Forever the Colours

by Richard Thomas

  ‘Jesus Christ, why the hell is it so bright? Arghh, that really fucking hurts,’ mumbled Tommy. He closed his eyes quickly and turned his head away from the light. ‘Ohhh, that’s better. There’s that smell again, extremely strong shite.’ Tommy opened one eye. ‘Hang on, what’s that thing?’ He squinted. ‘It looks like…like…like a horse’s arsehole.’

  ‘Jeez,’ he shouted and tried to move his head away too quickly. ‘Shiiiit,’ he moaned as a bomb went off in his skull. After a few minutes, and with considerable care, he turned back around and indeed found himself to be staring right into the arse of a horse, more than that, a horse that had shit itself.

  He started to retch, which made the pain in his head even more acute. Strange, he thought, I don’t remember there being any horses around when that banger went off. Banger! What was he on about, it was a bloody RPG. And where is that fucking noise coming from?

  ‘Arghh,’ he moaned out loud. He felt like crap and his head was fuzzy, but he was pretty sure there had been no horses in that field when he got hit. He wondered where everybody was and what all the noise was about, so he lifted his head up to look around. Splat! He turned his head to the side and vomited; it landed on the horse’s arse, which made him vomit again. With his eyes watering and after a few moments of trying to breathe through his nose and control the nausea, he decided to call for help.

  ‘Jacko.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Terry.’

  Nothing. Just lots of noise, like people screaming and shout—

  BOOM!

  Tommy felt a shudder go through him. ‘What the hell!’ he shouted out loud. He thought another RPG had been fired at him.

  Explosions, again and again. Crash! Boom!

  Bloody hell, this must be a full on attack by the Taliban, he thought. He rolled over onto his front and put his arms over his head. Bang! This time it was inside his head, and he started retching again.

  BOOM!

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he screamed. ‘What the fuck is going on?’

  He decided to risk a squint and tried to take a careful look around. Concentrating on the terrible pain in his head and trying not to retch again, he looked around slowly from side to side.

  He couldn’t for the life of him understand why there was fog everywhere. Or was it smoke? His brain was still not functioning properly. Is somebody using fireworks? There’s that smell again. Slowly, the noises all around became more and more distinct. Is that a horse whinnying? Surely not! A man was shouting commands that Tommy didn’t understand.

  ‘FIRE.’

  ‘Reload.’

  ‘Go on, ya bloody useless sowars, get after ’em.’

  The sound of horses galloping; it was like being at the races.

  Voices, strange disembodied voices he didn’t know, came drifting out of the fog, smoke or whatever it was; some shouting, some screaming and some even laughing!

  ‘Steady lads, steady.’

  BOOM! Another explosion reverberated through the ground under him.

  ‘Private Thompson! If you do not reload that rifle now, you ’orrible little man, I will personally see you on shithouse duty for the rest of your miserable career. Do I make myself CLEAR?’

  ‘Yes Sergeant, sorry Sergeant.’

  ‘You sorry bloody excuse for a soldier.’

  ‘Sorry Sergeant.’

  ‘Stop bloody apologising and load that weapon.’

  ‘Yes Sergeant, sorr–’

  BOOM!

  Is that gunfire? It doesn’t sound like proper rifle fire, Tommy thought. Ok, ok, I don’t know what’s going on, but something’s not right. Ok, all right, evaluate. I was in the field. Yes! I was running back towards Jacko…

  BOOM!

  This latest explosion covered him in a shower of dirt and grit.

  ‘Shit.’ Tommy dropped and covered his head again. Pain shot through his eyes, ricocheted around his skull a few times and emptied his stomach of what little contents were left.

  ‘Ooohhhh…crap,’ he mumbled, and wiped his mouth. Perhaps I should just have a quick nap and then I’ll be OK, he thought, and laid his face in the dust and vomit.

  Before Tommy’s brain could totally give up and close down, a screaming voice, getting closer by the second, was pulling him back from the lovely, fuzzy darkness that was about to envelope him.

  That’s Pashto, he thought.

  He rolled onto his side and managed to look up with one eye closed. For some reason this helped with the pain, and to his mild amusement he saw a large, black-bearded man standing over him, dressed rather garishly in a long white coat, orange leggings and turban. His arm was raised above his head and in his hand was a magnificent curved sword, the sun shining off the blade.

  That’s really pretty,’ thought Tommy for a fleeting moment. The bearded man’s black eyes were staring into Tommy’s with a look of total confusion, and his mouth was in a rictus of pain or ecstasy, Tommy couldn’t tell which. He did notice, though, that the guy had seriously bad teeth and some were black with rot. Blimey, he thought, I bet his breath stinks!

  ‘What’s up with you, then?’ he managed to say. ‘Why you waving that thing around?’

  Then he noticed the red stain spreading across the bearded guy’s stomach. And in the middle of this, a shiny pointy piece of metal attached to a wooden branch with a couple of hands holding it. That’s weird looking, he thought. Why would that thing be sticking out of his belly?

  With slow motion and a wet sucking sound, the weird branch with the shiny metal thing, which was now red at the end, slid out of the bearded man’s stomach. He looked down at his belly and then looked at Tommy, who just shrugged in reply. The man with the turban then proceeded to do an impression of a felled tree.

  ‘PFWEEERHHHHHHHF,’ exclaimed Tommy, as the body landed across him.

  With the wind firmly knocked out of him and the man lying across him, Tommy thought, Fuck it!, and with that, he blacked out.

  Pain, butt–clenching – well, pain anyway. But this time there was the added bonus of flying; well, perhaps not flying, more like bouncing. That’s it, bouncing, like being on a large space hopper, but lying on your back. Why would I be lying on my back and bouncing up and down? thought Tommy. He opened his eyes to find out. Darkness! Not total darkness; there were little lights. Stars! Ah, the night sky. And it’s still bloody hot! He could feel the sweat trickling down the side of his face. The pain in his head was still there, throbbing in the background. He risked a look sideways and saw – planks. Wooden planks.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ he said, ‘I’m dead and this is a coffin.’ He looked to the other side: more planks. Shit, shit, they’re lowering me into the ground, he thought. In the desert!

  ‘NO,’ he shouted. ‘I wanna go home.’ He bounced again. ‘Ah, no, stop, please,’ he shouted. ‘Mum and Dad won’t be happy. I need to be in St Mary’s Church, not in the desert.’

  ‘Easy there, lad.’

  ‘Don’t bury me, please.’

  ‘He he, no one’s burying anybody lad. Now just lay still there and the Surgeon Major will have you up and about in no time.’

  Surgeon?

  ‘Jesus! What’s the bloody matter with me?’

  ‘Eh, up there now, there’s no need to take the Lord’s name in vain.’

  Tommy tried to raise his head but failed. He felt weak, and the pain came again behind his eyes and then the sick feeling. He relaxed for a few moments with his eyes closed until it eased off.

  Bloody hell, why is it so bumpy? he thought. ‘Are we in one of the coffins, mate?’ he said to the strange voice.

  ‘Have I not already told ye, yer not getting buried and yer not in a coffin.’

  ‘What! What the hell are you on about? Are we in one of the Rovers or what? ’Cos if we are, the rear shocks need looking at.’

  ‘Well dearie me,’ said the voice, ‘taken a real thump to yer thought box, haven’t ye, young’n. Well, like I already said, the Surgeon Major will see to yer mending.’

/>   Oh for God’s sake, thought Tommy, this guy sounds like a farmer. And who the bloody hell is he? An army medic?

  ‘Alright mate, listen. What’s happened to me, where’s my platoon, did the kid make it and what is your bloody name?’

  ‘Calm down, lad,’ said the voice. ‘The answer to yer last question is Mark, Private Mark Watson. Pleased to make yer acquaintance. And as for yer self, well, yer were knocked for six when that cannon shell landed next to ye and that ’oss of artillery, and you’ve taken a wound to yer head which I might say won’t heal proper if ye keep yelling like yer have been.’

  The voice took a deep breath and continued, ‘And as for those other questions, well, I don’t rightly know, but maybe if ye was to calm down a little, I might go and ask Hospital Sergeant Warren if he knows anything. How does that sound, now, eh?’

  Tommy was fully awake now and totally confused. What did he mean, Hospital Sergeant? And what was that ’oss? Horse of artillery? Horse! Was there a parade or something? He did mean horse, didn’t he?’ thought Tommy, because I have actually seen a dead one out there. Well, a horse’s arse anyway.

  He looked over to where he thought the voice might be coming from to see if he could see the man who was talking to him. He could only see the silhouette of his head and shoulders against the dark sky; he couldn’t see the bottom half of him at all – but what he could make out did not compute. The man’s helmet, if that’s what you call it, was not the helmet he was used to, or, for that matter, the helmet used by the British Army. It looked like a big tit!

  Not surprisingly, Tommy started to feel a little uncomfortable, and just a little scared.

  ‘Err, listen, mate, could you tell me where I am, please?’

  ‘My name is Mark, lad. Why do ye keep saying mate? Was yer with the navy afore ye joined the regiment?’

  What the hell is this guy on about? thought Tommy. He is properly taking the piss.

  ‘Listen, mate, I’ve been shot at, had an RPG lobbed at me, had my head up a horse’s arse, been blown up and one of my mates might be dead. So I would appreciate it if you would stop taking the piss and tell me where the hell I am.’ Tommy took a deep breath as another wave of nausea hit him. ‘Believe me when I say that, if I have to get off this Rover or flat bed or whatever the hell it is, I am seriously gonna kick your arse!’

  ‘Now that will be enough of them profanities. I don’t care for that sort of gutter language, do ye hear? If it carries on I will have to report it, understand?’

  ‘Oh, whatever,’ Tommy said, exasperated. ‘Just take me back to my platoon, will ya?’

  ‘Why are ye so angry, lad? I know yer hurting, but try and be calm or ye will do yer self ill.’ Suddenly Tommy heard a sound like a match lighting and turned his head just as a flame lit up the man’s face.

  ‘Oh my God,’ he said out loud. The flame died as it was sucked into the end of a large pipe, but the image imprinted on his brain was of a face approximately thirty to forty years of age, wrinkled and tanned skin, and a very large moustache. What was also highly strange was the uniform. This guy looked like he had just stepped out of the film Zulu. Apart from the fact that his tunic wasn’t red but a dirty beige colour, and he came complete with a pith helmet.

  Ah! The tit, he thought. OK, I’ve had a knock on the head and the rest of the lads are having a laugh, and got this joker with the fake tash to wind me up. That’s what it is, panic over. All right, it’s pretty realistic, but what else could it be? Right, I will play along and see where it’s going.

  ‘Very well, Mark, I apologise for the profanities. It’s just that I’m feeling a little out of sorts this evening.’ He had to smile at his attempt at being posh. ‘I would be terribly grateful if you could tell me where we are headed and why?’

  ‘Oh, well then, that’s more like it, lad, much better. Well, it was like this, see, ye was found union – unconsha – asleep. Next to a dead ’oss of artillery. And lying across yer was one of them backstabbing levies who had been stuck by one of our boys straight through his backstabbing gizzard.’ He took a breath. ‘Well, after that little scrap, me and some of the other lads went poking round looking to see if any of our lot was lying injured or what not, and that’s when we found ye, lad.’

  Tommy had to give this guy credit. He was doing a fantastic job of playing a character from that Zulu movie. And any time now, he thought, he will start singing ‘Men of Harlech’ in a dodgy Welsh accent.

  ‘Thank you for saving me, Mark.’ This is getting good. ‘Would you mind telling me our destination, please?’

  ‘Well, lad, according to Major Preston, we will be heading for a village. I can’t recall the name of it, couldn’t prun, prunon, say it! Even if I knew, anyways, well, it’s about half way back towards Kandahairy.’

  ‘Kandahar.’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  Tommy sighed heavily.

  ‘So, Mark, what did the levies do that was so terrible, then?’

  ‘Well, lad, seeing that ye don’t remember, those backstabbers was supposed to be on our side and they ended up turning their coats, ya see. But the old General, well, he won’t have any of that, will he, so he has the Cavalry pretty boys take a run at ’em, them heathen. Ghazis, most likely, and they were no match for our galloping gunners or the 66th, and we took their guns off ’em.’

  This guy is quite adept, thought Tommy. He knows his stuff. And Tommy knew that Mark knew his stuff because he’d gotten a B+ in his A-level history exam at school. He had always had an interest in the military, right from an early age, and he recalled the army language that was used in the days of tribesmen, cavalry and levies. If memory served him, the ‘Ghazi’ were religious fanatics during the Afghan wars. He thought harder as he bumped and bounced along to God knows where. Galloping gunners he was sure was an artillery unit, but the 66th he wasn’t so sure about. Infantry maybe? He continued to play along with the joke.

  ‘Mark, me old mate, who are the 66th?’

  ‘Have ye lost yer memory altogether, then, lad? ’Tis yer own regiment, of course.’

  ‘Sorry, Mark, but will you humour me? I think that bang on the head was a lot harder than I thought.’ Let’s see if this trips him up, he thought.

  ‘The 66th Regiment of Foot, lad, ye know? The Berkshires. Ye making fun of me now?’

  Ah, thought Tommy, now it’s starting to come together. The Berkshires! The 66th! Of course, they were famous for…famous for… oh crap, famous for what? Think, think, Got it! They were involved in a battle in the 1800s somewhere near Kabul. Ah ha! he thought, got him. We’re nowhere near Kabul. So this this fella doesn’t know his history. Right then.

  ‘So, when are going to get to Kabul, then Mark? Because at this rate, it’s gonna be next year.’

  ‘I already said, lad, we’re going somewhere near Kandahairy. Have yer ears stopped working as well? Do ye smoke, lad? I’ve some excellent shag here.’ Mark continued to puff away at his pipe, looking at the stars as if without a care in the world.

  Bump!

  ‘Ouch,’ said Tommy, as his head bounced off the planking to the side of him. ‘Right, that’s it,’ and with that, he pushed himself up onto his elbows to look at what he was riding in. He could just see over the rim of the cart. Cart! Why the hell have they got me in a cart? he thought, and, Oh no, not that again! He flopped down onto his back again. Another horse’s arse, albeit a live one and not covered in shit!

  ‘Oh, stop with the game now, Mark, or whoever you are. It’s getting boring and I’m tired and I’ve got a splitting headache. Just take us back to base, would you?’

  ‘Well, why don’t ye close yer eyes, lad, and get some rest. We have a way to go yet.’

  Tommy closed his eyes. He was, after all, far too tired to continue the game. What the hell? he thought. You win. And fell asleep.

  With a bemused look Mark Watson, private and medic, puffed on his pipe again. Finding that it had gone out, he reached into his pocket but could not find his matches. ‘Jes
se, Jesse, lad, would you have a match on you?’

  Standing on the other side of the horse and cart, Private Jesse Holmes, medic, nodded and reached for his matches, ‘Ay, Mark, I do,’ and threw them to his comrade. ‘Do ye think he’s lost his mind, this one?’ Nodding towards Tommy.

  Mark shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Jesse, lad, but he don’t sound right, do he? I think mayhap the Surgeon Major can fix him up.’

  ‘He talks funny, though, and he kept saying strange things.’ Jesse shook his head slowly. ‘Reckon he’s from London town, you think, with all those fancy words he has?’

  ‘I don’t rightly know, lad, but hush ye now, we have a long way to go and this boy needs to sleep.’

  The horse and cart, with Tommy lying unconscious in the back, and with Privates Watson and Holmes escorting it, followed the baggage train of the 66th Berkshire Regiment, and trundled off into the night, and into history.

  Chapter 4

  Dream

  The nipples are too large and way too dark. Mind you, this bird is a darky anyway, so they’re supposed to look like that, ain’t they? She is properly gorgeous: fantastic body, tall, slim in the waist, although her arms are way too hairy and she should get her moustache trimmed.

  The biker look is way behind the times, love, he thought. She dunked her head in the barrel again and came up spraying water in a lovely large rainbow of colours. She has unusually long hair, this one. Really long, nearly all the way down to her… Oh! Now that is kinky! She’s wearing boots. Riding boots at that, or biker boots in her case, and jodhpurs by the look of ’em. Oh, to have them wrapped round my back! Hang on, what is she doing now? She’s stretching or something, aerobics maybe. Oh, look at that. She can bend all the way down without bending her knees. Sexy! What is she throwing her arms round for? Kung fu! She knows kung fu as well! Just look at those moves she’s making. She’s well hard. Hard and sexy. Well, maybe not the moustache or the hairy arms, but everything else? Gorgeous! I wonder if she would be interested in a drink in the Lion or something. Or a movie, or we could just take a walk along the river; I don’t live far from here. Think I’ll ask her…