Forever the Colours (8 page)

Tommy sighed loudly. ‘Any time today, Doc,' he said.

Suddenly the girl appeared at his bed side with a clay jug and cup.
Christ!
thought Tommy. Even with the blurred vision, he could see she was a moose.

‘You would like a drink of water, Private Sahib?'

What
the
bloody
hell
is
wrong
with
her
voice?

‘Just a little, if you please, Arun. I would like to check our erudite young Private before he starts to guzzle too much of that.'

Tommy followed the voice and turned to find the blurred figure standing and walking towards him. With his vision starting to clear, he could now see the doctor; he presumed the man was a doctor, about 5'10” and maybe about thirty, thirty-five years old. He stopped at the side of the bed and leaned over.

‘Well, Private, how are we feeling, eh?'

‘How do you think I'm bloody feeling? I feel crap, mate. And can you tell me why I'm not in a hospital, 'cause I think I should be in one. And where are the lads I was with? One of them was injured, shot in the face.'

While he was talking, the doctor was checking him over, first his temperature with a hand on the forehead, then a lift of his eye lids, one at a time, staring into them. ‘All in good time, Private, all in good time,' came the reply. ‘Now then, how does the head feel? Any pain, blurred vision, stars in front of your eyes?'

Oh,
for
Christ's
sake
, thought Tommy.
Typical
bloody
uni
grad
getting
his
kicks
in
a
war
zone
so
he
can
bore
his
future
bloody
GP
patients
to
death
with
his
war
stories.
OK,
OK,
that's
OK,
let's
do
as
he
says.

‘Well Doc-tor,' said Tommy, in his best Marylyn Monroe voice, ‘my eyes are just starting to clear and the only pain I have now is in my ass!' With that he gave him a big toothy smile.

‘I think that will be quite enough of that, Private. I asked you a civil question so kindly answer me. Oh, and do try not to forget my rank this time.'

Rank!
Shit,
he's
army
. Injuries or not, rank's rank!

‘Sorry, sir. I'm not feeling too bright and my head feels real fuzzy, and I'm not thinking straight. In fact, I could have sworn I was at home and my dad was here. I called out to him when I thought he was talking to your nurse there.' He nodded to the other side of the bed.

The doctor looked confused for a second, and then tried to hide his smile behind a cough. He looked over to the girl with the long legs, smiled and said, ‘Well, Arun, what say you, woman? Did you talk to this young man's father?'

‘No, I – No, Major Preston Sahib, there was no one else here.' The confused look on Arun's face made the doctor chuckle.

Tommy just stared at Arun, quite unable to place what he found so unusual about her, until, with a realisation that made him exclaim out loud, he realised Arun the nurse was, in fact, a man! With a moustache…and a hairy chest.

Tommy closed his eyes and tried not to think of all the dirty thoughts he'd had about Arun and her, sorry,
his
, long legs.
Oh
shiiiit!

‘Now then, Private, the reason you are in my tent is by way of a knock on the head during our little skirmish with the notso-loyal levies of Mr Shere Ali. You were found next to a dead trooper and his horse, and by the look of it, you have suffered a possible fracture to your skull. To help you sleep and to control the pain, I have been administering laudanum, during your more lucid moments, of course.' He frowned down at Tommy. ‘But you have been experiencing some severe hallucinations, so I have decided to cease the use of laudanum for now and see how we go from there. You say there is no pain in the head at the moment, just feeling a little fuzzy? Good, that would only be the effects of the medication. Now then, why don't you accept that drink of water off the lovely Miss Arun here, and I will just finish up on my notes.'

With that, he walked back over to his desk and continued what he was doing.

‘Hang on, Doc. Is this a Red Cross station or what?'

‘I am afraid, Private, that the Lord Wantage's folly has yet to reach this infernal hell hole.'

Lord Wantage! Did he have something to do with the founding of the Red Cross? Tommy didn't understand a thing about what the doctor – Major – was saying. Could this be a continuation of the lads' big joke?
It's
a
bit
too
elaborate,
to
say
the
least
, he thought, and the place he was in right now looked far too real. And, he suddenly realised, unless this was the set of a play, the honourable doctor there looked dashing in his, well, he wasn't sure what uniform it was, but it looked convincing.
And
if
this
isn't
a
joke
and
I'm
not
dreaming
then…Oh!
Oh
dear.

‘I'm dead,' Tommy whispered.

‘Pardons, Private Sahib.'

Tommy looked up at Arun, who was holding the jug and cup in front of him like some sort of peace offering, and returned his gaze with a rather docile looking smile.

‘I'm dead, aren't I?' said Tommy.

Arun stared at Tommy for a few moments.

‘If Private Sahib was dead,' he said, looking confused again, ‘why is he asking for a drink of water?'

Tommy closed his eyes. ‘Oh no, no, no, no this can't be happening.'

‘Pardons, Private Sahib, what is can't be happening?'

‘This! All this – shit, what is this? If this is death, then is this heaven or hell? Is it that purgatory thingy? What the fuck is going on? Where am I?'

‘My apologies, Private Sahib, but I am not understanding. Do you wish me to fetch the Surgeon Major Sahib?'

‘Are you some kinda nutcase?' Tommy gaped at Arun, ‘How can you be a nutcase in heaven – hell – whatever! Can you just please tell me if this is the afterlife, you know, an afterlife hospital or something? And can I see my granddad, Stan? He should be here somewhere.'

Arun started to back away with a slightly horrified and confused look.

‘Where are you going? Can you answer me, please?'

‘I, um, I will fetch Surgeon Major Sahib for you, yes, please.'

‘What! He's over there,' Tommy turned to find that the doctor was not at the desk, so he turned back to Arun, who had also disappeared.

‘This isn't fair,' he shouted to no one. He found himself sitting up in bed – well, it was more like a cot, really, and bloody uncomfortable. ‘Bollocks to this.'

He pulled aside the itchy, hairy brown blanket and swung his legs out – which, to his relief, he still had. He placed his feet gingerly on the rough ground, but then had to stop because the tent started to sway.

‘Ohhh, crap.'

Right,
OK,
one
step
at
a
time
, he said to himself. Tommy stood with shaking legs; he took a hesitant step forward and nearly fell.

‘Bollocks,' he said again. He took another step, and another.
All
right,
that's
more
like
it
, he thought, and stood still, turning slowly as he scanned his surroundings.

The tent was indeed sparse – nothing but four beds, some wooden buckets, a couple of old wooden stools and a desk with a candle on it. He walked carefully over to the desk, but before he got there, he stopped, tilted his head and listened.
Is
that
horses
again?
he thought. And now more sounds.
People,
lots
of
people
, he thought,
talking,
shouting
and
laughing
.
And
different
noises;
saws
at
work
maybe?
There were hammers banging, a metallic ringing as if a smith was working over an anvil.
Or
something
like
that,
anyway
. Why hadn't he heard this before?
The
drugs!
That
must
be
it.
What
did
the
doc
say?
Laudanum,
that
was
it.
Bloody
opiates!
Great,
I'm
a
smackhead!

Tommy started to feel woozy again, so he leaned on the desk. Steadying his breathing, he looked across the top of the desk and found a leather-bound diary. Next to this was a polished wooden box with a hinged lid. He reached over and opened the box, which was more like a highly ornate case with brass locks. What he found inside made him properly confused.
Am
I
in
a
bloody
museum?
he thought.
What's
with
the
antiques?

Inside were numerous instruments,
Of
a
medical
origin
, he thought. Scissors, scalpels, other peculiar objects and a selection of saws. Small metal saws. He shuddered at the look of them. There were also a few little bottles with attached labels handwritten in pen. He picked one up and read it.
Chloroform
. He could just manage to decipher the handwriting. He read another, this one a large glass jar.
Hemp
. He placed it back in the box, still no clearer on their meaning, or on anything, to be exact. He moved around the desk and opened the diary. It was full of the most beautiful handwriting, sketches and mathematical calculations. He flipped to the last page and started to read.

19
July,
1880.
Subject:
Male,
approx.
20–25
years.

The
subject
is
an
unusual
one,
for
I
have
never
encountered
such
a
severe
case
of
psychosis.
The
young
Private
(I
have
yet
to
confirm
his
name)
is
suffering
from
a
complete
loss
of
contact
with
reality.
Given
the
nature
of
the
wound
suffered
to
the
cranium,
I
would
have
expected
some
impairment
to
insight,
but
this
young man
has
invented
an
entirely
new
reality
for
himself.
For
the
past
three
days,
he
has
continually
asked
for
family
members
and
to
be
taken
to
the
nearest
military
hospital,
and,
in
his
own
words,
‘A
Yank
one
will
do.'
What
the
colloquialism
for
the
Americas
is
for,
I
have
no
idea.
He
also
insists
that
he
was
in
a
platoon
and
one
of
his
‘mates'
had
taken
a
gunshot
wound
to
the
face,
but
as
we
have
no
clear
understanding
of
the
identity
of
this
young
man
or
his
platoon,
he
remains
anonymous.
I
have
discontinued
the
use
of
laudanum,
for
although
he
was
released
from
the
pain
in
his
head,
his
hallucinations
were
becoming
extreme.

Addition:
On
a
lighter
note,
with
regards
to
his
delusions,
he
thought
my
wallah
was
a
female
and
actually
tried
to
engage
him
in
courting
rhetoric.