Free Manus Xingue by Jack Challis Page A

fairy.’
    Dublin tears Edwards’ tunic open and sees two deep fang marks already haemorrhaging. Lacy begins to inject the anti-venom. Kane motions Dublin over. ‘There’s still a chance, Jim,’ says the Irishman hopefully. ‘Maybe just a warning bite.’
    ‘Not this snake, Frank. It was in pain and angry, just waiting for someone to come into range. This was a live booby trap – we fell for it!’
    ‘The anti-venom could save him,’ says Dublin hopefully.
    ‘It won’t have time to work!’ Kane answers. ‘I think a fang has hit an artery – Taffy will know that!’
    ‘It’s going to hurt like hell,’ says the Irishman. ‘It’s a haematoxin – every organ will haemorrhage. Taffy will turn black and blue and bleed from every orifice and die of a heart attack!’ Dublin takes out a sealed medical kit and begins to fill a syringe watched by Kane. ‘That’s a lot of morphine, Frank,’ comments the Sergeant.
    ‘We have an understanding.’ Dublin replies, walking towards his mate, Edwards. Kane calls Lacy back so as not to implicate him with what is about to happen.
    ‘Stone the crows, Sarge!’ exclaims Lacy, seeing the syringe. ‘That’s a lethal dose Dublin’s got there!’
    ‘The dose looked fine to me,’ replies the Sergeant. ‘Indian Joe – find out where Chevez go.’ Indian Joe enters the jungle.
    ‘Taffy’s leaking claret like a sieve, Sarge… How will Dublin take it when Taffy passes away?’
    ‘Look, lad,’ answers Kane, ‘we die in the SAS! We do not pass away, pass out or pass over – Taffy will just die ! When Taffy, Frank and me joined up, we joined up knowing we could be wounded, crippled, or killed – that is what being a soldier is about. We cannot become too sentimental or shocked about a soldier’s death, like the Yanks.’
    Frank Dublin kneels next to his mate. Edwards is now bleeding from his mouth, ears and eyes. Dublin carefully wipes them. ‘Come on, Taffy,’ encourages the Irishman, holding up the lethal dose of morphine for Edwards to see. ‘We still have our memoirs to write.’
    Edwards is conscious and can see the overloaded syringe! ‘I need your help to write that book,’ continues Dublin.
    ‘Only because you’re illiterate, you stupid Paddy,’ answers the Welshman painfully. Dublin holds up the overloaded syringe of morphine again for Edwards to see, as if for confirmation . Taffy Edwards nods. ‘Give me a pull of that Yank bourbon mate…. and a fag.’ Frank Dublin gently places the bottle to his best friend’s lips. Taffy Edwards takes several deep gulps. Dublin places a cigarette in Taffy’s mouth, but before he can light it, it falls to the ground. Taffy Edwards has died of haematoxin poison!

    That evening, the three SAS men sit around the fire. Indian Joe returns from his assigned scouting trip. ‘Chevez – go east,’ announces the indian.
    Dublin stands up holding a small entrenching shovel. ‘I’ll put Taffy underground now,’ declares the Irishman, walking into the gloom of the approaching jungle night.

    I only hope this liberal government of powdered-arse poofs doesn’t allow women into the regiment – there is talk of it,’ Kane ponders.
    ‘Yeah,’ agrees Lacy, ‘I bet the women would be some right ugly, hairy-arsed pipe-smoking dykes and fishmongers – with legs like sumo wrestlers.’
    Mumbled words of Latin float on the humid, jungle night air as Dublin holds a short requiem over his best mate. The Irishman returns – he then shares out Taffy’s kit, rations and medical supplies, as is the custom. Dublin keeps the bourbon and cigarettes for himself.
    Indian Joe takes a line of cocaine and stands up. ‘Indian Joe hunt now.’ Turning, the grotesque Shaman walks into the jungle night.
    ‘What does our venereal friend get up to, alone in the jungle at night?’ asks Dublin, suspiciously.
    ‘He’s not afraid of the man-eater,’ adds Lacy, ‘and there will be problems when he goes cold turkey!’
    ‘A Chinese