Free The Best Australian Stories by Black Inc. Page A

the other men were listening now, smiling knowingly. I saw his teeth, stained red, as he chewed through the rest of his words.
    â€˜They made us walk to the east side of the village. There were about ten of them, about fifty of us. Mrs Tran was saying, “No VC no VC.” They didn’t hear her, over the sound of machine guns and the M79 grenade launchers. Remember those? Only I heard her. I saw pieces of animals all over the paddy fields, a water buffalo with its side missing – like it was scooped out by a spoon. Then, through the smoke, I saw Grandpa Long bowing to a GI in the traditional greeting. I wanted to call out to him. His wife and daughter and grand-daughters, My and Kim, stood shyly behind him. The GI stepped forward, tapped the top of his head with the rifle butt, and then twirled the gun around and slid the bayonet into his neck. No one said anything. My mother tried to cover my eyes, but I saw him switch the fire selector on his gun from automatic to single-shot before he shot Grandma Long. Then he and a friend pulled the daughter into a shack, the two little girls dragged along, clinging to her legs.
    â€˜They stopped us at the drainage ditch, near the bridge. There were bodies on the road, a baby with only the bottom half of its head, a monk, his robe turned pink. I saw two bodies with the ace of spades carved into the chests. I didn’t understand it. My sisters didn’t even cry. People were now shouting, “No VC no VC,” but the Americans just frowned and spat and laughed. One of them said something, then some of them started pushing us into the ditch. It was half full of muddy water. My mother jumped in and lifted my sisters down, one by one. I remember looking up and seeing helicopters everywhere, some bigger than others, some higher up. They made us kneel in the water. They set up their guns on tripods. They made us stand up again. One of the Americans, a boy with a fat face, was crying and moaning softly as he reloaded his magazine. “No VC no VC.” They didn’t look at us. They made us turn around and kneel down in the water again. When they started shooting I felt my mother’s body jumping on top of mine; it kept jumping for a long time, and then everywhere was the sound of helicopters, louder and louder like they were all coming down to land, and everything was dark and wet and warm and sweet.’
    The circle had gone quiet. My mother came out from the kitchen, squatted behind my father, and looped her arms around his neck. This was a minor breach of the rules. ‘Heavens,’ she said, ‘don’t you men have anything better to talk about?’
    After a short silence, someone snorted, saying loudly, ‘You win, Thanh. You really did have it bad!’ and then everyone, including my father, burst out laughing. I joined in unsurely. They clinked glasses and made toasts using words I didn’t understand.
    Maybe he didn’t tell it exactly that way. Maybe I’m filling in the gaps. But you’re not under oath when writing a eulogy, and this is close enough. My father grew up in the province of Quang Ngai, in the village of Son My, in the hamlet of Tu Cung, later known to the Americans as My Lai. He was fourteen years old.
    Late that night, I plugged in the Smith Corona. It hummed with promise. I grabbed the bottle of Scotch from under the desk and poured myself a double. Fuck it , I thought. I had two and a half days left. I would write the ethnic story of my Vietnamese father. It was a good story. It was a fucking great story.
    I fed in a sheet of blank paper. At the top of the page, I typed ‘ETHNIC STORY’ in capital letters. I pushed the carriage return and scrolled down to the next line. The sound of helicopters in a dark sky. The keys hammered the page.
    I woke up late the next day. At the coffee shop, I sat with my typed pages and watched people come and go. They laughed and sat and sipped and talked and,