Forever the Colours (16 page)

Later that evening, after they had retired to the hospital tent and the others back to theirs, Tommy lay on his bed listening to Maurice's light snoring, and thinking about his predicament. Why was he here? What was it for? Could he actually be in some sort of coma? Was he lying in a hospital bed somewhere with severe head wounds, surrounded by his family and friends? Is this what actually happened to those unfortunate people? They lose one life and then live in another, dreamlike one? Why this life though? If he'd had to choose a dream life, it wouldn't have been here, that's for sure. Maybe with his mates in a rock band or something like that. He would never have given the Victorian period a second thought, unless you don't get a choice. Maybe you just get dumped anywhere.

‘Well, thank God it wasn't in the Roman times or something,' he muttered out loud. He would probably be dead by now… again…sort of.

Maurice mumbled in his sleep, ‘Oh, that would be wonderful, Jane, my dear, but lock the door first. Saucy minx.'

Tommy smiled at his friend. Funny that, friend! An upper-class toff. But he was his friend, his only friend, actually. Tommy rolled onto his side and went to sleep.

The next day, after he had eaten some stew for breakfast, Tommy decided on another stroll.

‘You want to have a look at those cannons, Maurice, or stay with Jane?'

‘Bugger off.'

Tommy smiled. It seemed Maurice genuinely couldn't handle his drink one bit; he huffed and rolled over away from Tommy.

‘Suit yourself, mate, but I wanna take a quick butcher's.' He put his uniform on; he had gotten the hang of it by now and decided he needed to get it washed because it was filthy. Maybe Arun would do it? The wallah had been hero-worshipping Tommy since he had watched him play that old guitar. He caught a scent of something and sniffed under his arm.

‘Christ! I smell like a dead dog or something. Oh, for a can of deodorant.' He stopped getting dressed. ‘Right,' he said to himself, ‘I am gonna have a wash,' and he took off his tunic. He walked out of the tent into the mid-morning sunshine and searched for Arun, who was squatting by a large cooking pot.

‘Arun, me old mate, do us a favour. Can you wash my uniform, please? It stinks.'

The wallah jumped up. ‘Yes please, Private Sahib, right away Private Sahib, yes please.'

‘And I don't suppose you could manage some water and some shower gel – sorry, soap – could you?'

‘Yes please, Private Sahib.' And with that he turned and disappeared round the back of a cart that was parked next to the hospital tent. A few minutes later he returned with a large bucket of water and placed it in front of Tommy. ‘Will Private Sahib be wanting a shaving also?'

Tommy rubbed his chin and found at least a week's growth. ‘Sure, why not.' Arun still stood in front of Tommy with a confused look. ‘Yes please, mate.'

Arun gave a big toothy smile. ‘Jolly good, Private Sahib,' he said, and produced from nowhere a cut-throat razor.

Tommy jumped. ‘Shit!'

‘For chin, for chin, Private Sahib.' Tommy had been expecting a Bic razor for some reason. Arun indicated for Tommy to sit on a stool he had dragged over from outside the tent; he then started to rub a little round brush into a big block of something that Tommy presumed was soap, which he dipped it into the bucket every now and then. Once he had worked up quite a good lather, he said, ‘Please be opening shirt, Private Sahib.'

Tommy reached for the shirt laces at his neck but then decided to take the thing off, so he pulled the whole garment over his head. Tommy was proud of his body; he worked out in the gym as much as possible, when he could get in there, of course, so he was quite well muscled in an athletic sort of way. He also had a fair share of tattoos, and this was what made Arun stop what he was doing and stare in fascination.

‘Do you like them, Arun?' Tommy asked when he noticed the other man staring.

‘Private Sahib, you are having beautiful paintings all over body.'

‘They're tattoos, me old mate, not paintings, and they cost me a fortune.' He paused, then: ‘Watch.' He grabbed the rough flannel from the bucket and rubbed at the Celtic
cross on the top of his right arm. ‘You see? You can't wash them off.'

Arun leaned down and traced his finger over the tattoo on Tommy's right bicep. ‘This is being your tribe, Private Sahib? Your army?'

‘No, mate,' Tommy chuckled, ‘that's a football team. Man United, the Red Army.'

‘Ah, I am knowing football, Private Sahib. Robert Vidal, the Wanderer, a truly great man, yes please.'

‘Err, yeah, I suppose so, mate.' Tommy had no idea what he was on about. He sat on the stool and waited as Arun lathered his face. He gave him the closest shave Tommy had ever had. After rinsing off with some water and then wiping his face with a towel, he asked Arun if he had a mirror, as he realised he hadn't seen his own face in a while. Arun disappeared for a few moments and then returned with a small ornately carved wooden box about the size of a house brick. He lifted the lid and handed it to Tommy, who hesitated. He had the awful notion that the face in the mirror wouldn't be his own. He hesitantly took the box and gazed into the mirror, and to his relief the face looking back was indeed his own. Tommy inspected his face closely and he noticed a few light bruises, but they were yellowing, nearly healed. He had a slightly black left eye as well, but apart from that, he looked relatively well, maybe just a little thinner in the face, though not surprising, with the crap they ate here.

‘Thanks, Arun, that's got to be the best shave I've ever had, mate.'

Arun bobbed his head up and down. ‘Yes please, Private Sahib,' he said, and handed Tommy the large block of soap. Tommy took it and, leaning over the bucket, he began to wash. The soap was efficient but bloody awful to use, and the scent was a strong chemical one as opposed to the perfumed version he was used to.
Oh
well,
it
is
quite
invigorating
, he thought.

Twenty or so minutes later he, was drying himself off with a rough flannel; he had also washed his short hair, cut military-style, which had also been filthy. After looking in the little mirror, he was pleased to see his natural brown colour was back, and not the greasy, dirty thing that had greeted him before he had washed it.

Arun approached him. ‘Pardons Private Sahib, I have cleaned tunic.'

Tommy accepted the dry uniform and, realising a vigorous brushing was all he was going to get, he put it on. Now smelling a bit better, well, more than his pet dog's basket anyway, he thanked Arun and strolled off into the camp, making his way over towards the cannon he had seen yesterday. Or the day before. His body clock was totally off, he realised. In fact, it already felt like years since he was on patrol with Jacko and had gotten hit with that RPG, and entered Narnia.

He approached the row of cannons and was amazed to find how new they looked.
Idiot!
Of
course
they're
new
, he thought,
or
newish,
anyway
. The last cannon he had seen had been hundreds of years old and kept in a castle back home. As Tommy got a little closer, he noticed some native mud-built houses beyond the guns.
A
village
, he thought, realising that he hadn't noticed them before now. That made him wonder where exactly he was.

Just before he reached the nearest cannon, ‘Can I help you, Private?' came a strong but quiet voice.

Tommy turned and saw an officer walking toward him. Realising the role he had to play, he came to attention.

‘Pardon me, Sir. I wus just admiring the cannons, sir,' he said in the best cockney
accent he could muster, remembering Jacko with fondness.

‘Are you, by God. Well why don't you stop playing at infantryman and join the Royal Horse Artillery then, eh? Become a galloping gunner?' He said this with a stern, clipped voice, but also with a slight smile.

Tommy hesitated.

‘At ease, Private. So, what do you make of our little toys, then?'

‘They're beautiful, sir,' replied Tommy.

The officer smiled. ‘That they are, Private,' he said, but before he could continue, another soldier trotted up and came to attention.

‘Captain Slade, sir,' he panted, ‘Major Blackwood sends his compliments and asks that you join him and the rest of the officers in his tent in ten minutes.'

The Captain became thoughtful for a moment. He inhaled deeply through the nose and nodded to himself. ‘So it begins,' he said quietly. He looked over at Tommy, ‘My apologies, Private. Sorry, you didn't tell me your name.'

‘Thomas Evans of the 66th Foot, sir.'

‘Well, Private Thomas Evans of the 66th Foot, I must leave you, but feel free to ask Gunner Bale here any questions you might have. Farewell.'

The Captain walked off into the mass of tents and Tommy was left with the bemused Gunner Bale.

‘What questions have do you have, then?' asked Bale.

‘None really, mate. I was just looking at the cannon when the Captain came over. Just admiring, really.'

Bale frowned. ‘Mate? Anyhow, these are muzzle-loading nine pounders. They fire case shot, explosive and shrapnel. Has that answered your questions, Evans?'

‘My name's Thomas, or Tommy if you like.'

Bale smiled. ‘My name happens to be Thomas as well. Pleased to meet yer,' he said, and held out his hand, which Tommy shook.

Bale smiled. ‘I have a few minutes to spare if yer like, to tell yer about the guns, but it'll have to be quick mind, else Sergeant Mullane will give me a roasting!'

Tommy nodded.

‘Well, like's I said, these here are nine pounder rifled barrels, but we also got some smooth bore, a couple of Howitzers and the rest are field guns – we took these off those levies.'

Tommy was genuinely interested and was about to ask about shells when he heard a commotion behind one of the tents where the Grenadiers were: raised voices and the sound of pots and pans tipping over.

Just then Arun came sprinting round the corner of a tent and nearly collided with Gunner Bale. ‘Hey, watch where yer running, you bloody heathen!' he shouted.

Tommy reached out and grabbed Arun's arm, bringing him to a standstill. ‘Arun, what's up, mate?' Tommy asked, concerned with the look of fear on his face.

Arun stopped panicking when he saw it was Tommy. ‘Pardons, Private Sahib, but I am making message for Major Preston Sahib with the request for having more tents from baggage. But I having trouble on the way with giant soldier of Grenadier for trying to help old chai wallah.'

He said all this quite breathlessly and was visibly shaking.

‘Show me,' said Tommy. But Arun quickly shook his head and his eyes nearly popped out.

‘Everything will be alright, Arun, I'll be with you. Thomas, good luck, mate,' he said, turning to Gunner Bale and shaking his hand again.

Bale shrugged. ‘Aye, you too, Tommy lad,' he said, and with that he turned and walked away.

Reluctantly, Arun led Tommy to where he had heard the noises, and as he rounded the nearest tent, Tommy had a flash back of memory.

It was the scene all over again, but instead of Sergeant Adams standing over an old man, it was the nasty looking Grenadier boxer standing over a terrified Bhisti wallah. As Tommy and Arun neared, the Grenadier slapped the wallah across the face and shouted something at him.

Arun quailed back, but Tommy stepped up and stood in front of the wallah as he had done with the old man. The Grenadier had about three inches on him, so Tommy had to look up. And what he saw looking back was contempt.

‘Why don't ya pick on someone your own size, mate?'

The Grenadier chuckled with a deep, throaty sound, and Tommy could now see his face. It was scarred; a white line stood out against his brown skin and ran from his forehead above his left eye, straight down to his bearded top lip. His left eye was unusually pale in comparison to the other bright blue one, and when this guy smiled at him, Tommy saw quite a few missing teeth.

This fella, Tommy realised, was the stuff of nightmares.

A few other Grenadiers had gathered round and one of them was talking in a language he later found out was Hindi. The Grenadier replied to his comrade in a voice laced with humour. His friend nodded and turned to Tommy, ‘Naik Singh wishes you to please be moving, Private of Infantry, so he can finish his business with the wallah who burnt him with tea.'

Tommy was taken back once again to the Arsehole and the old bearded man. He looked down at the wallah, who was gazing back with the same fear in his face as the young Afghan who had been knocked about by Dinga. Tommy could feel the anger building, a buzzing sensation that started in his fingertips and made his ears ring. He looked back at the hulking man in front of him.

‘I don't think so, me old mate, not today. So why don't you piss off!'