Chocolate Karma
by James C. Clar

Every squad has one; a guy they consider their “lucky charm.” Some poor grunt that for any one of a thousand different reasons is deemed “charmed,” “blessed’ or just plain lucky as hell. Maybe it’s because he stepped on a mine that turned out to be a dud, or took a round to the helmet and lived to show off the damage with wide eyes, Midwestern drawl and a perplexed shake of the head. Some also seem to possess a nearly preternatural ability … like being able to sense the enemy before he begins to make his move, or to predict the time, place and even the extent of the next attack. Whatever it might be, such individuals are held in mystical awe by their comrades and any instance of good fortune that befalls the squad is generally attributed in some measure to the often unwitting influence of that unit’s talismanic individual. Atheists may be hard to find in foxholes but soldiers who have given reign to strange and abstruse superstitions are never in short supply in the trenches.  And so …

“What’s with him?” asked Reynolds as he pointed toward a small, olive-skinned soldier who was carefully, reverently replacing a plastic bag in his pack. “Every time we stop he takes out that bag, unwraps whatever the fuck he’s got in there and sniffs it. Dude’s obsessed, man. What’s it, some kind of killer weed or powdered amphetamine shit?”

The 7th squad of Delta Company was on patrol in the Highlands about eight ‘klicks from the border. It was the spookiest, most surreal part of a country that epitomized spooky and surreal. The daytime heat and humidity were unbearable. At night there was a cold, damp wind that swept down through the craggy mountain passes and chilled you right to your toes. Then there were the areas of mist that just appeared above the floor of the jungle … anyplace, anytime. The weather and terrain alone were enough to put you on edge. Add to that the fact the that all the trails were mined or booby-trapped and that the entire area was crawling with enemy snipers and ambush parties and it was easy to understand why even the most experienced soldiers were willing to put their faith in anything – no matter how outré – that promised relief.

“His name’s Vittorino, man. And it’s a cookie. That’s all” answered Lieut. Roethke. “You're new so you need to chill out, get the ‘lay of the land’. See what I'm sayin’? Joey’s mom sent him a box of cookies a while back. Chocolate chip, loaded with walnuts. He shared ‘em with us … they were righteous. He saved one and carries it around with him now, has been for weeks.”

“Dude rests up and recharges by sniffing a damn cookie?” Reynolds exclaimed incredulously. “That’s maybe the weirdest thing I've ever heard.”

“Yeah, well, you live long enough in this outfit and you'll see a whole lot that’s even weirder, man. Tell you what, though, since Joey started toting that cookie around, we ain’t lost a man.” Roethke hoisted his pack, grabbed his M-16 and signaled the others to fall in.

The 7th moved out. Vittorino took point … as always. Later, when they stopped for the night, Reynolds said, “there he goes again with that friggin’ cookie. Man that freaks me out. Another thing … why’s he always take the point?”

“Hey, kid,” Roethke answered, “you want to walk point?” Reynolds looked down. “I didn't think so. Vittorino’s the best. Man’s got eyes in the back of his head. Someday that Ginzo will save your sorry ass.”

*    *    *

Two days later, around 1400, the men of the 7th were humpin’ across a small clearing of tiger grass. Vittorino, of course, was in the lead thirty meters ahead of his mates. Suddenly, automatic weapon fire erupted from the tree line off to the right. Vittorino was hit and went down. The others kissed the dirt and, almost instantaneously, returned fire. A few moments later, the clearing was hit by mortars. Chambers radioed for air cover, but everyone knew that an air strike would only add to the confusion … not to mention the danger. Their only hope was to flush their attackers and seek cover in those same trees themselves.

*   *    *

Later, the surviving members of the squad sat huddled in the trees at the edge of the clearing where it had all began. They were waiting for dust-off. The enemy … or what was left of it … was still lobbing shells into the tiger grass, but only half-heartedly now. Roethke counted two dead and two wounded among his men. Earlier, when they retrieved Vittorino’s body and had gone through his belongings, they noticed that his treasured chocolate chip cookie was missing. In its place was a bag of what looked and smelled like dried monkey shit. It could only have been Reynolds, but no one said a word.

Before long, the men heard the distinctive sound of a chopper. Roethke popped green smoke.

“Reynolds!”

“What’s up LT.”

“You're last. Cover us. Then we've got your back … by the numbers.”

Reynolds, who had lost his lunch once already, looked even more ashen. But he knew better than to object.

The chopper came in fast and low, hovering just off the ground. The men of the 7th, ferrying their wounded, ran into the clearing. Roethke assisted his men and then climbed aboard the Huey himself. Stooping in the open door with weapon raised, he signaled Reynolds to break cover. As the newbie reached the chopper and prepared to pull himself aboard, Roethke stood and kicked the soldier savagely in the face. “That’s the way the cookie crumbles, motherfucker,” he snarled as Reynolds lost his grip and tumbled back into the tiger grass. The Huey lifted clear just as a new more concentrated mortar attack devastated the clearing …

Luck might be a lady, but Karma was a bitch with a sweet tooth.

THE END

BIO: James C. Clar teaches and writes in the wilds of western New York. His work has been published in print as well as on the Internet. Recently he has placed short fiction in the Taj Mahal Review, Golden Visions Magazine, Bewildering Stories, Apollo's Lyre, Orchard Press Mysteries, 365 Tomorrows, Antipodean Sci-Fi, Shine: The Journal of Flash, Everyday Fiction, the Magazine of Crime & Suspense and Flashshot. His story "Starbuck" was voted story of the year for 2008 by the editors of Long Story, Short.