in the dark jungle in Mt. Katuaga, we talk of the bright morning of revolt all over the land.   on one side of the vast kugon field on the Bangtuhan plateau, overlooking the lowlands and the town, we reckon the number, the difficulty of tasks waiting to be done.   all of a sudden, "pass it on, comrades!"   forcing their way in are four columns of the dictator's mercenary emissaries.   couched in cushioned chairs, the executioners Frivaldo and de Guzman roar in laughter, "ha! ha! ha! you'll be done by December, you violent subversives!"   quietly the pointed bamboos lie in wait beneath the thickets and footpaths. quietly the people's militia watches out.   what do we do next? the armalites and machineguns of the crazed enemy begin to echo; the helicopter proudly swirls in the sky.   ready and calm are the ones among us who guard the passes south and north, east and west.   in the hut where we meet, the smoke from the local tobacco smells bad, flat and bitter is the strong black coffee...   but nothing is more flat than living in an enslaved country, nothing more bitter than the reactionaries' savagery.   knit your brows! find a way! in the end, the meeting gives birth to a call: "defend the organs of Red power! crush the encircle- and-destroy campaigns of the enemy!"   (E.P.)