In khaki swim trunks, his body still covered with mud and dirt from the break-in op, Gene studied the south bank of the river. Dead trees, killed by defoliant, stood scattered in front of the thick, shadowy bush under the massed, lofty trees of the jungle. He coughed, bent over with the effort. When the spell subsided, and he had his breath back, he went to the fifty-five-gallon barrel at the northwest corner of the hootch. Filled with rainwater, it overflowed now. Morning chow was coming, and he wanted to scrub up. He stripped off the swim trunks, grabbed a metal helmet, scooped it full of water, and poured it over his head. He did it again before soaping, and then again when he rinsed off. Coughing hard, he struggled back into the swim trunks. “Gene, how are you feeling?” He looked around at Doc. “Shitty. Can’t you get rid of this cough?” Doc frowned. “Have you taken your meds?” “Sure have. Every one.” He put a hand on the hootch wall to steady himself. “I want to see you, over by your rack.”
