A Game of Soldiers Read online

  A Game of Soldiers

  Originally written as a TV serial, A Game of Soldiers caused a storm of Government anger when ITV refused to pull it from the schedules. Shortly afterwards, it was nominated for a Bafta award, and publishers scrambled for the novelisation rights. HarperCollins won.

  Thirty years on, and despite the fact that the conflict was famously described as ‘two bald men fighting over a comb,’ the British and Argentine governments are both making belligerent noises again. The fact that neither has a navy big enough to do much about it any more makes it perhaps more poignant. Or ridiculous.

  Brief and fast moving, the novel tells the story of three Falkland Islands friends who find a badly injured Argentine conscript hiding out in one of the lonely places in the ‘camp’ (countryside) where they go to play. All their games these days are games of soldiers. There is nothing else to do.

  Woken by the sounds of battle the night before, they have all been warned by their parents not to roam too far from home. Terrified when they stumble on the soldier, who is not many years older than they are themselves, they quickly get carried away by the possibilities.

  He is an invader in their land. He has been shooting at their soldiers. He is the enemy, and trained to kill. So after not much argument, they decide that they must kill him first. It is their patriotic duty.

  How to do it, though? What tools or weapons do they have to overwhelm him with? And when they start to speak with him – the language barrier notwithstanding – can they continue to see him as somehow less than human?

  Exciting - and extremely provocative

  The Liverpool Echo

  This book shines a cold light on how war can affect young children

  Daily Mirror

  A genuinely thrilling story. Hard not to end it in tears

  Sunday Telegraph

  Gets under the skin of the Falklands Expediton

  The News, Portsmouth

  JAN NEEDLE is an internationally acclaimed author of thrillers, historical sea novels, and books for adults, young adults, and children, under a variety of pen-names.

  He also writes television and stage plays, and literary criticism. He is a founder member of the ebook imprint Skinback Books.

  Websites:

  janneedle.com

  facebook.com/jan.needle1

  Read his blogs at: authorselectric.blogspot.com

  Other ebook titles by Jan Needle in Skinback Books

  For children:

  My Mate Shofiq – exciting and uncompromising story of a dangerous friendship. Runner up for the Guardian Children’s Award

  Albeson and the Germans – a group of children are sucked into a world of violence. Featured on Radio 4.

  For adults:

  Kicking Off – This new novel offers a unique perspective on the social ills of our country and an uncomfortable insight into the powder keg that is our prison system, all delivered at break neck speed with an uncompromising hardness that reflects the seriousness of the subject matter. The complex plot will keep you gripped and guessing – and thanking your lucky stars that this is fiction.

  Cally Phillips, indie ebook review

  Killing Time at Catterick – Nominated for the Orwell Prize, this book – originally published as The Skinback Fusiliers, by Unknown Soldier, with an afterword by the author – is a no holds barred look at the way the British Army treats some recruits.

  Also in Skinback Books:

  Grass Roots by Barry Purchese – an idealistic dad sets up a team for the duds and deadheads, then has to fight the demons of corruption. Bitterly funny book by one of Britain’s leading TV writers.

  Summertime Blues by Barry Purchese – 1959. Rock and Roll music is starting to take hold in England. Fifteen year old Jimmy Shine wants to dress up, jive around and go with girls, but no-one takes him seriously. Then Freddie Ricoba arrives from New Jersey and Jimmy’s life begins to change in ways he has only ever dreamed about.

  A Game of Soldiers

  by

  Jan Needle

  Published by Skinback Books

  Copyright 2012 Jan Needle

  Cover design and layout by Matti Gardner

  [email protected]

  Cover photograph by Alex Marrs

  [email protected]

  Learn more about the author at janneedle.com

  Jan Needle has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  Chapter One

  The night the soldier came, all three of them had been woken by the sounds of war. All three of them had lain in bed and listened to the noise of battle, and watched the uneasy flickering of lights in the sky. All three of them had been afraid.

  It’s getting nearer, Michael thought, and slid his hand under his pillow to feel the knife he kept there. Then he held it on his bare stomach, under his pyjama jacket, and felt it warming to his body. Pity it was so small, but it was the biggest his parents would allow, and that was that. He wondered if his father would regret it if the enemy came to the house that night, and he – Michael – were slaughtered because his knife was not big enough to save him.

  He smiled at the idea. The knife he ought to have was black-handled, and wicked, with a big curved blade. A commando knife. That would see them off.

  His vision – of the pyjama-clad boy straddling a bleeding corpse in triumph – was chased from his mind by a shattering bang that was the closest one he’d ever heard. Suddenly, his bedroom wall was illuminated as if by a lightning flash, and in the intense whiteness, a British marine surged forward from the poster, all teeth and gleaming rifle.

  As it faded, Michael discovered to his shame that he was whimpering.

  The shell, or bomb, or missile that switched Michael’s brain from bloodthirsty fantasy to fright, was the one which made up Sarah’s mind, as well. As the crash came and the light flared and died outside her curtains, she pulled back the covers and stood up.

  She looked like a ghost in her long white nightie, she imagined. At least she felt like one, and she had a horrible certainty that soon she would be one in reality. Before she moved there was a series of further crashing explosions, and the shocking roar of jets.

  It sounded as if a battle was going on quite near their house. Very near. Maybe her Mum and Dad were up already, getting ready to make a last desperate stand. As she opened her bedroom door, her mouth was dry.

  But no. No lights were on, not even in their room. The door was open a little, though, which made her glad. They would have done that on purpose, in case she was frightened in the night. They would not mind her coming in.

  ‘Mum? Dad?’

  She called out softly so as not to wake them, just in case. She moved softly to their bedside on bare feet.

  ‘Good God,’ said Dad. ‘It’s the woman in white. Have you got an owl in your pocket?’

  ‘You what?’ said Sarah. A grin was on her face already. Impossible to stay afraid, or serious, with Dad. He was cracked.

  ‘Florence Nightingale,’ said her father. ‘You won’t know this, you ignorant child, but she always carried an owl in her pocket wherever she went. See, I’m not the only nutter in existence.’

  ‘She was the lady with the lamp,’ put in Sarah’s mother. ‘The woman in white was in a book. Who was it by now? Someone with a really funny name.’

  ‘Look, don’t mind me, you two,’ said Sarah. ‘I’m only your little daughter standing here freezing to death. I’m only shaking
with terror because we’re all going to be murdered in our beds.’

  ‘Oh, dare-dare diddums,’ said Dad. ‘Is the nasty mens keeping you awake with the naughty gunseewunsees, den?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sarah. ‘I’m frightened.’

  ‘Join the club,’ said Mum. She shifted sideways so there was a gap between her and her husband, and pulled the covers back.

  ‘Come on board,’ she said. ‘It may not be much but it’s home. And there’s always room for a littl’un.’

  Thomas Wyatt had been awake for ages. In fact he had been awake for most of the night, long before the battle had flared up.

  Many of Thomas’s nights were broken, now. When he did sleep he often dreamed of war, and death, and blood, and fire.

  In his most vivid and appalling dream, he was taken captive by some soldiers. After he had been held for some time his parents came for him. He tried to stand up, to run to them, but he never could, he could not move. And when they finally saw him, they turned away. In some dreams he could not speak, but on the worst nights he cried out then, and called his mother. Both parents turned and looked again, then walked away. They did not recognize him.

  When this battle had started, half an hour ago, Thomas had been lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. He had not been worrying about the dangers of war, strangely, but about his best mates, Terry and Joe. He had not seen them for a long time, well over a week, and he was missing them. He was certain that if the war went on much longer, if the school was not reopened, if no one could get about and visit town and so on – they would have forgotten him. Then he would be stuck.

  The only friends Thomas had now were Michael, over at Tabb Hollow, and Sarah, who lived further still, about a mile or more. In the normal run of things, they had not been proper mates, just neighbours. They had played together when they’d all been younger, when Thomas had been just a baby, but since then they’d got their separate friends.

  Sometimes, like in the school holidays or when they were all at a loose end, they still got together, but it was quite an edgy thing. He was too old for Sarah to play mums and babies with him any longer, and neither of them got on all that well with Michael, who tried to be a bully. What’s more, he only wanted to play at one thing these days, the one thing Thomas and Sarah disliked most. The war.

  As he lay there, cuddling Red Bear and wishing he could go to sleep, the dominating noise was the wind. It was blowing quite hard, as usual, and it was shaking the roof and rattling the window in its frame. Thomas’s nose was cold outside the covers. That was another thing: it was almost winter. Nothing was ever much fun in winter, and this winter looked like being ten thousand times worse.

  The battle had started with quite terrifying suddenness. One second it was the desolate whining of the wind, the next a double roar of jet engines followed instantly by gunfire and the scream of missiles. Right from the start it sounded closer than ever before, and even under the blankets Thomas was sure he could see flashes.

  ‘Make them stop it, Red Bear,’ he said, over and over again, into the soft nylon fur of his bear-friend’s stomach. ‘Please make them stop it.’

  Michael stayed hidden under his bedclothes for nearly two minutes after his fit of the whimpers, until shame at his cowardice brought him out. The handle of his knife was slippery – but not with the blood of some dead foreigner, just his own sweat. Michael forced himself to stand, and to go to his bedroom window.

  At first there was little to see. It was a dark night, with racing clouds and not much of a moon. He could make out the closer moorland, with the grass flattened and undulating in the wind. In the yard, his father’s old van was rocking in the gusts.

  There were few stars visible.

  Then, straight ahead of him, the sky was alight with flashes. After a moment, Michael heard the detonations, and the buzzing, angry whines. Then there were jet engines, then a heavier thudding. I bet it’s bombs, he thought – give them hell! He paused. Give who hell? He didn’t know who was bombing whom, did he? And who was winning? The grown-ups never told you anything, any more.

  He was depressed. All this was close. Any time, it could get closer. What if the house was overrun? What if they did come? What would happen?

  Worse, would anybody know? Or care?

  Michael opened the blade of his knife, and put it close to his face. He stared at it, getting strength and courage, as if it were a magic talisman.

  Yes, they would know, and care. The Army was here to save them, they had come thousands and thousands of miles to do it, and they would. If anything did go wrong...they would also avenge.

  Sarah lay between her parents’ warm bodies, comforted but still afraid. Her father was asleep again. Genuinely, she guessed, not just putting on an act to reassure her. He was breathing softly and evenly, his large chest expanding and contracting under his working shirt. Her mother was not asleep. But the conversation was over.

  Both of them had petted her, and told her not to worry, and told her that everything would be all right, but she could not pin them down, that’s what frustrated her. She wanted to know, she wanted to hear the details, to learn what they felt about the dangers. But that was not their way.

  ‘Listen,’ her Dad had said. ‘Don’t you worry your ugly little head about it. It’s all in hand. I’ve given my men their instructions, and they’re carrying them out. This noisy stuff is a diversion – I organized a fireworks display to keep the boys happy. You know what children soldiers are.’

  He usually called her ugly, and lazy, and a savage and so on, and she loved his jokiness, and his niceness. But sometimes it did not help. She wanted an opinion. A straight, serious, honest opinion.

  ‘There’s no chance of that,’ said her mother, when Dad turned over for sleep. ‘He’d be joking as they took him to the gallows, your Dad. That’s why I married him.’

  Sarah sighed.

  ‘All right, you tell me then,’ she said. ‘What do you think will happen?’ ·

  ‘Oh give up, Sarah,’ replied her Mum. ‘The best thing you can do is take his advice, isn’t it? Don’t worry.’

  Hmm, thought Sarah. That was the trouble with getting on well with your Mum and Dad. You couldn’t even scream at them...

  Listening to the guns, the bombs, the wind, the rhythmic breathing...she went to sleep.

  Thomas, unable to stand it any more, was out of his bed and down the passageway. The house was small, only the two rooms upstairs plus the bathroom, and the last explosion had been so close it had almost blown him to his parents’ door.

  Thomas had called out twice, but not loudly enough for anyone to hear. If he had woken up his father, he would have been in trouble. That was not allowed. He’d called the first time with his head beneath the covers.

  ‘Mum. Mum. Mum.’

  Then had come louder bangs and crashes. Whiter flickerings.

  His head outside the blankets, Red Bear clutched to his neck, he had wailed: ‘Mummm. Muuum.’

  Softly.

  Outside their door, the last salvo still echoing like thunder in his mind, Thomas had whispered: ‘Mum. Mum. Mum.’

  There was a light on in there, and he could hear them talking. Very carefully, trying not to make a sound, Thomas sat down, so that the small bar of light shone dimly on his pyjama trousers. Very carefully he rested his head against the door, his back against the jamb. The voices murmured on. He liked that. They were talking.

  What about though? He heard odd phrases clearly, then the rest was a mumble. It was about the war, of course. About this battle. He heard the word ‘close’ used several times, and he heard something about Foster’s Landing, and Mr Gregory, a man he did not like. Thomas’s father drank with Mr Gregory sometimes, and it could cause violent trouble. He had been hit once, by his father, when the men had gone out on a jaunt. Hit very hard, and laughed at, and left crying in a field.

  Thomas had not bothered with his bear for more than a year before the war had come, but these days he found it comfort
ing, like the murmurs through the door and the spill of light. In a few minutes he was half asleep, and when the next burst of explosions cracked out, he came to with a jerk. Before he could stop himself he had shouted.

  ‘Mum! Mum!’

  Panic stricken, he scrambled to his feet. From inside the bedroom he heard the squeak of springs. Gripping Red Bear by the leg, he scurried quietly back towards his own door.

  His father’s voice was loud and angry.

  ‘Thomas! If you’re outside here!’

  As he scuttled into his room, he heard his parents’ door jerked open. He stood against the cold bedroom wall, trying to pant without a sound. It was half a minute before the other door was closed and he could burrow back in between the blankets.

  The soldier was in a ditch. It was very wet, but its deepness protected him from the wind. As he moved jerkily along, his helmet kept falling off, until he left it where it lay.

  He was in great pain, and occasionally he was moaning, a sound that was lost in the ripping gusts that tore over his head and breathed coldly on him from around the grassy hummocks. From time to time he stopped moving and lay still. Gingerly he would feel the wound in his thigh. Deep, and wet, and bony. It filled him with terror.

  The soldier did not know where he was, or even how he had got there. The battle had been confused, and he had been cut off from his comrades hours before. Of the moment he was hit, he remembered only a flash, an ear-shattering bang. Then nothing for a long long time. He guessed it was a shrapnel wound, the wound he could feel. He feared there were others that he had not yet discovered. He was afraid that he would die.

  At the end of the ditch, in the darkness, the soldier put out his hand and touched something soft and strange. Almost before he had time to react, a distant shellburst lit up the sky. The soldier stared into a grinning, face-like thing, of gleaming white jagged bone, of teeth, of blood.

  He opened his mouth to cry out, but nothing came. A longer flicker of high-explosive illuminated the broken body of a sheep.

  Using his rifle as a stick, he pushed himself out from the shelter of the ditch to traverse the moorland in the freezing wind. He must find proper shelter.