A Game of Soldiers Page 3

  ‘Yah, dangerous,’ went Michael. ‘He’s wet. My old man could hardly wait to get me out of the house. He gets really fed up with me now we can’t go to school no more.’

  ‘The poor teacher has to put up with you, though,’ said Sarah. ‘My Mum reckons it should be a medal job.’ She put her finger into her mouth and picked a piece of toffee off a tooth. ‘It’s funny, though,’ she said.

  She went back to sucking at the tooth and toffee.

  ‘What?’ asked Thomas. ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘Oh, I dunno,’ said Sarah. She waved her arm across the shoreline and the dunes. ‘All this lot. I mean, here we are in our den, just as if nothing’s happening, and we’re at war. Somewhere out there there’s ships, and submarines, and planes. And there’s soldiers all over everywhere, crawling about with guns. It seems ridiculous.’

  Michael laughed.

  ‘You wouldn’t think so if you met one face to face. You’d run a mile.’

  A withering look from Sarah.

  ‘Fat chance of that though, isn’t there? It’s other people always get the fun. We’re just sitting here, doing nothing, messing about. Fat chance.’

  Thomas was wide-eyed.

  ‘You wouldn’t want to, Sarah? They’re despoilers. Evil despoilers.’

  ‘Despoilers,’ crowed Michael. ‘That’s a big word for a little mummy-lover. What does it mean?’

  Thomas frowned. He didn’t know that he was being mocked.

  ‘Well I ... well I think that’s what my Dad said. He said they’re invaders, and despoilers, and beasts and that. Rapists.’

  Sarah and Michael could hardly keep straight faces.

  ‘Rapists! Ooh I say! What do they do when they’re out then, Tom?’

  Thomas realized they were laughing at him. Both of them. He pushed a large chunk of toffee into his mouth so that his jaws were glued. That was that.

  Michael said: ‘You’re daft, you are. They’re not rapists and despoilers and other stupid names. They’re soldiers, that’s all. The enemy. And they’ll be driven into the sea.’

  He pulled his knife from out of his pocket and opened it. He drew the blunt side of the blade across his throat, making a horrible choking noise.

  ‘Or if the gurkhas catch them,’ he went on, ‘they’ll have their throats cut. They’ve had it, they’re all dead men.’

  He snapped the knife shut.

  ‘Thomas,’ he added. ‘They have not got a chance.’

  For a while after coming round, the soldier was aware of something different. Something had awoken him, some noise perhaps. He lay listening, tense. The sun had left him once more, in the shadow. He was chilled and faint.

  Maybe the wind had died down. Maybe that was it. It did sound less violent. The rushing noise through the old roof timbers and the stonework was quieter.

  But that had not been it. There was another noise. He felt fear seeping through him, he felt his body tense, then relax, weakly. He was like a kitten, he had no power. The soldier tried to lift his rifle from the ground beside him, but it would hardly move. He looked at it, willing it to become lighter, to be liftable as it had always been, then tried again.

  It was as if it had been bolted to the ground.

  Outside, the noise came clearly. It was a boot, scraping on a rock. There were men out there. Men.

  He tried so hard to lift his rifle, or himself, that the sky turned black. Great flashes of red and green light swam through the darkness, the wound in his thigh sent a charge of pain throughout his body like a huge electric shock.

  The soldier fell back uselessly, his head hitting the packed earth hard. He bit his bottom lip to stop from screaming, and he tasted blood.

  Outside there were more feet on stones. Scraping noisily, making no attempt at quietness.

  The soldier opened his eyes and stared upwards, the heavens flashing and pulsing as blood drummed through his head.

  He was going to die.

  And then the first sheep walked in. It looked at him, as if quite interested, then was followed by its sisters.

  The familiar smell was unbearable. The familiar smell from home. He touched a passing sheep, and it stopped, and let him go on touching.

  He buried himself in sheep.

  Chapter Four

  With the toffee finished, they had to decide what to do. Whatever else you thought about school, it was somewhere to be. Looking at the two boys, Sarah realized how much she missed the normal run of things.

  Not meaning to, she snapped at Thomas: ‘Tommy why don’t you wipe your nose sometimes? There’s a big lump of snot hanging out.’

  Thomas did not notice the nastiness in her voice. He sniffed, licked, then wiped what was left away with his sleeve.

  ‘What we gonna do?’ he asked.

  ‘I know,’ said Michael. ‘Let’s—’

  ‘Play soldiers,’ interrupted Sarah, sarkily.

  She got a dirty look.

  ‘Wasn’t going to say that, Knowall.’

  ‘It’s not a bad idea,’ said Thomas.

  ‘What were you going to say, then?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’

  Sarah stood up and kicked sand. This was stupid, stupid.

  ‘Go on then, Michael,’ she said. ‘What were you going to say?’

  He smirked.

  ‘Let’s go on a treasure hunt,’ he said. ‘Let’s see if we can get some souvenirs.’

  ‘What from?’ asked Tommy. ‘What souvenirs? What treasure?’

  Michael pointed inland.

  ‘Work it out. The battle last night was over there, wasn’t it?’

  ‘How do you know?’ said Sarah. ‘You slept through it, remember?’

  ‘Look, if you don’t want to hear my idea…’

  ‘Shut up, Sarah,’ said Thomas. ‘Why’ve you got such a mood on?’

  Sarah kicked at the sand harder. The wind caught the grains and made them fly like golden spray. She said nothing.

  ‘So if we walk that way, we might find some wreckage and stuff, right?’ said Michael. His eyes lit up. ‘Hey! We might find a plane or something! We might find a blown-up plane!’

  Thomas jumped up from the hummock he was sitting on. His face brightened. Then the excitement faded.

  ‘Can’t,’ he said. ‘My Dad and Mum. They told me not to go far. I had to stay close. They said Sarah had to look after me.’

  ‘Oh, great,’ sneered Michael.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Sarah. ‘Absolutely wonderful.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Thomas. ‘It could be dangerous, surely? What if we met a gurkha? He’d probably cut our throat.’

  ‘Eat us,’ said Sarah gloomily, not even finding her own jokes funny. ‘Drink our blood. Cut our tripes out. Do juggling with our kidneys.’

  Michael was disapproving.

  ‘It’s not a joke, Sarah,’ he said. ‘Gurkhas do cut people up. It’s a fact, that.’

  Thomas said nervously: ‘Not us, though? I mean, they’re on our side, ain’t they?’

  ‘They don’t do it to anyone,’ said Sarah. ‘Whatever Michael says. It’s just a rumour, Tommy. Propaganda. In war, my Dad said, truth is the first...erm. The first thing to get…erm. Something, anyway. It’s just all lies.’

  ‘Fat lot you know, then,’ said Michael. ‘Your Dad always talks rubbish, anyway. My Dad says he’s ...’

  He stopped. Sarah’s face was dangerous.

  ‘What?’ she said. ‘Your Dad says my Dad’s what?’

  There was a tense silence.

  ‘Oh shut up quarrelling,’ said Thomas plaintively. ‘It’s not much fun anyway, without you two going on like cats and dogs. What’s it matter about gurkhas killing people anyway? I mean, what about that lot over at Foster’s Landing? I mean, if our lot kill the enemy, why shouldn’t gurkhas, eh?’

  Both Sarah and Michael were looking at him, puzzled.

  ‘You what?’ asked Sarah. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘What do you mean, “our lot kill the enemy”?’
Michael added.

  Thomas flushed faintly. Maybe he’d got it all wrong. Oh well, what the heck?

  ‘I listened in the night,’ he said. ‘When I heard the battle. I mean, I couldn’t go into their room like Sarah did. It’s not allowed. But I heard them talking.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Well,’ said Thomas. He racked his brain. He’d heard snatches, dribs and drabs. And they fitted in with other stuff he’d heard or thought. About that Mr Gregory. And Michael and Sarah were listening.

  So what the heck? He’d go for it.

  ‘He said there were some of them about. My Dad. Young ones. Con... cons something.’

  ‘Conscripts, I bet,’ said Michael. ‘That means they’re not in voluntary, they’ve been forced to fight.’

  ‘We know,’ said Sarah. ‘Don’t make a meal of it. Go on, Thomas. What else?’.

  ‘Well,’ said Thomas. ‘He said some of these... cons-things... had got split off from their army. Foster’s Landing way. He said the farmers found them hiding in the straw. The... hotheads. I think he said the hotheads.’

  Michael nodded, wisely.

  ‘Yeah, that ‘s right,’ he said. ‘That’s where Sid Gregory lives. He drinks, you know.’

  I know, thought Thomas. He noted their faces. They were listening intently to him. He liked that; it was nice.

  ‘There’s a group of them,’ said Sarah. Privately, she knew that Tommy’s father was one of them, as well. She pitied him.

  ‘Yeah, hotheads,’ she went on. ‘That sounds about right. So what happened then? To these conscripts?’

  Thomas’s face went red. He blurted excitedly: ‘They… my Dad said… he said they killed them. Mr Gregory and the other hotheads. He said they banded up. And killed them.’

  ‘Ace,’ said Michael. ‘That ‘s the—’

  ‘No!’ said Sarah, harshly. To Thomas’s surprise, she was angry. She was glaring at him.

  ‘But—’

  ‘That’s a lie, Thomas Wyatt, that’s a great big story!’

  Michael intervened.

  ‘Oh come on, Sarah,’ he said. ‘I mean, they are the enemy.’

  ‘Oh shut up, you,’ snapped Sarah. ‘Thomas, that’s not true, is it? You made it up.’

  It had been so nice to have them listening. He had heard something, too. Why should Sarah—

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I didn’t make it up. I... I think—’

  ‘Yah, think,’ spat Sarah, in disgust. ‘It’s just your normal rubbish. It’s just a pack of lies.’

  Thomas was going to cry. He knew it. Then Michael started in on him.

  ‘You little weed,’ he said. ‘You stupid little weed. I don’t know why we play with you.’

  Thomas pulled his bobble-hat off and crushed it in his hands like a ball. Why were they so nasty to him?

  He shouted: ‘Well it’s true, that’s all! I’m not a liar! I didn’t make it up! It’s true! I’m going!’

  Cramming his hat back on his head, he blundered out of the den and away. Sarah tried to grab him, but she missed.

  ‘Thomas! Tommy! Come back!’

  Then she rounded on Michael.

  ‘You rotten pig, Michael. He’s only a little boy. You’re a rotten, nasty pig.’

  ‘Me?’ He couldn’t believe it. ‘Me? Sarah, you started it, you know!’

  Sarah kicked one more load of sand. It flew in the air, into Michael’s face, all over his RT set. When he opened his eyes, she had gone.

  Michael cleared the sand from his face and hair with his fingers.

  ‘Women,’ he muttered.

  With the sheep to comfort him, the soldier soon became happier and stronger. Warmer, as well, because he used them like blankets. He slowly dragged himself into the small stone space and huddled with them.

  He wondered if they could tell what he had been, before he put on this uniform of unfamiliar cloth, and carried a rifle instead of his stick. He doubted it. They probably would have huddled with anyone. They were unafraid of man. Uninterested.

  But they made him think of home, of the high warm grasses, and the noise, and sunshine. In the pauses as he dragged himself farther inside, he lay resting on the trodden brown earth, smelling sheep and fresh droppings, and aching for his home.

  It took a long time, but at last he reached the inner doorway of the ruined hut, and peered through. He had been hoping for a roof, in case of rain. For wood, to build a fire. But there were neither. All it offered was better shelter from the wind, and more security. The soldier weighed it up.

  The inner room was square, like the outer. It had only one door, which he was lying halfway through. So once inside, he could not be taken by surprise.

  The soldier remembered the moment he had heard the sheep, had mistaken their scrabbling feet for the boots of men on rock. Even if he fell asleep he would wake before he could be set upon in here. That was good.

  Just one thing. Near the centre was a ring of blackened stones, where someone had made fires. The soldier let his imagination run. A shepherd, almost certainly. How good that would be, to be found by a shepherd. How good that would be.

  Slowly, and with regret, he left the sheep behind. Using his rifle like he would have done his stick, he set off to crawl across the inner room, to reach the wall. Gritting his teeth against the pain.

  In the sea den, Michael sat before the RT set, the earphones on his head. He twiddled the dials and listened anxiously.

  Nothing.

  Almost frantically, he twisted the handle on the side. Where was base? Why would they not come in?

  ‘Patrol calling base. Patrol calling base. Are you receiving me? Over.’

  Faintly through the crackling on the phones, he heard something. A flicker of morse, some static whines and whistles, and then – yes! It was a voice!

  Michael made a fine adjustment to the dials. The signal was coming in.

  ‘Patrol to base,’ he said. ‘Patrol to base. Repeat last order. I say repeat last order. Over.’

  The message could just be made out. The muscles of his face worked in concentration. Then he relaxed.

  ‘Patrol to base. Patrol to base. I read you loud and clear, loud and clear,’ he said. ‘Search and destroy affirmative. I repeat, search and destroy. Roger and out.’

  Michael switched off the set, removed the headphones, and hooked them on the side of the casing. He wiped his brow, smiling.

  ‘Roger and out,’ he said.

  Chapter Five

  When Sarah found Thomas, he was sitting on a stone behind a sand dune crying. She did not want to embarrass him, so she waited until he had stopped, more or less. She smiled at the way he pulled his woolly hat off to wipe his face with. She went and sat beside him.

  ‘All right now, Tom? I’ll get some more of that toffee for tomorrow. Mum won’t give me too much at a time in case my teeth fall out.’

  He smiled wanly.

  ‘Why does Michael keep getting at me, though, Sarah? I haven’t done anything, have I? ‘

  Sarah shrugged. She put her arm round his shoulders and hugged.

  ‘He always gets at me now,’ continued Thomas. ‘But I’m not a weed, am I? Not any more than I always was.’

  Sarah suppressed a laugh, because Thomas was not trying to be funny. He was daft, sometimes. She took her arm away.

  ‘Don’t worry, Thomas,’ she said. ‘He’s gone a bit bonkers since this lot started, that’s all. He loves it. He thinks he’s a real soldier, like a grown-up.’

  ‘But he’s not though, is he? I mean, he’s only just a kid. He’s only a few years older than me.’

  Sarah made a noise of contempt.

  ‘Of course he’s not a real soldier, Dumbo. He just fancies himself. That’s why he wears that combat jacket and that silly hat. I mean, a soldier wouldn’t wear a bush hat, would he? Not in winter. Daft.’

  This had not occurred to Thomas. It amused him. A jungle hat in winter. In this place.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘That soppy old wrec
k of a radio, an’all. The way he goes on, you’d think there was someone at the other end, listening. I think he’s stupid.’

  ‘He’s like a savage, my Mum says. All this talk of gurkhas and stuff. He wants to cut some throats, like on a film. She says he needs taking in hand, before the war’s the ruin of him. She says it’s turned him into a bloodthirsty little devil.’

  Thomas said: ‘He frightens me sometimes, Sarah. He…he reminds me of my Dad.’

  Sarah patted him lightly on the bobble-cap, to show she had not noticed this confession. She stood up, and looked at the breakers rolling in.

  ‘At least he tells you things, your Dad,’ she said. ‘Every time I ask my parents about the war they just tell me not to worry. They treat me like a child. Thomas…?’

  Something in her voice made him glance up, and then away.

  ‘Thomas,’ she repeated. ‘Look at me. It wasn’t true, was it? What you said about those conscripts? Killing them?’

  He kept his chin down on his neck. Sarah came across and shoved him down on to his back. She started tickling.

  ‘Thomas! Was it really, really true?’

  He giggled, desperately, and wriggled. He rolled sideways on the rock, slipping from her grasp. Sarah gave up. She left him, and began to kick a stone.

  Thomas, after a few seconds, sat upright. He brushed the sand off his clothes.

  ‘I’m fed up with this war,’ he said resentfully. ‘It’s spoiled everything. Nothing’s any fun no more. It’s ruined.’

  There was a silence between them. They stood in the wind. It tore at their clothes, smelling of sea, and salt, and weed.

  Then Michael’s voice.

  ‘Hey! You two! I’ve got this great idea! Come over here!’

  He was standing on a low cliff, a hundred metres away. He was waving.

  ‘I’ve been talking to HQ on the radio,’ he called. ‘I’ve got this great idea. We’re going to hunt a conscript. We’re going to find ourselves a soldier, an enemy. We’ll search the area, all right?’

  Sarah and Thomas did not move, so Michael clambered down towards them.

  Nearer, he said: ‘It’s better than finding souvenirs, you must admit. It’s better than finding wreckage. We’re going to get ourselves a real live soldier.