Clenched Fist

Clenched Fist

It's early when we leave. It's going to take a while to drive across
town, where we'll pay our visit. Our host has no idea we're coming, so
we're not working to any set time, but we're aiming for a just after
lunch arrival. There's me, my Dad, and two of his old mates, Des, or
Dessie, or Crummer, and Tony, or Tone, or Ten Ton. These are my Dad's
old Vietnam mates, all in the same company. Or is it platoon? Something
about going through that sort of situation together makes them bond
forever. They seem to forget anyone's bad points that they were in the
war with. And even now there is a hesitance to call Vietnam a war. You
hear it referred to as a conflict, a situation, but there is a
resistance to call it a war. I guess that word brings memories of
Hitler and Stalin and Germany and Japan. Vietnam seems to have been a
big mistake, one that no one wants to glorify.

But Dad and his mates know what it was. They lived it. I remember
hearing Des talking to Dad once saying, 'They were firing bullets at
me, I was firing back at them, to me that's a war.' These three men in
the car with me are proud of what they are. We drive along the early
morning mist, led by this pride.

Where we are going is a house across the other side of the city. We're
going to visit another veteran, only this guy is different. This guy is
a pillar of society type, has been a local government councillor, has a
good job. This guy recently accepted an award from the town for his
bravery and achievement. He has two daughters, a wife, and a firearms
license. He has spoken at district schools about his Vietnam
experiences and tried to make them understand what young Australians
went through in representing their country. He even leads the Anzac Day
parade through town and is a prominent member of the RSL club. He wears
his service ribbons with honour.

But this guy is different. This guy has never met my Dad, Des, or
Tony. When we packed the car, Dad told me to take the hammer with me,
and the crowbar. This guy is different because he's never been to
Vietnam. This guy is a faker, cashing in on being a war hero. We've
looked up the history, this guy's story. He's a liar. A faker who's
built an entire life around his lie. A faker who talks about how hard
it was over there. How the helicopters with Agent Orange on board would
dump it right on top of you. How you never knew who to trust because
North and South Vietnamese look no different. A faker who is taking
credit for something he never had any thing to do with. And today we're
paying this faker a visit, with a hammer and four guys.

Dad asked me to come along just to watch their backs. He said because
I'm young and fit and quick, if anything happened I could help. But, he
assured me, nothing will happen. He told me what they do is go to these
fakers houses and just have a quiet chat with them, tell them that we
know they're lying and if they don't stop?I kick the hammer at my feet,
hiding it under the front seat. Dad said that they'd only ever had to
beat up one guy, and he started swinging first. But someone has to pull
these people up and reveal them for the fraud they are. So we'll just
be going for a chat, Dad says. But just in case.

This is the real reason I came along, to make sure my Dad doesn't lose
control on this guy. To make sure Dad doesn't take out his aggression
on the faker. He's been going through red tape for years to prove he's
eligible for a service pension. To prove he has Post Traumatic Stress
Disorder. Talking to person after person to prove to them that he has
been affected by the war. Person after person who've never had to go
through what he's been through. If it weren't for the drugs Dad was on
to keep him calm, it'd be much worse. He carries his little pillbox
around with him. It has little sections, each marked with a day of the
week along the top and a time of day down the side, to make sure he
doesn't miss any. Some regulate his heart beat. Some relax him. Some
are anti depressants. If it wasn't for his drugs, I wonder whether it
would have been more than just a hammer he asked me to bring.

So I'm driving with these three veterans, gliding along the freeway.
They are talking to each other about their problems since the war. They
try to avoid talking about depression and stress. They leave that for
the wives to speak to each other about at reunions. They talk about
guys who they haven't seen since Vietnam, but they never say why they
haven't spoken to them again. 'Hey', Tony says, next to me in the back
seat. 'I heard this guy wears his fake service ribbons to formal
dinners and meetings, with his suit y'know.'
'Just wear 'am around.' Dad says, shaking his head in disappointment.
It makes them all angry. Des taps on the steering wheel. I can hear his
finger on the plastic. I'm looking out the window, watching the other
cars pass.
'What do you think about that, mate.' Tony smiles at me. I laugh, and
wonder what those eyes have seen in their lifetime.

We stop in a town for lunch, only about forty minutes from our visit
now. We sit on a public seat and eat sandwiches together. Des and Tony
have pillboxes too, but different colours. Every time they talk about
this guy, I hate him more. And I think about the hammer.
I remember once when I was eleven and playing with plastic guns in the
back yard was fun. I remember asking my Dad, 'did you ever kill
anyone?' He didn't know how to answer me, he looked away, trying to
avoid our eyes meeting. 'What?what do you want me to say?' Dad asked,
finally. 'I shot at them?' Later on that day, I saw Mum with her arm
around my Father, comforting him as he cried into his big hands. I
wonder how the faker, the liar, the bastard would react in that
situation.

I'm shaking as we drive along the faker's street, looking for house
numbers. The faker's car in the drive way has the Vietnam sticker on
the back window. The green and white and red lines of the service
ribbons. The sticker is on the back of our car too. This makes Des next
to me even worse. Dad takes a deep breath.
'Okay, let's go say hello, then.' The four of us walk up the path,
towards the front door. Instinctively, I curl my fingers up into a
fist. Tony rings the doorbell. I can see through the window photos of
the faker standing beside war monuments and statues. Standing by the
memorial in Canberra, proudly wearing his fake service medals. You can
buy them through a mail order company. Send them money and they send
you a history. I guess they justify this by saying collectors don't
necessarily have to have been a part of Vietnam. The faker is not a
collector though. There's a photo of the faker and his family. He
probably used his lie to pick up his wife and couldn't take it back
after that. She'd never trust him again.

One of his daughters answers the door, she looks up at the four of us
crowding the front step. Tony asks her to get her Dad for us, and she
skips away, yelling for him. The faker walks in big strides towards the
door. He offers his hand out on a manly handshake.
'How are you fella's, what can I do you for?' That liar. That bastard.
Tony shakes his hand, grabs it tight and hard. I think for a moment
that Tony is going to pull the bastard out and we'll all begin belting
into him. Dad will yell at me for the hammer from the car and we'll
knee cap him in front of his skipping daughter and his soldier-loving
wife. But Tony just asks for him to come outside and have a talk.
'We're from the Vietnam veterans association,' Des adds. And we stand
on his green lawn talking about him faking. The liar denies it and goes
inside to get his medals. I notice Dad's hand is in a fist now too. Des
looks like he has his teeth clenched inside his mouth. And Tony, Ten
Ton, the biggest guy here, is calmly talking, telling the faker he's
wrong, he's lying and we know.

After some time trying to reason with him, the faker is asking us to
leave. Tony has a firm hand on the bastard's shoulder as he gestures us
off his lawn.
'Come on, mate, we know you're a faker, just?' Dad says, agitated, a
vein pumping extra blood through his forehead.
'No, no, just settle down.' Tony says, holding his hand out toward us.
Tony's big right hand moves up to behind the faker's neck. In the
window, his wife is looking out at us on her lawn, making sure we don't
step on her plants. Tony leans in and says something quietly into his
ear. Tony grips the back of the liar's neck. I can see Tony's fingers
pushing harder into his skin, his scarred thumb forcing its way into a
pressure point. I can feel it just watching. Tony is talking quietly,
too quiet for us to hear. I can just hear his 's' sounds. And the
bastard's eyes are going all glossy and moist. Tony lets go, pushing
the faker's head slightly as he does. The liar's expression changes, no
longer the proud war hero. Fear. Shame. Guilt.
'We understand each other?' Tony asks.
'Yes.'
''Cause we don't want to come back here,' Tony leans down to make their
eyes meet, 'but we will, okay?'
'Yes'
'Good.' Tony walks towards the car. Des follows after him. Dad just
glares at the faker, he has his head down, looking at his lawn, his
wife's plants. Dad still holds his right in a fist, pushing his nails
into his palm. The liar looks up, a drop rolling down his cheek.
'Get on your fucking knees you prick,' Dad says to him, staring him
down. The faker looks afraid, unsure what to do. Dessie and Tone turn
around. I run to Dad and try to calm him down.
'Didn't you hear me?' The weak bastard realises that Dad isn't joking
and starts dropping, looks to Tony for sympathy.
'Hey, it's alright, let's go now,' Ten Ton says, walking back over to
get Dad. I put a hand over Dad's rock solid fist.
'Get the hammer,' Dad says. The faker is crying hard, his wife opens
the front door, runs out and falls onto him, screaming. I drag Dad back
to the car and we drive out. If Tone's speech didn't convince the liar,
then Dad's hammer definitely did.

I stare out the window at the passing cars, some have their lights on
as the sun is slowly setting. Me and the Vietnam mates. And I never
experienced the war, or the confusion, or being relieved to finally
come home only to be faced with protestors who were angry at me for
interfering in another country's battle. Protestors who spat on me and
yelled abuse at me for representing my country, because they did what
they thought was right. I never found out if my Dad had killed
anyone.

When we got home, I took Dad's hammer and put it safely under my
bed.