just tell the truth
Right on.
In the village in the foothills they say the mountain will exact its toll. By the end of the first day we'd lost 3 sherpas, and another 3 the next. They had turned back, you see. Superstition is rife among the simple mountain people. They said my scar was a mark of impending fate. That when death narrowly misses he feels cheated, and soon returns to claim his prize.
Yes but how did you get it?
That's what they asked me. They felt it was important. I'll tell you what I told them. In the jungle, death lurks in every thicket. It dances among the shadows and drips from every branch above. By the end of the first day we'd lost 3 burros. La selva se llevo. My native guide sought reassurance and asked if I was a great warrior within my tribe and had received the mark in combat.
Um, did you?
I never had the chance to serve in the infantry with those fine men. The service decided that my reflexes and my cunning were best put to use in the cockpit of an F-97 Tomraptor. Of course, what the brass wanted and what the equipment could do were two very different things. Sometimes we'd fly for 48 hours straight without even stopping to refuel. I once glided in with an engine out, no landing gear, and no wings. We lost 3 mechanics that day. 'Scurvy Scarsy' they'd call me. They were good men.
