Robertson was dressed in his khaki uniform, boots, garters, water bottle at his side, and a dark blue beret. He must have gotten someone to wash the uniform as it was almost clean. Had to be an Englishman to have that done. I shook my head seeing him washing his uniform at every creek we would march over. He carried his pistol and knife, both scabbarded at his belt, a machete scabbard, and also one of our section’s rifles and a magazine pouch. I knew that the men did not give up their rifles easily, but I supposed that Pas had arranged that. A machete provided by one of the villagers was stuck in the ground by his feet. Real fokin limey.
Choc was dressed in forest green jungle fatigues, or combats as I preferred to call them, and a boonie hat. I looked at him and raised my eyebrows. “One of the men loaned them to me,” he said. I didn’t answer, knowing that the combats were better than other clothes he’d have worn. He did not carry a rifle, but a double barrel twelve-gauge shotgun. He also carried a water bottle, machete and knife both scabbarded at his side. I looked at his feet. He had on tennis shoes. “The boots couldn’t fit,” he advised. I nodded.
Taat was dressed as if he were going hunting. He wore hand woven stained white long pants, V-neck shirt of the same material, a red bandana on his head. I supposed, in a way, he was going hunting. For weapons, he carried his machete and knife, both scabbarded, and a couple of slings tucked into his belt; he would have specially picked stones and other slings in his cuxtal. Someone had given him a military issue water bottle.
Rhys and I were dressed in jungle combats and hats and we each carried our rifle, knife, machete, magazine pouch, and water bottle.
I looked at my men. “Is there anything anyone wants to say before we leave?” There was no response. “Then pick up your bergens and ko’one’ex.117 Rhys. What time is it?” I didn’t wear a watch.
“1330 hours, Sarge.”
“Wait,” came a shout from the group of villagers. I turned to look. “Bring back my baby,” said Matilda Moss, tears falling down her cheeks.
“I will, Miss Moss. I will. Okay, ko’one’ex men. Bye Corp.”
Pas looked at me. This was the second time he was seeing me leave for the jungle. The last time, one year ago, the mission led to disaster. “Good luck, Sarge,” he said, the remaining men in the section, LCpl. Gongora V., Pte. Teul T., Pte. Valentine J., and Pte. Choco L., and the two other guards coming to attention. “Remember, you don’t have a radio so avoid trouble.”
“Too fokin heavy to carry anyway. Over one hundred pounds and you pray that it will work.” I shrugged my shoulders and smiled. “Thank you, Corporal. We’ll manage.” I turned to the other soldiers who were not coming. “Thank you, men. I’ll be back.”
“You better come back and bring her too,” instructed Miss Moss. “You know, Stephen Chiac, I didn’t like you. I’m still getting used to trying to like you. But with all said and done, you’re a good man. You’ll make a good husband and father, Stephen Chiac … once you change your ways. Just make sure you come back, and bring Molly with you. We still have a wedding to celebrate,” proclaimed Miss Moss with false cheerfulness.
I bristled at her calling me Stephen. I used that name no more. At the same time, however, I swelled with emotion, listening to what she said. I nodded my head at her, unable to respond. “Ko’one’ex, men. From now on, we are all soldiers.” The villagers who had come stared at us, said nothing, sadness, fear, and concern prominent in their eyes.
We were soon out of sight of Santa Cruz as we took the trail northerly to San Jose Hawiia, the name given to San Jose because the village was built around the junction of the Hawiia and Blanco rivers. We were travelling through craggy hilly lowland broad-leafed jungle, generally between four hundred to eight hundred feet above sea level. It was about two miles to the village, as the crow flies, but because of the hills there would be additional miles; also, we had to cross the meandering Rio Blanco River at least twice. I estimated that it would take about three hours to reach San Jose Hawiia, providing the men could keep up the pace I had set. The trail was narrow and overgrown in some places, but the overgrowth did not hinder us. We marched briskly, in single file. I put Choc at the head with his machete, Rhys at the rear, Taat, Robertson, and I in the middle. Taat, Choc, and I would do the tracking, look for signs of the Kechelaj Komon’s passage, signs of the Kechelaj Jupuq, look and listen for signs of impending danger.
I recalled the mission to climb Victoria Peak. The walk, one year ago, was relaxed and we had time to enjoy the trees, the wild flowers, the birds, the beauty of my jungle. We sweated as we climbed the mountains, chopped through overwhelming chaparrals, laughed as we bathed in the rivers. That was until tragedy overcame us. Since then, whenever I go into my jungle, I still hear Clarke’s camera clicking away. This day the beauty was still there, but I didn’t see it and there was an urgency pushing me onward.
At times, I thought Choc was moving too slowly, but I refrained from pushing him faster. Choc was a hunter, but he hunted at his leisure. Hunting urgently was new to him. Robertson was also a concern to me. He was fit, but walking briskly mile after mile, climbing hills, sweating in the jungle, was not like running on a flat beach in Punta Gorda, or marching on the Police Station parade grounds.
We reached the Rio Blanco at a quiet pool like area, its surface looking almost green as it reflected the trees, tutz palms, and other palms that overhung it and grew to the edges of the river. Even with my troubled mind, I paused a short while to look at the many wild orchids that grew there. It was not going to be a problem to cross to the trail on the other side as it was not the rainy season and the deepest part would reach just about mid-chest. Yet, even though the large rocks were flattened and smooth forming shallow tiers they would be covered with moss and, therefore, very slippery. As we were only at the beginning our journey, however, I did not think it would be good for our combats to be soaked so early, especially our boots. We would be tabing118 for long periods and I didn’t want us to develop problems with our feet. With prolonged exposure to wet boots, the skin on the feet could turn red, bluish, or black. They became swollen and often developed open and bleeding blisters. I could afford none of that. Taat did not wear boots, only lej-xajäbs,119 so I didn’t have to be concerned about him.
“Okay, men,” said Rhys. “Open your bergens. There are water proof bags in there. Take off all your cloths and boots and pack them as is standard. Once we get across, we dry and dress again. Make sure you dry your feet properly then place the wet towel back into its bag so that it does not wet your other stuff. You know all this shit anyway.”
“Yes, Sarge. We know all this shit,” they responded, almost derisively.
As soon as we reached the other bushy bank, I rubbed down quickly with my hands. I rarely used the small towel usually provided, like the one Rhys had packed with a small bar of soap, as regulations required. The problem with that was that the towel remained wet and, even when we tried to dry it in the evening, the humidity was always so high that it never did. Within a day, it stunk and it was against regulations to throw it away. I supposed it didn’t matter as in a couple days we all stunk. With regards to the soap, I rarely used it. The smell of soap was foreign to the jungle and animals could sense it from afar. I began dressing when Choc came over to me. He was still half-naked, but I sensed some urgency in his expression.
“What’s up, Choc? You should be getting dressed. I don’t want any unnecessary delays.”
“Sarge. The drove rested here.”
I looked around, wondering how I could have missed the signs. Was I allowing my preoccupation with what had happened to interfere with my awareness? I examined the growth around me then looked at Choc. “I don’t see any markings that a drove passed through here. I have also been watching the trail. No broken branches. No scattered leaves. Mixba’al.”
“They do not move like a regular drove, Sarge. I smelled their passing.” He looked up and wrinkled his nose. “There’s a slight whiff.” He nodded his he
ad. “I was dressing when I smelled it. I looked into the undergrowth a bit further along. There’s hach-k’ek’en and kitam shit there.”
“What’s kitam?” asked Robertson.
“Peccary,” I answered. “Pikayri in Kriol.”
“And hach-k’ek’en?”
“Waari.”
“Where did you see the shit?” asked Taat.
“Come, Taat,” answered Choc. Taat looked at him, probably wondering why Choc was calling him Taat. He shrugged his shoulders and followed Choc. It seemed that Taat would be Taat for everybody. They went into the undergrowth and began examining the jungle floor on both sides of the trail. At times, they got close to the jungle floor and looked sideways. On returning, Taat looked at me and nodded his head. “It is strange that we find hach-k’ek’en and kitam shit together. Usually, they travel in different packs, not as one. There’re no batz shit.”
“What’s batz?”
“It’s Black Howler, Robertson,” I answered, irritably. I hoped that I would not have to explain every Maya word we used to Robertson. Sorting that problem out, however, would have to wait.
“Could the peccary and the waari droves have travelled separately, one first then followed by the second later?” asked Robertson.
“No,” answered Taat. I felt and smelled their shit. Both have the same moistness and warmth. They were here together.”
“But are there other signs, Taat?” I asked.
“Very little. I don’t know how they’re doing it, but they’re hiding their tracts. Also, the sun is high and that makes it much harder to see tracts.”
“Why is that?” asked Robertson.
“It’s easier early morning and late evening as the slant of the light makes it easier to see shadows made by tracts. Choc and I had to get close to the ground and look sideways to see the indents and ridges where they walked. Sometimes we saw nothing. Yet, the tracts were there. The prints we did see are fresh as they still have sharp edges on the outside. Old prints are rounded off. Does that help, Superintendent?”
“Fiddlesticks! Yes. Thanks, Taat.”
“There are none of the usual signs of their passing through,” admitted Taat. “There’re no chewed or scratched plants. No bare spots on trees where the bark was rubbed off. No broken grass and shrubs. No signs of resting. The only things are the occasional hoof print, shit, and the faint smell. Nothing else.” Taat lifted his eyebrows. “Yes! Unusual that they run together.”
“Well, peccaries and waaries are scientifically related. I don’t see why they can’t be together … Why they can’t number-two together.” Everyone looked at Robertson.
“Well,” contributed Rhys, “Man and monkey are scientifically related, but we certainly don’t shit together.”
Choc started chuckling and I immediately knew that Robertson would be the subject for humor during the mission. In Expedition Bold, it was the Bajan120, Clarke, and my mind immediately reverted to the covert on the mountain top and only with great effort was I able to push away the horrible images that memory brought.
“Perhaps, the Howlers were in the trees,” suggested Robertson.
I shrugged my shoulders, not wanting to speculate about the batz. “If the shit’s still warm, that means they were here recently.” The men shuffled a bit.
“How can we know if they’re the same packs that attacked Santa Cruz?” asked Rhys. “Those should be far ahead by now.”
“We won’t know. At least, not now. Maybe they didn’t travel last night,” I responded. “At least, we know that packs are ahead of us. We need to pick up their track with certainty.”
“It will be difficult,” stated Choc. “They’re proceeding carefully. I really can’t see much of their tract. Most of the times, all I have is the faint smell and their shit is not scattered all along their path as is normally the case. When they shit, they all shit together. One spot. One time. That is the first amount of their shit we’ve found. That is a first for me.”
“Well, at least they did leave their number-two,” Robertson reminded us.
“I suppose they couldn’t help that. We haven’t seen any other evidence of their track because they were not travelling on the trail, but adjacent to it. That is why their shit is in the bushes, not on the trail. They know what they are doing. Also, they did not cross the river at the trail, but higher up or lower down. That’s why we saw no track there. They leave very little evidence as they march,” informed Choc. “It seems that they’re just giving us enough to keep us going, but no other information like how many there are.”
“You talk about them as if they’re intelligent,” remarked Robertson, his tone somewhat condescending. “Was it really a rational decision not to ford the river at the trail, a deliberate decision to deposit their number-two in the bush rather than on the trail? Was it instinct? At least, thankfully, we don’t have to walk on their number-two.” We all stared at him, again.
“Animals are intelligent, Sir,” argued Taat, indignantly. “You’ll find that out before this journey is over.”
“Yes, they are,” concurred Choc. “More intelligent than some …”
I had to intervene, set things right. I was the patrol commander and everything, even conversation, was to be directed through me. Everyone else was of the same rank and I had to establish that without any further delay. I, also, hated the word ‘number-two’. “What did you call it, Robertson?”
“Call what?”
“The moist and warm thing Taat and Choc were examining in the bush.”
He paused a moment looking a bit confused. “Do you mean the number-two?”
“It’s shit, Robertson. Plain old shit. That’s what we call it.” Robertson reddened. “And Taat, no one here is ‘Sir’. I am Sarge and everyone else is called by their last name. I will have a 2IC, but until then you’re buddies of the same rank. Does anyone have a problem with that?” I asked. “If anyone does, let him turn back now.” There were no answers. “We look after each other. Okay! And continuing this discussion now won’t help us know anything more. Taat and Choc, continue monitoring. Ko’one’ex, men.”
We walked northerly, the Rio Blanco to our right as it made its way down to the Blue Creek and Moho River and then on to the Gulf of Honduras. After a mile, we met the tributary again. The trail came to a spectacular waterfall I had visited many times with Taat as a boy. It was about one hundred feet wide and twenty feet high. The river was much shallower there, but we went through the same ritual of protecting our clothes and boots. We continued walking to the north, having the Rio Blanco then on our left. We passed a large cave, its gaping mouth about sixty feet high, limestone walls towering above, with a creek flowing from it. I remembered how Taat and I had slept there one night after hunting. I reflected on how I had forgotten those things, adventures that were so important in my relationship with Taat. Choc and Taat went down to the cave, but found no evidence of the Kechelaj Jupuq having rested there. We continued and arrived at the outskirts of San Jose Hawiia around 1600 hours, four-o-clock.
The village grew at the junction of the Hawiia and Rio Blanco rivers. It was deep in the jungle and, for many years, it was regarded as a place fit only for wild animals and hunters. Later, however, loggers, and chicleros121 looking for the sap of the sak-ya122 tree moved about the area. The village was established in 1954 when alkilos and people from San Antonio decided they wanted a village. That village was not Ke’kchi like me, it was Mopan like Teul.
I decided not to go into San Jose Hawiia, fearing that it might slow us down. Also, I didn’t know if Command had gotten in touch with the Alcalde there with orders to have me turn back. If I did not receive the orders, I would be better off when I eventually returned to HQ. I had already gone through a vicious court-martial after Expedition Bold and I wanted to avoid another, if at all possible. As nothing would make me turn back, it was better that I received no orders to do so.
I elected to take the trail that passed just south
of the village then turned north through the jungle and occasional kool and wahmil.123 We tabbed up a rugged and steep mountain soldiers called Major Black Hill accompanied by multiple bouts of cussing. The story is that Major Black is the only soldier to have tabbed from bottom to top at one go. From the crescent, I was able to see the beautiful village of San Jose Hawiia, the houses almost all hidden from view by the jungle.
As we walked on into the mountainous and jagged terrain there were small creeks, but we crossed them easily and did not have to undress. We walked northwestward for about a mile and reached Wattrous Road, an old truck pass, presently just a trail running mainly east to west and cutting across the trail we were on. We continued tabing northwestward and generally towards Miramar Hill. I knew that in about two miles from where we were, as we continued northwesterly, we had to cross the Rio Blanco again. The trail would continue into the mountains for about a mile west of the river before it swung eastward, again coming back to the river.
Illustration 5: San Jose Hawiia as seen from Major Black Hill.
It was already 1630 hours and we had about two-and-a-half hours of good daylight left. We were moving more slowly than I wanted, but the trails were not in good condition and crossing rivers and climbing hills had delayed us. I had wanted to camp at Miramar Hill, but to reach there we would have to travel in the dark. The moon would rise a few hours after sunset and provide some light, but it could be dangerous to travel through the jungle at night, especially not knowing where Sisimito and his horde were.
Taat came beside me. “When will we make camp?”
Sisimito II--Xibalba Page 7