Forever the Colours

by Richard Thomas

  Maurice looked over at Preston and found him sitting at his desk with his head in his hands. ‘My dear Major, are you feeling unwell?’

  ‘Mr Rayner, your aphorism and sarcasm are not wanted at this time, so please tread particularly carefully before you continue,’ Preston said in a gravelly voice.

  ‘Sir, I was only concerned as to your felicity, given the aberrant locus you have adopted.’

  ‘Yes, well, that will be quite enough of that, thank you, Lieutenant. Now if you will excuse me, I have matters to attend to.’ Preston stood a little shakily and, looking rather green, made his way out of the tent entrance. A second or so later, the Tommy and Maurice could hear the sound of him retching.

  ‘Oh dear, the poor Major sounds rather poorly. I wonder if he needs a doctor?’

  ‘Don’t take the piss, Maurice. Preston’s all right as officers go.’

  ‘I was effecting a jape, Thomas. I know the Major is a thoroughly likeable chap. And is that what “take the piss means,” to make fun of?’

  ‘Yeah, something like that.’

  ‘You must teach me some of this strange language you use, Thomas. If we are to be compatriots, we must learn to converse a little better, what.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘There you go again. What is “OK”?’

  ‘Err, it means all right and can be used for, I don’t know, acceptable and other shit like that.’ He stood. ‘Now do me a favour, Maurice, and tell me what my uniform looks like and where I can find it.’

  ‘Should be at the end of the bed in a rough wooden chest. But why do you want to know where it is, Thomas?’

  ‘Because, me old mate, I’m gonna have a little stroll round the camp. It’s not every day you get a chance to walk around a genuine nineteenth-century army camp, and if I am asleep right now, I might wake up without doing it. And you know how hard it is to get back into a dream once you’ve woken up.’ Tommy said this while unpacking the uniform he had found in the chest at the bottom of his bed, pith helmet included.

  Maurice swung his legs out and moved to the end of his bed, unpacked his own uniform and started to remove his bed clothes.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘You said, Thomas, that you are from the future. Yet you didn’t tell me when in the future.’

  Tommy stopped what he was doing, ‘OK, Maurice, I’m from the twenty-first, well, no, actually I’m from the twentieth-century. I was born in 1989, but it’s the twenty-first right now.’ He gave Maurice a resigned look. ‘Now you know, mate. I’m bonkers!’

  ‘Well, my twenty-first century friend, if you’re going to go for a stroll out there, you will need a nineteenth-century chaperone. We don’t want you getting into any unfortunate predicaments, do we? Besides, I am famished. What say we go and procure a bite to eat.’

  ‘Thanks, Maurice,’ said Tommy with forced gratitude. Although he didn’t say it, he wasn’t looking forward to it really. He checked the uniform and found it was quite basic: matching trousers and tunic, with buttons up the front and a waistband that came up nearly to his armpits. The boots looked as if they were ready to fall apart, and the dirty grey, bandage-type gaiters were, well, they looked like gaiters. My God, he thought. He was starting to sweat and he hadn’t put half of it on yet. He looked over at Maurice, who was humming as he dressed himself.

  ‘Maurice, will you give me a hand with this, mate?’

  ‘Certainly, old chap.’

  Twenty minutes later, they were dressed. Tommy was starting to feel the heat already.

  ‘How the hell can you march and fight in this get up? It’s crap, there’s no movement in it and it’s itchy as hell.’

  ‘Thomas, my dear chap, how could you possibly go into battle not looking the part, eh? It’s what separates the British Army from all those other savages out there in their delicate and cool cotton garb. We are the Red Coats – well, khaki at the moment – scourge of all those with poor dress sense.’

  Tommy tried on the helmet and found it was a perfect fit. He took it off again and checked the inside, and found a name scrawled in the lining. T Evans.

  ‘What the fuck!’ he exclaimed and, dropping the helmet as though it had given him an electric shock, he stepped backwards a few paces.

  ‘Thomas, whatever is the matter?’

  Tommy couldn’t breathe. How can that be my name? he thought. He was trembling from shock; he tried to speak but it came out in a squeak.

  Maurice took two quick steps and took hold of Tommy by the shoulders, who had started to sway, and guided him to the stool by his bed. He sat with a thud.

  ‘Thomas,’ he said. ‘Thomas.’

  Tommy looked up at him, the shock evident in his eyes.

  ‘How can my name be in that helmet, Maurice?’ He paused for a moment. Then he said, angrier, ‘How the fuck did my name get in that helmet? Did you put it in there? Preston? That twat, when I was on that cart? Come on, Maurice, you can tell me now. I had a terrific time but the game’s over.’

  ‘Over!’

  Maurice took an involuntary step back and looked aghast at Tommy.

  ‘Thomas, I can assure you, as a friend, no one put your name in the helmet. It was already there when you were brought in. I swear to you, no one has tampered with your belongings since you arrived.’

  He was breathing heavy now, his eyes bulging with anger and fear.

  ‘Was it that arsehole Watson? It had to be.’ Tommy was confused for a moment. ‘But I don’t remember telling him my name or anything.’

  Just then Arun entered carrying a jug of water.

  ‘Good mornings.’

  He wandered over to the desk looking for the wooden cups, and frowned when he couldn’t find them. He turned to the two men. ‘Pardons but have you seen wooden cups for drinking water, please?’

  Maurice nodded toward the floor by his bed.

  Arun smiled and moved forward to pick them up. Suddenly Tommy stood and grabbed him by the shirt. ‘What’s my name?’

  ‘Pardons, Private Sahib, I will fetch water now,’ said Arun with a sudden look of fear.

  ‘I said, what’s my fucking NAME?’ Tommy thundered, spittle flying out of his mouth.

  ‘I, I—I,’ stuttered Arun, who was now trying to walk backwards.

  Tommy felt a hand on his arm, and a dead calm voice said, ‘Thomas, he is just a wallah, for heaven’s sake. He makes the food, fetches water, a general help for the Major. He wouldn’t know anything even if it were to slap him in the face, and he’s terrified, look at him.’

  Tommy’s eyes cleared and he could see that the Arun was on the brink of crying.

  ‘Shit, Arun, I’m sorry, I, please—’ He let go and the wallah ran from the tent.

  ‘Don’t apologise to the help, Thomas, it won’t do. Now then, let’s have a look, shall we?’ He picked up the helmet and looked inside. ‘Oh yes, I see now, I can see why you are so angry, yes indeed.’

  ‘Do ya see what I mean, Maurice?’ said Tommy with hope in his voice.

  ‘Absolutely, old chap. Some bally fool has gone and written your name inside your bloody helmet.’ He tossed it back to Tommy. ‘Disgraceful behaviour, deserves at least thirty strokes of the Cat!’ With that he placed his own helmet on his head, turned and walked to the entrance, and without looking back said, ‘I quite fancy a little peregrination myself now. Will you juxtapose with me?’ and walked out of the tent.

  Tommy thought quickly; he didn’t want to be left alone in the tent, so he rammed his helmet on his head and followed Maurice out into the sunshine.

  The glare from the sun was powerful enough to make Tommy shield his eyes for a moment, as he stopped just outside the entrance and squinted, looking for Maurice. God, I feel like a helpless child! This is ridiculous; it’s just a dream after all. With that comforting thought, he trotted after Maurice, who was walking down the small rise on which the hospital tent was pitched. Catching up and falling into step with him, Tommy took in his surroundings. The different smells assailing his
senses were incredible, let alone the scenes. Smoke, spices, meat cooking, shit! Human, he thought, for it didn’t have that dungy overtone.

  Sweat, tobacco smoke… this last smell made him crave a ciggy, an addiction he had only recently managed to kick. They walked past tents with the occupants doing all sorts of tasks, from peeling spuds to polishing buttons to cleaning rifles. Big bloody rifles as well, he thought. I wouldn’t fancy trying to fight holding one of those things up. Give me the SA80 any day.

  Indians, there were a lot of Indians as well, with huge turbans. This must be an Indian regiment, he thought.

  ‘Maurice,’ he spoke out of the side of his mouth, ‘is this an Indian regiment?’

  ‘These are some of the men from the 30th Bombay Infantry, Thomas, and the Jacob’s Rifles, that’s those chaps over there,’ he said, and indicated with a nod of his head to where a column of Indian soldiers were marching. ‘And those to our left over there are the Grenadiers. Now please stop gawking like a curious child, Thomas, and try to look dignified.’

  But Thomas couldn’t help but gawk. It was like stepping onto the set of a movie, only without the cameras and other paraphernalia. He did manage to close his mouth, though his head kept bobbing all around like a meercat. The Grenadiers, he noticed, were just like the modern version, all big lads, six-foot-plus, most of them. They looked a lot more relaxed than the guys from the infantry. Typical, he thought.

  They continued walking past row after row of tents, carts, cooking fires and tepee-style stacks of weapons. Tommy’s eyes had started to water with all the smoke, and he rubbed at the irritation.

  Maurice looked at him. ‘I know, Thomas, I know, it brings a tear to my eye as well, every time I look upon this well-oiled machine.’

  ‘I’m not crying, Maurice, you fool. It’s this bloody smoke. How do you put up with it?’

  ‘Put up with it? Why, how else are we supposed to cook food, heat water and what not?’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ Tommy realised he was getting a little hot and thirsty. ‘Maurice, any chance we could stop for a drink? Is there a NAAFI or something round here? I’m dying of thirst, mate.’

  ‘Firstly, old chap, I have no idea what a NAAFI is, and secondly, if we need a drink of water, we use our canteens. However, as I forgot to replenish mine own, I will allow you that small erratum, what.’

  Maurice looked around for a few seconds, then said, ‘You there,’ to a young Indian man in modest clothes who was hunched over a large copper urn.

  The man stood, trotted over and bowed. ‘Lieutenant Sahib, you are wanting a cup of most delicious tea?’

  ‘Not at the moment, my dear man, but would you have any clean water? If so, would you be so kind as to fill our canteens? There’s a good chap, what.’

  Maurice removed his canteen from his webbing belt, and, indicating for Tommy to do the same, handed them both to the chai wallah.

  ‘Oh yes, Sahib, one moment please.’ He turned and trotted off towards a large barrel.

  ‘Well, Thomas, what say you to our little camp? The British Army can make a home anywhere in the world, you know.’

  ‘Amazing, really amazing Maurice.’ Tommy was watching a couple of big Indian Grenadiers doing stretching exercises in front of their tent, and thought briefly of Arun. ‘Oh for Christ sake,’ he said to himself, remembering his dream.

  Maurice followed Tommy’s gazing and frowned; then, after a few moments, it dawned on him why Tommy quickly looked at the ground.

  ‘Ah, I see,’ Maurice chuckled. ‘Thomas, my dear chap, I’m sure the lovely Miss Arun will forgive you in time, and then you may resume you attempts at courtship.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  The chai wallah returned with their canteens and stood watching while they slaked their thirst.

  ‘Well done, you may go about your business,’ Maurice said to the wallah, who bobbed his head a couple of times and returned to his tea urn.

  Tommy drank half of his canteen in one, screwed the metal top back into place and returned it to his belt. That’s better, he thought, and while Maurice continued to sip his water he scanned the camp, trying to avoid the stretching Grenadiers. It was truly incredible to behold, like stepping into an old picture. The sounds of tools, of laughing, of orders being shouted filled Tommy’s ears, and he noticed the Cavalry in the distance, riding at the head of a dust cloud. He noticed also, when he did a 180-degree turn, that there seemed to be outriders all around the sprawling camp. Recon, his soldier instincts told him, or scouts in this age, keeping vigil. In fact there was probably a network of scouts stretching many miles in all directions. His thoughts were broken by Maurice.

  ‘Don’t look now. Here comes Major Oliver.’

  Tommy turned to see where Maurice was gazing and saw three officers walking toward them.

  ‘Now look here, Thomas, don’t speak until spoken to and do not, I repeat, do not start rambling about death, dreams and time travel. This man is an ignorant bore and has undoubtedly no sense of humour whatsoever. He will have you on a charge before you know what’s happened, insane or not. And for God’s sake, man, come to attention,’ he hissed under his breath.

  Tommy shot to attention just as the officers arrived.

  ‘Ah, Lieutenant Rayner. I see you are making a recovery,’ boomed the officer who was obviously Major Oliver. Tommy did not look at him but stared at his helmet instead. There was an accent underneath the clipped English that Tommy couldn’t put his finger on, Scottish, maybe, or Irish.

  ‘I am making a speedy recovery, sir, thank you, although Surgeon Major Preston insists on keeping me immured in his dungeon, which I find dreadfully bromidic by the way, and that is why, sir, I borrowed Private Evans here, who is recovering from wounds sustained in our recent skirmish at Girishk, to escort me on a little constitutional.’

  Tommy could feel the Major’s eyes appraising him but still did not look in his face.

  ‘Is that so, Lieutenant? Well then, what befell you, Private, in our tryst with the levies?’

  Tommy did not look away from the helmet. ‘I had a bump on me head, Major, sir, and it was combusted, Major, sir.’

  Oliver sniffed. ‘Quite.’ He looked back to Maurice. ‘You know Captains Garratt and McMath, I presume, Lieutenant?’

  Maurice smiled at the other officers. ‘I have had the fortunate pleasure, sir, yes,’ and he nodded to both, who returned the nod with genuine smiles.

  Oliver continued, ‘There is more than a fair chance we will be striking camp soon. There have been reports that Ayub Khan’s army has crossed the Helmand en masse, so we may try and intercept it. We are just on our way to inspect E battery to make sure everything is in place and ready to move, although I’m sure Blackwood has it in hand, he always does. Right, can’t stand around all day nattering like old women. Some of us have jobs to do, ain’t that right, Lieutenant?’ And with that, he marched off between the tents. The two Captains, Garratt and McMath, smiled and nodded to both men, and Garratt even patted Tommy on the shoulder as he went past, following the Major.

  They could both hear the Major shouting at the chai wallah. ‘No, I don’t want any of your delicious bloody tea.’

  ‘What an insufferable oaf that man is,’ said Maurice, and Tommy nodded his agreement.

  ‘Thomas, combusted, really!’

  ‘Sounded OK though, didn’t it!’

  Chapter 7

  Fight

  The sun was climbing higher and the heat of the day was beginning to take its toll, especially on the British regiment. The Indians, by contrast, although used to a different sort of heat, were coping much better than their counterparts. The thin mist of early morning had dissipated suddenly and only the smoke from the cooking fires was left hovering over the camp like London smog. Soldiers were still going about their business though, and there was an air of anticipation as the rumour of an impending battle with Ayub Khan’s forces spread quickly round the camp.

  Some men, usually the younger ones, were all bravado, puffing th
eir chests and recounting stories of past prowess in whatever battles they’d seen, including bar-room brawls. The older soldiers went about their business with quiet reflection. The ones that had already been involved in engagements were now thinking of home, children, wives or even mistresses; they knew what to expect and so resigned themselves to cleaning their kit, making sure their weapons were in perfect working order and telling the younger ones to do the same. Sergeants walked amongst them, berating here and there, giving encouragement to others, telling the men that the quicker that they get this job done, the quicker they could get back to India, and then home.

  Later in the afternoon, Tommy and Maurice were sitting on stools outside the hospital tent, eating a bowl of meat broth that Arun had brought them. Although still wary of another outburst from Tommy, Arun was well schooled in the unusual ways of the British Sahibs, and dutifully carried on with his daily chores. Tommy had taken off his tunic and helmet after asking Maurice if he would draw attention to himself.

  ‘Not at all, old man. Remember, we are ephemera of the good Surgeon Major and, given that we are convalescing, we are not on the roll, so to speak.’

  So Tommy now sat, contentedly eating his lunch – it must be lunch, he thought, because he got it for breakfast as well – and watched the hustle and bustle of the camp. He was watching the Grenadiers. One of them stripped to the waist and was stretching, while others had gathered round, forming a rough square.

  ‘What’s going on down there, then, Maurice?’ and indicated toward the group with a nod of his head.

  Maurice turned on his stool and looked down at the men. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘seems very much like we are going to see a bit of pugilism, old man,’ and he turned fully round on his stool to watch.

  ‘Is that allowed, mate? Isn’t it against regulations or something?’

  ‘Not at all, my friend. The General likes the sport, so he avidly encourages it as long as the Queensberry Rules are followed, and the match is refereed so nobody gets hurt, of course. Can’t say I would like to be in there with that Indian fellow though. He looks rather herculean, does he not?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s a big lad all right.’ Tommy watched the Indian, wearing nought but a loin cloth, walk around the ring flexing his muscular arms and shoulders. His leg muscles were so large they looked like tree trunks. He must be at least 6’2” or 6’3” and extremely fit by the look of him, Tommy thought. The man had an arrogant look behind the beard he was sporting, and from what he could see of a scarred face, Tommy didn’t envy his opponent one bit.