Ranger - The Wolf

Sarge,

You were right. I do not recognize Kisangani anymore. It is raining again today and I hear outside my window the echo of a single vehicle in the water. If Conrad thought civilization was an improvement, I do not think this is what he envisioned. The papers I can find talk about the socio-economic crisis, displaced populations and Kabila. Kabila is too far. The storm is much closer.

I have no idea if you are still nearby.

I can’t stop thinking back to the last time I was here with Corporal. It was a thing of chaotic beauty, the two of us rushing up opposing stairs, without time to set up a proper pincer or interlocking fire, with only the body of Mercerier’s lieutenant, materializing through the doorway, standing in the way of our extemporaneous bullets finding one another. That thought brought a smile to my face for so long, so far from home. I question at times whether I should be horrified that I find such a thing so wonderful.

Corporal would like the canoes here.

In Kisangani, the children are starving. When I can procure food, I pass it along to them. A convoy of provisions is on its way up the river though I am sure the magistrates in the capital have taken their share and that rebels are laying in wait for the prize. I have asked Ottawa for permission to assist the government and the NGOs protecting the convoy, and am awaiting a response. Unfortunately, I think other matters may require my attention.

The past few weeks have been rewarding. I have served as an armed escort to UNICEF, helped to fix vehicles as my limited skills permit and fished. Those who will farm here, attempt to do so. Others join with some militia or rebel group in hopes of an easier life. I think it is a desire for food which motivates rather than any strong political conviction.

If your target is moving this way, I will have them.

A fronte praecipitium a tergo lupi,

Ranger

Ranger - Through the lens

What a strange turn we have taken. We continue towards Devil’s Island. Indications so far are good that we have picked up a trail. Unfortunately, the jungle has collected its toll. Heath and Wilson now fight malaria.

There is no civilization within a 80 kilometers of our current position and so we have had some time to speak freely. Guiana is an inhuman place indeed. And our communication itself is bad air. I would liken it to Conrad, but I cannot disabuse myself of the notion that it is we who have brought evil to this place and not the converse. Wilson, perhaps affected by his malaria, questions me – “Is it possible we have escaped from the dark canopy of the jungle and found only more darkness?” I think our night vision supports his conclusion.

Every night at dusk we enter our shadow world, gathering the information we can and destroying the rest on the edge of a machete. Every hour is filled with long shadows and long knives. Thoughts erupt like muzzle flashes, how do we gain knowledge when we have come to kill rather than ensnare? Though I recognize that men like Devenuelle, Deseilligny, and Mercerier cannot be left alive long enough to bite down hard on the cyanide capsules I have no doubt they carry. In the case of Devenuelle, as you know, I hope the last thing he remembers was your face. Standing next to his assassin, the sand beginning to sting his eyes, the warmth of his essence running down his chest and out of his extremities with not even the desert sun able to restore it. And that he choked on that memory.

We brush past leaves, past signs of archaic encampments and I find my mind drifting back to training in Yellowknife. And most unusual of all, longing for a dime store Scotch Egg. Hope things are well with both of you. Once we have cleared here, we will conduct our own investigation of the cold trail in Oaxaca.