Forever the Colours

by Richard Thomas

‘You must save yourself, Thomas. I never listened to you, and you were telling the truth.’ He coughed again and nearly lost his breath. ‘You don’t belong in this place, Thomas and you must flee while you can.’

  ‘I won’t leave you, Maurice, not now, mate. Not after all we have come through.’

  Maurice turned his head. ‘Look there, Thomas, Sar’nt Major Cuppage is gone.’

  Tommy looked to see the Sergeant Major propped up against a wall, his chin forward, resting on his chest. He looks asleep, Tommy thought, and so dignified, even in death. There wasn’t a mark on him, but a single small hole on his left breast. He watched the last of the 66th and a few Grenadiers retreat into a garden, back to back, and he spotted Lieutenant Henn with them. Well, he’s not such a twat after all, then, he thought.

  ‘Do you see, Thomas? Please go, it will bring me some peace knowing you got out. And besides,’ he smiled, ‘I might get to see some virgins, what.’

  ‘I will stay with him.’

  Tommy looked up to see drummer Darby standing next to him, carrying a rifle with a bloodied bayonet. He looked back to Maurice, reached out and grasped his hand in both of his. ‘I am proud to have met you, Maurice. I will never forget you.’

  Maurice smiled back at him and nodded. ‘Go,’ he whispered.

  Tommy stood, turned and, without looking back, started walking to the other end of the village. He wiped his eyes and loaded his rifle. As he neared the end, he stopped and turned to look back; he couldn’t see Maurice or Darby anymore, but he did see the last of the Colour party charge out of the garden, standing back to back, firing at the Afghans who dared not come too close. And they started falling one by one. He couldn’t watch the rest and walked out of the village.

  As he cleared the outskirts, he saw the rest of the brigade fleeing up the road toward Kandahar. What do I do now? he thought. The movement of Afghan Cavalry made his mind up for him, and he ran toward the rear of the trail of refugees. Before long he came upon a Ghazi struggling with an Indian native; the Afghan had a knife at his neck. Tommy stood over the Ghazi and slowly, deliberately, pushed his bayonet into his kidneys. The man screamed and rolled over. ‘That’s for Maurice, you prick. Die slowly, you mad bastard, and give my love to Allah.’ The Indian jumped up, breathless.

  ‘Many thanks, Private Sahib, yes please.’

  ‘Arun!’ Tommy nearly burst into tears.

  ‘It will be most important, Private Sahib, for to be running now.’ He turned and sprinted towards the rear of the column. Tommy turned and saw what made Arun bolt. Afghan Cavalry were charging down on him, heading for the fleeing brigade.

  ‘Oh, fuck me!’ Tommy ran, dropping his rifle. Well, he thought, what use will it be against that lot. He could feel the ground shaking as they drew nearer, and he looked ahead for deliverance, which came in the form of the Royal Horse Artillery, who were unlimbering two guns. As Tommy watched, he could feel the hairs stiffen on the back of his neck. They’re aimed at me, he thought, and as this popped into his head, two clouds of smoke appeared ahead of the guns. He could have sworn he saw something moving very fast at him.

  When asked later in life what it was like to get hit by a cannon round, he said it was like getting hit by an RPG.

  Tommy lay on his back with the wind firmly knocked out of him, like someone was sitting on his chest. Bugger, he thought, I’m gonna die, again! All the noise started to fade away. No cannon or rifle fire, none of that incessant stupid screaming from those Ghazis. This ain’t too bad, he thought, as the clouds started to drift lower. Think I might just have a quick nap. He closed his eyes and heard a faint voice. He opened his eyes slightly; they were so heavy. He saw the face of Arun hovering above him.

  ‘You had best run, me old mate, I’m dead anyway. Go on, get going,’ he said weakly. He was drifting again, but then Arun spoke.

  ‘Please do not be worrying, Private Evans Sahib, I will be coming with you on your journey, yes please.’

  ‘Eh?’

  Then darkness.

  Epilogue

  Pain. Shocking, teeth-clenching pain so bad that he thought his head was going to burst. He tried to open his eyes but found that they were being held shut. Something was across them and was wrapped around his head, keeping them closed. He tried to speak but nothing came out, and he tasted blood on his tongue. He tried to move, but found himself held down in a sitting position; an extremely uncomfortable position at that. What the hell is going on? he thought. He lifted his arm to touch his face. Uurgh! He recoiled at the touch. What the hell is wrong with my hands? He investigated a bit further and without seeing he realised he was wearing gloves. Gloves! I don’t recall wearing gloves, why am I wearing gloves? He could hardly hear himself think; the noise around him sounded like a high speed train, and he thought he must be in the middle of a storm because the wind was tearing at his face. He tried to speak again after clearing his throat.

  ‘Arun.’

  Nothing, just the sound of a gale blowing.

  ‘Arun, are you there mate?’ he shouted.

  ‘Don’t worry, pal, we’ll be home shortly.’

  Who the hell was that? he thought. He lifted his hands to his face and tried to remove the cover over his eyes. ‘Goggles! These are goggles.’ He dragged one of the gloves off but at that moment his stomach jumped up into his throat and he felt violently sick. He vomited and felt it slide up his face, into his nose; and then he was thankful he was wearing goggles.

  ‘What the fuck,’ he screamed, as he felt himself becoming weightless.

  ‘Hold on, pal.’

  Weightless! ‘Yes,’ he shouted. He was in an army chopper; they had finally picked him up and he was going back to base. It was all a dream, all of it; Maurice, Arun, Preston, all of them. Cuppage, McMath, the battle. He started to cry, real chest-wracking sobs. ‘All a dream.’ He can go home now, be back with his mates, back to reality.

  Tommy swiped at his nose and tried to open his eyes again; he managed it this time but still couldn’t see for all the vomit over the goggles. This is a bloody bumpy ride, he thought.

  ‘Are we taking fire, mate?’ he shouted.

  ‘You could say that, old boy, yes.’

  What a typical snotty RAF pilot, he thought to himself, university type, better than all the rest. Twat!

  ‘Now hold on. We’re going down and this might get a little bumpy. I think I’ve lost the landing struts.’

  ‘Landing gear, you mean! What the hell hit us, a ground-to-air?’

  ‘I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re on about, old girl, but if you mean that maxim the Afghans were firing at us, then yes.’

  ‘What! Eh?’

  ‘Listen, friend,’ the voice shouted, ‘if you can’t take a joke, then you shouldn’t have joined.’

  Tommy was utterly confused again. ‘Joined what?’

  ‘The Royal Flying Corps, you idiot. Well, not now, actually it’s the Royal Air Force as of last year, when the Great War finished. Anyhow, hold on to your false teeth. This is going to be a little bumpy.’

  ‘WHAT!’

  ‘Brace for impact.’

  Tommy screamed, long and loud all the way down, as the Royal Air Force BE2C biplane headed for the ground.

  Acknowledgements

  There are many references to and different perspectives on the battle of Maiwand, so it was a bit of a slog, albeit an enjoyable one. My God Maiwand! Operations of the South Afghanistan Field Force, 1878–80 by Leigh Maxwell is a must-read for anyone interested in further exploring the second Anglo–Afghan war, and there is an abundance of material online, including the Berkshire’s memorial site: www. roll-of-honour.com/Berkshire/ReadingAfghanCampaign.

  The characters I have used are based on real people, and although I have given them personalities of my choosing and used plenty of artistic license, I have endeavoured to keep them all in the best possible light. But, with any fictional story, it is always good to have a few ‘bad guys’. Some of the characters I have made out to be incompe
tent or of a boorish nature, as with the Grenadier boxer, a bully turned hero. Any offence given is unintentional, as I believe the men who took part in that disastrous battle were heroes. The language and slang in the book was typical of the time, and indeed is still in use today by certain individuals, and I used it to give more authenticity to the story.

  As interesting characters go, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle based his Doctor Watson on Surgeon Major Preston, and there were indeed two men named Watson and Holmes attached to the 66th Foot.

  A great big thanks to my family who have put up with me whilst writing this book. Their patience and encouragement was greatly appreciated.

  The second book in the series, Flying the Colours, will see Tommy transported not home, but a few years into the future to the 3rd Anglo–Afghan war of 1919, where he will meet yet more interesting characters from the past, including a certain young RAF officer named Arthur Harris…

  Richard Thomas