Fortune Favors the Brave
Sometimes you create your own luck
***Please Note: This story contains an insensitive word used for historical accuracy given the period when this story was set.***
When pushed together, vegemite and butter oozed out of the Sao biscuits like wiggly worms. Sally licked one worm off after another before laying the biscuits flat on the plate. The grown-ups had a fancy afternoon tea, with cucumber and tomato on their Sao's, but Sally much preferred vegemite. Besides, you can't make worms from cucumbers.
Bounty in hand, Sally crawled under the table, careful not to jolt it. The table was set ready. The ladies would talk in the kitchen while the men would play cards. Down here, Sally could listen to the old people chatter but didn't have to talk.
Nana always told her to give her great-aunts and great-uncles a kiss. Aunty Olive had long hair poking out of her chin — perhaps she was a witch? Aunty Agnes smelled a little funny like a wet dog. Uncle Chester was okay, but Uncle Arthur squeezed too tight. Much safer under the table.
Sally munched on her biscuits as her aunts and uncles arrived.
I stumble as the blast erupts; my left foot misses the makeshift step. I freefall slide into a quagmire of sludge. My right arm gropes for tree roots to steady my fall as my left clings onto my rifle strap with a death grip. My body gains momentum as the jungle blurs past. I thump into the base of a tree at speed.
I want to lie here for a moment. Catalog my wounds, but that's a luxury I don't have. I jump to my feet and place my back to the tree that stopped my fall. I raise my rifle.
I can't trust my ears in this thundering silence. I stand motionless, my eyes doing double duty as my heart pounds, my breath coming in fits and starts.
Did anyone hear my wild slide through the jungle? Could anyone hear anything after that blast?
I have to steady my breathing — if there is anyone else left out here, they'll hear me now. My hands shake, I want to lower my rifle, but I don't.
The rain belted onto the tin roof. Sally jumped as thunder boomed.
"May," Pop called to Sally's Nana. "Bring the dog in, will you. It's a terrible thing to be frightened."
The old men shifted in their seats, muttering their agreement.
Maybe I'm alone.
Maybe I'm surrounded.
I wait and watch.
The rising roar of a monotonous ringing replaces the silence. My eyes continue to dart about until the ringing stops.
Silence.
True silence.
Gradually, the sounds of the jungle whisper to my ears. The wind rustles through the leaves, and the raindrops land with a heavy splat.
I breathe in and out slowly. I need to think, make a plan, but my thoughts are scattered. I know this much; I can't stay here.
I take a step away from the safety of my tree. With my back now exposed to the elements, it prickles as if someone is watching. Is it real? Is there someone else out here, or is it just my imagination?
With my rifle pointing the way, I take another cautious step. A branch cracks like thunder, and I jump.
It's not safe out here.
I take a step back, heading for the safety of my tree. One more step and my back makes a connection. I push my back firmly into the tree. The tree pushes back into me.
Shit.
That's not my tree.
I spin frantically, swiveling my rifle in front of me like it's a compass. Please let it be one of ours.
Shit. Shit.
It's a Jap. His rifle is in my face, mine in his.
Seconds pass as we stare into each other's eyes.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
A bead of sweat trickles down his brow and drips off the tip of his nose.
My stomach churns, my hands feel clammy. My finger is poised, ready to curl around the trigger and shoot.
I should have taken the shot the second I saw it was a Jap. Just fired. Blown his head off.
That's what I should have done.
Pop dropped his cards and muttered a curse. Sally skittled about under the table, collecting the cards one by one. When Pop bobbed his head down, she handed them over, and Pop winked a thank you.
Thunder boomed, startling Pop, and he banged his head on the table. The old men laughed.
"Lucky," said Uncle Chester, "Lucky it's just your noggin. Not like you hit anything important."
"Lucky," the men clicked their beer glasses together and resumed their game.
Stop the Japs. That's why I'm here. Stopping the Japs is the only reason I'm here.
So why can't I shoot him?
One shot. Dead center. It's just a Jap. I'd be doing my job. And it's not like I haven't killed before. I have. I must have. I've fired my rifle enough.
I've done my share to hold this track. I'm more than just a choco. I'm not a bloody chocolate soldier. I am not soft.
This has a different stench. A wrongness. They say that all is fair in love and war. But this, right now, this isn't war, and there is nothing fair about this situation. This is two men standing toe to toe. This stinks like murder.
I'll fight for my country. I'll fight for my life. But I'm not a murderer.
His brown eyes bore into mine. Somehow in all this mess, our breathing has synchronized. We breathe as if we were one. Our nostrils flaring as we suck in each breath as if it's our last.
My heart has taken off at a gallop; it thuds away from me. I swallow. Despite being surrounded by the patter of rain, my throat is as dry as if I was in the desert.
A conundrum pulses through my brain — I don't want to murder this man, but I don't want to die either.
I can see my fear reflected in his eyes. Seconds take hours to pass. My hand starts to waver a little, but I continue to hold my rifle steady. Weakness will be the end of me.
Only the strong survive.
Half a heartbeat later, he, too, develops a slight tremor.
The man in front of me is strange, foreign, different, but he wants the same thing I want.
To live.
This man is my enemy. I have no reason to trust him, yet I recognize a truth within him — a truth we share. We both have reasons to live. And if neither of us can kill the other, there's only one option left. We have to walk away.
As one, without taking our eyes off the other, we both take a step backward. I release the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
Ever so slightly, the man inclines his head. I give him a sliver of a nod in return. Eyes locked, we both take another step backward. Slowly, we step back and melt into the jungle.
"What again?" Uncle Chester asked.
Pop chuckled, "Can't help a winning streak. I'm just lucky."
"Lucky!" the men clicked their beer glasses together.
Pop shifted in his seat, bending over to see Sally. He put his finger to his lips, "It's your lucky day too," he passed her a plate with a big slice of chocolate cake. "Don't tell your Nana. I'll be in trouble for sure."
As Sally chomped into the cake, thunder boomed once more.
Confident I am out of sight, I take another backward step, then another. The urge to turn and run is strong, but I need to be sure.
My heart thuds as I pause to listen to the sounds of the jungle whispering to me. Wind rushes through the leaves as the raindrops splat. There are no sounds of human stealth, of deception. No rustling as he brushes past branches. Hidden in the jungle, he, too, is listening.
Will he shoot if I turn and run? Does he worry that I will shoot him?
I may not have said anything, yet still, I gave that man my word. I will not go back upon my word.
For an endless second, I stand, stock still, before I turn and run. I run until the land forces me to scramble upwards using tree roots as handholds. And with every inch that I climb, I pray.
I pray that I haven't made a mistake.
I pray that a bullet is not about to slam into my back.
"Look at that. Clary's won every game," Uncle Chester bellowed.
Sally grinned. Her Pop was lucky. Her uncles always said so.
"Only Clary could be so lucky," Uncle Arthur agreed.
"Imagine coming face-to-face with a Jap, then turning tail and running," Uncle Chester added.
"Lucky," everyone at the table agreed. They laughed and clicked their beer glasses together once again.
Under the table, Sally laughed too. It was a good thing to be lucky.
AUTHORS NOTE: As a child, my Pop didn't like to speak much about the war. There were two exceptions.
At the first boom of thunder, Pop would say, "Bring the dog inside. It's a terrible thing to be frightened."
Then during Sunday afternoon tea at Aunty Glad's house, I'd sit reading a book and listening to the chatter. A story would be repeated whenever someone mentioned the word lucky. The menfolk would chuckle about my Uncle Ebbie, and that time, he came face-to-face with a Japanese soldier.
"Only Ebbie could be so lucky," someone would say.
"Imagine coming face-to-face with a Jap, then turning tail and running." Another would add.
"Lucky," everyone at the table would agree, and they would laugh.
As a child, the story presented to me a joke. But I didn't understand what was funny.
A writing challenge to write a family legend from someone else's point of view saw me write Uncle Ebbie's side of the story, and in doing so, I realized why Uncle Ebbie had been lucky. What were the odds of two men from opposing sides in WWII coming together face-to-face and wordlessly agreeing not to shoot each other?
