That was certainly the problem Oliver now faced as he tracked along the Damascus road. Despite the blazing heat he could feel the rasping hum beneath his feet and he realised his time here was almost done. No Vietnam onslaught could pay justice to what his last sight of life was to be nor the pain he was destined to endure. Like flying termites the wasps flew, a dark deadly murmuration that defied rational explanation. Flying high, the yellow zebra piranhas of the skies produced a sense of foreboding it was difficult to face. A life long atheist he dropped to his knees and prayed, Lord, if you exist save me this day.
Suddenly silence was all around, no droning, not a murmur, not a sound. A brilliant bright light and then a sense that everything would be all right. Oliver opened his eyes to realise that not one wasp was in the sky. On reaching Damascus his friends gathered round, as the news caster asked what miracle he had found. He shrugged, grabbed a beer, without a backward glance, wrote it off as merely chance.