Fusner found me with some difficulty, as I’d gone pretty deep under the camouflage provided by the packed down plant debris that served as the jungle floor. Although the stuff allowed me to hide from the gunships above, it did nothing in providing any kind of cover. A .22 bullet would go through it like it was made of butter. Fusner pulled my right arm out of the jumbled mess, and part of my torso followed.

“Sir, I’ve got them check-fired,” he said, leaning down close to my left ear. “The supply birds are coming in. Zippo and Jurgens are working their way upriver where they’re going to land.”