A Game of Soldiers

by Jan Needle

  Thomas had to tag along; he had to work this out.

  ‘But he’s a murderer,’ he said pathetically. ‘He’s killed British soldiers in cold blood. It’s him who’s a monster, not us. We swore an oath.’

  ‘Listen, Thomas,’ Sarah said. ‘I’m not angry, honestly, but you must hurry up. Look, you’re just a kid, right? You don’t understand. Michael is a nutcase. It’s all a silly game. No one’s killing anyone, got it? Nobody. We’ve got to save this soldier, nothing else. He’s cold and hungry and wounded. We’ve got to save his life. Now move!’

  ‘Save him?’ he said. ‘But we can’t! We can’t! Sarah. We can’t save his life…’

  It felt to Michael as if he had been looking down the rifle-barrel at the soldier’s face for a lifetime. It felt as if his finger on the trigger would break with tension. Bone of skull, brown, dirty, stubble-covered cheek, the eyes closed and, underneath the eyelids, trembling. The first pressure on the trigger had been easy. But his finger, aching and bent, was paralysed.

  ‘You’re the enemy,’ Michael whispered. And the eyes, beneath the grey, exhausted eyelids, fluttered.

  When they opened, it took them several seconds to focus on Michael’s own. Michael could not even blink. They stared at each other for a long long moment, neither moving nor speaking.

  Then, very slowly, Michael took his finger from the trigger, and his hand from the stock. The rifle was heavy, his arms ached. He held it in his left hand, then bent his knees and placed it on the ground. He stood up.

  Unsmiling, and in a dry and croaking voice, the soldier asked him: ‘Why did you not? Boy? Why did you not?’

  Rage and shame filled Michael. He had failed. He was racked with anger and self-disgust. He hated the soldier, lying there, grey-faced and despairing, he hated him enough to…

  ‘It’s not fair,’ he shouted. ‘We swore an oath. To do it together. I can’t kill you on my own, it’s not fair on the others.’

  The soldier stared at him, uncomprehending.

  ‘You wouldn’t understand it,’ Michael went on in fury. ‘You couldn’t because it’s honour, see? We’re not savages. You just wouldn’t understand.’

  The soldier’s face was sad, immobile. He moved his head slightly. Michael saw that his eyes were full of tears.

  The soldier said: ‘Help me. Please. I am very cold.Help me.’

  Chapter Ten

  It took Sarah ages to find out just what was up with Thomas, but she got there in the end. The last time she had left him, to hurry on, Thomas had not followed. After walking for a while, she had turned round, expecting him to be there. But he was lying on a grassy knoll, his head covered by his arms.

  ‘Thomas,’ she shrieked. ‘Come on! You’ve got the sandwiches!’

  He had not come, and she had gone back. Her anger evaporated when she saw his face. He looked terror-stricken.

  ‘What’s up, Tom?’ she asked. ‘Now what is it? Look, we’ve got to hurry, don’t you understand?’

  ‘It’s you that doesn’t understand,’ said Thomas. ‘We’ve got to kill him because I ran away. My Mum caught me with the matches, she found me. They were in my hand, in my bedroom, they were all over the floor.’

  ‘You poor thing,’ said Sarah. ‘You must have been scared. But never mind the matches, that’s just too bad. Let’s shift, Thomas.’

  He flashed a look of temper at her.

  ‘You idiot,’ he snapped. ‘I ran away. She told me I wasn’t to move, I was to stay there till my Dad came back. And I didn’t. I ran away to you. So we’ve got to kill the soldier or they’ll kill me. It’s our patriotic duty. Even my Dad won’t hit me if I do something as good as that. Otherwise I… Sarah, I ran away.’

  Sarah was sympathetic, but she was also dead worried. If Mrs Wyatt had spoken to Thomas, questioned him… She took his wrist.

  ‘Look, Thomas,’ she said. ‘Answer me something straight. Dead straight. What did you tell your mother? About why you wanted matches? What did you say?’

  The speed of Thomas’s answer made her stomach sink.

  ‘Nothing! I didn’t tell her nothing! I said…I said…’

  ‘Yes? You said what?’

  ‘I said we… I said…’ His face cleared. He’d had an idea. ‘I didn’t say anything. I ran straight away!’

  ‘You did not run straight away,’ said Sarah, sternly. ‘Because, remember, your mother told you to wait for your Dad. Tell me the truth, Thomas. It’s urgent.’

  Thomas stuck his lower lip out.

  ‘You can’t make me,’ he muttered. ‘Anyway—’

  Sarah lost her rag. She threw the blanket and stuff to the ground and seized him roughly by the arm. She made a fist and held it in his face.

  ‘You told her, didn’t you? You told her!’

  Thomas caved in. He began to whimper.

  ‘She didn’t believe me, Sarah! I swear it! I said it was a game!’

  Sarah let her fist drop to her side. She was limp, the fury drained away.

  ‘You told her there was a soldier, injured on the moors. Oh my God.’

  Thomas was ashamed.

  ‘I said it was pretend, Sarah. I swear it, I swear. She didn’t believe me, honestly.’

  Sarah was no longer facing him.

  ‘You gutless little swine, Thomas,’ she said flatly. ‘You gutless little swine.’

  ‘But I’m here,’ squawked Thomas, appalled by the unfairness of this. Would she dare to disobey an order? ‘I’m here, so how can I be gutless? I ran away from Mum! And when she tells my…’

  Sarah was sunk in gloom.

  ‘Yeah, and where is your Dad exactly?’ she muttered. ‘Oh God. Oh never mind. Oh glory hallelujah.’

  Thomas whispered: ‘I only did it ‘cause we’re going to kill him. I’m not a coward, honestly. I ran away from Mum.’

  In her kitchen, Mrs Wyatt stared into a cupboard. Two shotguns were leaning against the wall, and she had a box of cartridges in her hand, half open.

  ‘He’s such a terrible little liar,’ she said. ‘It’s just a stupid lie.’

  She pulled a cartridge from the box and tapped her teeth with it. She wondered whether to go and question Thomas some more.

  ‘No, he’ll want that,’ she decided. ‘He’d like to have a chat. I’ll leave him stewing in his juice.’

  She pushed the cartridge back among the others, but she put them on the kitchen table, not into the cupboard.

  ‘I’ll wait until his Dad gets home,’ she said.

  In the shelter, Michael had managed to make the soldier comfortable. He had helped him to a wall where the sun still reached, he had pulled him up until his back was straight, and he had wrapped his clothes around him to give him the best possible protection from the chilling draughts that got in through the broken walls.

  Best of all, Michael had lit a fire. For the soldier had had some matches, in a tin that smelled of tobacco. He had rattled the tin feebly, until Michael had caught on, and opened it.

  ‘Empty,’ he’d said, disappointed. ‘You want to smoke? No cigarettes.’

  The soldier had smiled, a painful smile. He had shaken his head.

  ‘Flames,’ he said. ‘Warm. Flames.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Michael. ‘Yeah! Great! I’ll light a fire.’

  Gathering small wood had taken a good few minutes, then he had broken off some bigger pieces from the old roof timbers. Every time he had caught the soldier’s eye, they had smiled at each other, and nodded. ‘Good’, and ‘Good boy’ would say the soldier. ‘Yeah’, and ‘Great’ Michael would reply.

  Then a handful of dried grass from the corner, and the flames had taken. Michael had worried momentarily about the smoke, but what could he do? Anyway, he’d gone outside and looked, and there was nothing visible, nothing to give them away. The keen strong wind blew the smoke to nothing very quickly.

  When the fire was going well, they had tried to have a conversation. But it was not much good. Although the soldier was not in agony at the moment, as far as
Michael could tell, he could hardly speak a word in English. At times, even ‘good boy’ was too much for him. Of his language, Michael knew nothing.

  Then, with a sudden smile, the soldier patted his combat jacket pocket. Slowly, he reached into it. Slowly he pulled out his cassette recorder. Still smiling, he offered it to Michael.

  ‘Is ma…is mother,’ he said, quietly. ‘She say…she say, when come home?’

  Michael, prepared, did not expect to hear pop music when he pressed the switch. But on the tape there were snatches of music, and many different voices. The word ‘Maria’ occurred a lot.

  After a short while, the sound distorted slightly. He switched the cassette off quickly. The batteries sounded weak. He smiled.

  ‘Maria?’ he asked. ‘Is that your mother, then? Or your…?’

  The soldier shook his head, slowly. He pointed to his chest.

  ‘Maria,’ he said. ‘My is Maria. You?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Michael, confused. ‘Me Michael. I—’

  Like an echo, his name sounded again. Michael jumped.

  ‘Crikey!’ he said. ‘It must be Sarah and Thomas! Hang on a second.’

  It was too late for him to pretend he had been keeping guard. Sarah came straight in with the blanket, the kettle, and the water bottle, and he did not dare to tell her off for approaching so carelessly. Thomas slunk in a second later. He went and sat in the shadow in a corner.

  ‘Quick,’ said Sarah. ‘We’ve got some food. Oh! You’ve got the fire going!’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Michael. ‘He had some matches in a tin.’

  He was feeling nervous, and ashamed again. He did not know how Sarah would react to what had happened. She was looking round, staring at the soldier, staring at everything.

  Michael said: ‘Look, Sarah. I’m sorry. I got his gun all right, but I…well I… Look, I couldn’t kill him.’

  Sarah gave him an odd look, and laughed.

  ‘Of course you couldn’t, you fool,’ she said. She held out the blanket. ‘Just get this round his legs while I put the kettle on. Of course you couldn’t kill him.’

  Michael took the blanket, but he did not unfold it.

  ‘You understand?’ he said. ‘You’re not…?’

  ‘Oh just get the blanket down,’ said Sarah. She poured some water into the kettle, then placed it carefully on the fire. ‘I’ve got some sandwiches as well, but no milk. Thomas had to spill it, didn’t he?’

  She glared at Thomas in his corner, and added with heavy sarcasm: ‘Oh yes, we understand, don’t we, Thomas? We understand perfectly.’

  Michael looked from one of them to the other. He opened out the blanket.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said. ‘And I don’t know what’s going on. What’s up with him?’

  Sarah rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand.

  ‘He’s told,’ she said. ‘That’s what’s up with him, Michael. He’s told his rotten mother.’

  Mrs Wyatt decided to have another word with Thomas when she saw the family Land Rover crossing the field towards the back gate. She opened his bedroom door quietly, in case he’d gone to sleep. When she discovered that he’d run away, she was filled with anger. Then with fear.

  At first her husband could hardly believe what she was telling him. Then, as he questioned her, he loaded both the shotguns and filled his pockets with cartridges.

  ‘There’s Army all around,’ he said. ‘They’re crawling about all over the place. If they come here before I meet up with them, tell them what you know. Either way we’ll—’

  He pushed a shotgun into his wife’s hands.

  ‘Up that way then, you reckon? Is that the direction they go to play? Oh, if I catch that little devil first I’ll...’

  She touched his arm.

  ‘Be careful with him, Jim,’ she said. ‘Don’t go crazy with him.’

  Mr Wyatt looked at her coldly.

  ‘I’ll slaughter him,’ he said. ‘If he comes back, hide him, that’s all. Keep him from my sight.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Normally, Michael would probably have done something to Thomas, but this time he was at a loss. He glanced into the shadow, then at Sarah. Sarah shrugged.

  ‘What can you say?’ she said. ‘I nearly killed him when he admitted it, but what can you say?’

  ‘But…but. He’s told her? What does that…? What’ll happen now? Hell, Sarah! What are we going to do?’

  Sarah walked over to Thomas and took the sandwiches from him. She rapidly opened the paper. She approached the soldier, shyly. He looked ill, and agonized, but he tried to smile at her.

  Sarah handed a single sandwich to him, and the soldier took it. She noticed that his hand was filthy, and that it was shaking.

  ‘Here, Mister,’ she said. ‘Eat some food.’ She smiled, politely. ‘It’s corned beef. You’ll like that, won’t you?’

  Sickly, the soldier returned the smile. He slowly raised the sandwich to his mouth, and when it was there, he parted his lips. Hardly wide enough, however, for the sandwich to go in. He pressed the bread against his lips, until he could bite. Sarah, embarrassed, turned away.

  ‘Thank you,’ the soldier said. ‘Good children. Thank you.’

  Sarah turned back to him. The sandwich, hardly touched, was by his mouth. His eyes were intensely brown. She could not look at him. Seeing her expression, the soldier moved the sandwich to his mouth once more.

  ‘Your friend,’ he whispered. He moved his eyes to indicate Michael. ‘Your friend. Good boy.’

  Then, as if to please her, to reassure her, he opened his mouth wider. He slowly bit the sandwich.

  ‘Sarah?’ said Michael. ‘What’s going to happen? What did his mother say?’

  ‘Thomas says she didn’t believe him,’ said Sarah. She walked rapidly from the soldier, left him to try and eat. She wondered if she should break the meat up smaller for him, or what else she should do. It was easier to talk to Michael.

  ‘He says she didn’t believe him, but she sent him to his room and then he ran away. And when she finds that out, when she finds he’s done a bunk, that’s it, isn’t it? All hell breaks loose. They’ll be here soon, they’re bound to be. We’ve got to save him, Michael. We’ve got to.’

  ‘Who’ll be looking? Mr Wyatt and the other lunatics? But they’ll—’

  Sarah shushed him fiercely. Thomas was scared enough of his father already. He mustn’t hear this.

  But Thomas wasn’t listening. Fascinated, he was watching the soldier. He could not eat, Thomas could tell, he couldn’t get his mouth to work. Slowly, Thomas moved towards him, and held his hand out.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Let me. I’ll get the meat out of it for you.’

  The soldier didn’t understand, but he gave the sandwich up. Thomas separated the bread quickly, and pulled out a small lump of beef. He put it between the soldier’s lips. The man began to chew.

  ‘There,’ said Thomas. ‘Finish that and I’ll give you a drink of water until your tea gets made.’

  The soldier swallowed painfully, then parted his lips for more.

  ‘Thomas’s Dad would probably be all right,’ said Sarah, although she didn’t believe it, really. She checked that Thomas was still not listening. ‘The Army’d be all right as well I expect, because they’ve got rules. They’d make him into a prisoner of war or something. But if Thom…if that Gregory and his gang… You know, the hotheads… Well…’

  Michael made sure his voice was low.

  ‘You don’t think they’d actually…? You know. You don’t believe they really…? Over at Foster’s Landing? When they found those others? You know…killed—’

  ‘Ssssh!’ went Sarah, violently. ‘Look, of course I don’t! People don’t do things like that really! But they might be…angry, you know. Cruel. I mean, if Tommy’s Dad thought— If your Dad, even…’

  She stopped. Michael, without meaning to, caught her eye.

  ‘If your Dad, ‘ he breathed. ‘If he thought you were in dan
ger. If he—’

  Sarah interrupted him, her voice quite loud.

  ‘We’ve got to get him somewhere safe,’ she said. ‘Soldiers or whatever, he’s just a boy, Michael, on his own. We’ve got to—’

  ‘Soldiers! You talk soldiers?’

  They both jumped. His eyes were on them. Thomas was beside him, the cassette-player headphones in his hand.

  ‘No,’ it came out as a frightened croak. ‘You no tell the Army. Please. No tell the Army.’

  Michael tried to sound jovial. He made a gesture with his hand.

  ‘All right, Maria,’ he said loudly. ‘You’ll be all right. Don’t you worry, eat your sandwiches.’

  The soldier did not eat. He stared at them.

  ‘Maria?’ said Sarah.

  ‘That’s his name,’ said Michael. Then he added, uncertainly: ‘I think.’

  Thomas got up off his knees.

  ‘But that’s a girl’s name,’ he said.

  ‘Oh shut up, Tom,’ said Michael, tiredly. ‘Look, come outside the pair of you. Quickly. We’ve got to talk.’

  Mr Wyatt drove the Land Rover through the stream so fast that water sprayed over the windscreen. He cursed as the vehicle jerked sideways and he slid bodily across the seat.

  ‘Wounded soldier on the moor,’ he muttered. ‘If he’s telling stories I’ll—’

  He slammed the engine into a lower gear and stamped on the accelerator. As he bounced round a bend in the track he saw movement ahead.

  ‘Aha,’ he said. He reached for the horn button. ‘At long long bloody last.’

  Michael and Thomas and Sarah looked down the long moor. The sun was past its best now, and there were huge cloud shadows racing across the grass. Outside the shelter, it was getting very cold. Michael pointed the stick he was carrying at Thomas’s chest.

  ‘Remember, Thomas,’ he said. ‘One more chance. Go down to the bottom, and watch. If you see anyone moving, anyone, get back here and warn us.’

  He stabbed with the stick. Thomas flinched.

  ‘And Thomas. If there is anyone, no matter who, don’t let them see which way you go. Get back here fast, and don’t be seen, got it? Under any circumstances.’