Forever the Colours

FOREVER THE
COLOURS

Forever the Colours

THAMES RIVER PRESS
An imprint of Wimbledon Publishing Company Limited (WPC)
Another imprint of WPC is Anthem Press (
www.anthempress.com
)
First published in the United Kingdom in 2013 by
THAMES RIVER PRESS
75–76 Blackfriars Road
London SE1 8HA

www.thamesriverpress.com

© Richard Thomas 2013

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced
in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.

The moral rights of the author have been asserted in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All the characters and events described in this novel are imaginary
and any similarity with real people or events is purely coincidental.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-1-78308-163-9

This title is also available as an eBook

FOREVER
THE
COLOURS

RICHARD THOMAS

For my father the storyteller.
My inspiration.

“On the 30th October [1878] the ultimatum was despatched to Sher Ali, informing him that, unless his acceptance of the conditions were received by the Viceroy not later than the 20th November, he would be treated by the British Government as a declared enemy.”

—Field Marshal Lord Roberts, 1897

“The battle is now joined on many fronts. We will not waver, we will not tire, we will not falter, and we will not fail. Peace and freedom will prevail.”

—George W. Bush, 2001

Prologue

I
t
was just out of reach, no more than a hand span away. His fingers desperately clawed at the sand and gravel, fingernails tearing and ripping off. With a desperation made of pure will-power, he levered his body forward using his elbows as pivots and managed another couple of inches towards his target. ‘Hail Mary, full of grace, Hail Mary, full of grace,' he choked in between sobbing breaths.

He reached out and winced at the sudden electrifying pain that exploded between his shoulder blades. Once again he reached back to try and remove the object that had been so cruelly punched into his back, but found he couldn't. His legs were useless; he hadn't felt them for some time now, and they were dragging along behind like unwanted passengers. He tried to take a breath but only managed a lung full of sand and dirt; he coughed and nearly fainted with the pain.

It was close now. His vision was dimming, the day turning to twilight, but through the tears he could see just how close it was. One more push and he would be there. He lifted himself again, shakily onto his elbows, his strength ebbing swiftly, and he found he could hardly keep his head up. ‘Hail Mary, full of grace,' he pulled again, gritting his teeth at the agony emanating from his body. He slumped down, face resting in the dirt. He was going; he knew he didn't have long. He listened to the sounds around him, the screaming and laughing. He was taken back to May Day celebrations: the screaming boys and girls, whirling around the maypole on the village green, good food, ale, games and Annie. He would miss Annie.

He lifted his head weakly. There it was, right there in front of him. He pushed his hand out toward it, closer, closer. His fingers touched the material. He caressed it, grabbed it in his fist; relief washed over him and he smiled despite the pain. He gently pulled the once-colourful cloth toward him. It slipped, so he gripped it harder; it was difficult as it was wet, covered in warm butter, he thought.

Not far now. If he could just rest his head on it, he was sure he would feel better. It stopped, and found he couldn't move it. A curious pain, a new pain, crept up from his fist. What now, he thought, and looked to find his fingers being broken and crushed by a sandaled foot. It was grinding and pushing his broken bones into the dirt. He sobbed, not for the pain, but for the loss of the precious article he had given his last breaths trying to reach.

‘Gawd help me.'

The soldier didn't feel a thing as the blade swooped down and plunged into the back of his neck…

Chapter 1

Shaman

S
weat!
  He could feel it sliding down his right temple and down his cheek, to disappear inside his collar, which was already soaked with body oils. He sniffed and found he was starting to smell like his dog's bed blanket. What a fucking dump! Thomas ‘Tommy' Evans was twenty-four years of age, a carpenter's son and a soldier, and the last place he wanted to be at that moment was where he actually found himself. There wasn't one redeeming feature about it, and the words hot, dusty, shit-smelling, fly-infested and pig sty sprung to mind. He had never gotten used to the smell of cow or goat shit, or whatever the hell shit it was; it stank.
They
seemed to use it for a wide variety of things. “The main one,” he thought,”is building their homes. And what makes it worse are the flies. Millions of sodding flies, big, fat, bloated flies.”

Why the hell anybody wanted to live in a shithole like this, let alone fight over it, was beyond his reasoning. He could have been in Germany or Canada or somewhere like that, getting pissed and wooing the local females with his god-like qualities. But no, here he was, living it up in downtown fuck all!

‘Why do I have to be a bloody target for em? Bastards,' he mumbled. He slapped at a fly on his neck for what he thought was the hundredth time – and missed again. ‘Bastards,' he said, again, a little too loudly.

‘Eh, shut it dickhead,' whispered a sneering voice that sounded as though it was full of phlegm. ‘You wanna get us all killed or what?'

The voice belonged to Sergeant
Andy “the
Arsehole” Adams (though the arsehole in question didn't know that was one of the loving names his platoon had given him). He was probably the most disliked soldier in her Majesty's own Fusiliers. 6', 6'1”, he was broad in the shoulder, with a face that spoke of a link to the lost one, knuckles that dragged on the floor and an all-around nasty piece of work; and it also didn't help that he had the broadest scouse accent ever.

‘Sorry Sar'nt,' Tommy replied ever so quietly. ‘I'm being eaten alive. Have you seen how fat these fuckers are with my blood?' Truth be told, he wanted to tell Adams to poke it right up his fat Neanderthal arse, but he was going for his first stripe when he got back, so thought better of it.

‘Youll be sorry when I come over there and crack yer head for ya,' spat Adams
.

Tommy was lying behind a rough, broken wall made of dried cow or goat shit – Yes, he was sure that was what they were made of – in an Afghan village with a name he couldn't even pronounce. The usual day's events included searching for ragheads with guns, or insurgents as
they
are called on the news, oh, and not getting any of your body parts blown off by IEDs, especially the most valuable bit! He didn't call it the Kaiser for nothing.

With Adams in charge, Tommy's section was covering this part of the village, and the rest of the platoon was with Lieutenant Richard Dashwood at the north end.

‘How long we gotta sit here for, Sar'nt?' asked Jacko, in his Peckham accent.

‘
'
Til I say we can fucking move, shithouse. Now shut it,' was the curt reply.

Tommy couldn ‘t help but chuckle, quietly of course, because although he couldn't see Jacko, he knew he would be mouthing all sorts of silent colourful replies. To say that Jacko hated Adams was probably an understatement. He despised him. Most did, but make no mistake, Adams was a true soldier, and a leader to some extent. It's just that, well, he was an arsehole!

After fifteen minutes of watching the cluster of mud huts for anything a little more dangerous than women and children going about their daily lives, Adams stood and bellowed at the section to move out and start the search of the area.

This was a massive relief for Tommy; just to be moving was a release from the blood suckers, and, moving up with Jacko on his left, he started towards the nearest hut. He looked sideways at Jacko, who had an angry expression on his face.

‘What a twat,' said Jacko after a few moments.

‘You can say that again,' replied Tommy.

‘What a twat.'

Tommy smiled. He had been working with Lance Corporal Paul ‘Jacko' Jackson for the best part of three years now. This was their second tour of Afghanistan and they were close friends. The loss of comrades on their first tour had built a strong bond between a lot of the lads, and especially between these two; they almost always stuck together when on patrol and today was no different. Tommy and Jacko moved with the confidence built on solid friendship, although Jacko had tested that friendship on quite a few occasions, the last being the time they had both been on leave and had pulled a couple of birds down the local pub.

The night had gone well and had ended up with Tommy and this girl, over the bonnet of a VW Passat, up an alley. What Tommy didn't know, but Jacko did, was that the girl he was entertaining, the sister of Jacko's interest, was in fact the wife of Sergeant Andrew Adams. Well, he did find out, as he lay slumped on top of her, breathing like he'd just ran a marathon, while Sergeant Adams bellowed in the road adjoining the alley, drunk, and looking for that ‘fucking old slapper.' Tommy had been confused as to why the girl had shoved him off and frantically started to yank her knickers back up. The statement, ‘Fuck it, that's my husband,' had haunted Tommy ever since, but what made it worse was when Jacko had come hurtling down the alley whooping like a school girl, went flying past Tommy and shouted, ‘Fucking leg it!' Tommy had taken off after him, desperately trying to put away the now fear-shrunken Kaiser into his pants whilst simultaneously attempting to pull his trousers up. A couple of miles down the road, with a few cuts and bruises from all the short cuts Jacko led them through, they were back at the base; and Jacko could still hardly breathe for all the laughing he was doing. It had been the rumour ever since, and the main joke in the platoon, that the Sergeant's wife had a new taste for German salami!

Adam's voice echoed around the village, ‘Don't forget lads, hearts and minds, hearts and minds; we need these fuckers to love us, long time.'

‘Bleedin'
'
ell, is he talkin' about us or the natives?'

‘Come on Jacko, you know you love him deep down.'

‘Yeah, about as much as I love having the squits.'

After about half an hour of checking dried mud-shit dwellings and animal stalls, and attempting to talk with the locals – which was pretty hard considering most of them didn't want the soldiers there, and the endless children begged for chocolate or sweets – the section were told to take a ten-minute break before moving on to the next village, about two kilometres away. The two friends found a bit of shade below one of the endless cow-goat shite walls and dug out their canteens. Slaking his thirst, Tommy then gave the local kids a packet of Polo mints to share and politely told them to piss off. He felt sorry for these kids. Well, most of them, anyway; they certainly had nothing. Sometimes, though, he had to be wary of them. If they weren't spotting for the insurgents, they were hiding them, though usually under duress.