Ambush
By J.M. Snyder
His name was unpronounceable to the enemy.
The Americans from the MASH unit called him “Triage” because he hung around the medical tent whenever the wounded were flown in. Most of the soldiers thought him a petty thief, a vulture preying on the dead and dying. They laughed when he showed up, and teased him when there were no locals among the wounded. “None for you today,” they said, nudging each other. They thought he didn’t understand their language.
He saw no reason to inform them otherwise.
Beyond the pitched tents ringed with barbed wire and camouflage netting, the jungle grew like crazed hair sticking up from the earth at all angles. Triage hid among the foliage, keeping out of the war. His forays into the American camp had started as a search for food—he vi
