Forever the Colours (5 page)

Is
the
sky
lower?
Amy might be there too, maybe with that pierced fucking layabout she called a boyfriend, and probably only there because they wanted to get on TV.
Thought
it
was
summer,
but
it's
freezing
. He would miss Pippin though. Great dog but a little yappy sometimes. When Tommy really thought about it, he actually couldn't give two shits for the colours. In fact, he didn't want to be here at all, bleeding out in some Third World shithole.

What's
with
the
fog?
Tommy couldn't keep his eyes open any longer, and they felt as heavy as lead.
Perhaps
a
little
nap's
in
order;
it's
been
a
long
day
. He turned his head to the side, and just as his vision was darkening he saw the old man from the village, squatting on his haunches at the side of the field, smiling and nodding at Tommy.
Well,
at
least
someone's
happy
, he thought, and he closed his eyes.

Chapter 3

Senses

P
ain.
  
Butt-clenching, teeth-grinding, stabbing bloody pain. He could not remember a hangover ever being this shit. Except that New Year's party when he was fifteen and had vomited in the back of his uncle's car – and that was after telling his wife she had a perfect pair of tits.

Hang on though, if I'm in pain, then I'm alive. Isn't that what they say in the movies? ‘Pain's good for ya, boy, it lets you know you're alive.' Typical bloody Yank, I bet he never felt this crap. Hang on, if I am alive and the pain is this lousy then…oh shit! Perhaps I've lost part of my head! That's what the pain is! Shit, how the hell will I get a shag with half a head? Mind you, Kerry down the lion will shag anything after a vodka ‘n' coke. She did Davey Bull and he's only got
one
bollock!
'

And what's with all the bloody noise then? Loud bloody noises, too. Piss off, will you, and let me wallow in self-pity with half a head. Inconsiderate shits, all of you. I'm a hero, don't ya know. Saved me pals, I did, from an army of ragheads. With machine guns and mortars and tanks! And I think there were enemy planes, too. But I held them off, I did, on my own, wearing a bandana and firing a .50 cal from the hip! Alright, that was old Sly, not me. But I was just as brave as him and better looking, even with half a
head
.

And what the hell is that smell? Is it Bonfire Night? Used to love Bonfire Night when I was a kid, making mountains out of everybody's crap. Penny for the guy (or we shove dog shit through yer letter box and make life hell for your cat). Fireworks! Rockets, Catherine wheels, star bursts and other shite that cost a fortune, and then just fizzled out in your back garden. Dad always brought some home after work and Mum would make the jacket spuds, and sometimes if we were lucky, sausages. Talking of bangers,
now
they
were fireworks. Can't get them anymore though, can you? Not surprising though, as they were just grenades for kids. I remember I put a lit one in my cousin's trouser pocket once, a dodgy thing my mate's elder brother got from France, and it nearly blew his knob off! I fell over, I was laughing so hard. Reckon that was a banger them ragheads threw at me, knocked me right on my arse, it did! Bet my cousin's laughing now, twat that he
is
.

Urrgghh, what the hell is that under my hand? Oh no, I think I've shit myself. How can a bloody hero with half a head who saved all his mates shit himself? Heroes don't shit themselves, do they? I mean, they haven't gotten any shit to shit, have they! They're shitless ain't they? Sort of. I can smell shit too, real smelly shit. It can't be mine, can it? I mean, I shit roses don't I, being a hero and all that. Perhaps half a head isn't the only injury I got from that raghead's banger! Perhaps half my guts are hanging out; perhaps my intestines are splayed out all around me like a big bloody, pink, shit-smelling octopus. This ain't good, this ain't good at all! Best have a feel and see what's what. Mm… well my head's in one piece by the feel of it. Shame, I was starting to look forward to getting around the back of the Lion and showing Kerry my half a head! Wish this banging would stop though. I don't dare open me eyes. What is that fucking noise? Eh, up, my stomach's still there; no octopus. But what the hell is wrong with my uniform? Why is it so bloody itchy? And it feels like bloody cardboard. Dried blood? Dried shit, maybe? And has someone stolen my webbing? Robbing bloody ragheads, I'm not dead yet, you know. Right, that's it, I'm gonna open my eyes. Right now. Anytime now. Come on, hero, there's nothing to be scared of now, is there? Hero, me, anytime now.

‘Jesus Christ, why the hell is it so bright? Arghh, that really fucking hurts,' mumbled Tommy. He closed his eyes quickly and turned his head away from the light. ‘Ohhh, that's better. There's that smell again, extremely strong shite.' Tommy opened one eye. ‘Hang on, what's that thing?' He squinted. ‘It looks like…like…like a horse's arsehole.'

‘Jeez,' he shouted and tried to move his head away too quickly. ‘Shiiiit,' he moaned as a bomb went off in his skull. After a few minutes, and with considerable care, he turned back around and indeed found himself to be staring right into the arse of a horse, more than that, a horse that had shit itself.

He started to retch, which made the pain in his head even more acute.
Strange
, he thought,
I
don't
remember
there
being
any
horses
around
when
that
banger
went
off
. Banger! What was he on about, it was a bloody RPG.
And
where
is
that
fucking
noise
coming
from?

‘Arghh,' he moaned out loud. He felt like crap and his head was fuzzy, but he was pretty sure there had been no horses in that field when he got hit. He wondered where everybody was and what all the noise was about, so he lifted his head up to look around. Splat! He turned his head to the side and vomited; it landed on the horse's arse, which made him vomit again. With his eyes watering and after a few moments of trying to breathe through his nose and control the nausea, he decided to call for help.

‘Jacko.'

Nothing.

‘Terry.'

Nothing. Just lots of noise, like people screaming and shout—

BOOM!

Tommy felt a shudder go through him. ‘What the hell!' he shouted out loud. He thought another RPG had been fired at him.

Explosions, again and again. Crash! Boom!

Bloody
hell,
this
must
be
a
full
on
attack
by
the
Taliban
, he thought. He rolled over onto his front and put his arms over his head. Bang! This time it was inside his head, and he started retching again.

BOOM!

‘Jesus Christ,' he screamed. ‘What the fuck is going on?'

He decided to risk a squint and tried to take a careful look around. Concentrating on the terrible pain in his head and trying not to retch again, he looked around slowly from side to side.

He couldn't for the life of him understand why there was fog everywhere. Or was it smoke? His brain was still not functioning properly.
Is
somebody
using
fireworks?
There's
that
smell
again
. Slowly, the noises all around became more and more distinct.
Is
that
a
horse
whinnying?
Surely
not!
A man was shouting commands that Tommy didn't understand.

‘FIRE.'

‘Reload.'

‘Go on, ya bloody useless sowars,
get after 'em.'

The sound of horses galloping; it was like being at the races.

Voices, strange disembodied voices he didn't know, came drifting out of the fog, smoke or whatever it was; some shouting, some screaming and some even laughing!

‘Steady lads, steady.'

BOOM! Another explosion reverberated through the ground under him.

‘Private Thompson! If you do not reload that rifle now, you 'orrible little man, I will personally see you on shithouse duty for the rest of your miserable career. Do I make myself CLEAR?'

‘Yes Sergeant, sorry Sergeant.'

‘You sorry bloody excuse for a soldier.'

‘Sorry Sergeant.'

‘Stop bloody apologising and load that weapon.'

‘Yes Sergeant, sorr–'

BOOM!

Is
that
gunfire?
It
doesn't
sound
like
proper
rifle
fire
, Tommy thought.
Ok,
ok,
I
don't
know
what's
going
on,
but
something's
not
right.
Ok,
all
right,
evaluate.
I
was
in
the
field.
Yes!
I
was
running
back
towards
Jacko
…

BOOM!

This latest explosion covered him in a shower of dirt and grit.

‘Shit.' Tommy dropped and covered his head again. Pain shot through his eyes, ricocheted around his skull a few times and emptied his stomach of what little contents were left.

‘Ooohhhh…crap,' he mumbled, and wiped his mouth.
Perhaps
I
should
just
have
a
quick
nap
and
then
I'll
be
OK
, he thought, and laid his face in the dust and vomit.

Before Tommy's brain could totally give up and close down, a screaming voice, getting closer by the second, was pulling him back from the lovely, fuzzy darkness that was about to envelope him.

That's
Pashto
, he thought.

He rolled onto his side and managed to look up with one eye closed. For some reason this helped with the pain, and to his mild amusement he saw a large, black-bearded man standing over him, dressed rather garishly in a long white coat, orange leggings and turban. His arm was raised above his head and in his hand was a magnificent curved sword, the sun shining off the blade.

That's
really
pretty
,' thought Tommy for a fleeting moment. The bearded man's black eyes were staring into Tommy's with a look of total confusion, and his mouth was in a rictus of pain or ecstasy, Tommy couldn't tell which. He did notice, though, that the guy had seriously bad teeth and some were black with rot.
Blimey
, he thought,
I
bet
his
breath
stinks!

‘What's up with you, then?' he managed to say. ‘Why you waving that thing around?'

Then he noticed the red stain spreading across the bearded guy's stomach. And in the middle of this, a shiny pointy piece of metal attached to a wooden branch with a couple of hands holding it.
That's
weird
looking
, he thought.
Why
would
that
thing
be
sticking
out
of
his
belly?

With slow motion and a wet sucking sound, the weird branch with the shiny metal thing, which was now red at the end, slid out of the bearded man's stomach. He looked down at his belly and then looked at Tommy, who just shrugged in reply. The man with the turban then proceeded to do an impression of a felled tree.

‘PFWEEERHHHHHHHF,' exclaimed Tommy, as the body landed across him.

With the wind firmly knocked out of him and the man lying across him, Tommy thought,
Fuck
it!
, and with that, he blacked out.

Pain, butt–clenching – well, pain anyway. But this time there was the added bonus of flying; well, perhaps not flying, more like bouncing. That's it, bouncing, like being on a large space hopper, but lying on your back.
Why
would
I
be
lying
on
my
back
and
bouncing
up
and
down?
thought Tommy. He opened his eyes to find out. Darkness! Not total darkness; there were little lights. Stars! Ah, the night sky.
And
it's
still
bloody
hot!
He could feel the sweat trickling down the side of his face. The pain in his head was still there, throbbing in the background. He risked a look sideways and saw – planks. Wooden planks.