The Swamp patrol.

Someone shouted, ‘Where’s the bloody barrel?’ Another called back, ‘What you mean ‘Where’s the barrel? You didn’t bloody lose it, did you?’

‘It must have come off when he went under.’ Someone suggested.

I had been listening to the frantic voices not to mention a fair amount of swearing that is the norm in the way of life for any soldier in the world, and the Dutch Colonial Army was no exception. Albeit for the “Cold War” era, the Colonial Army was considerably more disciplined than was the norm at the time mainly because this was an all-volunteer regiment. These young men wanted something different; like me, they had opted for adventure - the amazing experience of exploring and patrolling the Amazonian jungles.

‘All right, all right,’ I said at last, looking around where we had come out of the water, ‘If it isn’t here then it’s gone. There’s nothing you can do about it, don’t get your knickers into a knot about it now, it’s gone, end of story. I’ll write a report later.’

The barrel the distressed soldier was worrying about was a spare barrel for one of the Bren-guns, an old WW-II British machine gun, each group carried along during the many lengthy patrols through the Amazonian jungles of Suriname.

It all began at four in the morning in the advanced jungle camp close to the airport. Wash, get dressed, then the last decent breakfast for at least a week and then lug our packs into the Three Tonner trucks, all of it becoming routine by now. The trucks were called “Three Tonners” for the load they could carry. Apart from the blazing lights in the camp, the world around us was still steeped in darkness and mostly silent. Apart from a few funny remarks or the usual loud-mouths, and of course a few complaints about the ungodly hour, no one was particularly inclined to strike up a conversation at that time in the morning unless fueled by a rather large cup of coffee. The timing was usually quite precise and by the time the trucks reached their destination point with their slumbering cargo, daylight would just about have appeared which would be somewhere around six in the morning. You could almost set your watch to it because this far down south into the tropics, just thirteen degrees above the equator, give or take ten minutes allowing for the seasons, daylight would break at about six, fast and practically without the proper dawn the way we like it up north; it’s like someone throws a switch and says, “Ok guys, daylight now until six, maybe quarter past six at night and then I’ll pull the plug.”

The trucks dumped us along the orange coloured bauxite road near the old railroad track surrounded by dense triple canopy jungle. The lieutenant consulted his plastic sealed maps. ‘We’ll begin here’, he said as he plotted out a heading towards who knows where or what. I carried my own map and compass and rather worrying, the maps were mostly white, only interspaced with lines, names of patches, streams, swamps and the occasional hamlet and headings, for the rest the charts were frightfully bare, full of uncharted territory.

‘This is where we’re going for today.’

‘Is that a swamp lying in our way?’ I asked, already knowing the answer.

‘Yep… and it’s too big, we can’t go around.’ The Lieutenant said not quite known for using too many words, especially not after a night of drinking beer and Bokma Jenever, a strong Dutch alcoholic drink that according to some, the Lieutenant could knock back in quantities that should have earned him a mention in the Guinness book of records as well as being mentioned in dispatches.

Without any doubt, knowing myself, I will in all likelihood have said something like, ‘Isn’t that lovely.’

A staff sergeant looked at me and rolled his eyes at the now rapidly brightening sky.

One of the young NCO’s had disappeared into the bush throwing up, obviously the result of a few beers or whiskeys too many the previous short night.

‘All right, here’s your heading,’ the lieutenant said quietly, ‘We’re wasting daylight hours… let’s move, and don’t try keeping your feet dry by dancing around puddles like damsels on the way to the disco, it’s a complete waste of effort.’

The sergeant who had just been emptying the remainder of his breakfast into the bushes stayed in the rear with his group and we moved the alpha group into point instead. Without wasting time they began hacking their way through the dense foliage.

In the early seventies, contrarily to the regular army in the Netherlands, the shrinking Colonial Army and Marines in the Islands were an all-volunteer force. After several months of training in the Netherlands, if they passed the rigorous selection, they signed up for a minimum of twelve to fourteen month away from home no matter what. People didn’t bitch much; rather the opposite, they all wanted to be here and they simply got on with it. In fact, for most of us, charging through the Amazonian forest was more like the adventure of our life, therefore finding soldiers to go up front and hack their way through with machetes was never a problem.

This was the sort of thing some of us had talked and fantasized about when we were teenagers still at school. During the sixties, in the town of Lausanne in Switzerland, where I grew up, there was this bar called the “Explorer”. A few of us would have a drink there after school and look at all the pictures on the walls of real explorers trashing through the jungles in Africa and South America, discovering hitherto unknown tribes, animals or plants. Today the only bit of exploring going on is probably on Google and in young men's wet dreams, but back in those days that sort of thing still existed.

Living in the perfectly clean environment of Switzerland, where not even the branch of a tree would dare to be out of place without permission or risk the chop, I always wondered what it would be like to be in a place of uncharted territory, wild and dangerous… and then one day, about six years later, quite unexpectedly, I found myself standing right there, in the middle of that huge, vast, enormous forest, a forest without end, they call the Amazon. And truly, it is an amazing experience and frequently full of surprises.

I took my two most enthusiastic bush hackers upfront and one soldier behind me to keep track of the number of paces while I kept track of our magnetic heading on the compass. But even then, I always had to hack with my machete at the encroaching vegetation. When the jungle gets dense there is no space for anyone else except for the boys on point which means everybody stays behind, sometimes for hundreds of meters where they do nothing but wait. When they are finally called forward to continue on, one can hear the sound of numerous machetes in an almost futile attempt to widen the path. After an hour of slow progress, we changed the “pathfinders” and the four of us moved to the rear letting someone else have the fun of penetrating the wall of virgin vegetation.

I can’t remember if it was three or four hours later but suddenly we heard agitated voices coming from the front. The forest began to open up considerably and within minutes we found ourselves standing in a wide semi-circle in front of… the dreaded swamp.

It stretched out wide and long surrounded on every side by thick forest. Going around would not only be costly in time, probably at least a day, but it carried the risk of losing track of our position. I looked at the sky above and noticed that during the few hours we had spent under the triple canopy of the silent forest the sun was gone. It had now been replaced by a thick overcast with already faraway dark edges that surely would foretell a spell of tropical rain.

One of the young men, also dressed as a soldier, was a native Indian. On some of the lengthier or more difficult patrols in uncharted territory the army frequently hired local Indians to come along for their knowledge of the forest, for good reasons. It wasn’t uncommon for half a platoon to walk right past a deadly Bushmaster snake, locally known as a Makka Sneki until a shot reverberated through the forest. Only the Indian scout had seen the snake, everyone else had walked right passed. Three months in country, and we still had a lot to learn.

And so looking down at the threatening water with thick clusters of reeds and other vegetation sticking out of the dark water I asked, ‘so, what kind of lovely creepy crawlers can we expect in this wonderful… swamp?’

He did not look up when he answered maybe as apprehensive and weary as everyone else,

‘Boa Constrictor and maybe an Anaconda or two lurking around. Bloodsuckers probably and the occasional caiman and stingray, but they’ll probably keep their distance with all the noise we make. ’

Without any doubt I will have uttered something cynical like, ‘What incredible luck… I always wanted to see a Boa up close and personal.’

With the distinctive clang that only a Remington riot gun makes the Indian scout slid the pump action of his shot gun back and let a cartridge slide into the barrel; clearly he wasn’t taking any chances.

First-lieutenant Baker broke open a pack of ammo. ‘All right, listen up everyone,’ every fourth man, take five bullets, you keep an eye out for each other and only use in extreme need. It will be alright guys, don’t worry about it… it’s just water.’

Slowly and reluctantly we began to wade into the dark forbidding water that lay before us holding our World War II M 1 jungle carbines in both hands, ready to keep them above our heads, high and dry. Everyone was a volunteer; they had all come out here of their own free will, for the adventure, and now was the time to prove it and just get on with it.

Within minutes I had water up to my waist, water of an impenetrable colour, like Coca Cola. All around reeds of a various heights peeked out above the surface making it difficult to see where the end of this lovely swamp might be hiding, if there ever was going to an end.

A long line of soldiers worked their way forward, from time to time halting, searching for a better or shallower passage. A soldier close to me pushed an ammo box in front of him, floating it like a toy boat. He smiled and said something like, ‘It’s easier like this, I don’t have to carry the bloody thing on my head. Necessity is the mother of invention. After half an hour the comments began flying back and forth as fatigue began to set in and then the bitching began. Some, especially up front, seemed to thoroughly enjoy the adventure however; I could hear their animated conversations over a long distance reverberating over the water. Another half hour and the water became deeper, reaching up to our chests and some faces began to betray fear, especially among the smaller boys.

With nowhere to sit having a rest was not an option. ‘How much longer Warrant?’ a worried face asked.

‘We’re nearly out, lad.’ I said. Listen, I can hear guys that have reached dry land.' It was true but we first had to cross a patch of tall overgrowing reeds while keeping track of our heading. The reeds and other wet vegetation became oppressive, at times hanging over us and pulling on our clothes. Mosquitoes were feasting on any bit of exposed flesh and then just when we thought the end was in sight, the water became even deeper. I yelled, ‘Hold on to each other, no one goes under.’ I took the smallest one and held him under his arm and then we did go under. 'Ah shit.' I moved as fast under the dark water as I could, pushing the boy in front of me and then just as sudden as we had gone under, we popped up again and simultaneously broke out of the reeds gasping for air. We laughed nervously and swore and laughed a bit more as we began to emerge from the dreaded swamp. Voices encouraged us along the last few meters and then up the steep embankment. Everywhere soldiers where lying among the shrubs exhausted mostly silently staring at the sky above and the cleansing rain. Some however never shut up and were enjoying the adventure of their life. Helping hands dragged the last stragglers out of the menacing water and then we began calling out names making sure no one had been left out there on their own.

When we were certain everyone had been accounted for, Lieutenant Baker had a morale boosting surprise in store when he pulled a plastic heat sealed bag out of his backpack and began to distribute the mail with a grin on his face. ‘Well done boys… No one panicked… really well done. I’m proud of you.’

J.D.