Below them lay the jungles of Borneo: a clump and flurry of mottled green, snaking brown rivers carving a path for themselves amongst the trees. Above them was clear, white sky. It had stopped raining—that delicious, consuming, grip-your-bones tropical rain that either made humid vapours rise off the soil or soaked you in cold blankets—about twenty minutes ago and there was a still a trace of the downpour: a strip of pale grey clouds lain across the white.

The helicopter that Charlie was on was making its way towards Sumatra, Indonesia, and there were five people on board; they were weary and bug-eyed, shivering slightly from the cold, clear air. Charlie was at the controls, focused even as the rest of the men were exchanging the lone sparse joke, or redundant comment on the weather.

"Can't wait for this damn war to be over," said Jake Mason, bleary-eyed and slightly pale, "Hate this goddamned jungle weather."

"He's still pissed because of the leeches!" Someone snickered.

"You'd be pissed too if you found three of the bastards—fat as hell—sucking on your back!"

Charlie winced, remembering; he'd had his own experiences with the Southeast Asian fauna that plagued him on his duty too, and leeches were definitely the worst. He remembered them well, bulbous and slimy as they sucked the blood out of you. Remove with salt, or with the flickering orange of a match. Don't pull them out just like that; else their teeth remain in your skin. He shivered.

"You cold, Beckendorf?" Jake yelled over the whirring of the helicopter blades as they whipped the air around them. "Wish your girlfriend was here to warm you up?" The boys snickered and Charlie grinned a little bit—it was all good-natured teasing; childish, simple fun to take your mind away from bigger things.

This was after all, still the forties, a time where things like race were still treated with thick markers drawing lines down the board; a division both simple and clean in its superficiality. Silena's father had owned the chocolate shop where Charlie worked as a packer, carrying the thick crates back and forth. The little treats would be displayed in glass cabinets; shimmering, glazed globes and triangles, filled with coconut, strawberry or treacle. Beauregard was very much a name of European ancestry, unlike Charlie whose forefathers... well, they hadn't exactly come off the ships willingly. Maybe that would have afforded a problem with someone else's father, in another town, but not with Mr Beauregard. The man had been eternally cheerful about just about anything and he didn't begrudge his daughter—though some of the others did, in low, scandalised voices—spending time with the boy.

"Beckendorf?" the voice came again, "Beckendorf?"

"Trying to keep my eyes out, Mason; I've got no time for your whining here."

"Don't you feel something funny?" The boy hissed, "Something not quite right?"

"What?" Another one asked, flicking his fingers at a bundle of rolled-up tarp in the corner. He made his voice low and spooky, copying the fortune-tellers in their painted tents that he had seen from the fairs of his childhood (the boardwalks had been salty and slippery; gulls had cawed mournfully as the Ferris wheel continued its slow dance). "A premonition?"

"Laugh all you want," Jake muttered, "But something's not right. I can feel it."

A soldier's superstition was not an uncommon thing and like all superstitions, it had its merits and downfalls—sometimes it was right, and you dodged that bullet just because your mate had told you to turn at the right moment; sometimes it was wrong, and you were caught in a trap that you thought you had the wherewithal to avoid—but there was no purpose to Jake's words, anyhow. They were still cutting their way through the skies and there was nothing to be done, either way.

A flash of lighting, harsh and blinding blue, divided the clouds in half, followed closely by God rumbling, that heavy and discordant rolling of thunder.

"It's getting shaky." Jake said again, and his words—this time with an obvious hint of the truth—were met with the troop shouting him down.

"It'll be fine," Charlie said; his voice was its usual soothing self; low and reassuring. "Just a spot of bad weather, nothing unusual for this place."

"Goddamned Leeches," Jake mumbled in an undertone, his face pressed against the windows, "Goddamned December."

They were silent for a while. Seeing the fall in his friend's spirits, Charlie decided to spruce them up by calling for some entertainment.

"Tell us a story, boys."

The one who had flicked the tarp and imitated the fortune teller was the one who first spoke. He had a penchant for the dramatic, they all knew.

Before he began, he squinted into the far distance; ranging the low and lush hills which were cackling with greenery, was a rainbow. "Hey don't the locals have some sort of superstition about that? Aren't low rainbows like bad luck or something?"

"Superstitions are stupid no matter the culture." One of the others scoffed. Jake scowled at all of them.

"Anyway," the boy continued, "I'm pretty sure you've all heard this before, but what the hell. So you know that mountain, Kinabalu or whatsit? The one we settled around for a bit? Anyway the locals have this thing about it—they say their dead go there."

"To do what, look at the scenery?"

Charlie rolled his eyes.

"No. It's like their resting place. All the spirits congregate up there. Pretty place, I think. All hanging with clouds, cold… that kind of thing. And bunched with forests as well—jungles you could get lost in even after walking in it for mere minutes—you know the type. Anyway, like I said, you're not supposed to take things off the mountain. No rocks or flowers; maybe some of the locals dropped this pretty piece of cloth that you want to take home to your girlfriend. None of it, no bringing any of it back with you. Cause if you do, the spirits are gonna be pissed and follow you home."

The lightning skewers were increasing with frequency. A soft rain was beginning to sing; pale, ghostly water slices that brushed delicately against the window.

"Right. So this soldier—and it was the chief that told me this, anyway—didn't listen to the old stories. He saw this piece of cloth. Black with gold embroidery, like their clothes, mostly. He thought it would make a nice gift for his girl back home when he returned, so he brought it down with him. Didn't tell no one except the chief, who told him to go put it back. 'Course he didn't listen, stubborn asshole that he was."

A shudder ran through the helicopter and Charlie cursed. It was a momentary tremor, he told himself; they just had to get out of this rain.

"They were gonna face off against this Jap troop days later. Everything was in their favour because the Japs were running low on supplies; their men were tired, outnumbered. Everything was gonna go right for our guys. So our hero—little shmuck—was supposed to be out on patrol that night. And he knew that the attack was coming, so he had some guys stay back a bit, wait for his signal because apart from that, they couldn't see nothing. He was the bait, but he was well-equipped enough to make a good fight of it and survive. So he waits, see, by this slab of rock."

God coughed and the helicopter shifted a little bit to the right. The men looked up, worried.

"I'm going to fly lower," Charlie said, "Just in case; so that we can make good landing if it gets bad."

"Then he sees the bayonets, bright under the moon. He's frightened, but he knows that nothing will go too bad. He makes to move, to warn the guys who were depending on him for lookout. But then he's got the cloth in his hands. The thing flies up to him, draws itself across his mouth. He can't move, can't do nothing. It's a hot night—you know the type—but he feels cold. Then the Japs are on him and none of the rest are any the wiser. He can't do nothing and they stab him: once, twice, blood all over. They swarm over the rest then, and our guys lose."

He paused. "Hero's still alive. Can't die, not yet. Thing's still over his mouth, can't speak, still can't move. Then he sees eyes, you know. White dress, black hair to the waist. Pretty face—what he can see anyway—the Japs have left him now. But this lady, she picks the bayonet up and slices it, clean across his neck and he's gone. So is the cloth, when they find him. Dead as anything. Cold."

The lightning was shuddering through the sky now, flashes pulsating through the air. The rain was much, much heavier.

"You gonna land?" Mason yelled over the chaos.

"Yeah," Charlie replied, "Just need to find a proper spo—"

A rod, silvery and sparkling, struck the tail of the helicopter and a furious blaze sprung out from the tail. Charlie swore, his hand still on the controls.

"Got the parachutes?" He asked, even as he tried to keep the plane steady. Someone responded that the parachutes were all accounted for, by the tarp, which lay heavy and useless.

"You're going to have to make a jump for it!" Charlie shouted, sweat streaming down his face. "There won't be enough time for me to make a landing!"

The heat had turned the air into waves; images shimmered before and behind him. The boys had strapped the parachutes to themselves. The story-teller was the first to jump, followed by the rest; like wraiths they flew through the hot, wet air into the canopy below. At last it was only Jake and Charlie left.

"Pass me a 'chute, Mason!"

"Yeah!"

There was the sound of frantic rustling before he heard his friend swear.

"Shit—I thought there were two. Tarp made it look like—there's only one, man."

Charlie turned around. He saw mushrooms of flame and Jake standing there pathetically, the lone parachute dangling from his fingers.

"Get off." Charlie instructed, his throat tight. "Get the hell off."

"And leave you behind? Fuck you, Beckendorf." Jake thought quickly. "We both jump. Think I saw this in a Nickelodeon once. You use it, cause you're bigger, see. Then um, hold me and stuff, we can both make it off."

Charlie left the controls—putting the thing on autopilot—the helicopter whizzing around, and moved forwards towards Jake, relief at the thought of escape fuelling him.

Just then, a furious gust of wind rattled through the machine, pulling it back into the air. His hand still on the parachute, Jake was blasted through the open door, and out into the wind. A steel fist clenching in his gut, Charlie saw the boy open the parachute and drift slowly into the jungle. He did not begrudge his friend—none of it had been his fault after all—but this meant that he was here, on a flaming helicopter, still too high above the ground to make a safe jump, and alone.

There were two choices for Charlie Beckendorf in that moment, and both would end up in death.

Numbing himself to the fact, Charlie perched on the edge of the door. The flames were nearer now and there was nothing else for it.

He pulled a picture out of his pocket. Silena was caught mid-laugh, her black hair streaming behind her like flags in the wind. Behind her lay a golden cornfield. Something had gone wrong when Charlie had taken the photo and the film paper boasted a light leak: a brilliant orange wash doused the left half of Silena in the photograph, spilling across the sky and the cornfield.

Charlie sighed and put the photograph back into his pocket. With the dignity of one who had not only looked death in the eye, but who had also shaken his hand and come to the realisation that there were worse things, Charlie prepared himself for the inevitable.

He saw first the wild jungle below him. Above him were grey skies.

Charlie took a deep breath, and jumped.