Forever the Colours

by Richard Thomas

  Coughing again, Tommy said, ‘Speak bloody English, will ya.’

  ‘You have to take it steady, Thomas. It’s not some cheap ale, you know.’

  The coughing subsided, and Tommy held out his cup for another drink.

  ‘Aha, it seems my elixir is doing its job. But be warned, my friend, this mellifluous intoxicant can surprise even the hardiest dipsomaniac.’

  Tommy stared at Maurice. ‘If you’re gonna use big words, mate, then this chat is going to last a helluva long time, because I haven’t the foggiest about what you’re on about, old bean!’

  ‘Very well. As you say, Thomas, I shall endeavour – sorry, try, to limit my vocabulary to something more unambiguous to suit your simpler tastes, no offence intended.’

  ‘None taken, old boy, and I know what bloody endeavour means. I’m not thick, you know. Now fill that cup up, that stuff’s not bad.’

  With a smile, Maurice refilled Tommy’s cup and his own, then he stoppered the bottle and returned it to his bag. ‘So, my friend, do you have a plan as to your unusual predicament?’

  Tommy sipped his drink this time. It still burned its way down his throat, but felt soothing. He smacked his lips. ‘That is quite good Maurice, really good, in fact.’ Then he shook his head.

  ‘No, I don’t actually, but I was thinking that I can’t sit in here playing the nutter or they’ll ship me off to India. At least that’s what it said in the doc’s diary over there.’ He indicated the Major’s desk with a nod of his head. ‘So I was thinking “when in Rome” and all that, and trying to fit in a bit until I wake up, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘You still think you’re asleep, then. Very well, seeing that I am a part of your vagary, I shall offer my services as a guide through this torment of yours. How say you to that, old man?’

  ‘Thanks, Maurice, that would be a big help.’ He smiled at his new friend, who politely inclined his head. ‘I think I have to have a look outside, though; I don’t actually want to, but it needs to be done.’

  Maurice slipped off his bed. His knees wobbled for a moment, but then he straightened. ‘Very well, Thomas, let us take this road together,’ and he indicated toward the tent opening.

  Tommy hesitated. He didn’t want this dream to get any bigger, but he had to see what was outside. Yet still he could not move.

  ‘Just a quick peek, that is all, Thomas. Then back to our beds and my delicious elixir.’ He indicated for Tommy to take the lead. ‘After you, old man.’

  Tommy moved towards the opening; the noises from outside the tent seemed to grow more terrifying with each step. Sweat broke out on his forehead and terrifying childhood thoughts played in his mind, the times his friends used to dare him to open the door to the cellar knowing full well that the beast that lurked inside would drag him to his death. He stopped before the opening, shaking slightly.

  ‘All you have to do, Thomas, is open the flap and all will be revealed,’ said Maurice, standing by his side.

  Tommy reached a shaking hand out towards the flap, stopped halfway, then continued. He grabbed hold of a piece of rope attached to the edge, tensed, held his breath, and thought, Should I do it slowly or snatch it open? Just at that moment, he heard a snuffling sound. Confused, he looked down and saw a large pair of brown eyes looking up at him. Startled, he dropped the rope and stepped back, and for a split second it was the beast from the cellar come to get him.

  ‘Well hello there, Fido,’ said Maurice.

  Tommy realised after a moment that it wasn’t the beast but a dog, a medium-sized dirty-white, fluffy dog with tan ears. And a playful one at that, by the look of it, as he or she barked, turned and flew back through the opening.

  ‘Isn’t that lovely? You seemed to have made a new friend already,’ said Maurice.

  Tommy smiled at him, reached for the flap and pulled it aside, and was blinded by sunshine. He was taken aback for a moment and blinked hard to try and focus. As the scene before him started to materialise, he felt his legs start to wobble; he felt dizzy with the magnitude of what he was seeing. A hand grasped his elbow to steady him.

  ‘Easy now, Thomas, I don’t think I have the strength to pick you up if you fall,’ whispered Maurice.

  Tommy turned his head away from the scene outside, a scene of hundreds of tents stretching into the distance, of men – soldiers, most of them carrying out every sort of imaginable task – smoke from camp fires, shouting, laughing; he even saw a couple of children running in and out of the tents. Cannons in the distance, rows of cannons, horses everywhere, tethered in enclosures; Indians, there were Indians also, some in uniform, some not, some idly chatting with each other, some bent over large cooking pots, stirring the contents.

  ‘Maurice,’ said Tommy in a whisper. ‘It’s real, it’s all bloody real.’

  Chapter 6

  The Camp

  After Tommy had managed to gulp down another cup of cognac, stop shaking and stop repeatedly pointing towards the entrance of the tent Maurice had managed to get him back onto the bed and calm down a little.

  ‘Feeling any better now, Thomas?’

  ‘Oh shit, Maurice. You know what, I still thought this was some massive joke the lads were playing on me, like maybe they had gotten actors in or something, you know, to make it convincing.’ He shook his head and felt like crying. ‘Maurice, have you seen that out there? That’s a real army camp, I mean, not a modern one, but an old one. Shit, you know, like one you’d see in a period drama or Sharpe or something.’

  ‘Thomas, my dear chap, I would love to understand what you are trying to say, but just to be clear on this, I have no idea what you’re talking about. You might as well be speaking the local dialect, for the sense you’re making.’ He looked at Thomas with pity. ‘Now see here, Thomas, you certainly ought to get a grip, you know. I can only help you if you endeavour to help yourself. Have another drop of this,’ he said, and indicated the now half-empty bottle of cognac.

  Tommy took another large swig and tried to relax a little. He could feel the alcohol starting to work. His muscles were softening, and after a few minutes of controlling his breathing, the situation didn’t seem quite so grim. Well, not if you compare it to death anyway.

  Maurice gave him a shrewd look. ‘Thomas, are you quite sure this isn’t some criterion for myself by our friend the Surgeon Major? Because, if it is, I can assure you now, my disingenuous highbinder, that I will not fall for your little codification!’

  ‘Now who’s talking crap,’ replied Tommy. ‘Why don’t you stop showing off, dictionary boy, and talk normal, eh?’

  Maurice sat on his bed. ‘So be it. Then is this some sort of test on me by the good Major? Just because I had some sort of fever on the way here doesn’t make me mad, you know, and trying out this preposterous story on me to see if I would fall for it, well, it won’t work, damn you. I am as fit as a butcher’s hog.’

  ‘Dog,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You mean dog. It’s “fit as a butcher’s dog.”’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘No, you said hog.’ Tommy started to smile; he had noticed Maurice’s cheeks had started to flush. It’s the drink, he thought.

  ‘Hog, dog, it makes no difference, as they are both quadrupeds, in any case.’

  Tommy could see that Maurice was becoming a little worse for wear, so decided to end the drinking session. ‘A toast,’ he said and held up his cup. ‘The Queen.’

  ‘The Queen,’ said Maurice, and both took a large swig of the fiery liquid. Maurice belched and said, ‘A toast,’ and held up his cup.

  Tommy followed suit.

  ‘To Joseph. May all his dreams come true, the good for nothing shit!’ They both fell back onto the beds, laughing so hard they both produced tears.

  Just then Major Preston entered the tent, and without as much as a glance, went straight to his table, opened his journal, picked up his quill and dipped it in a little bottle of ink and started writing.

  Th
e two friends looked at each other with a barely suppressed giggle. They shrugged and sat up on their beds, looking at Preston.

  After a minute or so, and without looking up Preston, stopped writing, carefully placed his quill on the desk next to the ink pot, closed his journal and placed his hands on the desk in front of him. ‘I will assume,’ he said slowly, ‘that your parents did not inform you that it is rude to stare.’

  Before Tommy could say anything, Maurice said, ‘I do apologise, Major Preston, sir, you are quite right, it is rude to stare. But you have piqued our curiosity with the, well, sombre appearance, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

  Preston turned and looked at Maurice, and held his gaze for some moments.

  ‘You are remarkably astute, Mr Rayner, as always, and yes, I am a little out of sorts.’

  ‘May I be so bold as to the reason, sir?’

  Preston nodded to himself and stood. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you may,’ and walked over to Maurice’s bedside.

  ‘I have recently returned from visiting some of the men from the 66th, who have been attached to the smoothbore battery, and the reason, I think I mentioned it, was a suspected case of cholera. Well, after examination, I found it was not cholera but fatigue caused by hunger, little water and forced marching across this God forsaken hell.’ Preston took a breath, and with an angry edge to his voice said, ‘I have recently returned from giving my findings to one of General Burrows’s staff, asking that the men be given enough water and time to recuperate, but I was informed that the British Army does not show weakness at the first sign of adversity. Apparently we will shortly be engaged with the enemy, and that is when it will be slightly uncomfortable for the men.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Maurice.

  ‘Ah, indeed,’ said Preston.

  Tommy was just about to ask what enemy they were shortly to engage when Preston frowned and, with his nose slightly raised, started to sniff the air like a hunting dog.

  ‘What is that smell?’ asked Preston.

  ‘Oh, I do apologise, sir,’ said Maurice. ‘Must have been the nosh the wallah gave me. My stomach is terribly upset, you know.’

  Tommy snorted a laugh through his nose, but was silenced quickly by the look from Preston.

  ‘That is not flatulence, Mr Rayner.’

  Tommy was bursting to laugh and had to look at the ground to keep from doing so.

  ‘If I am not too mistaken, that is the smell of alcohol.’ And with that, he looked at the two friends one at a time. ‘If I find, gentlemen, that you two have been at my medicinal liquor stock, there will be hell to pay. Do I make myself clear?

  The two friends looked at each other and then cast their eyes down to the floor.

  ‘Perhaps I should fetch the Sergeant Major and he can make some enquiries.’

  Maurice sighed. ‘The alcohol is mine, sir. It has travelled with me from London,’ he said, and he pulled the bottle from his bag.

  Preston raised his eyebrows. ‘Would that be a bottle of Hardy’s you have, Mr Rayner?’

  ‘Why yes, sir, it is.’ And, seeing his chance, said, ‘Would you care for a nip?’

  ‘You know, it has been a somewhat tiring day.’ He turned on the spot, walked over to his desk, opened his ornate case, dug around in the bottom of it for a moment and produced a glass tumbler. He blew some dust off it, picked up his stool and walked back to Maurice’s bedside, where he sat and held out his glass to Maurice. ‘An exceedingly tiring day indeed,’ he said with a small smile.

  The rest of the day was a blur for Tommy. Not only did they finish the cognac, but the Major disappeared for a short time and then returned with a bottle of scotch from his medicinal stock. Tommy spent the entire afternoon and evening listening to the two officers reminisce about India, England and going to school at Harrow, and how Maurice was a budding cricket star. Tommy’s eyes grew heavy. He lay down on his back, and, still listening, fell asleep.

  Pain.

  Not again! thought Tommy, as he opened his eyes. This time, though, the view was not of a horse’s arse or a sexy, hairy man-woman, but of Maurice in the other bed next to him. He was lying on his side facing Tommy with his mouth open, and there was a long line of spittle dribbling from his mouth and onto the lumpy pillow. Even though he had a headache (again), he couldn’t help but smile; Maurice had certainly lost his dignified look now.

  He lifted his head to scan the tent, and was surprised to find the Major slumped over his desk. Bloody hell, he thought, I missed a lively session here. Very slowly, he sat up in the bed and tried to gather his thoughts, but found they were a jumble. He suddenly realised he hadn’t had a drink like that since England. No wonder my head’s thumping, he thought.

  He needed to piss and badly. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been, and looked over to the tent opening. Bollocks. He was going to have to go outside, and was tempted for a moment to wake Maurice to go with him.

  ‘What the hell am I thinking,’ he said to himself. ‘Am I gonna get him to hold it as well?’ He climbed out of bed and gave himself a once over; he was still wearing the dirty greyish trousers and vest-type garment he had woken up in yesterday – or the day before, he couldn’t recall. Time had stood still for him.

  He looked over at the two officers and still couldn’t believe any of this was real, but how could a dream be so vivid and long-lasting? With tentative steps, he walked over to the tent opening and stood before it. He listened for a moment and found that yesterday’s noise was substantially reduced. He surmised that it may be morning, as the light in the tent was quite dim. Or is it dusk and just the same day over and over? He shivered as he remembered that movie Groundhog Day, where the guy keeps reliving the same day over and over again. But, he thought, where is the beautiful woman in my repeating day, because if whoever’s controlling this thing thinks I will end up trying it on with the lovely Arun, well, they’ve got another thing coming. He chuckled at this and decided that he was going mad after all.

  He reached for the flap of the opening and pulled it open just a little. Wow! What a scene! he thought. The sun was just rising over a mountain range in the distance and was casting an orange red glow over the massive camp site. Mist hovered over the lines of tents, and he realised that his view was from a raised vantage point. The sight was breathtaking! And it was incredible to believe he was seeing a military camp from the 1880s.

  His full bladder was forgotten for the moment, so he squatted down to survey the scene. There were a few bodies moving around in the mist – and smoke, he realised – for he saw a few men, Indians by the look of them, starting fires. Cooking fires probably, he thought.

  More images were coming to him now: horses, quite a few of them, and the gun carriages he had seen yesterday, last night, whenever. His school days were coming back to him too, the history lessons from Mr Roberts, pouring over books in the library and reading about the wonderful tales of bravery of the British Army in Africa, fighting the Zulus, or in the Anglo–Afghan wars. Everything was coming back to him, the endless images of the Red Coats fighting off hoards of tribesmen or Cossacks or Boers or French Garde Impériale. Dad would love this, he thought, as he wiped at the tears forming in his eyes. Then he stood, took a deep breath and walked through the entrance.

  The heat hit him. Jeeeeze, he thought, that mist won’t last long. He started to look for a toilet, but couldn’t see anything remotely like a loo. Idiot! he thought after a few moments. What do you expect, soft toilet roll as well? It will be a ditch, won’t it, with maybe a cover and separate stalls, or it could just be a bucket. Tommy was ready to burst. He looked around the back of the tent and found a small tree clinging to life.

  ‘Aha!’

  He trotted over to it and spent one or two minutes struggling with his trousers. ‘Stupid sodding things,’ he said as he got the last button undone. He then spent the next few moments looking up at the sunrise with half-lidded eyes and a stupid smile on his face. He frowned as a thought came to him: What if I need to shit? He wou
ld have to dig a hole, and he didn’t relish the thought of trying to wipe his arse with anything rougher than the cardboard they used here. Just as he was finishing emptying his bladder, the silence was ripped apart by a bugle.

  ‘Shit, shit,’ he said, as he desperately tried to do up his trousers while trotting back to the opening of the tent. ‘That was the Reveille! Everyone will be awake in a minute.’

  He managed to do up the last button as he he stepped into the entrance of the tent. At that moment, he glanced back at the camp and saw, at the nearest cooking fire, an old man leaning over a pot, stirring the contents. The old man stopped, looked up at Tommy and smiled. Tommy frowned. Had he seen this guy somewhere before? He was about to beckon him over when there was an almighty groan from inside the tent. He turned and found Major Preston sitting up at his desk and rubbing his temples with the palms of his hands. Tommy swung back to the old man but he was gone, replaced by a young Indian soldier. He poked his head out and looked around, but it was no use; there were thousands of men now vacating their tents, stretching and yawning in the early morning sun. Still confused by what he had just seen, he let the flap fall back and returned to his bed.

  ‘I despise that infernal racket,’ moaned Maurice as he rolled onto his back. He pushed himself onto his elbows and looked over blearily at Tommy. ‘Well, I must say, you look decidedly sprightly this morning, Thomas. However, the perpetual look of confusion is starting to be a bore.’

  ‘Good morning to you too, ya miserable git,’ replied Tommy. He chuckled to himself. ‘If you can’t handle your drink, mate, then don’t do it.’

  Maurice flopped down onto his back and sighed. ‘Sorry, old chap, but I think the gentlemen with the hammers inside my skull are going to it with far too much delectation, what.’

  ‘Yeah, well, ok then, if you say so. I think we’re all feeling a little worse for wear this morning.’ He nodded in the direction of Preston. ‘Take a look at the Major over there.’