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     In 1938 my father stepped out onto a back veranda of The British Club, with a warm glass of beer, and collapsed wearily into a significant rattan chair; dropping his cork topee onto the rattan table next to him.  It was the end of the dry season, and the jungle surrounding him appeared to be holding its breath; impatiently awaiting the monsoon.

       The British Club.

     He wore a sweat-stained khaki shirt with baggy shorts; including wool knee socks with heavy, iron-toed work shoes.

     Oh yes, dear reader, this apparel was all the rage in the tropics of the 1930's; only “mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the mid-day sun,” with their proper tropical kit and especially their topee.

      Typical Tropical-Kit in the 1930's.

     Having recently come from the oilfield, my dad gratefully sipped his warm beer, and squinted at the low, tropical sun floating as a hot yellow disk in the stifling heat and haze.   

     “So this is India,” he thought.

     Pop had been recruited in the States by the Burmah Oil Company, and had been hired as the youngest tool pusher - and one of the few Americans - to be assigned to the oilfields at Digboi, in the Assam Province of North Eastern India. 

     Drilling oil rigs in the jungle at Digboi.

     He hadn’t been in country long, and was currently serving a nine-month probationary period, prior to being allowed to send for my mother.  The British were very “sticky” on this point; testing a new man to make certain he’d adjust and wouldn’t “go native” on them.

     BOC (Burmah Oil Co.) Motor Spirit (Gasoline).

     Lazily Dad’s mind drifted that oppressive afternoon, as he thought of how much he missed my mom back in the States, while absently taking in his environment.  The British Club was situated on the edge of a golf course, and beyond one of the bunkers, my father  observed a native coming out of the jungle’s shadows in a bullock cart.  Stopping the cart, the Indian unhitched the bullock pulling it, tied the animal up to a pudding pipe tree, and then left the area.

     Bullock and cart.

     At that same moment Pop’s thoughts of my mom and home were interrupted by the arrival of a large Scotsman.  Dad stood at six-foot-four and seldom had to look up at any man.  This was one of those rare exceptions, for the Scotsman stood at six-foot-seven and possessed hands the size of basketballs.

     Oh yes, and for you lady readers, be assured the Scotsman also had really humongous thumbs.

     Everyone in the compound referred to this gentleman as either “Sir” or “Scotty” with the utmost respect.  Nonetheless, he proved to be one of those gentle giants, full of confident reserve with nothing to prove, which made for good company.

     The “Gentle-Giant” Scotty.

     Setting his lime squash on the table, Scotty merely smiled and nodded at my dad before sitting down to join him.  Not a word passed between them as Scotty took out his pipe, cleaned the bowl with a penknife, charged it with tobacco and lit up.  Dad found the aroma pleasant and in turn fired up one of his Camel cigarettes.

     It was an agreeable way to spend a late afternoon, simply drinking and smoking on the edge of the jungle, with a companion that didn’t chew one’s ear off.

     Not a sound issued from the jungle, and in the dead quite of that sultry afternoon, much to my father’s complete disbelief, a tiger dispassionately stepped out of the jungle and clamped it’s massive jaws onto the bullock’s throat. 

     Both animals collapsed to the ground, the tiger bunching up the bullock’s carotid arteries and windpipe into that empty space behind its upper and lower canines and cutting-grinding molars; pinching off all blood flow and oxygen to the doomed animal’s brain. 

     The bullock quickly blacked out; ceasing to struggle.  A few more minutes ticked by...and it died.  Afterward the huge cat released its grip, licked the bullock several times with its oversized, pink tongue, then calmly got up, strolled back into the jungle’s shadows...and dematerialized.

     Big Mike Chisholm sat there dumbfounded; he had never before witnessed a death so quick and silent.

     I remember him telling me, dear reader: “Son...it scared the ever livin’ crap out of me.”

     Pop then glanced over at Scotty for some assurance that what he’d seen wasn’t an induced jungle-fever hallucination.  Because in this era the White people were always coming down with a random form of fever - usually dengue or malaria – and my father was no exception.

     Scotty puffed on his pipe, returned my dad’s gaze, and then asked, “Michael, darlin’, do ye fancy baggin’ a wee tiger?”  After which Scotty winked.

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