Forever the Colours

by Richard Thomas

  ‘Hooch.’ God my mouth’s dry. Tommy coughed. ‘Ah that’s better. Hello, how are you then, gorgeous?’

  Is that my voice? I sound like Frank Bruno or something. Eh, up then, here we go. She’s looking over. Be calm, son, you can do this. Ah, don’t put your top back on. Well, actually, maybe you can because you’ve got no tits and that tuft of hair in the middle of your chest is nasty. But that don’t matter, don’t matter at all. I’ve had worse down Bogeys on an ’80s night, and they were fat as well as ugly. She’s coming over, shit, she’s coming towards me. Why is she putting her hair in a bun, or whatever you call it? Strange, but sexy in a grandmotherly sort of way. Look at the length of those legs, she must be six foot. She’s coming over, right into my bedroom and straight through the wall, how funky is that? Mind you, my dad won’t be happy; he’ll have to repaper again. Can you still get Power Ranger wall paper? She’s leaning over me. Well I’m gonna get a snog here. Wow! What lovely blue eyes. Eh, eh, hang on, where are you going? And there’s no need to shout. Is that Spanish or something? Yeah, oh yeah, she’s a sexy Spanish biker chick! Who’s that? Oh crap! Is that my old man? It is, damn it, and he’s talking to the biker chick and pointing. Shit! Dad’s coming over, he’s leaning over and putting a hand on my forehead.

  ‘I don’t wanna go to school today, Dad. I feel sick.’

  The biker chick is saying something to him. Is she trying to chat up my dad? Slapper!

  ‘He’s married, you know, to my mum, and he’s too old for ya.’

  ‘Easy now, go back to sleep, there’s a good lad.’

  ‘Sorry Dad. OK, I am a bit tired. I got blown up today, yesterday, sssomething. I got, got…’

  Darkness.

  I love camping. Camp fires, a bit of weed, some beer and shagging. Camping’s brilliant! It reminds me of when me and Dad used to go all the time at weekends. Mind you, I didn’t shag or smoke or drink then, not with my dad. That was when I was a teenager, with my mates. Oh no, me and Dad used to make fires and tell ghost stories and eat fried food, like bacon and eggs. Some of my mates used to take the piss, saying he was old fashioned and stuff. Well, he was old; he didn’t have me till quite late in life. But he’s still cool! He would tell me stories about his time in the national service, and about the places he was posted. He would tell me about the things he got up to in West Germany. That’s why I wanted to join the army in the first place, to fight for my country; defender of the faith and all that. Not actually like that though, is it, in reality? I mean, in reality it can be blood, guts, pain, fear and shitting yourself. Yeah, reality is a funny thing sometimes. Anyway, camping! Yep, I love camping, always have. Sometimes though, it can be bloody uncomfortable. Like now. This camp bed is proper lumpy. And why is it when I open my eyes, it looks like I’m under water? Talking of water, my mouth feels as dry as a Pharaoh’s sock!

  ‘Hello,’ Tommy croaked. ‘Hello, is anybody there?’

  No answer.

  Tommy was lying on his back. He opened his eyes again. Oh wow! he thought, I feel stoned. He tried to focus his gaze straight up, and he could just make out what looked like a khaki-coloured roof. After a few more moments of blinking, he realised it was a tent roof; he could also see the cross pole. Trying to recall how he came to be staring at the khaki-coloured roof of a tent, he suddenly remembered that he had been hit by a banger – idiot! It was an RPG. Right then, he thought, I must be injured. Yes, that’s it. I’ve taken an injury and that’s why I’m here. This is a hospital tent, then. But I can’t be that bad because the lads were taking the piss, weren’t they? You know, bringing me in on a cart instead of a heli. Ha! Very bloody funny, that.

  ‘Oi, can anybody bloody hear me?’ Tommy said, louder this time. ‘I’m gonna die of thirst here, you know.’

  ‘I can hear you,’ said a deep voice. ‘I will get you some water in good time, so please keep your voice down. There are some sick individuals in here, thank you.’

  Ah! Tommy thought, I’m not alone, then. He moved his head, following the voice, but he still could not focus properly. His head felt like lead when he tried to move it. He could just make out a blurred figure sitting at a desk with what looked like a candle burning on it, and Tommy could not help but smile at this.

  ‘Bloody typical,’ he said to the figure. ‘They can’t even be bothered to pay the electric bill, let alone supply us with decent kit.’ Tommy sighed. ‘Wankers!’

  ‘Now listen here, Private,’ said the blurred figure. ‘Please keep your voice down and your comments to yourself, there’s a good chap. I will be with you in but a moment.’

  Well lardy fucking da.

  Tommy tried to focus on his surroundings, moving his eyes slowly around the room – tent. It was obviously a tent, he could see that now, even with the blurred vision. The thought of camping with his father came back to him and he had to swallow down an involuntary sob. He took a deep breath and continued to scan around. There were other beds in here as well, three he could count, two of them occupied. Why hadn’t they flown him out yet? And better still, why wasn’t he in a proper hospital in Kandybar? This thought confused him; in fact, everything confused him: The cart he had been on with the horses, the bogus soldier with the dodgy hat and fake moustache, some raghead with a bloody marvellous curved sword…Was that real?

  Was any of it real? What about that girl, with the long hair and kinky boots? Where was she, and was she a nurse perhaps? When he thought about it, she was a right dog, actually, with all that facial hair. Oh well, any port in a storm, especially a port with such long legs. He looked around the tent and was shocked to see how basic it was. Oh brilliant. I’m in a Red Cross camp! How fantastic! he thought. Blown up, nearly carved up and dragged around on a sodding horse and cart, and now the local witch doctor at a Red Cross camp.

  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.

  Tommy stood stunned for a moment, leaning against the desk. His thoughts were a jumble of shock, incredulity, panic and hilarity, thoughts so fantastic, he wanted to laugh and scream at the same time. If his eyes hadn’t deceived him, or maybe it was the opiates, he was in fact in a hospital tent, in lust with a long haired man, and, according to the diary’s date, it was 1880. The world spun for a second and Tommy landed on his arse with a thud.

  ‘Ere, you right, boy?’ came a voice from one of the other beds.

  Tommy looked at the occupant. He found a balding man with a large nose and an awful skin condition. He smiled. ‘No, I’m not OK, mate.’

  He started to giggle, then laugh, loudly, at the i
nsane position he found himself in.

  Well, I suppose it’s better than being dead, he thought, or maybe I am dead and this is my afterlife after all.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ he said.

  ‘Hang on to what, boy?’

  ‘Well, it can’t be death, can it? I mean, I’m still breathing and all that, and I feel pain and all.’

  ‘Have ye lost yer mind, then?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Is thee mad?’ the voice said. ‘God’s marcy, ye bin booming since ye waayked.’

  Tommy laughed again. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, mate, but it sounds great.’

  ‘Take no mind to him,’ said a voice from the other bed. ‘Miserable bugger, he is.’

  Tommy looked to the occupant of the other bed and saw a young man, maybe in his twenties and extremely pale looking.

  Tommy grabbed hold of the edge of the desk and pulled himself up; he stood for a moment, not quite knowing what to do.

  ‘Are you all right, old boy? You look rather pale, don’t you know.’

  Tommy laughed at that. ‘You wanna have a look in a mirror, me old mate. You look like Casper.’

  The young pale man smiled, but looked confused as well. ‘Well, I am sure that Mister Casper is devilishly handsome as well.’

  They both laughed at this remark.

  ‘I honestly don’t know what to do,’ said Tommy. ‘I think maybe I’m going mad. I shouldn’t be here. I mean, I was somewhere else, and now I’m here, dead or in the past or maybe just stoned…I dunno!’

  ‘Well it certainly appears you had a little bump on the head all right, but a word of advice, my friend: I wouldn’t go spouting off too much about being dead or in the past or whatever stoned means. I dare say you will be carted off back to jolly old England and deposited in the nearest asylum.’

  Tommy stared at Mr Pale for a few moments, and then said, ‘What if this is just a dream? What if I’ve been injured and I’m in a coma or something? And this is all just a very weird dream.’