Forever the Colours

by Richard Thomas

  ‘Have a bit of that, you arsehole! Maurice, why have we stopped, for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘We have reached the nullah, and it’s a bloody deep one at that.’

  Tommy looked down the side of the ravine and saw that the place where they had ended up was at least fifteen feet deep. He looked along the channel and saw soldiers sliding down to the bottom. Shit! We’re gonna have to move along or drop down here. He looked around at the scene. The 66th were still attempting to engage the Afghans with concerted and disciplined fire, but a lot of the Bombay boys had gotten in amongst them and were hampering the British regiment. Small knots of men were fighting back to back as the screaming whirling Ghazis hacked and stabbed and died, but still they came on. There was dust everywhere, kicked up by Afghan horses and the heat was intolerable. The noise of rifles, jezails and now, Tommy glimpsed, Afghan cannons was shattering, and Tommy watched as the cannons were dragged up closer to the British ranks, firing case shot with devastating effect.

  Tommy could see men of the 66th, caught out in the open and dying, fighting with bayonets fixed, hand to hand against the Khyber knives; it was harrowing for Tommy to watch. To think that just a few hours ago these men were laughing and joking back at camp. He saw a couple of lads from the 66th, back to back, keeping a circle of Ghazis at bay with their bayonets. It would be mere moments before they were overwhelmed. He recognised one, the old Private with the guitar.

  ‘Bastards.’

  Without a thought, he jumped forward, pushed his way through the throng and charged the group of mad Ghazis.

  ‘Thomas, where are you going?’

  He ignored Maurice, the anger overtaking him now, and the first Ghazi to react got a bullet straight through the gut, followed by eight inches of Tommy’s bayonet. Another lunged as he pulled his rifle back, and this one was rewarded with a straight high snap kick to the jaw and he landed on his arse. He reacted just in time to dodge another sword aimed at his stomach and danced to the left, stepping forward and headbutting the man straight on the nose, enjoying the sound of breaking bones. His helmet was now askew, so he ripped it off. It was on him again, the anger, the need the lust; he couldn’t help it, it just enveloped him. He wanted to kill, and he wanted to tear these dirty, smelly bearded fanatics apart.

  ‘Come on, you bastards, c’mon. I’ll fucking kill all of ya.’ He kicked the knee out from another Ghazi, who went down on his hands, and Tommy laughed as he brought his rifle butt down hard on the man’s skull, feeling the bone give way under the impact. He stumbled forward and realised that another Ghazi had made a slash at his back, but his webbing had taken the blow. He spun around, dropping to one knee and shoved the bayonet up into the man’s groin. The scream that came from his mouth was animalistic, and Tommy smiled as he stood and rushed forward with the man still pinioned on the bayonet. He stopped suddenly and placed a boot on the man’s chest, kicking him off the blade and into a group of Afghans who had now backed away from Tommy’s wrath. He was breathing heavily now, but still the anger and desire burned in him.

  ‘What are ya waiting for, ya bastards. C’mon, all of ya.’

  The Afghans warily surrounded Tommy in a circle, none willing to be his next victim; all were Ghazis bar one, who was an Afghan regular, armed with a Snider rifle, and he now stepped forward with a smile on his face. He raised the rifle to his shoulder and pointed it at Tommy, not eight feet away.

  ‘C’mon, do it, you fucker.’ He was screaming now, spittle flying from his mouth. He heard the report of a weapon and braced for impact; it never came. The Afghan’s left eye and most of his cheekbone exploded outward onto Tommy’s feet. The man crumpled to the ground.

  Maurice was standing right behind him. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, run.’

  Tommy realised this might be his only chance to get out of the situation and promptly ran at the nearest Ghazi. Screaming, the man fell back in terror and Tommy jumped over him, using the man’s head as a spring board. He reached Maurice and they both moved back towards knot of men surrounding the Colours. Tommy was walking backwards and nearly stumbled over the body of a man from the 66th. It was the guitar owner. He stopped to look down at him; he had a bullet hole in the chest. He also had a strange smile on his face, Tommy thought.

  ‘That was a mightily stupid and incredibly brave thing you did, Mr Evans,’ Galbraith shouted over the noise. ‘Remind me never to get into an argument with you, young man.’ He smiled at Tommy.

  Tommy surveyed the scene. He couldn’t see much with all the bodies in the way, but what he did see was a couple of hundred men fighting around the Colours, using it as a focal point.

  ‘Right, gentlemen, I think it’s time we moved down into the village,’ Galbraith said. ‘Colour bearers, with me,’ and he slid down the nullah on his arse.

  ‘Come on, Thomas, no more heroics, eh? I wouldn’t want to have save you again, what.’ He slid over the edge of the nullah. Tommy followed, as did the Colour party and most of the men around him, including a lot of Grenadiers who were still fighting gallantly.

  Tommy reached the bottom and looked left and right along the dry water course and saw men everywhere, alive and dead, individual duels and battles. The lads from his regiment were not giving ground easily and Afghans were suffering terrible losses in their eagerness to destroy the 66th. He saw a horse limping along the nullah; it was McMath, surrounded by what was left of his company, and Tommy thought he looked in a proper shit state. His left arm was hanging down by his side; it looked to be nearly severed and he wondered if it had been cannon fire. He jogged over to him and stopped them man from nearly toppling from his horse.

  ‘Ah, Mr Evans, thank you, thank you.’

  ‘You should get that arm seen to, sir. Why don’t you ride to the baggage and get the Surgeon to take care of it?’

  ‘Do you know what, Mr Evans,’ he said hoarsely, ‘my friend Ernest Garratt fell before we reached this ditch. He had already been shot about the legs and yet still he rallied his men before he took a bullet to the head. Do you know, I think I fancy staying here with my men a little longer. To be sure, I don’t think they will cope without me, and besides, I like the view.’ He laughed and started coughing, and Tommy could see he had lost a lot of blood.

  ‘Now I do believe you are Rayner’s batman, are you not, so I think you should be with him and the Colour party. Me and my boys will hold this lot off for a little while yet. Now go on, off with you boy.’

  Tommy choked at this. He gently took McMath’s hand and said goodbye. He turned and trotted over to where the Colour party were reaching the outer part of the village. As he neared them, he couldn’t help but look back to McMath, but the horse he had been mounted on was riderless, surrounded by the remnants of D Company fighting to the death.

  ‘Thomas, come on, we must away,’ shouted Maurice. But as he was groping his way up the other side of the nullah, he felt hands grab his ankles and drag him back down. He turned as he crashed to the bottom and was rewarded with the snarling face of a Ghazi brandishing a long knife. Shit! He realised he had dropped the rifle on the way down. Without thinking, he jumped forward and slammed his fist into the mouth of the Afghan, removing some of his teeth in the process, but as he connected, he felt something collide with the side of his own head and he stumbled down onto one knee. He looked up, dazed, to see an Afghan regular about to strike him again, a rifle in his hand.

  ‘Oh shit!’

  At that point, an arm circled around the soldier’s throat from behind and pulled him backwards and down, whilst the other hand was punching a knife repeatedly into the Afghan’s kidneys.

  ‘There ye are, my little darlin’, have a little bit of that, ye heathen bastard.’

  Tommy was dazed, but he could see that the soldier who had just saved him was one Private Charles Croft, aka Charlie.

  ‘Well now, who do we have ’ere. Then. Oh, it’s Mr Lardy Da,’ Charlie said, as he lowered the now-murmuring Afghan to the ground. ‘This is not a friendly place to
be, chum, best we fucked off somewhere, eh?’

  Tommy’s head was clearing. Jesus, he thought, that was quite a knock.

  ‘After you, Charlie, me old mate.’

  ‘Best follow me, then Lardy Da, this way and pick up yer fuckin’ rifle.’

  Charlie moved off toward a less steep incline of the nullah. The two men had to duck from the pot shots the Afghans were taking at them, but they made significant progress until Tommy realised that some of the shots were coming from the village they were trying to reach. ‘Hang on, Charlie, if we climb that now, we’ll get picked off at the top.’

  ‘What the ’ell are yer on about, we ’ave to get to that village, chum. It’s where all the other fuckers are headed, aint it?’

  ‘There are fucking ragheads in the village, chum.’ Tommy instantly regretted saying this. ‘Look, mate, look at the smoke coming from those gardens.’ He pointed. ‘They are Afghans in there, and if we climb now, we’re dead men.’

  Charlie was looking round like a cornered rat. ‘What we supposed to do, then, eh? Tell me that.’

  Tommy looked around frantically and saw a chance. A group of Bombay Infantry were about to crest the nullah a little further on. This is our chance, he thought. They will draw their fire. It was wrong to think that way, he knew, but it was every man for himself now.

  ‘Get ready, Charlie.’ He gripped his rifle. ‘GO,’ he shouted, and sprang up and over the lip of the nullah, feet scrabbling in the dirt and rocks for purchase. He turned and dragged Charlie up by his arm and they both made a run to the nearest building. But halfway there, Charlie skidded to a halt, staring at a group of Ghazis attacking a lone soldier of the 66th, who was only just managing to fend them off with his bayonet.

  ‘Billy,’ he shouted, and started running at the nearest Ghazi.

  Tommy skidded to a stop. ‘Oh fuck it,’ he said, and started after Charlie, who had already reached the group of men and was laying into them with his bayonet. By the time Tommy arrived, two were already down, having been stabbed in the back, and Charlie was on the back of a third, a stocky man, and was trying to throttle him in a choke hold. Tommy launched himself at one of the others and stabbed at him with his rifle, but this one was no novice, and he parried Tommy’s bayonet with his knife. He backed off, and the Ghazi, with a face full of hate, charged at him, swinging wildly with his blade at his face. Tommy leaned back out of the way and swung his rifle around like a club, catching the man with enough force to put him over.

  Seeing his chance, he jumped over him and stabbed the bayonet down into and through the Ghazis white robe, through his chest and out the back into the dirt. It was a killing shot and the man died instantly. But the blade was well and truly stuck in the ground and in the man’s ribs.

  ‘Shit, c’mon you twat,’ he shouted, as he put his foot on the man’s chest and tried to pull the blade free. While he was doing this, he checked to see that no one was attacking him. That was when he heard Billy Davis shout in anger and saw him running toward Charlie and the big man he was fighting. The blade finally came free with a squelch, and he ran forward to where Billy was making a sort of grey porridge out of the big Ghazis head, or what was left of it. Tommy moved over to Charlie, who was in a foetal position, clutching his stomach. He gently moved his arms away and saw that the Ghazi had opened his gut, and he was trying to stop the contents falling out. ‘Shit, fucking shit,’ Tommy shouted.

  Charlie was shaking. ‘Oh, what a bastard he was, big fucker. Look after our Billy, eh?’

  ‘You can look after him yourself, mate, we just need to—’

  But Charlie’s head slumped sideways to the ground, and Tommy, after a few seconds, closed his eyelids.

  He stood and found Billy staring down at his friend. ‘I’m not leaving ya, Charlie, not for this heathen to hurt ya anymore.’

  ‘Billy, we have to move, mate, c’mon. He’s gone and we have to go.’

  ‘You had best be going then, Mr Mandrake,’ the moustache rumbled. ‘I will stay and look after our Charlie.’

  Tommy was in a predicament. He badly wanted to go but he couldn’t leave this big stupid oaf on his own, so he stood, loaded his rifle and watched as another group of Ghazis made their way towards him. He lifted his rifle and took aim at the nearest, catching him in the chest. He pulled the lever, expelled the casing and loaded another cartridge, fired and took another one through the shoulder. But when he tried to expel the casing, it wouldn’t budge.

  ‘Shitting hell!’

  He frantically cocked and uncocked the lever, but the casing would not move. He looked at the Ghazis stalking him. He looked behind and then looked at Billy, who, Tommy thought, was smiling again, his moustache bending up at the ends.

  ‘Bye bye, Mr Mandrake.’ And with that, Billy gave a powerful roar and ran at the Afghans, smashing them apart like bowling pins. Before Tommy could do anything else, Private William Davis of the 66th was swallowed up in a crowd of screaming bodies, slashing and stabbing. He disappeared from view.

  Tommy stood rooted to the spot. He couldn’t believe what the big man had done, and was overwhelmed with pity and gratitude. He wished he had never called him an oaf. Rifle fire broke through his reverie and he looked to the sound. It was the Colour party away to the left being engaged by Afghan regulars.

  ‘Shit! Maurice.’ Tommy dropped the useless rifle and ran towards the Colours.

  The little group of soldiers surrounding the regimental and Queen’s Colours was significantly reduced, Tommy thought, and was still moving backwards, firing all the time. They were still at the side of the nullah, not far from where McMath had fallen, and were not far from a small street with walled gardens on either side. Maurice was still there firing his pistol. Tommy grabbed a rifle from a dead soldier as he approached him.

  ‘Thomas, old chap.’ He stopped, took aim and fired. ‘Thought I’d lost you, old man, you have been missing all the fun, what.’

  Maurice was covered in dirt and his helmet was missing, but he still managed to be dignified.

  ‘Yeah, well, I had some of my own, thanks.’ He loaded his rifle, which he noticed was covered in blood, and shot at the nearest Afghan. ‘Why the fuck are we still here, Maurice? Let’s get going.’

  ‘Thomas, my dear, it won’t do for me to leave the Colonel. As you can see, he is injured.’ He fired his revolver again.

  Tommy looked to where he indicated and could see that Galbraith was on one knee and firing his pistol. The Colour bearers Olivey and Honywood were still with him, but Galbraith was holding the regimental Colours. Honywood looked as though he was sporting a wound to the leg. There were a number of soldiers surrounding him, as was Sergeant Major Cuppage, who, Tommy noticed, still looked as though he was on parade.

  ‘Maurice, if we don’t move pretty sharpish, we ain’t getting out of here.’

  Just then a shout went up, and Tommy turned to see Galbraith lying on his back. Shit! That’s that, then. He looked around at the other soldiers, thinking they would start running, but to his surprise they stood, and more came and stood around the body of Galbraith. What the hell is wrong with these people? he thought. Why can’t they just pack up and leg it?

  Honywood picked up the Colours and started waving them back and forth, shouting something Tommy couldn’t hear. He was also drawing a lot of attention from Afghan rifles. What a dick!

  The whole party began to move down the garden-lined street. Tommy followed Maurice, ducking every now and then from the bullets and shot whizzing by like wasps. Tommy spied a couple of Afghans moving at the other end of the street, so he knelt on one knee, sighted on the first man, fired and put him down. He quickly ejected the spent cartridge, loaded another and took aim. This is a fucking brilliant gun, he thought, as he fired and nearly took the leg off the second man. ‘Did you see that, Maurice? Now that was shooting, hey, Maurice,’ he turned. ‘I said did you—’

  Maurice was leaning against the wall of one of the enclosures, and for a moment Tommy couldn’t understand w
hy his friend was taking a break, until he noticed a large red stain spreading out from his right shoulder.

  Tommy dropped his rifle and dropped to his knees. ‘Shit, Maurice, you hit, mate?’

  Maurice was staring ahead with a look of pain on his face, his breathing shallow and extremely fast. Tommy quickly undid the buttons of his tunic to look at the wound; he gently pulled his shirt apart and saw the ragged gaping hole in his friend’s chest. Tommy couldn’t breathe for a second; he knew enough about battlefield triage to realise this was a killing wound, even in the twenty-first century. He couldn’t look Maurice in the eye, and felt tears prickling his own; he looked away and started to slam his fist into the mud road.

  ‘You fucking bastard. Fucking, shitting bastard, arghhhh!’

  ‘Thomas, old chap,’ he wheezed, and Tommy could hear a rattling sound coming from his chest, ‘I wouldn’t damage those things, you know, they’re worth far too much money, what’.

  Tommy stopped and became silent, tears running freely down his face.

  ‘Thomas, I know the wound is grievous, I cannot focus my eyes properly and I am feeling rather cold.’ He coughed then, and a globule of bloody sputum dribbled out of his lips.

  Tommy looked him in the eyes and could see them dimming slowly. ‘Maurice, I can’t help you, mate, the wound’s too bad. I, I can’t, I, sorry, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Perhaps now I can look my father in the face, what,’ breathed Maurice.

  Tommy stifled a sob.

  ‘All will be well, Thomas,’ he coughed. ‘Our paths must now separate.’

  The sound of rifle fire was building in the background, and Tommy turned to see Cuppage near a garden, holding onto the Queen’s Colour.