By the time the men left late in the day, Marcie was a mess. She was sunburned on her front, and, between the beating the day before and the bark from the tree, she looked like she had a darker sunburn all over her back, as well. Ernie had to help her up the drive to the house, and once inside she just collapsed on the sofa from utter exhaustion.?Oh, no you don’t, Miss High and Mighty. We got supper to get ready, and you’re gonna help. Set the table, and then you can pour the drinks, and get the rolls out of the oven. No loafin’ for you!?Marcie knew better than to argue, so she dragged herself off the sofa and helped get the dinner ready. Every once in a while either Ernie or Edna would give her a hard swat on the butt, giving Marcy another reason to burst into tears. During dinner she explained how hard it was to hold herself up the way she had been tied to the tree, and she’d appreciate it if they could arrange some other way for her the next day. Ernie allowed as how he’d. The boat crews would crank up the big diesels and away we’d roar, in a direction away from the area where we’d be operating. We’d ride the noisy inboards to a predetermined point, then shut them down and lower the 50 horsepower, specially-muffled outboards. Running at low rpms, unheard (we hoped), we would then move toward the night’s objective. That was usually an intersection of waterways in the maze of mangrove islands that comprised most of the “dry” land for a dozen or more klicks in all directions. Someone would have determined that Charley was using a particular route for moving supplies. The mangrove and scrub wilderness was crisscrossed with canals and innumerable smaller channels, and dotted with small camps used by the Vietcong for a couple of days before they moved on. Trying to find them “at home” was a fool’s errand. In the daytime they laid low, afraid of the A-4’s from the carriers offshore. At night they moved with stealthy skill through canals mapped by generations.
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