Forever the Colours

by Richard Thomas

  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

  It 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

  Sweat!

  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.

  ‘I can’t stand much more of that twat, you know, mate, and if he calls me shithouse once more, I swear to God, I’m gonna kick his head in.’

  ‘You shouldn’t let him get to you, Jacko; he’s just a bully. I just let it wash over me, mate, it’s just bravado bullshit, that’s all. Just try and picture me and his missus over the bonnet of that Passat.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ Jacko’s smile didn’t last. ‘But the longer this tour goes on the more wound up I get, and I reckon I’m gonna end up knocking him out.’ He laid his helmeted head back against the wall and sighed. ‘What we doing here, Tommy, eh? Nobody wants this place, apart from the smackheads, anyway, and no bleedin’ army has ever won here.’ He looked at his friend. ‘It’s a shithole and a total waste of time.’

  Tommy smiled. ‘Mate, we’re freeing these people from the Taliban; al-Qaeda, the muja-whatyamacallits, and all those other mad mozzy bastards. We’re the British Army, mate, freeing the world, protecting the innocent. Queen, country, honour, the regiment and all that jazz.’

  ‘The regiment? What, some poxy colours? You might wanna die for the flag, Tommy, but I fuckin’ don’t.’ Jacko spat angrily into the sand at his boots.

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that, mate. Calm down, eh.’

  Jacko sighed again and nodded to Tommy. ‘I’m sorry, mate, I just have a real lousy feeling this time around, like it’s gonna go properly tits up.’

  ‘Mate, we all think that at some point, it’s normal. Listen, we get this tour out the way and we fuck off home.’

  ‘Yeah, but this time feels different…like something’s gonna happen.’ He sighed again and sat forward, took his helmet off and poured water from his canteen over his head. ‘Bollocks, I sound like a right nut job.’ He looked at Tommy with a wry smile. ‘You know what, mate, me and her sister could see your arse pumping away like a jackhammer down that alley.’

  Tommy was about to reply when they heard raised voices coming from the back of one of the dwellings on the opposite side of the road. And one of the raised voices was that of Adams himself.

  ‘That don’t sound too brilliant, does it, mucka?’ said Jacko as he put his helmet back on and started to get to his feet. ‘Think we best go see, eh?’

  They stood, checked their rifles and hurried across the dusty road, covering each other at all times, and moved around a building that was probably the biggest in the village. They found a small enclosure with a few chickens in it – well, they looked like chickens, just more bone that meat – and a door to the rear of the property. They both went to different sides of the doorway, listening, and, after a moment or two, and feeling safe to enter, Jacko used hand signals to indicate that Tommy should enter first, with Jacko, rifle raised, following close behind.

  To say the circumstances in which the two friends found themselves were awkward would possibly demean the situation. It was extreme shit. Adams was there, towering over an old white-bearded bloke, his fist pressed against the man’s sunken cheek, and a young Afghan was doing a terrific impression of a dying fly while managing to piss blood all over somebody’s prayer mat from a split lip. He looked at Tommy with pleading eyes.

  The Sergeant was attempting to talk native, in a broad scouse accent.

  ‘You is fucking Taliban,’ he screeched. ‘Where are the fucking boom booms?’

  By ‘boom booms’, it was assumed he was asking where the IEDs were hidden. Improvised Explosive Devices, scourge of the Allied troops, or rather the British, Commonwealth and US troops. The closest some of our European friends got to the action was a martini and a blow job from some dusky-skinned sexbomb.

  To the left of Adams was Private Bell, aka ‘Dinga’, who was pissing himself with laughter. To say that Dinga was dislikeable was probably unfair; he was an arse-kisser of the best sort and had attached himself to Adams’s arse like a limpet. You could not speak about anything noteworthy in front of Dinga for fear of it getting back to the Sergeant. Plus he was a ginger, and the one thing Tommy knew for sure was that gingers were a different breed and could not, under any circumstances, be trusted.

  There was also the problem of not being able to understand Dinga, as he was a foreigner, you see, from an exotic place called Newcastle. In fact, just as Tommy had entered the building, he heard Dinga say;

  ‘Wy man, gi it fuckin te im, da fuckin oold twet.’

  Which, roughly translated, probably meant, ‘I say old boy, now don’t make it hard on yourself.’

  He managed to say this while flicking spit all over the old man.

  Given the si
ze of Adams, and the temper he was in, the old geezer, with the imposing Santa beard and skin like leather, was doing an admirable job of not shitting himself; he was just smiling benignly back at the hulking Sergeant, which was winding him up even more. The old man looked at Tommy and held his gaze for a few moments. What Tommy felt right then, he could not explain: understanding, maybe sorrow. And not for himself.

  ‘I’m not gonna ask you again, Abdul,’ exploded Adams. ‘I know you can speaky de English, shithouse.’

  Tommy attempted to defuse the situation. ‘What’s up, Sar’nt,’ he asked, in a pleasant voice, though he knew only too well the methods of questioning Adams used, especially when he was convinced the person he was talking to was related to the Bin Liner himself. Tommy smiled at the old man, to try and reassure him, and the old man smiled back.

  ‘I am asking this wrinkled old fart, lad, where he has hidden those nasty little things that separate your legs from your body.’ He walked over to Tommy and Jacko and put his nose tipto-tip with Tommy’s. The hatred in Adams’s eyes right then confirmed to Tommy that the Sergeant knew he had bumped his wife. ‘Now while me and Dinga sort this out,’ he growled, ‘you and your mate shithouse there, go and sweep the rest of the buildings, savvy? Now, chop chop.’ And with that he turned and walked back to the old man, who was still on his knees, and fetched a hard slap to his leathery cheek.

  Weak as he knew he could sometimes be, Tommy turned, grabbed Jacko’s arm and pulled him through the doorway back into the street. They stood facing each other in the heat and dust, and listened as another slap resounded through the doorway, accompanied by a muffled squeal, which was possibly Dinga laying the boot into the young Afghan.

  Tommy was breathing hard. What he had just witnessed wasn’t nice and he wished he were someplace else. ‘You alright, Jacko? You look pale,’ Tommy said with concern, because Jacko had indeed lost all colour in his face. ‘Jacko, are you alright?’