Sex, Drugs & No Idea

16: Tunnels of Love

The concealed trap door fell open in an instance. The forest floor, with its leaves and mud, disappeared as the two split doors swung smoothly down and around to reveal a short drop onto a collection of sharpened bamboo stakes below.

"So, you see this is punji trap," their guide told them. "American troops stand on top and fall. Not far to fall. But spikes go through boots, through feet. Spikes go through legs. Lot of spikes have shit on them. This maybe makes enemy soldier sick."

Dang grimaced and Hugo said, "That's a bit rough isn't it?"

"Smart though," said Will.

"Just when you think your day can't get any worse, aye," said Dang. "You've got a bamboo spike through your thigh. You're in agony. Then you find out some bastard has wiped his poo on it. You'd be gutted wouldn't you?"

The group had spent the last hour or so being talked through and shown the various booby-traps employed by the Viet Cong to really fuck with the hearts and minds of the U.S troops. There were bamboo spikes that fell inwards when soldiers opened the doors of a village huts and stabbed them through the face, eyeballs and cheeks. There were pitfalls in which the hapless trooper would fall, land unscathed in a thigh-deep depression––probably breathe one, quick sigh of relief that nothing untoward had befallen him––and then have wooden spikes swing in and punch through the sides of his legs. There were 'bucket traps' that were literally covered buckets buried on trails. These little babies also had spikes in them, although they usually pointed down. This was so they stabbed into the soldier's leg when he tried to pull his foot free and trapped him there. Apparently, the Viet Cong would even nail snakes––venomous Bamboo Pit Vipers––over doorways so, when some poor American bloke walked in to search the place, the furious reptile would give him a trenchant bite on the back of the neck.

"At least they're all biodegradable traps," Dang observed at this point, like a true millennial.

"This war, the Vietnam War, it fought on feet," the engaging tour guide said. "Iraq War is fought with vehicles. That why bombs in the road. You need bombs to stop and hurt a vehicle. You don't need bombs to hurt people, soldiers. You don't need bombs to hurt legs."

Saying that though, there were still plenty of ways the Viet Cong would utilise explosives to the detriment of the Americans. They were seemingly pretty keen on hiding grenades just about anywhere and everywhere that they might end up spreading a Yank generously over the immediate countryside.

"No wonder they were smokin' like chimneys," Frenchy said, as he lit a Marlboro. "It'd be a bit stressful, wouldn't it?"

They shook their heads. Unable to comprehend. Not really wanting to try.

"Now, you want to try the tunnels?" our guide asked.

The tunnels were divided into three classifications. There was a Western-sized––or Yank-sized, as Hugo gleefully quipped at Frenchy and Will––tunnel, which was wide enough for your average size Western porker to fit through without getting stuck. On the other end of the scale, was the authentic-sized tunnel, which were what the Viet Cong would've used in their daily commute. The entrance to that stretch of tunnel was about the same size as Charlie's microwave at home. The others lads were generous in their amiability at Charlie not wanting to give it a crack.

"Well, if you don't want to that's fine, bro," said Dang.

"Yeah, dude, it's all good. We'll just do the medium-sized one," said Will cordially, looking at the shoebox-sized opening with horror.

Golem made some half-hearted and nonsensical protest about how they should all give it a go, as it would be an experience. This was quashed by Hugo's philosophical argument that getting bitten in the bollocks by a horse would be an experience, but that didn't mean that one should go rashly into the paddock with his trousers around his ankles and his nuts dipped in sugar.

The rough walls pressed in on Charlie's shoulders as the six of them army-crawled along the tunnel, with only enough room to keep their chins out of the dirt. Charlie was glad he'd gone in first, as it enabled him to see the postage stamp of light in the distance, although it was mostly blotted out by the silhouette of their guide as he snaked along in front.

Halfway along the tunnel there was a sound like a car radiator bursting and frothing over, punctuated by a snort. It was Golem laughing himself sick. Charlie tried to turn his head, but the tunnel lacked the room for those sort of acrobatics.

"What the fuck're you doing back there?" Charlie said, trying to keep the edge out of his voice.

Golem didn't answer, but continued to splutter away like a goat that's choking on a nettle.

From beyond him, Charlie heard Frenchy say, "Yeah, what the fuck are you up to? Get a fuckin' move on, you––"

Charlie didn't get to hear what Golem was though, because at that moment Frenchy gave a cry of mortal agony; a wail that would've stirred the stoniest heart. This pained exclamation was taken up along the line, as Golem continued to convulse with laughter in the little room he had.

"Who was that?" Charlie heard the muffled voice of Dang ask.

"Who was what?" Charlie said.

"Golem...why?" said Frenchy.

"Oh my god, that's fucking rank," Will said. He sounded like he was speaking through a mouthful of dirt.

"What?" Charlie said.

"Down here, of all places!" said Will.

Golem gripped Charlie by the ankle and managed to say, "I just––I just––I just––"

"Did you bloody drop one in here?" Charlie asked.

"Did he what, bro!" said Dang.

"What the hell did you have for dinner, mate?" came the aggrieved voice of Hugo.

"I could probably tell you if I stuck my fucking tongue out," gagged Frenchy, who seemed to have been at the immediate business end of Golem's biological attack.

Golem was paralytic with laughter.

"It's not going away," said Will.

"Where the fuck's it gonna go to?" French cried.

Charlie suspected that the fart was going to go on its merry way down the tunnel and out into the world beyond without leaving a mark upon him. He smiled.

"At least you'll be able to tell the doctor exactly how you got pink eye, Will," he said, and started to crawl––slowly––on.