‘You got it wrong, mate. This isn’t about iron ore, it’s about standing up and fighting for our independence — controlling our own destiny.’
‘Ah, fuck you, mate. Since when did you become such a nationalistic fuck?’
‘About the same time you turned into a coward,’ said Finn, turning to raise his bottle to his lips.
Expecting to feel the cold glass of the bottle, Finn instead felt a force smash the side of his cheek. The blow from Chris’s fist snapped Finn’s head around unnaturally and he had to steady himself from falling off the barstool.
Turning, Finn launched himself at Chris, tackling him to the ground and then sinking his fists into Chris’s ribs.
The two of them were blindly punching at each other in pure rage. Finn wrestled himself on top of Chris and planted a glancing punch to the side of Chris’s nose. Blood spurted out of his friend’s face.
Finn had him pinned down and his arm cocked above him, ready to deliver a final punishing blow. He suddenly looked at Chris’s face: smeared in blood, eyes barely open, nose broken and angled to the side. He couldn’t do it.
‘Fuck!’ he yelled, standing up, rubbing his rapidly swelling jaw.
Finn snatched MiLA off the bar as others came in to help Chris.
‘Damn it,’ Finn whispered to himself, spitting blood from his cut cheek, furious with himself and Chris.
As he walked downstairs, bouncers ran past him into the bar, oblivious that they had missed all the action. Stepping onto the street, Finn buckled himself into a ball, burying his head in his hands.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ he muttered to himself.
People walking past gave him a wide berth, staring at him, but mindful not to make eye contact with this crazy man.
He kept running it through in his head. All the opportunities he’d had to change the subject, to crack a joke, to lighten the conversation. But he hadn’t. He just kept on going, had to make his point, had to make it clear he thought Chris was a coward, a pussy, a fucking pathetic piece of shit.
Finn could think of only one thing to do — drink. So, off to the one place where he felt comfortable sitting and drinking on his own — Trinity Bar in Surry Hills, an old Irish bar that had endured the changing trends in bars for the last hundred-odd years. Hailing a taxi, he threw himself in the backseat and told the cabbie where to go. Pulling up on Crown Street outside the Trinity, Finn paid the cabbie and walked into the bar. Pushing open the door, without looking around at any of the other patrons, he went straight for the furthest end of the bar and mounted a stool. Ordering two double Jack Daniels and Cokes he set about the task of numbing his mind. This was work. He was not drinking for pleasure now.
Two hours later the bar was heaving and Finn had achieved his mission: the rawness of his fight with Chris had been blunted. His mind dulled, he was working on autopilot now. Have to get home, he thought. Have to get out of here. Too many people now.
Pushing past patrons, he stumbled out onto Crown Street. Finn had no problem hailing a cab. By the time he had got to his parents’ place, he was tired and at the height of his drunkenness. Fumbling with MiLA, he tried to unlock the door by passing the device over the doorbell a few times, missing the security pad by a large margin. Sonia, who heard the scraping at the door, came downstairs and opened the door to find a person resembling her son. Calling for help from Tom, they took him straight to his bed where he collapsed in a drunken stupor.
Sonia stood over him, her frizzy silver-shot bedhead casting a strange shadow over his ravaged face. She looked at him, concerned. Tom led her out by the hand. He knew the only thing they could do for Finn now was to let him sleep.
The next day Finn slept until 11 am, and even then he could barely move without wanting to vomit. Head pounding, mouth dry, eyes puffy and aching, his whole body felt broken, especially his aching jaw. Thinking a shower might miraculously cure him, he stumbled into the bathroom. While in the shower he had painful flashbacks from the night. He remembered bits about the argument with Chris, about being angry, and he remembered hitting the JDs hard. The rest was a blur. A wave of nausea hit him in the gut. Out of the shower, he dressed and went downstairs to face his mum, who had made him a cup of tea and some toast. She could see her son was suffering, and not just from the hangover.
The day was pretty much a write-off. He couldn’t face talking to Chris yet, and physically he felt incapacitated — not how he wanted to spend his last full day in Sydney.
The following day, Finn woke feeling much better. The only good thing about a hangover, thought Finn, is the next day when normal feels amazing. He had to report back to base by 1600 hours, which meant leaving his parents by 2 pm. He considered dropping in to see Chris, but still couldn’t face dealing with it.
He decided to call and apologise. The call went straight to voicemail so Finn, a little unprepared, left a stuttering message. ‘Hey, mate. Look, I — ah, I’m really sorry about the other night. Don’t know what got into me. I don’t remember exactly what I said but I’m, err, you know, sorry. Anyway, I’m heading back to base this afternoon. If you get this message, gimme a yell. Cheers, mate. Talk soon.’
This time, Tom drove him to the base. Chris had still not called back and Finn was relieved that he didn’t need to have an awkward conversation. After giving his dad a hug and saying goodbye, Finn headed through the gates. Immediately, he could feel the atmosphere. There was far more activity around the camp than he had ever seen. He headed straight to his barracks, where he found Sergeant Higgins. ‘Sarge, what’s going on?’
‘We’ve been put on alert. Our division is being mobilised. Not sure where yet, but we’ll be on the road tomorrow.’
Finn was animated now. ‘All right! What do you want me to do?’
‘Report to the armoury. They’ll need some help with the gear. This is it, Hunt. Training is over — time to start learning.’
‘Yessir,’ Finn saluted, turning and briskly walking out of the barracks. On his way to the armoury he replayed what Higgins had said: ‘Training’s over, time to start learning’. What the hell had they been doing for the last few months if not learning?
Higgins watched Finn walking away. He knew all too well that training prepared the soldier, but only combat created the warrior. There was no substitute for battle, no proxy for being faced with death, no words to truly describe what it was like to be faced with the basest of human scenarios — fight or flight. Or, as Higgins believed, fight or die. He hoped Hunt was up to it.
The next day the convoy of trucks started leaving the camp. There was no point leaving under the cover of darkness. The Chinese had satellites with thermal imaging that could spot movements at night just as easily as in broad daylight. The air was cool and a light wind was blowing from the east, carrying with it the faintest scent of the ocean. With the breeze Finn felt a wave of melancholy, knowing he had to leave all his feelings from home behind. The other men were also quiet and introspective. They were leaving the safety of the camp that they had all grown fond of, despite its basic conditions. They were heading out into the unknown.
The convoy was enormous. The first truck headed out the gates at 0500 hours. An hour later the truck Finn and his squad were travelling in lurched forward and joined the long line snaking its way towards the west. The men on the truck remained silent. The noise of the engine meant they all had to wear earplugs, so there was no conversation. It was an uncomfortable ride and after two hours everyone was in need of a break, but that was not going to happen. The convoy had planned stops for fuel roughly every four hours. When they did stop the men were tired and sore, ears ringing from the roar of the engine despite the earplugs.