Forever the Colours (10 page)

‘Ow! Why did you do that?' exclaimed Tommy. ‘That bloody hurt!'

‘Aha!' shouted Maurice. ‘You can feel pain, you are alive and I am a genius, as I always knew I was.'

‘I already told you I could feel pain,' complained Tommy.

‘Yes, yes, I was testing your theory, so please don't ruin my moment of triumph.'

Just at that moment, the tent flap parted and the Surgeon Major walked in, followed by another, rather large officer, by the look of him, or so Tommy thought.

‘You, young man, are supposed to be resting that head of yours. Now swing those legs back up and lie down, or I will tell the Sergeant Major here that you are fit for duty. I'm sure he could find you plenty of jobs to do.'

‘Yes sir, sorry sir,' replied Tommy, and he swung his legs back up onto the bed.

Tommy looked at the Sergeant Major and found him staring back, looking from underneath the bushiest eyebrows he'd ever seen. This was a big man, at least six-foot-five or six, broad in the chest and shoulder, and standing ramrod straight. He had a large moustache and beard as well, though they were well groomed. In fact, he looked quite magnificent. He was wearing an off-white uniform, all shiny brass buttons and a pith helmet. He gave off an air of absolute confidence, and Tommy felt slightly intimidated.

‘Now then, Sergeant Major, you wished to see Corporal Armour. You will find him in that bed over there,' the Surgeon Major said, pointing to the third occupant of the tent. Then he went and sat at his desk.

The man in the other bed had suddenly lost the colour in his face and he was visibly shaking. The Sergeant Major walked over to the foot of the bed and looked down.
This
guy
is
brilliant
, Tommy thought.
He
seriously
looks
the
part,
and
even
comes
with
one
of
those
cane
thingies
.

‘Now then, Armour, would you like to explain to me why you are not back with your chums and performing your duties like a good soldier? Because the Surgeon Major here has told me your wounds have healed and you are fit for duty.' He paused his slow, sonorous voice for obvious effect. ‘Now, for some strange reason you, have told the Surgeon Major that you are not fit for duty, that you have not fully recovered from your wounds and you are refusing to leave the Surgeon Major's tent, a tent for genuinely injured soldiers.' He took an enormous inhalation through his nose while looking above at the roof. ‘Now then, sonny, if I were to think that what you were in fact experiencing was not sickness but, say, cowardice, for instance, well, I would have to report it to the General. And I would presume that he would make an example of you to the rest of the regiment. The Cat hasn't seen the sunshine in many a year.' He gave Armour a piercing stare. ‘So I will ask you, Corporal Armour, are you or are you not fit and ready for duty?'

The man Armour jumped out of bed and stood at attention, and barked, ‘Corporal Armour ready and fit fer duty, Sergeant Major Cuppage.'

The big Sergeant Major nodded like a proud father. ‘Well done, lad. Now you have a little time to get your things together, and then report to Sergeant Rollings's Company.'

‘Yes Sar'nt Major Cuppage,' Armour nearly shouted.

The big Sergeant Major turned and started to make his way back to the entrance. But he caught site of Maurice and stopped. ‘Well, I did not see you there, Lieutenant Rayner. You are making a speedy recovery, I hope, sir?'

‘I am, Sergeant Major, thank you. You are well yourself?'

‘I am in excellent health, sir.'

‘Tell me, Sergeant Major, have you met our new arrival?' he asked, nodding toward Tommy. ‘No? Well, may I introduce Private Thomas Evans, formally of the Fusiliers, newly joined in India and now a man of the 66th. Private Evans, may I introduce Sergeant Major Alexander Cuppage, backbone of the regiment.'

For a moment Tommy forgot where he was and put out his hand for Cuppage to shake. The Sergeant Major looked at it with indifference and then looked back at Tommy. He realised his mistake and jumped out of bed and came to attention. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sar'nt Major.'

‘Indeed,' he said. ‘And what is wrong with you, exactly? For you look healthy and well fed to my eyes.'

‘I was caught by an RPG, Sergeant Major,' replied Tommy, without a thought for what he had just said.

Cuppage raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘An RPG, you say. Very good. And what, pray tell, is an RPG?'

‘I am afraid, Sergeant Major,' intervened Surgeon Major Preston, ‘that the young Private has taken a knock to his head, and, well, frankly talks nonsense now and then. But he is recovering, albeit slowly.'

Realising his mistake, Tommy said, ‘Sorry, Sar'nt Major, what I meant to say was a cannon. Yes, a cannon shell took me off my feet.' He wanted to laugh but kept a straight face.

‘Indeed. Very well, lad, I pray you make a speedy recovery.' He turned to Preston and Rayner, nodding at them in turn, and said, ‘Good day, sirs.' Then he made his way to the entrance. But as he got there, he turned and looked at Tommy, who felt that, for some strange reason, the Sergeant Major was seeing right into his mind. After a moment Cuppage shook his head as if to clear it, and then left.

‘Well, that was strange,' said Rayner.

‘What was?' replied Tommy.

‘Well, my erstwhile friend, it seems as if you spooked old Cuppage. I mean, what was that look about, as though he'd seen a ghost or something?' He realised what he'd said, ‘Oh damn it all.'

‘Ah ha,' exclaimed Tommy. ‘There you go, mate, now you're talking.'

‘Talking about what?' asked Preston.

‘Oh, it's nothing, Major, sir. More ramblings from Private Evans. But there is improvement, wouldn't you say? Every day, yes indeed.'

‘Hmm, well that remains to be seen, Lieutenant Rayner. Now if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have to attend the smoothbore battery.' He made his way to the entrance. ‘It seems we may have a case of cholera. If you need anything, please instruct my wallah
Arun to attend you.' He nodded and then left the tent.

Tommy was lost in thought until Private Armour dropped something with a loud clang in his haste to pack. Tommy and Maurice looked at each other and started to laugh.

‘What ye laughing at, eh? And you should know better, Lieutenant, being a young gentleman and all.'

‘You are quite correct, Joseph. It is Joseph, yes? On behalf of Thomas and myself, please accept our apologies for the puerile behaviour.'

‘Well that would be, well, alright then, sir.' Armour didn't know what else to say to the two young men, so he just nodded, picked up his kit and left.

‘What a tosser,' said Tommy.

‘I would agree with you, Thomas, but I have no idea what a tosser
might be, so I will assume it means a malingerer of sorts, what.'

‘Yep,' replied Tommy.

‘Very well, Thomas, we have managed to get our poor injured brother in arms evicted. Now I think it's time we shared a little snifter, what.' He reached down to the floor, picked up what looked like a canvas bag, opened it and produced a green glass bottle with a flourish and held it aloft like a trophy.

‘What's that, then, mate?'

‘My dear Thomas, this little beauty and I have travelled far and wide, from England to India, and now to our little haven.' Maurice handled the bottle as you would a baby. ‘This, Thomas, is an 1865 Hardy cognac that I picked up from London, and I have been saving it to share with a friend. So what say you, Thomas, will you procure a couple of crystal glasses so we may sample it?'

Tommy looked around the tent. ‘And where would I find them, then, Maurice?'

Maurice shook his head, ‘My dear Thomas, you truly need to open your ears a bit more. When I said crystal glasses, what I meant was anything we can drink out, of including those wooden cups there on the honourable Major's desk.'

Tommy hopped off the bed and walked over to retrieve the cups. As he picked them up, he noticed the Surgeon Major's journal open. He had a quick glance and found that Preston had once again written something about him.

21
July
1880.
Subject:
Male,
approx.
20–25
years.

I
have
now
ascertained
that
the
subject
is
one
Thomas
Evans,
Private,
formerly
of
the
Fusiliers.
He
apparently
transferred
to
the
66th
Foot
whilst
in
India.
This
information
I
have
yet
to
corroborate.
I
thought
the
young
man
was
making
progress,
but
it
seems
he
still
has
the
odd
bout
of
psychosis,
in
that
he
continues
to
display
a
detachment
with
reality.
If
he
has
not
improved
within
the
next
few
days,
I
will
be
forced
to
have
him
relieved
of
duty
and
returned
forthwith
to
Kandahar
and
then
back
to
India
for
further
treatment.
I
will
continue
to
monitor
his
behaviour.

That's
not
good
, thought Tommy. He walked back to his bed, handed Maurice the cups and sat down.

‘Well, I must say, you appear extraordinarily misanthropic considering I have just unveiled a short term restorative to our ills,' intoned Maurice.

Tommy did not reply, as his mind was in turmoil about the consequences of the Major's journal.
Shit!
What
the
hell
am
I
gonna
do?
I
need
to
get
home!
Shit!
Home,
now
where
the
hell
is
that?
Mum
and
Dad
haven't
even
been
born
yet,
or
Granddad
Stan.
Think!
What
are
you
gonna
do?

While Tommy had been lost in thought, Maurice had pulled the cork from the bottle, poured two healthy measures into the cups and passed one to Tommy. He looked at him thoughtfully few moments.

‘You seem distracted, Thomas.'

Tommy looked at him. ‘Sorry, I was just thinking.'

‘An overrated pastime. About what, pray?'

‘About how the hell I'm gonna get out of here and back to where I came from, Maurice, because you know I don't belong here.' He looked at the floor. ‘I don't!'

‘Alright, old bean, now don't fret so. I'm sure the two of us can divine this conundrum, but for the immediate future, let us toast our good fortune at not having to labour out there in that furnace.' He indicated to the tent entrance.

Alright
, Tommy thought,
just
gotta
go
with
the
flow
, and he downed the cognac in one, which he regretted five seconds later as the liquid burned its way to his gut. He coughed with gusto.

Maurice chuckled, ‘Well, if you throw it down your neck like some backstreet ruffian, that's the result. This nectar is far too saintly to be gormandised like that.'

Coughing again, Tommy said, ‘Speak bloody English, will ya.'