‘Aha, and here comes our champion of the 66th, Private Davis,’ said Maurice. ‘A likeable chap, albeit he is as stupid as he is big.’
Tommy watched Davis walk into the square of bodies. He was perhaps touching six feet and was muscular under a thin layer of fat. He had a belly on him too, which was hanging over his issue trousers. His hair was cut short at the back and sides, with a centre part and a massive handlebar moustache. What the attraction to these bushy moustaches was was beyond Tommy. You couldn’t even see Davis’s mouth. But he did look remarkably confident given the size of his opponent, and he started to limber himself up.
As the fighters were getting their gloves on, a Sergeant entered the square, a man from the 66th. The referee, Tommy supposed, and a beard like ZZ Top! He called the boxers to him in the centre, and by the way he was gesticulating, it appeared he was telling them to fight fairly. He kept pointing at his mouth, his head and his groin.
‘I do believe we’re in for a treat, Thomas, a clash of the Titans if ever there was one, what.’
Tommy was interested now and stood to watch. As the fighters moved to opposite corners, they stared each other down. The Indian’s face was impassive, but Davis, Tommy noticed, must be smiling, as his moustache was curving upwards. The referee stepped into the middle, sliced his hand through the air, shouted ‘Begin,’ and moved back. Davis came out of his corner like a bull, his hands raised only to waist height. He moved up to the Indian, who had only taken a couple of steps, and started throwing punches at the Grenadier’s head. For such a large man, the Grenadier moved with incredible speed, dodging Davis’s gloved fists as though he were throwing them in slow motion.
Left, right, straight, nothing was catching him, and he suddenly stepped to the side and jabbed a left into Davis’s face, who stumbled backwards, off balance. But instead of following up, the Indian walked calmly around him, face impassive, and Tommy thought the Grenadier had his guard up where it belonged, in front of his face. Davis shook his head and resumed the onslaught with a barrage of punches, but again couldn’t connect with the other man’s head. He then tried for a body shot but received a straight cross in the dead centre of his forehead and landed on his arse with a great thud. The crowd of soldiers, a mix of Grenadier and the 66th, were roaring their fighters on with gusto. Tommy realised he was silently willing Davis to get his guard up. The Private got to his feet and shook his head again, but this time his legs had started to wobble and he staggered a little. The Indian, instead of taking advantage of this, calmly walked around Davis, who was probably seeing double from that last punch.
Snap! The Indians left glove snaked out and caught Davis on the nose, not enough to put him down again but enough to start his nose bleeding. Snap! Another jab, straight to the right eye. Davis swung and caught air as the Indian ducked and planted a right into the other’s stomach. From where he and Maurice were standing, Tommy could hear the breath leave the man, and winced at the fighter’s pain. Again the Indian continued to circle as Davis tried unsuccessfully to catch his breath.
‘I say, that Grenadier chap is rather splendid, don’t you think, Thomas? Thomas?’
‘Hmm? Oh yeah, he is,’ replied Tommy, who was deep in thought. ‘He’s just playing with him Maurice, making him look like an arsehole in front of his mates and the regiment. He’s just gonna knock him about a bit before he finishes him, you watch.’
As Davis caught his breath and straightened up, he found the Grenadier standing directly in front of him. Tap, tap, tap, three quick-fire jabs straight to the Private’s face, making him stagger backwards. The Indian stepped to the right and put another hook into the ribs. To his credit, Davis, still in pain from that last shot, tried another couple of punches, a left-right combo, and actually managed to catch the Grenadier with a glancing blow to the chin. Infuriated at having been caught, he stepped forward, and with blistering speed, landed three or four punches to the Private’s now swelling face, then once again stepped out of reach.
Davis, with his eyes now swollen shut, attempted to throw a powerful right hand. He over balanced and his jaw connected with the Grenadier’s right glove. He stood in the centre of the square, arms now completely dropped , out on his feet. Tommy was disgusted that it had gone this far. The Indian had been far too good for Davis, and he wished that the ref would stop it. Indeed, just as this thought came to him, the referee stepped forward to end the debacle, but before he could reach the centre, the Grenadier jumped forward and planted a thumping right straight into the other man’s temple. Davis’s legs folded like wet paper and he landed on his side, utterly unconscious, and the crowd roared with both glee and anger. Tommy was sickened. He sat back down.
‘That was extremely entertaining, don’t you think, Thomas?’
‘No Maurice, it wasn’t. It was disgusting and it should have been stopped after the first couple of minutes.’
‘Stopped? Whatever for?
‘So nobody gets too hurt, obviously.’
‘Hurt? How stupid of me, I thought that was the whole purpose of throwing your fists at each other’s faces!’
‘Well, yeah it is, but you can get brain damage from taking too many punches and all that, and it was stupid to let that go so far. He could be seriously hurt down there.’
‘Well, bless my soul, and there’s me thinking that brain damage was a requisite before you were allowed to enter into that square.’
‘You know what, bollocks to the lot of ya.’ Tommy stood, angry and disgusted at what he had witnessed, and turned to enter the tent.
‘Thomas! Really, if I’d thought you were such a sensitive soul, I wouldn’t have allowed you to watch it. I thought you were a tough, twenty-first-century soldier and all that balderdash, what.’
Tommy gave him the finger and went inside the tent. He collapsed onto his bed, hot, sweaty, annoyed, confused and homesick, to name but a few.
‘You’re a tosser, Maurice, you know that?’ he shouted, and he got even more wound up when he heard laughing outside. Tommy buried his head in the pillow and bit down on it to control his anger. After many thoughts of home, this place, this nightmare place, that dickhead of a Grenadier and giving Maurice a wicked slap, he drifted off to sleep.
When he woke it was gloomy in the tent, and the only source of light was a paraffin lamp on the Major’s desk. He sat up, confused for a moment, and rubbed his eyes; and after a while, he remembered that afternoon, watching that Private get an unnecessary beating, and feeling like a wimpy child at the hand of Maurice’s sarcasm.
‘Fuck it,’ he said to himself, and he slipped off the bed, stood and stretched. He was still wearing half his uniform as he made his way to the entrance of the tent. My uniform! he thought, That’s a laugh. He popped his head out of the flaps and into a warm evening, the sun having only just disappeared behind some mountains in the distance. Maurice was sitting on a wooden fold-up chair and was talking to Major Preston, and both were seated around a little wooden table.
‘Ah, Thomas, how delightful of you to join us,’ said Maurice.
Tommy could see that he had been drinking again.
‘Good evening, Mr Evans,’ said Preston. And Tommy noticed for the first time the real slight Irish lilt to his accent.
‘Good evening, sir,’ said Tommy. He didn’t reply to or acknowledge Maurice.
‘You will forgive me, gentlemen,’ said Preston as he stood up. ‘I have been summoned to attend the General’s tent for dinner this evening and to hear reports of Mr Ayub Khan’s movements. Though what that has to do with a surgeon attached to the 66th, I am unsure. But nevertheless, I must attend. A good evening to you both.’ And he turned and walked away into the night.
There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment, until Maurice finally broke it.
‘I am sorry, Thomas, if I offended you this afternoon. My humour sometimes gets the better of me and I am sure that in the twenty-first century, boxing is an uncouth and despicable pastime. Please forgive my somewhat trite humour.’
>
Tommy was unarmed straight away, because, although Maurice could be a complete upper-class, sarcastic, piss-taking twat, he was also highly likeable and had sincerity about him when he wasn’t making fun.
‘To tell you the truth, Maurice, boxing is massive in my time, a hugely popular multimillion-pound industry, and a skilled fighter is worth looking after. I accept your apology, mate.’
‘Multimillion pounds, you say. We do have the same currency in the future, surely?’ he said with a smile.
‘Maurice, if I was to tell you what it’s like in a hundred-odd years, even you will let them cart me off to a madhouse.’
‘I believe you may be correct, old chap. Now sit you down, I have an ambrosial liquor here that I have fortunately come by with the help of a certain Captain I know, and it is awaiting your approval.’
Tommy sat on the opposite chair and accepted the glass Maurice offered. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m sick to death of drinking out of wooden cups.’ He then poured a golden liquid into Tommy’s glass.
‘To your very good health, old chap,’ said Maurice, and he raised his glass.
‘Cheers, Maurice.’
They sipped their drinks in silence for a few minutes and watched the camp, listening to its sounds; somebody was singing along to a guitar, a bawdy song involving a general’s daughter and the gallows, and when it got to the chorus three or four others joined in. In the end, Tommy found himself tapping along to the tune.
‘Harmonious bunch, wouldn’t you say, Thomas?’
‘Catchy tune, that,’ Tommy said, and he wondered where the sound of the guitar was coming from; he tried to locate the direction but failed.
Just then Arun came up to the friends, carrying a wrapped cloth bundle which he placed on the table.
‘Pardons, a message from the Captain Garratt Sahib. Message is please be enjoying, Lieutenant Rayner Sahib.’ And with that he bowed quickly and attempted to leave. But before he got even a few feet, Tommy stopped him.
‘Hang on, Arun. Listen, I’m sorry I frightened you. I didn’t mean to, I apologise.’
Arun looked dumbfounded for a moment. ‘No need apologies, Private Sahib. I is to blame, pardons.’ He nodded and turned but Tommy refused to let him go.
‘Wait, Arun, do me a favour, will you, and have a walk down there and see who’s playing that guitar for me, please.’
Arun looked at Maurice for a split second and then nodded. ‘Yes please,’ he said, and wandered off to find the guitar player.
‘Why the interest, then, Thomas?’
Tommy took a sip of the drink Maurice has poured him and found that it was another whisky, and an exceedingly smooth malt at that, he thought. My god, if Granddad could see me now, drinking single malt from the nineteenth century, he would be well jealous.
‘Oh, I dunno, just a thought. Anyway, what’s in the parcel, Maurice?’
Maurice unwrapped the cloth to reveal half a loaf of fresh bread and a large cut of roast pork.
‘This, Thomas, is a return favour from the Gallant Captain Garratt. You see, when his friend Captain McMath was injured by a rather angry panther he was hunting, well, I managed to supply certain objects of a medicinal quality to help poor Mr McMath in his recovery. It’s not a Roman Saturnalia, but it’s all I could manage to appropriate at this time, courtesy of the General’s table.’
Thomas’s mouth started to water at the sight of the meat and bread. Bread!
‘Maurice, it’s fantastic but how did you manage to get,’ he sniffed, ‘fresh bread out here?’
‘Well, the General likes his niceties, so he had a portable bread oven added to the baggage train. Not a crook idea, actually, especially when the likes of us can pilfer some of it, what.’
Tommy shook his head in wonder. ‘You, Maurice, me old mate, are a genius.’
They both tucked into the feast, and it was a feast after the meat and potato slop they had been eating. After twenty minutes or so of silent eating while the sounds of the camp washed over them, Tommy sat back and rubbed his stomach, belched and smiled at Maurice.
Maurice sat back too, raised his glass in a silent toast to Tommy and took a healthy gulp.
‘So, Thomas, now that we have gotten to know each other a little better and are now brothers in arms, will you not tell me what your future is like?’
‘All right, Maurice, what do you wanna know?’
‘Well, I don’t know, why don’t you tell me about yourself.’
Thomas took another gulp of whisky. ‘Not that interesting, really. There’s me, Mum, Dad and my little sister. I still live at home when I’m on leave, that’s if I’m not away on holiday somewhere. We live on the Isle of Wight, my Mum’s a nurse at the local NHS hospital and my Dad’s a retired chippy. I did my A levels, then a small stint doing bar work, then building work. Wasted my time, actually, should have gone to university. But instead I joined the army, infantry, and when I get back, I’m gonna go for a stripe.’
Maurice sat dumbfounded. Even if he thought Tommy was sick and that this was all his delusion, he was surprised at how Tommy managed to think up all that hogwash on the spot. After a few moments, he decided to delve deeper. ‘Thomas, what does NHS mean?’
‘National Health Service.’
‘And what is a National Health Service.’
Never having had to explain it before, Tommy paused for a moment. ‘Well, you sort of pay your national insurance out of your wages and salaries, and that covers you if you, I dunno, need an operation or something, or you wanna get something fixed, or, you know, you need to go in to hospital for anything, really. There’s an NHS hospital in all our cities, and doctors’ surgeries and dentists.’
‘Really?’ Maurice said, not convinced. ‘And what did you mean by “should have gone to university”?’
‘Oh, well, I’d gotten all my GCSEs and A levels at school, so I was thinking of taking a History degree, or maybe Art, but you know how it is. I was a kid, I wanted money and holidays and a car, so I went and got work instead. Worst mistake ever, really.’
‘You were going to go to university where, Oxford or Cambridge?’ Maurice said with a smirk.
‘Don’t take the piss, Maurice, you said you wanted to hear about it.’ Tommy took a swig of whisky. ‘Now I could be blowing your mind with tales of aeroplanes and motorcars, couldn’t I? How we don’t use horses to pull our carts around anymore, haven’t for about a hundred years or so. They move themselves by an engine and nearly everyone has got one.’ He took a sip of his drink, and was amused to find Maurice was sitting with his mouth agape.
‘Or planes, Maurice, huge metal birds with engines to power them. They can carry passengers across the Atlantic in a few hours, and some are used by the military, bombers, fighter planes. Submarines, they can travel under water and stay under for months on end. Do you see, Maurice, why I shouldn’t tell you anything? We have even put men on the moon, Maurice.’
Tommy was thoroughly enjoying himself now, and he felt free talking about these things. ‘That’s right, on the moon. Taken there by rockets, whopping great rockets. That’s only ninety years from now, mate. And let’s not talk about computers, oh no, they control just about everything, from the cars to planes to mobile phones. Oh, I haven’t mentioned phones, have I? Well, it’s sort of a telegraph, Maurice, but it fits in the palm of your hand and you can talk through it to anyone, anywhere in the world at any time. And finally, mate, the nuclear bomb, a weapon so powerful that just one would level this area for a ten mile radius and kill every living thing.’
Tommy stopped, finished his drink and poured himself another.
Maurice was staring at him with what Tommy thought was scorn. Maurice coughed lightly and took a sip of his drink. Then he held it in his lap. ‘Do you take me for a fool, Thomas? I thought we were friends, yet you take me for a fool.’
‘What you on about, Maurice? You asked me to tell you, mate.’
‘You think me illiterate, Thomas. You think you are the only on
e to have perused Voyages Extraordinaires, or other works of Mr Verne?’
‘Oh for Christ’s sake,’ Tommy said, leaning forward. ‘Maurice, do I or have I sounded like a common soldier from your time? Mate! I know maths, English, I’m not too shoddy at geography. I can speak basic French and German, and a little Spanish – well, I can ask for a pint of lager and a blow job, anyway. I know my history as well, though I’m a little rusty right now. I am a modern soldier, I can fight, read maps, do basic first aid. I know basic chemistry; give me the right household chemicals and I can make explosives. I can tell you scientific discoveries.’ Maurice still looked unconvinced. Just then, Arun, who had been patiently waiting for Tommy to finish, stepped forward.
‘Private Sahib, I am locating sitar for you,’ he said, and he bobbed his head.
Tommy thought for a moment. ‘Arun, can you tell whoever is playing that Lieutenant Rayner would like them to bring it to the hospital tent, and right now.’
Arun looked at Maurice, who rolled his eyes and nodded. ‘Yes please, Sahib,’ he said, and hurried off.
Tommy sat back in his chair and supped some more of the whisky; he could start to feel its effect and he felt rather content. Saying all those things to Maurice had, in a way, put him back in touch with reality, and now, he thought, he would show them all.
A short time later, Arun returned with a somewhat surly looking private. And how he was still a private, Tommy could only guess. The man had to be forty years old.
He came to attention, well, nearly attention, in front of Maurice. ‘Ye wished to see me, Leftent Sar?’ Maurice shook his head and then nodded to Tommy.
‘No, my dear man, but he did.’
Forever the Colours Page 9
