Read Online Emile and the Dutchman by Joel Rosenberg - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joel Rosenberg
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upon boarding the damn plane, and we hadn't been briefed, other than that we were due for a survival drop. I'd heard about some of the others—they were no big deal, nothing like the Spring Break in Swaziland they put us through at Alton, just a few days of minimalistic camping. Hell, Rivers and Edwards and their instructor ended up on some Polynesian island, complete with coconuts and a freshwater spring."
"Then again, they didn't have Brubaker as their upper-classman instructor."
"True."
"So, what did you do?"
"The obvious. We used our clear plastic tarps as groundcloths, and pitched our mylar ones as lean-tos to keep the heat off. I remembered reading somewhere about how the desert sand cooled off a few inches down, so we tried digging a bit. Basically, we just sat there for twenty-four hours."
"And the water?"
VII
There really isn't much that's worse than thirst, particularly when you have a little bit of water. You always have to decide: do I drink it now, or do I wait a minute? An hour?
Please don't tell me about how necessity is the mother of invention—I couldn't think clearly; the only thing running through my mind was how good the hot water in my canteen would taste.
Our canteens contained about a liter each—maybe enough for two days—and that wasn't going to make it.
But moving around would make us sweat more, and that would be the end. We just sat there, talking with each other, trying to figure out how we could get our hands on Brubaker's water.
And we just got thirstier, the words bouncing around in my head.
—improvise a source of water—improvise a source of water—improvise a source of water—improvise a source of water—improvise a source of water—improvise a source of water—improvise a source of water—
For a whole day.
The Dutchman went over to the server and punched me a beer, without having been asked. I popped the top and drained it. Reliving it was thirsty-making.
"Sounds pretty tough, Emmy."
"Emile. And yes, sir, it was. What would you have done, if you were in that kind of spot?"
"And didn't know the right way?"
"Yes, sir."
"I would have walked up to Brubaker, tried to get him to drop his guard for a second, and then I would have snapped my instep into his crotch, hoping to give him a new necktie. That what you did?"
"Not quite. I was a bit more creative."
It hit me like a thunderbolt. I'd been thinking of it the wrong way, putting the emphasis on the wrong word. No, no, not "We didn't know how to improvise a source of water," but " We didn't know how to improvise a source of water."
Got it. I'll show you an improvised water source. I turned to Manny. "You any good with a survival knife?"
He smiled at me out of cracked lips. "Champagne . . . cork."
I passed him my knife. "Manuel," I whispered, "I want you to get his water. Use this one as a spare."
"I can't get it—"
"No, not take it. Two throws: open up his jug."
I didn't wait for an answer. I forced myself to my feet and walked out into the hot sun.
"Hey, Brubaker."
Brubaker poked his head out of his lean-to. "Give me fifty, plebe. The first word out of your mouth had better be—"
"Stuff it, scumbag."
That got him angry—he lunged out into the daylight, his pack firmly on his back.
Manny's knife thwock ed firmly into his pack. For a moment, I thought he had missed the water container and had stuck the knife in something else. But then the knife fell to the sand, a stream of water following it.
Brubaker's first reaction was the natural one: he quickly shrugged out of his pack and pulled the jug out, obviously intending to improvise a patch.
That's when I moved: I tackled the bastard, pulling his wiregun out of his belt as I rolled clear.
I snapped the safety off and caught Brubaker in the sights for a moment before I settled for his leaking waterjug.
"Stand back, Brubaker."
I emptied the damn thing into his waterjug, then ejected the clip, thought about it for a moment, and stuck the empty
"Then again, they didn't have Brubaker as their upper-classman instructor."
"True."
"So, what did you do?"
"The obvious. We used our clear plastic tarps as groundcloths, and pitched our mylar ones as lean-tos to keep the heat off. I remembered reading somewhere about how the desert sand cooled off a few inches down, so we tried digging a bit. Basically, we just sat there for twenty-four hours."
"And the water?"
VII
There really isn't much that's worse than thirst, particularly when you have a little bit of water. You always have to decide: do I drink it now, or do I wait a minute? An hour?
Please don't tell me about how necessity is the mother of invention—I couldn't think clearly; the only thing running through my mind was how good the hot water in my canteen would taste.
Our canteens contained about a liter each—maybe enough for two days—and that wasn't going to make it.
But moving around would make us sweat more, and that would be the end. We just sat there, talking with each other, trying to figure out how we could get our hands on Brubaker's water.
And we just got thirstier, the words bouncing around in my head.
—improvise a source of water—improvise a source of water—improvise a source of water—improvise a source of water—improvise a source of water—improvise a source of water—improvise a source of water—
For a whole day.
The Dutchman went over to the server and punched me a beer, without having been asked. I popped the top and drained it. Reliving it was thirsty-making.
"Sounds pretty tough, Emmy."
"Emile. And yes, sir, it was. What would you have done, if you were in that kind of spot?"
"And didn't know the right way?"
"Yes, sir."
"I would have walked up to Brubaker, tried to get him to drop his guard for a second, and then I would have snapped my instep into his crotch, hoping to give him a new necktie. That what you did?"
"Not quite. I was a bit more creative."
It hit me like a thunderbolt. I'd been thinking of it the wrong way, putting the emphasis on the wrong word. No, no, not "We didn't know how to improvise a source of water," but " We didn't know how to improvise a source of water."
Got it. I'll show you an improvised water source. I turned to Manny. "You any good with a survival knife?"
He smiled at me out of cracked lips. "Champagne . . . cork."
I passed him my knife. "Manuel," I whispered, "I want you to get his water. Use this one as a spare."
"I can't get it—"
"No, not take it. Two throws: open up his jug."
I didn't wait for an answer. I forced myself to my feet and walked out into the hot sun.
"Hey, Brubaker."
Brubaker poked his head out of his lean-to. "Give me fifty, plebe. The first word out of your mouth had better be—"
"Stuff it, scumbag."
That got him angry—he lunged out into the daylight, his pack firmly on his back.
Manny's knife thwock ed firmly into his pack. For a moment, I thought he had missed the water container and had stuck the knife in something else. But then the knife fell to the sand, a stream of water following it.
Brubaker's first reaction was the natural one: he quickly shrugged out of his pack and pulled the jug out, obviously intending to improvise a patch.
That's when I moved: I tackled the bastard, pulling his wiregun out of his belt as I rolled clear.
I snapped the safety off and caught Brubaker in the sights for a moment before I settled for his leaking waterjug.
"Stand back, Brubaker."
I emptied the damn thing into his waterjug, then ejected the clip, thought about it for a moment, and stuck the empty
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