Manus Xingue

by Jack Challis

  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!

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MENDOZA’S NEW BOOTS: AND CHAVEZ’S TRICKS.

  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 silen
tly 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.’

  ‘Bollocks!’ Lacy swears. ‘Let’s go after them, Sarge,’ he impatiently urges.

  ‘Hold it,’ replies Kane, ‘we could walk straight into an ambush or a mantrap – it’s not worth the risk.’

  At the junction where the path from the hut and the jungle trail meet, the escaping Chevez and the three Kier Verde indians take the main jungle trail heading north. Mendoza takes a small path heading south towards the swamp, where his boat is hidden.

  ‘Mendoza,’ calls out Chevez, ‘don’t go that way. Come with us, amigo – I will show you a better way to your boat.’

  Mendoza takes Chevez’s advice and joins them on the main trail. The fugitives flee quickly, led by Chevez.

  Edwards and Dublin join Kane, and Lacy. ‘What happened?’ Edwards asks.

  ‘A poxy sentry rumbled us,’ replies Kane. ‘We’ll go forward with Indian Joe and pick up their tracks. You and Frank go back and check out the hut.’

  Kane and Lacy move up the jungle trail to the junction where the path from the hut and the main jungle trail meet.

  ‘Five men go this way – north,’ says Indian Joe, studying the ground.

  ‘Ok, Joe,’ replies Kane. ‘You follow them – make sure no mantraps – we will wait here.’ Indian Joe carries on up the track with cautious steps. Kane then studies the footprints left by Chevez’s group while Lacy keeps guard.

  Edwards and Dublin return from checking the hut. ‘The hut is as clean as maiden’s water,’ says Edwards. ‘What have you found, Jim?’ Dublin asks.

  ‘Five people ran from the hut, three of them were barefoot – must be wild Kier Verde indians. One was wearing sandals – home-made out of a car tyre. Look, you can see the logo: “Goodyear”.’

  ‘Now, a strange thing,’ continues Kane. ‘One man wearing brand new, US army combat boots begins to take this small path towards the swamp, changes his mind and follows the others up the main trail.’

  ‘The one with the new combat boots must be Chevez, Sarge?’ says Lacy.

  ‘I agree,’ answers Kane. ‘He’s had plenty of opportunity to loot.’

  Indian Joe returns. ‘No mantraps, no ambush – all men run north,’ he reports, then snorts a line of cocaine.

  ‘Well, all’s not lost,’ says Jim Kane. ‘We are still on their arses. Chevez will not risk a fire-fight – only hit and run.’

  ‘Give them a start,’ advises Dublin, ‘let them relax, catch them unawares.’

  ‘Or hit them later, when they camp for the night,’ suggests Edwards. ‘They have a good fifty kilometres to go before they reach the northern hills.’

  ‘Will Chevez travel at night?’ Kane asks Indian Joe.

  ‘No walk at night. Here dwells powerful Cat-spirit – kill many man – but Indian Joe not afraid. I big Shaman – have big magic.’

  ‘I think,’ butts in Taffy Edwards, ‘our venereal friend here is saying there’s a man-eating jaguar operating in this area!’

  ‘Fuck me, that’s all I need – wish I’d stayed at sea,’ mutters Jack Lacy.

  ‘Look, lad,’ says Kane, ‘the jaguar must have hundreds of square kilometres to roam over – besides, we are armed.’

  ‘Do the Kier Verde use guns?’ Edwards asks Indian Joe.

  ‘No gun,’ answers the indian. ‘Use blowpipe, bow, bad poison.’

  ‘Where does the land of the Kier Verde begin?’ Dublin asks.

  ‘Other side Japari River – long way,’ answers Indian Joe.

  ‘You know where Chevez live?’ Dublin asks.

  ‘Chevez live with Kier Verde woman, over hills north Japari River.’

  ‘Ok, let’s go,’ orders Kane. ‘We need to kill Chevez before the Japari River, before he reaches Kier Verde country, so we don’t want to lose touch now.’ The SAS troopers, led by Indian Joe, continue to follow Chevez cautiously.

  Further up the track, Chevez and his group continue at a fast pace. The portly trader, Mendoza, is not happy – he is finding his new, US combat boots rather painful to walk in and his bag of trade goods is becoming too heavy. He stops. ‘Santa Maria!’ he exclaims, wiping his brow, and begins to take off his new boots. ‘No, Mendoza!’ says Chevez urgently, ‘keep the boots on, amigo – we will help carry your bag.’ Rondo, a Kier Verde indian, takes Mendoza’s heavy bag. Chevez addresses the Kier Verde indian that raised the alarm back at the hut. ‘Apari, what kind of soldiers are they?’

  ‘White men – I could smell them – not smell like Americano soldiers. If we kill their Marpari indian tracker, the soldiers will become lost and die!’

  ‘I have no anger for the Marpari – they are slaves to the white powder.’

  ‘They have come for you again,
Chevez,’ says Yuma, the third Kier Verde. ‘You must kill them all.’

  ‘I only kill soldiers when they come to kill me. Maybe these soldiers are not looking for me,’ answers Chevez. ‘I have done nothing to them or their countries.’

  Chevez’s group carries on. Apari spots something at the side of the jungle trail; it is a very aggressive and venomous Fer de Lance viper. He is about to kill it with his machete but Chevez stops him.

  ‘It may come in handy later on – remember the trick you taught me, Apari?’ Chevez muses. Apari smiles, nodding approvingly. He pins the snake down with his blade, binds its mouth and places it in a small sack, then catches up with the group.

  Half a kilometre behind Chevez’s group, the SAS troopers, led by Indian Joe, are quickly catching up. Suddenly, all the soldiers stop – at the side of the track, leaning against a tree trunk as if taking a quick break, is a grinning skeleton of a US Special Forces soldier, still with helmet. A tattered uniform hangs from the bones. The soldier’s dog-tags still hang around his bony neck vertebra. A damaged CT set is at his side. Edwards and Dublin exchange a knowing glance.

  Dublin is keen to inspect the dog-tags and reaches out for them.

  ‘Hold it, Frank!’ Kane orders. ‘I have strict instructions from Captain Bodeen not to contaminate any of the dog-tags we find by touching or inspection. Lacy, you continue ahead – check for mantraps – remember, don’t let your eyes be diverted from the trail, like this morning.’

  Jack Lacy and Indian Joe leave.

  ‘What is all this crap about contaminating dog-tags?’ Edwards asks.

  ‘I don’t know,’ answers Kane, ‘and I don’t give a monkey’s toss. I just follow orders.’ Kane gently lifts the helmet off the skull – many insects scurry away from the daylight. He then removes the dog-tags with a stick and looks at the soldier’s name, then seals the dog-tags in a plastic bag. The sergeant then takes out an identification list, with pictures of the missing American soldiers, from his pocket.