipper?’

  ‘Read this, Dave.’ He thrust out a report headed ‘Australian Government’. It detailed the names of members from Australia serving with the British SAS. Dave ran his finger along the names and there it was: his name, his unit, his current address and missions. CIA connections were included.

  ‘My God, skipper. My God.’ He immediately thought of Joan and the kids and how his job had put them in harm’s way. He knew he couldn’t get out.

  Smithy was flown back to Melbourne. He dropped his keys in the hall and heard the sounds of pot and pans. Joan ran towards him, her bellowing laugh bouncing off the walls. She knew not to pry but asked how he was.

  ‘OK, love.’

  His curt reply concerned her and she placed her hand on her mouth when he briefed her about the spy papers which were found in Belfast.

  ‘I’m not moving, Dave, if that’s what you’re suggesting.’

  He looked down without reply

  ‘Why don’t we just keep our heads down? They could get us anyway, couldn’t they, if they wanted to?’

  ‘Guess you’re right.’

  He spoke to his boss the next day.

  ‘Look, Smithy, we’ll make sure you don’t go back. You’ll soon be forgotten in Ireland. They’re Irish after all.’

  ‘Fair go, boss. Some of my mob come from Ireland.’

  ‘Join the club, mate,’ replied Colonel Johns.

  Joan scratched Belfast off her trip locations and never spoke again about the episode, though she wondered what Smithy had done to incur the hate of the IRA. Then she remembered when she cleaned out the bottom of his bedroom closet and found a green balaclava with eyes cut out. She had held it up. ‘Planning to rob a bank, mate?’

  He had snatched it from her. She saw him forming words to offer a reply yet nothing came out. He walked out to the industrial bin and threw it inside.

  ‘A man of many secrets,’ she had muttered and it confirmed her suspicions about the nature of the duties which her husband was tied into. Was she just like a Mafia wife? She pondered on her question, never daring to form a reply.

  4

  Joan 1996

  I have always been a high achiever: at home, at school, at sport, which is why my friends called me teachers’ pet.

  Sure, I had many boyfriends and I was at ease in male company, teasing, joking, enjoying a beer with the boys. However, I knew when to deflect them. Yet I could not deflect David Alexander Smith, who rushed into my life like a steam train, wearing his sandy beret at a jaunty angle, which concentrated my gaze on the deep cleft chin which separated his face from left to right. His left cheek bore a four-inch scar – from a passing bullet he said later in the cool clear manner expected of Australia’s top soldiers.

  The dance settled it all and the rest is history.

  My fall from grace is painful to recall, with the blurred lines of high emotion coming and going, fading and frightening. It leaves me with the one constant: how did I get from there to here?

  Perhaps it was a blemish sitting in my cells, inherited from my grandmother, who saw the best in all and covered up the glitches, in hope that the good part would override all. I was naïve, I suppose, yet how can we alter our character? It’s what we are.

  Thoughts flood back a lot more because there is not much else to do between the visits, the catheters, injections, changing wigs, and sometimes I read. The reading helps. Books on dying and what happens after have given a measure of peace to my victim status.

  Our marriage, the bliss and the loneliness with his protracted absences, his secret hideaway in the backyard. However, it was a fleeting emotion because we all had exams. We were making our way in the world. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and in my case it worked, though I knew some army wives who gave their own spin to the last word of that old saying.

  In-laws are a problem to some people. I was lucky because our two families were linked together like stapled documents. My brother John was on the same ship as Adam, Smithy’s older brother. My parents were farmers in WA. Like Ted my father-in-law, Dad was in the army in World War II. Maud acted in the role of Mum after we were married. WA and Victoria are a long way apart.

  When I focus on the past, on days when my mind stills and my breathing is less laboured, I remember the time when the crap which followed into my life like a stray dog looking for crumbs broke through a crack in my unsealed aura. I read a lot about auras now.

  Work was my second life outside of home and I was blessed with my staff. We were like children sitting on a trampoline enjoying the cushion effect, where we sat comfortable and happy. We bounced, turned, fell and laughed, lost in the joy of just being in the moment.

  I have had a slight stammer all my life which did not detract from my popularity, and it did not affect my promotion. I did not consider coveting anyone else’s position and never considered the possibility that my stammer would be used against me in a spiteful manner.

  The signs were there under my nose when
I saw two females standing nearby whispering with cupped hands and sly quick looks. I heard a stammer and then a parody of my loud laugh. ‘Hyena’ was scrawled on the whiteboard but I chose to ignore it, hoping like my gran that it would go away and they would find another target.

  Those little signs occurred in the humid week before Christmas. The damp air hung around. Matches would not strike; towels hung during the day grew wetter by the hour. Envelopes would not seal; neither would stamps stick. Fridges broke down, as did air conditioners, and we were looking forward to a break.

  Smithy was away and I slept badly all of that week. He never phoned and I guessed he was busy in God knows what in his spy role, which we never spoke about.

  Voices overlapped my dreams; visions came and went. I saw a woman’s gloved hand opening my desk drawers. My locker door was swinging open and banging without any wind in the sealed building. A voice kept saying to me, ‘Watch it…watch it.’

  ‘Stuff ‘em,’ I thought and I still bellowed with my laugh at work if something tickled my fancy: I was like the eternal clown who laughs when confronted with the tragedy of life.

  Smithy handles all of his problems with his retreats, his tai chi and his martial arts. It’s part of his being. I’m sure he approaches all hiccups like a child building a sandcastle. Allowing no other thought to enter the process, he waits till it is built in his sequential style. And like the child whose energies are focused in the moment, he knows he has reached the completion. Something inside him calls out, ‘Demolish’, which he does and the sandcastle, with all of the jumble of thoughts involved in its erection, is no more.

  I can’t do that. I’m stuck and I reckon it’s all due to fear of failure. Is it brought about by my elevated standards, those which drove me to feel good about myself? My unguarded moments caused my enemies to chip away and weaken my resolve like a small hole in a roof left unattended which grows relentlessly after rain. Unstoppable in its journey of decay.

  How could I fight them? The strategy was beyond my understanding because I had never given any thought to the old adage within the Public Service: ‘Cover your arse.’ It was not on my agenda as I occupied myself getting the job done.