A Huey from the 9th Air Cavalry Regiment, clattered over head from the forward operating area.
Below it, the jungle closed in as Erebus moved forward through the still waters of the Nung. The air was close and humid. Captain Willard sat on the foredeck talking with Colonel Kurtz who tousled the hair of Private Miller.
The rating's severed head sat in his lap.
Mr Clean was motionless on the transom, his insect repellant shirt torn open by the Montagnard spear still protruding from his chest. He was miffed. They said nothing would get through that shirt. First the mosquitoes, and now this!
Lance sat in a catatonic state by Clean, his bootless feet dragging in the water. He was oblivious now, to the toe nail that had troubled him, but deep in his sub-consciousness he wondered whether things might have turned out differently had listened to his chiropodist.
Hicks had disappeared over board at some point in the last firefight. If he planned to make it back for R&R, he shouldn't have parted with his passport. How easy it would have been to have bought the waterproof passport holder at the travel shop. Extravagantly over priced, it had seemed at the time, but now he felt differently as the wildlife began to take an interest.
Chief was trying unsuccessfully to raise his travel insurer on the static bound radio. His watch, new from the market in Saigon only last week, had been struck by shrapnel as ordnance exploded about him. He was really annoyed as he hadn't bought the extended warranty and, although he couldn't remember, he suspected that he had opted for the increased excess to keep the premium down. He calculated that if he passed off Miller's broken laptop as his own, he might get something out of it after all, but that meant finding his receipt.
Miller wasn't good at paperwork. His mother said he would lose his head if it wasn't screwed on.
Playmate was boiling water over the gas stove below decks, quietly seething that Willard had forgotten to collect her package of jasmine tea from from the French at the Cambodian border. Listening to Kurtz raving to Willard about the philosophy of war was one thing. Existing on Nettle and Camomile was more than she could bare.
"I'll never get the blood out" said Kurtz. He scratched at the gore, drying in the blazing afternoon sun.
"I told you not to cut his head off" replied Willard. "Besides, I'm not paying for the boat to be cleaned when this is all over".
They sat in silence for a while, listening to the misfiring engine. The following breeze was blowing the heavy deisel fumes over the foredeck. Willard coughed and then covered his mouth with the sarong he had picked up in the floating market at Chau Doc. It was really pretty and fine for the jungle but he wondered whether he would ever wear it when he got home. Maybe, around the house?
"They sent me to kill you" said Willard, apropos of nothing.
"But I haven't seen the fish farm yet!" exclaimed Kurtz. "Miller said it was really interesting". He paused as if in thought. "Maybe he was just playing for time...?"
"The rice warehouse wasn't great but the noodle factory was really worth seeing. It was a bit dangerous though" said Willard.
"Don't tell me - no guards on the cutting surfaces?" enquired Kurtz, using his bayonet to clean blood from under his fingers.
"And not just that" agreed Willard. "No manual handling protocol. No personal protective equipment statement. They would be bang to rights if someone hurt their back lifting noodle packets".
"Its political correctness gone mad" demurred Kurtz. "My guys didn't need health and safety in the jungle. But one of them even came bleating to me about cutting a finger on his mess tin. It's all got out of hand. It's just getting really hard to run a blood thirsty insurrection especially when you are a freelance rogue operative like me. There's so many forms to fill in.....".
"I'm glad you mentioned that" interjected Willard. "Now about this rogue operation. It's got to stop. I am supposed to terminate your operation with extreme prejudice".
"So they didn't actually say you should kill me....." enquired Kurtz.
"Well, not in so many words" replied Willard, inspecting his now dog earred orders.
"It's annoying. You have to be so precise nowdays. There's just no room for initiative." said Kurtz. "I had one of the temples redecorated last week. Fuschia, I said. I made it perfectly clear" said Kurtz.
"And?" enquired Willard.
"What did I get? Pink! The horror......the horror!".
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