A Game of Soldiers

by Jan Needle

  A hiding place.

  Chapter Two

  By morning the battle was over. In all three houses the families talked about it, and wondered.

  Sarah’s father switched off the radio with a grin. He had tried all the stations and got nothing. Even the English voices had made no mention of the fighting. It was as if it had never happened.

  ‘Somebody once said,’ he told Sarah, ‘that truth is the first casualty of war. One way of avoiding telling downright lies is to say absolutely nothing.’

  ‘Three wise monkeys principle,’ said her mother. ‘See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.’

  Sarah, her breakfast finished, was standing at the window. The day was sunny, the sky a lovely blue, with racing white clouds. It looked cold.

  ‘There aren’t any wrecked planes,’ she said. ‘No sign of an army, no tanks. Maybe the radio’s right. Maybe we dreamed it.’

  In Thomas Wyatt’s house, there was an argument going on.

  ‘But I said I’d meet Sarah and Michael,’ he was whining. ‘I said. If I’m not there they’ll...they’ll…’

  ‘They’ll do naff all, Thomas,’ his father said. ‘What could they do? They’ll just go away and play on their own.’

  Thomas poked at his breakfast with his spoon. He was tired and unhappy. Michael was nasty enough as it was. If he let him down this time...

  ‘But they’ll be waiting,’ he said. ‘They’ll freeze.’

  His mother checked her husband’s face to see how bad his mood was. The signs were not too awful.

  ‘Oh let him go,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t stand to have him inside all day, underneath my feet. And there was nothing on the radio. It can’t’ve been that bad.’

  Mr Wyatt snorted his contempt.

  ‘Pack of damn lies,’ he said. ‘What do they care? They wouldn’t tell us if we had ten minutes to pack up and run. Swine.’

  Thomas looked from one face to the other. His parents’ conversations about the war baffled him. He could not work out at this moment which side his father meant. Surely not the British?

  ‘Well anyway,’ said his mother. ‘No point in worrying. The noise is over, and we’re still here to see another day through. Let the lad go out to play. They can’t be that close.’

  ‘They can be that close,’ snapped his father. ‘They might be just over the ridge for all we know. What if he goes to play and he walks right into them, eh? That’d wipe the smile off, eh?’

  Mrs Wyatt was not smiling. Nor was Thomas. He was terrified.

  ‘Leave him be, Jim,’ said his mother. ‘Don’t scare the kid.’

  She turned to him.

  ‘You won’t go far, will you, Thomas? Stay close, all right? Just in case. And make sure that that Sarah looks after you.’

  Thomas Wyatt nodded. He did not want to go.

  Michael’s parents did not appear much bothered either way. His father was preoccupied with some pieces of his ancient Land Rover which were spread over the kitchen table. His mother had given him about fifteen seconds – and a cup of tea – before disappearing to the wash house.

  ‘Sounded like a big fight last night,’ said Michael, tentatively. ‘It sounded close.’

  ‘Look at that,’ said his father. He was poking gently with a piece of wire. ‘Why is it it’s always the bit you can’t get to that busts? It’s enough to drive you mad.’

  Michael put some jam on another piece of bread. The clock ticking noisily on the window sill showed that it was almost time to go. He had a good plan. He was going to frighten Sarah.

  ‘Do you think it was close, Dad? It woke me up.’

  His father glanced up, surprised.

  ‘Did it, son? You can’t be working hard enough, then. It’s almost time they got it over with, so you can get back to school. I’m surprised it’s taking so long.’

  This sounded hopeful. Michael liked it when his Dad talked about the war. He’d been in the army once, before he’d emigrated, and he knew all about it, and the equipment both sides had and all that. He’d said from the very start that it would be a pushover if only the Brits could get the men and gear down, and he sometimes talked about the enemy with great passion and hatred. Scum, he said, useless scum. But today he wasn’t in the mood.

  ‘Why is it taking so long, Dad? You said last week—’

  His father put down the wire and took a mouthful of tea.

  ‘Never you mind what I said last week, you just get out from under. I’m busy, your mother’s busy, and I’m not going to sit and chatter.’

  With a flutter in his stomach, Michael asked a silly question.

  ‘If they’re that close, Dad – shouldn’t I take a shotgun with me? I mean, if—’

  Michael’s father had an odd face, long and smooth, with very few whiskers, and protruding eyes. These eyes held Michael’s for a second or two, in a way that made him stop. Then his father made a kind of barking noise, a brief shout of laughter.

  ‘Shotgun!’ he said. ‘You’ve got guns on the brain. You can have a shotgun for protection when your mother asks for one. She’s working in the outhouse, all alone, without so much as a wooden spoon.’

  Michael blushed faintly.

  ‘And God help anyone that tries to get the best of her.’ His father grinned.

  ‘She’d eat them raw, son. And spit out the pips.’

  The soldier, damp and violently cold, made it to shelter as the sun was rising. A stone shelter with no roof, and empty except for rocks and sheep droppings. As he crawled through the entrance and the wind was cut off, he almost wept with relief at the rise in temperature. He lay for minutes with his face on the earth, resting. For the moment he had no pain, he was numb perhaps. His fingers as he reached for his tin of cigarettes were white.

  One cigarette left. Water rolled down his nose and almost wetted it. He struck four matches from his tin before he could hold one steady enough to light the cigarette. Plenty of matches, though. One cigarette.

  The soldier lay on his side to smoke it, aware of the sun beginning to warm his legs through the door gap. He would save half of it, and warm his body in the sun until he had the strength to move further into the shelter. He would find a corner spot, safe from ambush, where he could command the door.

  Then what?

  He was wounded. He had no food. He had little water. Only half a cigarette.

  There was a sharp pain as it burnt his lips. He spat out the glowing stub.

  No cigarette.

  Sarah was ten minutes late to the spot where she had arranged to meet Michael and Thomas. It was a crossroads in the sheep-tracks, pretty well invisible except to sheep and children. One branch of the track led down the moor to Thomas Wyatt’s house.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ said Sarah to herself, five minutes later. ‘This is typical, typical. Come on, I’ll freeze to death. Men!’

  Sarah was dressed in cords, and yellow boots, and her parka. Under that were two jerseys, and under her trousers, woolly tights, The wind, when she stood fully in it, went through everything like a knife. There was precious little shelter, here.

  After three minutes more, she set off down the track towards the Wyatt house. Before she moved she shouted.

  ‘Michael! Thomas! Tommy? Michael?’

  Because she guessed it could be some kind of a joke. An ambush. Even with foreign soldiers about, maybe, when there could be real danger lurking, Michael would probably have something stupid up his sleeve. As for Thomas – he could be anywhere.

  Michael, hiding behind a rock, fingered the open blade of his knife as Sarah approached. For a moment it was for real. He was a commando, she was a spy. He would launch himself upon her, and draw the steel across her throat, from left to right. Bright blood would spurt, and she would die. It was the proper way, the manly way. It was necessary.

  As she passed, however, he slowly closed the blade. Sarah had a temper on her, and secretly he was not sure if he could handle her. She was about his size, maybe even a little bigger. His father sa
id she was a tomboy, needed taking in hand, which he agreed with, totally. But although it would be more fun to ambush her with an open blade – he did not dare.

  With a bloodcurdling roar, the intrepid commando launched himself through the air onto the back of his victim. Out of the corner of her eye, Sarah caught the movement. A figure in a combat jacket. Despite herself, she had a burst of fear, but as she fell she recognized the foe. He lay across her, stabbing her furiously with the closed-up knife, and Sarah did not know whether to laugh or spit.

  ‘You’re a fool,’ she muttered, as she pushed him off. ‘One of these days I’ll really bash you one.’

  Michael, kneeling in the grass, sneered.

  ‘I bet I scared you, though,’ he said. ‘I could have killed you if I’d wanted to.’

  They stood by the fence above Thomas’s house as they had so many times before. You did not go down and knock on the door, or walk into the kitchen, as in other people’s houses. That was not allowed. But they were almost fed up enough to go without him, to leave him to his fate, by the time he finally appeared round a corner of the house.

  ‘At ruddy last,’ said Michael. And then: ‘Oh no!’

  Thomas was not alone. First his mother, then his father, turned the corner. As Thomas raced across the garden they called him back. His mother was fussing with his anorak, then his woolly bobble-hat. His father was giving him a lecture.

  ‘My God,’ said Michael. ‘It’s no wonder he’s always late for everything. Earache, earache, earache. Don’t they ever let up on him?’

  Sarah, leaning on the fencepost, shivered slightly in the wind. If you pull that hat down any more, Mrs Wyatt, she thought, you’ll pop his head right through the top.

  ‘Well he is only eight, I suppose,’ she said. ‘I suppose they worry about him because of that.’

  ‘Nuts,’ replied Michael. ‘His Dad’s a pain, that’s all. He never lets him alone. He can’t even breathe without permission.’

  Thomas was climbing the garden fence.

  ‘Here he comes.’

  But no. Thomas had only run ten steps when he was called back. His father had a go at him, pointing up towards the ridge, wagging his finger in his face.

  ‘Look at the old devil moaning now. It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘There is a war on,’ said Sarah. ‘Still, I’m glad my Mum and Dad don’t carry on like that. They just told me to be careful. But there is a war on.’

  ‘Sarah! Michael!’

  Thomas was finally on his way, running up the hill towards them.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Sarah. ‘To the den?’

  ‘Let’s run,’ said Michael. ‘Let’s leave him.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be mean.’

  ‘Sarah! Michael! Wait for me.’

  Sarah giggled. She changed her mind.

  ‘Come on then,’ she said. ‘Let’s give him a run for his money! Teach him to keep us waiting!’

  By the time Thomas reached the fence they were a hundred metres away, and going strong. He almost tore his jeans getting across the barbed wire.

  ‘Sarah! Come back! Wait!’

  They kept on running. Thomas heard Michael shouting something, but the wind whipped it away.

  Swine, he thought. But it did not matter much, he’d catch them up. He knew where they’d be going, in weather like this. They’d need somewhere to keep warm.

  They’d need some shelter.

  Chapter Three

  In the sunshine, out of the wind, the soldier had slept. When the sun had left him in shadow, he had awoken. Once more cold, but not so cold. Once more stiff, once more in pain. But he had been able to move, back into the sunshine. Slowly, he had become warmer. His clothes were dry.

  The soldier stared through the doorway, then around the ruin where he lay. Outside, he could see a long sweep of moorland, green and brown. Occasional cloud shadows raced across the grass, and sheep wandered across the narrow path of his vision. No houses, no fences, nothing. He was very lonely.

  Inside the refuge there was also nothing. A few slates had dropped from the roof when there had been one, some worm-eaten planks, sheep droppings. Not enough small wood, even, to make a fire. He had thought about that for a long time. At night he would need a fire, and the smoke would be invisible. But he did not have the strength, he knew, to gather wood. Maybe later.

  There was day-time to consider, also. If the sun went in, or it rained, it would become much colder. But even if he could find small wood, on these desolate, woodless islands, dared he light it? What if someone saw?

  Not often, the soldier allowed his mind to wander onto the trouble he was in. If he did light a fire by day, someone might find him. But who? And if he was not found sometime, sometime soon – what would happen then?

  He did not feel hungry, but he had no food. He did not feel as if he was dying, but he could hardly move.

  If nobody found him – his comrades, or the islanders, or the British – what then?

  The soldier was a young man, he was sixteen years. When these thoughts came to him, he could not dwell on them. He would not. He had no answers.

  He had no answers.

  Sarah allowed Thomas to catch up with them before they reached the den, because she guessed he would soon be crying.

  ‘Come on, Michael,’ she panted. ‘A joke’s a joke. He’ll be more trouble than he’s worth if we make him bawl.’

  Michael slowed down to a jog, then stopped.

  ‘More trouble than he’s worth anyway. The best thing about it when the British win is we’ll be able to play with proper kids again.’

  Sarah did not reply, but she had her thoughts. Sure enough, when Thomas trotted up, his face was on the verge of crumpling.

  ‘You’re rotten you two are,’ he said. ‘I thought you were my friend, Sarah. You’re horrible.’

  Michael made a noise, then headed off towards the sea.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Quit whining, Thomas, you make me sick. Let’s get to the den.’

  ‘I’m not coming,’ Thomas began. ‘It’s not fair, I—’

  Sarah reached into her pocket and pulled out a white paper packet.

  ‘Stop moaning or you don’t get toffee,’ she said. ‘My Mum made it last night. It’s great; real stick-jaw.’

  Thomas weighed up the position. No point in sulking if it lost you something special. Sarah set off after Michael, and he tagged along.

  ‘Why we going to the sea den, though?’ he asked. ‘It’s much warmer at the other one.’

  Michael called back over his shoulder: ‘It’s more fun. It’s got the RT set. We can play at soldiers.’

  ‘Oh gawd,’ breathed Sarah. She stopped to wait for Thomas.

  ‘Soldiers,’ she said. ‘Soldiers, soldiers, soldiers.’

  With shaking hands, he cut away the fabric of his trouser leg until the wound was exposed. Fearfully, he touched the blue and purple flesh. Feeling nothing, he probed further, aware of the filthiness of his fingers. The soldier did not even have a handkerchief to use as a swab or bandage.

  The flesh was moist, with a clear, pinkish fluid weeping from it. He could not understand how it had happened, it was as if a metal claw had grabbed at him. Gingerly, the soldier lifted up a fold of skin. The white bone under it was split and jagged.

  He passed out.

  The den was fairly sheltered, and the sun was shining brightly on them. Seabirds screamed as they wheeled above the surf, which crashed and roared constantly. Across the ocean, nothing was visible, except the white crests of the breaking rollers. They had all, at Michael’s suggestion, scanned the waves for British warships. Nothing.

  They were in a circle, their eyes still running from staring at the wind, eating toffee from the paper. Sarah was on a washed-up log, with Thomas near her on the sand. Michael was seated by his pride and joy, an old ex-Army radio telephone. It did not work, of course, but to him, it was fantastic.

  ‘You’re lucky you are, Sarah,’ said Thomas. He paused, trying to
unstick his teeth. ‘I wish my Mum made stuff like this.’

  Michael was mocking.

  ‘Your Mum would kill you if she saw you even eating it.’ He put on a grown-up voice. ‘Thomas Wyatt, how dare you! That rubbish will rot your little toothypegs!’

  To get him off Thomas’s back, Sarah said: ‘She says we need it because we’ve been invaded. She says toffee’s what keeps you going.’

  That sounded silly, although her mother had said it. Thomas just looked mystified.

  ‘What’s she mean by that, though?’

  ‘Oh, I dunno,’ said Sarah. ‘My grandma was a kid after the last war, right? In England. They had rationing or something. You couldn’t get sweets. You couldn’t get sugar, even, to make toffee with. So Mum says we’ve got to have it now. The principle of the thing.’

  Michael smirked.

  ‘She’s as daft as you are. Stupid.’

  Sarah waved the paper right underneath his nose, on the way to offering it to Thomas.

  ‘Suit yourself then, you don’t have to eat it, do you? Thomas and me’ll be more than happy without your big gob at the trough, you pig.’

  Michael put on terror.

  ‘No no! Anything but that! Your Mum’s fantastic, Sarah.’ He made a stupid, smarmy face. ‘Just like you!’

  Sarah pretended to throw up.

  ‘Yuk! Here, have some, quick. Anything to glue your horrible mouth shut. You’re just gross.’

  After they had been chewing in silence for a while, Thomas asked: ‘Did you hear the firing last night? It woke me up.’

  Michael was straight into the attack.

  ‘I bet it did. I bet you nearly wet yourself. Did call out for your Mummy?’

  ‘I did,’ Sarah said, quickly. Let Michael laugh at her if he dared. ‘I got in bed with my Mum and Dad. I was petrified.’

  Michael smiled a big smug smile.

  ‘I didn’t hear a thing,’ he lied. ‘I slept like a log. I bet it wasn’t that close, anyway.’

  ‘You’re wrong then, Cleverdick,’ said Thomas triumphantly. ‘My Dad says it’s very close, and he says it’s getting closer all the time. He almost didn’t let me come out today, he said it might be dangerous.’