Noon. The SAS troopers have made good ground, moving silently along the jungle trail, led by Indian Joe. Suddenly, he holds up his hand. The SAS troopers stop – Indian Joe disappears into the jungle. ‘What’s he up to, Sarge?’ asks Jack Lacy. ‘Fuck knows – what do you think I am, a swami?’ Kane replies. ‘Listen, Jim,’ says Taffy Edwards. ‘Did you notice something about a kilometre back on the trail?’ ‘Yes – a group of natives crossed the track from the South and heading north.’ ‘We are heading north, Jim,’ Edwards remarks. ‘There were some small, fresh, green branches on the track – some kind of signal maybe. Our venereal friend looked at them, then kicked them away – something going on.’ ‘We should disarm the ugly bastard,’ Frank Dublin chips in. ‘I agree Indian Joe is no oil painting,’ answers Kane, ‘but the Yanks use him – that’s good enough for me.
