Chapter 14: The Attack

Next morning, after a hasty breakfast, the Black Gang, minus the five attached to the Papillon Platoon, with Caporal-Chef Tomazky in charge, secured the perimeter of Camp Hinds and the Papillon Platoon began the forty kilometres ‘yomp’ to the target.

We followed the course of Crique Chariot, which swung south not long after we began the march. It was hot, humid, and bug ridden even at 1500 metres altitude. We were traversing primary growth foliage that was thick and tenacious, we were also descending and there were frequent falls by the over loaded legionnaires. Each man, other than the Chevalier, carried a FAMAS and 100 rounds of ammunition, and every FAMAS had a M203 grenade launcher attached. Every man, including the Chevalier, carried two grenades as well as a fighting knife, mess tins, eating irons (knife fork spoon) torch, hexamine cooking stove, seven days rations, mosquito net, rubberised poncho, and two litres of water. We hoped the water in Crique Chariot and River Tampok would be drinkable without using the purification tablets we all carried. I had estimated the distance from Camp Hinds to where Crique Chariot merged with the Tampok to be 15 kilometres, a distance a legionnaire could march in 4 hours under normal circumstances and in 3 hours if in a hurry. However hacking a path through a primeval forest is not ‘normal circumstances.’ It was dusk by the time we reached what I hoped was the banks of the Tampok, after almost 12 hours of blood sweat and toil, and even maybe some tears!

It had been a gruelling day and we all collapsed gratefully to the ground before discipline took over from fatigue and guards were mounted and food prepared and feet inspected and injuries seen to. I had taken bearings during the descent to the river and calculated back bearings for the return trip. I had also taken my turn with the machete slashing a trail. Each man, including the Chevalier, spent 20 minutes being the machete man leading the column and I can tell you that 20 minutes never were so long as when hacking a path through dense jungle. We had not seen or heard any animals but assumed they had heard us and had moved out of the way.

Next morning we had a swift breakfast of coffee, oatmeal energy bar and some raisins and sultanas before packing our mozzie nets and ponchos away, cleaned and oiled our rifles, checked our feet for blisters and bodies for leeches and set off, following the River Tampok. We crossed to the south bank of the river, which at this point was about 10 metres wide and only a metre deep. The going was much easier alongside the river as during the Wet Season the river would be high over the banks, restricting the growth of foliage. Thus in the Damp Season the foliage was less thick nearer the river than what we had encountered en route to the river. That not to say it was a walk in the park, machetes were still in use but it didn’t take so much effort to slash a way through the foliage. I noticed the Chevalier moving with more ease than the previous day when the descent to the river had put a lot of strain on his gammy leg and by the end of the day he was limping. Now he was striding along like a man half his age.

We stopped for a water break after every 2000 paces, which I estimated was near a kilometre. I kept count of the paces by using 10 pebbles. After every 100 paces I moved a pebble from my left trouser pocket to the right.When all 10 pebbles were in the right hand pocket we had covered a 1000 paces. After the next 100 paces I moved a pebble back to the left pocket, thus when all pebbles were back in my left pocket we had progressed 2000 paces. It isn’t rocket science but it works! We drank a lot of water during the march and sweated a great deal of it out again, along with salt. Both had to be replaced and a salt tablet was given out each morning before the yomp restarted.

Legionnaire Botany Bayer, who had been the machete wielder at the front of the column before we stopped for water, held up a leaf he had picked from a nearby tree.

“Brugmansia Aurea, Borrachero, also known as Devil’s Breath,” he said.

Botany, as his nick name suggests, had been a botanist before enlisting in the Legion. He was an educated, intelligent, man who had left academia for reasons unknown. Botany was a quiet, intense, sort of person who I knew had fallen foul of many of his superiors because he gave the impression he knew more than they did, which was probably the truth. According to his rap sheet he was often charged with being insolent and insubordinate, but he maintained he only gave an honest and true opinion of his superiors when they gave him stupid orders. I got on well with him and would spend many hours discussing plants and chemicals, there being a symbiosis between the two subjects.

“I thought the plant only grew in Colombia?” I said.

“It grows over much of the north coastal regions of South America. Seeds can be distributed by birds or wind. It might have even arrived here with the Mayans. They were expert botanists and introduced many plants into South America.”

“I thought they were only in the isthmus of Central America.”

“That was their homeland but they occupied parts of what is now Venezuela, and Columbia, besides the Guayanas.”

“This is the plant that Scopolamine is derived from,” I said, memories of Chardonnay du Plessier coming unbidden into my head.

“So I believe.”

“It was used to drug me.”

“The reason you failed to attend a Camerone Day parade?” he said, and I nodded. “Yes I heard about that, Professor. Some crazy woman kept you in her bed overnight and for most of the morning.” He grinned before continuing. “Many legionnaires would have been only too pleased to miss a Camerone Day parade if that was the alternative offer!”

We shared a chuckle, mine a bit forced I will admit. I was spared any more questions about my former crazy bed companion when the Chevalier came over and asked how much further it was to the target. I glanced at the map and figured where we currently were, and did some mental calculations. “About twenty klicks.” I said.

“We’d best crack on, then. I want to be within striking distance of the target by first light tomorrow.”

Although it was the Damp Season it could still pour with rain as if under a shower. We were caught in a sparsely wooded area at the side of the river when the heavens opened. The best way to keep equipment dry in such circumstances is to wrap a poncho around your body and equipment and go to ground and wait out the squall. I wrapped myself in my poncho and laid down. I was quite comfortable as the grass was short and springy and I was fully protected from the rain wrapped in a cocoon of rubberised sheeting. I even closed my eyes in a light doze. The downpour ended as abruptly as it had begun and I opened my eyes preparing to stand up, but what I saw in front of me froze me to the spot.

The Fer-de-lance (Bothrops asper) pit viper is one of the most venomous snakes in the world, and now one was staring at me with unblinking eyes as it tongue tasted the air and computed how far away I was for a strike. I don’t know which one of us was the most surprised but I do know who was the most terrified. I knew the Golden lance head, so called for its colour, only inhabited a particular island off the Brazilian coast and was supposed to be the most beautiful of snakes. The one in front of me was not golden but grey, patterned with a series of black-edged light brown diamonds. Although coiled I knew they could be up to two metres in length, and their bite is fatal to humans.

For how long snake and human regarded each other I cannot say. Time stood still. I hardly dared to draw breath in case I spooked the reptile and it would strike at me. I had my fighting knife on my hip but the poncho wrapped tightly around me negated any thought of reaching for it. My FAMAS was strapped across my back, also unreachable under the poncho. I was, in the words of the great philosopher Alfie Hinds, ‘up shit’s creek without a paddle.’ I knew if I made a move even to retreat the snake would attack. Hopefully it would get bored staring at me and take itself off but the longer we faced each other the more certain I was the damn thing was going to have me. How long before such a thing happened would be up to the reptile, I had no input whatever in how the next few minutes were going turnout. Finally the snake made up its mind and reared back, preparatory to strike, when a shot rang out and I felt a bullet swish past my cheek. The snake’s head disappeared in an explosion of blood and shattered snake flesh. I realised I was alive and the snake was not and gingerly got to my feet. The Chevalier was standing about ten metres behind me holding his MAC 50 pistol, a thin plume of smoke rising from the muzzle.

“You saved my life, Chevalier,” I gasped.

“Well, you saved mine. Now let’s get on. You’ve been resting long enough!”

For the next several hours I counted paces and checked bearings as if in a dream. I thought of nothing, I saw nothing other than the terrain in front of me and the bearing set on my compass. The machete wielder changed every 20 minutes but I was oblivious as to who the person was. I had faced death and escaped; the bullet from the Chevalier’s pistol had passed my right ear by what must have been only millimetres. Either the Chevalier was a crack shot, which he well might be, else he thought a bullet in my head was a less painful death than being bitten by a viper!

We reached the confluence of the Tampok and Rio Lawa rivers and the Chevalier called a halt. “How much further to the suspected drug factory?” He asked.

I did a quick calculation based on the number of pebbles in my right hand pocket. “Somewhere between four and five kilometres.”

“There are a couple of hours of daylight left and I would...”

“Excuse me, Sir, but there are two canoes hidden in that clump of palm trees.” Legionnaire De Kuyper interrupted the Chevalier and pointed to our left.

“A clump of Asterogyne guianensis palm trees, to be more specific,” added Legionnaire Bayer.

“I reckon the canoes belong to natives who had been fishing on the river,” De Kuyper continued. “They must have seen or heard us coming and paddled their canoes ashore. They are probably hiding in the bush.”

Although there are no tribes in French Guiana who hide from man as in Amazonian Brazil the local Amerindians and Maroons living in the National Park keep themselves apart from Europeans, other than tourists of course.

The Chevalier walked over to the palm trees and surveyed the canoes, still wet after being hauled from the river. “We best move on, we don’t want to alarm them more than we already have.”

“They may warn the people at the drug factory,” I said.

The Chevalier nodded. “Yes, it’s something we must factor into our plans. We will move about a kilometre away and hope they return to their fishing.”

“May I make a suggestion, Sir?” Legionnaire De Kuyper said. “If we left them some small gift, some chocolate from our rations perhaps, they would stay and eat them on the spot. They have a very sweet tooth when it comes to chocolate!”

“An excellent idea, De Kuyper,” said the Chevalier, and in a trice a dozen bars of chocolate and a similar number of energy oat bars were left in one of the canoes. We then marched due south alongside the Rio Lawa, aka Maroni river, for another 2000 paces before making camp.

“This is close enough to the target for tonight,” the Chevalier said. “We will lay up here, feed, get some sleep and move at first light into a position to have eyes on the target. We will need to study the target before I can make a plan of attack. How many men? What armaments do they have? Are there strong points? Are mines or Claymores laid? I hope by the time we make the attack I will have answers to all those questions!”

We ate cold rations. Even this far from the target, we could alert them if they smelled smoke or cooking. We might be short of chocolate and energy bars but we had enough other compo rations to keep us fed and fit for at least four days, five at a pinch. Guards were set for the night and I stood my two hour stag (shift) between 1 -3 a.m.

‘First light’ under the forest canopy was about 5 30 a.m., and we moved silently forward on the bearing that should bring us onto the suspect camp. It was several hours later when the smell of cooking informed us we were on the correct bearing, close to the camp, and its inhabitants were late having their breakfast. Once again we went to ground. The Chevalier sent out recce (reconnaissance) patrols to establish the size and defences of the camp. The patrols were to report back to him at seventeen hundred hours, giving us about seven hours of daylight to collect the information.

I took ten men, five Black Gang and five Papillons, Botany Bayer being one of the latter. We headed west until reaching the east bank of the Rio Lawa then, half crouched almost in the river, moved due south until we were opposite the camp. Our observation post was 150 metres from the western entrance to the camp and 100 metres from the east bank of the Rio Lawa, which at this time of year was as low as it would ever be. I could just make out a faint track from the camp leading to the river bank and surmised the inhabitants of the camp had forded the river although I could see a barge type of vessel grounded on the west bank of the 75 metres wide river. During the Wet Season the now sluggish Rio Lawa would be a raging torrent and twice as wide and deep as it appeared at the moment.

We settled in for a day of observation; two men on watch at a time for one hour for each pair. Time passed slowly. There was not much to see, occasional figures in combat clothing with an AK 47 or RPG (Rocket-propelled grenade) slung over their shoulders would appear and saunter around the perimeter of the camp. They appeared to be smoking and talking and were a complete waste of space as security.

I could see five separate single storied wooden buildings. The two on the west face, directly in front of my patrol, were about 20 metres apart and were smaller than the other buildings. From the amount of foot traffic between the buildings I deduced the one on the left to be the camp HQ and the one on the right to be the magazine, an ammunition and explosives storehouse. To the right of our position, the south side of the camp, was a substantial wooden building that had windows, but not glassed, and wooden shutters. It was the only building on site with a corrugated metal roof. The building on the north side of the camp was not as well built. The roof was palm leafed and the body of the structure was built with roughly finished pieces of timber that looked as if they had been fashioned by an axe I assumed it was the accommodation of the camp’s personnel. The remaining structure, located on the east side of the camp, was more of a lean-to than a building, with an exposed open side. I could see a fire pit smouldering in front of the structure and got a mouth-watering aroma of roast pork. Obviously this was the cookhouse/mess hall...