Forever the Colours Read Free Page A

into the ascent and squeezed Adams’s left testicle against his inner thigh. The noise he made as he dropped to his knees was like air escaping from a punctured inner tube. On his way down he was rewarded with a knee to the forehead, which flicked his head back, and he tumbled onto his arse. Meanwhile Jacko was attempting to remould Dinga’s Playdough face with his right fist into something more attractive to the animal kingdom.
    Luckily for the two friends, a few of the platoon, on hearing the raised voices, entered the room as the scene was reaching its climax, and managed to jump on the two before they could seriously put the boot in. With both of them now restrained, Adams attempted, in a crab like fashion, to get out of the door, whilst making veiled threats of death at Tommy. But nobody was taking him seriously when he was talking like Joe Pasquale, so he was promptly ignored.
    â€˜Hthou futhin nick’ed, ye broork thme futhin nors ye naa,’ was all anybody could make out of the ramblings of Dinga as he staggered after the Sergeant.
    It all went quiet for a few moments.
    â€˜Well, that’s you two fucked when we get back to camp, boys,’ said the thickset lad called Terry, from Coventry. ‘The Arsehole ain’t gonna let this one go.’
    â€˜Fuck him, he’s just a bully, him and that fucking dickhead Bell. He’s been pushing us all around for too long, and you lot would have done the same given the chance.’
    â€˜Wanting and doing are totally feckin’ different, ye eejits,’ drawled Private Kerr, from Northern Ireland who everybody called Wayne even though his first name was Ian. ‘We would all love to kick the shite outta those two, but rules is rules and all dat.’
    With that statement left hanging in the air, the other soldiers turned and went out the door, leaving the Tommy and Jacko alone.
    Tommy was gutted. ‘Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,’ he kept saying, over and over. ‘How the hell did that happen? Jesus Christ, we’re finished, Jacko, it’s all over. Shit, bollocks, twat.’
    Tommy slumped onto an old crate and hung his head in his hands, knowing without a doubt that his career was over, as was Jacko’s. As soon as he could manage, Adams would report to the Lieutenant, who in turn would report to the CO back at the base. Before anyone could say ‘court martial’, they would be on their way home and to the nearest unemployment office.
    The old man was kneeling on his rug and chattering away in Pashto to the young Afghan, whose nose was now swelling, courtesy of Dinga, and was gesturing towards Tommy.
    â€˜My grandpa wishes to thank you, soldier, for helping him,’ said the young Afghan.
    â€˜Yeah, well, tell him bollocks in buggi buggi ’ cos that’s me job gone down the swanee, mate,’ replied Tommy.
    Unperturbed, the young man continued translating into English what the old man was saying. ‘My grandpa says that your journey is about to be cut short, but he will help.’ The old man moved closer to Tommy and held out both his hands toward him.
    â€˜What’s he gonna do, give him a job?’ said Jacko, who was standing by the door.
    Tommy stood and stepped backwards involuntarily. He didn’t know what it was about this guy, but he gave him the creeps. He looked about a hundred years old.
    The old man continued gesturing to Tommy to take his hands. ‘What’s ’ e bloody after, money or what?’ he said to the young Afghan. He tried to sound confident, but he couldn’t understand why he was so spooked. It’s his eyes, he thought, bright blue and piercing .
    The old man continued to chatter on, looking at Tommy and gesturing and doing little hand signals.
    â€˜My grandfather says a real friend is one who takes the hand of his friend in times of distress and helplessness. He says he will guide you through what will be.’
    The old man fell silent and