Fascinating tale. My now-deceased father-in-law fought in what was then called Burma .
“Steady your breathing Naba. You are one with the forest. The jungle is an extension of you, an amplification of your senses. That which grows, creeps, crawls, and moves in it – you are aware of its presence. The night is your prowl and darkness your element,” whispered the ninety-year-old warrior Akoijam to his prodigy. War was in Naba’s blood. For generations, the stealthy fighters of his secret sect were selected from birth and trained to silently guard this region of the northeastern mountain frontier of the Indian subcontinent.
Sucking in the cold forest air of the Shirui Hills through his nostrils, stretching and filling his lungs to the maxim, Naba blew hard into his bamboo blowpipe. A needle-like poisoned wooden projective split through the pitch-black and deathly jungle night and lodged itself into the neck of a Japanese death squad soldier, who instantly fell to the ground and twitched…
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