Manus Xingue (6 page)

‘It’s a personal choice lad,’ advises Kane. ‘We don’t read the Geneva Convention – it doesn’t help us when we are captured.’

Jack Lacy ponders. ‘It will spoil the flight of the bullet,’ he says, pocketing the
dum-dum
round.

‘He’s too bloody soft, Jim – let me have that rifle,’ complains Dublin.

‘Lacy’s our sniper – it stays that way,’ replies Kane. ‘We will get there at dusk and lie up all night – move into position before first light.’

‘Seen any active service in the Marines, Lacy?’ Dublin asks.

‘The only active service Lacy has seen,’ quips Taffy Edwards, ‘is fighting in the
Naafi
queue.’ Lacy laughs.

‘Now,’ says Kane, ‘Chevez has outwitted and killed US Special Forces soldiers – with just an antique rifle and jungle craft!’

‘Never underestimate the enemy!’ says Taffy Edwards. ‘My granddad’s regiment was let down in Hong Kong by a stupid prick of an
English
General and useless,
English,
intelligence officers – they brains damaged by being buggered senseless at public school. These poofs wrote their reports sitting in warm offices, wearing lipstick, drinking pink gin and kissing each other! They claimed that when the scruffy Japanese saw smart British soldiers they would shit themselves – and scarper!” They claimed the Japs were myopic, deformed midgets who were frightened of the dark and lacked courage and stamina because of their rice diet. The first dead Japs my granddad saw were perfect specimens of muscle and bone – six footers. Lions led by bloody,
English
donkeys.’

‘My grandfather,’ says Dublin, ‘an American citizen, bet a week’s wages on the Japanese beating the
English
!’

‘The Yanks were brave soldiers in WW One and Two. They beat the Japs on land and sea – more then we British could do. But now, rich country produces poor soldiers,’ says Kane. ‘We British are second to none as soldiers because we still got fuck all! This government will soon have the Grenadier Guards marching to Yank jazz music – and singing rap!’

‘I think rap is a load of shite,’ Dublin adds.

Far to the North, across the Japari River, Chevez waits by his jungle hut. Inside is the beautiful Maria – she has malaria. A baby sleeps nearby in a hammock. Chavez is dressed in grubby shirt and trousers held up by a string belt. He carries an old Mauser rifle. On his feet are home-made car-tyre sandals. Tapia, Maria’s sister, suddenly appears out of the jungle; her only apparel is a green bead girdle. ‘Tapia, please look after Maria and the baby. I must go and trade for quinine with Mendoza – I wait for the warriors.’

Tapia smiles. ‘Are you blind, Chevez? They are already here.’

Chevez squints into the jungle. Tapia points; three muscular warriors appear from the jungle wearing long leaf masks; their bodies are painted green and yellow – the Kier Verde – the Invisible People!

The four SAS troopers sit around their fire. ‘He has his head so far up Bush’s arse,’ says Dublin, ‘it’s hard to see where one’s body ends and the other begins.

‘When do we get paid, Sarge?’ Jack Lacy asks.

‘Thinking of the knocking-shop, lad?’ Kane enquires.

‘I like to know where I stand,’ answers Jack Lacy. ‘I once took a bird out, cost eighty quid for a “thank you, Jack, for a lovely evening.” Now I could have got rat-arsed
and
had a twenty-five quid knee-trembler.’

‘Some gentleman,’ says Taffy. ‘It took me a year to get a leg over my Blodwyn. I had to get engaged first, then she rationed me, to keep me interested like – see.’

‘Does your Blodwyn have big
thrupenny
bits?’ the indiscreet Lacy asks.

‘No, just a big-mouth, and temper to match!’ answers Edwards. ‘Now listen, lad – I was in Baghdad when you were in your
Dad’s bag.
You are asking for a dose off clap!’

‘I can’t stand big tits,’ says Dublin. ‘They make a woman look as if she’s in bad need of milking!

Indian Joe returns, wiping his greasy chops on his forearm. He squats by the fire, snorts a line of coke and admires Lacy’s blond hair!

‘A penny to a pinch of snuff, our
venereal
friend here is as bent as a donkey’s hind leg,’ says Dublin, stirring it.

‘You know Peterson?’ Kane asks.

‘Yes, Peterson hair, eyes, like Lacy.’

‘You know where Peterson die?’ Kane asks.

‘No! Peterson go – another Marpari tracker and Murphy – soldier with hair like fire!’

‘He certainly likes his blonds and redheads,’ comments Taffy Edwards.

‘Will Chevez post sentries?’ Kane enquires. The indian nods.

‘Wild indians have sharp eyes, ears and noses,’ warns Dublin. ‘They can smell a white man at fifty paces – we have no chance with the bloody noise Lacy makes.’

‘How many more rivers to cross?’ Kane asks, ignoring Dublin’s opinion.

‘One big river – Rio Maspara – must cross when water
cold
. Then one small river.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ says Edwards. ‘What is the danger?’

‘Crocodilos,’ replies Indian Joe, then uses his hand to indicate a fin slicing the water….shark!

‘Fuck me gently!’ Kane swears. ‘Crocs and bull-sharks – like the Zambezi!’ The Yanks lost a man crossing the Rio Maspara – he just disappeared!’

Early dawn: the SAS troopers stop short of the river, barely visible though the jungle. They scan the opposite riverbank – seven large reptiles wait motionless for the morning sun to warm their cold blood – two are crocodiles!

‘Lacy,’ whispers Kane, ‘see those two light-coloured ones, about twelve feet apart–they are crocodiles – aim an inch behind the eye. You must kill the second one before it hits the water – if you miss, one of us won’t make it!’ Edwards and Dublin prepare to make a quick crossing.

‘Lacy checks his bolt-action rifle and takes aim. A high-velocity round splits the still air, ricocheting off the canopy walls! The hit crocodile leaps into the air, then falls dead. In a flash, the second reptile turns for the river. Its snout barely touches the water when another high velocity round shatters its brain! Lacy is having trouble ejecting the spent shell! The less dangerous caimen hurl themselves into the river. The dying croc’s blood is trickling into the brown tepid water! Dublin and Edwards are in the chest-deep river; they are helpless, weapons held above their heads. Kane watches his 5.63-calibre, not
very
effective in penetrating water.

Dublin and Edwards are half-way across. Suddenly, a single, golden fin of a bull shark breaks the surface, thirty feet from Dublin and Edwards. Kane fires his semi-auto without effect. Another two fins appear!

‘Lacy!’ Kane shouts. ‘Three o’clock!’

Clearing the breech, Lacy opens fire, working the bolt with great skill. Three rapid shots splash an inch before the sinister fins. They disappear, leaving three crimson streaks. Dublin and Edwards had stopped helpless; watching the fins approach!

‘Now, give me your rifle and Bergen,’ orders Kane. ‘
He
is five foot fuck all, you are six foot. We can’t lose our guide – Marparis cannot swim!’

Lacy looks around, as if seeking an explanation from a passing stranger as to what Sgt Kane was trying to imply. Then it sinks home.

‘You mean carry Rumpleforeskin over!’

‘Yes, and I mean today,’ orders Kane.

Indian Joe nimbly leaps onto Lacy’s back. Kane and Lacy begin to cross, covered by Edwards and Dublin. While crossing the dangerous river on Lacy’s back, Indian Joe cannot stop himself from feeling Lacy’s blond hair with his fingers!

Noon. The SAS troopers have made good ground, moving silently along the jungle trail, led by Indian Joe. Suddenly, he holds up his hand. The SAS troopers stop – Indian Joe disappears into the jungle.

‘What's he up to, Sarge?' asks Jack Lacy.

‘Fuck knows – what do you think I am, a swami?' Kane replies.

‘Listen, Jim,' says Taffy Edwards. ‘Did you notice something about a kilometre back on the trail?'

‘Yes – a group of natives crossed the track from the South and heading north.'

‘We are heading north, Jim,' Edwards remarks. ‘There were some small, fresh, green branches on the track – some kind of signal maybe. Our
venereal
friend looked at them, then kicked them away – something going on.'

‘We should disarm the ugly bastard,' Frank Dublin chips in.

‘I agree Indian Joe is no oil painting,' answers Kane, ‘but the Yanks use him – that's good enough for me. You two Celts are always paranoid about something – if it's not the
English,
it's an indian tracker.'

Ten minutes later, Indian Joe reappears holding a piece of vine and a large, dead, colourful Macaw. He pulls some feathers from the dead bird and puts two feathers in his greasy, black hair and looks at the four SAS men as if waiting for a compliment.

‘Very fetching,' says Kane. The group moves on.

In a short while, they come to a small, slow flowing, shallow stream. ‘This could be dodgy,' says Kane. ‘Piranhas are dangerous when the water's low and sluggish.'

Indian Joe throws in the dead bird. Soon the water is bubbling with thrashing piranhas, as they tear the bird apart. While the piranhas are feeding, Indian Joe has gone upstream a few metres and, with a rock, crushes the vine. A milky substance enters the stream, robbing the water of oxygen.

Within minutes, the shoal of piranha is belly up!

The group crosses the stream.

‘Lacy,' says Kane, ‘before you cross any water, always have a good look-see. If you can only see piranha, and they have red bellies or are black, and no other fish are present, cross elsewhere!'

‘When can we have
nose-bag,
Sarge?' asks Lacy. ‘I'm bloody well starving!'

‘This is only a twelve-hour lie up,' says Dublin to Lacy. Taffy and me have been in lie-up for thirteen days.'

‘Our target was a crafty IRA commander,' continues Edwards. ‘We were two hundred yards from his front door and the bastard never showed once. After nine days, we ran out of food and ate anything that crawled or slithered passed our LUP. A cat came nosing around – Frank and me ate it raw! We had to organise a car accident outside his front door – the bedroom curtain moved two inches – our target got a bullet in the left eye!'

The group moves out.

An hour before darkness falls, Kane halts his men. ‘We will be at the lay-up position soon. Lacy, once we are in the LUP position, keep your big gob shut – and no sly roll-ups.'

The SAS troopers silently approach the area of the hut in the falling darkness. Not knowing when their target, Chevez, will arrive, they will wait until he leaves. A hundred metres from the hut, the four SAS men stop just before the jungle night descends. Leaving the track, they silently melt into the jungle to take-up their LUP positions. Indian Joe has disappeared! (Most of the jungle dwelling tribes are reluctant to leave their fires at night. However, there are exceptions – the Kier Verde and the Cat-People.)

Pre-dawn inside the hut. Four men sit around a small fire facing the door – they speak in hushed tones. Two are wild, muscular, Kier Verde indians with yellow and green painted faces. Chevez sits next to the portly, Portuguese trader, Mendoza. Chevez is around thirty; five ten, wiry build, his black bullet-eyes constantly alert and darting, like a wild animal. His old, well-maintained, Mauser rifle rests across his knees. The two Kier Verde indians examine trinkets; knifes and beads etc., while the fat, Portuguese trader, Mendoza struggles to put on a pair of new, American combat boots.

Mendoza offers the indians packets of cocaine, demonstrating how to use it. Chevez speaks to Mendoza sharply. Chevez then speaks to the Kier Verde indians in their own tongue.

‘You will lose your jungle spirit and your magic – if you take the white powder!' The two indians toss the packets back at Mendoza. Mendoza then examines two American 45-calibre automatic handguns.

Outside, the four SAS troopers emerge from their LUP. Jack Lacy hobbles from cramp. Floating layers of mist rise from the nearby swamp, hanging in the still, humid, early morning air. Gaining the track, the troopers move forward cautiously. Edwards and Dublin leave to take up their positions; Kane and Lacy continue. Both stop and look up at a partly-hidden US helmet hanging from a tree! (A trick to divert the eye off the trail.)

Lacy is about to move a low branch for a better look at the helmet. He is stopped by Kane who draws Lacy's attention to a thin, natural-looking vine above the jungle trail. Kane gently parts the foliage and exposes a thin, supple cua cuasa tree bent back only a few inches so as not to look out of place, its long, two-inch thorns tipped with a brown substance –
curare!
The tree is held in place with a stick and loop trigger. He carefully takes the tension off the vine with his rifle butt and releases the spring trigger.

Indian Joe suddenly appears and is nearly shot by the jumpy Lacy! Led by the indian, Kane and Lacy continue. The mist from the swamp hampers visibility; Indian Joe holds up his hand. They stop while he uses his nose like a bloodhound and homes in on something a few feet from the trail on the ground. Indian Joe bends down and picks up the stub of a cheap, native cheroot and puffs on it; the cheroot comes to life.

‘Fuck me!' Kane whispers. ‘A sentry has just moved off – we've been rumbled!'

Back in the hut, Chevez and the Keir Verde indians are placing trade items in their shoulder bags. The trader, Mendoza, is filling a large sack with US weapons and equipment. Mendoza hands around small bundles of cheap cheroots. The Keir Verde indian, who was on sentry duty, rushes into the hut and speaks to Chevez hurriedly in his native tongue.

‘White soldiers – outside!'

‘Vamoose, amigos!' whispers Chevez, quietly but urgently. In a flash, Chevez grabs his shoulder bag, machete and rifle. He is the first out of the hut, quickly followed by the three Kier Verde indians and, lastly, the struggling, heavily laden Mendoza.

On the track, Kane and Lacy rush forward but get only a fleeting glimpse of fleeing figures in the mist. Kane stops Lacy from taking a quick shot. ‘Hold it, lad – we can't pick out Chevez in this mist.'