Sisimito I--Ox Witz Ha

by Henry W. Anderson

  We sat close together and it was stifling due to the humidity and, of course, we all smelled very badly. I looked for the increased light Hulse had seen and indeed it was there. I called Bas to go with me and recce. We walked around the owl’s nest and continued climbing, taking turns at chopping and, thankfully, the thicket101 was getting less bosky as we moved along. Suddenly, we were in scrubland102 and that rapidly thinned out into what could have been a clearcut103 or a glade.104 Finally, we were on the summit of the mountain. I looked to the north and there was the Cockscomb Range and Victoria Peak, just about three miles away from us. I simply pointed to it smiling then I added, “There you are you madafoka.”

  Illustration 35: The Mottled Owl (Icim) in the Covert.

  Illustration 36: The Covert. Private Hulse, Mr. Vincent Clarke, Private Taylor,

  and Private Anderson.

  Illustration 37: Victoria Peak and the Cockscomb Range. Three miles away.

  Illustration 38: Victoria Peak and the Cockscomb Range,

  three miles away, viewed with binoculars.

  “Victoria Peak,” laughed Bas, his voice reflecting the awe he was experiencing. “There she is in all her majesty. I never thought I would get to climb you Victoria. I just never thought I would. Hand me the binoculars.”

  I removed it from its belt sac and gave it to him, realizing that it was the first time it had been used. “Beautiful, elegant and, apparently, dangerous to climb. We’re not there yet,” I reminded him. He was smiling and I grimaced, surprised at my negativity. “But, we’ll get there,” I added quickly.

  We looked downward at a valley that stretched from the base of the mountain we were on to the base of Victoria Peak. A series of lower mountains transected the valley, but we were very close to our objective. Together we watched the imposing peak, the Cockscomb Range, and the almost blue jungle covered northern sector of the Main Divide of the Maya Mountains. My sacred jungle. I felt a peace within me that I didn’t often feel. “Let’s sit,” I murmured.

  “What do you think happened to Molly Cervantez?” asked Bas.

  “What?” I asked, incredulously.

  “What do you think happened to Molly Cervantez?” he repeated.

  I shook my head. “Right now, I don’t give a fok about what happened to Molly Cervantez. God! Bas! We are doing what only a few men have done. We will go down in history among a privileged few. We are sitting on one of the highest mountains in our country, looking at the highest mountain peak we have. It’s just across from us. We’re in the middle of our jungle, surrounded by peace and beauty you can’t find anywhere else … even with all the damn rain and overcast … and you … and you are thinking about Molly Cervantez.” I looked at him. He turned his face away and I could see that he was hurt over my reaction. I sucked my teeth, an act I rarely did. I wanted to say something to appease the moment, but I couldn’t. It’s not that I didn’t feel concern for Molly Cervantez, it was just that I was so happy right then. What I did do was point to Victoria Peak and said, “Look at it, Bas. Look at it. For now, there is nothing else.”

  I jumped. The rifle shot resounded loudly through the mountains and valleys, echoing fainter and fainter. I was quickly on my feet and looking back towards where I had left the men.

  Bas was already racing ahead of me, but I was soon at his heels. Multiple shots were fired. I heard bullets slamming into the trees not far from us, and I saw some hit the ground near our feet.

  “Get down,” I shouted, and I saw Bas leap into the grass, sprawling, as I did the same. I heard the loud and hurried voices of the men and the sounds of bodies breaking through the jungle. As I were about to shout at them, another volley of shots resounded. That time, however, the shots were not alone. I heard screams and cussing from my men. Then there was silence. Absolute silence. I refused to guess at what had happened. Nothing was supposed to happen. But something had happened. I did a low crawl towards Bas who was still in his sprawled position. “We’ll circumvent the area where we left them. Try to find out what happened, “I whispered. “Let’s go.” But Bas did not move. I reached over and grabbed his torso. My hand became wet and warm. “Oh my God,” I breathed quietly as I quickly turned him over, my tears were already washing the day’s grime off my face. The entire front of his shirt was filled with blood. I placed my hand on top the bleeding wound trying to stop the bubbling blood from escaping, but the blood kept gushing between my fingers. I lay my rifle beside me, forgetting the immediate danger I possibly faced, and he trembled as I cradled him in my arms. “Don’t do this to me, Bas,” I cried, weakened by what I knew was happening. “Don’t do this to me,” I shouted, out aloud. “Don’t fokin do this to me.”

  Bas opened his eyes and looked directly at me. His eyes told me that he was already beginning a new journey … climbing a new mountain … walking through a new jungle, one that I could not enter. I saw him trying to raise his hand towards his neck, but he did not have the strength.

  “Don’t move,” I told him. “I’ll get the Medic.”

  He shook his head, struggling to talk. “Come close,” he whispered, and I did. “Take the scapular. Take the Green Scapular and wear it.” He frowned as he looked at me. “Why the fok are you crying?”

  I was very confused at what he was telling me. I was angry. “I need to get the medical kit. I need to get help,” I cried, struggling with the words.

  “Take the Green Scapular and wear it.”

  “Green Scapular? Where is it, Bas? But why should I, Bas? Oh God! I have to get you help.”

  “It will protect you,” he labored to say.

  “Protect me … and it didn’t protect you. It should have protected you,” I cried out. “You believed in it … that fokin piece of cloth.” My tears were falling swiftly and mixing with the blood on his chest.

  “Please,” he entreated. “Take it. I am ready. You are not.”

  I looked about me. It was hard looking at him. I looked at the beauty of the jungle I loved so much. But the jungle was no longer a pure and beautiful green. The green had become tainted and would forever be marked with his blood. I reached down and slowly removed the red stained scapular from his neck.

  “Put it on,” he whispered.

  I placed the scapular around my neck and I saw his broken body tremble, then he smiled weakly and I knew that I had lost him. His opened eyes kept staring at me and as I hugged his face, I closed his eyes with my lips. I lay him down and howled like a wild animal. I tore at the tall grasses, wishing that they were the hair on my head and I was pulling them out. The heavy rain had started again and, slowly, I began to remember my purpose on the mountain. Tearing memories of the sounds of screams and curses from my men came back with a force that woke me from the wake I had been a forced participant in. I looked at the face of Lance Corporal-the-Bas-Shal. The smile still remained in death.

  I picked up my rifle and moved cautiously through the tall grass, downhill towards the path I had come. I continued through the scrubland and finally entered the jungle I no longer knew. The rain was heavier and lightning and thunder roared and flashed overhead as disciplined movements took me closer and closer towards where I had left my men. When I finally arrived at the target, I did a recon as I was trained to do. The mission was no longer a training exercise, no longer an exploration, no longer the fun-filled Expedition Bold; a soldier had died and I could no longer say that there was no one in the jungle to harm me … my jungle.

  I walked into the area of the covert, stared, then turned over each torso, one by one. There were five bodies, and I pulled them from where I found them and arranged them shoulder to shoulder. There were no bullet wounds. The wounds were done by rabid teeth in some areas and by a sharp instrument, perhaps a machete, in others. I began looking for their missing parts, trying to identify each and to whom the part belonged. Clarke’s head still wore its glasses; I picked up the head and placed it by its severed neck. His right arm was missing, a clean chop wound at the shoulder. I soon found the missing ar
m and set it in place. And so it was with each body. I sorted out the parts and placed each part by its own body. Sometimes, I was not sure, especially when the limb was severed in more than one pieces and were scattered about. And the thumbs, each thumb had been torn off and in death it was difficult to differentiate them even by the color of their skin. But I could not finish putting the bodies together. I couldn’t find any thighs. All ten thighs were missing and that further clouded my confused mind. I screamed at the jungle. I hit at it with my rifle. I chopped at it with my machete. I kicked at it … pulled at it … shot it with my rifle. But there still were no thighs. Large black pumpu’s,105 the blow flies, many showing a bright green luminescence, were already beginning to congregate at the exposed and bloody wounds, eating and laying their eggs. The humming of their wings drove anger upon anger into my thoughts. I lashed out at them, as more and more came swooping in. Those miserable scavengers added intimate horror to the hideous scene as they walked across the dead staring eyes and into the open mouths of my men.

  I had done my best. I even made five crosses and placed one at the head of each body. I then returned to Bas and while lightning and thunder tore apart the heavens at the malice that had been let loose upon us, I carried his body to the very summit of the mountain and lay him down on the Northern face against a boulder. I had decided against placing him with the rest of the dismembered bodies in the tropical crematorium of the icim’s covert where they lay. Where I placed him, Bas faced Victoria Peak and, for a long time, I sat and watched with him. I cried, but no one could have noticed the tears for the rain was beating heavily upon my face and no one would have heard my screams for the thunder was continuous. I did not recall how long I stayed there, beside my dead friend, talking to him, telling him stories of our youth, laughing at incidents that occurred when we were drunk, looking across the final valley to the majestic Victoria Peak; but he did not partake, he did not laugh, he did not say anything for he was dead.

  I returned to the site and gathered whatever I thought I may need for my withdrawal and put them in my bergen. I removed the cot-a-cam I had previously gathered and scattered the leaves over the corpses. I didn’t know why I did it, but, perhaps, a reason wasn’t necessary. The sacred herb was supposed to ward off evil influences, but Evil had already come and gone. All the falling leaves did was to disturb moving layers of black and green flies that covered the remains of my men. As the grisly cover rose, intermixed with those that hadn’t flown were large white and pink maggots already insidiously hatched to tear at the brutalized and decaying flesh of what were men … my men. The number of flies and maggots were so numerous that the remains moved as they moved. I fought back my nausea as I gathered and placed all the other equipment near the empty covert, empty for the icim was no longer there. I put Clarke’s camera beside him and in a final attempt at dignity, I covered each of my men with their ground sheet. Slowly, the ground sheets moved away from the corpses.

  I started the descent of the mountain we had climbed that morning. I carried my bergen and ground sheet, my rifle and machete. I was still able to see the trail we had macheted, although the heavy rain had pressed many tree limbs and shrubs down across it. The leaves and branches hit at my face and body with relentless intent and, every now and again, the sharp prickles of a haul-am-back vine106 tore into my cloths and flesh as the jungle made a concerted effort to keep me from descending the mountain. The litter on which I walked was wet and slippery and the path was no longer solid, but soft and muddy. I slipped and fell continuously and had to be careful that I did not cut myself with my unsheathed machete.

  I was confused. I was angry and my anger was making me walk without the care I, as a soldier, should have in place. Someone … something dangerous and deadly was in the jungle … my jungle, the jungle I so loved. I didn’t know what it was, what it could be. I didn’t care. I just hoped that I saw it or him or her first, before whatever it was saw me. I kept on tearing at the jungle angrily as I continued to descend and finally came to the camp we had left that morning. The laughter and fun of the night before hit me like a wall in my face. Their voices spoke to me, mocking me. The taste of the food Hulse had prepared returned to my mouth. Its aroma returned to my nose. I cried again as I vomited.

  It was already late in the evening, but I decided to push on. Not only did I want to get out of the immediate area from the danger that lurked there, but I knew I would not sleep, so it was better for me to continue walking and try to reach The Fork sometime after midnight. I would then rest. Sleep, if I could.

  I left the camp and walked down to the Cockscomb Branch. I was initially surprised, when I stepped in, that its level was much higher than that morning. I should not have been, however, as it had been raining all day. The water was above my boots and as I began my walk downriver, the mud, sand, and stones I stirred up preceded me making it difficult to see where I stepped in the river already darkened by the continuing rains and the rapidly coming nightfall. The dark and overcast sky was dressing my jungle in a blackening shroud.

  I walked in the middle of the river, avoiding the banks and what they may hold. Blackness enveloped the land like an evil hand, but even the anger that I held in my heart did not shut out the realization that I was all alone in virgin and dangerous jungle. At times, I found myself humming a song I could not remember having learned. The song persisted and eventually I heard myself singing the words out loud. It was a hymn, probably from my childhood at the Catholic school, possibly one Father Stiobhan had forced me to learn. Why it would come back to me, at that time, I didn’t know. The hymn kept repeating itself and I kept singing. I could not stop. I did not know if the words were the correct words, but I just kept on singing:

  Jesus walked this lonesome valley,

  He had to walk it by Himself,

  Oh, nobody else could walk it for Him,

  He had to walk it by Himself.

  I must walk this lonesome valley,

  I must walk it by myself,

  Oh, nobody else can walk it for me,

  I have to walk it by myself.

  I must go and stand my trial,

  I have to stand it by myself,

  Oh, nobody else can stand it for me,

  I have to stand it by myself.

  Jesus walked this lonesome valley,

  He had to walk it by Himself,

  Oh, nobody else could walk it for Him,

  He had to walk it by Himself.107

  At times, I heard other voices accompanying me, hundreds or, perhaps, thousands. They rose above the rising sounds of the rushing water about me. Then peeniwali came by the hundreds trying to light my way and it seemed that they became little angels and it were they who sang … and I wondered if I were going mad. Then the chorus would suddenly stop and I felt very alone in the obscurity so I would start singing again and the darkness would not seem as black as it actually was.

  I took my headlight108 out of my bergen, lit it, but didn’t see any large animals. I did not hear their call or note their movements. Occasionally, overhead, I thought I heard the sound of wings, possibly a bat or an icim or other type of owl. Once, the headlight picked up two large eyes on a branch overhanging the river. When I flashed back towards the eyes, they were no longer there and I was not certain what animal or bird it was. It could have been a raccoon or a nightwalker109 or even an opossum, but then it could have been an owl … or even a mountain lion.

  I walked on. I stumbled, falling again and again. At times, pain shot up my elbows as I bruised against rocks and my ankles hurt as they twisted under me. I tried my best to protect my rifle, keeping the magazine tightly locked under my arm, holding it above water, but it was often completely submerged when I fell. Initially, I used the headlight continuously, but later as I grew accustomed to the darkness I did not as I was aware of where the banks were. Lightening still flashed overhead, occasionally, and at times a full moon broke through the heavy rain clouds. Those flashes of light did not help me, but made it more d
ifficult for me to see in the deep darkness that followed, and it rained and it rained and it rained heavily.

  As the night deepened, the water level continued to rise, slowly at first then more rapidly. The rushing water was pulling me along, hurrying me to safety, I hoped. By midnight, the level had reached above my knees, the current was swift, and I became uneasy. I had to begin to think of my own safety. It was not only that walking was becoming more and more difficult, but I was enclosed on both sides by steep riverbanks and the possibility of a flash flood was very likely. The water around me was making a roaring noise of turbulence as it rushed past me; yet, in the distance ahead of me, I thought I could hear the explosive sounds of rapids and I hoped that I was coming upon The Fork. I needed to get out of the river for I was quickly becoming exhausted and the level was rising. I had to find The Fork, climb the higher northern bank, get to a place of safety from any flooding, wrap myself up in my ground sheet, and sleep until I awoke.

  The thunder of the rapids ahead grew louder and I increased my pace as best as I could, now certain that I was approaching The Fork. I began walking in much deeper and swifter water, the level up to my waist. I was not too apprehensive at the deeper water, because that may have been an indication that I had reached the confluence of the Swasey, Cockscomb, and Mares Nest. I flashed my light westward and large boulders and foaming rapids were illuminated with an eerie luminescence. I smiled, but inwardly, for I was sure that my face did not hold the smile. It was definitely the Swasey Branch directly ahead. I flashed to the left bank. The sani-bay had disappeared. I flashed to the right bank and saw that most of the boulders and their approach, where we had slept two nights before, were covered with swift moving muddy water. The remaining part of the bank, on that side, was awfully steep and slippery and the water beside it rumbling and treacherous. I flashed back to the left bank. It would not be very difficult to climb up to the top of that bank and then on to safety. I decided it would be best to climb the left bank even though it was not as high above the rumbling Cockscomb Branch. Doing that was also advantageous as I would not have to cross the river again the following day. If it were still flooded then, it would be extremely dangerous to ford and I could not be delayed. It had to be the left bank and if the river rose and inundated it, I would just have to find a high spot or sleep in a tree.