22
The stranger had the weathered look of a farmer, and there was something of a former soldier about him—plain, yet casual clothes, neatly groomed with a relaxed and uncomplicated face, as those in the bar of the Townsville pub noticed. He knew exactly where the Regular Army drank; they were creatures of habit, and the new generation of young soldiers was the same. You could tell who was who just by quietly sitting in a corner and watching; he sidled up to a fellow whom he thought was probably a Warrant Officer.
“G’day,” he said, “how’s the army treating you these days?”
“Good, thanks mate,” the local replied affably. “You’re ex-army?”
“Yeah, a few years ago now; just checking the old place out, same you know, just the same.”
“Vietnam?”
“Yeah.”
“Let me buy you a beer.”
“Thanks, a
