by Jan Needle
After many minutes, the soldier decided that he must move, must find different shelter, must find shelter somewhere else. After many minutes more, he knew it was impossible. Here he must stay, to see what was in store for him. Here he must stay.
He looked across at the blue-grey material he had left behind him when he moved, the scarf which the boy who played at soldiers had not seen, or had not been warned by. He almost smiled. Poor boy. A real soldier would not have made that mistake.
The smile died. A real soldier, perhaps, would have killed those children, to avoid detection. Truly, it had been the only way. And he had not done it.
After a few minutes more, he set himself this objective: one thing and one thing only he would do, he must. He would crawl across and reach that scarf, and hide it in his pocket. Never more would it give him away. Then later, if he had the strength, he would move back to this position. So that if their soldiers came, the ones the children would surely call – if they came he could…
Who knew?
Down at the sea den, Sarah was watching Michael’s face with ever more amazement – but he would not meet her eye. Thomas, who’d got bored with their discussion after they’d forced him to agree about the need for secrecy, was trying to hit sea birds with stones. But he was listening, all the same.
‘All right then, Michael,’ Sarah said, her voice tight and edgy. ‘If you’ve got a plan, tell me it!’
Michael’s voice was too quiet for Thomas to catch, so he picked up another rock and turned to them.
Sarah had not heard, either. Or could not believe it. She was pale.
‘Did I hear you right, Michael?’ she said. ‘Would you repeat that, please?’
Thomas glanced from face to face. It was good, this. Michael looked at Sarah, defiantly. He looked at her and spoke. His voice was clear and loud.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I will repeat it. I said we’ve got to kill him, Sarah.’
Thomas dropped his stone.
‘We’ve got to kill the soldier.’
Chapter Seven
For a moment, Thomas was horrified. Then he was delighted. Sarah was going to blow her top. Now they’d have some fun! He secretly thought that she could batter Michael, if she put her mind to it. It would be a smashing fight to watch.
Then, to his disappointment, Sarah’s expression changed. She said quietly: ‘You’re joking aren’t you, Michael? You’re trying to pull my leg.’
Michael faced up to her. It was like a school discussion, Thomas thought, when they were going through a project with a teacher. He’d much rather have seen a fight.
‘No, Sarah,’ Michael replied . ‘I’m serious.’
‘You’re disgusting, then,’ said Sarah. ‘You want to see a doctor, you do. You’re sick.’
She turned away. Michael grinned at Thomas. He made a ‘screwy’ sign with his finger at his temple, and pointed at her back. Thomas nodded vigorously.
‘Look,’ said Michael, in a voice of sweet reason. ‘Look, Sarah, either way he dies, doesn’t he? If we leave him, he dies of cold and starves. How long does an injured sheep last if it gets lost up here? And he hasn’t even got a fur coat like a sheep. He’s a man.’
Sarah rounded on him furiously.
‘Yes,’ she shouted. ‘He’s a man! He’s a human being! And what are you saying – we’ve got to kill him! You’re crazy, Michael. You’re disgusting.’
He waited for the flash of anger to pass. He kept his cool. He chose his time.
‘Look,’ he went on. ‘Yes, all that’s true. But answer me. What’s the choices? I’m right, aren’t I? If we leave him, he dies of cold or starves. Doesn’t he, Sarah? Doesn’t he? How long do you think he’d last out?’
She did not answer. Michael smiled at Thomas, and put his finger to his lips: don’t you say anything, he signalled.
‘All right,’ he went on. ‘So if we leave him he dies. And if we tell on him – what then? The hotheads get him, that’s what. That Mr Gregory and his gang. Even Thomas’s Dad maybe – how would he go on if he knew he’d fired at his darling lickle son?’
Cripes, thought Thomas. Hey, that’s right! His Dad wouldn’t stand for anything like that. He’d be furious! He was about to say so, but Sarah got in first.
‘What do you mean, “fired at”?’ she demanded. She turned and faced Michael, her face red. ‘You know damn well he didn ‘t mean to kill us, Michael. His gun went off, that’s all. He’s sick. He’s wounded.’
Thomas burst out: ‘You’re stupid, Sarah! Of course he tried to kill us! It’s his job!’
Michael smiled.
‘Well even if he didn’t,’ he said, ‘it’s only luck we lived to tell the tale, isn’t it? And it would still’ve been murder, wouldn’t it? If the bullet had killed Tommy, say?’
Sarah was confused.
‘But he’s a wounded man,’ she said. ‘He looked terrible. I think he must have been shot or something.’
‘If he was shot it was our side what did it, though,’ said Thomas. He was excited by his own cleverness. ‘Because he was shooting them. He’s the enemy. He murders British soldiers.’
‘Exactly,’ said Michael. ‘If you think about it, Sarah, he’s out to kill the lot of us in the end. He’s here to ruin and destroy.’
‘Yeah,’ said Thomas, eagerly. ‘He’s a rapist and desp—’
‘Shut up Thomas, yeah,’ said Michael. ‘They’ve ruined everything, and we didn’t ask them in, did we? They’ve invaded us and mucked the place up. They’ve smashed the radios, and the phones, and they’ve stole stuff and killed sheep and messed up lots of houses. And there’s mines all over, and the beaches are ruined, and the lot. They’ve wrecked the place.’
‘My Dad says it’s wrecked for good,’ said Thomas. ‘Even when the Brits have seen them off. Even when the gurkhas have slit their throats and chucked them in the sea. It’ll be years before it’s safe again. The mines are everywhere. They’ve ruinated everything.’
Sarah’s parents would agree with that, she knew. They reckoned it was even worse. Whoever won the war, if the place was turned into some kind of fort, or garrison, it was finished. There’d be soldiers and sailors everywhere, drunk and bored, fighting and smashing and stealing. And there’d be workers brought in to build roads and airports, and the place would be like a seaport or a Wild West town. It would be violent and full of crime.
Seeing her deep in thought, Michael continued the attack. He did it craftily, he did not rant. He kept his reasonable, I’ve-thought-it-through approach.
‘Thomas is right, see,’ he said. ‘There’s no denying it. He might be a human being, like you said, but he’s still a murderer, he’s got to be, it’s his job. He could’ve killed dozens of soldiers for all we know, couldn’t he? If he’s been hit, it’s his own fault in a way. He shouldn’t be here, should he?’
‘But to kill him, Michael. That’s appalling.’
Thomas said: ‘He’ll die anyw—’
‘Shut up, Thomas. Look, Sarah, it’ll help him, in a way. A quick, clean… Look, anyway, it’s our duty. It’s our patriotic duty, to do our bit, to show the grown-ups that we care.’
Sarah did not answer. She was looking at the sand beneath her feet.
‘We’ve got to swear,’ said Michael. ‘We’ve got to form a solemn ring and swear.’
She glanced up, as if to argue.
‘And if you don’t swear,’ he said. ‘You’re not a patriot. You’re a traitor.’
It had taken the soldier half an hour to reach his scarf, but now he had it. He lay face downwards on the earth, holding it to his mouth and nose. It was a present from his family, and faintly, very faintly, it still smelled of home.
After a few minutes, he transferred it to the side pocket of his combat coat, where he kept his other precious item, the cassette player, and he let his fingers feel that, gently, for a while. Earlier, some days ago, he had had another treasure, a pocket diary that he wrote his thoughts in, to show his brother and sisters when he return
ed home. But he had lost that, or someone had stolen it, maybe, to make cigarette papers from the leaves.
His sickness and exhaustion came and went in long waves. At the moment, the soldier did not feel unwell, was not in much great pain, but was very heavy. There was high sun on his back, and he was warm and sleepy. He knew he should get back, take up his best position of defence. He yawned. He listened to the wind.
He slept.
Sarah finally agreed to swear because she could see no other way. Some of the things Michael said revolted her, others she did not believe, and she also knew he was deliberately not considering some of the possibilities.
But if she did not swear, one thing was bound to happen. Michael and Thomas would tell their parents, if only to spite her. Sarah could not imagine what would happen then, but the prospect frightened her. Whether or not the Foster’s Landing tale was true, she did not trust Mr Wyatt an inch. She had often heard her parents talk about him, and sometimes she had been allowed to join in. Mr Wyatt was capable of anything.
Before she agreed though, Sarah insisted on some conditions that would buy time. Although she did not fully know how, she could sense that that was vital. Nothing must be allowed to happen in a rush.
‘All right, you’ve convinced me,’ she lied to Michael. ‘But before we do it, we’ve got to get some food and drink for him, and make him comfortable.’
‘But that’s daft,’ said Thomas, disappointed. ‘Why waste time? Let’s do our patriotic duty now.’
It had occurred to him that patriotic duty was a good excuse. If there was any trouble over this, even Dad couldn’t get het up if he’d been doing his patriotic duty. He was a patriot himself, was Dad, a proper one, it meant lot to him. The sooner they could do it, the sooner he’d feel safe.
Michael was not taken in by Sarah, but he was happy enough she’d agreed to swear. If she had any secret plans he could still outwit her. And if she was hoping he’d just get fed up of it, she had another think coming. He could handle her delaying tactics.
‘You’re nuts, you are,’ he said, just for the sake of it. ‘That’s not logical.’
‘Never you mind,’ replied Sarah, calmly. ‘Either we get him some food and stuff and a blanket, or I’m not swearing. Take it or leave it.’
To stop them arguing, Thomas said: ‘I’ve got them matches in my room. I nicked them three weeks ago. We could light a fire, warm him up.’
‘Good idea,’ said Sarah. ‘Warm us up, an’all. This wind’s bitter.’
‘Suit yourselves, then,’ said Michael. ‘I think you’re both a pair of weeds, but suit yourselves. Now – how are we going to swear?’ He pulled his knife out. ‘Shall we cut our fingers? Do a blood swear?’
A look of panic crossed Thomas’s face.
‘Do we have to? I might be sick.’
Sarah laughed. Great little murderer he was going to be. She did not say so, though.
‘Hands in the middle, fingers touching, no cuts,’ she said. ‘We’ll have all the blood we’ll ever need later, won’t we? Michael?’
He made a face at her, but he gave in
‘Right,’ he said.
They walked three times round in one direction, three times in the other.
‘I swear,’ said Michael. ‘To kill the soldier.’
They walked three times back, then round once more.
‘I swear,’ said Thomas. ‘To kill the soldier.’
They walked three times one way, reversed, and three times back again.
‘I swear,’ said Sarah.
She stopped. The others did not speak. Their fingers were all still touching.
‘To kill the soldier,’ Sarah said.
She pulled her hand away, slapping it noisily against her thigh.
‘I’m going home to get the stuff,’ she said. ‘I’ll get food and tea and a kettle and stuff. And some blankets.’
‘What’s up, Sarah?’ Michael asked, sarcastically. ‘Don’t you trust us to get anything?’
‘Yes,’ said Sarah. ‘I trust Thomas to get some matches and some paper, to start the fire with. You, no, I don’t trust you. You just wait, I won’t be long.’
‘We’ll meet halfway down the moor the shelter’s on,’ said Michael. ‘And for God’s sake don’t let him see you, right? Apart from anything else, you might get shot.’
‘Teach your auntie to milk cows,’ said Sarah. She pushed between them and climbed rapidly over a dune. She disappeared.
As she set off for home, away from the sand and sea, she heard Michael shouting after her.
‘You can’t go back on a swear, remember! You can’t got back on a swear.’
Then she was alone.
Chapter Eight
The soldier rose through the depths of sleep fast and terrified. He had been dreaming; frightening, fractured dreams, about war and death. But suddenly, the dream changed. It became real.
He surfaced, and awoke, fully aware of what he had done. He had left his rifle propped against the wall. When he had crawled to get the scarf – he had left his rifle.
The soldier lay on the ground, and lifted his head. Waves of nausea swept through him, followed by a raw pain from his wounded leg. He was in a trough, he was fevered, appallingly ill. The sleep, far from making him fitter, had brought in the next wave of pain and discomfort.
Through blurred eyes, he saw the rifle, resting against the wall by the doorway. Not three metres distant, but a lifetime. How could he have forgotten it, how?
Dimly, he remembered. He had used it to lever himself to his knees when he had made his attempt for the scarf. He had pushed the muzzle into a crack in the wall, then lifted it, step by step, resting it on a higher stone each time, until it formed a bar he could pull himself up on. When he had set off to crawl across the shelter – he had forgotten it.
Now, it would be impossible to reach until the next wave came, the wave of comparative well-being. But he knew he could not wait. He could not lie here without a weapon, in full view of anyone who came through the outer door. That was insane.
So he breathed deeply. For two minutes, three, five. He pulled in air slowly until his lungs were full, then gently expended it. From time to time the rhythm broke, he panted nauseously. But gradually his eyes began to clear.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, the soldier moved one leg, then the other. Sweat broke out on his forehead, but he moved. He closed his eyes and prayed for many seconds, and then he moved again. He moved.
Michael was on his RT set. Thomas stood at a respectful distance – officer and man – and listened. He wished he could have a go sometimes, but Michael never let him. Maybe after they’d done all this together…
‘Patrol to base, patrol to base,’ said Michael. ‘I read you loud and clear. I will stand guard over the enemy. I will stand guard. Roger and out.’
He clicked the switch to ‘off’ and turned to Thomas. He pulled the headphones off.
‘Hey, it’s great this, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘It’s not a game any more. It’s real. Absolutely ace.’
Thomas nodded enthusiastically. Then he voiced the little doubt he had.
‘Do…do you think she’ll do it, though? Do you think she’ll go through with it?’
‘She promised, didn’t she?’ said Michael. ‘She swore like the rest of us. Death to the enemy! Fantastic!’
He clenched his fist into a glorious salute. It irritated him to see that Thomas still was not convinced. He’d not have thought that he was bright enough.
‘Only when you gave in about the food, though,’ said Thomas. ‘That seems daft to me, to get him food and drink and blankets. Then to kill him. It’s potty.’
Michael gave a laugh that he hoped sounded like his father’s.
‘Female logic, Thomas. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. But it does no harm to humour them, I always say. Don’t worry your head about it.’
‘Mm,’ went Thomas. Then: ‘I could see her point in a way, though. I mean, him with the gun and that. And u
s with nothing. It might lull him into a sense of false…thingy. Mightn’t it?’
‘A sense of false security,’ said Michael. ‘Yeah, course it might. He might even go off to kip if he’s got some food in him, who knows? That’d make life easier.’ He grinned. ‘For us!’
Thomas swallowed. Michael still looked happy, and relaxed, as if nothing was about to happen. The butterflies in his own stomach were turning cartwheels.
He said quietly: ‘She didn’t give you a lot of choice, in the end, did she? It was either you give in – or no swearing.’
Michael was getting the drift. He could smell blue funk. He told Thomas airily: ‘Don’t kid yourself. I’d’ve talked her round. I was dead crafty, you know. Like all that crap about him being a human being and so on. He’s just a bloody murderer, but I didn’t say so, did I? It serves him right if he’s been shot. It serves him right to suffer, he ought to die in rotten agony, he’s a prisoner of war. But I didn’t say so, did I? I didn’t frighten Auntie Sarah off.’
Thomas shook his head. He shivered, and pulled his hat down further over his ears. A cloud covered the sun. It was freezing. Michael took him by the arm, not gently.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘You think that too, don’t you? You think he deserves to suffer? You’re not a dirty traitor are you, Thomas Wyatt?’
Thomas jerked his arm away.
‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Course I’m not. I’m just cold, that’s all.’
‘Good. Cause if you are...’
Michael left the rest unsaid. They both moved into a sheltered spot behind the dune while the sun was covered. The seabirds screamed.
‘Michael?’
‘Yeah?’
‘How you… How we...? What exactly are we going to do? To…you know? Kill him. How do you kill a man?’
Michael sat down on a hummock.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘There’s lots of ways, aren’t there? I mean, it would be easier if he didn’t have the gun, granted. Maybe we can let you sneak up on him, and snatch the thing away!’
