Forever the Colours (14 page)

Maurice turned on his stool and looked down at the men. ‘Ah,' he said, ‘seems very much like we are going to see a bit of pugilism, old man,' and he turned fully round on his stool to watch.

‘Is that allowed, mate? Isn't it against regulations or something?'

‘Not at all, my friend. The General likes the sport, so he avidly encourages it as long as the Queensberry Rules are followed, and the match is refereed so nobody gets hurt, of course. Can't say I would like to be in there with that Indian fellow though. He looks rather herculean, does he not?'

‘Yeah, he's a big lad all right.' Tommy watched the Indian, wearing nought but a loin cloth, walk around the ring flexing his muscular arms and shoulders. His leg muscles were so large they looked like tree trunks.
He
must
be
at
least
6'2”
or
6'3”
and
extremely
fit
by
the
look
of
him
, Tommy thought. The man had an arrogant look behind the beard he was sporting, and from what he could see of a scarred face, Tommy didn't envy his opponent one bit.

‘Aha, and here comes our champion of the 66th, Private Davis,' said Maurice. ‘A likeable chap, albeit he is as stupid as he is big.'

Tommy watched Davis walk into the square of bodies. He was perhaps touching six feet and was muscular under a thin layer of fat. He had a belly on him too, which was hanging over his issue trousers. His hair was cut short at the back and sides, with a centre part and a massive handlebar moustache. What the attraction to these bushy moustaches was was beyond Tommy. You couldn't even see Davis's mouth. But he did look remarkably confident given the size of his opponent, and he started to limber himself up.

As the fighters were getting their gloves on, a Sergeant entered the square, a man from the 66th.
The
referee
, Tommy supposed,
and
a
beard
like
ZZ
Top!
He called the boxers to him in the centre, and by the way he was gesticulating, it appeared he was telling them to fight fairly. He kept pointing at his mouth, his head and his groin.

‘I do believe we're in for a treat, Thomas, a clash of the Titans if ever there was one, what.'

Tommy was interested now and stood to watch. As the fighters moved to opposite corners, they stared each other down. The Indian's face was impassive, but Davis, Tommy noticed, must be smiling, as his moustache was curving upwards. The referee stepped into the middle, sliced his hand through the air, shouted ‘Begin,' and moved back. Davis came out of his corner like a bull, his hands raised only to waist height. He moved up to the Indian, who had only taken a couple of steps, and started throwing punches at the Grenadier's head. For such a large man, the Grenadier moved with incredible speed, dodging Davis's gloved fists as though he were throwing them in slow motion.

Left, right, straight, nothing was catching him, and he suddenly stepped to the side and jabbed a left into Davis's face, who stumbled backwards, off balance. But instead of following up, the Indian walked calmly around him, face impassive, and Tommy thought the Grenadier had his guard up where it belonged, in front of his face. Davis shook his head and resumed the onslaught with a barrage of punches, but again couldn't connect with the other man's head. He then tried for a body shot but received a straight cross in the dead centre of his forehead and landed on his arse with a great thud. The crowd of soldiers, a mix of Grenadier and the 66th, were roaring their fighters on with gusto. Tommy realised he was silently willing Davis to get his guard up. The Private got to his feet and shook his head again, but this time his legs had started to wobble and he staggered a little. The Indian, instead of taking advantage of this, calmly walked around Davis, who was probably seeing double from that last punch.

Snap! The Indians left glove snaked out and caught Davis on the nose, not enough to put him down again but enough to start his nose bleeding. Snap! Another jab, straight to the right eye. Davis swung and caught air as the Indian ducked and planted a right into the other's stomach. From where he and Maurice were standing, Tommy could hear the breath leave the man, and winced at the fighter's pain. Again the Indian continued to circle as Davis tried unsuccessfully to catch his breath.

‘I say, that Grenadier chap is rather splendid, don't you think, Thomas? Thomas?'

‘Hmm? Oh yeah, he is,' replied Tommy, who was deep in thought. ‘He's just playing with him Maurice, making him look like an arsehole in front of his mates and the regiment. He's just gonna knock him about a bit before he finishes him, you watch.'

As Davis caught his breath and straightened up, he found the Grenadier standing directly in front of him. Tap, tap, tap, three quick-fire jabs straight to the Private's face, making him stagger backwards. The Indian stepped to the right and put another hook into the ribs. To his credit, Davis, still in pain from that last shot, tried another couple of punches, a left-right combo, and actually managed to catch the Grenadier with a glancing blow to the chin. Infuriated at having been caught, he stepped forward, and with blistering speed, landed three or four punches to the Private's now swelling face, then once again stepped out of reach.

Davis, with his eyes now swollen shut, attempted to throw a powerful right hand. He over balanced and his jaw connected with the Grenadier's right glove. He stood in the centre of the square, arms now completely dropped , out on his feet. Tommy was disgusted that it had gone this far. The Indian had been far too good for Davis, and he wished that the ref would stop it. Indeed, just as this thought came to him, the referee stepped forward to end the debacle, but before he could reach the centre, the Grenadier jumped forward and planted a thumping right straight into the other man's temple. Davis's legs folded like wet paper and he landed on his side, utterly unconscious, and the crowd roared with both glee and anger. Tommy was sickened. He sat back down.

‘That was extremely entertaining, don't you think, Thomas?'

‘No Maurice, it wasn't. It was disgusting and it should have been stopped after the first couple of minutes.'

‘Stopped? Whatever for?

‘So nobody gets too hurt, obviously.'

‘Hurt? How stupid of me, I thought that was the whole purpose of throwing your fists at each other's faces!'

‘Well, yeah it is, but you can get brain damage from taking too many punches and all that, and it was stupid to let that go so far. He could be seriously hurt down there.'

‘Well, bless my soul, and there's me thinking that brain damage was a requisite before you were allowed to enter into that square.'

‘You know what, bollocks to the lot of ya.' Tommy stood, angry and disgusted at what he had witnessed, and turned to enter the tent.

‘Thomas! Really, if I'd thought you were such a sensitive soul, I wouldn't have allowed you to watch it. I thought you were a tough, twenty-first-century soldier and all that balderdash, what.'

Tommy gave him the finger and went inside the tent. He collapsed onto his bed, hot, sweaty, annoyed, confused and homesick, to name but a few.

‘You're a tosser, Maurice, you know that?' he shouted, and he got even more wound up when he heard laughing outside. Tommy buried his head in the pillow and bit down on it to control his anger. After many thoughts of home, this place, this nightmare place, that dickhead of a Grenadier and giving Maurice a wicked slap, he drifted off to sleep.

When he woke it was gloomy in the tent, and the only source of light was a paraffin lamp on the Major's desk. He sat up, confused for a moment, and rubbed his eyes; and after a while, he remembered that afternoon, watching that Private get an unnecessary beating, and feeling like a wimpy child at the hand of Maurice's sarcasm.

‘Fuck it,' he said to himself, and he slipped off the bed, stood and stretched. He was still wearing half his uniform as he made his way to the entrance of the tent. My
uniform!
he thought,
That's
a
laugh
. He popped his head out of the flaps and into a warm evening, the sun having only just disappeared behind some mountains in the distance. Maurice was sitting on a wooden fold-up chair and was talking to Major Preston, and both were seated around a little wooden table.

‘Ah, Thomas, how delightful of you to join us,' said Maurice.

Tommy could see that he had been drinking again.

‘Good evening, Mr Evans,' said Preston. And Tommy noticed for the first time the real slight Irish lilt to his accent.

‘Good evening, sir,' said Tommy. He didn't reply to or acknowledge Maurice.

‘You will forgive me, gentlemen,' said Preston as he stood up. ‘I have been summoned to attend the General's tent for dinner this evening and to hear reports of Mr Ayub Khan's movements. Though what that has to do with a surgeon attached to the 66th, I am unsure. But nevertheless, I must attend. A good evening to you both.' And he turned and walked away into the night.

There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment, until Maurice finally broke it.

‘I am sorry, Thomas, if I offended you this afternoon. My humour sometimes gets the better of me and I am sure that in the twenty-first century, boxing is an uncouth and despicable pastime. Please forgive my somewhat trite humour.'

Tommy was unarmed straight away, because, although Maurice could be a complete upper-class, sarcastic, piss-taking twat, he was also highly likeable and had sincerity about him when he wasn't making fun.

‘To tell you the truth, Maurice, boxing is massive in my time, a hugely popular multimillion-pound industry, and a skilled fighter is worth looking after. I accept your apology, mate.'

‘Multimillion pounds, you say. We do have the same currency in the future, surely?' he said with a smile.

‘Maurice, if I was to tell you what it's like in a hundred-odd years, even you will let them cart me off to a madhouse.'

‘I believe you may be correct, old chap. Now sit you down, I have an ambrosial liquor here that I have fortunately come by with the help of a certain Captain I know, and it is awaiting your approval.'

Tommy sat on the opposite chair and accepted the glass Maurice offered. ‘I don't know about you, but I'm sick to death of drinking out of wooden cups.' He then poured a golden liquid into Tommy's glass.

‘To your very good health, old chap,' said Maurice, and he raised his glass.

‘Cheers, Maurice.'

They sipped their drinks in silence for a few minutes and watched the camp, listening to its sounds; somebody was singing along to a guitar, a bawdy song involving a general's daughter and the gallows, and when it got to the chorus three or four others joined in. In the end, Tommy found himself tapping along to the tune.

‘Harmonious bunch, wouldn't you say, Thomas?'

‘Catchy tune, that,' Tommy said, and he wondered where the sound of the guitar was coming from; he tried to locate the direction but failed.

Just then Arun came up to the friends, carrying a wrapped cloth bundle which he placed on the table.

‘Pardons, a message from the Captain Garratt Sahib. Message is please be enjoying, Lieutenant Rayner Sahib.' And with that he bowed quickly and attempted to leave. But before he got even a few feet, Tommy stopped him.

‘Hang on, Arun. Listen, I'm sorry I frightened you. I didn't mean to, I apologise.'

Arun looked dumbfounded for a moment. ‘No need apologies, Private Sahib. I is to blame, pardons.' He nodded and turned but Tommy refused to let him go.

‘Wait, Arun, do me a favour, will you, and have a walk down there and see who's playing that guitar for me, please.'

Arun looked at Maurice for a split second and then nodded. ‘Yes please,' he said, and wandered off to find the guitar player.

‘Why the interest, then, Thomas?'

Tommy took a sip of the drink Maurice has poured him and found that it was another whisky,
and
an
exceedingly
smooth
malt
at
that
, he thought.
My
god,
if
Granddad
could
see
me
now,
drinking
single
malt
from
the
nineteenth
century,
he
would
be
well
jealous
.

‘Oh, I dunno, just a thought. Anyway, what's in the parcel, Maurice?'

Maurice unwrapped the cloth to reveal half a loaf of fresh bread and a large cut of roast pork.

‘This, Thomas, is a return favour from the Gallant Captain Garratt. You see, when his friend Captain McMath was injured by a rather angry panther he was hunting, well, I managed to supply certain objects of a medicinal quality to help poor Mr McMath in his recovery. It's not a Roman Saturnalia, but it's all I could manage to appropriate at this time, courtesy of the General's table.'