The Savage Jungle - Chapter 6

September 14, 2026

Chapter 1

Homer Olsen stepped off the boat and glanced around the tiny port of Dobo.

Swirling through the muddy, ramshackle streets was a cross section of humanity like few others. The town was full of Chinese and Arab traders bartering in the warehouses, Japanese and Filipino diving crews, Dutch protectorate administrators, native Indonesians, boat captains, prostitutes, and adventurers.

Like so many others before them, Olsen and Rollins had come to Dobo to seek their fortunes by any means.

As they headed up the main street, Olsen kept a wary eye out for pickpockets and thieves. He’d learned in Singapore that the worst of the lot were little kids. They’d slip right up on you. One would beg for coins while the others peeled everything off you with their magical fingers.

Dressed in khaki work pants, a white linen shirt, and canvas shoes, Olsen looked like the typical diver or trader out on the town to spend his paycheck at any one of the gambling dens, bars, or brothels. The only item that signified his naval service was a green seabag over his shoulder.

“Where do you suppose we start?” Archie Rollins asked, adjusting the jaunty angle of his white captain’s hat. He wore his old Navy bellbottoms, a blue work shirt, and heavy boots.

“A boarding house,” Olsen replied.

“But which one?”

The two men gawked at the row of hotels packed between shops and businesses.

Rollins gestured toward a general store with a sign in the window offering rooms for rent. A beautiful Chinese woman in a silk qipao stood on the boardwalk in front of the store. “If she lives there, I’m game.”

Olsen snorted. “If she’s any indication, that place will be expensive.”

Rollins headed across the muddy street for the store with Olsen trailing behind him. Inside, Rollins shelled out cash for a room, handing it to an older Chinese woman behind the counter. She led them up to the room and handed the men two keys.

“Blessed stay,” she murmured before heading off, soft slippers barely whispering on the worn floorboards.

Rollins unlocked the door. Inside, they found two beds covered in mosquito netting. A wash basin stood in one corner with a ceramic pitcher beside it. Two bureaus barely large enough to hold their possessions anchored the corners. Olsen moved to the window and pulled back the curtain to peer down at the swarm of humanity on the street.

Rollins flopped on the bed. “Now, we need jobs.”

“Let’s go down to the pier and see what we can find.”

The two men walked through town again to the docks. They started at the east end and worked their way west, chatting with captains and crews. Many spoke a hodgepodge of halting English and their native language, making communication difficult.

“I hope we don’t get one of them fellas on the comms,” Rollins muttered. “I’ll never understand what they’re saying.”

Olsen laughed. “I guess you better learn the language.”

“Can you understand it?”

“Hardly a word, but we’ll figure it out.”

Hot and thirsty, the divers retired to a bar near their room.

Olsen ordered two, beers and they leaned against the bar to sip them.

“Looks like Wyatt Earp might stroll in here at any moment,” Rollins observed.

The place did remind Olsen of bars he’d visited around Fort Stockton when his father needed a drink: big mirrors over a polished bar, row after row of spirits, and men crowded around tables, drinking, playing cards, and chatting with the scantily clad prostitutes.

A mountain of a Melanesian approached them. His curly blond hair and blue eyes standing out in stark contrast to his dark skin.

“Buy you a beer, hoss?” Olsen asked.

“I don’t partake in alcohol,” the man replied. “I am Ishtu. My captain wishes to speak with you.”

“Yeah? Is he buying the drinks?” Rollins asked.

“He will speak to you now.”

Olsen and Rollins exchanged a glance and shrugged. A boat captain willing to talk to them was better luck than they’d had since stepping off the boat from Singapore.

“Lead the way, Ishtu,” Olsen said.

The hulking Melanesian led them through the bar to a back room. A Dutchman stood from his seat at a card game. He extended his hand to introduce himself as Captain Jos Vanderhook. The captain had broad shoulders, a shock of thick blonde hair, and wide-set blue eyes. A jagged scar trailed down his left cheek from beneath an eye patch.

After they’d shaken hands, Vanderhook used his right index finger to pull open Olsen’s oilskin jacket. He smirked as he saw the butt of a Colt 1911 pistol in a shoulder rig.

Vanderhook let the jacket fall closed, then pushed open the other side to view the sheathed diving knife. “You expectin’ trouble?”

“Never,” Olsen replied with a grin. “But it’s always best to be prepared.”

“What brings you, gentlemen, to Dobo?”

“We’re divers,” Rollins answered. “We’re looking for work.”

Vanderhook’s good eye shifted from one man to the other. “What are your qualifications?”

Olsen held up a hand to cut off his friend. “We spent the last two years as Navy divers. We’re qualified in ship repair and demolition.”

The Dutchman’s eyebrow rose. “Then ya come to the right place. I’ve a boat, the Hydra, and I’m in need of divers. I’ll pay one fifty a month plus a cut of the haul.”

Rollins quickly stuck out his hand. “Agreed!”

“Why are you short divers?” Olsen asked, not so eager.

Vanderhook’s lips twitched. “You’re either in, or ya’re out, Olsen. I’m givin’ you a chance, More than the others ’round here will give two strangers.”

“We’re in,” Rollins replied.

“Good. Ishtu will meet ya at Number One dock at dawn.”

Rollins and Olsen returned to the bar. Olsen couldn’t put his finger on what bothered him about the setup, but something was off with the Dutchman and his need for divers.

“That bastard didn’t even buy us a beer,” Rollins complained.

Olsen held up two fingers to the bartender. Despite his apprehension about Vanderhook, he was willing to take a chance. “At least we have jobs.”

© 2026 Evan Graver. All Rights Reserved.