The Odd Angry Shot by William Nagle Page B

sweaty one of you on that road that day felt the same way…
    â€˜We’ve lost him,’ says one of the medics, standing up and wiping the blood from his hands in a piece of burn dressing. Remember, you almost felt glad for him. In fact you did.
    â€˜TIGER beer, all the way from good old Singapore,’ grunts Harry as he places the two brown cartons with the black and yellow lettering on the sandbags.
    â€˜You’ll shit for a week after a night of that stuff,’ comments Rogers, bending over the green packet of dehydrated chicken and rice and drooling in anticipation.
    â€˜Who cares? It’s booze isn’t it?’ says Harry, laboriously opening one of the cartons with his bayonet. ‘You don’t have to have any if you don’t want to. I’m sure the two of us can put a bloody big dent in it without your help.’
    â€˜Let’s not be too hasty about this, now,’ smiles Rogers, forgetting about the chicken and rice and moving towards the newly opened carton.
    â€˜Piss-pot,’ Harry gulps, throwing a can to Rogers.
    â€˜May I?’ I ask, with a look of mock supplication.
    â€˜Another piss-pot.’ Harry flings the cold steel can onto my bare stomach.
    â€˜You blokes like a game?’
    Bung Holey has appeared in the doorway carrying in one hand an ammunition box, the top of which has several puncture holes, and a dirty, dog-eared pack of cards in the other.
    â€˜What’s in the box?’ asks Harry.
    â€˜Me pet spider,’ answers Bung.
    â€˜Your pet what?’ I ask in amazement.
    â€˜Me pet spider. I picked him up in Baria on the laundry run.’
    â€˜Give us a look,’ says Rogers following Bung to the centre of the tent.
    â€˜Who’s yer tailor Bung?’ asks Harry grinning.
    Bung wore the most remarkable clothing that I ever saw on a soldier. His ‘Anzac Gentleman’s Lounge Outfit’, as he was wont to call it, consisted of a pair of red felt slippers, a pair of grey-white socks, a pair of black and green spotted camouflage trousers cut down to shorts, a grey sweatshirt with ‘Welcome to Bangkok’ printed on the back and a white handkerchief knotted at the corners on his head.
    â€˜Stand back. He’s not what you’d call friendly,’ says Bung opening the box lid gently. ‘There you are.’
    â€˜My sweet Jesus!’ says Harry.
    â€˜Ah, shit,’ says Rogers, drawing away.
    Seated at the bottom of the box is the most repulsive insect I have ever seen: about six inches across, with two half-inch white fangs and two red, beady eyes set like match heads in the squat body.
    â€˜What does he eat?’ I ask.
    â€˜Meat.’
    â€˜Spiders don’t eat meat,’ says Harry, opening another black and yellow can.
    â€˜This one does,’ says Bung, closing the lid.
    â€˜What’s his name?’ Rogers asks.
    â€˜Gladys Moncrieff,’ answers Bung. ‘Aha, I see you’ve got a few cans of ye olde Tiger.’
    â€˜You can smell a can of piss six miles away, can’t you?’ says Harry, throwing a can to Bung and looking disgusted.
    â€˜Just one of my many talents,’ grins Bung, fingering the cards.
    The card table and seating arrangements consist of two stretchers pulled together and four ammunition cases covered by a half shelter.
    â€˜Dollar limit, OK?’ asks Bung, shuffling the cards.
    â€˜Yeah. Twenty cents minimum bet, eh?’ says Harry, looking at Bung and putting a can to his mouth.
    Bung slides the cards from the pack and onto the slippery green waterproof cloth.
    â€˜Buy one,’ says Harry.
    â€˜One more, one more. Ratshit twenty-five.’
    â€˜Buy one,’ calculating numbers in my head.
    â€˜Sit,’ place the military scrip notes on the cards.
    â€˜Buy one, and another, sit,’ says Rogers.
    Bung turns his cards over. Six, sixteen. Draws a card from the greasy pack. Six.
    â€˜Twenty two,’ yells Harry