Captain Smith: The Jungle at War

By M J Weber

After a miraculous turning point in his life, Captain Smith has found the courage to fight oppression alongside his newfound allies. But his past is never far behind as a mysterious chain of events unfolds prior to an impending Second World War.

With the help of friends Esther and Daniel, Smith hopes to safeguard treasures long thought forgotten. While engaged in a hunt boosted by mere snippets of information, the group engages an enemy that also pursues a mystery. Through it all, Smith questions if he can truly live again. If he is redeemed by grace, will his heart turn forever good? As enemies creep ever closer and a secret war against freedom comes to light, Smith continues his pursuit of the treasures without any idea that he is about to find divine enlightenment of far greater value.

In this inspirational novel, a man’s past collides with the present and fuels his search for lost treasures where he discovers unfound strength, newfound allies, and divine enlightenment.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LifeRich Publishing
• Release date: Dec 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781489739513

M J Weber

From a young age M.J.Weber had a unique interest in writing and the character's quest. Jesus Christ motivates his work. Through Him there is hope, purpose, and fellowship.

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CAPTAIN SMITH

THE JUNGLE AT WAR

M. J. WEBER

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Copyright © 2021 M. J. Weber.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

LifeRich Publishing is a registered trademark of The Reader’s Digest Association, Inc.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-4897-3942-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-3943-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-3951-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021924062

LifeRich Publishing rev. date: 12/01/2021

CONTENTS

A Message

The Voyage

The Patrol Boat

The Beach

The Jungle Challenge

Battle Cries and Gunfire

The Allied Camp

It Would Take a Miracle

On the Way to Infiltrate

The Castle

A Climb to the Top

The Big Rescue

Interacting with the Villagers

Exiting the Castle

Hidden Secret of the Castle

The Meeting

The End of the Meeting

Finding the Way Down

The Race Is On

Spotting Allies

Stubborn in the Eye of the Enemy

Pride Comes Before a Fall

Duty Calls

Meeting with the Allies

An Interrupted Meal

Eternal Treasure

Late Disturbance

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A MESSAGE

I t all started when I was sitting upon my old timber bench on the front stone veranda outside my large white rendered house in Falmouth England, that I had recently inherited from a deceased uncle. After a harried night sleep, I started the morning polishing my SMLE Mk III .303 caliber rifle. About thirty minutes passed since sun rise, then heard the slight rumble of an engine sound—similar to my straight-eight Rolls-Royce Phantom. Then I saw it—a shadow drew over the stone road—before my front yard. As the strange noise grew distinctly louder on approach, I then realized it was coming from the air above. Placing my rifle down on the bench, as I stood upon a smoldering dart, and stepped across the veranda and made my way down its stone steps to the lawn. I looked up, spotting a large airship, quickly running back up the stairs, across the veranda and entering by the living room. I took my camera from the mantelpiece and ran outside, hoping to get pictures of what I thought to be the first British airship to make the skies in such a way.

I began across the veranda again, only to be thrown to left by an explosion, and struck the stone floor, my camera dropped from my hands and smashed upon the masonry, grazing an arm. I looked to the right, to find my neighbour’s older stone-timber house had been destroyed by fire. I realized the airship and its masters were responsible. Hearing it passing over, I looked towards the sound to see whether I could spot it from the porch. Suddenly spotted bombs falling from the sky as they hit the ground and exploded, forming a trail of craters leading toward the house. I ran down the veranda; approaching midway, the rear of the house was struck, as I dove over the stone rail. Landing upon my back, then quickly rose, to see the airship coming in from the southwest, and swiftly turned on me, shadowing the left end of the street.

I turned to my neighbour’s home and cellar—built into its solid stone foundation. I knew the cellar was my only hope for cover and ran for it, across my front lawn and between the diagonal rose flower beds. Nearing halfway to the cellar—now but seventy-five-feet ahead—the airship’s crew began firing rifles at me. Noting the distinct sound of 7.92x57mm shots fired, I realized it belonged to the Germans. I ran as fast as I could, toward the cellar, the airship and its bullets still pursuing. I dove through the cell’s unbolted, dark green doors, and slammed them shut. As I walked deeper into the twelve-by-six-foot room, bullets punched holes in the timber doors and struck its few steps. There wasn’t much in the cellar except old papers; stored by my uncle when he used to rent it—I never knew why though. I always figured he had enough room in his own cellar now beneath a pile of rubble no doubt. Then I began to think of my neighbour; he was a very strange man with absolutely no family whatsoever. He did talk about a son he claimed to have once had. I used to occasionally visit the man, more than thirty years my senior, who always had a lot to say about how much he loved the countryside and often wondered what he was doing in town by himself.

I first met him when I stopped a group of officers from destroying his house to set up a military base. It was raining when I said to the officer, Sargent, order your men to turn back and set the base twelve-miles from here on the east hill. I’ve just received new orders.

Blast, The officer replied, in a strong British accent, I was hoping to be home for tea and cakes. My wife’s mother is visiting, you know? He rolled his eyes and turned to his large convoy of Austin trucks and building team. Okay, move them out; we’re going to J.5 eastern hill.

The men of the brigade began marching onward up the street, the sergeant pleaded, Oh, Smith, can’t you let this one slide? That mom of hers is going to be so displeased!

Sorry, not this time.

Hear…okay then, I suppose we can’t always have it easy. Oh, by the way, two men dressed in black were looking for you; they didn’t mention names, so I didn’t either. I hope it’s all right?

No, that’s okay—I’ll probably see them again sometime, whoever they are.

He saluted and walked back to the convoy of trucks.

Now that has all changed—my neighbour’s house was destroyed, and my neighbour was dead. I lit an old oil lantern hung in the cellar and began to read through some of my deceased uncle’s work for the first time. He had been into history, ancient things, before being enlisted as an officer; he also did the courses to become an archaeologist and historian, but mainly done so to obtain higher rank in the military and perhaps noticed for other jobs. Reading through near two hundred papers, setting aside a few outstanding bills from the I.R.S and documents concerning reference to Heinrich Schliemann’s among other’s work. Then found something of interest—a number of descriptions concerning places he had studied in hopes of personally discovering valuable artifacts. It appeared one of the places’ descriptions to be written in Hebrew and others were in different languages such as English, Arabic, Afrikaans and Greek. I recognized certain aspects of the documents, then found some describing an island. Believed to be located somewhere in the south Atlantic Ocean. I figured I could take a pry-planned voyage back to Australia, which coincidently would have to bypass the troublesome Mediterranean Sea. I could send word to Professor Tallery, the one archaeologist I may be able to trust—he was now on holiday in Australia, away from the Royal Archaeological Institute of England—or I could possibly even lead a team myself with his help and funding from the government, but I needed more time to calculate things. After stashing the paperwork, I then lay upon the cold stone floor and soon fell asleep.

I awoke the next day and stretched before turning to the doors and cautiously stepping outside. To find all that remained of my house was ash and rubble. Then I saw bodies of three shrapnel-wounded firemen who must have attempted to put out the blaze. I felt sick in the gut at the sight, and then finally knew why my uncle went to war only to get a build for all his trouble; it was so he wouldn’t feel the sense of cowardice I felt today.

I looked through ashes and remains of the house. Then found it—my near six-by-four-foot-iron safe. I ran to a small timber shelf to the rear of the house and retrieved a key from a tin and ran back, I opened the safe and retrieved my Winchester twelve-gauge lever-action shotgun and another Lee-Enfield .303 caliber rifle. Before retrieving my Webley Mk IV .455 caliber-improved pistol and removed a spent silver shell casing. After placing them into a nearby haversack, I retrieved few papers and wax sealed envelopes full of money, before closing its door—I threw the bag on my back and walked around to the front of the rubble and down the right side of the house’s remains to my garage, which had survived the bombing.

I put the haversack down and opened the garage’s large white timber doors. Revealing my custom Rolls-Royce straight-eight Phantom II tourer equipped with a rear seat—hadn’t been touched. The white paint shone like hot coals, the wheels were still redder than ever, and the chrome windscreen frame and exhaust manifold seemed to near blind me still. I picked up the haversack and placed it in the boot of the vehicle, then packed few more items from the shed, including the money and a change of clothes. I decided to pay a visit to Tallery in Australia and show him the documents—a very small amount of them, of course, but it should be enough to reveal where the island was. Starting the engine, I drove out of the stone garage and onto the street, continuing like a maniac down the road toward the docks six miles away.

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THE VOYAGE

I pulled in and stopping before the gated entrance of the storage yard, not far from the docks. There was a man in a raincoat manning a small tollbooth in the centre of the driveway, I asked, So what prices do you have on renting a shed?

The man looked over an old paper, Let’s see, he muttered, to rent out a storage shed—a small one that is—you’re looking at two pounds for a month. But you can use it for as long as needed at the price of five pounds, son.

I reached into my trench coat, retrieved some money and handed him the five pounds. He grinned. Okay, head into door five on your right.

I drove along the paved drive, passing by the green doors of the yard’s whitened brick sheds, I reached door five on the right, and a yard man in a stained yellow coat opened its doors. I turned in and parked the Rolls-Royce. The man gave me the key before turning away.

I retrieved the clothes, money, and guns I had packed from the boot and disenabled the car-by flicking an immobilizer switch—I had installed beneath its dash. I closed the shed, locked its doors, and walked out of the yard, while proceeding toward the docks just down the road. My clothes and money were in a large suitcase I found in the garden shed and my guns concealed within the haversack on my back. Reaching the railing before the fog covered timber dock and ships moored below. I walked down the stone stairway, spotting a small booking station within the centre of the narrow dock’s deck. Approaching its window and seeing there was a man within, I asked, When’s the Asperge meant to sail for Australia today?

It’s about to leave now, he gasped.

May I have a ticket; it should be reserved under Richard Right? I asked, handing him eight pounds, he gave me the ticket with change. I ran round, past the booth—spotting the ship Asperge, at the end of the dock through the fog, preparing to cast off.

Quickly reaching its loading ramp and running up aboard the ship, a man in blue uniform demanded, Ticket sir? I presented it to him, he nodded. Good, no luggage on deck, sir.

I turned to starboard keeping from the crew members and bridge to the rear of the small ship and cautiously watched as the ramp was retrieved and the ship cast off. Staring at the sea, I noticed all passengers present on deck with not a child among them—realizing they were people on business; the men were wearing suits and the women in model like clothes. I noted few crewmen returning to the small ship’s sixty-by-fifteen-foot-tall bridge. I also noted that below the top captain’s quarters was a set of white stairs leading partially below deck, quickly walking across the deck toward them and continued below the bridge. Glancing over the voyage pass or ticket—I read the number printed in blue. Seeing it was room twelve on the right, I looked up and placed the ticket in the pocket of my dark green suit, I had inherited from my deceased uncle. It with cream colored trusses, not to match but shaped up with a polo shirt of similar colour, or so I was told. I saw the hallway had a white ceiling and timber floor lined with a pale green, white and red patterned rug. Reaching the room marked twelve, I entered and closed its door—still holding my luggage upon my back and suitcase. I placed my cargo on the floor off the nine-nine-foot room with a bed alongside the starboard wall, with bedside drawers. I took the suit off and tossing it upon the floor and bolted the door, before laying upon the bed.

I heard a knock at the door followed by a voice, Room service!

Go away! I huffed; the knocking ceased. Turning to the small bedside table, finding a newspaper upon it, I took and held it over head, reminded of the date—1939 JUNE 5th—reading the headline in bold: Voyages from England to Australia Must Be Stopped—according to members of parliament, too many of our naval and civilian vessels have been lost at sea, possibly to unallied forces, but is yet to be determined.

Refolding the paper and chucking it upon the bedside table, I noticed it was still morning and fell asleep. About thirteen hours later, I awoke to a loud knocking at the door. I figured it was room service again and decided not to answer. The loud knocking then stopped after ten seconds. I soon decided to get up, leaping from the bed, noticing that it was more than thirteen hours later—the next morning.

I put on my brown riding boots