*THIS IS THE STORY WHICH I GOT AN AWARD FOR*Night has fallen, and even the moon isn’t merciful enough to give us soldiers any guidance or light. In the distance I can see vague crowd. I didn’t know the soldiers would be so well built. I gulp, hoping it will wash away the fear and guilt my brain is forced to withstand. Fearing the future of mine.
Will I die? What will become of my family if I die? Of course, I’m guilty of leaving my family. I could be sitting peacefully in our house in Melbourne, in front of my newly-installed fire with my one-year old son Henry and Claire, my wife. I shake my head and try to think of what I’m doing now.
Chief frowns, and passes us soldiers one by one, examining us. We bite our lips and swallow and fidget, anxiously waiting.
“What is Bravery?” Chief yells.
“Bravery is Courage!” we chorus in reply. His teachings have come to use.
“What is Courage?” he questions.
“We are!” we raise our arms and charge into the field.
* * * * * *
I don’t want to look at the field. Blood-covered bodies sprawled on the plains, and guns in the hands of the dead bodies. I hate looking at faces that stare back at me, blank and lifeless. I collapse onto the grass and close my eyes.
* * * * * *
The war is over! Chief holds up his bottle of beer. Everyone falls silent to hear what he has to say.
“To Bravery!” he yells.
“Hear, hear,” laugh some soldiers. I raise my own bottle of beer and force a smile.
It’s quite hard when you’ve received a telegram saying that your one-year-old boy Henry has died before you’ve got the chance to see him smile.
I force some beer down my throat and lean on the counter, watching everyone celebrate. It’s quite funny; before we were about to go into battle or the soldiers were staring without a dimple. Now they’re all jumping about, cheering and laughing, taking swigs from a bottle of beer, and grinning and talking to Chief as if he were a friend. I grab my crutches and limp to the nearest chair, where I can rest my metal leg.
Otto Kimsby, a fellow soldier, nudges me.
“For a second there I reckoned he was gunna’ give us a lecture ‘bout Bravery! Never let’s go of that, does he?” He grins and takes a swig from the bottle. I smile wryly and take a polite sip from my own bottle.
Celebrating at the Roma Dorèe Club! Wasn’t that what my goal was – to be victorious? Something always gets in my way. I try not to cry – it’s something that Otto Kimsby would say is un-manly.
“Pretty sick of that lecture, eh?” says Otto. I nod sombrely.
“Why the long face?” asks Otto, leaning back.
“I’m not Bravery,” I sigh. Otto nods knowingly.
“I know, mate,” Otto pats me on the back. “That’s where Chief went wrong,” he whispers, so no-one hears. Chief is slightly over sensitive.
“Courage,” he begins, “comes from the heart. Truth, compassion, justice, all those things…” he pats his chest, “From this thing we are burdened to carry.
“Courage doesn’t mean to not have any fears (gosh no!), but to have the ability to face fears.
“Bravery, on the other hand, comes from the mind. To be able to do what someone else is afraid of. For example, if I tamed a lion, you’d probably think I’m brave, and I reckon you’re brave ‘cause you got married!
“The difference between Bravery and plain stupidity is narrow. You’d not ‘wanna stick your finger in fire – unless you want to learn the hard way. Harry, my brother, did. Pa reckons that we shouldn’t rely on confidence too much. Ma reckons so too.”
He sighs. “Poor Ma,” he sees me raise my eyebrow and explains. “She died not so long ago.”
I nod knowingly. Kimsby brightens up and continues.
“God,” he says, “is the only guy cool enough to be Courage.
“Well, I’m going to go to the internet café.” Kimsby sighs and nods, leaving me pondering on his theory, which seems quite true.
Suddenly, I don’t want to be Bravery (I’ve also just realised that Otto Kimsby is very persuasive). I chuckle to myself and think – I’m too young to be God!
