A good soldier

“Mate, pull me pants up will ya?”

I saw him a few metres ahead on Pitt Street in 1979. I had just started working at Medibank. A lowly clerical job was all I was good for then. I rented a room in a house in Chippendale and could walk to work in central Sydney. My hair was long and my attitude could best be described as lackadaisical. I wore the required shirt and tie and ironed my trousers once a week to maintain some form of dignity and acceptability. What I really wanted to do was buy a Triumph Trident and ride into the sunset.

“Ar Jesus, pull up me pants will ya?”

He was my height, close to six foot, big-bellied, a rugged lived-in face, messy black hair, chomping a short cigar. His clothes were not clean, baggy trousers with a heavy belt, short-sleeved flower-pattern shirt, and he had no arms, just short stumps. Everyone turned away and scurried on. His pants weren’t about to fall down, but they were closing in on the point of no return.

“Mate, pull up me pants will ya?”

I laughed and grabbed his belt on each side and hoiked them up.

“You’re a star mate, bless ya. It’s a bastard when they fall down. I tell you, no-one fuckn’ stops then!” and he laughed. “At least someone’s a fuckn’ gentleman!” he said loudly to no-one in particular.

“I’m off to work – see you later,” I said. He waved a stump and settled his cigar with both stumps.

“Thanks again mate,” he called after me. I turned and grinned, turned back and walked on.

…

I next saw him a few days later at about the same time, making the same request and again being ignored and avoided by everyone. People in suits, shiny shoes, briefcases, the arcana of the city professional.

He tipped his head back, recognising me, and held out his stumps - gesturing Help! I grinned, swung my satchel to my back and pulled up his trousers.

“Mate, before you go…”

“Yeah?”

“Matches in me shirt pocket. Could you relight me?”

“Ah, sure.” I extracted the Redheads from his pocket, struck one and held it up to his cigar butt. Was it the same one he had had a few days before? I guessed that would have broken up well before though. He sucked the butt alight and blew smoke out the side of his mouth.

“Sweet.”

I tucked the matches back in his pocket.

“What's yer name mate?”

“Gary. Yours?”

“Tiger. Everyone calls me Tiger.”

“Is that ‘cause you growl a lot?”

“Fuckn’ spot on Gazza.”

No-one ever called me Gazza, but what the hell.

“Catch ya round like a rissole,” he said.

I grinned and waved. The daily grind called.

The next week I was walking down George Street, deep in thought about the woman at work who had suggested we have lunch sometime.

“Gazza!” he called out. He was sitting on a bench outside a café, looking a bit lost, no cigar.

“G’day Tiger, howzit going?”

“Ah, you know, good, bad.”

I was early for work, had a bit of time.

“Can I get you a coffee?”

“Straight up?”

“Yeah sure, I need one myself.”

“I need a straw.”

“No worries. Sugar?”

“Nah, flat white, no sugar. I’m sweet enough.” He smiled, but it faded as quickly.

I held the cup up for him to sip his coffee.

“You’re a long-haired bastard,” he said. “You a hippy?”

“No mate, just rejecting societies norm, which is why I have an office job in the centre of Sydney.”

He looked puzzled, then smiled. “Ah, a joke eh?”

I smiled and nodded. “I hope you don’t me asking but where do you live?” I said. “Is there someone to help you dress?”

“Yeah, hostel in The Rocks. Gotta get by somehow?”

“Is that the vets hostel?”

“That’s her.”

“Vietnam?”

“That’s the one.”

“Is that where your arms…”

“You’re on a guessing streak today mate.” He looked into a far distance. “I had arms when I started.”

I winced. “That’s what I’d call bad luck Tiger.”

“Yeah but, you know, what can you do? They blow your arms off, so you don’t have any arms but you have a head and a heart and legs so you keep going. I keep…you know…going.”

…

It ended up that for a few months we met on Wednesday mornings and I bought him a coffee with a straw and we chatted about nothing and other important things. He avoided talking about Vietnam and I avoided talking about the woman who was driving me nuts.

One day I must have said something about it being sad that he had lost his arms.

“Nah that’s not sad. It’s a bastard, especially as the war didn’t achieve anything. I’ll tell you what’s sad. Yeah, I’ll tell you.” He paused, took a long slow breath in and let it out as slowly. We had never gone in this direction before.

“We were on patrol a couple of weeks after the battle of Long Tan. You heard about that?”

“Long Tan? Yeah, sure. Epic stuff.”

“Let’s just say you wouldn’t want anyone you loved to be there. Anyway we’re on patrol and we almost fall into a Cong unit. Poor bastards. They hardly had time to drop their lunch pails and grab their guns before we were laying into them with everything we had.”

“They didn’t have a lookout?”

“Papa John saw him before he saw us. He was asleep. Took him out with his Mark 2 without a sound.”

“Mark 2?”

“Sheath knife.”

“Erk.”

“Anyway a couple of them managed to get rounds off and my old mate Genny-with-a-G Puopolo caught one in the guts. He was a lovely bloke. Always carrying on about his Mama and his little boy.

“So the lads are mopping up and patching up a couple of minor wounded and I’m kneeling next to Genny – it was Gennaro in Eyetie – and trying to shove gauze into the hole in his guts and he tells me to stop. ‘Mate, mate,’ he gasps. ‘It just hurts when you do that.’ He’s gasping for air and with pain. One leg is kicking. I stop trying to stop the bleeding and I sit next to him and watch his blood trickle into the dirt. His hand is scratching in the dirt, so I reach down and take hold of his hand, and he relaxes like, and a gentle smile spreads over his face, and his leg stops kicking, and he squeezes my hand gentle-like, and says ‘Thanks mate’. Then he says: ‘Tell my boy I was a good soldier eh?’ And I say ‘Course I will,’ and he dies right there and then, holding my hand. The RSM comes up and asks if he’s OK ‘cause we need to move on in case any VC heard the shooting and I check Genny’s neck pulse and say ‘I think he’s just died,’ and the RSM swears and stomps off to gather the lads and get a stretcher made.

“Ya see? That’s sad,” he said. “Arms are dispensable.”

“Did you tell his boy?”

“Arr I messed up the sad bit. His boy had died in a car accident two weeks before. He never knew.”

…

I had had enough of a bad relationship and handed in my notice. They let me go at lunchtime on my last day, probably glad to see the last of the hippy who wouldn’t get his hair cut.

As I walked home I passed the bench and realised I hadn’t seen Tiger for a few weeks. I was heading back to Brisbane the next day so had a few hours spare. I dropped in at the Post Office and looked up the veterans hostel in The Rocks, called and asked for Tiger.

“He’s not well.”

“Can I come and see him?”

“Are you a relative?”

“No, a friend.”

“Visitors are between two and four.”

“That’s fine. I’ll be there a bit after two.”

…

“You say you’re a friend?” the woman who answered the door said.

“Yes, I haven’t seen him for a few weeks.”

“He’s been ill. We didn’t think he had any friends. No-one ever visits.”

“No-one?” I said. She shook her head. “I used to have a coffee with him on Wednesdays, in town.”

“Ah, his Wednesday walks.”

“Didn’t he go out on other days?”

“Hardly ever. But he seemed to cheer up every Wednesday morning for the last few months.”

That gave me pause.  

“How is he? You said he was ill?”

“The doctors don’t know. He’s wasting away. He refuses to go to hospital or to have x-rays though. They think it’s cancer but don’t know which one. He’s on opium, for the pain. A nurse comes in a couple of times every day.”

“It’s that bad?”

She nodded. “He might not last much longer. Anyway, come and see him. Maybe he’ll cheer up now you’re here.”

“I only know him as Tiger. What’s his name?”

“Anthony Groom but he’s Tiger to everyone.”

“He was a Vietnam vet?”

“Yes. That’s where he lost his arms.”

The room was heavily shaded. The steel-frame bed, a bedside table and a hard wooden chair were the only furniture. On the table a glass of water with a straw.

“I can talk to him?”

“Yes, I’ll be just down the hall. Call if you need anything.”

I sat down. Tiger looked much thinner than when I last saw him. His skin was dark, yellowed, and clung to his bones. He had a clean singlet on; his stumps were hidden under the white sheet so you might not have realised he didn’t have arms although the fall of the sheet at his sides kind of gave it away.

“Hey Tiger,” I said quietly. Nothing happened for a moment, then his eyes slowly opened.

“Gazza!” he growl-whispered. “Sorry, voice is going.”

“G’day mate, how are you doing? On a weight-loss programme?” I said.

He attempted a smile, but it turned into a grimace.

“Hurts all over mate. Drugged up to buggery.”

“That’s not good Tiger.”

“Haven’t got long mate.” He stopped and wheezed as if every breath was a struggle.

“Can I get you anything,” I asked. I mean, what do you ask someone who is clearly on the way out.

“Sip of water would be good.”

I held the glass, he half rolled over with a great effort and a heart-deep moan. I pushed the straw to his mouth and he sucked a little from the glass, then he rolled back with another awful noise. Every movement seemed pain.

“Must be Wednesday mate.”

I smiled. “Yeah, Wednesday comes around again.”

It was Thursday.

“I miss our coffees. Been a bit crook.”

“They told me. They looking after you here?”

“Yeah, Mavis is a good sort. Stick around for the nurse though mate..” but he could hardly get the last words out before great heaving coughs erupted and took him over him for a while before they subsided.

“The nurse is your type, I swear,” he whispered.

“I have a type?”

“She’s female!”

I grinned.

“Same old Tiger.”

“Ar, I dunno. That ship has sailed,” he whispered. I had to lean over to hear the words. His breathing became weaker, slower. A wheezing noise came from deep in his chest with each breath. His eyes were closed, sinking back.

“Mate?” he said.

“I’m here Tiger.” I put a hand on his shoulder.

“I told you a story once. About my mate Genny.”

“Yes mate, I remember.”

“Would…would you hold my hand?”

I squeezed his shoulder.

“My hand…” he whispered.

I cupped my other hand over the stump of his left arm and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“I am mate. I’m holding your hand.”

His face softened. His body seemed to relax.

“Thanks mate. Tell them…,” he forced out the words but couldn’t say more.

“…you were a good soldier, eh.” I said and held his hand tighter.

He smiled and a strange rattling noise came from his throat.

…

“Did I hear him call you Gazza?” Mavis said a bit later.

 “Name’s Gary but he always called me Gazza. No-one else does.”

“He left something for you. He gave it to us a week or so ago.”

“What? Seriously?”

She nodded. “There’s no-one else. It must be for you.”

She opened a drawer of her desk, pulled out an envelope and gave it to me.

‘For Gazza’ was written on the outside.

“It was all he had when he came here.”

Inside were his medals. I had to fight back tears.

“He was a good soldier…” I choked.

She nodded.

I walked out into a sunny Sydney autumn afternoon. The leaves on a nearby plane tree fell slowly to the ground. Cars drove by. Children chattered on their way home from school.