With his head on the splintery floor like this, he could see pineapple bushes through gaps in the planked wall. Rude, leafy spikes blended into a seemingly brush-stroked, green back-drop that rolled to trees in the distance. He couldn’t see anyone.
Thirteen days of pointless wandering and hiding. What would his wife be doing now? He recalled her glistening eyes and smiled faintly. Strange that so many unimportant decisions had abandoned him here. Konfrontasi!
How many weary feet had trudged in this layer of dried mud to line the floor near his nose? It smelt musty. The floor was dry and warm, but felt wet and cold against his cheek. The hut was a resting place for plantation workers. There are no trees on a pineapple plantation, no shade. This was a solitary shelter; four walls, an empty floor, and a small pane-less window with a propped shutter. The sun was brilliant white outside. Must be mid-afternoon.
He had been dozing. Maybe he had imagined it. Nothing moved. The air hung heavily around the hut.
“Look, we want to be fair. I’ll give you five minutes.”
That was it. No dream. Five minutes. He believed them; they wouldn’t shoot before then. He looked carefully at the minute hand on his watch. Normally, we see only a snapshot of a watch or clock, and the hands appear frozen. Perfectly still, until we look away and they are free to resume a prosaic, steady journey to our death. But by focusing carefully on the tip of the longest hand, he could actually see time swept away. The hand had moved almost all the way between two of the short, black notches.
Malaysian soldiers would patrol in a platoon. Still, he needed to check. He had to see them. Maybe there was a chance of escape? Slowly, he rose to his knees and waddled closer to one of the cracks. About five metres from the door of the hut, half of a face peered back at him from behind the stub of a dead tree trunk. That was the voice. The others would be lying amongst the pineapple bushes, and every rifle would be pointed at him. He waddled to another corner of the hut and stared at a likely patch of leaves. Nothing moved. Then, to another corner. Were they there? Yes, they must be. The voice wouldn’t be alone. They would see him as a silhouette, pacing like an animal in a cage.
There was no point delaying this. He resolved to surrender. He saw the image in his mind. Throw out the rifle, put his hands on his head. Deep breath, and walk out the door. Of course, they would beat him, but that wouldn’t last long. Damn. Were they there? He looked one more time between the cracks.
“Fire!”
From three corners of the hut, Stenn gun bullets exploded the timber planks and ripped into his skin and flesh. In thunderous noise and confusion, he spun completely around and crashed onto his back. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and his mouth gaped. Slowly, he rolled his head to one side. His body responded distantly, as if it belonged to someone else.
A young, excited Lieutenant advanced cautiously through the door. They looked directly at each other for an instant that one of them would remember vividly. Then, a final bullet opened his chest with such force that his lifeless body lifted momentarily from the floor.
Max Herriman
Thirteen days of pointless wandering and hiding. What would his wife be doing now? He recalled her glistening eyes and smiled faintly. Strange that so many unimportant decisions had abandoned him here. Konfrontasi!
How many weary feet had trudged in this layer of dried mud to line the floor near his nose? It smelt musty. The floor was dry and warm, but felt wet and cold against his cheek. The hut was a resting place for plantation workers. There are no trees on a pineapple plantation, no shade. This was a solitary shelter; four walls, an empty floor, and a small pane-less window with a propped shutter. The sun was brilliant white outside. Must be mid-afternoon.
He had been dozing. Maybe he had imagined it. Nothing moved. The air hung heavily around the hut.
“Look, we want to be fair. I’ll give you five minutes.”
That was it. No dream. Five minutes. He believed them; they wouldn’t shoot before then. He looked carefully at the minute hand on his watch. Normally, we see only a snapshot of a watch or clock, and the hands appear frozen. Perfectly still, until we look away and they are free to resume a prosaic, steady journey to our death. But by focusing carefully on the tip of the longest hand, he could actually see time swept away. The hand had moved almost all the way between two of the short, black notches.
Malaysian soldiers would patrol in a platoon. Still, he needed to check. He had to see them. Maybe there was a chance of escape? Slowly, he rose to his knees and waddled closer to one of the cracks. About five metres from the door of the hut, half of a face peered back at him from behind the stub of a dead tree trunk. That was the voice. The others would be lying amongst the pineapple bushes, and every rifle would be pointed at him. He waddled to another corner of the hut and stared at a likely patch of leaves. Nothing moved. Then, to another corner. Were they there? Yes, they must be. The voice wouldn’t be alone. They would see him as a silhouette, pacing like an animal in a cage.
There was no point delaying this. He resolved to surrender. He saw the image in his mind. Throw out the rifle, put his hands on his head. Deep breath, and walk out the door. Of course, they would beat him, but that wouldn’t last long. Damn. Were they there? He looked one more time between the cracks.
“Fire!”
From three corners of the hut, Stenn gun bullets exploded the timber planks and ripped into his skin and flesh. In thunderous noise and confusion, he spun completely around and crashed onto his back. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and his mouth gaped. Slowly, he rolled his head to one side. His body responded distantly, as if it belonged to someone else.
A young, excited Lieutenant advanced cautiously through the door. They looked directly at each other for an instant that one of them would remember vividly. Then, a final bullet opened his chest with such force that his lifeless body lifted momentarily from the floor.
Max Herriman
