The rains had swollen the river out of its banks, and the point at which we had to embark

was a mass of mud. Boards had been put out to reach the boat which bobbed at the water’s edge like some battered Chinese junk. It was in reality a sizable cabin cruiser that bore the marks of long and hard service, not the queen of ships we had hoped for. We boarded it at dusk as the red Indian sun gleamed over the watery horizon of what resembled a bay more than a river . I remember a night of misery, bunking down in cramped quarters with the constant beat of rain above us on the deck. The puttering sound of the motor, the steady rocking of the boat, the nagging worry as to our destinations, all conspired to rid me of sleep. Yet through it all my sense of adventure remained; not in my wildest fantasies did I ever dream I would one day journey up the sacred Ganges, or Ganga, as the Indians call it .

Morning broke as bright and calm as the night was turbulent. We breakfasted in the confines of a small cabin on the starboard deck. It was first taste of salt mackerel, along with chips and tea, the latter of which pleased me but not my companions. They were told coffee would be picked up at the next dock. Through the smudged windows we could glimpse the wide expanse of the river, sparkling like a green foil under the Indian sun.

While we were eating, a British colonel followed by an American staff sergeant entered. They took no notice of us and went straight to a small table in the corner.

My friend, Mark, nudged me and muttered; "There’s democracy for you. Always thought the British were stuffy about rank. How about that combination."

"Probably some special assignment," I said, keeping my voice as low as possible. "The sergeant’s on loan to the British."

"Maybe."

I was accustomed to Mark’s skepticism, and the speculation ended there. But I couldn’t help but notice how much the colonel resembled the stereotypical image I had of his breed, down to neat mustache, safari jacket, and short khakis. All he lacked was a swagger stick. With his gray temples and look of experience, I judged him to be a man perhaps in his early fifties. His companion, the sergeant with his blond good looks, was fully twenty-five years his junior. They made an intriguing pair.

In order to escape the unpleasant sleeping quarters, I took every opportunity to spend time on the deck. There was a feeling of freedom to catch the breeze, though humid, as the boat chugged along beneath the burning sun. Mid-morning of my first day aboard found myself the one and only on the forward deck. I took one of the rickety deck chairs and was enjoying my privacy when, after only a few minutes, the colonel and the sergeant reappeared. They moved directly to the rail, stood side by side there in quiet conversation for a brief time, and then turned away with what I interpreted to be a haughty glance at me, as if I had intruded on their world.

"Taking the air, eh, mate?"

I looked up into the face of the wiry little man who had served us breakfast. His perpetual five-o’clock shadow and the gamcha, a sweatband similar to those some Indians wore, gave him a menacing look.

"A beautiful day," I said. Except for the heat"

"A cool day." He grinned, showing bad teeth. "Wait till the monsoon sets in."

"I thought this was the monsoon".

"Not quite." He spoke with the authority of experience. " The prickly heat’ll tell you when it gets under your skin."

I wanted to enlarge the small talk. " The colonel. Is this by any chance his boat?"

He looked puzzled a moment and then laughed, a short cackling laugh. " The honeymoon couple? The Colonel and the Yank? No. It ain’t his boat. He’s got a place up river. Him and the Yank’s going up there."

" I thought maybe the sergeant was somehow attached to the colonel’s command."

" They’re attached all right." The grin came back. "You know how it is, mate. Nancy boy. The colonel’s been making this trip for years. Spent most of his life in India. Not a bad sorts chap, really. Awfully decent to me over the years." A brief pause, and then: " Name’s Wickett-- Tommy Wickett."

I stood up to take his hand, thinking at first he was referring to the colonel. I introduced myself.

" Where’ re you heading, mate?"

" I don’t know exactly. Up the river to some village-- then somebody’s supposed to come aboard and give us our orders."

" Benares, " he replied. " That’s the last port for this old tub. We make a lot of stops at no-name villages along the way. Seems like a strange way to treat you chaps-- keep you guessing about where you’re going."

I had already decided Wickett was too old for the service, and his questions about orders confirmed the fact that he knew little or nothing about the military, particularly the American version of it. Hurry up and wait. Keep’em guessing," I said. That’s the motto of the military."

"I figure you got at least another day to go. No more stops ‘til then. Gotta get back to the galley, mate. You chap’sll be expecting a spot of lunch."

With that Wickett was already on his first leg of departure, and I waved him good-bye. Judging from the stains on his dingy towel looped in his belt, I suddenly had misgivings about lunch, but knew the feeling would pass when the noon whistle called us to that fare. I moved to the bow and watched the frothy break of the water. As the boat churned slowly up the river, the heat of the sun became unbearable and I went below.