Final Page: Ambush in Saigon
In a delicious twist on my ‘Final Page’ series (see previous instalments here), I now present the first page of my war novel ‘Ambush in Saigon’, with the final page to follow tomorrow. Having done literally no research into the Vietnamese war during the writing, I feel the book (published in 1986) benefited from the absence of facts and truths, which could have distracted the reader. Some branded my approach lazy, monstrous and grotesque. My critics were less kind. Enjoy!
AMBUSH IN SAIGON
By
Flann O’Coonassa
Page 1 of 564
Charlie’s close. So close I can smell ‘em. I can also see ‘em, which makes the smelling largely redundant. I can hear ‘em too, but the same goes for the hearing as went for the smelling.
Dirty war, this Vietnam tussle. Goddamned Hitler up to his old tricks again, and with his buddy Stalin in tow. This ain’t gonna be clean and swift, like World War 2. It’s gonna be slow and bloody, like The Falklands War, which I’ve gotta hunch will probably take place a couple of decades from now.
The jungle’s hot, like the bonnet of an overheating 59 Dodge that’s been set on fire for some reason. Nothing stirs but the sound of mosquitos having sex. Endless mosquito sex and searing heat. Squatting in my foxhole, I can’t figure what’s sweatier: my armpits or my testicle. Probably my testicle, because I’m wearing eighteen pairs of Y-fronts. Some folk kiss a crucifix before battle. Others chew tobacci. I like to wear eighteen pairs of Y-fronts. Everybody’s got their routine.
My other testicle? God knows where. Shot off in some Goddamned rice field south of Da Nang. Wasn’t even a war on at the time. Thought I’d found it, but turned out to be an African American ball. Found several other balls in that field that afternoon. Never did find a match though. Not even close.
“Jesus, here they come Sarge, three of ‘em,” whispers Leeroy. “We’ve got the drop on ‘em. Permission to fire?”
”Patience,” I tell him. “Let ‘em come a bit closer.”
“It’s a Goddamned Turkey shoot, Sarge,” whispers Danny. “They ain’t seen us yet. I’ve got a clear shot. Now?”
“Patience Danny.”
A shot rings out and Danny slumps to the left, his face largely missing.
“Christ Sarge, the bastards shot Danny in the face. Let’s cut these fuckers in half,” cries Leeroy.
“Patience Leeroy,” I say.
A second shot rings out and Leeroy slumps to the right, also missing a face. Damn Vietcong. They were just too quick for us. With Danny and Leeroy dead, I climb from the foxhole and bravely surrender on behalf of the entire platoon. Hero? Perhaps. It’s not for me to say. All I know is I can’t afford to lose any more men.
The three Vietcong bastards frog-march the eighty-six of us through the jungle. Goddamned Vietnamese sun reddens our necks, like nature’s sunbed, or an industrial toaster powered by excessive wattage. The Vietcong offer us sun block, mosquito repellant, shade, water, food and medical attention, all of which I refuse on behalf of the men. Sure, I take my share, so as not to appear rude. But I’d rather die than see my men indebted to these animals.
We march for three days and three nights, losing nine good men to dehydration and four average men to starvation. Morale nosedives further when the platoon’s token pygmy (Lil Joe) is eaten my a smallish snake. Some of the men pray, but not me. God? There ain’t no God in these thickets. Wood Elves? Mabye. Sasquatch? Definitely. But God? The jungle is fresh out of God, and running low on Jesus.
We reach the secret Vietcong layer, deep within the belly of Mount Vesuvius. Again I refuse rations on behalf of the men, and eat mine in full-view, just to show the Vietcong bastards the true meaning of discipline. Hero? That’s just a label. ‘Lionheart’ would be another label, but labels mean nothing to me, regardless of how snugly they fit.
Having eaten and drank thrice my fill, I set the men doing 1000 press-ups while I grab forty winks. They’re exhausted, but some brisk exercise will keep their minds off the starvation. Barely an hour later an armed minion wakes me.
“Hitler. He see you now. Come. Come,” he orders. Goddamit. Hitler. That’s all we need…..
(tune in tomorrow for the final page of Ambush in Saigon)
Flann, do you love the smell of coddle in the morning?
Better than your chick lit.
Yeah, but the chick lit pays the bills Columbo. It also keeps my enemies drowning in assassins bullets.
Now, I don’t mean to insult you or anything, Flann, so please don’t take this the wrong way, but you could totally write the next “The Eye Of Argon”.
You could be the most important fiction writer of the Millennium, just … maybe not in the way your agent thinks.
Insult me? The Eye of Argon is the most important piece of literature written in the last 1000 years. I will try to repay your faith in me Sweary, by writing something at least on a par with the calibre of ‘The Eye of Argon’.
Kurt, little known fact: napalm and coddle smell almost identical, just as Irish Stew and atomic bomb apparently produce the same aroma.
“The tireless sun cast its parching rays of incandescense…”
Oh. Oh my. Why had I not heard of this til now? Sweary, I owe you ten Cokes.
Flann, I was going to compliment you on this, your best novel yet, but The Eye of Argon has obliterated every trace of every other piece of prose from my brain. I don’t even know who you are anymore. I have only a vague conception of my own identity. I just… I have to… keep reading…
It’s true that The Eye of Argon makes the combined works of Joyce, Beckett and O’Brien look like the scribblings of three illiterate baboons.
I would go so far as to say The Eye of Argon would sit comfortably as the world’s only book, if all others were purged in a great non-’Eye of Argon’ global purge.
Charlie who ?
‘Charlie’ was a nickname for the Vietcong. The Vietcong’s name for us was ‘Brown’. What an alliance we could have forged if not our warlords had cast us as enemies. Charlie and Brown. Charlie Brown (to labour the point).
Better than “The deer hunter”.
Way better ‘The FAN’. Without DeNiro and Christopher Walken, The Deer Hunter would have been little more than a sordid advertisement for shooting yourself in the head.
My novel has far more emotional depth, and its Russian Roulette scenes involve a Bazooka, not some Mickey Mouse handgun.
Ah yes, the Russian roulette scene, which of course was the inspiration for an alternate ending for Die Hard 3. They claim it didn’t fit with the tone, but I think we all know the real reason they pulled it was to avoid The Wrath of Flann® (not to be confused with The Wrath of Flan, which is considerably less intimidating – so much so, indeed, that no one has thus far bothered to register it as a trademark).
Didn’t fit with the tone? I don’t want to live in a world where bazooka-themed Russian Roulette is considered OTT. Now if you’ll excuse me…(sound of rummaging through bazooka closet, followed by unmistakeable sound of red headband being tied to forehead).
But, there was no thousand yard stare which threw me and, and, it mught have been Charlie Sheen, prince of all VC and second in rank only to Marlon ice-cream Brando. And will there be apocalyptic dancing playboy girls in the final page ?
Ah, Charlie Sheen. Brother of Emelio Estevez, and natural enemy of the Vietcong. A little known fact about the film platoon: real Vietnamese people were shot and killed during the making, because it was cheaper than hiring actors.
I’m a bit intrigued by the field of balls.
Well, ‘field of balls’ is probably a bit misleading. It was really more of a meadow.
Wild and free rather than regimented and industrialised?
Indeed sir. And severed balls as far as the eye could see.
Goodness me. I’m glad to have my curiosity sated in such a graphic fashion. Thanks Flann!
This is John McCain’s ghost written autobiography isn’t it?
No Swe.Ge, but the similarities are numerous. John McCain’s autobiography is far more over the top though. Particularly the bit to do with his titanium exoskeleton.
John McCain’s autobiography had more sex in it. Moral of the story: Sex sells.
Sex generally, or sex with John McCain?