Forever the Colours

by Richard Thomas

  Oh shit, he thought, and quickly tucked himself away just as a figure scrabbled out of the tent and came at him with a swing. Tommy just about ducked and stepped away quickly.

  ‘All right, mate, sorry about that, but I was busting.’

  The soldier stopped and stared at Tommy. ‘I know you, yer that lad who beat that fat ugly bastard t’other day. Hey Billy, come out ’ere and see who we got pissin’ up our tent.’

  Another much larger man came out of the tent and stood in front of Tommy; he was about six feet, bull necked and had an enormous moustache. His other distinguishing features were his two black eyes. He stomped up to Tommy and smiled, and gave him a bear hug that knocked the breath out of him.

  ‘Put ’im down, Billy, you’ll kill ’im. I said put him down.’

  ‘All right, Charlie, keep yer hair on.’

  Tommy dropped back onto his feet, struggling for breath with his hands on his knees. After a moment or two, he looked up into the smiling faces of, he supposed, Billy and Charlie. ‘All right gents, how are ya?’

  ‘Eh, hear that, Billy? We’re gents now. Well, pleased to be making your acquaintance an’ all that. The name’s Charles Croft, and this here’s my associate, William Davis.’

  ‘Sorry about pissing on yer tent, fellas, but I had nowhere else to go.’

  ‘S’all right, chum. After what you did to that bastard Grenadier, well, you can piss in the tent next time, if yer want. I won fifteen shillings on ya. Now what brings you to our neck of the woods?’

  ‘I was told to come down here to see how things were going. Galbraith’s adjutant, Lieutenant Rayner, sent me.’ Tommy immediately regretted what he had said, as the two soldiers promptly adopted a guarded look.

  ‘Woo, hang on, don’t worry about me, boys, I’m just employed as a runner for him. I’m not a grass.’ He was rewarded with blank stares. ‘You know, a snitch? Backstabber? A tattle tale, then.’

  ‘Ah, right, I understand. So why ya doin’ that fer then, how come yer not wiv the lines?’

  ‘It’s complicated. I was told to do it for Rayner as he’s not fully fit yet, and he can use me to do the stuff he can’t, if you know what I mean?’

  ‘Not really,’ replied Billy with a confused look.

  ‘Don’t worry about our Billy, he’s ’ad is ’ead knocked about too many times.

  Tommy smiled and looked around, at the soldiers going about their business, loading carts, wrapping rifles – in socks, by the look of it – packing canvas bags with items of clothing, cups, pots and pans. He noticed that there was a subdued feel to the soldiers now; they were still taking the piss, but not to the extent they had earlier in the evening.

  ‘What ya call that boxing then, wiv all that kickin’ and stuff?’ The noise had come from the monster moustache. Billy had spoken a sentence, a whole one, and he had probably been putting it together since Tommy had arrived there.

  ‘Well, it’s called kickboxing, strangely enough.’ My God, Tommy thought, no wonder he lost that fight. He has the IQ of a plum!

  ‘So lads, ain’t you supposed to be packing or something?’

  ‘Thought ya weren’t no blabber mouth, then,’ growled Charlie.

  ‘I ain’t mate, but you might wanna start.’

  ‘Oh, aye, and why’s that, then?’ replied Charlie, as he pulled his waist band higher.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, how about Sar’nt Major Cuppage walking towards us. That good enough for ya?’

  ‘What! Fuckin’ ’ell, he is as well. Move ya fuckin’ arse, Billy, ya daft apeth.’ With that, he grabbed Billy by his braces and dragged him over to a canvas bag and started throwing things in it.

  Tommy chuckled to himself as he watched the soldiers panicking, with Charlie throwing curses at Billy who was very nearly tearful. Suddenly he felt a presence behind him, a large one at that according to the shadow that had just fallen over the packing soldiers. Tommy swung round to face Cuppage, came to attention and cracked out a smart salute.

  ‘Hello again, Private. And what brings you out tonight? I thought you were convalescing with Galbraith’s adjutant, Mr Rayner?’

  ‘Pleased to report, Sar’nt Major, that myself and Mr Rayner have been declared fit for duty, and I was selected to be Mr Rayners secreta—runner for the coming hostilities. I am to be his eyes and ears, Sar’nt Major.’

  Cuppage stepped closer to Tommy, close enough to feel his breath on his cheek. ‘There is something different about you, Evans, something very strange, something I can’t put my finger on. We have not met before, yet I find you very familiar.’

  Tommy looked back into his eyes and tried not to quiver. This man had an enormous presence and he made it felt at all times. After a moment or two, he stepped back and looked over Tommy’s shoulder at Billy and Charlie, who had stopped to gawp at the two men. ‘Do not cease in your packing, gentlemen. We wouldn’t want to leave two outstanding soldiers like yourselves behind, now would we.’

  ‘No, Sar’nt Major Cuppage,’ they chimed together, and continued in their hasty packing.

  ‘I am on my way to speak with the Lieutenant Colonel shortly. Would you care for a stroll through the camp, Private, so as to make a report for Mr Rayner with details of the readiness of the brigade to move?’

  ‘Thank you, Sar’nt Major.’

  ‘Very well, come.’ He turned and strolled deeper into the 66th lines. Tommy waved goodbye to Billy and Charlie, who waved back. Well, Billy did and smiled. Charlie stuck his tongue out.

  Cuppage talked as he walked and he took such big strides that Tommy had to keep a fast pace. ‘So you transferred from the Fusiliers, Mr Evans? How find you the Berkshires since your arrival?’

  Tommy was gobsmacked that he remembered his name and nearly stuttered his reply. ‘Extremely professional, Sar’nt Major, and highly disciplined all round.’ This was all he could think to say.

  Cuppage looked sideways at Tommy with a curious frown. ‘You are well spoken for a Private, Evans. How is this? Did you attend school fully?’

  ‘Yes, Sar’nt Major, I did all my schooling on the Isle of Wight.’ He disclosed this information, hoping the Sergeant Major hadn’t been there.

  ‘Indeed. I was stationed at Parkhurst for a time. And how did you learn to fight? I watched you the other day, as I was with the Brigadier General’s party. Your style was highly unusual, to say the least, and believe me, I have seen lots of different fighting techniques.

  Tommy had to think quickly. ‘When I was a boy, Sar’nt Maj—’

  ‘For goodness sake, call me Mr Cuppage.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Cuppage. Like I was saying, when I was a boy, my father owned a small boat builders in Cowes, and he employed a Korean man as a labourer. They and the Chinese worked all over the docks in Portsmouth and Southampton. Well, he taught me a bit of taekwondo, which is the Korean fighting style. I learned it for years until I joined the army.’

  ‘The Hermit Kingdom, eh? I have not been there. Well, you do it very well.’

  There was a fuss around one of the carts as they approached some of the cannons.

  ‘I’m telling you, we don’t have room for all this ordnance, so you’re just going to have to leave some of it.’

  ‘With all due respect, sir, I think we will probably need all of it in the coming days.’

  Tommy and Cuppage stopped. The others stopped talking and came to attention, apart from one, who Tommy recognised as Chute, who Maurice had spoken to.

  ‘Can I be of assistance, Lieutenant?’

  ‘Ah, Sergeant Major. Yes you can. Will you please inform Sergeant Rice here that he cannot pack all the ordnance we took from the levies as there is no room for it, and I doubt very much if we would have need of it anyway.’ He was red in the face and sweating profusely, even though it had started to cool in the early hours.

  Cuppage turned to Rice. ‘What say you, Sergeant Rice? Do you think we will need all these shells? Do you feel the horse artillery will not have enough to deal with Mr Khan’s army?’


  ‘Sar’nt Major Cuppage, sir, it’s my belief that we can do away with cooking pots and bedding and anything of no use in this coming battle. Every shell, shot and shrapnel will be needed, or me and the lads won’t be any use if we run out. And besides that, we threw away most of the ammunition when we took these guns off the levies and only have about fifty rounds each.’

  Cuppage mused over this for a minute or so, whilst looking over the ammunition cart. Then he turned to Chute.

  ‘That seems to me to be a fair argument, Lieutenant. Might we come to some compromise and make a little more room in the baggage? For as Sergeant Rice has pointed out, if he were to run out in the coming battle, these cannons attached to the 66th would become redundant, would they not? I am sure you will agree, sir, that we could make do with a little less comfort and perhaps a little more protection.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, very well then. But I will not be explaining why we haven’t enough pots and pans to feed the army. You may make some small room, Rice, and that is all, damn your eyes.’ He stormed off into the darkness.

  ‘Carry on, lad, and make sure you can squeeze as much ammunition onto those carts as you can, clear?’

  Rice smiled and seemed to stand a little taller. ‘Yes, Sar’nt Major Cuppage.’ He turned and started to shout, ‘Allen, Corke, Drewitt, Gilbert, get the rest of that shot on the cart. Basden, Gunney, Lambert, go and find me some galloping gunners and some oss’s to shift this lot, and where the bloody hell is McDermott? That ’orrible little shit!’

  Tommy watched Cuppage, who was himself watching Rice go about his duties. He had a slight smile on his face. He waited a few moments before Cuppage, not even looking at Tommy, said, ‘Do not think too badly of the Lieutenant, Mr Evans, we all have our jobs to do, and some know theirs better than others. And when in time of war and battles and death, always, but always, trust your NCOs to get the job done correctly. Understand?’

  ‘I do, Mr Cuppage, sir.’

  He became thoughtful again, watching some of the 66th men loading ammunition onto the carts, and, Tommy thought, he looked a little sad.

  ‘My niece married a man like that fellow Rice, a likable rogue, I’ll give you, but a rogue all the same. She is far too good for him and my sister was rather unhappy about their union, for she finds soldiering unromantic and boorish. Her husband is a chemist, you see, a rather dull one, I might add. The girl’s husband is fighting for Queen and country in the Zulu lands. A Corporal he is, Sydney Jackson, a man of questionable parentage from Peckham.’

  He took a deep breath and a long exhale, and looked at Tommy, who noticed for the first time the green tint to Cuppage’s eyes, illuminated from the many lamps and fires. Tommy found himself remembering other eyes that looked similar.

  Hang on a minute, thought Tommy.

  No way!

  Jackson?

  ‘From Peckham, Mr Cuppage?’

  ‘Indeed, and I know not why I divulge this information to you,’ he shook his head. ‘Shall we continue and you can tell me more of that fighting technique?’

  Tommy smiled.

  ‘I would be pleased to, sir.’

  And Tommy followed the tall Sergeant Major deeper into the ranks of the 66th.

  Sometime after about three in the morning, a tired Tommy walked back up to Galbraith’s tent to find Maurice. There was no one about except a young soldier packing things into a large wooden box. He was a private, Tommy noted, so he approached him without worry.

  ‘Hello, mate, have you seen Rayner anywhere?’

  ‘Ye mean Lieutenant Rayner, don’t yer.’

  The soldier had an insulted look on his face as he replied to Tommy.

  ‘Err, yeah, Lieutenant Rayner, then.’

  ‘Well, he’s taking a small repose in that tent yonder,’ he indicated this by pointing to a small tent about twenty feet away from Galbraith’s. ‘But he shouldn’t be disturbed, for that’s what he told me.’

  ‘All right, mate, no worries.’ Tommy then caught a whiff of tea and walked over to a small fire by Galbraith’s tent. He noticed an urn hanging over the fire.

  ‘Eh, me old mate, any chance of a chai, then?’

  ‘I suppose,’ came the reply from the soldier, and he picked up a cup and filled it with black, unsweetened tea and handed it to Tommy.

  He drank deep even though the liquid was burning his throat, and after a few minutes he began to feel revitalised. That is quality shit, he thought, even without sugar or milk.

  ‘So what’s your name, then, mucka? My name’s Tommy.’

  Tommy thought he looked to be a similar age.

  The soldier stopped what he was doing. ‘My name is Michael, Michael Darby.’

  ‘Well hello, Michael, and how are you this fine evening?’

  He looked at Tommy with a doughty look.

  What a fucking stiff, Tommy thought.

  ‘Well, I be fine.’

  ‘All right, Mike, so what do you do around here, then?’

  ‘My name is Michael. I’m a drummer with the 66th.’

  Silence!

  ‘Right then I can see that you’re a real chatty bloke, so I’ll piss off and find somewhere to get my head down.’

  The shock on his face was almost laughable, Tommy thought; he turned and made his way to the tent that the drummer said Maurice was in.

  Tommy looked about to make sure no one was watching, especially Michael the drummer, who went ahead with his packing, and entered the tent where his friend was supposed to be resting.

  Tommy stood over Maurice, who was lying in a camp bed, and not too comfortably, by the look of it. He was talking in his sleep again.

  ‘Victoria, my dear my fair Aphrodite, take off the corset.’

  ‘Victoria, Jane! Maurice, me old mate, are you some sort of gigolo?’

  Maurice started, sat up and rubbed his eyes. ‘For goodness sake, Thomas,’ he croaked, ‘that little filly was almost mine,’ he sighed. ‘A prize I have been trying to reach since a stolen kiss and a handful of teat at a Christmas ball.’ He stood, stretched and smiled at Tommy, then checked his watch. ‘My God! Is that the time? We must be away, Thomas, we wouldn’t want to miss the party, what.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind missing it, mate.’

  Tommy shrugged at Maurice’s dour stare and then moved to the camp bed and sat. ‘Do you mind if I get an hour, at least? I’m knackered.’

  ‘Oh, very well, Thomas, but an hour and no more. I will go and find some breakfast. I shouldn’t think we’ll be eating again for a while.’ He turned and left the tent, shouting for Michael to get some food cooking.

  Some time later, Maurice returned and roused Tommy with a cup of steaming tea and a bowl of what looked like porridge. ‘I rather think this should be the other way round, old chap, don’t you?’

  ‘Cheers, pal.’ Tommy sat up and accepted the cup and placed the bowl next to him. After looking around the tent, he noticed it was getting light outside. ‘What time is it, mate?’

  Maurice retrieved a revolver from a canvas bag and placed it into the holster attached to his webbing. ‘It is just after six o’clock, Thomas, so you might want to hurry with that food as we will shortly be on the march.’

  ‘Right then.’ He picked up the bowl and started to eat, chewing slowly on the salty porridge. ‘That’s a nice pistol you’ve got there, mate.’

  ‘It is a thoroughly ungainly Mark I Adams and it has the stopping power of a smelly fart. It annoys the natives rather than kills them.’ He holstered the weapon. ‘I might just as well throw it at them; at least then I might hurt one. But it was all I could get my hands on at the time, so to speak.’

  Tommy noticed the guarded expression and wondered if he had to supply his own kit. That would explain it, he thought.

  Maurice sighed as he placed his helmet on his head. ‘Thomas, my dear chap, just a thought. Where is your rifle? Come to think of it, I haven’t seen you with a weapon since we met, and, yes, I’m sure you consider those fists of yours to be weapons,
but unless you can reach a hundred yards, I suggest you acquire one, what.’ He picked up a rifle leaning against the table. ‘Perhaps you should go and see Chute and see if he can supply you with one. I keep this Martini-Henry for myself, just in case things get a little silly and I have to get my hands dirty.’

  Tommy stood and indicated the rifle, which Maurice passed him. He inspected it closely. It was the same as he’d seen in the 66th lines; he didn’t know what the Indian regiments were using, but from what he’d seen, they were different. He was surprised at the weight. It looked heavier than what he was used to but it was actually lighter; there was also a bayonet, he noticed, that looked like a bloody spear. Single shot, he mused, with a lever action to eject the cartridge.

  ‘That, Thomas, does have stopping power greater than a fart. In fact, it will put lots of holes in Ayub Khan’s fair family of fanatics.’

  Maurice passed him a large bullet which Tommy placed in the breech. ‘So you just close it and it’s ready?’

  ‘Pull the lever shut, old chap, and it’s ready to drop an elephant, although shooting Ghazis is much more fun I hear. When you release the lever, the casing will be ejected. But unfortunately it does have a tendency to jam every now and then.’ Tommy passed it back to him.

  ‘I don’t think that Chute fella will give me a rifle, Maurice, not from what I saw earlier. He seems to be a little under pressure.’

  Maurice thought for a moment. ‘I have a novel idea, then, Thomas. You can have this one, and I won’t have to get my hands dirty at all, then, will I?’

  He passed the rifle back to Tommy and handed him a wrap of cartridges. ‘Just bloody well make sure you’re watching my back, old chap. If any of those bloody savages gets through, well, all I will have is my flatulence.’

  Tommy smiled and shouldered the weapon. He placed his helmet on his head and nodded to Maurice.

  ‘Ready when you are, me old mate.’

  He followed Maurice out to an already brightening day, and the heat was already climbing. Tommy could now fully appreciate just how much work had gone on over the course of the night. The camp was already moving in places; the 66th were drawn up and ready to march in column. The baggage stretched out behind into the distance, and, he was right, there were camels, loads of them, carrying all sorts of supplies. They had Indians riding them or pulling them along, and donkeys, carts and horses everywhere, as well as long lines of Indian infantry, who he thought looked extremely smart.