The only thing that can ruin a good day is people.
(Ernest Hemingway)
The mountains had laboured and had brought forth a mouse. Teniente de Navio Julius Nyerere scrutinised the five Askaris who were about to disembark. They had arrived from home four days ago. There had been a considerable delay, as Duala had been shut off for weeks because of a contagious disease. And before that, the authorities on Curaçao had deliberated for an eternity whether to pursue the issue at all.
The lads were long-range recon troopers, especially trained to operate behind enemy lines. Their leader was a lieutenant, an older guy, obviously a former NCO. They expected to sojourn on Hispaniola for two months, living off the land. Nyerere didn’t envy them for this assignment. But they seemed relaxed and quite cheerful. They had explained what they were going to do. They would go into hiding and observe the environment.
That was an interesting modus operandi, but perhaps more sensible than haphazardly zipping around in the jungle. It had something a submariner could understand very well: silently lying in wait for the prey. The Bahia de Neiba was as quiet and deserted as it had been the last time. No Amis far and wide… That alone was highly suspect. They knew S-17 was here; one had been flown over twice on the approach march.
Well, the Askaris would be gone in less than thirty minutes. And so would be S-17. Let the Amis wonder what was going on. S-17 was travelling on the surface, as long as there was no hurricane threatening. The hurricane season hereabouts had just begun. One could be lucky and make it back to Curaçao before the weather turned foul – or one was forced to dive and travel submerged.
Nyerere shook hands with the Askaris before they mounted the rubber dinghy. They were travelling light, one rucksack per guy and only reduced gear; no helmets, no NBC equipment, no radios; just ordinary rifles, knives and bushwhackers. “I’ll be back here in sixty days.” Nyerere saw them off. The dinghy belonged to the boat, once it was back one would pull anchor.
(Ernest Hemingway)
The mountains had laboured and had brought forth a mouse. Teniente de Navio Julius Nyerere scrutinised the five Askaris who were about to disembark. They had arrived from home four days ago. There had been a considerable delay, as Duala had been shut off for weeks because of a contagious disease. And before that, the authorities on Curaçao had deliberated for an eternity whether to pursue the issue at all.
The lads were long-range recon troopers, especially trained to operate behind enemy lines. Their leader was a lieutenant, an older guy, obviously a former NCO. They expected to sojourn on Hispaniola for two months, living off the land. Nyerere didn’t envy them for this assignment. But they seemed relaxed and quite cheerful. They had explained what they were going to do. They would go into hiding and observe the environment.
That was an interesting modus operandi, but perhaps more sensible than haphazardly zipping around in the jungle. It had something a submariner could understand very well: silently lying in wait for the prey. The Bahia de Neiba was as quiet and deserted as it had been the last time. No Amis far and wide… That alone was highly suspect. They knew S-17 was here; one had been flown over twice on the approach march.
Well, the Askaris would be gone in less than thirty minutes. And so would be S-17. Let the Amis wonder what was going on. S-17 was travelling on the surface, as long as there was no hurricane threatening. The hurricane season hereabouts had just begun. One could be lucky and make it back to Curaçao before the weather turned foul – or one was forced to dive and travel submerged.
Nyerere shook hands with the Askaris before they mounted the rubber dinghy. They were travelling light, one rucksack per guy and only reduced gear; no helmets, no NBC equipment, no radios; just ordinary rifles, knives and bushwhackers. “I’ll be back here in sixty days.” Nyerere saw them off. The dinghy belonged to the boat, once it was back one would pull anchor.