Of Rice And Men (No longer being updated)

Chapter 6

The valley reverberated with the gunshot’s echo, flocks of birds scattering from the mangroves. A sticky crimson pool poured out of the Burmese-Americans skull like a spilled drink, dirtying my beige combat boots. Only after putting a bullet in his eye socket did I realise that everyone in the camp was standing in a circle around me, jaws on the ground at my brutal display. I spat phlegm at the lifeless body of a coward and a traitor while they looked on, still wide eyed in disbelief.

“Dylan you stupid little shit, what the fuck did you do that for?” Sam screamed at me, face red and spittle dripping from his contorted mouth.

“Check the little rats pockets, been fraternising with our friends in the BLF, good old, innocent officer over here. Saw him in the jungle speaking with ‘em then followed him out just then, found him with a brand spanking new sat phone and a map with more ink on it than a bloody squid. Dunno what you expected me to do but I’m not sharing a ride home with a guy who snitched on my friends and got my entire unit slaughtered,” I shouted back, kicking the limp body for effect.

“So you shot him, just like that? What do our Yankee friends over there think about you murdering one of their fellow countrymen?” Carter asked, in a slightly less aggressive tone. It was clear he at least understood my reasoning.

“Frankly sir, I couldn’t give a flying fuck what these redkneck dickwits think. He got loads of us killed, and planned on selling us out too, so I slotted the creepy little fucker, end of. If they wanna have a go about, I’m more than happy to put them on the ground too, for all I know they were helping him out.” I retorted.

Wisely, I decided to keep my knowledge of Dixons involvement a secret, playing it off to try and see if I could catch him red handed too. It would be much more fun to get that lumbering oaf court martialled and watch him squirm under pressure when I testify against him. He looked like he had all the great mental capacity of a home schooled koala that had taken a knock on the head at birth. He probably couldn’t say “your honour”, let alone know what honour meant to a true soldier. Breaking every rule in the book, not that he could read books, he sold out his friends and allies, probably for a quick buck and less harsh interrogation.

Tyson though, I was absolutely certain from his facial expression that he was most definitely not involved. The guy looked a bit scared of me to be honest, like I could lunge for him at any moment too and he kept fiddling with his holster with one hand and tightly gripping his knife with the other. At least he feared me, which was a lot better an outcome from this than I expected, a double tap to the back. Being alive after that was quite positive actually, definitely a highlight of my day.

Sam ripped the Velcro from the liaisons messenger back and tugged out the sat phone. He tossed it over to Carter and kept rummaging through, like a sniffer dog after drugs. Buried at the bottom, he found the map, covered in scribbles and little markings indicating where we had been or were planning on going. A smug grin spread across my face as I looked into Dixons eyes and saw the fear inside of the black pupils, widening like a frightened child. I was willing to bet he had the sneaking feeling I knew about his little escapade with the Burmese, but he was too dumb to know what to do with those feelings.

For some reason, he fought against his brutish instinct to batter me there and then, ignoring the urge to pummel me straight into the ground. If anything, that would have been the sensible option, keep up the illusion of ignorance and patriotism, defending your fellow countryman. By standing and watching, silent and still, all he did was confirm my suspicions, possibly raising them in some of the others.

It was safe to say that I would have to deal with him at some point, or at least be prepared to fight back if he came for me first. I was confident in my abilities in self-defence though, more than capable of at least avoiding his attacks if I couldn’t deal any damage to him. My mates over in the SAS would soon sort him out if he was out to get me. He had no chance against Sam’s weight and power and Carter’s intellect and tact.

No one really knew what to say after that, all conversation simmering down to the odd curse or mumble. We simply went about our business in camp, attending to our lack of food, fluid and rest. Nothing much happened as we slowly dragged the body out to the far west of our camp. I toiled for two hours, mound of dirt after mound of dirt piling up at the side of a ditch. The brown, faeces covered and disease infested water festered at my ankles, seeping through the grave’s sides like the blood from its occupant-to-be’s skull.

Our little impromptu burial service was terrible, a complete shambles with little to no respect for the dead. We just said any prayers we could remember, let alone prayers applicable to the situation, and lumped into the hole with a heave and shoved a couple of logs above him. More peat and dirt pile on top and a cross made of twisted mangrove finished the service off, probably disrespecting the grave more than leaving it unnoticed. I didn’t even believe in god, just went along with it silently to appease the Yanks who were actually taking the religious part seriously. As far as I saw it, all we were doing was dropping a body in the ground and leaving it to rot for a couple of decades, nothing important.

Then after a quick drink to his memory, no matter how bad those memories of him were, we settled down in a circle around the campfire, like an oversized group of gun toting boy scouts. Sam had found some kind of native animal in the wild and tossed it onto a makeshift wooden grill, balanced precariously over the fire. Whatever it was before, the little creature was now completely unrecognisable, charred and black as soot. In any case, it was always better to be overcooked, bad tasting but free of disease than undercooked, alright tasting but likely to make you shit out your bowels all the next morning.

I stabbed viciously at it with my combat knife, stripping small pieces of white meat from the bone and snacking on them for a while. They handed out tea and passed around some bread we had left over from our rations but the mood was sombre, the atmosphere hanging over everyone like a storm cloud. The depression was unbearable and I went out for a walk to clear my head and finish my unsweetened tea.

Straight away I had to affirm my choice of actions, a roaring debate raging between both sides of my conscience. One was telling me I made the right decision, giving that little shite all the mercy he deserved. However, the other side was telling me I should have kept him alive and brought him to justice in front of a court, with the world’s eyes to see. But, in our little corner of the world, the short term solution of murdering him in cold blood was a lot more appropriate for the situation than hauling him out of the country and probably getting him killed in the process anyway. Quiet contemplation over, I slowly strolled back to camp, mug in hand and my mind firmly set on my decisions. I was completely right in my opinion and no-one could tell me otherwise.