Free Blind Date at a Funeral by Trevor Romain Page B

that were supposed to light up the walkways, but they didn’t do a very good job.
    One night, my guard partner, Colin, and I were walking the beat.
    Although we were thousands of miles away from the operational area, we were all aware of the enemy and how they were going to kill our wives and girlfriends. We were newly trained, eager for action and ready to blast anybody who put his or her face near our depot.
    As we rounded the corner closest to the guardhouse, something caught Colin’s eye. He grabbed me and pointed. My heart nearly stopped. Up in a tree, about twenty metres from the gate, sat a man.
    We both fell to the ground and assumed an attack position, pointing our rifles at the man.
    â€˜Halt,’ I said stupidly. How could the man halt? He was already halted. He was sitting in a tree for goodness’ sake.
    â€˜Come down, or we’ll shoot,’ I barked.
    There was no reply. The man did not move; he just sat there. Colin and I became very nervous. It was more than that – we were petrified. Even though I had just completed basic training, I was not ready to shoot anyone. I kept my rifle trained on the man while Colin went for help.
    A few minutes later he came back with the bombardier.
    â€˜Where?’ he urged.
    â€˜There,’ I pointed.
    â€˜God, you’re right,’ he said. ‘What the hell are we going to do?’
    â€˜Should we shoot him?’ asked Colin.
    â€˜Are you crazy?’ said the bombardier.
    â€˜Why?’ I asked. ‘He might have grenades.’
    The bombardier disappeared and came back with another bombardier. He started yelling at the man in the tree, but got no response.
    â€˜Should we shoot him?’ asked the first bombardier.
    â€˜Are you crazy?’ said the second.
    â€˜Why?’ I asked. ‘He might have grenades.’
    Nobody knew what the hell to do.
    The man was too far in the bush for us to see what he was carrying. With the use of a fading torch, it was determined that he had a bazooka, two rifles and at least six grenades.
    The bombardiers agreed we should do nothing but wait. It was decided that if the man moved one inch, we would blast him to smithereens.
    It was close to dawn and the grey-pink morning light was beginning to spread slowly across the landscape.
    The man was either sleeping or very well trained, because he didn’t move.
    As we waited, I spotted at least two other men with rifles far off in the trees, but I said nothing for fear of starting a third world war.
    Then, a little later, the sun popped its orange face over the horizon and the enemy was immediately visible.
    My heart almost stopped.
    The man sitting in the tree, laden with grenades and a bazooka, was not a man, or a woman, or even human. It was only an army uniform that one of the soldiers had hung in the tree to dry after he’d washed it.

Pick Me Up
    (Soundtrack: ‘Show Me the Way’ by Peter Frampton)
    â€˜Get out of this damn car. Now!’ he yelled.
    â€˜Ag sorry, man,’ I said.
    â€˜And next time you try that stunt, I’ll moer you.’
    â€˜Just because you have a larney car doesn’t mean—’
    â€˜Get the hell out!’ he screamed.
    â€˜Jasus. Don’t have a thrombosis!’ I shouted.
    â€˜Fokoff.’
    â€˜Relax. We’re going. We’re going!’ I said.
    We jumped out and before we’d even closed the door, the car peeled off down Louis Botha Avenue and we ran after it, half-heartedly throwing zap signs at the guy.
    Why was he so upset? Well, because we pulled a fast one on him. We tricked him. We used emotional blackmail on him.
    Yes. Emotional blackmail.
    Confused? Let me explain. We were a bunch of fourteen-year-olds, hitching down Louis Botha Avenue in Joburg on our way to Corlett Centre to go to the ice rink on a Friday night. Not to skate, mind you. But, as per usual, we heard that the Waverley chicks would be there and we wanted action.
    Yes, action. Like