A Game of Soldiers Page 4

  ‘A prisoner of war.’

  The soldier felt sick. With hunger, he supposed. But that had passed. Now he was thirsty, terribly, painfully thirsty.

  With trembling fingers, he unscrewed the water-bottle, and placed it to his lips. It was less than half full, so he filled his mouth slowly, then tilted the bottle upright. It was difficult not to swallow, but he forced himself. He rinsed the water round and round his mouth, until it was thick with spittle, no longer refreshing. Then he swallowed it and tilted the bottle for another mouthful. Before he swallowed this one, he screwed the top back on and laid the bottle down. That was his ration.

  The water gone, he moved his shoulders against the stony wall, listening for the sheep. But they had gone also. He was quite alone. He felt the inside of his mouth, then his lips, with his tongue. Better. For the moment, he would survive.

  Beside him on the earth, on a square of scarf he had brought from home, the soldier saw his cassette-recorder. It was cheap, and scratchy, and the batteries might be low. Desperately, he wanted to put it to his ears, to press the button, to listen to the tape.

  Not yet. The batteries might be low.

  Not yet.

  Thomas was squawking, and Sarah was furious. Michael, poking at the dead sheep with a stick, was smiling a cocky smile, as if to tell them they were being childish.

  ‘Oh shut up, Thomas,’ he said. ‘You ought to look at that, you know. It’ll harden you up for battle.’

  Thomas was scrubbing at his hands with a clump of grass. He kept studying them, to see if there was blood or guts on them.

  ‘I almost fell in that,’ he said. ‘It’s disgusting. You had me creeping up on it until I almost put my face right in the blood. I’m going to tell my Mum of you.’

  ‘You’re a little weed,’ said Michael. ‘It’s necessary training, this. We’ve got a job to do. We’ve got to play our part.’

  That was too much for Sarah. She turned on Michael.

  ‘You’re sick, you are,’ she told him. ‘Getting us to crawl along this ditch like that and calling it some stupid “training”. I bet you knew that sheep was there all the time, didn’t you? I bet you hoped we’d fall right into it. You really are a little savage, Michael.’

  ‘No,’ Michael shouted. ‘I didn’t know it was there. And I’m not a savage, I’m a patriot. It’s good we’ve seen this sheep, it’s good training for when we catch our prisoner. It’s our duty to be ready, there’s a war on.’

  ‘You’re cracked, you are,’ said Sarah. ‘It’s just a dead old sheep.’

  Michael pushed his stick right into the heart of the mess.

  ‘Not old, it’s new, that’s the point. It’s not rotten, Sarah. It’s just been hit. It’s almost warm.’

  Thomas and Sarah stared. The sheep, through dull glazed eyes, almost appeared to stare back. And Michael was right. It was not a normal dead sheep. It had not fallen and died, it was not blown with gases, it had not been torn at and eaten by night animals. It was smothered with fresh blood, and it had a broken bone sticking through its wool. It had been hit.

  ‘By what?’ hissed Sarah.

  ‘Well, a shell I spose,’ said Michael. ‘It must’ve been. It shows how close the battle was. Unless…unless it trod on a mine!’

  Sarah gave a little scream, and Thomas began to run. Michael, white-faced, grabbed him.

  ‘Stand still! Stand still!’

  For half a minute they stood there, exchanging glances. The wind sighed over the moorland, bending the grass and ruffling the dead sheep’s wool. Then Sarah said: ‘It couldn’t’ve been a mine, could it? Honestly?’

  Michael said uncertainly: ‘No I...I don’t think... Well.’

  Thomas made a small, frightened noise, and Sarah shushed him. She gave a reassuring smile.

  ‘We’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘We’ll get away from here. Just don’t move for the moment. Just stand still.’

  ‘Look,’ said Michael. ‘It can’t be a minefield, can it? I mean, there’s nothing here to mine. It’s just a stray shell, right? It landed in the night and this poor old woolly bought it. It can’t be a minefield.’

  ‘But what—’

  ‘Look, we’ve crawled all over, haven’t we? We’ve wandered up and down. If it was a minefield we’d be dead by now. As dead as…’

  Michael grinned, prodding hard at the sheep.

  ‘Mutton!’ he finished.

  ‘You’re sick,’ said Sarah. ‘You’re horrible.’

  But Michael had had enough. He gave the corpse a final poke.

  ‘I’m cold,’ he said. ‘I vote we go to the hut. The one with walls. I want to get out of this wind.’

  ‘But if there are mines,’ Sarah started.

  ‘Oh knickers to the mines!’

  Michael jumped away from Sarah and Thomas, who clutched each other, terrified. He did a wild war dance all around them, stamping hard down on the grass in every direction.

  ‘There you are, you weeds,’ he panted, when he’d finished. ‘No mines. Come on, troops. Let’s go and get some shelter.’

  They began to traverse the moorland in the freezing wind.

  Inside the shelter, the lure of the cassette recorder had become too much. The soldier picked it up, and looked at it for a long moment, with love.

  He fitted the earphones in position gently, and laid the contraption in his lap. He moved his shoulders against the rough stone until he was as comfortable as he could be. He watched the white clouds racing across the blue sky, thinking of his home.

  The cassette was already rewound to its starting point. His dirty, stubby finger found the button and pressed.

  As the tape began to hiss, the soldier closed his eyes and rested his head upon the stone behind him.

  In three seconds time he would hear those voices. Ah, those voices that he missed so much…

  ‘I still think we ought to stalk up to it,’ said Michael. ‘Just in case.’

  ‘I’m too cold to stalk,’ said Thomas. ‘Let’s just get inside. I wish I’d brought them matches I’ve got hid. We could’ve lit the fire again.’

  ‘In case of what, anyway?’ Sarah asked Michael. ‘You’ve got stalking on the brain.’

  Michael pointed to the shelter with his stick.

  ‘In case we find one, stupid. In case there’s a soldier hiding in there.’

  Sarah shivered in the wind.

  ‘You’re bonkers you are, Michael,’ she said. ‘What would a soldier be doing here? Think, man.’

  They were getting very close. Despite Michael’s efforts to make them behave like commandos, they were talking loudly. He kept his voice low, to try and make them copy him.

  ‘They said some got separated off,’ he said. ‘Thomas’s Dad said. Over at Foster’s Landing.’

  Sarah crowed.

  ‘Oh yes, you’ve changed your tune! Thomas was a little liar then, wasn’t he!?’

  Remembering Michael’s cruelty, Thomas said, to nobody in particular: ‘I’m going to tell my Mum of him, anyway.’

  ‘And I suppose you’ll do like Mr Gregory’s meant to have, will you Michael?’ Sarah went on. ‘I suppose you’ll out with your stupid knife and slit his throat. Nutcase.’

  She tossed her head, clearing the windblown hair from her eyes. She gave him a look. Michael, unabashed, hauled his knife out and opened it. He made a gesture in the air.

  ‘If I found one I would,’ he said. ‘Course I would. They’re the enemy. The invaders. That word Thomas said.’

  Thomas, not realising he was being mocked, tried to remember it.

  ‘Cons…’ he began. ‘Con—’

  ‘No, you fool,’ sneered Michael. ‘Rapists!’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Thomas. ‘And despoilers.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Michael. ‘I despair of you.’

  He took Thomas by the arm. They were almost at the shelter door. He made a signal to Sarah to stand still.

  ‘Ssh,’ he said. ‘Shut your mouths the pair of you. We’re going in.�
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  The soldier did not know what made him take the headphones off. By luck or instinct, he pressed the stop button, and eased them over his head. Instantly he heard the other sounds, the outside sounds.

  This time there was no mistake. This time it was not sheep. This time it was people.

  Surprising himself by his lack of panic, the soldier stuffed the cassette player into his pocket and began to move. Although it cost him much in agony, he began to pull himself into position. His position of defence. This time, nothing could catch him unawares.

  Michael led the way into the outer building, walking half-crouched, his back to the wall, his knife arm stretched in front of him. Sarah and Thomas followed on, half mockingly, but half joining in the game. They did not giggle, they did not speak.

  Slowly, like something from a film, Michael crept up to the door. He gestured to the others to keep well hidden, then looked through. He stopped, listening and watching.

  There was nothing but the wind to hear. And on the shelter floor, nothing new. Planks, stone tiles, rocks, sheep droppings. Except...there was a piece of cloth opposite him, a sort of blueish grey in the sunlight. It could be new, it could be old. He could not, truly, remember.

  Michael walked confidently through the doorway and waved the others in. And the soldier in the shadows – hardly able to support the weight of his rifle because he was so weak – put pressure on the trigger.

  As the rifle jerked and blasted in his hands, he let out a cry of horror.

  Which the children did not hear.

  Chapter Six

  For many moments, the children were deafened by the noise of the shot. They did not hear the soldier’s cry, nor did they hear the rock and concrete that clattered to the ground as the bullet struck into the stonework above their heads. They knew the shot had been fired from behind them, and they froze.

  Before they turned, at last, Michael and Sarah looked at each other, with wide eyes. Thomas’s were closed, screwed tightly, as were his fists. But as the others turned, so did he. As he opened his eyes, he began to make a sound.

  It was a high, whining noise, a jerky squeaking, and it was quite nerve-racking. Sarah and Michael, wound up like wire strings, could hardly bear it, it was so unhuman. Whatever little courage they had left was being drained by it.

  The soldier was still covering them with his rifle, they were under guard. But both of them could see that he was ill. He was propped crookedly against the wall, beside the doorway, almost as if he were broken in the middle, as if at any moment he might fold up like a deckchair, and collapse. His face, behind a growth of stubble, was grey and yellowish-white, twisted with pain. The eyes were not full-open.

  And he was young. Despite the greyness of his skin, despite the stubble, despite the gun, he was young. Sarah was deeply shocked by this. He was not much older than she was, or Michael. A matter of a few years. He was a boy.

  Almost as if he was responding to Thomas’s awful whine, the soldier moved his gun. It wavered, wandered even farther away from them. He was staring, staring, staring. The rifle shook.

  It was too much for Michael. He hissed at Thomas, violently: ‘Shut it, Thomas! For God’s sake stop that row!’

  At Michael’s voice, the rifle twitched up towards them, as if jerked. Thomas sprang at Sarah, and hid his face in her cagoule. She stiffly put her arm round him.

  ‘There there,’ she said. ‘There there. Don’t shoot, please; don’t shoot. Please don’t shoot.’

  Thomas, unable to bear the thought of dying with his eyes hidden, pulled his head clear.

  ‘He’s going to kill us,’ he said. His voice began to rise again. ‘He’s going to shoot us!’

  ‘Shut it,’ snapped Michael. ‘Thomas! Shut it!’

  The rifle wavered, but Thomas was still. Sarah said carefully: ‘Please don’t shoot us, Mister. We’re only harmless children. Please.’

  The eyes of the soldier, not fully open, moved and settled on her face. They seemed brown, and drenched in agony. They moved away, and Sarah followed their direction. She understood.

  ‘Michael,’ she whispered. ‘God, you fool. Michael!’

  She gestured, still with care. Michael saw the knife, in his own hand, as if it were in someone else’s. As if it were a bomb. He was standing in a commando stance, threatening. He swallowed.

  ‘It’s a toy,’ Sarah told the soldier. ‘Do you understand? It’s a toy.’

  Humbly, Michael allowed her to take the knife. She closed it carefully, without a click, and gave it back to him. Michael slipped it into his pocket, and stood upright. Not like a commando, anything but that. Like a child. The rifle barrel, as if in response, wavered slowly downwards, towards the earth.

  ‘I want my Mum,’ said Thomas, low and whiny. ‘Sarah, make him let us go. Make him.’

  Michael whispered: ‘I’m going to make a dash! I’m going to—’

  ‘No!’

  The rifle twitched once more. Sarah, the muscles in her face aching, smiled.

  ‘We don’t want to hurt you, sir,’ she said, slowly. ‘We’re just kids playing. We don’t want to hurt you. Do…you…understand?’

  Perhaps the soldier tried to smile. His face changed, then he groaned. The rifle barrel drooped until it almost touched the ground.

  ‘Not hurt you,’ he said. It was a croak, hardly audible. ‘Am cold. Am food.’

  He said something else, in a language they did not know. His eyes closed, and the muzzle rested on the soil.

  Michael, staring at him fascinated, whispered to Sarah: ‘He’s useless! We could rush him! We could get that gun and kill him! I—’

  He broke off as the brown eyes opened. Sarah whispered: ‘Shut up, Michael. You’ll get us killed. Please shut up.’

  The soldier blinked. He spoke to them in his own language, saw their blank faces.

  ‘Am hungry,’ he finished up.

  Sarah, after waiting politely for a moment or two, said: ‘Can we go, sir? Please. We’d better go now, honestly, we’ll get into trouble. Will you let us go?’

  After a moment, the soldier moved his shoulders. His face tensed in pain. His eyes closed, then opened.

  ‘No tell soldiers,’ he whispered. ‘Please. Am hurt. No tell soldiers.’

  Thomas Wyatt suddenly jumped away sideways from Sarah and shouted.

  ‘My Dad’ll do you in, mate! You dirty rapist! My Dad’ll bring his—’

  Impossible to tell which of the three of them was more shocked. The soldier waved his gun, wildly. Sarah became rooted to the ground – and Michael sprang. He seized Thomas by the shoulder and clamped his other hand over his mouth.

  ‘Shut up,’ he shouted. Then there was only the wind, and Michael’s panting. Slowly the soldier lowered the gun to the earth. He could hardly keep his eyes on them.

  ‘Friend,’ he said. It was only a sigh of breath. ‘Am friend.’

  After fifteen seconds, Sarah took Thomas by the arm. She started to guide him past the soldier.

  ‘Out,’ she said softly. ‘Go on, Tom, get out. Slowly. Slowly. Out.’

  When they were almost in the inner doorway, the soldier opened his eyes. All three of them turned to stone.

  His face changed. Maybe he tried to smile. They could barely hear his voice.

  ‘Am friend. Please. No tell to soldiers.’

  They watched him intently until his eyes drooped and closed. Then they left. By the time they reached the outer doorway, they were running as if the devil himself were after them.

  Thomas left the shelter first, and Thomas left it like a bat out of hell. They were almost halfway down the moor, and he was well in front, before Michael realized which direction he was taking.

  He shouted to Sarah: ‘He’s going home! The little idiot’s going home! Stop him, Sarah! He’ll tell his Mum and Dad!’

  Sarah was between Michael and Thomas, and she put on a spurt. The experience in the shelter was too close for her to think clearly, but there was no question about one thing. Thomas’s par
ents must not know.

  She had almost reached Thomas, who was running like an Olympic madman, when Michael overtook her. He was bouncing from hummock to hummock, grunting as he bounced. It was another hundred metres before he caught him, though, because Thomas had seen him from the corner of his eye. He had dodged and weaved and wailed.

  ‘I want my Mum,’ he screeched. ‘Leave me alone! I want my Mum!’

  Michael knocked him over with a rugby tackle, and when Sarah panted up, the boys were rolling together on the ground, with Thomas feebly punching at Michael’s face and chest.

  ‘I want my Mum,’ he was screaming. ‘You bloody pig, let me go! I want my Mum!’

  Sarah dropped beside them, on her knees.

  ‘Thomas,’ she gasped, between breaths. ‘Thomas! Don’t be daft. Don’t be crazy.’

  Thomas pulled away from Michael and rolled into a hummock, hunched up. He hid his face in the grass, having a tantrum.

  Sarah said: ‘You’re safe, Thomas, you’re safe. You don’t need your Mummy.’

  Michael turned onto his back and lay staring at the cold blue sky, panting.

  ‘You’re a pain you are, Tommy,’ he said. ‘A pain in the bum. You’ll ruin everything. Keep your rotten mouth shut.’

  ‘Oh leave him be,’ said Sarah. She tried to touch Thomas, but he wriggled and spat like a wild animal. She moved away, half-smiling.

  ‘It was a terrible shock,’ she went on. ‘I almost died of fright when that gun went off, Michael, didn’t you? Leave him be for a minute. He’ll recover.’

  In the shelter, the soldier did not move for a very long time. He listened to the children run away, and his stomach was hollow with fear. They would go home, naturally they would go home. They would tell their parents what they had seen, what they had found, and their parents…what?

  He tried to lift his rifle, as a gesture of self-defence. He imagined foreign soldiers coming for him, their guns ready. But his rifle, as before, seemed bolted to the ground, this time by its muzzle. He let it drop beside him, and with one weak hand slipped on the safety catch. No more shooting.

  A sweat broke out on his brow. How terrible, that he had shot at children. How terrible. He raised his eyes to the wall, where a scar of clean stone showed where his bullet had struck. He could not even raise a hand to wipe the sweat that chilled quickly on his face.