Blood on the Plains

[Niamh Dunlevy]

Well, he could always add a "he was" before the "bitterly deformed" part, but it's up to him. I'm just here to help.

Otherwise, I agree - it is a great piece. I actually got shivers when I read the end.

[Nicholas Ealing]

NOTE: A little nod to an IO character here.

TWO

David has not slept well.

As he had blindly made his way into his own tent, he had promised to himself that he would not think of the Italian soldier.
He would not think about how he had died.

He would not think about how he had screamed for mercy.

He would not think about how he had died so alone.

He would not think about.

He would not think about it.

He would not think about it.

He thought about it.

David snapped up, cold sweat clamping his hair to his forehead, breathing heavily. He glanced down at Puck, who slept nearby, a ragged blanket draped across his still form. There was a troubled, almost scared, look chiselled onto his usually cheerful features. His eyebrows were furrowed, his eyes clamped tightly shut; David could only guess what kind of images were tormenting him in his sub-conscious.

It was early morning. It was time to get up. It was time to forget.

“Hey there, Sleeping Beauty,” grinned Hadfield, who looked as wide awake as ever. David sometimes doubted that he ever slept at all; there was a sort of childish excitement within him that could never sit still.

“What time is it?” asked David blankly.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” smirked the corporal cryptically, crossing over to David’s side of the tent and ruffling his light brown hair irritatingly. David rubbed his tired eyes and observed Hadfield with some annoyance.

“Is something…going on, John?”

“You should never answer a question with a question, Davey,”

“John…”

“Big news, Davey-boy. We’re going marching,”

“We’re always going marching,”

“To battle, Davey. We’re marching to battle,”

“Where?” asked David, suddenly interested. Hadfield shrugged.

“Who cares? It’ll be a kraut graveyard by tomorrow, wherever it is.”

David grimaced at the corporal’s bluntness and glanced over to the other occupants of the small tent he had called home for the past three months.

Privates Teal and Edwards were still stirring groggily on the uncomfortable floor while Jude Archer, a suspcious individual who no one trusted, sat away from the others, reading a tattered book silently. Puck was, of course, alseep but the final occupant of the tent, Higham, sat grumpily in the corner, looking oddly sullen.

David turned back to Hadfield.

“How many?” he asked simply. The significance of an upcoming conflict could almost always be determined by how many men would be bolstering the ranks.

“Two battallions,” said Hadfield immediately, only too keen to answer. “Williams’ men and O’Rourke’s,”

The privates were each split into platoons within the company, each one comanded by one of the three Sergeants. David, Puck, Archer and Edwards all served under Williams, wheras Teal and Hadfield were O’Rourke’s men, through and through. Higham was miserably and reluctantly a part of Bourne’s smaller force. Strictly speaking, platoons were traditionally commanded by Junior Officers, but no one could doubt the three Sergeants’ skill on the battlefield.

“So while we’re out Gerry-hunting,” said David, his spirits inflated somewhat by Hadfield’s news. “What are you going to do?”

The question was directed at Higham and the Welshman didn’t answer at first.

“Digging,” he said at last, his sullen tones a reflection of just how exciting he found the prospect.

“Digging?”

“Yes. Bloody…bloody digging,”

“Exciting stuff, I’m sure,” grinned David. Even the terrifying thought of facing the enemy face to face on the battlefield couln’t shake off the happiness came from the realisation that Sergeant Bourne wouldn’t be joining them on the march.

Stretching bracingly, David rolled out from under his threadbare blanket. He was fully clothed underneath.

“Sir Henry won’t like those creases, David.” observed Teal, who had at last awoken, aided by a cheerful kick from Hadfield.

“Sir Henry is a cock, Teal.”

“Yes, well, a cock who doesn’t like creases.”

David chuckled and turned back to the ever-knowledgable Hadfield.

“So when are we leaving, then?”

Hadfield was about to answer when a head suddenly appeared at the opening of the pavillion, startling its occupants; only Hadfield didn’t flinch. Archer didn’t even look up from his book.

It was Sergeant Williams, tiredness plain on his sunburned face. He had brilliant jet black hair, flecked with grey, and a kind but stern face. He had been aged by years of fighting for his life but he still managed maintained a constant look of awareness and vigilance. Here was a man to look up to, David thought fondly.

Just not at half past five in the morning.

“Hurry up, lads,” he barked, a glint in his eye. “Inspection outside in two minutes to prepare for the march.”

And with that, he was gone.

“Come on, then,” said Hadfield boredly. “Come on, get ready,”

You could learn a lot from people if you observed them preparing for a military inspection, David noticed. Hadfield had once told him that it was comparable to watching men prepare for battle. The kind of preperation that was so very intense yet so very futile. There were some things, David knew, you could never be completely prepared for.

Like inspections with Sir Henry Ashworth.

Puck and Edwards, the youngest of David’s companions, were also the most nervous and excitable and were brushing themselves down and adjusting their collars frantically. Higham and Hadfield merely patted themselves down vaguely; Archer did nothing whatsoever.

A minute later, the only occupants of the tent who wasn’t fully ready was a half-naked Teal, who was still trying to work out whether Sergeant Williams had seen any part of his body he would prefer to keep private.

When at last all of the tent’s occupants – a concerned Teal included – were ready, they exited their sleeping quarters.

The light blue sky that seemed to stretch on forever indicated that it was early morning and David doubted that he had even had four or five hours sleep. None of the high-ranking officers were awake, he noted sourly.

The group split up into their own companies, and David bid Hadfield and Teal goodbye as they fell in with the rest of O’Rourke’s men. As David passed Higham and the rest of his company, he observed Bourne at its head coldly. The Sergeant turned around, noticed David, and grimaced, in what he must have assumed was a smirk. Bourne’s twisted face sent shivers down David’s spine.

David, followed by Puck, Archer and Edwards moved unnoticed to the back of Williams’ company. They were the last to arrive; Captain Ashworth’s two hundred men stood shoulder to shoulder, a truly mighty force.

The officer seemingly in charge of the operation was Lieutenant Deasey, a man who despite his rank was only a few years older than David himself. David had only seen him before in passing; he was a young man of good birth who received his commison after graduating proudly from Cambridge University. An intelligent man, of course, but one who looked somewhat out of his depth addressing three hundred men, all of whom able to potentially kill him without a second’s thought.

“Good morning, men,” he said loudly, his voice quivering slightly. The men said nothing, they only stared at Deasey irritably, annoyed at being risen so early in the morning.

“I said ‘Good morning, men’” repeated Lieutenant Deasey brightly.

“Good morning, sir,” chorused the men darkly.

“Excellent,” beamed Deasey. “Now, as I’m sure you all know, we’re going marching again today, to face the enemy on open ground so we all want to look spick and span, I’m sure.”

“If we’re facing the bloody krauts then that’s the least of our worries,” muttered David cynically.

“Silence in the ranks,” said Deasey nervously. The men ignored him.

“I belive the Lieutenant said “Silence in the ranks!”

The entire company froze and fell immediately silent, backs arched straight, rifles held out for inspection.

Sir Henry Ashworth walked calmly towards the body of men, a natural air of coldness around him, even in the African desert. He was almost unrecognisable to the man David had first met all those months ago; his hair had grown, his naturally pale skin had darkened in the Libyan sun and he had grown several inches. What David did recognise, however, he had come to associate with a pure, unbridled hatred.

The feeling was mutual.

Sir Henry knew that most of the men hated him but was not disenhearted at this; in fact he revelled in the fact. They hated him but that meant that they cared. They cared enough to hate him. That was the way he saw it, anyway.

There were two different kinds of great leaders, that was Sir Henry’s theory. The kind who climbed the ladder by being loved by all and the kind who climbed it by being hated by all. There were no prizes for guessing which path Sir Henry had chosen to follow all those years ago.

But David Redwood really hated him and this scared Sir Henry Ashworth. The others despised him with a kind of shallowness; he had always been hated, they didn’t really need a reason. But David Redwood was different. He had a reason; Sir Henry had, after all, effectively signed his death warrant. And he knew that he wanted revenge.

Sir Henry was a naturally paranoid man. He often imagined that his own men plotted against him. And David Redwood…well…no man would rather stab him in the back than the young private, the Captain was certain of that.

“What does he want?” hissed Puck. David said nothing

“Ah, good morning, sir,” said Lieutenant Deasey loftily, saluting Sir Henry the second he came into view.

“At ease,” said Sir Henry shortly, observing Deasey with a mild annoyance.

“Inspecting the men, you know,” said the Lieutenant, after a few moment’s uncomfortable silence.

“Well, obviously,”

“Yes, sir. Obviously. Of course, sir,”

“At ease, Lieutenant. Contine your…inspection…by all means. I was just wondering if I could…borrow…one of your men for a second?”

“Of course,” said Deasey.

“Many thanks,” said Sir Henry drily. “Has Private Redwood blessed us with his presence?”

David froze.

“Private Brentwood?” said Deasey loudly. “Is there a Private Brentwood here?”

“Redwood,”

“Redwood, sir?”

“Redwood,”

“Oh, apologises sir, I thought you said Brentwood,”

“I gathered that,” said Sir Henry through gritted teeth.

As Deasey opened his mouth to apologise once more, David pushed his way through the countless rows of men and found himself standing in front of the man he hated. Sir Henry smiled coldly.

“Well, I shan’t take up any more of your time, Lieutenant,” he said lazily. “Try not to go too hard on them,”

“Oh, of course not, sir,” said Deasey cheerfully, the sarcasm passing him by completely.

David decided that, as officers went, he liked Deasey. But then, in comparison with Sir Henry Ashworth, anyone was likable.

Sir Henry gestured for David to follow him past the many rows of tents that adorned the Allied base and the two walked in silence. David was still trying to work out what he had done wrong; maybe it was his plan to have him court-martialled for sleeping in his uniform? He wouldn’t put it past him.

David suddenly realised that the Captain was leading him to the Command Pavillion and was instantly intrigued. He didn’t know whether what was about to happen would be good or bad but he certainly knew it would be interesting.

The Command Pavillion was basically a large tent that the officers’ and senior NCO’s had claimed as their own. They had titled it the “Command Pavillion” as “Big Tent” didn’t sound nearly as majestic. Although Sergeant Major McLaren claimed that it was used simply as an HQ for discussing tactics and strategy, the men all knew that it served a secondary purpose. The officers’ semi-legendary secret stash of brandy was rumoured to be hidden within , tantalisingly out of the reach of the privates and Junior NCO’s who were denied entry.

The two arrived at the Command Pavillion within a matter of seconds where a disshevled Corporal stood on guard, looking less than cheerful in the sweltering heat.

Sir Henry walked past him without even aknowledging his presence, and David, enjoying the rare feeling of power, followed suit. The second they entered, David suddenly found himself basking luxuriously in the magnificent shade the pavillion offered. He breathed contendedly.

He had almost forgotten what it was like to feel genuinely comfortable.

“Are you quite done?” asked Sir Henry wryly. He was sat at a large desk the other side of the spacious headquarters. David wasn’t entirely sure how the table had been so easily transported so easily through deepest Africa but he decided that Sir Henry wouldn’t exactly appreciate the question.

“Yes, sir, sorry, sir,”

“Stand straight, man!”

“Yes, sir, straight,” David adjusted his posture almost unnoticably but it seemed to satisfy Sir Henry who let out a deep sigh and turned to look David in the eye.

For a second, David had the horrible idea that the Captain was trying to hypnotize him and so he turned away. Sir Henry smirked obnoxiously.

The Captain opened his mouth to say something but before he could get a word in edgeways, a timid-looking Corporal burst into the pavillion. He was a scrawny-looking specimen with reddish-brown hair and dull grey eyes. He was the kind of man who you felt sorry for instantly, the kind who always looked like he was worried about something. Looking him up and down, David decided that he could think of better people to have at his side in a battle.

“This isn’t about your bloody choir, is it, corporal?” snapped Sir Henry the second he saw his face.

“Yes,” said the corporal, mustering up as much dignity as he could. “Yes, it is, actually. Because…because it will not do. It will not do. I am the Company’s Head Tenor, after all,” he added grandly, as if introducing himself as King of England.

“Forgive me If I am wrong, Howells, but I was under the impression that driving the Germans out of Africs was a tad more important than your damned choir,” said Sir Henry dangerously.

“Listen,” said the corporal who seemed to be called Howells. “Half the boys are in Sergeant Bourne’s battallion, the others under Williams and O’Rourke. If half the men go marching under you, sir, and the others stay behind with Sergeant Bourne, there will be chaos, sir. Absolute chaos. There are no baritones outside of Bourne’s battallion, you see, sir,”

“Fancy…”

“And of course, if the choir splits up, begging your pardon, sir, then the men’s morale will take a fearful beating, so it will, sir,”

Sir Henry seemed to consider this.

“Very well,” he said after a few seconds. “The choir members in Bourne’s battallion can join up with…Williams. I trust that is all, corporal?”

“Oh, yes, sir, I wouldn’t dream of asking anything else of you, sir,” beamed Howells.

“Excellent,” said Sir Henry faintly without looking at the corporal. “Dismissed, Howells,”

“Yes, sir, thank-you sir,” Howells bowed dramatically and exited the pavillion with a spring in his step.

“Welsh fool,” muttered Sir Henry under his breath as soon as he had left. “Too many Welsh in this army, Davey, too many. And Scots too. And the Irish,” Sir Henry gave a melodramatic sigh. “No good man ever came out of Ireland, Davey-boy. Remember that,”

“Sergeant O’Rourke is a good man,” said David loyally.

“Yes, well, O’Rourke’s mother was, I think you’ll find, a delightful Englishwoman. And Williams’ grandfather was from Nottingham. Both fine fellows. But McLaren. He’s a rogue, Davey, and do you know why? Not a drop of English blood in his body; not a drop. But he can fight, by God he can fight. When he’s sober enough to stand up, of course,”

David nodded weakly. It sounded like Sir Henry had done his research.

“And what about you, Davey?” said Sir Henry boredly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there was Scots blood in you as well,”

“I don’t know, sir,” said David awkwardly.

“Don’t know?”

“I’m an orphan, sir. But I was born in Kent,”

David had little memory of life before adulthood. It was just swirls of grey; mist and fog.

All he could remember was that it had been hard. And painful. And so bloody cold.

He could vaguely remember having been looked after by an old, toothless beggar as a child. But he had died when David was young and after then he had been on his own. He had started out begging before realising that thieving was a more rewarding profession. He had become something of an established pick-pocket and petty criminal in South England and life had been good. Until he had met Sir Henry Ashworth, of course. After that…his old life had ended. And a new one had began.

“I trust,” said Sir Henry. “That you’ve heard news about the march today, Davey?”

“Yes, sir,” said David stiffly.

“Right, well, this might come as a bit of a shock for you, Private, but I’ve decided that you shan’t be joining us on our lovely little trip Southwards,”

David took a step back, stung.

“Why?”

“I’m going to be honest with you, Davey,” said Sir Henry lazily. “I don’t like you. And I think you’d be of a lot more help to Sergeant Bourne over the next few days. An awful lot of digging to be done, don’t you know? He specifically asked for you, actually, did Bourney. Can’t imagine why…”

David shuddered at what Sergeant Bourne could have planned for him.

“But the real reason,” contined the Captain. “Is that you’re a bad influence on the men, Redwood,”

“A bad…how?”

“You don’t exactly…enjoy this soldiering lark, do you, Private?”

“No,” said David through gritted teeth.

“No, you don’t. But you’re popular with the men who are. They like you, Davey, for some unfathomable reason. And your bolshevism is rubbing off on some of the younger lads. I don’t want your cowardice infecting the rest of the men, d’you see?”

“I am not a coward,”

“Then prove it,” said Sir Henry icily. “You’re a bloody soldier of His Majesty, the King, Redwood. Maybe you should try acting like one, eh?”

“I’m not a soldier either,”

“Then what are you?” snapped Sir Henry.

“I’m…”

“You’re nothing, is what you are, Davey. You were found in the gutter and like as not, you’ll die in the gutter as well. But you have the chance to die a hero. Or…live a hero, if you don’t really fancy the first option. But a hero nonetheless,”

“I’m not a hero,”

“No, you’re not. But if you don’t start trying to be one, then you’ll be nothing more and nothing less than a dead man,”

“Is that a threat?” said David cooly.

“Of course not,” said Sir Henry silkily. “But it’s the classic foot-and-mouth solution, isn’t it? If one little sheep is infected, then you kill it before the whole herd catch it. I take it you’re following me, Davey-lad?”

David didn’t answer. He never knew whether Sir Henry was being deadly serious or when he was just subtly mocking you. Sir Henry always seemed to hold all the cards and no matter how hard you looked, you would never be able to glance at them yourself.

“I think we’re done now,” said Sir Henry, still smiling dangerously. “This has been a delightful chat, Davey, we must do it again some time. Yes?”

“Yes, sir,”

“Good. I suppose that arse Deasey will have finished his inspection by now so I’d recommend that you get back to your tent. You certainly won’t be doing any marching for some time,”

“Thank you, sir,”

“Dismissed, private,”

David turned away and began to make his way towards the pavillion’s exit. His hatred for Sir Henry Ashworth had only intensified in the past few minutes. Thinking back, he wondered whether that had been Sir Henry’s objective all along.

“Oh, and Private,”

David turned back to face Sir Henry.

“Yes, sir?”

“Your tunic is awfully creased, you know that, don’t you?”

Although he guessed he would regret it later, David didn’t justify the Captain’s provocative statement with an answer. He simply exited the pavillion and found himself, once again, under the hot glare of the African sun.

David had never felt so angry in his whole life. It took a lot to make David hate someone more than Kieran Bourne but somehow Sir Henry Ashworth had managed it.

And David wanted to fight.

He didn’t know why; in fact, he felt somewhat guilty about it. But he knew that he wanted to fight and that he wanted to kill. The death of the Italian soldier the night before had been horrific, absolutely horrific, but also…exhilerating. He had felt good. He had felt powerful. He had felt unstoppable.
And he wanted to feel unstoppable again.

He stopped in his tracks. He had a plan.

[Daniel Brennan]

Ah, I didn't realise that you gave up giving up on this story.
Wantmore.

[Nicholas Ealing]

Here ye go, children; Chapter Trois.

THREE

As the red sun’s fierce glare bore down upon his blistered back, it occurred to David that he had never felt so happy to be going on a march.

Officers didn’t see names, they didn’t see people, they saw numbers. Sir Henry Ashworth had stated that eleven choir members were to be drafted into Williams’ company. He didn’t care who those eleven men were, exactly. It was unfortunate for him, then, that one of those eleven was Private David Redwood.

Higham had been David’s salvation, of sorts. Despite the Welshman's constant moaning at being left behind, he had actually been thankful that he wasn’t one of the many who would be risking their lives on the battlefield; a sore back from too much digging was far more agreeable than a bullet in the skull from too much fighting. And so, when he had suddenly been informed that he was to be drafted into Williams’ company just because he happened to be in the bloody choir, he had been less than happy.

And then David had come along.

Higham hated being in the choir but he had never had a choice in the matter. The second he had joined the company, he had been violently accused of having an excellent voice, despite plentiful evidence to the contrary. A few days later, he had been more or less forced into the company choir by the energetic Corporal Howells and had been reduced to borderline depression because of it. He told this story to David and explained that it was racial sterotyping. It was at that point that David decided that Higham was devoid of any talent whatsoever.

Yet, here he was, portraying him. Officially, he was Private Thomas Higham. He looked nothing like him of course; the wiry Englishman and the plump Welshman could’t have looked more different but he was not challenged. They had the numbers, they didn’t care about the names. They had their numbers and they wouldn’t have cared if one of the choir member was Erwin Rommel himself.

David supposed he was faintly afraid of dying. He had no first hand experience in the matter so he wasn’t the best judge but he had some idea that it wasn’t an experience most people particularly relished. That was one of the few times where names and number intermingled in the army, when casualties occurred on the battlefield. If David died as Thomas Higham, then he had a funny feeling that the young Welshman would have something of shock when he saw his name printed among the list of the dead.

Lost in his thoughts, David suddenly realised that Williams, the Sergeant who marched charismatically at his side, was speaking to him.

“There’s an infamous spot not three miles away over by those hills, boys,” he said conversationally. “D’you know what they call it?”

David blinked and shook his head. In all honesty, he wasn’t entirely sure who “they” were. A smattering of privates turned to focus their attention on Williams; his stories were always interesting and often quite filthy.

“The Land of The Dead,” said the Sergeant smartly, when his audience failed to deliver an answer. “Except they say it in Arabic, o’ course,”

“You can’t speak Arabic, Sarge?”

“Listen, lad, I was raised in Llanfairfechan. I didn’t get much opportunity to learn bloody Egyptian, did I?”

“No, Sarge,”

“Why do they call it the Land of the Dead?” piped up Treadway, the baby of the company. He claimed to be eighteen years old although it was evident to everyone that he was substantially younger.

“Some of the natives think that it’s haunted by ghosts and phantoms and whatnot,” said Williams casually. “Heathen poppycock, of course, but they’re scared of it. Bloody terrified, they are. They’ve got a right to be scared as well. It’s crawling with the enemy, you know,”

David tightened his grip on his rifle as if he expected to see an army of the enemy hurtling towards him at any moment. Williams saw the sudden movement and gave a broad grin.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, Private,” he said boisterously. “We’ll drive them out before long, don’t think for a second that we won’t. But it will be a damned fool who attacks the fellows of the Deadlands head on,”

“Why?” asked David, suddenly realising that he was speaking in a barely-audible whisper.

“They’re not some namby-pamby Italian conscripts over there, Private. They’re the Afrika Korps. You’ve heard of them?”

“No, Sarge,”

“There’s plenty to say about them, in any case. They have more men than us, better equipment than us and, to add insult to injury, a rather more appealing uniform. They also have something that we don’t have altogether,”

“What’s that?” David asked. Most of his companions had melted away from the conversation and were in search of a slightly more entertaining subject. Puck was the only one who sticked at David’s side, hanging onto Williams’ every word.

“Reinhard von Karstenn,” said the Sergeant, his every word laced with a melodramatic darkness.

David blinked.

“You’ve never heard of von Karstenn?” said Williams, a shocked expression on his face.

“No,” said David, irritated at his own ignorance. “Should I have?”

“I should think so,” said Williams stoutly. “He’s a Captain in the Afrika Korps, one of Rommel’s lapdogs, and he’s an evil bugger. One of the best soldiers I’ve ever seen on the battlefield…”

David was surprised. Williams was famed for his skills went it came to raising morale but praising the enemy in front of the men seemed a very unconventional tactic.

“He’s a devilishly clever fellow,” continued Williams obliviously. “He’s strong too. It was Karstenn who killed George, you know,”

“Who’s…George?”

“My dear boy,” laughed Williams pleasantly. “You English don’t have a brain to share between you, do you? Sir George Ashworth. Sir Henry’s brother,”

“And he’s dead?”

“He’s dead,” confirmed Williams. “Shot down at El Alamein by our friend, Herr Karstenn. Sir Henry bears something of a grudge, of course, but he wouldn’t stand a chance in a scrap against von Karstenn. Like a twig standing up to a hurricane,”

David listened to him awkwardly. The Sergeant’s words weren’t exactly reassuring him. Williams noticed David’s uneasiness and smiled.

“Don’t worry, lad, Sir Henry is a damned fine soldier but von Karstenn…well…just count yourself lucky that we’re not marching against him,” Williams sighed. “You English can count, I trust?”

David smiled. He liked the Sergeant and decided that, if given the chance, he would certainly stick by his side during the upcoming battle.

“So, where are we going?” asked Puck meekly, stumbling by a few steps behind.

“A god-forsaken spot another four miles Northwards,” said Williams without hesitation. “It isn’t on any maps because it’s as empty as any other hell-hole in Africa but it’s a good a space as any to spill some filthy Nazi blood!”

Williams raised his voice as he neared the end of his sentence and was rewarded with a resounding cheer from the men spread around him.

“Just remember, lads,” advised the large Welshman cheerfully. “It’s the Sergeants who lead the men into battle, not the officers. Sir Henry is a good enough soldier but he’s a bastard so he doesn’t count. Lieutenant Deasey is a nice enough bloke but he’s a fool and we all know it. And then we’ve got Piggy and he’d be much more use to the company if he let us use him as firewood,”

Lieutenant “Piggy” Beckett was Sir Henry’s right-hand man, a hugely overweight officer with more chins than brain cells. He was travelling in the company’s half-track, Agincourt, alongside Sir Henry and a few favoured non-commisioned-officers. Lieutenant Deasey was the only officer travelling to his destination by foot and he looked somewhat lost and confused at the head of the huge host of men.

“Just remember that officers are all fools and you’ll have a fine career unless Jerry decides otherwise. What’s your name, boy?”
David hesitated, thrown at the sudden change in the conversation.

“Higham,” he said after a few seconds. “Tom Higham,”

“Higham,” said Williams, repeating the name to himself a couple of times. David could tell from his bemused expression that he didn’t believe him.

“Ah, one of the fools wants to see me, it seems,” grinned Williams. David followed his gaze and could see a miserable Lieutenant Deasey gesturing for the Sergeant to join him.
“If you’ll excuse me, lads,” he said, before jogging off to join the Lieutenant’s side.

As the company marched slowly on, jealously regarding the comfortable convoy truck leading the way on their right flank, David looked over his shoulder towards the Land of the Dead and wondered if he would ever have the misfortune of meeting up with Captain Reinhard von Karstenn.

David joined up with the bulk of his companions. Most of them were discussing the only topic soldiers ever spoke of – women. Edwards, as optimistic as ever, was looking up to Private Isaac with a look of admiration on his boyish face. Isaac was charismatically entertaining his small band of admirers – Edwards included – with tales of his many escapades in the field or romance. David strongly doubted that Isaac, who was five foot three and had lost most of his teeth in a pub brawl nearly seven years earlier, was a particularly sought after specimen of a man, but said nothing.

“As soon as we liberate Paris, those French girls will be all over us,” giggled Private Sutcliffe. He spoke as if freeing France from Nazi rule would be as simple as strolling down a French highstreet and politely asking for it back.

“Better than having the Bosche all over us,” grinned Private Slattery.

The men around Slattery all laughed good-naturedly with the notable exception of Puck who it seemed hadn’t heard half of the joke. Slattery turned his attention to Puck, obviously taking offense.

David knew all of the signs. Unblinking eyes, tense smile, clenched fists. Slattery was looking for a fight. Puck evidently wasn’t.

“Bet you’d love that, though, wouldn’t you?” said Slattery coldly, trying to get a reaction out of the utterly confused Puck. “Get a nice little Jerry soldier to settle down with,”

This time, nobody laughed.

“I don’t understand,” stammered Puck, not used to this kind of antagonism.

“Always knew you were a queer,” sneered Slattery.

David punched him.

It had felt like a good idea at the time. But, as the entire company seemed to stand still and Private Slattery reeled back, clutching his nose in pain, he suddenly realised that he had made something of a mistake. Crimson blood was seeping through Slattery’s fingers and a look of fury was etched into his face.

Slattery brought his hands away from his face and David could see, to his surprise, that his nose was broken. No girls would be all over him now, noted David, French or otherwise. His opponent glared at him and rubbed his blood-stained hands on his trousers. A second later, he charged towards him yelling incoherently.

David was ready for him.

As Slattery approached, fists raised, David decided that the best form of attack was defense and swiftly ducked out of the way. Thrown off balance, Slattery span around to face David again and was greeted with a fist in the stomach. Slattery staggered backwards and David watched him fall, adrenaline coursing through his body. Slattery crashed to the floor, groaning, and David moved over to look down at him. He didn’t like the private but he hoped he wasn’t too badly hurt. In the past week, he had already killed an Italian soldier. He had no intention of doing the same to an English one.

The second David appeared at his side, Slattery scrabbled around in the sand and kicked David’s shins sending him toppling backwards in surprise. He flailed madly as he lost his balance and this was all the advantage Slattery needed. He jumped to his feet and, emboldened by a fierce anger, brought a fist into David’s jaw.

Through the blind pain, David spat out a string of blood, his vision blurred. He stumbled forwards and, seeing that Slattery was just as exhausted as he was, mustered up every final drop of energy left in his body and kicked his opponents simply, squarely and mercillesly in the groin.

Slattery doubled up and sank to the floor, wheezing like a wounded puppy. David wiped the fresh blood that even now was trickling from his mouth and felt a sudden wave of triumph, a feeling he was unaccustomed to. He grinned empiriously at the crowd around him. He liked it.

“What the devil are you playing at?”

David looked up and saw Sir Henry Ashworth, flanked by Lieutenants Deasey and Beckett, striding towards him. The Captain’s face was twisted in anger. David felt an odd surge of pride; a minor brawl had seemingly stopped the company in its tracks. It took a lot for Sir Henry Ashworth to leave the comfort of a half-track.

Williams pulled a spluttering Slattery to his feet and cuffed him around the head. He sighed disapprovingly at David and pushed Slattery forwards to Sir Henry.

“Well?” demanded the Captain. “What in God’s name happened? Williams?”

“Brawl, sir,”

“I can see it was a brawl, Sergeant. What I’d like to know is why was there a brawl? Answer me!”

The question was directed at Slattery. David kept his head down, his face shielded somewhat by his helmet; Slattery’s had long since fallen off. David had no intention of being seen by Sir Henry; he had disobeyed a direct order by joining the march and he would pay for it.

“He just thumped me, sir,” wheezed Slattery. “Out of nowhere. Bloody animal, sir,”

Sir Henry chanced a curious glance at David but the private made sure that he could not see his face. The Captain shrugged.

“Right, well, I’m sure some sort of suitable punishment can be determined after the battle,” he said shortly, checking his wrist-watch absent-mindedly. He looked up and looked both offenders up and down. “Names? Take them down, Beckett,”

“Yes, sir,” Beckett, the fat Lieutenant, always carried a pencil and a small notepad around with him. He was inept on the battlefield but he had passable hand-writing and so Sir Henry had requisitioned him as something of a scribe.

“Dick Slattery,” said Slattery, his voice sullen, his fingers tracing the fresh cuts on his handsome face.

“Thomas Higham,” said David. Sir Henry furrowed his eyebrows and turned to look at David properly.

“Take off your helmet,” he said.

David did nothing, he only stared ahead.

“Take off your helmet,” repeated Sir Henry icily. David sighed and removed the slightly dented head-gear. Sir Henry’s heart missed a beat as he recognised who the man before him was.

“You’re not Thomas Higham,” he murmured.

“No. I’m not,”

Sir Henry opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. Was the private stalking him, waiting for the perfect moment to strike?

Sometimes, the Captain wondered if he was going mad, that the private was simply a figment of his imagination. A figment of his imagination he knew was going to kill him someday. The figment of his imagination that plagued his dreams every night, that plunged the knife in his back until the blood ran red down his spine. He took a step backwards. David noticed the look of terror in his eyes with incredulity. The moment passed soon, however, and a split-second later, Sir Henry’s eyes were their usual hollow grey. He swallowed and for the first time in his life, he lost his cool.

“You disobeyed a direct order, Redwood,” he roared, his dark eyes penetrating and haunted and so, so angry. “I’ll have you bloody court-martialled!”

“Do what you like,” said David defiantly, feeling oddly calm. “Have me dishonourably discharged if you like, I don’t care. It was you who dragged me into this in the first place. Send me home. Why don’t you?”

Sir Henry shivered with fury. Williams, Deasey and Beckett exchanged awkward glances and shuffled nervously behind their commander.

“Williams,” barked Sir Henry, turning away from David as if he had not heard him. “Get the men ready to march again,”

“Yes, sir,”

“Deasey,”

“Sir?”

“Try to stay out of the bloody way, will you?”

“Sir,”

Without another word, Sir Henry turned away and marched back towards the convoy truck as Lieutenant Beckett scuttled after him. David watched his every cold, detatched step and suddenly knew that Sir Henry Ashworth would not appreciate humiliation at the hands of a poacher-turned-private. He would want revenge, David guessed. He would send him home. Just not neccesarily in one piece.

“Come on, then, you bunch of schoolgirls!” yelled Williams, as soon as the Captain’s back was turned. “Get into formation and lift your dainty little legs so high your bunions will be prodding the Good Lord’s backside! Come on! Move it!”

The men snapped to attention and resumed the march, still whispering excitedly to themselves about the brawl that had ended almost as soon as it had began. Williams sidled over to David.

“It won’t do you any good going around upsetting Captain Ashworth, Tom,” he advised. “Or is it Redwood?” he added with a grin.

“It’s David,”

“You’ve got quite a punch there…David,”

“Yes, Sergeant,”

“But if you ever start a brawl again, I’ll show you what a real punch feels like. You understand me?”

David glanced up at the Sergeant in surprise. He was deadly serious.

“Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Sergeant,”

“At least you saved me the trouble of bloodying that damned fool myself,” said Williams, lowering his face, scowling at Slattery, who skulked at the back of the battallion. “He’s a bad egg, Private. Watch out for him. That Slattery fellow. He’ll want revenge. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, Sarge,”

“Revenge can do strange things to a man’s brain, David, remember that. It can drive them wild. And some of them,” – at this, he gestured towards Slattery. “Are wild to begin with. I trust that you are following me?”

“Yes, Sarge,” said David, somewhat irritated at his inability to contribute to the conversation whatsoever.

“When you’re an old soldier like me – and I’m a very old soldier, mind you – you learn that the biggest enemies are your own so-called companions. That’s the first rule of soldiering, David. Trust no one. Unless they’re Welsh, of course, in which case the rules state very clearly that the first thing to do is to buy them a jug of beer. ‘Tis a very simple system,”

David laughed.

Within a few seconds, the half-track was on the move again and the infantry continued their march with a renewed energy.
O’Rourke’s battallion was just to the south of Williams’, so close that David could see his fellow soldiers across the flatness of the Libyan desert, but then…they were so far away. Hadfield and Teal were among them somewhere.

He watched the men march, a glistening line of green under the red-hot sun.He had never thought about it before but they looked so much like…soldiers. Trained killers in all but name. He wondered if, to them, he looked like that. Like…a soldier. He certainly didn’t feel like a soldier.

He swallowed. It wasn’t a game anymore.

He was marching into battle.