Gentleman of War

by Chris Yeoh

  "Doctor Copenhagen, I'm so sorry!" Miles said ashen faced as he turned to the door; Neven followed closely behind.

  "What have you done?" the tall doctor demanded angrily.

  "Are you Doctor Copenhagen?" Toby asked, readjusting his grip upon Charlie's feet.

  "Yes."

  "Our friend has been shot. Please tend to him!"

  "My dear boy," the doctor stopped. "I'm a broadcaster, and the doctorate I hold is in astronomy.”

  "God-damn it!" Harold exclaimed to the chagrin of all listening.

  At that moment the rest of the group caught up and bustled to the station.

  "Bring him in here," Copenhagen said suddenly, casting a smart eye about the group and deciding that acquiescence would be the best policy in this instance.

  They did so, passing through a small and innocent looking white wooden door. From humble entrances, however, they entered into a grand rotunda. A plate glass booth sat in the middle of it all, adorned in wires, microphones, and covered in charts and papers. Outside, several electrical desks of varying proportions and light intensities blinked intermittently. It was Colosseum-like, the arena of some grand vocal battle.

  A little space had been set aside for three beds in the corner, and filing cabinets pushed to one side. Neven could not tell if it was a work station or a hostel for the weary. Both at the same time perhaps, the last bastion of the British airwaves.

  "Miles, make yourself useful for once and fetch the first aid kit from the pantry."

  Miles was more than happy to leave the confines of the room and the tension within it and he did as he was requested.

  "Lay him here," the doctor said. He brushed a table clear of many plates and even more books of copiously-taken notes. Miles returned with the first aid kit, his disappearance not long enough for some people's liking, including his own.

  "Doctor, what is going on?" another man had followed Miles out of the kitchen. He was built like a potato, flabby and fat, skin stretched out across a mass of body.

  "Hercule, please come here."

  The man, who appeared to be a cleaner or at the very least an assistant, took one look at Charlie and looked grim.

  "What happened?"

  "Miles shot him."

  "Miles! How could you..."

  "Yes yes yes, we'll all get an opportunity at that. Will you assist me for now?" Copenhagen was wasting no time.

  "Of course. Of course, yes," Hercule rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and opened the buttons of Charlie's.

  After retrieving the necessary tools he was seeking from the kit, Doctor Copenhagen surveyed the wounds, hesitated, and the then looked up. A sea of faces looked back.

  "Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the British Broadcasting Service's auxiliary Broadcasting Station number three. I am Doctor Copenhagen. That is Miles Story, and this to my left here is Hercule Blin. Now please vacate the area; I require space to work."

  It was short, straight to the point, and very informative.

  "You heard him," Church said. "Everybody out."

  Some, such as Margaret, Polly and Simon were more than willing to leave. They had seen blood too many times before. Harold and Toby took a little more convincing, but it was Neven who ended up staying behind to oversee the procedure.

  "You're medically trained?" Copenhagen looked at him, seeing him remaining.

  "No."

  "Then please leave. My good sir, this is neither the time nor the place for discussion. I assure you I will do my best to help your friend, given that I seemingly owe you a debt in this regard, but allow us to pursue a discourse at another time," Copenhagen had a pretty good handle upon his emotions, it seemed.

  Neven left, feeling he could justify his leaving to his comrades better than his remaining to a stranger.

  *

  "Quite an introduction, am I correct?" Frank said. He was sat against the wall of the station, his walking stick leaned up next to him.

  "Tell me about it," Neven said.

  "Do you smoke, Neven?"

  "No sir."

  "Good. Don't. I think it's bad for you."

  Unsure how to respond, Neven just sat down.

  "Look at him," Frank said.

  Neven followed his gaze and saw a shape skirting the border of the woods on the side of the hill. The Baton of Britain, still bedecked in his now preposterously dirty costume, stomped about, then crept, and then stomped again.

  "He's in a world of his own,” Neven remarked.

  "He won't take it off - the costume. Couldn't get him to put it on at first, now I can't get it off. I'm worried for him, Neven."

  "That makes two of us, then."

  "No. I'm really worried. He's a danger to himself. It's a wonder he's survived this long."

  "Well, then talk to him," Neven shrugged. The decision to him was an easy one.

  "He doesn't listen to me. Not since we got to Chiswell house. I think he's cracked," Frank said sternly. "I'm not trying to worry you. I think he still has all of the wits and smarts he needs to survive, but I think the mental health of the group is something to take into account."

  "Frank," Neven said. "I'm not in charge any more. If the Baton of Britain wants to play in the mud for the rest of his life I can't say any differently. The mental health of a man is not something I, nor you, am qualified to discuss."

  If Frank was hurt by Neven's words, he hid it well. As Neven walked away, he felt bad, so he continued past Phillipa and went to talk to the costumed man. As he approached, the Baton was wielding a muddy stick like a dagger, attempting to fence a tree like a musketeer.

  "Peter," Neven said. If nothing else, Neven supposed, he should try and impart the sentiment that he had gained recently. That no man need be bound by 'supposed to' and 'duty', everybody's destiny was their own to shape.

  "Peter," he called again.

  Peter was making motor noises with his mouth, wheeling to and fro, stamping mud into the creases of his tights.

  "Baton," he looked up suddenly, sharply, and sighted Neven.

  "What's that?" Neven asked.

  "Call me Baton of Britain. Lieutenant Gifford called me Baton of Britain. Frank called me Baton of Britain. FATHER called me Baton of Britain. Call me bat bat bat bat... BATON OF Britain!" He had the most unsettling smile.

  "Okay," Neven said. "Well, carry on then."

  He walked away, feeling insane eyes boring a hole into the back of his neck. An itch rose in his spine, the one he got whenever he thought Frank might be right.

  Phillipa was not where he had left her. Rather, she and the others had gone to the doorway into the observatory. Neven approached.

  "Is everything alright?" he asked.

  She turned to him.

  "Charlie's dead."

  *

  Toby Brunswick and Phillipa hoisted Charlie's heavy body out of the station's rotunda, down through the foyer and out onto the soft grass. Harold Thornhough followed closely behind, clutching a shovel which Doctor Copenhagen had graciously loaned them.

  As for the good doctor, he was nowhere to be seen. Neven traced the sounds of shuffling and squeaking and went back into the rotunda to find Copenhagen wiping down the makeshift surgery table with an old rag he had produced from somewhere. Some of the notes and papers that had not been disposed of in time were soggy with blood. The doctor tutted, lifted one such page up and peeled it away from its brother. The second one fell to the floor and disintegrated. Copenhagen would have thrown his hands up had he not been holding a rag and bucket in them respectively.

  "Hello again," he said, offering no more than a glance at Neven by the doorway. "Shouldn't you be outside burying your friend? As far away from the compound as you can, if you would, I don't want to attract... anything."

  Neven was a little annoyed at the doctor's brashness, but was well aware as well of the undue stress placed upon their first meeting. "I wanted to thank you, for trying to save Charlie. I know you don't know any of us, but I appreciate you taking the responsibi
lity, trying to make up for it and all, you know."

  "The responsibility... yes," Copenhagen said. "I don't think Miles will be allowed near a weapon for some time."

  "It was an accident, I'm sure," Neven crossed to the Doctor's side. "Listen, I don't think we've been introduced, friend. My name is Corporal.... Neven."

  "You're in the army?"

  The doctor did not take the hand offered. He was still weary of the newcomers, and besides, his hands were slick with all sorts of materials. His digits were red right down to the fingernails.

  "I wa... no," Neven said.

  "Hmm," the doctor was even more suspicious. "I think you and your lot should leave when you're done."

  "If you have time I would very much like to talk to you," Neven said.

  "And why would I?"

  "Look around you, Doctor!" Neven exclaimed suddenly. "We may very well be the last survivors in this area, perhaps the country. We owe it to each other to at least pass the common civility of old towards each other. Will you parley with me?"

  The Doctor allowed himself a small, wrinkled smile.

  "Are you sure you weren't in the army?" He turned to face Neven once and for all. "Okay, Neven, we can talk."

  "Fantastic," Neven said, allowing some respite from his strong demeanour. "I just need to go and say some words over Charlie."

  He turned to leave.

  "Go on then. If it gives you peace, then so be it," the doctor called after him. "But I can't promise that it will be a fruitful experience. This friend of yours will need more than kind words and hushed prayers to escape the mortal coil of this dreadful world."

  Neven turned as he reached the doorway again. "Doctor, I think Charlie would have agreed with you." He left, speaking as he went. "If you lock this door behind me, I shall be very much annoyed."

  “I always lock myself in the studio before a broadcast, so you will have to wait,” the doctor said, turning away.

  *

  "Charlie was there from the beginning of our journey," Neven had emerged outside and was now standing at a shallow grave some fifty yards down the hill.

  Phillipa slipped a hand into his pocket and held his. Too many words had been spoken over too many graves recently. The memories of the lives that had been lost in Chiswell were too visceral for Margaret and she began crying into the lapels of Enoch's coat.

  "He hated us, me and Jones," Neven laughed. "At the beginning, at least. I think he had a growing sense of trust in us, or maybe he was just keeping an eye on us. I feel like I've known him a lifetime, but I only met him over a month ago."

  "What is he doing out here?" Church mumbled loudly.

  The group turned and faced Miles, who was sneaking around the side of the building. Sensing he had been spotted, the young boy stopped in his tracks, but seeing that there was nowhere to go he approached again.

  "Fuck off, lad," Harold Thornhough said. Miles froze again, like a scare animal looking at a rampaging predator.

  "Just... leave him be," Frank said, too quietly and under-confidently to be heard.

  "What do you want?" Harold continued, unabashed.

  "Jesus," Miles said, seeing the grave. "I am really... really sorry. Oh God above, I didn't realise. I'm sorry." He was weeping openly now that not even the hardest of hearts could continue to freeze him out.

  "Stand here," Church said, opening up a gap in the group. "And shut up."

  Neven looked about the group, and saw nothing but sullen faces. He was reminded of their decision to leave the house, and wondered now if the group had every truly considered the implications and the permutations. The reality of their own imminent deaths was upon all but the youngest of the group, and of course the Baton of Britain, who was currently perched some distance away in a tree, arms up in loops at his side like wings.

  I don't know what to do; Neven said inwardly, unaware that his mouth was moving softly as he thought. Is this the future, he wondered to himself. His silent prayer continued until Phillipa nudged him.

  "Are you okay, Neven?" she asked. "You can continue if you want."

  Neven was dumbstruck.

  "I... I'm finished."

  "Okay," she said, turning her head back to the group. Her blonde hair flicked back across her face. "Does anyone else have anything to say?"

  No answer was forthcoming. Neven had been the first and last to speak. Without further ado, Harold placed the first shovel-full of soil upon the wrapped cloth in which the body of Charlie, now silent, resided. Neven did not wait for his body to be entirely covered, and retreated back inside.

  *

  As Neven returned, the Doctor was shutting the door to his radio booth, a cigarette burned down in his fingers as he simultaneously fiddled with the lock.

  He looked back to Neven, and grew weary. “It's a damn sight harder without Miles helping me. Are you all quite finished?” He asked. Charlie's blood was still caked under his nails, and grime marked his otherwise relatively clean clothes.

  “Would you like me to wait until you wash?” Neven asked helpfully, if slightly combatively.

  “The broadcast waits for no man!” Copenhagen said emphatically. He pushed the butt of the cigarette down. “Now, what did you want?” He was down at the apparatus on the seemingly unending sound boards, checking levels and pushing buttons.

  "Can we stay?"

  "Absolutely straight to the point," Copenhagen replied. "You are a man after my own heart. You're also after my house too, it would appear."

  "That's not it," Neven folded his arms.

  The Doctor had turned his table back into a functioning office, and was currently cooling a mug of tea upon it’s now clean surface. A little spot of blood still lingered within the tenure of the wood, inking and dying a length of it.

  "What is it then? Will you take it by force? An eye for an eye, is that it? I have told you Miles will take responsibility."

  "Miles has apologised, we recognise his mistake," Neven ignored the fact that the learned man was pushing a boy forward as a scapegoat. "My people are tired. We have been through hell, of which I will gladly tell you if it would elicit some sympathy for our cause. Now we have lost another, but we have found three. Will you not at least loan us some compassion?"

  The Doctor was unmoved.

  "You speak as if I do not know loss."

  "Do you?"

  "Neven, do you know how many people worked here before the great black tide of creatures swept over yonder hill," he indicated a direction despite a lack of windows. His thin voice was echoing around the chamber regardless.

  "How many?"

  "A dozen."

  "My god," Neven said. "And they are..."

  "All dead."

  "My god," Neven repeated.

  "My God, indeed!" Copenhagen said. "I am a man. God did not pick up the pieces of my colleagues, collect them as best as he could. I did. God did not kill Miles' family, tear them limb from limb. The creatures did. God did not dig a mass grave for all these people and more from Eden Vale and lay them to rest. I did."

  "It sounds terrible," Neven said. "And I am truly sorry. But you can't lay that at the feet of my friends. The whole country has experienced that of which you speak."

  “The whole country doesn't live and die on your words, as they do mine,” Copenhagen said.

  “Are you so sure? About your own, I mean?”

  “My dear boy, I have been broadcasting for forty-four days straight, at last count – although some of these days run together.” He picked at some dried blood on the table-gurney. “Even after I stopped receiving telegrams from high command about our various fights and sprawls. Oh yes, that's my terrible secret, I suppose. I can't remember now how long ago I stopped receiving communiqués and started making up the news.”

  Neven frowned. “Why didn't you stop?”

  “Because people like you, crawling on your bellies away from conflict like wounded ants away from a kettle of boiling water poured on their nest, need a voice in the darkness.�
�

  “It's fake. I knew it couldn't have been true, Charlie would listen to it from time to time.” In the past, Neven would have been outraged, but given recent events, this felt more like a drop in the ocean of terrible things. Standing opposite Copenhagen, the doctor seemed like a frail, pathetic old man, bent on amusing himself with vain past-times – Nero fiddling while Rome burnt. “Does Miles know?”

  “No, but what would he do? He has nothing, literally nothing else.”

  “I have real people outside, who have been through hell – and many more along our way who didn't even make it this far. They don't need fake rhetoric; they need real, worldly things. Comfort.”

  "I suppose you're right," the Doctor was beginning to understand, his mercy was stretched to his limit, and he said everything after with slightly gritted teeth. "But I am unsure of you."

  "That makes us alike in yet another way."

  The Doctor lit another cigarette, rubbed his hands together, as though he were washing them with invisible water.

  "You can stay, but you must exist in the peripheries of the building. I can loan you tents, sheets and mattresses upon which to sleep. We have not had any trouble on this hill since that fateful day and I have no reason to believe it to be any different now. You can make your own arrangements after that."

  *

  Neven left the confines of the rotunda and informed the others, returned from the burial now, the outcome of his chat. Most accepted it with weary gratefulness, but Phillipa was a little miffed.

  "Stay outside?" she raged at him. "Do they have any idea how dangerous that is? There's plenty of room inside that Rotunda for all of us, easily."

  "Phillipa, it's best to get off on the right foot with these things," Neven attempted to subdue her, forgetting momentarily the hot-headedness of whom he was talking to.

  "No, Neven, where is he?" Phillipa already knew, so she rushed into the observatory. Neven caught up with her.

  "Phillipa," he looked into her eyes. "I have trusted you. Trust me."

  She looked vulnerable for the first time in Neven didn't know how long. The hardened shell that had built around her the past few weeks had fallen away.

  "Will... will you take the air with me?"

  "I would love to," Neven replied with a smile. He offered his arm and she linked hers with it.

  They crested the hill and swept along the top of it at a steady walking pace. Below them, some few miles away, Eden Vale lay dead and still. It mattered not to either of them, for they had everything they wanted upon the hill. The profile of a huge white horse, cut raggedly and crudely into the steepest side of the chalk hill, gazed out across the countryside with one, bulbous eye. It was a marker of the township, a banner and a rallying point.