by Jack Challis
‘Gordon Bennett – fuck my old boots!’ exclaims Lacy, jumping back. ‘Someone’s burnt a stiff here, Frank!’
‘No,’ replies Dublin, ‘somebody had a bloody good dinner party here last night!’
‘What are you on about?’ Lacy asks.
‘Look at the bones, idiot,’ hisses Dublin. ‘That’s a human femur – split to get at the marrow. The skull is split open for the brains – look at all the greasy human fat on the deck.’
‘Hang a trout,’ responds Lacy, looking around. ‘You saying the Cat-men had a fry-up here last night?’
‘Well, it was not bloody Nigella Lawson,’ Dublin replies.
‘Leave me right out,’ answers Lacy. ‘I’m not kipping here tonight.’
‘I am,’ replies Dublin. ‘It’s the living you should be worried about – not the dead.’
‘Where do you think they are now?’ Lacy asks, looking around nervously.
‘What is this, twenty questions?’ replies Dublin, now sitting down, using the split skull as an ashtray. ‘Get some wood for the fire – we can cook the anaconda steaks – I could eat a whole pig’s head with cabbage.’
Frank Dublin was a paradox; a feared man in the Regiment. His father had served with David Stirling; as a result they were forced to leave Wexford in the Republic. The Dublins and the Mulhollands were among those who fought King Billy. These men were among the legendary boys of Wexford. ‘My father changed sides to see more action’ Dublin consoled himself. ‘In Wexford there is only one name more unpopular than mine, and that’s Oliver Cromwell.’ Dublin’s only loyalties now were to 21 SAS – and his old mate Taffy Edwards (now dead and buried, a victim of one of Chevez’s tricks) and to Celtic Football Club and last but not least – John Barleycorn.
Dublin hated the Anglo-Saxons and their monarchy. Although he felt for the Irish cause, he still killed his own countrymen, including his cousin – an active IRA member – and hated himself for it . He was a troubled man who could never return to Wexford. He was an excellent and ruthless SAS trooper – drink was his anaesthetic!
That night, both SAS troopers sit around the fire watching the snake steaks cook. Dublin drinks from the bottle.
‘Give us a pull, Frank,’ pleads Lacy.
‘Good whiskey is wasted on anyone under thirty,’ replies Dublin.
‘Tell you what,’ says Lacy, a pull of that bottle of gold watch for one of Major Bodeen’s la-di-das.’
‘Done!’ replies Dublin, ‘but I want you sitting right next to me – only take one swallow now!’
Lacy breaks out the Havana cigars, handing Dublin one, then sits next to him. Dublin passes the bottle over, Lacy licks his lips and grins at the Irishman who closely watches the Cockney’s Adam’s apple. Lacy takes a great swig and is about to repeat the process when Dublin grabs him by the throat, wrenching the bottle away!
‘Fuck it, Frank,’ protests Lacy, ‘you nearly ruptured my windpipe!’
‘That first swallow was an awful great pull – and you were getting ready to take another,’ points out Dublin.
‘Some grip you have there, Frank,’ answers Lacy, grinning and rubbing his throat.
‘And you have some quaff like Ollie Reed!’ Dublin responds.
‘That drink has given me an appetite; snake looks like cod,’ remarks Lacy, placing the anaconda steak into his Dixie and about to take a mouthful.
‘Make sure it’s well cooked,’ replies the Irishman. ‘All big snakes are crawling with worms.’
‘Thanks, Frank, that’s put me right off my nosebag,’ replies Lacy.
‘Give it here then,’ demands Dublin, who proceeds to wolf it down. ‘That was good shooting – at the river, the heli-gimble camera and the big cat,’ remarks Dublin. ‘I always admire a good shot. If you knew the anatomy of animals you could have killed that man-eater with a bullet just behind the shoulder or where the throat meets the chest – remember that.’
Taking advantage of the volatile Irishman’s mood swings, Lacy pushes his luck. ‘Must be worth a packet of Yank fags then?’ suggests Lacy. To his surprise, Dublin tosses a packet over.
‘Fancy a game of cards?’ asks Lacy, bringing out a pack of porno playing cards and dealing a hand. Dublin looks at his cards then throws his them into the fire.
‘What did you do that for?’ Lacy asks, looking hurt.
‘I had a hand like a pig’s foot.’ the Irishman answers.
Lacy attempts to retrieve his cards. ‘Leave them,’ orders Dublin, angrily. ‘I don’t want you wasting your energy – courting the five-fingered widow. When you were on Selection you starched your sheets every night – and in the morning so I heard – it’s a wonder you had the strength to get out of bed! Just don’t be pulling your wire when you are sleeping next to me! All marines are wankers. As Oscar Wild once said….’
‘Who the fuck’s he?’ Lacy asks, ‘a singer?’
‘No, you stupid Cockney faggot,’ replies Dublin. ‘People like you make me grateful I had a good Catholic, Jesuit education.’
‘Jesuits!’ repeats Lacy, ‘they were the ones that tortured people – stuck a metal rod up their bugles and pulled their brains out!’
‘That’s an embalmer – idiot. What books have you read?’
Jack Lacy has to think.
‘You do read books?’ asks Dublin.
‘Yeah,’ replies Lacy. ‘Well – half a book.’
‘Why only half? asks Dublin.
‘My Sally found it – tore it up!’ Lacy answers.
Dublin shakes his head. ‘There is no chance of having an intelligent conversation with you then. Give me another shot of morphine – you backward imbecile – your ignorance is beginning to annoy me.’
He complies and gives Dublin another premature shot of morphine. However, the irrepressible Lacy has a question.
‘Frank, can I wear my uniform when I meet my Sally – just the once like?’
‘Yes, if you want to be dead in a week – courtesy of the IRA – they have long memories. Now get your head down – I’ll do the night watch.’
Lacy lies down but watches Dublin as the Irishman snorts a line of cocaine, and swigs from the bottle.
The following morning the two SAS troopers are on the move again. Frank Dublin is on the last bottle of bourbon and is in a bad way; he stumbles and staggers after Lacy – who now leads.
Jack Lacy constantly looks around nervously. Dublin stops and openly snorts a line of coke. Lacy is worried about his volatile companion’s condition.
‘Time to change your dressing, Frank,’ announces Lacy.
‘I will be the judge of that,’ replies Dublin. ‘Just give me another shot of morphine.’
‘Drink and drugs will fuck you up, Frank.,’ Lacy advises.
‘The morphine is wonderful, so is the drink and cocaine – I have never felt better,’ announces Dublin. ‘Now get to it.’
Lacy reluctantly complies and gives Dublin another shot of morphine.
A troop of monkeys in a tree nearby suddenly begin screeching, shattering the quiet humidity. Lacy is scared. ‘Frank, I have a strange feeling we are being followed – a sixth sense!’
‘What do you know about it? answers Dublin. ‘You have only been in the regiment five minutes. It takes at least a dozen operations before you develop a sixth sense – like me,’ boasts the Irishman.
Dublin, normally a man of few words, is now in a talkative mood due to the drink and drugs. Lacy is nervous and wants to move on but is afraid of the unpredictable and rambling Dublin.
‘I will tell you this,’ continues the Irishman, ‘before you marry your Sally, make sure she’s sound in wind and limb. Now, I bet a penny to a pinch of snuff your Sally has legs as thin as ole sticks and she needs the repair shop every week.’ Lacy turns his back on the rambling Dublin and rolls a fag.
‘Now my old mate Taffy Edwards,’ carries on Dublin, ‘we always….’
‘Oh, not that old comrades crap – remember there’s no “touchy feely” in this regiment,�
�� mumbles Lacy under his breath (playing the hard luck fiddle).
Dublin tries to rise – but falls back. ‘If it where not for the Irish, Welsh and Scots, you Anglo-Saxons would not have an empire.’ Dublin passes out!
Lacy picks up the water bottles which are empty; they need to be filled before nightfall.
They are in an open stretch of ground. Jack Lacy has to enter the jungle fringe to find water. He moves off cautiously, rifle at the ready, constantly stopping to look from left to right. Every noise makes him jump! Something behind makes him spin around – he becomes entangled in a giant web blanket spun by a community of small but aggressive spiders that overcome large prey with the cumulative effect of their venom.
Lacy panics like any arachnophobe, drops his rifle and lets out a yell. ‘Fuck me!’ His look of terror soon turns to relief when he sees the small size of the first few spiders that arrive at the site of the disturbance. That is until he receives the first and the second painful bites.
‘Ouch! – Ouch! you little fuckers – that hurt!’ The newly badged SAS trooper looks up and is horrified to see hundreds of other small spiders dropping and moving towards him. he rushes out of the giant web – panicking – brushing off the biting spiders – swearing every time he is bitten!
Out of danger, Lacy composes himself and carries on his search for water. He soon finds a small clear pool. He fills the two canteens while constantly on his guard. Then, looking down, he sees the impression of a large naked footprint – water is slowly seeping into it! He’s is up in a flash, and bolts back to Dublin.
Unknown to Lacy, the mutilated face of Manus Xingue is watching him and grinning, amused at Lacy’s comical antics. Manus Xingue has a vested interest in the ex-marine – but that will wait for another day. The evil Shaman of the Cat-people presents a grotesque sight – due to injuries caused by Frank Dublin’s booby traps. Severe shrapnel wounds disfigure one side of his face, resulting in the loss of an eye. He gathers the spider’s web casually, brushing off its owners, and uses the silk to dress his partly-healed, horrendous facial wounds – he then takes a line of cocaine and grins!
Lacy rejoins the still unconscious Dublin. He is keen to move on and get into cover but has a problem with the immobile Irishman. He conceals both Bergens – slinging the rifles on his shoulder and picking up the heavy Dublin in a fireman’s lift, he staggers on.
Lacy vents his anger on Dublin. ‘You hairy, chimp-faced, shit-shovelling, bog-hopping Paddy,’ moans Lacy, enjoying his chance to insult the helpless, volatile Irishman. Then, adopting an Irish brogue, he continues… ‘Top of the morning - how she cutting, Paddy – give it some ole stick – Jesus, Mary and Joseph – a pint of Guinness in a tin glass.’
Suddenly Lacy finds himself knee-deep in swampy ground. ‘Bollocks!’ curses the young Cockney SAS trooper, looking down at the swamp and then at Dublin. The thought of dropping the Irishman into the swamp appeals but he thinks better of it and struggles on.
Lacy is soon sagging under the heavy load of Dublin’s body and makes for a half-submerged log. Sitting down, he slides the heavy Dublin onto his lap and immediately sees another chance to amuse himself at the unconscious man’s expense. As if in a music-hall act, Lacy places his hand behind Dublin’s head, He proceeds……’What’s your name, then?’
‘Gollocks!’ replies the ventriloquist’s dummy.
‘Would you like a nice gottle of gear and a slice of ged and gutter?’ Lacy asks. ‘Or this big Cockney knuckle-sandwich, right in your big fat ugly Irish mush?’
As Lacy laughs at his own humour, he is unaware of the appreciative audience watching from the gods!
High in a tree, Manus Xingue’s mutilated face peers through the foliage. The evil Shaman of the Cat-people is enjoying Lacy’s matinee act.
Suddenly Dublin wakes and finds himself sitting on Lacy’s knee.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ explodes the Irishman, angrily.
‘Just keeping you out of the water, Frank.’ answers Lacy.
‘Get the fuck away – you faggot!’ Dublin orders. He gets up and staggers away towards a small dry rise in the swamp and collapses again. Lacy shouts after the comatose Irishman.
‘I wouldn’t touch an ugly, hairy bastard like you for an eighteen-carat Rolex.’ Lacy then collects the Bergens and wades over to the unconscious Irishman. He goes through Dublin’s Bergen, takes out the bottle of bourbon and drains it – then rolls a fag and studies the unconscious man.
Lacy is curious as to why the volatile Irishman is keeping his right arm covered. He pulls up the right sleeve of Dublin’s shirt and sees a shamrock tattoo on the Irishman’s thick, hairy, right forearm!
Lacy’s expression changes – he has found his torturer – the silent interrogator during Selection – the man who tried to kill him. Lacy takes the hollow-point bullet (dum-dum) from his pocket and places it in the breech of his rifle then, bringing the barrel of his rifle to Dublin’s ear, clicks off the safety.
After a long moment’s hesitation, Lacy changes his mind – shooting the Irishman now as opposed to later would lessen his own chances of survival. He knew Dublin’s jungle expertise was keeping them both alive in the hostile environment of the Matto Grosso.
Instead, Lacy gives Dublin two good kicks in the ribs.
Dublin groans then regains consciousness and notices Lacy’s barrel pointing at his head. Dublin staggers to his feet.
‘What the fuck’s going on?’ he demands, searching for his bottle and the packet of cocaine. Lacy points to the Irishman’s right arm.
‘Look over there, Frank.’ Dublin turns and receives a right-hander on the point of the chin. He drops like a sack of Murphys; Lacy grins and rubs his knuckles. ‘How’s that for a nice Cockney bunch of fives, you hairy-arsed Mick?’ He then helps himself to more packets of Dublin’s stolen Yank fags. After giving Dublin another kick in the ribs, he lights up a cigarette.
Dublin begins to recover again, sits up rubbing his chin and looks suspiciously at Lacy.
‘What happened?’ he asks.
‘You passed out again, Frank,’ replies Lacy, innocently.
‘It’s how I passed out - is what I’m thinking,’ remarks the Irishman. ‘I need more morphine,’ he demands.
Lacy gives the Irishman a shot of morphine, making sure it hurts. The pair move out of the swamp – the heavily laden Lacy is also forced to support Dublin.
An hour later, Jack Lacy is still keeping upright the semi-conscious Dublin. They are now in heavy jungle. Lacy is moaning about his bad luck. ‘Of all the useless, doubled-dyed tossers, I end up with an ape-faced, hairy, peat-pulling moron like you!’
Lacy suddenly stops and stares ahead, rubs his eyes and looks again. He can make out the faint outline of a native hut. The exhausted young SAS trooper noisily struggles towards the hut.
Maria and Tapia have noticed Lacy and Dublin’s noisy approach well in advance.
‘It’s the two white soldiers,’ whispers the terrified Tapia. ‘Let’s hide in the jungle.’
‘No,’ replies Maria, ‘we can’t move Chevez – he is still weak. Be calm, smile, there are only two, one is sick – I can deal with the other.’
Lacy reaches the hut’s compound and unceremoniously drops the unconscious Dublin in the dirt. Grinning, he approaches the two women and offers them a cigarette; the women accept. He looks around as if hoping to see a ‘Bar’ sign or, even better, ‘Bar and Whorehouse’.
It has not occurred to Lacy that this dwelling could be Chevez’s home. He lights Maria and Tapia’s cigarettes. ‘We have lost the trail heading north,’ he says, naively.
Maria smiles and speaks in her native tongue to Tapia.
‘Take the baby into the hut. Before leaving, give it a pinch – the baby’s crying will wake my husband – he will know something’s wrong!’ (Maria is careful not to use the word ‘Chevez’.)
Tapia takes the baby into the hut and returns, leaving the infant crying. Maria smiles at the young SAS trooper and offers hi
m some water.
‘To find the north trail, Señor.,’ informs Maria, ‘you must head east, until you reach a small river. Follow the river upstream - you will find the trail that will take you north.’
Inside the hut the baby’s crying is not waking Chevez from his malarial stupor. However, the noise from the crying infant is bringing Frank Dublin around! The experienced SAS trooper surveys his surroundings through half-closed eyes. Dublin quickly becomes suspicious and cocks his rifle. The faint click attracts the attention of the two women and Lacy. Dublin springs to life, issuing orders to Lacy.
‘Cover the two women - shoot them if you have to – I’m going into the hut!’
Lacy instinctively obeys and covers the now very frightened Maria and Tapia. Dublin cautiously begins to enter the hut.
‘Please, Señor,’ pleads Maria, ‘Chevez has done you no harm. You are not Americano or Columbian – let him live, Señor - I beg you!’ Maria’s pleading falls on deaf ears – but her pleas are upsetting Lacy. He cranes his neck to see what Dublin is doing. He signals Maria and Tapia to stay put and then he follows Dublin, entering the hut doorway; Maria follows.
Dublin is checking the still unconscious Chevez’s left ear, looking for the tell-tale missing notch. He then places the barrel of his rifle to Chevez’s temple and is about to press the trigger!
Maria screams… ‘No, no – please Señor!’
Lacy can’t stand the situation any longer.
‘Pull that trigger, Frank – and I will put a round straight in your spine – that’s gospel!’ Lacy threatens.
Dublin freezes as he feels the barrel of Lacy’s rifle on his backbone.
‘You bloody stupid idiot!’ shouts the Irishman. ‘This is what we are here for–that’s what we do in the Regiment – kill in cold blood. We kill people sometimes just to keep them quiet!’
‘You forgot to mention killing people during interrogation,’ accuses Lacy, ‘and getting away with it – the Army protects sadistic pricks like you.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about - you useless Cockney ponce?’ hisses Dublin. ‘Interrogations have to be tough. You know what happens when a SAS man is captured by the enemy!’