Forever the Colours

by Richard Thomas

Jacko was staring straight into Tommy’s eyes, though not seeming to see him, and his lips were trembling slightly. ‘I can’t leave it like this, Tommy,’ Jacko said. ‘We can’t leave that poor old bastard in there with those fuckers. They’ll kill him.’

  SLAP!

  Jacko shivered.

  ‘What exactly do you think we can do? Oh, I know! We’ll just walk right in there and ask him to stop, eh? Get a fucking grip, mate, you can’t touch him. We’re losing too many guys out in this shithole. Do you think the brass are gonna worry about one old man and a kid? Just do your job, don’t get killed and go home. Don’t try to be a fucking hero.’

  SLAP!

  ‘I can’t take this, mate. I’m gonna have him, sorry.’ And with that he turned round to re-enter the building.

  Tommy, seeing his friend was about to pop, jumped in front of him and placed a hand on his chest. ‘Hang on, hang on, stop, wait. Listen, you fucking idiot, we do it our way and we survive.’

  He was shoved to the side as Jacko stormed through the door.

  ‘Oh, sod it!’ he said, and quickly followed behind.

  As Tommy entered, his friend was nose-to-nose with Dinga, who, with a smirk on his face, had stepped in front of Adams and squared up to Jacko.

  ‘Wots ya fuc’in problam meet?’ Dinga said to Jacko. ‘If ye fuc’in want sum, am reet ear.’

  Tommy quickly surveyed the scene. The old man was pushing himself up off the floor.

  ‘So what you two love birds back for then, eh?’ said the Arsehole. ‘Well??? Oh, it’s like that is it, a fuckin’ rescue mission. Well why don’t ya piss off and mind ya fuckin’ business?’ Adams waited for any reaction from the two friends. ‘Nothing to say, no? Didn’t think so.’ As he ended this sentence, he pulled back to strike the old man again, and the man, already bleeding from the nose, was still looking him straight in the eye, smiling. So it was then that Tommy, who wasn’t the one threatening to pop, stepped in.

  Before anyone knew what was happening, Tommy had covered the prayer rug in two strides and placed himself in front of the old man as Adams’s backhand connected with his right temple. He staggered slightly and saw little lights dancing in front of his eyes, but he didn’t go down. After this, it all became rather chaotic. Jacko’s helmeted forehead connected with Dinga’s nose and mouth just as he was about to utter another incomprehensible mouthful, and a second later Tommy’s right boot went into the ascent and squeezed Adams’s left testicle against his inner thigh. The noise he made as he dropped to his knees was like air escaping from a punctured inner tube. On his way down he was rewarded with a knee to the forehead, which flicked his head back, and he tumbled onto his arse. Meanwhile Jacko was attempting to remould Dinga’s Playdough face with his right fist into something more attractive to the animal kingdom.

  Luckily for the two friends, a few of the platoon, on hearing the raised voices, entered the room as the scene was reaching its climax, and managed to jump on the two before they could seriously put the boot in. With both of them now restrained, Adams attempted, in a crab like fashion, to get out of the door, whilst making veiled threats of death at Tommy. But nobody was taking him seriously when he was talking like Joe Pasquale, so he was promptly ignored.

  ‘Hthou futhin nick’ed, ye broork thme futhin nors ye naa,’ was all anybody could make out of the ramblings of Dinga as he staggered after the Sergeant.

  It all went quiet for a few moments.

  ‘Well, that’s you two fucked when we get back to camp, boys,’ said the thickset lad called Terry, from Coventry. ‘The Arsehole ain’t gonna let this one go.’

  ‘Fuck him, he’s just a bully, him and that fucking dickhead Bell. He’s been pushing us all around for too long, and you lot would have done the same given the chance.’

  ‘Wanting and doing are totally feckin’ different, ye eejits,’ drawled Private Kerr, from Northern Ireland who everybody called Wayne even though his first name was Ian. ‘We would all love to kick the shite outta those two, but rules is rules and all dat.’

  With that statement left hanging in the air, the other soldiers turned and went out the door, leaving the Tommy and Jacko alone.

  Tommy was gutted. ‘Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,’ he kept saying, over and over. ‘How the hell did that happen? Jesus Christ, we’re finished, Jacko, it’s all over. Shit, bollocks, twat.’

  Tommy slumped onto an old crate and hung his head in his hands, knowing without a doubt that his career was over, as was Jacko’s. As soon as he could manage, Adams would report to the Lieutenant, who in turn would report to the CO back at the base. Before anyone could say ‘court martial’, they would be on their way home and to the nearest unemployment office.

  The old man was kneeling on his rug and chattering away in Pashto to the young Afghan, whose nose was now swelling, courtesy of Dinga, and was gesturing towards Tommy.

  ‘My grandpa wishes to thank you, soldier, for helping him,’ said the young Afghan.

  ‘Yeah, well, tell him bollocks in buggi buggi ’cos that’s me job gone down the swanee, mate,’ replied Tommy.

  Unperturbed, the young man continued translating into English what the old man was saying. ‘My grandpa says that your journey is about to be cut short, but he will help.’ The old man moved closer to Tommy and held out both his hands toward him.

  ‘What’s he gonna do, give him a job?’ said Jacko, who was standing by the door.

  Tommy stood and stepped backwards involuntarily. He didn’t know what it was about this guy, but he gave him the creeps. He looked about a hundred years old.

  The old man continued gesturing to Tommy to take his hands. ‘What’s ’e bloody after, money or what?’ he said to the young Afghan. He tried to sound confident, but he couldn’t understand why he was so spooked. It’s his eyes, he thought, bright blue and piercing.

  The old man continued to chatter on, looking at Tommy and gesturing and doing little hand signals.

  ‘My grandfather says a real friend is one who takes the hand of his friend in times of distress and helplessness. He says he will guide you through what will be.’

  The old man fell silent and gave Tommy a beatific smile.

  Softening, Tommy sighed and held out his hand for the old man, though it was shaking slightly. The old man gripped the outstretched hand in both of his, which were surprisingly hot and strong, and, again speaking in Pashto, he stared straight into Tommy’s eyes. These were not the eyes of an old man any more. There was fire in them, and passion, a knowing look that had seen much, travelled far and could tell many a story.

  ‘My grandpa says you will travel far but will not move. You will lose but will gain much more. He also says do not despair, for there is a path to even the tallest mountain. Look for him on your journey and your return.’

  Tommy pulled his hand back. It felt as though an electric shock had gone through him. He tried to sound cocky again.

  ‘My return? Ha, I don’t think so, mate. I’ll be down the local job centre. But anyhow, say thanks for the advice.’

  With that, he turned to Jacko and they both tumbled out into the sunlight.

  Chapter 2

  Contact

  Some say that if literacy rates were measured by a nation’s proverbs and poetry, Afghanistan would be one of the most literate countries on earth. But to Private Tommy Evans, walking along a dusty road with his mate Jacko to rejoin the patrol, what the old man had said made about as much sense as Dinga in his Geordie patwa. Jacko was staring at his feet as he walked, like a condemned man, and as he glanced up under his helmet, he noticed all the lads gathered round Dinga and Adams. A medic was taking a look at Dinga’s nose while Adams was squatting about five paces away from everybody else and looking a little red in the face. Well, more purple, really.

  ‘What’s gonna happen, mucka, do ya think?’ Jacko mumbled under his breath.

  ‘Well, I say we go over and pretend nothing happened, and perhaps everyone will forget we were ever here. What do you think’s gonna bloody
happen, you dickhead?’ seethed Tommy under his breath ‘The CO will have us out as soon as look at us.’

  Jacko looked despondent. ‘I’m sorry, mate, I couldn’t help it, and I couldn’t stand by and watch. Or listen even.’

  ‘Oh crap, don’t look now, Dashwood’s walking up the street.’

  Jacko looked beyond the group to where Tommy indicated. The Lieutenant and his section were indeed walking up the street, and he had a face like thunder. Walking next to him was one of the lads who had witnessed what happened in the house; he must have skipped to the other side of the village to report what had occurred.

  ‘Bollocks, he looks happy.’

  ‘Well, that’s that then. We’re in a world of shit now, mucka,’ whispered Jacko. ‘The Dick will go by the book on this one.’ The Dick was the name some of the lads used for Dashwood, a shortened version of his first name – and because he is one.

  ‘Just keep your gob closed and see where the wind’s blowing,’ whispered Tommy. ‘We can try and figure out what to say back at base. Maybe we can get some witnesses to say what those wankers were doing back there.’

  They reached the group just as the other section did. Before anybody could say anything, Dashwood pointed and said, in a decidedly clipped tone, ‘Sergeant Adams, a word if you please,’ and then moved to a small walled-off area about twenty feet away. Adams stood and, after a bit of wheezing, looked at the two friends, smirked and lumbered off after the Lieutenant with a slight limp.

  All eyes were on Tommy and Jacko, some with pity, some with admiration, some non-committal. The big, strapping lad Terry moved over to them.

  ‘Best not say anything here, lads, and wait till you get back to base. You know, get your story straight and all that.’ Terry dipped his head and moved back to the group, and on his way accidentally tripped and stood on Dinga’s hand. The screech was quite feminine sounding.

  The two friends moved away and crouched down behind a wall to get some shade. Tommy was starting to feel the pressure as the minutes ticked by. It’s strange,’ he thought, how your comrades give you a wide berth when you’re in the shit. He looked over at Jacko and was rewarded with the same downtrodden look he himself wore.

  ‘Oh well, mucka. I always wanted to be a florist anyway,’ Jacko said with a smile.

  ‘Oh, you’re dead funny, mate. You know what, I can hardly breathe with all fun I’m having.’ Tommy stood suddenly, his anger building. ‘How many times have you got us in the shit now, eh? Once, twice, a thousand – I’ve lost count, you twat.’ He looked up at the sky and sighed. ‘Well, you’ve done it this time, for both of us.’ He turned and moved away a couple of feet.

  Jacko looked crestfallen but didn’t get a chance to say anything because Dashwood, the Sergeant in his wake, started to make his way back to the group. Jacko jumped to his feet and stood next to Tommy, looking as if he were on a parade ground.

  ‘Permission to speak, sir,’ he said as the Lieutenant drew closer.

  ‘Denied,’ stated Dashwood matter-of-factly. ‘Right, gentlemen, we will move on and make a sweep of the next village.’ He stopped and consulted a map that one of his section had supplied out of thin air, and after some frowning and pursing of lips, he looked up.

  ‘Right, I want the same again as we move across those fields,’ he said, indicating by pointing. ‘This time I will take the Sergeant’s section, Smythers and Daniels will go with Sergeant Adams, and you two,’ he looked directly at Tommy and Jacko, ‘will be coming with me.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ came the booming reply.

  ‘We will be moving in a northerly direction, and I want you and your section to move up the east side of the field. Do it by the book and take it steady and keep in contact.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Still consulting his map, he said, ‘Right. It is approximately two kilometres to the next village and it’s quite a large field with lots of scrub, so there is the possibility we will lose sight of one another. Maintain radio contact at all times.’

  Adams was rolling his eyes as Dashwood continued.

  ‘If you make contact before me, hunker down and wait until we move up, clear?’

  ‘As crystal, sir.’

  He folded the map away and tucked it into his top pocket, ‘Right, gentlemen, let’s be about our business, and remember to keep your bloody eyes open. Nobody wants any surprises. Alright, marvellous.’

  With that, Adams and his section moved out, first heading towards the end of the street before turning north and entering the fields. Dinga tried to smile at the two friends but his fast-swelling mouth just looked like a cat’s arse. He gave them the bird instead and hurried off after Adams.

  As the Lieutenant moved off, he called Tommy and Jacko to his side. When they had trotted up to him and continued at a brisk pace towards their end of the village he said, ‘Gentlemen, I do not care for this sort of behaviour and I will not stand for it, do you hear? This sort of thing is unbecoming a British soldier.’ He took a deep breath and continued in a softer tone, ‘For the love of God, haven’t we enough problems with the bloody enemy trying to destroy us, without you two throwing your bloody fists around. I cannot have my soldiers behaving like, well, like, I don’t know, the bloody Yanks or something.’

  ‘Sir, it was my fault,’ blurted Jacko, ‘Tommy had nothing to do with it, he was just trying to break it up and…’

  ‘Shut up, Jackson,’ warned Dashwood. ‘If I wanted to hear your version of events, believe you me I would have asked for them.’

  ‘But sir…’

  ‘Enough. You can recount your epic tale to the old man after I give him my report on what Sergeant Adams told me. In the meantime, shut up.’ He stopped and took a deep breath. ‘Right here we are. You and Evans will take point and keep your bloody eyes peeled, all right? Do not think, gentlemen. Do. Marvellous.’ He waved his hands like he was shooing away birds, indicating the direction he wanted them to go.

  Tommy and Jacko looked at each other for a moment and then started across the field. Keeping about fifteen feet apart, with Jacko slightly in front, they flicked their eyes between scanning the terrain ahead and looking at the ground. Getting picked off by a Taliban sniper or getting blown to bits standing on an IED was not a comfortable thought to either of them, but they were professionals and they knew their business. And they had done this many, many times before.

  It was hard going. The sun was hot and the air fetid, and how anyone could grow crops in this lifeless soil was beyond Tommy’s understanding. Unless, of course, it was a particular type of crop that could thrive in poor soils and under full sun, the kind of crop that, when cultivated, made a lot of money on the streets of the world’s cities.

  After half an hour, and about a third of the way across the first of two fields, Jacko’s fist went into the air. He crouched down, quickly followed by the rest of the section.

  ‘What you got, Jacko?’ said Tommy.

  Into his radio Jacko said, ‘Possible enemy contact approximately two-hundred metres to front. Over.’

  Tommy looked through the scope of his SA80 rifle, slowly panning around to focus on the end of the field.

  ‘What have you got, Lance Corporal? Over.’ Dashwood’s voice came over the radio net.

  ‘Unknown, sir. Reflection of some kind, possibly scope. Over.’

  ‘Do you see anything now? Over.’

  ‘Standby,’ Jacko said. He scanned around the brush and plough furrows where he thought he had seen the reflection. After thirty seconds he replied, ‘That’s a negative. Over.’

  Dashwood, who was perhaps forty metres behind the two on point, bit his lip, thinking. After a moment, he radioed Adams and asked how far his section was across the field, to which he was told a little further on than his own. They had also gone to ground after Jacko’s transmission. The Sergeant had Private Daniels on point and promptly contacted him by radio to see if he had any contact ahead.

  ‘Err…that’s a negative, I think. Over,’ replied Daniels, an eighte
en-year-old on his first tour, who was a little skittish.

  ‘Daniels, do you see any movement from the front, anything?’

  ‘I don’t see any movement to front Sar’nt. Over.’

  Adams, to his credit, moved up to Daniels’ position and checked the front with his scope. After about twenty seconds he keyed his mike, ‘That’s a negative on forward contact, I think shi—Jackson’s seeing things. Over.’ Adams chuckled to himself over this, and what made it funnier for him was the fact that they could see each other quite well. The Sergeant waved to Jacko, who promptly replied by giving him the bird.

  ‘Twat,’ said Jacko to no one in particular. But Tommy had heard him.

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘Twat.’ They both looked at each other and started to laugh.

  ‘Lance Corporal Jackson,’ thundered Dashwood’s voice from behind, ‘If it’s that funny, why don’t you share it with the rest of us.’

  ‘Sorry sir, coughing. Permission to advance, sir?’

  ‘Well, get a bloody move on then, or we will be out here all bloody night at this rate,’ screeched Dashwood.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  With that, the two friends started forward again. After about another five minutes, Tommy took a quick look to his right, past Jacko, and saw that Adams’s point man Daniels had stopped, staring ahead. What’s got him spooked? he thought. Suddenly the lad was trying to raise his rifle and key his mike at the same time. But before he could do either, young Daniels managed to throw himself backwards, landing on his back. For a split second Tommy was confused as to why he would have done this. But then he heard the report of a rifle, a loud one at that.

  CRACK.

  Tommy, Jacko and the rest of the platoon went face down in the dust, and Tommy and Jacko brought their rifles to bear on where they thought the shot might have come from.

  ‘Jacko, see anything?’ shouted Tommy.

  ‘Nothing, fuck all,’ screamed Jacko. ‘Oh shit! Daniels has been hit.’ From his dusty vantage point, Tommy could see Daniels lying on his back and thought he must be dead, until the boy raised his arm slightly. ‘Jacko, we have to get over th—’